Homecoming (9 page)

The water in the pot hissed and began to spill over. He stared at the steady blue flame of the gas burner.

Within minutes the ambulance arrived.

BY MID-AFTERNOON THE
clouds have dispersed, leaving a freezing day. The morning’s jobs have taken less time than anticipated. Martin buys a pie and eats it sitting in the ute. He remains undecided about calling Andrew’s secretary for an appointment for the following week.

He has had a disturbed night’s sleep. The voyage continued with a noiseless passage in darkness. He felt the sensation of movement. A sideways rocking motion as they ploughed forward. The man on the platform finally revealed himself to be the ship’s captain—a blind Aborigine who claimed to be over two hundred years old.

‘How can you navigate this ship?’ someone asked.

‘Instinct guides me.’

‘Why are we on this ship?’

‘So that you can discover what you do not wish to know.’

‘The coffin?’ Martin enquired. ‘Whose body is in the coffm?’

‘Could be someone close to you.’

‘How can I find out?’

‘Would you like to throw a dice?’

He had wakened thirsty and shivering. The doona lay on the floor. It took him time to adjust to reality. The voices were not the ones he had heard at sea. Cars were driving away. Some honked. He had checked the clock: 4.32 am. He was still tired.

Now he catnaps for about twenty minutes and then locates the Hawthorn address in the Melways. Empties the last half a cup of tea from the thermos. The previous Sunday’s newspaper is still on the dashboard. He had bought it to read about the Vietnam veterans. V
IETNAM
, 30
YEARS ON
…
Disabled veterans are living on the verge of the poverty line. The
government has done nothing to soften the impact of inflation on their benefits.
‘Nothing extra for the losers,’ Martin murmurs sadly and continues to read. Deaf ex-gunners, high suicide rate among the children of the vets, lingering post-traumatic stress disorder.
In killing someone you kill yourself:
a vet talks about his guilt. ‘The timeless Aeschylean imperative: “Man must suffer to be wise,”’ Colin had said to him once. How much and for how long? Colin had grinned, as if he’d anticipated Martin’s thoughts and replied, ‘Aeschylus didn’t live long enough to figure it out.’

Martin spots a garbage bin. He stuffs the newspaper into it savagely. He should call Ron and cancel their evening. Have another night at home to brood and consider the choices. Read and think. Live in the mind and create a world of possibilities.

That wouldn’t be a bad life if he could find permanent residence there! Category? A refugee from life. Application approved.

The cold forces him back inside the ute.

He is still disturbed by this morning’s visit to the hostel. He makes up his mind not to return the following week. He will call Sarah Dickson and say he’ll be away from Melbourne. It won’t exactly be a lie.

It is quite possible that Sebastian will be forgotten in a fortnight, perhaps replaced by Antonio, say, or Carlos. Sebastian. Why had she chosen that particular name? But it’s a silly question. Martin has been emphatically told that the workings of Nora’s mind defy rational explanation. The GP’s reports consistently indicate that she is in reasonable physical shape. She has lost weight, but regular exercise has reversed
the muscle wastage and strengthened her. Another twenty years…

Great! Maybe twenty-five. Impossible to say. He begins to think of ways of opting out.
I’ll continue to pay the bills and look after her finances. Do everything that I have done. But the visits will be less frequent. It’s too much of a strain. I need to distance myself from her for longer periods. It’s selfish, but
…

And then he imagines her hysterical confusion. Bewilderment. Hurt. His name whispered as a question.

HE SAT ON HIS
bed, sweaty and trembling. The noises were unbearable. Artillery fire, grenade explosions, screams and shouted commands. Slow descent into the pit of barbarism. The desertion of decency, of everything he had embraced as human.

Naked, soulless and armed. All for the pittance of survival.

Through the haze there was Nora. Calm and efficient. Wiping his forehead with a wet towel. She held him and spoke comfortingly. She was still up at dawn, watching him slip into an exhausted sleep. Months elapsed. He could not recall her ever being impatient.

‘It’s the entire person, flaws and all, that you learn to care about. The perfection that’s in the glossy magazines can only be temporary,’ she had said to him one day as they picnicked on the bank of the Yarra River.

‘But there will be a point when you’ll be fed up,’ he argued. ‘I’m not exactly behaving normally.’

She shook her head as if his remark was abhorrent. ‘If you’re not there for me during calmer times I will understand. But if I’m in trouble, I expect you to be just as
supportive—without flinching and without conditions. You must humour me and indulge my whims. For life, if necessary’ There had been a deliberate hardness in her voice: he was bordering on self-pity and she wanted to drag him to an acceptance of the way it was, without sentimentality. ‘I don’t have to be with you. But that’s what I want.’

And she had been true to her intention.

MARTIN SEES THE
parking inspector sauntering towards the ute, stopping on his way to collect coins from the other machines.

Suddenly, he feels the tide of temptation. It’s irresistible. He can squeeze in fifteen minutes of coaxing his luck after finishing the last job at Hawthorn. Ten dollars. Definitely no more. He will take the exact amount and leave his wallet under the seat of the ute. Quit when he’s ahead.

He waves to the inspector and pulls out onto the road.

THE RAPIDLY FADING
twilight is bleak and soggy. More rain is predicted for the evening. Martin drives carefully past mudsplattered cars, two tow trucks and a police van. He negotiates the traffic in a jubilant mood, ignoring angry voices and the finger gestures at his slowness. He is more pleased with his self-discipline than with the extra hundred and twenty dollars in his wallet. He had tried a new game called Robin’s Booty. Jackpot on the third attempt. He collected the money and walked out of the hotel. Feeling buoyed and generous, he heads home.

RON IS EARLY
. He brandishes a bottle of scotch and carries a plastic bag. He looks different. It’s not just that he’s smartly dressed, in a woollen jacket, a matching shirt, a pair of jeans and black leather shoes. There is something else that Martin is unable to pinpoint.

‘We want to make this a long, pleasurable evening.’ Ron takes a tray of ice from the freezer. ‘Enjoyment at middle-aged pace. A slow stoking of the fire.’ He looks at Martin in mock disdain. ‘Don’t you have anything a little more up-market to wear?’

Martin spreads his hands and looks down. ‘Freshly pressed trousers and shirt!’ He grins. ‘Okay, the jacket’s a bit out of shape, the body’s totally out of condition, but I can—’

‘Still feel and think!’ Ron completes the sentence with the words Colin so often uses to assert that he is still whole and well in those aspects of life that matter most.

‘Ice?’ Ron pours a generous quantity of scotch for Martin. ‘Well, so maybe we’ll go somewhere for the over-50s leftovers. Ooops! I meant to surprise you.’

‘Where exactly are we headed?’

‘Places. We certainly won’t be sailing to By…By…’

‘Byzantium.’

‘Thank you. God! Hasn’t Col tried to educate me about ageing, but I cannot understand a bloody thing about that old man. What’s he about?’ Without waiting for a reply, he waltzes through the house—
‘Falling in love with love…’
—and ends up in the spare room.

‘You’ve taken the cover off Hastings! Going into battle again, are we?’

Martin follows him across the room. ‘Frank wants it. I’m going to pack up the pieces.’

Ron locates a pair of dice between two fallen trees. He rattles them in the palm of his hand. ‘What are the odds on a massacre?’

Martin smiles, picking up a housecarl and rubbing it with the sleeve of his jacket.

Ron throws the dice across the board. A pair of sixes.

‘That will get you six of the enemy’s best. Stone dead,’ Martin informs him.

‘Become a hero, eh? Kill and be famous. Live to tell tales.’

Ron picks up a Norman soldier between his thumb and middle finger. ‘My pretty lad…’ He turns suddenly to face Martin. ‘What were your exact feelings the first time you killed a Vietcong?’

Martin is used to suddenness in this world. ‘Empty and cold. I tried to cover myself with my hands—as if I was naked,’ he reflects. ‘Alone. Survivor, soldier, killer, God, Devil, judge—all in the shell of a hollow chamber.’

‘The first one I shot was a boy.’ Ron’s fully there now. ‘His guts oozed out of a large hole in his belly. You know, I watched his pain with…
curiosity.
What was he thinking? How was he coping with dying? Was there anything being revealed to him?’ Ron pauses, and Martin makes the tiniest noise. Ron begins again. ‘I screamed at him. “Let go! Let go!” He held on
more.
He tried to reach for his knife! So I shot him again, in the crotch, and again in the chest, and then finally through the head.’ Ron swallows the rest of the whisky. ‘Then I turned around and threw up. I could have sworn that my head was melting. That fierce heat. Then I
shot at the trees, in the air, at a wild pig—until the magazine was empty. Afterwards I sank on my knees and cried. Who for? The kid? There he was, a crumpled heap of flesh and bones, still bleeding. A dead alien. No, I think it was for my failure to remain human. A soldier is trained to achieve a state of controlled insanity in war. I was insane without the control.’

Gently he puts down the wooden model on the felt surface. ‘Sometimes I see the boy’s face. There’s arrogance, hate, anger, pain, disbelief and finally a frightening blankness. Why did I shoot him so many times? Why?’

Martin stays quiet, without any inclination to tackle Ron’s question. In his serious moments Ron can be articulate and insightful. But it’s like sending messages into space: there is no reply. Just the huge difference between what you think you are and the reflection of yourself you saw in combat. Depth but little meaning.

‘Why can’t we imagine it all away?’ This time Ron wants a reply.

‘Because the imagination can only create. It cannot erase what has happened.’

Ron rolls the dice again. ‘Another two sixes and I could take out half a dozen teen soldiers. Damn! A three and a two. Ever think of doing a board game on Vietnam? I could give you a hand. Only joking!’ He walks out of the room with a slight stagger.

They sit in the lounge and continue to drink in silence. Ron slouches in the chair and begins to snore. Martin fetches a spare blanket and covers him. He turns up the heater and leaves the house. Outside it is snowing again.

Ron is still asleep when he returns with a shopping bag. Although he has been pacing his drinks, Martin feels light-headed and sluggish. In the kitchen he breaks six eggs into a bowl and whisks them with a fork. He adds a mixture of milk and cream and a sprinkling of ground black pepper. It takes him several attempts to light a burner on the stove. In a cast-iron frying pan, he adds butter.
A dab of butter. With a bit of olive oil, otherwise the butter will burn. God, you’re clumsy.
‘Not any more!’

When the pork sausages are nearly done, Martin makes scrambled eggs,
how heat. Stir it occasionally with a wooden spoon.
Nora often stood behind him like a stern instructor, hands on her hips. He cuts thick slices from a loaf of white bread and arranges them in a small basket. He spoons the eggs onto two warmed plates, giving Ron the most. Two sausages each. Paper serviettes, forks and knives.

‘Nora…’ He realises his mistake. To his relief, Ron continues to snore. Martin shakes him awake.

‘Ah? What? Oh, look at the time! Sorry!’

They eat in big mouthfuls. Ron concentrates on spreading a slice of bread with a generous layer of butter. They are quiet, dulled, and determined not to go back into that musty chamber of the past.

Martin admires the way his friend has battled adversity without losing his enthusiasm for life. A broken marriage, the struggle to look after a handicapped child, the inability to find another compatible partner, several unsuccessful business ventures, and alcohol-related illnesses have not diminished his hope for a better future. Ron is full of grand plans and is rarely put off by their failure to be realised. ‘You must have a vision of the perfect life,’ he had once said to Martin.
‘Otherwise you end up by regretting what you are, what you have been. I’m never discouraged by my lack of success.’

Hurriedly they wash and wipe the dishes. Then Ron picks up the plastic bag, ‘Won’t be a minute,’ and disappears into the bathroom. When he reemerges, his hair is carefully brushed and a subtle scent of aftershave clings to him. It occurs to Martin that Ron’s hair is coloured evenly brown without the tufts of grey.

Ron gives Martin specific directions, including where he can park. ‘Roll of the dice and…
lady
Luck!’ He rubs his hands gleefully. ‘Are you sure you want to take your ute?’

Martin nods firmly.

Ron laughs. ‘As always, the cautious Martin.’ He winks and heads for his own car.

They giggle and wave to him. The dark-haired woman stops to smooth her dress with an exaggerated wriggle of her hips. The peroxide blonde looks at the ute and whispers in her companion’s ear. They burst into high-pitched laughter, shaking their heads. I am not to be the catch for the evening, Martin thinks wryly. Their steps suggest they are slightly tipsy. His eyes follow them as they run across the street and around the corner. Ron’s Holden is nowhere in sight. Martin allows himself a smile of satisfaction. He has deliberately parked some distance from the hotel. There is a strong urge to pull out and drive away. Later he could think of an excuse and make it up to Ron. He sits quietly in the driver’s seat, dithering.

He would rather be going to Colin’s as he sometimes does in the evening. There is a comfortable routine about Martin’s visits to Colin’s place. Nothing unpredictable or physically adventurous. No need for pretensions. Personal matters remain on the periphery of their conversations. Nora is rarely
mentioned, and so what if gay magazines have appeared on the coffee table in the last five years? They are mostly concerned with the pleasures of aesthetics.

Colin and Martin share a certain curiosity. They can think and dream aloud together about the indulgence of owning a second-hand bookshop, perhaps, stocked with quality reading material. Occasionally Colin talks about the book he is writing, about his Vietnam days. When they’re chatting, the practical aspects of life become only trivia to be endured.

Martin usually calls first, to allow Colin time to get organised. His condition has slowed him, so that it takes time to perform even the simplest of chores. A helper comes in three times a week, during the day, with cooked meals that Colin only needs to micro wave when he’s hungry. Sometimes there’s a freshly baked sponge cake. On those days he often calls Martin.

It usually takes about an hour for Colin to prepare a pot of tea, the biscuits or ceremonial cake, arrange the cups, saucers, teaspoons, milk, sugar and strainer on a tray. Then he carries the rattling ensemble to the lounge with faltering steps. On winter nights he is settled in front of the heater by the time Martin arrives.

‘I am mortality on a speedy set of wheels,’ Colin had once boasted. ‘Learn from me while you can.’

There is a peculiar sense of fulfilment in unravelling their thoughts and exposing the fallibility of middle age. Although Colin is intellectually more gifted and yet physically more fragile, Martin likes to think they meet on equal terms. Colin sits like a skeleton sheathed in skin, speaking in a rasping voice,
rarely laughing—not because he lacks a sense of humour, but in an effort to preserve his diminished quota of energy.

Martin sometimes feels a sense of wonderment, something between awe and admiration. It is as if his friend is already on the other side of a vast universe, exposed to a body of knowledge inaccessible to Martin.

Yet they have developed a trust, constancy and the certainty of mutual support. Each is trying to make the most of the circumstances.

‘We cannot expect to live as complete entities but as fragments,’ Colin said once after Martin had confessed to a bout of depression. ‘We exemplify post-modernism.’ He laughed. ‘There are exploded bits of Vietnam embedded in us. Sure, the war is over. But the strife inside will not cease. Bursting shells and the lumbering sound of tanks. The scream of the dying and the whine of bullets. The world goes on, having relegated the past to words in books.
With the benefit of hindsight
…Historians will insist on saying that to try and smooth out the ripples with guesses and moral perspectives. And the ones who were there? We continue to stumble in the darkness within us, hoping for a lighted shelter somewhere ahead. Sad, chastened. Often guilty. That’s our chaos. Do you know what hurts most? It’s when people say, “Get over it!”’

Colin is simultaneously irritating and comforting. Sometimes Martin wonders if it’s a facade, behind which he takes shelter from the war.

Interspersed among these conversations are those they have about fiction and poetry. ‘Truths far more difficult to tarnish than those we uphold in the so-called real life,’ Colin
said one evening. They had stumbled into a discussion of fear and contrition in
The Wreck of the Deutschland.

It is their habit for Martin to make a second pot of tea, usually when Colin begins to tire. The signs are evident. His head lolls to one side as he leans back, his speech begins to slur and his hand movements are sluggish.

Martin washes, dries and puts away the cutlery while Colin takes his tablets and prepares for bed. Before leaving, Martin ensures that there is a bottle of water on the bedside table, the telephone is working, the night-light is switched on and the back door is locked. Their parting exchange has become a grim joke against the future. They are like actors with their lines rehearsed to perfection.

‘Give you a call tomorrow.’ Martin casts his eyes around the bedroom to check that everything is in order.

‘Maybe.’ Colin’s grin is impish. He makes it a point to pull up the doona to cover his face.

‘No maybes. Call you tomorrow!’

The doona slips down under his chin. ‘Do you have the celestial number?’

‘Yes, but I won’t be needing it.’

‘Sure?’

‘Absolutely.’

As he leaves the house Martin never fails to feel uneasy about shutting the front door behind him. It is as if he is permanently alienating a part of himself, leaving behind a large proportion of what he knows to be humane and wise. It is this combination of characteristics in Colin that has influenced Martin over the years into an acceptance of life on its own flawed terms.

The next morning he always phones Colin. The image of that immobile figure lying under the doona haunts Martin. They both know there is a possibility that one day his phone call will not be answered.

THERE IS A LOUD
thump on the door. ‘Why are you parked so far away?’ Ron demands, displeased with the time he has wasted looking for the ute. ‘There’s parking opposite the hotel.’

‘Why are we here?’ Martin asks warily. ‘Don’t tell me we drove all this way just for drinks?’ He is determined to seek a belated clarification.

‘It’s never too late for a beer. We can play pool, if you like. Meet a couple of people.’

Immediately Martin is suspicious. ‘Who?’

‘You’ll see, mate. You’ll see. Won’t be disappointed, I promise you.’

Martin places a restraining hand on Ron’s shoulder. ‘Who?’

‘Don’t you like surprises? I know a couple of women. They’re terrific! Early forties, divorced and looking for company. Thought I’d introduce you. They’re highly intelligent. You might be able to impress them with your knowledge. You know, the sorts of things you and Colin carry on about. Brainy stuff

Martin sinks his hands in his pockets and walks to the other side of the ute.

‘What’s the matter?’ Ron follows him, puzzled. ‘Aw…you’re not feeling guilty, are you?’

‘Guilty about what?’

‘I know there’s Nora and all that. You’ve stuck by her and done the right thing. No one can question that. But there are times when you have to step outside your problems. I cop Ed’s anger all the time. He blames me for what he is. He’s my son and I have to carry the burden of his frustration. But I also need to forget, to pretend once in a while that I’m trouble free. If I don’t, I’ll be bitter and twisted and end up hating myself

‘Ron, it’s not that.’ Martin knows Ron has never developed any meaningful relationship with a woman since his divorce. ‘Okay,’ he decides abruptly. ‘Drinks and talk.’

‘Mineral water and discussion of art,’ Ron drawls. ‘This hotel is a perfect place for intellectual wankers. Thank you for agreeing to grace me with your company, m’lord.’

They walk to the hotel in silence. It galls Martin that he still can’t figure out what is different about Ron’s appearance, other than his darkened hair. Inside it is crowded. Glazed eyes, flushed faces and animated chatter. Only the men in T-shirts at the pool tables are silent, focused entirely on their games. Ron scans the large room for familiar faces. Martin notices a couple vacating a corner table.

‘That table…’ Martin realises that Ron is no longer standing next to him. He manages to seat himself seconds before a swarthy-looking man enquires about the three empty chairs.

‘Sorry, they’re taken.’ Martin can only guess that there will be four of them. There is no sign of Ron.

He thinks about Frank and Maria. Their enthusiasm for the impending move to the country has affected him. He has managed to arrange his jobs around the few days he plans to
be in Daylesford. He will go back on weekends and help if necessary.

‘There he is! Table and all!’ It is easy to see that Ron is in a jovial mood. He introduces the two women. ‘Lisa Knight and Cathy Ellis. My friend, Martin Godwin.’

Martin rises awkwardly and shakes hands. He’d imagined they’d be blonde or redheaded, with loud voices, ready to laugh at Ron’s jokes and demonstrating the early stages of inebriation. They are both brunettes, articulate and sober.

Suddenly it strikes Martin. He cannot help himself. ‘Now I know what’s different besides the hair!’ He grins and winks at Ron.

The women look at each other with raised eyebrows.

‘Come and help me with the drinks,’ Ron hisses. ‘Don’t be a smartarse.’ He turns to Lisa and Cathy. ‘What would you like?’

‘Mineral water, please.’

‘An orange juice, thanks.’

‘Nothing stronger? Sparkling wine? Chardonnay? Sure?’ Ron almost pleads, then turns to glare at Martin. ‘Come on, clown.’

Halfway to the bar Martin bursts into laughter. ‘Your stomach…er, it appears to have shrunk. Instant weight loss, is it? A magical formula?’

‘Shut up! Bloody mineral water. Orange juice.’ Ron snorts. ‘It’ll keep them holy and chaste. Good for the system. What are you having?’

‘Sparkling wine. I’ve deserved it for solving the great mystery of the belly,’ Martin chuckles. ‘Let the rest of the plan unfurl. I shall watch with breathless interest, wizard.’

Ron sits with a jug of beer in front of him. He is loud and garrulous, insistent on telling the women about his first meeting with Martin. ‘He was a good-looking fella then.’ He leans back and casually puts his left arm around the back of Lisa’s chair. ‘I can remember it like yesterday. Seventeenth November, 1969. Hamilton Wharf in Brisbane. I was waiting to board HMAS
Sydney
on the way to Vung Tau. We behaved as if we were on our way to a harmless adventure. And then I saw this bloke, standing apart from the rest of us, looking into the water.’

‘So both of you served in Vietnam?’ Cathy asks eagerly. ‘I’m doing a Masters thesis on Australian women who have written about Vietnam, and Lisa is helping me with the research.’

‘Interesting topic,’ Martin observes. ‘I wonder if the way they viewed the war humanised it to any extent.’

‘Didn’t see many women,’ Ron quips. ‘Food almost replaced sex as the main obsession. God! The shit we ate!’

‘Do you realise how you immediately associated women with sex?’ Cathy leans forward with her hands on the table. Her voice has a steely edge. ‘Not companionship, not their profession, but almost as though they had a utilitarian purpose to serve male sexual appetites.’

Ron stares blankly at her. ‘I didn’t mean it like that!’

Martin begins to enjoy the argument that develops. He avoids looking at Ron. He recalls the calmness of the sea that day on the wharf when Ron had walked up and introduced himself. Somewhere to the north there was an unknown country in turmoil. This vagueness about Vietnam, as they left home, veiled their anticipation of
danger. The scalding rawness of war was beyond Martin’s comprehension. He had tried to imagine the worst. Wounded men and makeshift hospitals. Not enough doctors and nurses. Medicine in short supply. Dead soldiers. Bombed houses and villages. But these were stagnant images. How could he know that even in the heat of summer it would be easy to shiver, and to soil one’s uniform? At sea, there were only occasional times when Martin sensed alarm and uncertainty.

But that first day he looked at the troops and those who had come to say farewell. There was something not quite right about things. About the excitement, the paper flags and the cheering. Some onlookers were tearful, but it was as though they were overwhelmed more by patriotic fervour than the possibility of losing their loved young men in a foreign country.

It took twelve days to reach Vung Tau. There was exuberance among the men on board, which not even the spartan living could dampen. It was as if the journey itself was a precursor of what awaited them in Vietnam. Was it reasonable to conclude that the experience might not necessarily be traumatic?

The men talked about home, family, friends and careers in a way that suggested their lives would not be fractured by their absence from Australia for up to two years. They expected to return to the adulation of a grateful nation. Most of them were still in their twenties, the time of life when mortality seems remote. They were robust, narcissistic, proud, curious, and craved action. They might have briefly pondered the changes that are forced on personalities by violence.
There were those who were awed by what they had read or viewed in documentaries and movies about the World Wars. But the prevailing mood of confidence on the ship dissipated any gloominess, and further bonded the men in a quickly developing camaraderie. And so they sailed towards the termination of their innocence, watching orange-splattered sunsets and clear night skies, listening to the ocean and each other, without fear. They had twelve days to incubate their illusions. When they saw land, there was a readiness for martial glory.

THERE IS A SHARP
pain in his ankle where Ron kicks him. ‘Martin, do you want another drink?’

‘Ron, you haven’t explained whether you view women in a broader perspective, beyond their sexuality,’ Cathy persists. ‘That is important.’

‘Well, you know…Look, I’m sorry if I offended. But Ron feels obliged to put across his point of view with some support from Martin. He receives an unsympathetic stare. ‘There are times when women can be too sensitive about such matters.’