The Search (13 page)

Nineteen

T
REVOR FELT SUDDENLY
happy and excited as the bus left, now quite sure that he was on his way to a real destination. Suddenly the small woman who sat in the seat next to him, said,

“I'm going to Ireland at the end of the month. Do you know Ireland?”

“No,” said Trevor.

“My daughter and son-in-law are in Belfast,” she continued.

“Oh,” said Trevor and then with an effort, “What's it like there?”

“He's a joiner and she used to be a secretary. They have a small house. She's just had a baby.”

“You must be pleased,” said Trevor.

“I am. I am so pleased. But what is there for them over there. Nothing but bombs. It's awful.”

“I'm sure it must be terrible,” said Trevor.

“Her best friend was shot a year ago. She had a baby and they thought the father was a Protestant activist. They shot her. She opened the door and two masked men shot her just like that.”

“Are you sure it's safe to go over there then?”

“I have to go. I've been saving up for five years. This is the last time we'll see them.”

“Oh I don't know,” said Trevor. “You're still young.”

She smiled and then said, “But I'm sixty-five, you know. I used to work in a shop here. I'm on my way to see my other daughter.”

There was a thought nagging at the back of Trevor's mind. It was to do with the big quarrel he had had with Sheila one night when he had started by saying that her brother-in-law was a waster.

“What about your own brother?” she had said to him.

“What about him?” said Trevor angrily.

“You talk about my brother-in-law but what is your own brother doing? How do you know that he's not a waster?”

“Are you talking about Norman?”

“Who else do you think I'm talking about?”

“Well, remember what you're saying. You were going with him once.”

“And why do you think I left him?”

“Why did you?” Trevor shouted almost incoherently.

“Why? I'll tell you why. He said he would marry me but I knew deep down that he wouldn't. He's not the marrying kind.”

“And what do you mean by that?”

“Just what I said. He's a waster. I asked him to marry me but he wouldn't. I asked him.”

“What did he say?”

“He was drinking as usual. He's bone lazy. All he wanted to do was dress up in his kilt and go to parties.”

“Oh shut up,” shouted Trevor. “Were you not the same? Did you not want to go to parties too?”

“Maybe. But I also wanted to get married. Your mother …”

“What about my mother?”

“She kept both of you under her thumb. She didn't like me because I smoked.”

“Are you saying that was why my brother didn't marry you?”

“I don't know. But he would never have married anyway. You have a higher opinion of him than you should have.”

The little woman beside him was saying, “… and they cut her hair off. She had such beautiful hair too, my daughter was saying. But they cut it all off, and she was left with nothing.”

“Is that right?” said Trevor.

“Yes. She's bald now. God knows when her hair will grow again. She had been going with a Protestant, you see. I tell them they should come out here but they won't. They say that Ireland is their home. But what will it be like bringing up a child in Belfast?”

“I don't know,” said Trevor.

Again the woman smiled suddenly and said, “Here I am talking about myself and not letting you get a word in edgeways. You're not from Australia, are you?”

“No,” said Trevor, “I'm on my way to see my brother. He emigrated here.”

“Is that right now? What does he do?”

“I don't know,” said Trevor. “We haven't heard from him for over fifteen years.”

“Sometimes they go like that. Mary was telling me about a lad from Belfast and they took him home from Canada but he started to drink and couldn't settle down at all. He was home only a year and then he set off for Canada.”

So that was what might happen to Norman. Twice he had been told of instances of emigrants who had been brought home and they had gone away again almost as soon as they had arrived in their own country. What use would it be then to buy an air ticket for Norman?

“There are a lot of Irish in Australia,” said the woman. “Some of them came out at the time of the Hunger. Still, you never know. Your brother might have done well for himself. My son-in-law is a good husband to my daughter. He's got a steady job as a joiner. He puts the money in my Mary's hand regular every Friday. Well, I'm getting off here. The best of luck to you.”

“Thank you,” said Trevor. “And the same to you.” When the woman had left the bus he sat in his seat thinking.

Had he not admired his brother after all for his sudden wild escape? Was that what was at the root of his respect for him? Had Norman not done what he himself wished to do but didn't have the courage to? That quick, daring leap had impressed him, had it not?

It was like the parable of the Prodigal Son. His brother had been the one who had set off into the blue, fed perhaps among the swine, but hadn't the money to separate himself from his failure. And all the time his brother had been away he himself had looked after his father and mother, and then Sheila. He imagined a field, and Norman walking towards him in the autumn day when the leaves were golden on the ground.

Norman smiled in a superior manner to his older brother who had the spade in his hand. He was laughing, and mocking him. What had Norman not seen in the world outside, what sights had he not known? And he himself had seen and done nothing. Why was it the case that the irresponsible wanderer was always admired and the settled one scorned? It was an injustice, an unfairness. And then even while he himself was being the responsible one his brother had not even sent a Christmas card home. Maybe Douglas was right. Maybe he should forget about him. Was it not more admirable to stay where one was, and was the leap into the unknown a sign more of weakness than of strength?

Suddenly he thought of Sheila and his home with longing. Why had he not written to her or phoned? Maybe she was right and Norman was incapable of facing life or even marrying. He thought of the intricate shadows and darknesses of Scotland and it seemed to him that its old hills and stones and streams and even its rain were infinitely desirable. This country on the other hand was superficial and without echo, its history minimal. The thirst that he felt for his home was so strong that he almost fainted with the joy of it.

And there was the time when his brother had played the record player very loudly when he himself had been studying. Norman used to do that often and when he went and remonstrated with him, Norman would lower the volume for a while and then raise the level again. It had been quite deliberate, a subtle taunting.

There were so many incidents that returned to him, the time that his mother had bought him a new pair of shoes and Norman had insisted on wearing them to a dance without his permission.

And yet again there had been the time when his brother had defended him from that boy whose name he now forgot: and he himself had watched like a girl while the two had fought.

He looked down at the piece of paper which he was clutching sweatily in his hand. What would he find at the end of his journey? Was it possible that his brother was living on his own, like an animal.

“You can keep her,” Norman had told him. “The reason I never married her was that she was going with other fellows. One night she told me that she had stayed at home but I found out that she had been with a fellow who worked in the factory. I wasn't sure of her, that was why I never married her.” And behind Norman's voice he heard the embittered voice of his mother, “Men! Your father didn't stick to the one woman, I can tell you. He was going with women when he was away from home.”

And even now what was Sheila doing while he was away from home? She had said to him before he left, “See that you enjoy yourself,” a statement which was entirely uncharacteristic of her. Had she implied that she herself was going to be enjoying herself?

There was no end to the complications of life.

“You're not going to tell me that there aren't some of these girl students that you like?” she would say to him.

“I've told you and told you. I'm not interested. You don't seem to understand what teaching is, that you don't take advantage.”

“I know what men are.”

“Am I not supposed to speak to them? After all, it's my job. Do you want me to get another job then? I'll do that if you want.”

“I don't want you to get another job. But you don't have to be so pally with the students. That girl who's always ringing you, for instance.”

“She's doing a PhD. She needs help.”

“I know what kind of help she needs.”

And what if he did bring his brother home? Would Norman have to stay with the two of them till he got a job, if he ever did get a job? And was that a good idea? Was it not even possible that Sheila might feel an attraction to him again after his wild wandering life, his stories of a strange world? Might Norman not even deliberately try to set the two of them against each other, as a revenge for his unpayable debt of gratitude?

And would he even like Scotland again? After all he had been used to a mild and sometimes hot climate. Could he settle down in an old country, rainswept most of the time, and cold in the winter. What if he turned on him and said, “I
never asked to come home. I didn't want your money or your ticket. I was happy enough where I was. It was you who caused all the trouble.”

“Here you are, mate,” said the driver. “You get off here.”

Trevor hastily left the bus. He was sweating profusely. These little houses, it was in one of them that his brother lived. He passed his handkerchief across his brow, seeing as he did so the marks of the fleas on his arms, marks which were now beginning to lose their raw redness.

He made his way towards the address which he had been given by Douglas.

Twenty

A
S HE WAS
walking along he was suddenly hit by the thought which came out of the blue and which he blamed himself for not having before. What if his brother was in fact the chief character in Douglas's novel? Perhaps it was Norman who was the child murderer and Douglas had been trying to tell him this all the time. Had he not been giving him all sorts of hints? Was he in fact, by tricking and persecuting Trevor, trying to find background for a new novel?

While thinking these thoughts he found himself standing at the door of a house not unlike Douglas's. He pressed the bell and after a while a young woman came to the door.

“Yes,” she said interrogatively.

“My God,” though Trevor angrily, “he has deceived me again. Again he has sent me to the wrong house.”

“I'm looking for Norman Grierson,” he said. The young woman was slim and dark-haired, and wearing a blue shirt which left her arms bare.

“He's not in just now,” she said with such a natural air that Trevor was staggered.

“What?” he said idiotically.

“He's not in at the moment,” said the woman again, staring at him. “What did you want him for?”

“When will he be home,” said Trevor trying to gather himself together.

“He should be home in about half an hour.”

Trevor, forgetting that he had no watch, automatically glanced down at the white band on his arm.

“It's half-past four now,” said the young woman helpfully. “Did you wish to see him for some particular reason?”

“Excuse me,” said Trevor, “but are you, I mean …?”

“I'm his wife if that's what you mean.” She was staring at him in a puzzled manner and then said, “If you don't mind my saying so you look like him. I don't suppose …”

“I'm his brother,” said Trevor. “I'm over from Scotland.”

“What?” she said. “His brother. Come in, come in. Why didn't you say so before? He'll be so pleased. He often talks about you. You're the lecturer, aren't you?”

“Yes,” said Trevor.

“Well, come in, come in. He'll be so pleased.”

Dazedly Trevor allowed himself to be led into the living room.

On the wall a boomerang was hanging with kangaroos painted on the curves. There was a cupboard with glass dishes in it, and in a corner was the inevitable television set. He sat down on one of the two green chairs while the young woman sat opposite him.

“My name's Jean,” she said. “I'm a nurse. Norm is working as a groundsman at a local hospital. He's usually back at five o'clock. He's got his own car,” she added.

“How did you find him?” she asked.

“I'm in Canberra for ten weeks,” said Trevor. “A man phoned me up. His name is Douglas.”

“Douglas? I don't know him. Perhaps Norm will know him.”

“Why did he never write?” said Trevor.

“Oh he's very lazy at writing. We were married ten years ago. We met at the hospital.”

“Was he a patient?”

“Yes, he was ill for a while. But he's all right now. He's fine now. I might as well tell you he drank a lot. But he's off it now.”

“I heard that from Douglas. He phoned me out of the blue. It was he who gave me the address.”

“I'm glad he did. I was always telling Norm to write home but he never did. He hates writing.”

“Do you have any children?” said Trevor.

“No, I'm afraid we haven't,” and her expression darkened a little. “I'm sure you would like a cup of coffee.”

“I wouldn't mind,” said Trevor, and she went into the kitchen. On the mantelpiece was a photograph of himself taken when he was perhaps nineteen. He picked it up and looked at it as if it were a picture of someone else. He heard the tap running in the kitchen. So this was where his brother had finally settled, in this small house in this distant part of the world. How strange it all was.

“How is everybody?” Jean shouted from the kitchen. “Norm's father and mother will be dead now, I suppose.”

“Yes.”

“He used to talk about his mother a lot. I believe she was very strict. She used to tell him to come in earlier at nights. And your own wife, how is she?”

“Sheila? She's fine, thank you.”

“That's good. And what are you doing out here now then?”

“I'm at the university at Canberra.”

“Oh? And when do you go back?”

“In a few days' time.”

“Isn't it good that you managed to find us? But he's so lazy at writing. Mind you, he works very hard at his job. He's at his work at eight in the morning. He was lucky to get the job. There's a lot of unemployment here. I suppose you'll know that.”

“Yes, I knew that.” She came in with a tray on which there were two cups of coffee.

“I was a nurse at the hospital. My parents come from Adelaide. Have you been to Adelaide?”

“No,” said Trevor, “but I've heard that it's very pretty.”

“Very. But it's very quiet, and very establishment. You know the kind of thing I mean. I left it when I was eighteen.”

“I can't get over the fact that he's here,” said Trevor. “I mean married and so on. I didn't think that he would be married.”

“And why not?”

“I don't know. It didn't occur to me.”

“I think sometimes he wants to go on his travels again,” said Jean, and Trevor could hear beyond her light laugh another deeper darker voice.

“I imagine so,” he said aloud.

Standing on top of the television set was a doll clad in a pink gown, with a black veil over her face. She looked Spanish and airy and eager, perched on tiptoe.

“I was worried that he would be dead,” he said.

“Dead? Norm? You couldn't kill him off as quickly as that. He's a groundsman at the hospital. I'm on night shift myself so I don't have to go back till eight. He keeps the grounds tidy. He gathers up the leaves and waters the flowers. He's always attending to sprinklers. The land here is very parched, as you will have noticed.”

“I've noticed.”

“But he'll be so pleased to see you. And I'm so pleased to see you as well. I feel I've always known you. Norm often talks about you.”

“Oh?”

“Nothing bad. He said you were a very brilliant scholar. He boasts about you to his friends.”

“Does he?”

“He's always boasting about you. Mind you, he doesn't read much himself. He doesn't have the time. We go out sometimes at weekends. There's a club near here we go to, for the company. Norm doesn't drink alcohol, as you can imagine, but he can sit and drink tomato juice.”

“He's strong willed then?”

“I'm sure you must know that yourself. In the summer we sometimes go to Adelaide to see my parents.”

“Does he like Adelaide?”

“I don't think so, but we go anyway. Are you feeling all right?”

“Yes. It's just that it's all been such a surprise.” So he went to visit his parents-in-law while he wouldn't write home to his own parents.

As if Jean had sensed what he was thinking she said, “I have to drag him there, you know. He's a great one for staying in the house. And he's very practical too. He did all the brickwork for the house and he dug up the garden and planted the roses. He watches television a lot.”

She looked at her small watch and said, “He should be home soon. His job isn't very demanding but it brings us in enough money, especially as I'm working as well. Is your wife working?”

“No,” said Trevor, and then, “She has the child to look after. We had the child late.”

As if she hadn't heard him Jean continued, “He's a very friendly person. He helps the people around here when he can. They all like him.”

“He was always like that,” said Trevor. “He was always helpful.”

“He makes friends very easily,” said Jean proudly. “Why, if we are ever on a trip he makes friends so quickly, you wouldn't believe it. We were on an excursion in the Murray River direction not so long ago and he made lots of friends. One of them was an old, grey-haired ex-secretary, and he and she used to play the gambling machines. He likes people.”

“He was always like that,” said Trevor. “I was shyer.”

“Yes, he said that. He told me that you were shy. Give Trevor his books, he would say, and that's all he wants. It could thunder and storm but Trevor wouldn't be shifted from his books. I believe you were very close, though.”

“Yes,” said Trevor, “we were very close. There were just the two of us.”

They sat in silence for a while, neither of them able to think of anything to say, and then Trevor suddenly said,

“Has he ever mentioned anyone called Douglas?”

“Douglas? You referred to him before. No, I don't think he's said anything about anybody with that name.”

“It's just that he phoned me up,” said Trevor. Why had Douglas lied to him? It wasn't Norman after all who was wandering about Australia: it was Douglas himself.

“I'm sure Norm will know him,” she said. “He knows such a lot of people.” And then, “It's been quite hard really. You see, he did drink a lot at one time. It took him a long time to get over it. But now that he's stopped I would hate him to have a relapse.” It was as if she was trying to give him a subtle warning.

“I certainly wouldn't offer him drink,” he said.

“No, it's not that. I'm not worrying about that.” Trevor found himself liking Jean.

She seemed unflurried, commonsensical, though he had the feeling that she was anxious and apprehensive about Norman. He found himself comparing the house in which he was sitting to the council flat that he and Norman and their parents had once inhabited.

“I can't stand this place,” Norman would say. “I want to get out of here.” Their mother didn't want any posters on the walls. And she always complained about the neighbours who played records till all hours. The walls of the house were very thin and all sounds could be clearly heard.

For some reason that he couldn't put into words, Trevor was feeling disappointed. He had expected that his brother, if alive, would be working on a sheep station, or doing some job that was unusual and Australian. The normalcy of the surroundings bothered him, and he wasn't unaware of the pun. Norm. Normalcy. Why, Douglas was more interesting than Norman. Norman hadn't needed to come to Australia to live like this.

The clock on the mantelpiece, which showed two doves whitely intertwined at the top was ticking loudly. He felt uncomfortable in the house, as if he had disturbed a deep silence.

Jean was looking more often at her watch. “He should be here any minute now. He would have liked a place nearer at hand but there aren't any. And then these houses aren't very expensive. In Australia you can get help with buying your house. I don't know if you knew that.”

“No,” said Trevor, “I didn't know.”

“Oh yes they're very good that way.” She paused and then said, “It wasn't very romantic how we met. One day Norm came up to me in the grounds and said that I reminded him of someone whom he had once known. Who is that, I asked him. My mother, he said. It was lucky for him that he said that. If he had said some other woman, I don't think I would have gone out with him.” She was holding her hand in her lap in such a way that Trevor could see the ring. It wasn't nearly as expensive as the one Sheila had. And then it occurred to him rather tardily that Jean was very like Sheila in physical appearance, though she didn't have the Roman nose nor the brooding sexual presence. So it was Sheila and not his mother that Jean had reminded Norman of.

“We went out together for a long time and then I told him that it was time we married. He loves me,” she said simply, “but he doesn't know it. Our only sorrow is that we don't have children. Norman is very fond of children. What is your own child like?”

“She is ten years old and very like her mother,” said Trevor. “Not at all like me.”

“Some day you'll have to bring them,” said Jean “We couldn't possibly visit Scotland. We don't have the money.”