Craig stares and I alter my position so that his eyes aim directly at me.
‘Later on, in the 1800s, more accurate instruments proved that Newton’s theory had a few holes in it - it was OK most of the time but clearly left a lot to be desired. Then came Einstein.’
I lean in. ‘You know Albert Einstein?’
No change. Then a movement. And a sound, like a word, but I cannot say what it is. I turn my wheelchair and gaze out the window.
‘Around 1905 Einstein proposed his General Theory of Relativity which patched up the holes in Newton’s theory and also made a new set of predictions. And like Newton, those predictions are now deemed to be accurate - with the instruments we have today. A new Truth, capital T.’
I can hear noises in Craig’s throat; he seems to be having trouble breathing.
‘Briefly, Einstein’s Theory shows that the universe started with a big bang, a moment when all the matter we see was concentrated at a single point of infinite density.’
I turn my head. ‘See the problems already?’ Craig’s arm seems to lift a little.
‘A big bang. A moment. Matter. A single point. You got things going on there before anything is supposed to exist!’ Behind me I hear someone come to the doorway and look in. I clam up immediately and continue to gaze out the window. Don’t want people thinking I talk to myself.
When the coast is clear I say, ‘The Big Bang had to originate somewhere. Modern physicists get around that little problem by claiming that time and space came into being at the same time as this sudden burst of energy. Very convenient, very flawed, don’t you think?’ I glance again in Craig’s direction.
‘So when did time and space come into being? The answer? It never did - at least it didn’t in reality. It only came into being, so to speak, because of consciousness, because our ancestors looked around them and were shit- scared - ‘what’s going on?’ they said. To alleviate the fear they built a good solid vessel of all the elements they could think of - which included time and space - and stuck a lid on it, all neat and tidy. Know what I mean? Keep that lid on and they can deal with their evolving anxieties, the sense of me here, looking at you over there and the bloody big universe way out there. But to life that is not self-aware’ - I glance again at Craig - ‘like plants, insects and wombats, notions of time and space don’t exist; animals and trees are oblivious to yesterday, tomorrow, over the hill. They may sense near or far, what’s close and what’s not, but unlike us they don’t have to concoct some artificial story to explain it’.
‘Now you might say, of course there’s space, just look over there! To which I’d say, just because we see dimensionality, doesn’t mean space is an entity, a thing filling some void between things, something that comes into being with a big bang. It’s not that we don’t recognise that things appear to be in some relation to other things, Craig, but it’s a perception which you can’t use to explain how things came about.’
I look at Craig. ‘You with me? It’s proximity, Craig; we invented the term ‘space’ to make sense of proximity.
‘And you’ll say, of course there’s Time, it’s only our measuring system that’s invented.’ I turn my chair to face him. ‘But it’s another illusion, young man. Of course we in the West like Time - so we can pinpoint the exact moment of the dinosaurs and the delivery of the Gettysburg Address. But we think these things happened “back there”, as though they’re on the other side of the hill, where we once stood. See the problem? We think time is some concrete thing, that events occur and are then parked behind us is some silly three-dimensional way. Rubbish, Craig; it’s nothing more than a great big bloody illusion.’
I can hear plates clattering faintly down the passage. The kitchen staff. I glance at Craig.
‘Time is not a causal reality in the universe. Admittedly, we like to use the idea - to measure stuff - but it’s no more a part of the true nature of things than the dream I had last night. Conditions change, that’s all. That’s what infinity really is. You see it?
‘So, if we don’t really have space and time, what can be the primary building block of the big picture? I tell you what it is, Craig, I’ll tell you exactly what it is: it’s an energy-condition that we call motion. But not ordinary motion,’ I wag my finger, ‘not movement. I’m talking about Absolute Motion. Like it? Absolute Motion can’t be measured by our usual systems - and it’s the big constant.’
The floorboards creak in the passage. I wait until all goes quiet again. I look at Craig. I note the spit on his pillow. I look at his pale, spotty face distorted because of the years of strained muscles and tendons. His thick eyebrows arch, oversized cheekbones press outwards making his cheeks look unusually hollow. Beauty is relative; I’m beginning to think Craig is the best-looking one here.
‘Absolute Motion is the source of momentum - which we like to measure: mass times velocity. Motion creates energy, energy creates change.’ I glance at Craig. ‘You doubt it, I know. You’re thinking energy pushes things so it must precede motion. But where does that energy originate? In motion itself - in Absolute Motion. I’m right, aren’t I?’ I’m addressing Craig, but of course I don’t expect him to answer.
‘Everything is always moving; it cannot be arrested. Einstein talked about stationary systems and he devised the theory of electrodynamics of moving bodies - as if there was some other kind! ‘
Craig seems to be losing interest.
‘Stationary Systems my arse!’ I say, a comment which I’ll admit lacks a bit of scientific rigor.
‘What is the natural state of matter? Spherical, Craig. Regardless of what an external force may do to it, eventually it will return to the sphere. And everything we know spins. From the subatomic world of quantum physics to planets, solar systems and galaxies, it all spins - and when something spins, things are either sucked in or spat out.’
I point my finger again as a good scientist should.
‘Do atoms spin because matter in the universe spins, or do planets and galaxies spin because atoms spin? A good question! Allow me to elaborate another time.’
I look again at Craig. He’s making an unintentional popping noise with his mouth.
‘I go on a bit, son, don’t I? Never mind. You probably want the conclusion so I’ll give it to you: the universe expands, not because it started as an explosion but because it’s spinning. Of course it is - why should it be any different from everything else? You’ll say: It cannot spin because it would need to do it relative to something else and there is no time and space outside of it. Ah, but that’s because you regard time and space as physical.’
Outside in the car park a black and white bird lands on the side mirror of a car and starts pecking at it. The poor thing has its own set of illusions. I look again at Craig.
‘And you might ask whether I have a neat math-ematical equation to test my theory. Well, the answer is no - but that’s not unusual. A lot of theories don’t have equations. If I ever feel the need to write one I might, and it would be based on Absolute Motion, momentum, mass and energy. But in the meantime I’d rather leave that task to someone better equipped. Besides, a beautiful equation might limit the possibilities.’
Just then Osborne comes in and helps Craig turn over to lie on his other side, facing away from me. Time to leave.
10
Clem is virtually gone. Last night he would not eat and just sat staring at his plate. They put him on a table by himself where Del tried to feed him - to no avail. Finally she wheeled him back to his room. I do not think it is entirely the fact of his wife’s death. I think this place has at last broken his spirit - not that it was much to begin with. He was not exactly ‘cognito’ before these latest incidents, but then perhaps the way we’re treated accu-mulates whether we’re aware of it or not. Clem experienced no kindness so now he has given up. I know Dell did what she could but sometimes the weight of others makes those little sympathies seem like charity, even pity.
Therefore the mood at dinner was glum - no other w
ord for it. Joe left his teeth in his room, Ivan didn’t steal anything, Dooley refused to put his big hands on the tea cup because it wasn’t his stein, Jim scratched at his sores. Bronson has a cold so he just sat sniffing. Even Pistol Pete looked glum sitting next to Clem’s empty space.
This morning nothing much improved and Clem remained in bed. By lunchtime you’d think the world had died. It can’t be measured, the hollow feeling that can suddenly infect a group like scabies. It’s not our age or stage. It’s not the food or the boredom. It’s not the fact of so few nurses or the ones who are as rigid and pointy as a Gothic cathedral. It’s none of these things alone, but collectively they signify our future - why tend a tomato after its fruit is picked?
At lunch, no-one spoke and the place was like a death camp. Every little thing made us edgy - Joe rattling his spoon, Ivan’s unremorseful burping and Bronson’s sniff, Judy Garland on the stereo, Craig’s spoon-fed masti-cating gums in the corner.
‘Stop that bloody tapping,’ Dooley says to me.
I didn’t realise I was doing it.
‘I’m not doing any harm,’ I say.
‘Yes you are, you’re keeping time with my mitral valve.’
‘Your what?’
‘My implant; you know.’
I put the knife down and listen. Can Dooley really hear his heart valve? There’s no sound beyond the clatter and slurp of soup bowls on another table.
Suddenly Jim says, ‘Stuff this for a game, let’s go fishing.’ All eyes turn on him.
‘Fucking oath,’ says Pistol Pete. We look at Pete.
‘I’m in,’ says Dooley.
I catch the mood. ‘Take a trip to Queensland, choof up the river and hook us a couple of those big barramundi like Rex Hunt. Give ‘em a kiss and chuck ‘em back!’ I say grinning.
They all look at me blankly.
‘What about your rods?’ says Jim. He studies me; there’s no humour.
‘What about them?’
‘What about we get them out and take them fishing?’
I look at all the faces. Each has Jim’s expression. Except Skeleton Joe, who is picking his nose.
I look at Jim. ‘You want to go fishing?’
‘I want to go fishing.’
‘You really want to go?’
‘Yes.’
‘In real life?’
‘Yes.’
The table stares at me, except for Joe.
‘Ridiculous,’ I tell him. ‘Even if they let us, you’re not up to it.’
‘Yes I am,’ he says, ‘and so are the others.’
I stare at the group. I cannot believe the looks on their faces.
‘OK,’ I say. ‘You put it to Collier and afterwards I’ll tend your wounds.’
‘I’m not asking anybody,’ says Jim. ‘I’m going. We all are.’
Pistol Pete’s face splits into a broad grin. I feel Dooley restless in his wheelchair. Bronson the Aboriginal leans forward and looks towards us.
‘We all are,’ he says.
This is hilarious. I lean back and fold my arms.
‘OK, Jim. Let’s hear it. What’s your plan?’
Jim tries to think of one. His eyes look sad. Sadder than usual.
Pete leans in.
‘We get the gear ready tonight. We wait until after breakfast when there’s only one nurse on, when the others are cleaning up and organising the senile ones. Then we bust out.’
‘Boom,’ says Dooley.
‘You know how far it is to the river?’ I say.
‘About one click,’ says Pete. ‘Give or take a few metres. All downhill.’
He surveys the group.
‘I was a Reconnaissance man in the army. Scouting and Patrol. Parachute Qualified.’
I look at him. ‘What about your … you know, your …’
‘Fuck the catheter,’ he says. ‘Least of our worries.’
‘What do you say, Jack?’ Jim gazes at me. He has a way of putting you on the spot. I bet he did that a lot in parliament.
‘How do you expect to get through the door?’ I say. ‘Anyone know the exit code?’ I wait until I’m certain they’re flummoxed.
‘I do,’ I say. They all beam like I’m offering ice-cream.
So now it looks like we are ‘going fishing’. It would be hilarious if it wasn’t so tragic. These poor old blokes won’t get fifty yards - but then I suppose that’s hardly the point.
The so-called ‘plan’ is that we grab what we can of our breakfast and stick it in our pockets. Then we muster at the back entrance at ‘nine hundred hours’. Those who can get there on their own will go, those who do not show up, stay. At first I decided to be a stayer. I’d let them out and then go back. But two things have changed my mind. First, I do not want to lend my rods to a group of geriatrics, and second, I’d like a chance to stick it up old Collier. Of course, we will be intercepted at the car park and all will return to normal.
Who would have thought it possible? Unless I put these words down now, the incidents of yesterday will not be believed. I now have another good story to tell Chris - if he dares come back after the last time - although everything that has just happened may prompt a visit sooner than later. No doubt the families involved have been notified. I wonder if it makes the news? A Current Affair? Mike Munro? There’d be ratings in it. Of all the group I would be the right one to go on TV. They would ask me how it all began and I would have to explain how I started it all by inspiring Jim with my fishing rods. I would begin with an explanation of breakfast on the day in question.
Hardly a word was uttered. ‘Nine hundred hours,’ was all Pete said.
‘Keep your toast,’ says Dooley.
‘You got the gear?’ Jim asks. I nod but I’m not sure about any of it.
At the appointed hour I get my gear out of the wardrobe. The rods are broken down and packed in their cloth sleeves. It suddenly occurs to me that all my stuff will be confiscated and I feel a cold dread. I put the gear away again.
Then I see Jim in my doorway. ‘You ready?’ he asks.
‘You go, Jim. You won’t get past the car park anyway. Here’s the exit code.’
I hold out a bit of paper. He doesn’t take it.
‘Where’s your guts, Jack?’
‘Left ‘em on the surgeon’s floor, Jim.’
He just sits there and stares. His watery old eyes look pathetic. He’s a nice old man, but his days are up and he won’t face it. What do you do with a man like that? He wouldn’t go. Guts. I remembered my old man: ‘No intestinal fortitude’. I open the wardrobe and grab the gear - but I’m not happy about it.
‘You’re a fucking idiot, Jim. You know what’s going to happen? You’re going to cost me my rods.’
We make our way down the hall into the next corridor, around past the visitors’ toilets to the passage leading to the back exit. I have the rods sticking up from my wheelchair and the strap of the tacklebox around my neck. We push through the swing doors into the foyer. And there we are met by a small crowd! The first person I see is Patricia Ryan.
‘What are you doing here?’ I ask.
‘I’m coming too,’ she whispers.
Ivan is there, Pete and Dooley, all in their chairs. Joe stands by, stooped over. And the biggest surprise of all, Bronson the Aboriginal has brought Craig in his bed on wheels!
‘This is ridiculous!’ I say. ‘Have you all gone completely mad?’
‘Shhhhhhsh,’ they say.
‘The code,’ whispers Pete. ‘What’s the code?’
He presses the little buttons, we click open the door and with a lot of nudging and bumping the whole group is out on the porch.
‘Use your brakes,’ says Pete and leads the way down the ramp. Then we cross the carpark, strung out like train carriages. Pete leads, his one arm pumping his chair, Jim is next, followed by Craig horizontal and pushed by Bronson who has enough trouble with his own limping gait. Then comes Dooley in his chair, then me and Patricia behind.
It’s a beautiful
morning and dead still, hardly a sound. There’re a couple of cars parked but barely a soul on the street ahead of us. A car goes past about 50 metres away and I look to see if we’re noticed. Two boys go pedalling past but they don’t even turn their heads.
Suddenly we come to a halt. A good way back we see Joe still coming, shuffling along, inspecting the asphalt, his tiny steps behind the walking frame, a disaster in itself.
‘We won’t make it,’ I say. ‘We have to tell Joe to stay behind.’
‘Why don’t you give him your wheelchair?’ Pat says.
‘What? What am I going to use?’
‘You can walk it, Jack, I’ve seen you. You’re stronger and younger than any of us.’
If nothing else, I’m pleased she’s noticed the distinc-tion. So there is nothing else for it. We get Joe into my chair and put the walking frame on Craig’s bed. I need to take care of my rods and I need something to lean on so I hang onto my chair with Joe in it. He would likely crash it anyway and I do not want it damaged. So here’s the line up. Pete, Dooley, Ivan, Jim and Pat in chairs, Joe in mine, Bronson pushing Craig. Craig is the most excited, I have never heard so many odd sounds come out a human being. ‘Saaaany daaaay,’ he keeps saying. ‘Saaaany daaaay.’
‘Tell him to be quiet,’ I tell Bronson. Frankly I thought it was a mistake bringing him. Can you think of a bigger recipe for disaster? I cannot imagine how I got caught up in it all. ‘The blind leading the blind’, ‘a fool’s mission’, a procession of geriatrics trundling along the Brown Street footpath.
We turn down Charles Street which is very quiet and peaceful but I feel sure a car will come bearing down on us at any moment. Joe’s walking frame falls off Craig’s bed so we decide to dump it in the bushes. A little further on I see an elderly woman standing on her front lawn.
‘Hello,’ I call.
‘Hello there,’ she says.
‘Nice day,’ I call back.
‘Yes,’ she says. We go on and she just stands there, mouth open.
Charles Street is gradual at first, then it becomes quite an incline. ‘Brakes on!’ yells Pistol Pete and Dooley drives straight into him, then Craig into Dooley. ‘Ease up there,’ I yell. ‘You want to end up in hospital?’ I go out of a driveway onto the road and detour around to the front of the group. I have a pretty good chair and even with Joe in it the brakes hold well and I could hardly expect one-armed Pete to go first down the hill.
Smythe's Theory of Everything Page 22