The Pause

by John Larkin

  The pilots gun the engines and I’m pushed back into my oversized seat. I’ve never been keen on air travel. If people were meant to fly we would have been born with boarding passes in our hands. I grip the armrest while Mum holds the back of my hand. My heart is pounding so fast that there’s no discernible gap between the beats. ‘When closing gate to secure dog in yard,’ says Mum, trying to interest me in what she’s just written on her iPad, ‘it is essential that dog not already on other side of gate.’

  I appreciate Mum’s efforts to take my mind away from the take-off. It’s one of our favourite family games. We recount all the stupid things Dad’s done down the years but make it sound like a self-help book. Dad plays too, and sometimes I’m pretty sure he does some of the spectacularly dumb things he does just so that we’ll laugh at him because surely no one in their right mind would attempt to trim their nostril hairs with barbecue tongs, especially not while they are actually barbecuing and their wife is looking on from the upstairs window holding a bowl of water.

  The plane banks over Botany Bay while my fingers leave an indentation in the armrest.

  Mum hands me her iPad. ‘Your turn.’

  The plane dips suddenly and my heart pretty much flatlines. Is she serious? I can’t let the armrest go to take her stupid iPad. It’s my clenching the armrest that’s keeping us in the air.

  ‘C’mon, Dec,’ she encourages. ‘If you come up with one, I’ll get you a beer when the trolley comes around.’

  I look over at Mum. ‘Seriously?’

  She nods.

  Mmm. Motivation. ‘Okay.’ Thinking back to the time when the sink in their ensuite was blocked and the tong/hedge trimmer thing, I release the armrest (miraculously the plane stays airborne), take the iPad, and opt for a Newtonian approach. ‘When bowl of water is tipped out of upstairs window, water will continue in downward motion until encountering object, usually husband, who will then generally gush, with equal and opposite force, “Jesus Christ, Gabriella!”’

  Mum snorts like a wombat in a pepperbush when she reads it. The elderly woman across the aisle glares over at Mum with a look of superiority. Obviously snorting is unbecoming for business-class passengers. If her nose reached any higher it would start to haemorrhage.

  ‘Lighten up, vinegar tits,’ says Mum, just loud enough for the woman to hear but soft enough for her to pretend to ignore it if she chooses not to get into it with Mum. The woman turns to her husband, who looks over at us, but that’s as far as it goes.

  ‘Did you just call her “vinegar tits”?’ I whisper to Mum, who gives me an innocent, butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-her-mouth doe-eyed look.

  Mum is such a frequent flyer that she is automatically upgraded whenever she checks in. She also had enough frequent flyer points to upgrade me, as well as Dad and Kate. I’m positive Qantas business class would never have encountered the likes of Kate before, and I’m certain that Dad’s latest Hawaiian shirt would have required the cabin crew to hand out complementary sunglasses.

  ‘I’ve got one,’ says Mum. She takes back her iPad and types it in. ‘When catching train home from work, it is best not to wait until one is halfway home before remembering that one drove in that day.’

  Me. ‘When sawing branch off tree, it is vital not to be sitting on branch.’

  Mum. ‘In order to establish one’s position of alpha male, it is essential not to scream like a seven-year-old girl when encountering a daddy-long-legs.’

  Me. ‘When checking under car bonnet, it is imperative to put up that arm thingy or bonnet will collide with head when released.’

  Mum. ‘Never floss teeth with razor blade, no matter what is stuck between them.’

  Me. ‘Socks with thongs is never okay.’

  Mum. ‘When returning from the dog park, one should first ensure that the dog one took is the same dog that one brings home.’

  I decide to opt for Mum’s use of the formal British ‘one’ – I think it’s really effective. ‘When one has the coordination of a baby giraffe and has consumed four pints of Guinness, one should not attempt to dance anywhere near the wedding cake.’

  Mum. ‘When one is trying to locate work colleague’s home in Sydney, greater success will be achieved when not using Melbourne street directory.’

  By the time the drinks trolley is open for business, Mum and I are practically in hysterics. When she is able to speak, she asks for a red wine and gets me that promised beer. I’ll be eighteen in four months so it’s no biggie.

  ‘To the future,’ says Mum as we clink glasses. ‘Whatever it may bring.’

  I’m about to wash down my peanuts with Stella Artois (I am flying business class, after all) when Mum stops me. ‘And, to sticking around,’ she says, ‘because you’re worth it.’

  I smile and squeeze the back of her hand.

  It’s not the first time I’ve had a drink but my memories of my first session are not fond ones. Chris, Maaaate and I got completely trashed on Maaaate’s old man’s putrid home-brew when we crashed there in year eight, and I hurled so much that I practically turned myself inside out. And before that, Aunt Mary forced some whiskey down my throat the night she went over the cliff. She did it to numb the pain (hers not mine), but I hoicked it up quicker than she could pour it down so she beat four shades of shit out of me, threw me in the back seat of her car and took us on a one-way trip to the coast.

  But now that I’m an adult (well, four months away from being one), I am going to drink maturely and sensibly and so I sip my beer and enjoy every mouthful. Before I’ve finished half, Mum’s onto her third glass of red.

  After dinner, we both recline our seats to the comatose setting so we can watch a movie. I opt for an action/adventure/thriller that involves lots of car chases, buildings being blown up for no adequately explained reason and bathrobes cascading provocatively to the floor. Mum settles for a period piece that seems to involve the male protagonist spending an inordinate amount of time staring out of windows at lush green fields and rolling hills, either contemplating the nature of existence or whether or not he really ought to be getting on with something other than spending so much time staring out of windows.

  Mum’s movie kind of reminds me of Lisa. I spent a good bit of time staring out of windows (at home and in psychiatric hospitals and classrooms) thinking about her. Missing her. Craving her. I can’t believe I’m actually going to see her. I can’t believe I almost … died. I would have missed this moment and thousands of others like it.

  On approach to the airport on Lantau Island, Mum tells me about the old one in Kai Tak, which was so close to the city that you could be in your hotel room fifteen minutes after touch-down. Apparently the planes flew between the buildings as the pilots aimed at an enormous checkerboard on a hill before banking sharply to the right and plonking the plane down hard either onto the runway or, as was sometimes the case, into Victoria Harbour. The new airport is fast and efficient but, as far as Mum is concerned, dead boring. She used to enjoy the thrill of landing at Kai Tak, waving at people eating dinner in their high rise as you flew past their window.

  When we get through customs, Lisa isn’t there to greet me, which is how I planned it. Although I’ve teased certain information out of her such as her school, timetable, address and so on, I have been very subtle about it and haven’t mentioned our coming here because I want it to be a surprise. I’m dying to see her reaction. To see if she’s missed me half as much as I’ve missed her.

  We take the Airport Express into the city and then the regular MTR to our hotel on Nathan Road. Had I been by myself, I could imagine that finding my way around Hong Kong would be about as easy as eating Maltesers with chopsticks, but Mum guides us through the complexities of the rail network like a professional tour guide and doesn’t need to call on my Cantonese – which wouldn’t get us very far anyway, as there are very few opportunities to order tea as we navigate our way through the labyrinth of the Hong Kong underground.

  By the time we get to our hotel room, I
feel like something the cat’s dragged in and then dragged out again. Mum decides to take a shower but I just flop onto my bed and sleep like the dead. The dead that is happy to be alive.

  Mum looks at me through the steam of her second double espresso. The three glasses of wine before dinner on the plane were one thing, it’s the couple she had with dinner I think she’s now seriously regretting. She might have also given the minibar in our room the once-over before the room began turning about her.

  I’m having the full English buffet breakfast in our hotel’s restaurant, while Mum has opted for coffee and Nurofen with a Berocca chaser. Despite her vastly decreased brain functionality, she’s playing with her iPad, which is practically surgically attached to her hand.

  ‘Mum. Your eyes look awful.’

  She takes another sip of coffee. ‘You should try them from this side.’

  Poor Mum has clearly woken up with a hangover of biblical proportions. She looks like Death is skulking over her shoulder, scythe unsheathed.

  ‘What do you want to do today?’ asks Mum, through eyes so bloodshot the world must look maroon.

  ‘Seriously?’ I say. ‘I want you to go back to bed.’

  She shakes her head and then groans. Bad idea. ‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘Pushed the boat out a bit last night. Not a very good example. Celebration went a little too far.’

  ‘They say you shouldn’t really drink alcohol on long flights,’ I offer, as if this will actually help. ‘Dehydration doubles the impact of jet lag, apparently.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Temperance.’

  ‘What were you celebrating?’

  She looks guilty. ‘Oh, you know.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t.’

  ‘Just getting away from … things.’

  ‘You mean Dad?’

  ‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘Probably not what you wanted to hear.’

  ‘Are you guys okay?’

  She sighs deep and loud. ‘I don’t know. Things are a little complicated right now.’

  ‘You mean because of what I …’ I look down at the table in shame. ‘… What I went through?’

  ‘A little.’ She reaches across the table and holds the back of my hand. ‘But don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.’

  ‘You and Dad had nothing to do with it. You have to do what’s right for you, Mum. You deserve it. You’re worth it.’

  Her face breaks into a warm smile, but there are tears welling in her eyes.

  ‘Right,’ she says, changing the subject. ‘School gets out around three, I imagine.’ She flashes me a watery wink. ‘So let’s do some tourist stuff before you pay your social call.’

  I nod and try to hide a smile.

  ‘Now there are two aspects to Hong Kong. Do you want to see the real one? Or would you prefer the bling version? Where does Lisa live?’

  I open my phone and bring up Lisa’s contact details. ‘Um. North Point.’

  Mum nods. ‘Nice. Hong Kong Island. She’s more bling. Relatives must be doing okay. So how about we go gritty first. We can traipse out to the markets, and then swing back to Hong Kong Island later?’

  ‘Sounds good to me.’

  After heading back to our room to change and load Mum up on some more Nurofen, we step out from the hermetically sealed safety of our hotel and after a short walk during which I am bombarded with offers to buy suits and copy watches, we disappear down the escalators into the Tsim Sha Tsui station and the rabbit warren of the Hong Kong MTR. Even though we have left daylight far behind, Mum’s eyes are protected from the world (and it from them) behind the duty-free sunglasses she bought at the airport.

  In Sydney you can wait ten, sometimes twenty minutes for a train. Here, they seem to come every minute. No sooner have we started milling on the station than a train arrives. Once the passengers have poured off, we bustle onboard with everyone else. Mum makes for a pole with me in tow. She doesn’t even bother to go for a seat and I’m left to strap-hang next to her, because although it’s mid-morning, the train is packed. The young women all look so classy. They’ve clearly spent ages getting ready but try to make it look like they’ve just thrown something on. Most of the guys are so busy trying to be hipsters and checking each other out that they fail to notice the young women. It’s kind of pathetic, really.

  A couple of teenage school girls with white socks pulled up to their knees are nudging each other, giggling and staring at me. I try to catch them out by glancing back at them but each time I do they look away and giggle even more.

  I look up at the MTR map. The stations reveal a curious mixture of old Hong Kong and its former colonial masters: Tsim Sha Tsui, Jordan, Yau Ma Tei, Mong Kok, Prince Edward, Sham Shui Po.

  We alight at Mong Kok and head up the escalators, the aromas from outside becoming more intoxicating the higher we go. I can’t place the smell, though I suppose it’s kind of a hybrid of sizzling woks, McDonald’s, car exhausts, toil and industry all rolled into one.

  ‘You were quite a hit on the train,’ says Mum.

  ‘You saw that?’ I ask, embarrassed at being sprung. ‘I thought your eyes had ceased functioning.’

  ‘I’m a barrister,’ she says. ‘And your mum. I see all.’

  We finally emerge, blinking into the daylight like the Eloi out of the Morlock’s subterranean abattoir. Mong Kok is mostly locals. Foreigners are few and far between. Several men stare at Mum as we walk by and are so unsubtle about it that their heads swivel around like those circus clowns whose mouths you stuff balls into to win a prize. After one guy’s head practically does a three-sixty, I feel like shoving a couple of balls in his mouth myself. Tennis balls, that is. Even hung-over, Mum’s Italian looks are enough to draw a crowd.

  We continue through the tight crowded streets until we turn into the markets.

  ‘The thing about shopping in Hong Kong,’ says Mum, ‘is to shop where the locals shop. If there are more foreigners about than locals, you’re being ripped off. Also, don’t forget to haggle.’

  ‘Haggle?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Haggle. Negotiate a price. Barter. Bargain.’

  ‘But what if I don’t want to haggle?’

  ‘You have to haggle,’ continues Mum, ‘otherwise the stallholder will pass it down the line that a thick-as-a-brick teenager, ripe for the picking, is heading their way and they’ll bump up the price when they see you coming.’

  Mum looks at me and smiles. I know what that smile means. We are out and about in Hong Kong – our first of possibly many holidays together. It’s a gorgeous, sunny day. The warmth is spreading through me as if I were a lizard on a riverbank, and, to use an old Australianism, “You wouldn’t be dead for quids”. And yet I came within a whisker of throwing it all away. The memory of that moment, of that pause, causes my heart rate to quicken and my throat to constrict.

  ‘Okay,’ says Mum. ‘See that cafe across the street?’ She points out a French patisserie not surprisingly called Le something or other. ‘How about we meet there in a couple of hours?’

  A couple of hours? I try to hide my shock. I don’t want to split up. I don’t want to be on my own. ‘Er, okay. You don’t want me to carry your bags or something?’

  ‘I wouldn’t do that to you.’

  ‘So why are you ditching me?’ I try not to sound completely pathetic and fail.

  ‘I’m not ditching you, Dec. You can come with me if you want. But remember: unfortunately I adhere to every shopping cliché surrounding my gender. Guilty as charged. And you’re a man. Well, a close approximation of one.’

  I scratch my nose with my middle finger.

  Mum laughs and continues. ‘So you’ll be done in about half an hour, tops.’ She opens up her purse and hands me some Hong Kong dollars to add to what she gave me this morning. ‘Get yourself a coffee and a bun or profiterole or something and sit in the cafe and read or maybe write Lisa some poetry.’ I cringe when Mum says this, thinking back to my earlier haikus which, if I remember correctly, are still in my bedside drawer. To t
hink that I came within a whisker of committing suicide, having failed to destroy any and all evidence of my poetry. Oh, the horror.

  A seasoned consumer, Mum’s eyes are bulging like those of a startled puffer fish at the thought of the shopping and browsing that awaits. She pulls me down and kisses the top of my head, tells me to call me if I need her, and is soon swallowed up by the crowd, leaving me a bit lost and vulnerable, which scares me a little. I don’t like being left alone since it happened. My thoughts and what they almost did frighten me. They’re kind of like voices in my head, and I want to keep that voice that appeared when I was on the platform buried deep. I hate that voice for what it tried to make me do. For almost destroying me. For almost destroying my family. My life, my love, my world, my soul. Me.

  I take a deep breath and absorb some vitamin D through my eyelids before beginning a slow stroll through the markets where the stallholders want to give a special price just to me.

  The markets themselves have everything you could possibly desire, providing everything you could possibly desire includes copy watches, handbags, towels, toys, costume jewellery, mobile-phone covers, jeans, dresses, scarves, Hello Kitty accessories, or Lionel Messi, Cristiano Ronaldo and Robin Van Persie replica shirts – otherwise you’re kind of stuffed. I find myself in little need of any of these things. In fact, I don’t really need or want anything. I’m just happy to be out and about. Just happy to be alive. Thrilled at the possibility of seeing Lisa this afternoon. Happy that the voice is silent.

  Apparently the thing that surprises a lot of Americans when they travel overseas for the first time is encountering people who are completely ambivalent about America. They simply can’t imagine anyone not wanting to at the very least visit. They seem to think that the rest of the world is queuing outside their international embassies desperate to migrate to the land of the brave and the home of the free. And so when they meet people who have no concept of the Super Bowl and don’t know or care what the New York Yankees and Chicago Cubs get up to, or, for that matter, give a rat’s what Paris Hilton or Kim Kardashian had for lunch that day (a lettuce leaf and spring water – fizzy, not still), it comes as a shock.