Homesickness

by Murray Bail

  ‘Oxford University Press.’

  ‘That’s nice. Doug, give him a coin. What would you like to be, dear, when you grow up?’

  The boy looked up at Mrs Cathcart. The driver began revving the four-cylinder engine.

  ‘A tourist.’

  2

  Heavy stone: bevelled edges. If not bevelled, the edges blended into the cement-coloured (overcast) sky. The downpipes of houses, the edges of elms and the poles, the outline of a man’s nose and forehead blur with the air, a type of barnacle or optical protoplasm—opposite to the startling clarity of the Southern Hemisphere, There was a heavy steadiness. Untidy stateliness. Even the air seemed old.

  Permanence (stone), ancient power of seats and establishments, stone fingertips and pigeon shit: grey, all weighed down and rained upon.

  Order, order! Time had worn channels in the city, but smoothed the faces of the English. In a bus which suffered from respiratory problems the group gradually approached the centre, channelled by the houses and bevelled hedges which immediately closed in behind (the jungle in Africa, the maze at Hampton Court); yet once at the centre there was no ‘centre’. It was somewhere else. Rolls/Bentleys blurred past all aglitter, tall cabs knocked on diesel—immensely practical; and Jaguars, dark Daimlers with the gold line hand-painted along the side (patience: handed down), and small Triumphs, labouring Hillmans, Morgans and many Morrises—miles of Oxfords and Minors, like those rows of trimmed houses. Yet at the same time London offered to them an instant gaiety. Not only with its little window boxes and the double-deckers the colour of geraniums, but in the language; theirs again. Messages were everywhere. And there was gaiety, subtle and yet explicit, in the acceptance of civic channels, resulting in a pedestrian smoothness. Such helpful hand signals and zebra crossings painted without Africa’s wild undulations, the Bobby’s nylon sleeves of special iridescent dye; immensely practical. Possibilities and maybes, perhaps, actually: almost a gaiety.

  Let us stick to the facts. The hotel was a converted wing of the British Museum, in the WC2 district of public lavatories and map shops. Pedestrian pairs consulted maps, many wearing the nylon parka and glasses, looking up like stunned mullets at street signs. Americans sat on steps. Outside the hotel a Cockney sold dying flowers.

  Like the rest of the museum their wing was well known for the quality of its echo, its long avenues of linoleum. Fitted with coiled heaters and the cream iron bed the rooms resembled more a hospital, the Platonic idea of a hospital, and evidently to dispel such a ridiculous impression, each room had been given a colourful Mughal miniature from the Museum’s reserve collection—though somehow the one over Sheila’s bed was an erotic gouache (Nepalese?) showing a Tantric couple locked in intercourse, the man leaning back on an elbow pulling on a brass hookah. The bathroom furniture was all-white, hair-cracked, vitreous. The coil heaters must have been old too, for they were prone to a kind of throat-clearing, without any warning. In certain rooms it verged on the obscene. At first Sheila stood back alarmed, for her radiator had vibrated and complained as she spread a towel on it to dry. Sasha and Violet, sharing a room, couldn’t help sitting down and laughing at theirs. The Cathcarts were a bit peeved. This hotel had baths, but no showers. Already Gerald had left in high spirits, setting out for the National Gallery; in London his face and walk were transformed.

  There existed a pleasant feeling of freedom, of this vast city offering itself. It was all there, waiting. They could go where they liked, where they chose. While the rest of London was working they could stand and watch, and it felt luxurious. A shoal of Japanese had also assembled in the foyer, their leader holding up a metal flag. Doug who was going to Australia House nudged his wife. Those little Japs: you had to laugh. Their leader adjusted a tiny TV set fixed to his lapel which instantly showed, out of the corner of his eye, when one in the group strayed.

  The stipple effect blurring London increased the minute they stepped out and walked. They immediately proceeded to lose themselves among the columns and grey type of a vast newspaper, interrupted by half-remembered photographs (Piccadilly Circus!). A foot occasionally slipped into the gutter, tilting their vision; and as in a newspaper they glanced ahead, anticipating, while still ‘reading’ something close at hand. They skipped most advertisements. They came upon the solid facades of places usually found on the front page, the source of editorials and powerful headlines: Number 10 and 11, the old Foreign Office, House of Commons, grubby Buckingham Palace (to Borelli, ‘eyesaw Buckingham Palace’)…

  Further along were the bronze doors of the city, the old bowler hat and awfully discreet countenance of the waiting chauffeurs (board meetings take place alongside the footpath), which gradually suggested the apparent tranquil sea and attendant tidal actions of stock market quotations, produced daily, and big deals (floats), announcements across tables. The theatre section: linguistic electroliers, sentences of critics! And some when they went on further turned into new areas and noticed how the layout and language altered sharply. Fonts switched to sans bold: small traders dropping their aitches. Page numbers were sometimes written in chalk. They entered the Classified Section, small types flogging trusses and stockings, uniforms, exploded armchairs, tangled coat-hangers, and shop-soiled blankets where you have to read between the lines. Sex shops; mail order only. And leaves rustled like loose pages. Speakers’ Corner, Hyde Park. A Wolseley accelerated out of Scotland Yard. Gee, it was good. The sun came out. The Kaddoks stopped and checked the directory, London A-to-Z—doesn’t it resemble a proofreader’s handbook? Of course, some turned back to the retail advertisements for there was Boots, Aquascutum (in italics) for raincoats and elastic-sided boots, look, Libertys, Simpsons of Piccadilly; Sasha had pointed to Selfridges and steered Violet in. The others simply drifted like lost sheep, stopping at random. They became tired—blinking their eyes. A grey sludge underfoot felt like pulped newsprint and words, discarded sentences, shades of opinion and history. To them it was a further blurring of distinctions. London was the home of the semicolon; also a grand depository of facts. The Cathcarts found their way to Australia House where it was easy. They could sit down beneath the chandeliers and Brangwyns, and leaf through their own newspapers, amid the sounds and brown appearances of their own people.

  In St James that afternoon several world records were shattered. Arriving early the Hofmanns sat in seats which had apparently been reserved for Arabs. Nothing was said of course but the adroit auctioneer with the carrot-coloured shoes and the Etonian’s tie clearly accepted Hofmann’s occasional nodding with disdain. Before long they were surrounded by silent white-robed Arabs who had filed in, and Louisa put her sunglasses back on. The musk-perfumed playboy seated beside her kept losing his chappal and looking at her sideways as he bent forward, brushing her ankle, her knee, sending her mind back to other places: filmy odalisque? Hofmann meanwhile looked around at the oils hanging one above the other, some falling out of their frames, and parallel sunbeams from the skylight bathed the cool chinless wonder at the lectern in a nimbus much favoured by the Dutch Old Masters.

  First to go was an early cornucopia, oil in canvas, about three yards long, and so darkly varnished or neglected it was almost monochrome. Bidding began slowly. The auctioneer murmured the platitude: ‘Really, the gilt frame alone is worth that…’ It then passed the previous record as Louisa’s neighbour kept idly raising his finger, but he remained gazing at her for too long and it went to a Bangladeshi businessman seated in front.

  Hofmann wanted a major stripe painting, long and horizontal, American, c. 1964. This too would have been a good three yards long, though it was barely eighteen inches high. Again it was almost monochrome: grey strips stained into duck. So it seemed to blur like a sentence or London’s traffic which could be heard faintly outside. Hofmann wanted it and Louisa watched as he joined in: his face now a petulant boy’s. He frowned as he kept nodding—short, stubborn nods. Transparent bulbs of perspiration popped out above his lip. All his attention concentrated on the Old Bo
y but when the five figures passed the world record set by a similar work he seemed to falter. His eyes slid off the lectern, down, and to the right. He seemed hurt. Louisa turned to see her neighbour raise his jewelled finger again. She placed her hand on him, restraining him—and flushed. What was that? The Arab grinned. Louisa moved her leg from his.

  There was a teeming stillness. They remained at its centre.

  ‘Hon,’ Ken was whispering, ‘it’s ours. I got it. Isn’t she a beauty? It’s for you. I bought it almost for you.’

  A dealer with superbly combed hair swung around.

  ‘Do you mind? We happen to be working. Or some of us are trying to.’ But then seeing the Arabs he suddenly smiled, ‘Excuse me…’

  Outside on the footpath Hofmann kept thudding his gloved hands and shaking his head at the barely legible name in brass of the venerable auction house. He could visualise how the recently won picture would fit into his collection. It was Louisa’s turn to be silent. Almost to himself Hofmann nodded, ‘Very good. Yes, very good. I’d say it’s easily the best one in Australia. There’ll be nothing like it. Hey, listen, come with me.’

  He took her arm.

  Even on Old Bond Street they stood out as a fine-looking pair. Both were trim and radiated that good health and well-earned time on their hands. Both had woollen coats, buttoned to their chins.

  Although Louisa didn’t want another Cartier bag he walked in and bought her a new one of special grey lizard skin. It was quite out of the ordinary. At a certain angle in daylight it had been noticed that the tessellated skin reproduced—quite by chance—the pattern of a ten pound note. It was like a poor but distinct photograph. The late Charles Darwin, coughed the manager, would undoubtedly have been pleased. Quite unusual, what? Hence, its premium price. The Natural History Museum had expressed an interest…

  Hofmann asked for the contents of Louisa’s old bag to be tipped into the new one, and to Louisa he proposed they return to the hotel and have a drink. ‘Would you like that? Are you quite positive?’

  Louisa turned her head.

  ‘Or what would you like to do?’

  She stood on the footpath wondering. Feeling as vague as London’s outlines she went along with him.

  Sheila Standish had gone out to Wimbledon, the first to reach the Sports Pages, and was on her way back, the black cab slicing through the houses. An aunt lived at Wimbledon and whenever in London Sheila always liked to go there first. How many centre-court finals had they seen together? Throughout the nineteen-sixties the longest sighs and woman-shrieks heard on the tennis broadcasts came from those two in the best seats. A good men’s singles would leave them exhausted but chattering. Her aunt had skinny legs and a brown neck. Lately she had grown abruptly old, and for two seasons running Sheila had missed Wimbledon, though she always looked forward to seeing her aunt. This time when the driver found the street she suddenly directed him on to ‘Wimbledon’, the courts just around the corner.

  There was no tennis but lines of tourist buses were queued outside. Outside the Players’ Entrance a Cockney entrepreneur gave tanned Americans a yellow racket with broken strings to hold, and ran back and—‘Hold it, luv. Gotcha’—took their photographs. Nearby a partner had set up a small tent displaying Famous Tennis Balls plus other artifacts of the game: chlorophyll-stained canvas shoes, a Czech sunvisor, early athletic supports and some frilled knickers all worn at some time by the Great. It was the smallest museum Sheila was ever likely to see. The holiday crowd waited patiently in line, and Sheila walked a little around the stadium walls. In the wet grass she noticed several lost balls, resting like cannon shot, and was startled to see the stadium’s concrete marred by graffiti, most of it obscene—BALLS TO TENNIS—in a variety of chalks and sprayed colours. Among the limericks, the lonely confessions and phone numbers, one message stood out. It had been sprayed through a template, repeated all over, professionally.

  AUSTRALIANS ACE

  That wasn’t dirty. It was often true. Sheila smiled a little at the recognition. ‘Australia’ otherwise tended to disappear in such a vast place as London.

  Behind her, a man’s voice broke in.

  ‘What d’you know…?’

  Sheila’s eyes and forehead went haywire. She turned.

  ‘Africa, right? Just the day before yesterday. Well isn’t this something? What was our crummy hotel?’

  ‘The Safari International…’ Sheila frowned, confused.

  ‘Bugger me,’ the tall man went on, ‘this is something to write home about.’

  His wide hairy wrists and a man’s knuckle bone.

  Thank goodness: they were walking back to the crowd. Around forty, he was tall with worn straight features. He asked her name.

  ‘And where do you come from, Sheila?’

  ‘In Sydney.’

  ‘Sydney or the bush,’ he roared. ‘Aye, Sheila?’

  Sheila smiled.

  ‘Listen, what are you doing now? Could you do with a cup of tea or something? There’d have to be a place around here.’

  Glancing, Sheila thought he might be a country man originally, or even now; and so perhaps they could have talked. But she consulted her watch more out of habit.

  ‘I can’t. I’m afraid I can’t.’

  ‘All righty. No problems.’

  Keeping his cigarette in his mouth he squinted exaggeratedly through the smoke as he wrote down her hotel. ‘Good on you. I’ll be in touch, Sheila. Be good.’

  His name was Hammersly, Frank Hammersly.

  Sheila went along to her aunt and was still biting her lip, confused, when she returned to the hotel. She took little notice of the scenery. It was growing dark. The man—Frank Hammersly. Certainly he had the gift of the gab. Not that it… He was a tall figure of a man, solid timber. In the big suit his face and shoulders consisted almost entirely of straight lines. His shoes were dark tan, crinkled brogue. These had made her think he was from the country, originally. She should have asked him! He would have said. He could certainly talk. He’d be phoning and she’d have to say. He said he’d phone. And she didn’t know.

  The driver wore the cloth cap. Fat creased his neck: horizontal cuts of a knife. He was a heavy man, but not as solid as Frank Hammersly. As they crossed the river he twisted, ‘That’s where the coppers caught Christie, the pervert-murderer. Right about…there.’

  Steering with one hand he pointed. Then he began shaking his head.

  ‘He was a shocker. How many women was it he carved up? I must have passed him that day. I had a job out here. It was when we had our fogs. That wasn’t all that long ago. I still have the foreigners getting in asking to see the house. Number 10…’

  Sheila tilted her head to be polite.

  A travel firm ran a tour over Christie’s house, Christ, every Monday night. They have his cupboards open, the old bath, and on the mantelpiece his National Health eyeglasses. Some of the floorboards are up for you to see. It’s for the Irish and the Scots who come down. You get a few tourists—Frogs. Americans have heard about him.

  Sheila fumbled for change,

  ‘I’ve only been told about it,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘I haven’t been in myself.’

  To make matters worse, Sheila wasn’t familiar with the currency yet. Here you had to give the drivers a full tip: but the handful she shoved through, not counting the African coins, was probably far too much.

  The Hofmanns were there in the lounge listening to Gerald Whitehead who still wore his raincoat. They nodded when Sheila hurried up; Gerald kept talking.

  ‘I didn’t believe it at first. But it was everywhere I went.’

  ‘Oh what a pity.’

  ‘Why, what’s wrong?’ Sheila asked.

  ‘Let’s have a drink,’ Hofmann smiled. ‘At least our day wasn’t bad.’

  Nation, island, capital city of facts. The black-and-white half-tones had moved indoors. Someone had noted this year was the 156th anniversary of Niepce’s invention of photography, and the only time the anniversary
would match the camera’s most popular (Number 1) aperture setting, f5.6. And that wasn’t all! The retrograde of 56, it was pointed out, was 65—sixty-five years ago Oscar Barnck in Germany built the first 35mm camera! Photography—who said it?—is the folk art of the industrial age. The great museums of London were taken up with appropriate celebratory exhibitions.

  At the National Gallery, X-ray photographs of the Renaissance paintings replaced the originals. From a distance they looked almost the same. The enlarged X-ray prints were fitted into the ornate frames. This was the work of the forensic experts in the gallery’s basement. Explanatory paragraphs and cotton arrows pointed out the struggling artists’ ‘real’ intentions, ghost-like here, and their appalling early errors in composition and perspective. Nothing is as it appears. Photography’s efficiency had stripped away illusion. These Renaissance masters, it was revealed, were racked by the same doubts and timidity experienced by the average Sunday afternoon amateur.

  The gallery was crowded. Parties of photographers strolled around as if they owned the place. In addition to their expensive dangling equipment—the gallery’s NO CAMERAS rule had been temporarily waived—they wore expressions of triumph and understanding. Groups stood talking together, their backs to the ‘paintings’, introducing themselves and inspecting each other’s gear. Photography had come a long way.

  As Gerald fought his way out, other buses pulled into the curb, including one constant double-decker painted yellow like a film box, disgorging more photographers, enthusiasts having flown in from America and Japan, each one instinctively glancing up at the sky. Many a German’s snap included the ears of Gerald’s enraged head.

  The National Portrait Gallery, around the corner, attracted similar crowds. Here they’d put on an important historical show. The rooms had been made specially dark and oil portraits of pioneer photographers hung in place of the usual. Oil paintings of photographers? To some this was an ironical somersault. It was a cause for serious contemplation. Oil paintings of… Others though, the photographers, saw it as the supreme belated compliment. As the excellent catalogue in a footnote challenged: when before had a photographer been enclosed in gold leaf and an artificial convolvulus border? And here were more than forty. They had been tracked down and unearthed from the most unlikely of places. Many had scarcely seen the light of day before.