Homecoming

by Adib Khan

Standing at a fence of hollyhocks, poppies and sunflowers…

  Or an old man I remember sitting with children telling stories

  Of days that never happened anywhere in the world…’

  ‘Hell, you even remember some of it!’ Colin delightedly clasped Martin’s arm. ‘And did you feel anything? Did it make sense?’

  ‘In a funny kind of way. It made me think of home and my girlfriend, except Moira’s eyes aren’t blue. I imagined that I was asleep, and that Vietnam was all in a dream.’

  Outside the evening hummed with insects. Someone strummed chords on a guitar. An untrained but plaintive voice reached for a song, and it was as if the jungle hid nothing more than wild pigs, birds and monkeys.

  THE HALLWAY OF Martin’s house is dismal—poorly lit, with peeling wallpaper and faded carpet. It is bare except for the telephone table, its notepad and biro. On the walls hang cheaply framed prints of Michelangelo’s Pieta, Otto Dix’s Seven Deadly Sins, Hans Grundig’s Chaos and Picasso’s Soldier and Girl.

  Martin hovers over the phone, wondering how Frank might respond to an overture. He picks up the receiver and presses four digits. He pauses. What can he say? Apologise and then offer to meet. What if Frank is unresponsive? Cold and distant as he sometimes can be? Another awkward situation. Martin hangs up. He picks up the mail and walks to the kitchen.

  The tap over the sink is still dripping. He drinks two cups of water and then scrawls an addition to the list of chores stuck on the fridge door. In the mail there’s a cheque from Doreen, accompanied by a brief letter with instructions for the jobs to be done in her garden while she’s away. In the next envelope, stapled to a cheque, is a note informing Martin that the Turners will not be requiring his services again. This is not unexpected.

  THE MORNING SUN had been mildly warm. A few wispy clouds. An absence of wind. More like an autumn day. Martin sat on a rock in the midst of native shrubs, sipping tea that he had brought in a flask. He was engrossed in the poetry of Anne Sexton. He intended to begin work soon. Sexton was provoking him to think about issues that troubled him: loss, insanity, loneliness and despair. He did not hear the car pull up in the driveway.

  Judy Turner had returned home to collect some papers she needed in court. She was irritable, and unforgiving of her own forgetfulness. The sight of Martin sitting contentedly did nothing to restore her composure. She looked at her watch. Nearly half-past ten. This was the sort of luxury reserved for holidays! The heels of her shoes clicked on the pavers. ‘You are not paid to sit and entertain yourself in my garden!’ she said crossly. She caught a glimpse of the title. ‘Oh, I’ve read her! Morbid stuff. She was quite mad.’

  ‘At least she had the guts to look at herself in a mirror during the day without make-up,’ Martin responded dryly. He gulped another mouthful of tea, holding the mug to his lips for several seconds. He remained still. He enjoyed confusing Judy Turner. Undoubtedly she was intelligent and ambitious. A sharp orderly mind that sensed the world in terms of cause and effect; a sophisticated life regulated by time, competition and money.

  Her gaze had become more critical. It was the solicitor’s look: What does he mean? There’s something not quite right about him. Coarse hands, grime under the fingernails, well-worn overalls, dirt-stained boots, a red flannel shirt with frayed collar, unshaven…and poetry. In her world, he thought, the lofty workings of the imagination would be associated with sparkling wine, chamber music and educated accents.

  Judy frowned and reminded Martin that she paid him more than the average rate for gardeners. ‘I’ll put in an hour’s work,’ Martin promised, keeping his cool. ‘When I’m ready’

  She huffed off into the house.

  He resumed reading The Civil War.

  THE PREROGATIVE OF the affluent and the ambitious, Martin reflects now without resentment. Hire and fire with equal ease. He re-reads the note. Very honest, he concedes. There is no pretension of politeness. It is impersonal and toned to a scale of efficiency. He didn’t like the woman. She was fussy and overbearing. With more resolve, he returns to the telephone.

  ‘It’s me.’ He talks a little, to ease things. Tells Frank about Colin being in hospital again. Frank remembers these men.

  ‘Oh Dad…I’m sorry.’

  Martin scratches his forehead in relief. He is unable to detect any trace of hostility in his son’s voice. In fact, Frank sounds vague and subdued. ‘Not entirely unexpected.’

  ‘I didn’t think he’d be readmitted so soon,’ says Frank.

  Martin is reluctant to discuss Colin’s condition. Cancer seems far more sinister and insidious than the fighting they had known. Instead, he says, ‘Ah…can I take you up on your offer of lunch next week?’

  There is a brief silence of surprise. ‘Sure, sure! I—we’d like that.’

  They agree to meet in a St Kilda bistro.

  Martin hangs up, pleased to have made the call. There is so much that can go wrong between parents and children. Respect for your children’s privacy can often be misconstrued as indifference, but concern for their wellbeing can provoke accusations of interference. It’s a delicate balance, hinging on the degree of willingness to accept differences. Martin regrets the heated argument he and Frank had at their last meeting, in a pub. But he’s unable to recall at what point the conversation turned to Frank’s personal life. It had not occurred to him that, given Frank’s professional success, he could be insecure or dissatisfied with life. It was a simplistic assumption, Martin admitted to himself later, ashamed of his self-absorption.

  MARTIN HAD INSISTED on another round of beer. He had drifted towards that state of mind where he was vaguely aware that he’d had enough to drink and yet did not care. Recklessness—the foetal stage of the Freudian death wish, where you shrug off the safety factors of living! It was a sinister dimension of freedom.

  ‘Three in three years. That’s not a bad effort, mate!’ He looked accusingly at his son. ‘What’s the record? Ten in ten? And after that? Even fools eventually learn.’

  ‘This time it’s serious,’ Frank said stiffly. ‘We’re planning to move out of the city. Live in Daylesford. Buy a property with five or ten acres. Slow things down. Maria should be able to find a job in one of the towns there. There’s still a demand for physiotherapists in regional areas…’ Frank looked at him. ‘How about if we all have lunch? You can meet her then. My shout, of course.’

  Martin ignored the offer. ‘There’s no bloody commitment to a relationship these days,’ he droned. ‘And what about your job?’

  ‘I want to do something different. Something less stressful.’

  ‘Stressful?’ Martin mocked. ‘I could handle sixty-five thousand dollars worth of stress.’

  ‘If you weren’t so stubborn about not accepting the War Veterans’ pension, you wouldn’t be so money orientated!’ Frank snapped. ‘You don’t understand what it’s like to be in the computing business. Pressure all the time. Abusive clients. Paper work. Bosses who expect you to work late. And then there’s the image, the social side of things. You’re supposed to lead life in a certain way. People judge me by what I do, how much I earn, the way I look and what I know.’ Frank took a breath. ‘The trendy culture! Efficiency and tangible success and all those key words. So I pretend to be cool and in control. Hey! This is Australia! Best country and all that. Dress smartly, eat out, know about all the latest from Europe, enjoy the outdoors, talk about the arts and community affairs, rubbish politicians, run up a debt and feel good about yourself…But I want to find time for myself, and do things I really want. There are bits of me scattered all over the place.’

  Martin was in no condition for this. ‘Yours is a selfish generation,’ he announced imperiously. ‘Self-gratification is all you desire.’

  ‘Not true!’ Frank retorted. ‘You’re against anyone who won’t succumb to masochism. You think it’s virtuous to be up against the wall. You want to struggle to make a living, so that you can blame an unfair world for inflicting hardship on you. Where is the sen
se in that? There’s no flexibility in your scheme of things. No spontaneity. That’s not about simple living—it’s more about miserable living!’

  More words. Accusations. Until they parted, silently hostile.

  MARTIN WONDERS HOW different it might have been with a daughter. He and Moira had often talked about having another child or two. Until Ron Morris’s wife gave birth to their second baby a boy who was born without fingers.

  ‘We brought something back with us!’ Ron had insisted bitterly. ‘Something inside us. Christ! What a frigging mess!’ He had broken down and cried. Martin and the others watched helplessly each contemplating a private future of calamity. The jugs of beer remained untouched.

  The next time Moira spoke of having another child, Martin lost his temper and yelled at her.

  He dispels the memory of Moira, of her bewilderment and his own ranting.

  Martin considers himself to be fortunate in Frank’s wellbeing. His son is in good health, intelligent and articulate. But in some ways Frank disappoints him. The young man appears to have no awareness of cultural boundaries, nor does he allow himself to be guided by tradition. Frank dabbles in whatever appeals to his craving for the exotic. He studies and practises Buddhism, chants mantras for relaxation, indulges in Asian cooking, visits Hindu friends during their religious festivals—even participating in the rituals when he is permitted—and reads Vedic literature. He plans to travel to Tibet, and the Hunza Valley in Pakistan. And now—another change of partner.

  Martin wanders into the lounge room. The darkness here has a calming influence. He steels himself against thinking about the letters from the bank, or about Colin lying in a hospital room, uttering words about the continuing enrichment of his mind which has not been invaded by the cancer. ‘The therapy of egotistical thinking,’ Colin had once joked. ‘Even as my body retreats from life, I remain positive.’

  Martin welcomes the tiredness that has crept into his limbs. A car pulls up on the opposite side of the street. There are acrimonious voices. He moves to the double window and looks out.

  On the other side a girl stands under the streetlight, gesticulating at a young man. Martin does not know her name. He has witnessed her growing up. She would smile at him shyly a few years ago—that innocent and uncertain look of a schoolgirl. These days she is self-assured and cautious about the world, a working woman with the mask of wariness in place. Occasionally they nod to each other in passing.

  ‘You prick!’ she screams now. The man takes a menacing step towards her.

  A fit of trembling seizes Martin. He resists rushing outside to see if she needs assistance. ‘It’s none of my business!’ he chatters between his teeth. The argument subsides. Unexpectedly the girl gets into the passenger seat. Doors slam. The car roars away. Several minutes pass before Martin stops shaking.

  Cautiously he peers into the night again. There is a bare stretch of the road illuminated by the streetlight. He wipes his forehead and moves away from the window to the stereo.

  Ella Fitzgerald is throaty and moody. Martin contemplates the barren order in the house. An accumulation of things. He envisages a landscape without foliage, dotted with rocks. He thinks about a girl he knew. The years have fled in a blur of indistinguishable images. They are in a dim room, dancing. Her body strains against him. Her face…as it was. But now she is much older. There is sadness in these pictures.

  Restlessly he paces the room and then returns to the window. There are memories. But he does not know how to remember desire.

  FOUR

  ‘How’s Nora?’

  The question is a ploy to direct the course of the hour’s ‘chat’, as Andrew Gribble likes to call it. Sometimes Martin resents Andrew’s familiarity with his personal life. But intrusion is necessary for the sorting out process that began years ago. Martin has stopped asking himself whether he is permanently impaired. He understands that there will be no definitive pronouncement of biblical magnitude: You are healed. This is not the age of absolutism.

  But he no longer wakes up in the middle of the night screaming and sweating, with noises in his ears pounding him into abjection. Now he comes here without a sense of clearly defined purpose. Even his scepticism has eroded.

  In the years since he began these sessions, Martin has seen Andrew’s hairline recede. Lines have lacerated his face. These days he wears spectacles and bow ties. Dark suits. The voice is more modulated, the phrasing less colloquial. He is slightly hunched, perhaps under the weight of two divorces.

  Once this was a wallpapered room decorated with cheap prints. Now the brick walls are adorned with expensively framed paintings. Investment in aesthetics. It almost sounds noble. The furniture, which is likely to be seen in glossy magazines, makes the room more impersonal. Perhaps it is meant to have that effect. Certainly there is no desire to linger after the mandatory hour has passed.

  Spending time in such opulent surroundings can be disconcerting. There are settees and chairs upholstered in dark leather. Shelves made from Tasmanian blackwood. Paperbacks are an insignificant minority. A huge desk with neatly placed paraphernalia. Cabinets and tables, polished and glistening, are adorned with freshly cut flowers in valuable vases. Elegant lamps. Andrew Gribble is eminently successful, highly professional and, from all accounts, brilliant in his field of work. But—ah, there is a triumphant and irrevocable qualification—he has aged.

  ‘Martin, how is Nora?’

  He looks briefly at the psychiatrist and then shuts his eyes. Is there any point in telling you? How do you think she is? A sliver of her mind seems to have disappeared. The truth is, I can’t really tell. There are times when I think she is exacting some kind of revenge by playing a role. It keeps me on tenterhooks. The skin on her face and neck hangs like thin sheets of parchment. There are bald patches on her head. It’s painful to think of the way she was. She is desolate and full of anguish. Maybe those are her reasons for living. It was her birthday in April. I don’t even know how old she is. Certainly much younger than I am. I went to different florists and ordered flowers to be sent to her. The cards read, ‘Happy birthday! From Bob and Marilyn.’ ‘With love, Caroline and Damien.’ ‘Thinking of you. Love, Margot and Peter.’ I ordered a cake to be delivered to the hostel. Am I taking too much credit? Well, that’s what happened. Then I went to see her with a dozen roses and a box of chocolates. I wanted to make her feel as if people still cared and remembered. To strike a chord of happiness maybe. I couldn’t bear the thought of her feeling lonely…Oh, there must be other reasons! Loyalty, for what she has been to me. For God’s sake, don’t ask me if I love her. I don’t know. I don’t bloody well know—

  ‘Martin, how is Nora?’ The voice is insistent but professionally patient.

  ‘As well as she can be.’

  ‘Have you seen her lately?’

  ‘On her birthday, and again about four weeks ago.’ He feels guilty about the time lapse.

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  It? Can it be interpreted as a factual narrative of movement and dialogue? What about the intricacies of thought, and the dynamics of physical presence that determine motivation and behaviour? Martin has no desire to answer questions about it. There are no definitive explanations.

  What he did was impulsive. It was not a premeditated act of love. But he feels that it would be a betrayal to reveal all of Nora’s make-believe world. He resorts to deliberate deception. He allows a significant discrepancy between what he says and his recollections of the birthday.

  HE HAD FELT awkward in the oversized jacket. He was clean-shaven and had taken care to shampoo and condition his thinning hair. His shoes were polished and the trousers had been ironed.

  He rolled his shoulders and coughed nervously. The attendant smiled warmly. ‘Nora will be delighted to see you, I’m sure. We didn’t realise she had so many close friends. Such lovely flowers! And she insisted on changing. Normally she isn’t fussy about clothes, but today it had to be a particular dress.’

  ‘A blue one?
’ Martin asked tonelessly.

  ‘She’s never asked for it before. Maybe she knew you were coming,’ the nurse teased. ‘She’s having tea in her room today as a special treat after all the excitement of the party. You know we give a party? So thanks for the cake!’

  Nora sat on a chair next to her solitary window. The room was sparsely furnished and there was a tray of food on a table in front of her. She stared out into the garden. The roses were still in bloom. April had been a mild and sunny month.

  ‘Hello, Nora. Happy birthday.’ Martin was unable to inject any enthusiasm into the greeting.

  She continued to look outside, ignoring his presence. He leaned down to kiss her skinny cheek. The blue dress hung loosely on her. She had last worn it on his own fifty-third birthday. That was the day they walked along the beach and he had seen the emotional gulf widen between them. Days earlier, Nora had suggested a party. Martin had been adamant. Not even dinner with close friends. And no surprises either.

  ‘Why not?’ she had asked.

  ‘Because I don’t like the unexpected. Let’s just spend some time together.’ He had offered this apologetically, as if it were an inadequate compromise.

  He had been late. He saw that Nora was wearing a special dress. She had showered, tied her hair in a bun and applied make-up.

  ‘I thought we might stroll along the beach for a while.’ Martin scratched his head. ‘Get an ice cream.’

  Nora smiled, hiding her disappointment. Sometimes his lack of imagination irritated her. She noticed the fresh grease stains on his overalls. His hands were grimy. She had spent the morning wrapping his present—a short-sleeved shirt and a tie. Her card, when he opened it later, read: We sometimes know people by what they don’t say. This was followed by Happy birthday! Love, Nora.

  NOW HE SAID hello again, more forcefully. She turned to look blandly at him as he offered her the flowers and chocolates. He had also brought her a soft doll. Nora loved stuffed toys. She had collected them since childhood. Suddenly she brightened. ‘I’ve had friends visiting me all day. They brought flowers!’