Being Here

by Barry Jonsberg

  ‘Do you want me to continue with the story?’ I croak.

  ‘Hey, no. No. I just came in to see how you were getting on. You need your rest, Mrs C.’

  I do not want to rest. I tell her so. What I don’t tell her are my reasons. One is obvious. My moments of lucidity are becoming fewer and I worry that soon I won’t be able to find the words. They’ll slip and squirm. Or they’ll dance in my head, like motes of dust, and never form pictures. This story needs to be told. It has been buried too long and I think … No. Think is far too strong a word. It is not even a feeling. But I cannot rid myself of this pale belief: that something will be achieved when my story is brought from the dark corners of my mind and placed into another’s. Something special.

  I also believe something else. That the end of the story will also be my end. As if I have been hanging on to life for this one purpose, that as I turn the last page so I will reach my own blank sheet where all words are spent.

  I do not tell the girl this. She wouldn’t understand and it would frighten her. Anyway, she has already sniffed at my self-pity. And I do not want to burden her with the notion that her ears or her blinking machine are signposts to death. Nor would I risk her refusal to listen because of misplaced guilt. Because I know, with illogical logic, that this story must be told.

  ‘Are you sure you’re up to it, Leah?’

  My nurse is bustling around the bed, tidying, fluffing pillows that don’t need fluffing. Her hair is alive against the white walls of my room. It glows like fire. I can’t quite place her name. I will later when I have stopped trying. Memories are best approached this way, kept in the furthest reaches of your perception, glimpsed from the corner of your eyes.

  ‘I’m sure,’ I say.

  My nurse and the girl exchange glances. What can we do with her? they seem to say. Then the child with the hidden story takes the machine from her bag, places it on my bedside table. She leans back in her chair, curls her legs beneath her. I lean back into my too-fluffed pillows and close my eyes.

  The story takes shape, but I cannot fill the character. The girl I was is far away in time.

  CHAPTER 5

  THE GIRL KEPT THE boy away for hours.

  She fanned the flames of her indignation, made the heat of her anger into a barrier. But all fuel must be consumed and she hadn’t the will or energy to replenish it. As day faded into night, he returned and she was glad. They sat side by side against the padlocked barn door, legs stretched out before them. The boy put his arm around her shoulders and drew her close. Outside, the dog whined. She rested her head against the boy and they were silent.

  Shadows lengthened and the interior of the barn changed shape. The familiar bulk of a packing case became inked in, forms merged together. Night changed the scene, invested it with mystery, charged it with menace. Her eyes were drawn to the stain on the wood opposite, the site of her father’s last thought before explosion and metal blew it out of existence.

  What was that thought? Suddenly the girl was filled with a hunger to know. Memories of her father were diluted almost to nothing. She remembered faded nights and a voice that grew from darkness. Faint at first, tapping at the door of sleep, forcing admission. Sitting in bed, a blanket wrapped around her, listening to the discord of words from a buried room. Her father, muttering sounds that refused to resolve into meaning. Except …

  From Hell.

  From Hell.

  A litany that punctuated a rising pitch of agony. And she knew that whatever came from Hell tortured her father in his sleep, pinned him to a sweat-soaked mattress. His words tumbled now, rose in volume, were studded with screams. And her mother. Her mother’s voice murmuring comfort, a quiet counterpoint to the crescendo of terror. The girl stared at the void of night, held her blanket closer, waited for Hell to make its final attack, as it always did. Only then would it retreat.

  The assault culminated in a scream that chilled her blood and made her flesh crawl. Silence. And then sobs that soaked through walls, her mother’s soothing murmurs. Fifteen minutes. Twenty. Until the night absorbed the dying whispers and she lay down, stared through the window, waited for sleep to creep back, reclaim those it had deserted.

  From Hell.

  The distorting mirror of memory?

  Perhaps.

  All people were stories. This was something the girl understood. It was the fabric of her world. But for the first time in her short life the girl considered this: that when people were gone, gone too were their narratives. Some ghosts might linger in the memories of those left behind, but they are doomed to further fade in time, as all must fade. Thereafter, nothing. She felt the ache of not knowing. She longed to visit the page of his mind and read the story written there. A glimpse into his world, she thought. That would do. That would suffice.

  Across the barn, the shadows thickened and swirled and resolved themselves. It was as if the darkness had taken on life. Slowly the stain coagulated, became a man slumped against the back wall. A wedge of blood and brains was a bouquet against seasoned wood. The top of his head was a ruin. For a moment the girl thought she caught a glimpse of the shadowy outline of a rifle cradled in the arms, a faint glint of steel, the stench of dirt and fear.

  And then the world dissolved.

  A diseased sun bled across a ruined landscape.

  The boy and the girl wandered, unseen, through the nightmare.

  The earth was churned, reduced to mud as far as the eye could see. Only a few trees remained, but they were husks, all branches stripped bare. Nothing green grew or could grow. The world was grey.

  Men lay in a trench cut into the earth. They cradled rifles, heads bowed, muddy water to their knees and waists. Rats scurried through the trenches. A few swam, creating thick ripples. One lifted its muzzle from the chest of a slumped figure, gazed at the girl with blood-red eyes. Its whiskers twitched before it returned to feeding. The girl crouched, ran a hand through the mud. It felt alien, sodden with death and leached of hope.

  The boy took her by the hand, drew her to her feet.

  Each sense was assailed. The whines and screams of shells tore the air. The stink of blood and despair. And too much, far too much for the eyes to comprehend. A shell landing in a group of soldiers stumbling from the trench. A rain of blood and flesh. One man sprawled in mud, smoking. And then his face gone, brains splashed across those who lay beside him.

  The girl tightened her grip on the boy’s hand. They trudged down the line, feet sucked by an earth reluctant to release each step. Within the trench, at intervals, were buried chambers. A soldier emerged blinking from one. There was a whistle in his mouth. He waded through mud, gesturing at the slumped forms of men. Most struggled to their feet. A few broken forms did not. The soldiers attached bayonets to the ends of their rifles. They gathered around rickety ladders set against the trench walls. The man blew his whistle.

  The boy and the girl were surrounded by a crush of humanity. They scrambled up a ladder and saw noman’s-land laid before them. Craters. Embankments of barbed wire. To left and right a silent tide of men flowed from the trench. Some ran, others walked. But all moved forward. For ten seconds, maybe as many as thirty, the trench oozed with the sound of countless boots sucking against mud. The girl glanced back. More men poured over the top. Hundreds, thousands. And shells falling. Always, the shells falling.

  The girl looked for her father. She knew he was there somewhere. But all the men appeared the same. She ran with the tide of soldiers and time froze. Minutes lasted an eternity. Dozens of men surged ahead, their rifles tilted, bayonets forward. Some screamed, though no sound could be heard above the wail of shells and the drumming of enemy fire. Mouths were opened in a ghastly mime of horror or aggression. And then the sound of machine guns. The stench of burning powder. The earth pulled. And the bullets hit.

  The boy was at her side. Images tumbled slowly. Men falling in waves. An explosion to the left, then to the right. A soldier tripping over a headless corpse. A body, like a puppet, cau
ght on barbed-wire, twitching. Air tore at her lungs. Blood. Everywhere blood. And bullets. Everywhere the mad whine of bullets.

  The girl stopped, put her hands over her ears, closed her eyes. She couldn’t hear the sound of her own screaming. The boy held her, rocked her. The world around them continued its descent into madness. And then, after an eternity, the other noises faded, died. Her screams pierced the silence. She opened her eyes.

  Nothing stirred within the barn.

  The girl dropped her hands to her sides, struggled to fight the panic. Slowly, her screams diminished, faded to silence. Her throat felt raw, violated. She turned her head, laid it on the boy’s chest. He stroked her hair and said nothing.

  The night passed. When day arrived, most of the girl had gone. In her place, a young woman lay among the scattered straws of wheat, the droppings of rodents and the slices of sun that picked out a faded stain on weathered wood.

  I open my eyes.

  Carla … Carly stares at me. She plucks at her lower lip. The red eye of the machine winks from my bedside table.

  ‘Oh my God,’ she says. ‘That nightmare. That’s horrible.’ ‘Yes,’ I reply. ‘I think you’ll find that’s the nature of nightmares, Carly.’

  She winces slightly, as if my words have nicked her. We stare at each other across our own no-man’s-land, like enemy soldiers.

  ‘I guess the real question, Mrs C, is whose nightmare was it?’ she says.

  I wait. The girl is becoming interesting.

  ‘I mean,’ she continues, ‘you’re trying to persuade me that somehow you lived an episode in your father’s life.’

  ‘Am I? I thought I was telling you a story.’

  ‘It could just be a nightmare, pure and simple.’

  ‘True,’ I say. ‘But I checked. Much later. I found my father’s military history. He was there. A place called Fromelles in France.’

  ‘That proves nothing,’ she says. Agitation makes the metal in her eyebrow wriggle like a worm.

  ‘Proof?’ I wave my hand to dismiss the word. ‘Don’t worry about proof. The only important thing in a story is truth.’

  That makes her brow wrinkle further. The metal bar is beginning to annoy me.

  ‘Fromelles,’ I continue. ‘From Hell. Appropriate, don’t you think? On 19 July 1916 two thousand Australian boys died in fewer than eight hours. I believe I saw a little of what my father witnessed. If you don’t, that’s your choice. But it explained so much to me. How could anyone get that experience out of their head? Unless – and what an irony this is – a bullet might be the only way of erasing it.’

  There is silence for a few moments. I take a glass of water from the bedside. I am pleased to note my hand does not shake as I raise it and drink. Carly’s brow remains folded in a frown. She drops her hands into her lap.

  ‘Another question, Mrs C,’ she says. ‘Let’s say I accept your ‘truth’. You wanted to know your father’s story. But from what I can tell, you’d have been way better off not knowing it.’

  I place the glass carefully back on the cabinet and purse my lips, as if weighing her remark. I don’t need to. But pauses are useful sometimes. They can imbue a response with the cast of wisdom.

  ‘What’s your view, Carly?’ I say. ‘Are you glad you heard that story?’

  She frowns again.

  ‘Not sure “glad” is the right word. I mean, it’s pretty powerful …’

  ‘And your life has been changed, however minutely, in its telling,’ I say. ‘No. All stories demand to be heard. It is an inextricable part of their nature. It defines them.’

  She nods slowly as if I have said something profound. God knows there are few advantages to layered years and senility’s lengthening shadow. Issuing statements and having them mistaken for wisdom is one. I relish it while I have the chance.

  ‘You’re making me think,’ she says. ‘Mum and Dad would be amazed.’

  I smile and she glances at her watch.

  ‘Hey, better get going.’ She kills the blinking light and puts the machine back in her bag. ‘I’ve been here for way too long. Sorry, Mrs C. You must be bugg … really tired.’

  I don’t argue. It is not so much physical tiredness, but a weariness of spirit. I am drenched in it.

  ‘Come back tomorrow,’ I say. My voice sounds scratchy, thin in my ears. ‘I promised you a murder and I always keep my promises.’

  ‘I’ll be here.’

  ‘But a story for a story,’ I reply. ‘Tomorrow you will tell me one of your own.’

  ‘A story, Mrs C? I don’t have a story.’

  ‘Yes you do,’ I reply. ‘You probably just don’t know it yet.’

  Confusion flutters on her face and then is still. She skips to the door. It is many years since I have been able to move like that. She is a force of nature. All her actions, the very cast of her body sparks with energy.

  ‘Carly?’ I say. She stops and turns. ‘Don’t wear makeup next time you come. And take out that ghastly thing from your forehead. You have a pretty face, and I wonder what it is your make-up is hiding.’

  Her hand goes to her cheek. It is impulse. I have been rude and her expression struggles between two conflicting emotions – justifiable anger at my unwarranted insult and unjustifiable respect for brute years. I almost hope she instructs me not to wear my old age so openly, that it suits no one. She opens her mouth and I will the words to spill forth. They don’t.

  ‘What I’m hiding? It’s called acne, Mrs C,’ she says.

  Carly grins crookedly and leaves.

  Tonight I will talk to Lucy.

  Time is running out.

  I can feel it.

  THE MIDDLE

  It’s only oblivion, true:

  We had it before, but then it was going to end

  CHAPTER 6

  IT IS A BEAUTIFUL day. A few clouds in a sky as sharp as my mind. It’s good to be alive. I feel like the only person who savours this self-evident truth.

  Jane comes to me in the morning. Her hair is redder than usual, her smile bigger.

  ‘Leah, my favourite patient! How are you today?’

  ‘I thought you weren’t allowed to call me a patient, Jane. Isn’t there a rule?’

  She hasn’t changed into her uniform yet. I like seeing her dressed in normal clothes, even the baggy ones she favours. It’s a glimpse into the outside world, a connection somehow. I could almost persuade myself she is my granddaughter.

  ‘Ah, get away with you. Don’t you play your word games with me, missy.’

  ‘You are even more cheerful than normal today. Has someone died?’

  She smacks my hand, a playful tap.

  ‘It’s obvious you’re not away with the fairies,’ she says. ‘Are you going to make this a hard day for me, Leah? Are you going to beat me over the head with your words?’

  ‘Of course not. And as for fairies, we have sworn off each other’s company. For a time at least. It’s difficult at my age to resist their allure. I’m drawn to their light.’

  She sits next to me and takes my hand in hers. Most times I’m embarrassed by the texture of mine. Old, cracked leather. Today, though, the sun is shining and it’s good to be alive. I squeeze her hand. It’s warm with life.

  ‘I’ve got news,’ she says, and I know what it is. I can feel it in the pulse of blood through her skin. But I almost don’t want to hear it.

  ‘You’re pregnant,’ I say.

  ‘Yes!’ Her excitement lights her from within. It shines from every pore. ‘And you’re the first person to know. After Alan, naturally. But even my mother doesn’t know yet.’

  It’s shameful to admit it, but my first reaction is dismay. I see again the drumming of impatient fingers on metal, the sidelong glances at other women’s legs and a sneer that oozes lust. I am too judgemental. The day is too beautiful. I smile.

  ‘That’s wonderful Jane. Congratulations.’

  Maybe if she wasn’t so wrapped in warmth, she might see the transparent insincerity of my w
ords. But new life is so demanding. It refuses to give up its spotlight. I have seen this in other women.

  ‘Thanks, Leah. I knew you’d be excited for me.’

  ‘How does your husband feel about it? It’s a big responsibility being a parent.’

  ‘Alan’s thrilled. We’ve already discussed names.’

  But will he be so thrilled with the thickening of his wife’s figure, the sleepless nights, the soft chains that bind? I think not. Already he flutters around a range of different lamps. And when the glow of the marital lamp changes direction, when it shines upon another helpless being exclusively, will the pull of the different be too great to resist? People’s lives are infused with small, familiar dramas that run continually. I see only a small portion, but even that is too much sometimes. I wonder briefly why I am so concerned with images of light. Perhaps it’s because of the sun’s blessing.

  ‘We were thinking of Leah,’ says Jane. Her eyes are cast downwards. It suits her.

  ‘A problem if it’s a boy,’ I remark.

  She tilts her head and offers a reproachful look.

  ‘Such an old-fashioned name,’ I continue. ‘She might grow up to resent it.’

  ‘It’s not so old-fashioned anymore,’ says Jane. ‘Biblical names have been popular for years. I like it. Really. And not just because it’s your name, though I’m glad it is, but because it feels right. Solid. Anyway, at this stage it’s just an option. Mind you, we’re struggling for boys’ names.’

  ‘Adam,’ I say. Jane laughs.

  ‘And that’s not old-fashioned?’

  ‘Someone told me – I can’t recall who it was now – that biblical names are popular nowadays.’

  She looks at me and a cloud of worry sweeps across her face. It is a face ill-suited to wear that emotion and I am both touched and guilty to be the cause.