by Robert Power
MELBOURNE, AUSTRALIA
www.transitlounge.com.au
Copyright ©Robert Power 2013
First Published 2013
Transit Lounge Publishing
This book is copyright. Apart from any fair dealing for the purpose of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part may be reproduced by any process without written permission. Inquiries should be made to the publisher.
Cover and book design: Peter Lo Printed in China by Everbest
This project has been assisted by the Australian government through the Australia Council for the Arts, its arts funding and advisory body.
Cataloguing-in-publication entry is available from the National Library of Australia: http://catalogue.nla.gov.au ISBN: 9781921924453 (e-book edition)
To Tanya with love
1
A swim and a bombshell
As the taxi jolts and turns into Primrose Hill, everything looks strange, as if I’m seeing it all for the first time. An old couple walking along the street. Dogs. Children on bikes. Even the shop signs and advertisements jump out at me in sharp relief.
‘Whereabouts on the Heath?’ asks the driver, turning his head to speak to me through the little window in the glass partition.
‘By the Men’s Pond,’ I say, leaning forward from the back seat so he can hear me. ‘I need a swim.’
He does a double-take and then goes back to concentrating on the road.
‘I might meet my daughter up there,’ I say, just to put his mind at rest.
He relaxes. I close my eyes. All this visual stimulation of street life whizzing by the window is too much to take in after the days of being cottonwooled away.
‘Be careful of those shirt-lifters up at the Ponds, mate,’ jokes the driver. ‘Don’t drop your soap in the showers.’
‘I’ll be careful,’ I say, keeping my eyes closed, doing my best not to encourage him, even though I know it’s true that the Ponds is a notorious cruising venue. The motion of the cab, coupled with the smell of diesel, makes me feel a touch nauseous, but it’s good to shut the world out. They told me to take it easy, be good to myself; do anything that feels right. Just stay away from the drink and the drugs.
‘What’s your job, then?’ he asks, undeterred by my pretence at sleep.
‘I’m a scientist. I work to prevent diseases,’ I answer, still with my eyes shut, hoping for the best.
‘What kind of diseases?’
‘Infectious diseases. The kind that get passed on from one person to another.’
‘Like this AIDS thing?’
‘Yes, and others like hepatitis. Especially the kind we can vaccinate against.’
‘So what do you think about all this business with the Africans, then?’
‘What business?’
‘You’re an Aussie, aren’t you? Where’ve you been – Mars? It’s been all over the TV for days. He says there’s no such thing as AIDS. The president. You know, the one with the dark glasses and rows of medals. He says it’s a Yankee conspiracy or something like that. To kill off all the blacks. That’s what he says. And I don’t go much on these Africans, but he might be onto something.’
‘I’ve been on a retreat. No TV. No news.’
‘A retreat?’
There’s a screech of brakes and a thud on the side of the cab. An enraged cyclist appears at the window. He pulls down his goggles and bangs his fist on the door.
‘Look where you’re going, you lunatic,’ he screams at the taxi driver.
‘Drop dead, you queer,’ shouts the driver, winding up the window and accelerating.
I sink further into my seat, more exhausted by the minute, any lingering sense of tranquillity evaporating with every sharp turn of the taxi.
‘Retreat,’ says the driver, laughing to himself, ‘like an Italian tank in the war. Four gears, they had. Three reverse and one forward, just in case the enemy attacked from behind.’
He laughs heartily, then lurches left, sending me sliding along the seat.
‘You get it?’ he yells, looking over his shoulder, a huge vein pulsating in his neck. ‘Just in case they come at them from the rear. Retreat!’ he shouts. ‘Retreat!’
All is quiet on the Heath. It’s early spring, so the water in the Ponds is still cold enough to keep away all but the diehards. Most every morning since I arrived in London from Melbourne, rain or sun, snow or wind, I’ve taken my early morning swim in the Men’s Pond up by Highgate Hill. It makes living in London bearable. The trees and the herons, the coots and the fresh deep water. It’s only a tiny pond on a small piece of heathland in north London, but it’s the nearest you’ll ever get to bush in this crowded city. When they asked me this morning what was the first thing I would do on returning to London, there was no contest.
‘A swim on the Heath,’ I said. ‘In my underpants if needs be.’
There are only three other men in the changing area. The early morning swimmers have long gone to work or returned home to read the papers and reflect on the benefits of retirement. I strip to my underpants and hang up my T-shirt as a makeshift towel. The changing area is open to the sky and the sun is peeking apologetically over the wall. A woodpigeon flies overhead, making its way to its nest in the tall chestnut trees at the base of Parliament Hill. I pass through the door and out onto the jetty. It is like entering an oasis. The trees are in full leaf, glittering in the fresh breeze. The water ripples gently and there, to my left, I see a family of swans. The regal adults, the pen and the cob, are the galleons of the fleet. They flank their five grey cygnets that are bobbling around, magnificently unaware of the metamorphoses ahead of them. It’s the first time in many years swans have come to breed on the Ponds. We’ve all avidly chartered their progress and are happy to share our bathing spot with them.
I walk purposefully to the blue diving board and stretch to my tiptoes, arms high, looking down at the expanse of cold water before me for just a moment before I dive. When I hit the water it is like a baptism. I push forward beneath the surface, holding the moment, letting small bubbles of air trickle upwards to caress my cheeks before they hurtle away. As I emerge I shake my hair like a dog and suck in a big breath of air. I breaststroke out to the perimeter, where the lifeguards have linked buoys with thick, corded rope to make a circuit. I watch my hands in front of me as they make each stroke, pushing the water aside, pulling my body past the familiar scenery stretched out along the banks of the pond. The hawthorn bushes, the weeping willows, the nesting blacknecked grebe. I flip onto my back and let my mind wander over the highs and lows of the last two extraordinary weeks. I think about my time at the Friary, the lessons I have learned and my new resolve. Then I focus my mind on this morning’s upcoming meeting at the lab and our latest endeavours to find the solution to the puzzle of the one-use syringe.
I am mentally pulling apart the formula for the thermosetting plastic when pain explodes between my eyes. As I splutter and choke and hold my forehead, I see the swan, barely a foot away. Then I realize what has happened. I have swum between the male and his offspring. The swan comes at me again, puffing itself up like a beautiful white cloud, hissing and striking with the speed of a cobra. Seminars at the lab and my stay at the Friary recede as raw instinct takes over. I quickly duck-dive and swim under water in the direction of the jetty. I finally emerge at the steps, shaken and breathless. The sharp pain across my forehead and the blood trickling down my nose into the clear waters of the pond is a comic reminder of my counsellor’s advice about living in the moment. I grimace and haul myself up the steps and stagger back into the changing rooms. A few swimmers and one of the lifeguards have witnessed the attack.
‘T
hat looks nasty,’ says Eddie, the rag-and-bone-man from Kentish Town.
One of the lifeguards comes by with the first-aid kit and sticks a plaster between my eyes. There is nearly as much excitement as when old Albie jumped into the pond five years ago with a ten-kilo weight tied to his ankle. He had been told he had terminal cancer. A week or so after the inquest the local newspapers reported that his tests had been mixed up and he was in the clear.
‘I’ve been swimming here thirty years,’ says Eddie, drawing on the huge cigar he only puts aside when he’s in the pond, ‘and I’ve never known no one bit by a swan.’
He sits on the wooden bench next to me; his huge chest is covered in a forest of grey hair, contrasting with his shiny bald head.
‘Rear up, yes. Often. Attack, no,’ he adds.
‘So, maybe I’ll be famous,’ I say, drying myself off after a freezing shower that makes even the cold pond water seem inviting.
‘Maybe he bit you because you’re an Aussie,’ laughs Eddie. ‘Thought you were another species. Not from around here.’
He leans back and scratches his balls. Funny how nakedness strips away social differences. Me, the internationally renowned scientist; Eddie, the neighbourhood collector of fridges and hubcaps. The sun rolls from behind a cloud and Eddie stretches to greet it. The sky is clearing on this early spring morning.
‘Did I tell you I had my bike nicked?’ says Eddie, who’s never been good at silences. ‘Kids in hooded sweatshirts. You know the type. Off the housing estate. The little bleeders even tried to sell it back to me. Can you believe it? I grabbed one and he told me, “Let go, you paedophile. I know my rights,” he says. “I’ll get the police on you.” Unbelievable! He steals my bike and threatens me with the police. What you reckon, Tony, is it me or is it the world that’s going mad?’
‘You’re right there, Eddie,’ I say, pulling on my shirt and trousers, a throbbing between my eyes, the image of the rearing swan on my mind, ‘it’s not you, mate, it’s the world.’
I say goodbye to Eddie, who is standing on his head, cigar smoke drifting up past his chest and his dangling penis. Still shaken, I walk slowly across the Heath towards the Post Office Tower and my laboratory in the city below.
This is England, circa mid-1980s. My name is Anthony Malloy: acclaimed scientist meets personal disaster zone. Publicly, I’m on the verge of a breakthrough that will make a major contribution to world health. Privately, I’m just emerging from a near catastrophic meltdown. Ho hum. You win some, you lose some. At least I’m still in the game. And the advice that’s stuck with me? Keep it simple, take it easy. Oh yes, and live in the moment.
Everyone is assembled in the seminar room.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ I say in the general direction of Professor Peter Blake who sits at the head of the table.
‘What happened to you, Anthony?’ he asks, pointing at my forehead.
‘I was attacked by a swan on the way to work.’
‘That’s original.’
‘Not bad, eh.’
It’s my first day back since my unscheduled break. And everyone is smiling in my direction. Peter Blake has the biggest grin of all. He gets up and comes around to where I sit. He slaps me on the back and waves a letter in front of my face.
‘Our antipodean hermit returns from his well-earned rest. How was the monastery?’
He looks at me for a response, winking at me to keep the story going that he and I had devised. From the expectant looks on everyone’s faces, no one seems to suspect the real reason for my absence.
‘Ah, the monastery,’ I say, biding my time. ‘Wonderful, absolutely wonderful. Peace, no laboratory, a beautiful stained-glass chapel, a cell all to yourself, and nothing to worry about except the mosquitoes from the River Medway.’
Peter keeps to the script. ‘Excellent, you really deserved your break. Now for our news. You should have been the first to hear it, but your swan got in the way.’ He beams around at the rest of the laboratory staff. ‘They’ve accepted our article. It’s coming out in Nature Science next month, and you, Dr Anthony Malloy, are going to be famous. Your secondment here from the University of Melbourne has more than exceeded expectations.’
As I walk through the front door of my flat I hear the beep from the answering machine. It’s Tommo, asking me to call him when I can. His voice brings on a pang of homesickness. I reckon if I began digging from here I’d probably end up at Ocean Grove. The Bass Strait surf roaring in front of me, the estuary at Barwon Heads to the right, the lighthouse of Point Lonsdale to the left. Huge tankers on the horizon, and the fresh air and wide blue skies. I dial the long telephone number, getting it right on the third attempt. I close my eyes and wait.
‘Hi, Tommo here.’
I know the house. I know the table where Tommo is sitting. He’s my Dad’s eldest brother, but we’ve always called him Tommo, ever since my sister Caitlin and I were kids. It’s what everyone calls him. No mister, no uncle, just Tommo. He’s always been there on the sands, in the dunes. Always ready to play whenever we happened to tumble down the bay from Melbourne to the best bit of beach in the world.
‘Hi, it’s Anthony, how you going, Tommo?’
‘Beautiful, even better from hearing your voice, boy. And how are you in drab old London town?’
‘I’m fine, just fine,’ I say, pitching my voice to try to sound convincing. I think I can hear the sea in the background.
‘And how’s that invention of yours? We’re all counting on you changing the world. Never had a Nobel prize winner in the family,’ he says with a chuckle.
‘Just great, thanks,’ I say with much more conviction. ‘It looks like all those hours in the lab are going to be worthwhile. All the upheaval in coming over here.’
‘Glad to hear it … to know all your hard work’s coming good. Look, I called because I haven’t heard from Caitlin in ages. She normally phones most weeks, but nothing for over a month. Is she okay?’
‘I’m sure she is. She’s still living down on the coast.’ I pause, trying to sound more upbeat. ‘I spoke to her about two weeks ago. She was talking about you and how she misses the real ocean. Sorry, I’ve not called in a while myself. I’ve been away for a few weeks.’ Then the homesickness takes over and I can’t help myself. ‘Tommo, can you see the lighthouse at Point Lonsdale?’
‘Yes, I can, boy. It’s winking at me now. And it’ll be here waiting for you whenever you and Caitlin come back down to see me. It’s a beautiful clear night. More stars than you’d ever think possible. So tell me, how’s England looking? I haven’t seen it for years.’
‘When you can see through the grey, it’s still grey. Too many people. Not enough space, no one smiles much. No one says hello. But it’s okay. I’m here to get my work done, not to be a tourist. And you, Tommo, all’s well?’
‘Look, I’m happy as can be. Nothing much changes, but that’s good enough for me. Not a lot of news. The tide comes in, the tide goes out. Okay. Well, when you speak to Caitlin, send her my love. Ask her to call.’
‘Will do, Tommo. Bye for now. Speak again soon.’
I hang up and look out the window, the dull light of the northern skies reminding me how far I am from the huge blue skies and vast horizons of Port Phillip Bay.
The boom rattles the glass on Brighton’s West Pier and sends the swifts spiralling into the sky like a Kansas City twister. All along the esplanade people stop in their tracks and turn in the direction of the explosion. The building is swathed in smoke. Moments later the windows on all floors pop in unison, vomiting pillars of fire. On the roof of the hotel a flame climbs the flagpole, licking the Union Jack.
‘Do you remember Bonanza?’ asks Caitlin Malloy, watching from the street below, as the flag ignites and crumples to a tatter of flame and ashes. Sammy looks totally blank.
‘You know, the television show, about the cowboys on the ranch. The way the opening sequence showed the map catching fire?’ she says, as if the whirl and ding-a-ling of the engines raci
ng along the promenade has nothing to do with her. Sammy undoes the top button of his coat. They’re too close and hot for comfort.
‘We never had television in our house. My father said it led to lazy habits and no conversation.’
The crowds press in from all sides. The police set up tapes to hold them back. The camera crews and photographers, who minutes earlier were settling into hotel bars for the night, now jockey for position on the windswept pavement across the road. Journalists, half into their sheepskin coats, scurry around looking for the story. Above the crackling of the flames and the cracking of the woodwork a grey-haired policeman bellows into a loudhailer for the onlookers to disperse. People run back and forth, looking for a task to anchor them. Some stand and stare in silence, bewitched by the flames, hypnotised by the warmth of the blaze. The crunching of the pebbles underfoot, the muffled crashing and sucking of the waves, offer a gentle comfort to Caitlin and Sammy as they walk away from the scene.
It has gone almost exactly as planned. They’re just a couple of weekender lovers strolling on the beach, as curious as the rest. Their training and briefing were precise. Yet it hadn’t prepared them for one thing: Caitlin and Sammy have fallen in love.
‘Are you okay?’ Sammy whispers, kissing the nape of her neck, the fresh sea breeze mingling with the smell and brush of her hair on his face.
‘I am, my sweet, and I love you forever. Just like Bonnie and Clyde, the Scarlet and her Pimpernel. And we’ll have the happy ending. I promise you that.’
They stand and kiss and, in the midst of all the madness and chaos and sirens and flashlights, they hold each other close.
The clouds tumble through the sky, threatening rain, oblivious to the theatre unfolding below. The blazing building glows and bubbles as the firefighters, with ladders, ropes and axes, set siege as if to a medieval castle. Arc lights illuminate the scene, the whir of cameras and flashing bulbs capture the drama of bodies being stretchered away to waiting ambulances. One ambulance attracts instant attention as word gets round that its intended cargo is a prominent Tory party cabinet minister. He steps out in front of the cameras, outstretched arms waving in defiance and steely resolve. But his unflappability is compromised by the striped pyjama top torn to the waist, the potbelly shyly peeking out, his thinning hair caked in blood and plaster, and the regulation blanket wrapped around his shoulders. Behind him the building gives up and collapses into itself, revealing a hissing, steaming skeleton of steel and wire.