by Liz Byrski
And now, here he is, four weeks later, exhausted from the filming and from the tension of wondering what Gaby is doing, whom she has or hasn’t told, what she will say when he sees her again. She’s still there in the office, efficiently responding to his emails, making whatever arrangements he requests, updating him on other projects. She is doing her job and that in itself is a relief; presumably if she truly hated him, she wouldn’t have gone back there. But the phone calls that would normally have come from her come from Monica or Ed. Gaby obviously, and understandably, does not want to speak to him. If she had told anyone, though, Richard thinks, he would know by now; there would have been an enraged phone call from Australia or Portugal, London or Rye. He believes she must have kept it to herself and he admires her for it.
Perhaps, he thinks, as he sits at the poolside bar with a brandy, watching the dazzlingly clear turquoise of the floodlit water, this is his epiphany; the turning point that will teach him to tread more lightly in the world.
Later that evening, Richard makes his way out of the hotel and on to the street. According to the hotel barman, the Sari Club is the place to go, and he follows his ears to the beat of the music. Squeezing through the knot of people clustered around the entrance, he edges towards the bar, his adrenaline pumping with the music, his skin prickling damply with the humidity, entranced by the hypnotic effect of lights dappling over the sinuous bodies of the dancers. He stands there, a benign observer, drink in hand, not thinking, watching, abandoning himself to the mind-numbing beat, inhaling the sheer physicality of the place. From her seat further along the bar, a woman, not young but younger than him, edges closer and leans over to speak to him. A fall of hair dyed an unnatural red brushes his face as he leans in closer to hear what she’s saying.
‘D’you want to dance?’ she asks above the music.
‘Love to,’ he says, and he puts his arm around her waist and they move away from the crowd at the bar.
‘I’m an old-fashioned dancer,’ she says, putting one hand on his shoulder and moving in pleasantly close.
‘Me too,’ he says, drawing her generous curves closer still, breathing in a familiar perfume. ‘I’m Richard,’ he murmurs close to her ear.
‘Patti,’ she says, ‘from Brisbane. Here alone?’
He savours the touch of skin, the mingling heat of their bodies. It is a long time since he has danced, and dance as foreplay is tantalising. ‘Yep,’ he says, ‘the Lone Ranger, that’s me.’ As he tilts his head back to look into her face, there is a noise, the building seems to tremble. People are yelling in confusion and Richard grabs Patti’s hand but, as they head for the door, there is another explosion – louder this time, like nothing he’s heard since Vietnam – and he is hurled sideways in the air and crashes to the ground. Timber and masonry are crashing down, and Richard, still holding Patti’s hand, turns to her but she has gone; her hand clasped in his is all that remains. He hears his own screams ricocheting off the unrecognisable shapes, the heaps of rubble and twisted metal. And now there is fire – fire everywhere. His other arm, the whole side of his body, is on fire, his hair is burning; it is so sudden and intense that he feels only horror. The last thing he knows is the fire.
FORTY-SEVEN
Perth – October 2002
Dan arrives at the international airport and parks the car just as the flight touches down. He doesn’t want to be here at all and the sooner it’s over and done with, the better. Archie has an important meeting and Zoë has an appointment with Eileen’s gerontologist. People crowd around the barrier at the arrivals gate, pressing closer, standing on tiptoe and straining to see. Dan stands back; he is here merely to help Zoë out. An exhausted family comes through the doors first, with a trolley piled high with cases and toys and with small, tired children hanging onto the side. A few business travellers are next and then there’s a pause before the remaining passengers start to flow through.
He sees her immediately and sees that she’s seen him. They are the only two black people in the crowd. She nods, gives him a half smile and negotiates her trolley through the groups of joyful relatives.
‘Dan?’
‘That’s me, and you’re Carly.’
She holds out a hand, and then drops it and hugs him. ‘This is real nice of you. It’s not something you should have to do.’
Her directness disarms him. ‘My pleasure,’ he says, taking control of her trolley. ‘Mum would have come herself but . . .’
‘Yes, Zoë called me. I’m sorry your grandmother’s sick.’
Dan’s initial ambivalence evaporates; he likes her immediately. And she’s very different from what he’d expected. So, what had he been expecting? A Californian bimbo? Well, certainly someone less mature and confident; someone helpless, tearful and crushed with anxiety.
‘And I’m so sorry about your father,’ Dan says. ‘You and your mother must be devastated.’
Carly nods. ‘It sure came as a shock, we didn’t even know he was in Bali. We’d been watching the reports of the bombing and then the next day, we got the call saying he was being flown to Perth. Have you seen him?’
‘No, but Mum has – yesterday and again this morning.’
Carly stops walking and turns to him. ‘And how . . .’
Dan shakes his head. ‘Not good, I’m afraid; severe burns to the right side of his body and face, some internal bruising but it’s the burns that really . . .’ He stops, seeing her face crumple, and puts an arm around her shoulders. ‘Look, I shouldn’t be telling you this; you need to talk to the doctors. He’s in the best place, they’ve got an amazing burns team. One of the surgeons is a world leader and this new treatment . . .’
Carly nods and attempts to smile. ‘I know,’ she says, ‘your mom told me.’
‘A friend of mine from the army was treated for burns there and they did a brilliant job.’
‘Thanks, Dan,’ she says. ‘I guess I need to get myself a car and get out there straight away. Later on, I’ll find somewhere to stay.’
‘Don’t be silly. I’m taking you to the hospital now, and you’re staying with Mum and Archie. You just concentrate on seeing your . . . seeing Richard, you can leave the rest of it to us.’ And, as a look of relief crosses her face, he realises that her initial confidence was simply a mask that she had worn to cope with meeting him. One arm still around her shoulders, he steers her and the trolley out to the car.
Zoë weaves her way out of the Fremantle hospital car park through the traffic towards the city to the Royal Perth Hospital. She is edgy and impatient from having spent the last couple of hours first with Eileen, then with the specialist and then with Eileen again. It’s a depressing catalogue of problems; a second small stroke, certainly some dementia, although it’s hard for them to tell how much is due to the stroke or whether it is Alzheimer’s. There was mention, too, of Parkinson’s disease. But while Zoë is nervous, irritable and stricken with guilt at her own lack of generosity towards her mother, Eileen is having a wonderful time.
Her usual clipped sentences have been replaced by loquaciousness, and, while much of what she’s saying doesn’t make a lot of sense, it is also uncharacteristically lighthearted. She talks continually to the nurses, who find her amusing and, according to the sister on duty this afternoon, ‘a lovely lady’. Zoë had wanted to sit the woman down and tell her a few things about the lovely lady, but managed to hold back, smile and express her appreciation of the excellent care her mother was getting. This sudden amiability is, she thinks, bizarre. Is it a part of Eileen’s character that has been repressed all these years or merely a quirk of dementia? Has her mother always wanted to be ‘a lovely lady’ who chats easily, smiles and jokes with strangers? Zoë opts for it being a quirk; an ungenerous decision, she knows, but the leap of imagination required for the other possibilities is just too great.
The hospital car park is busy and by the time Zoë has found a space and is heading into the hospital itself, she is half an hour later than she expected. She had hoped t
o arrive in time to get a cup of tea and a sandwich before meeting Carly and Dan, but as she approaches the burns unit she spots them coming towards her.
‘Is there any news; have you been able to see him yet?’ Zoë asks when the introductions are over.
Carly shakes her head. ‘We got here about ten minutes ago but they’re doing something to him right now, so I have to wait.’
Zoë takes Carly by the arm and leads her over to a seat while Dan goes to get them some tea.
‘Listen, Carly, I don’t know how much they’ve told you but you do need to prepare yourself. Richard’s in a pretty bad way.’
She nods. ‘The nurse told me, she was real nice. Zoë, I’m scared, I don’t want to let him down. Did he talk to you at all this morning?’
‘He did; he’s terribly disorientated and the drugs for the pain mean he’s fading in and out. But he knew he was talking to me, and he knows you’re coming. There were a couple of times that he sounded really focused but mainly he was more or less out of it, thinking he was in the swimming pool. That seems to be all he remembers about what happened.’
‘The swimming pool?’
‘Apparently, there were so many people with burns that some were put into a hotel swimming pool to ease the pain, so that’s probably what it’s about.’
Carly nods. ‘And he’s not . . . he’s going to be okay, isn’t he?’
‘Well, it seems they can treat the burns with this amazing new skin thing. His blood pressure was up very high and they’re still giving him fluids intravenously. Nothing they’ve said to me suggested that Richard might not make it. It’s just . . .’ she pauses.
‘It’s what? Look, you have to tell me . . . please, Zoë.’
‘It’s his eyes; they’re badly burned. They aren’t sure if they can save his sight.’
Carly stares at her in obvious disbelief. ‘You mean . . . he could be blind?’
‘It’s possible. His sight will certainly be impaired but they can’t tell yet how much.’
They sit in silence for a moment.
‘Did you talk to my aunt?’ Carly asks.
‘This morning, after I’d seen Richard. I said we’d call her again this evening. She’s very upset, she and Tom are in Portugal. She was talking about flying out here, but I suggested she wait another day until we know a bit more.’
Carly leans forward, sinking her head into her hands. ‘I can’t believe this is happening. I mean, my dad is always okay. I just have to get my head together before I go in there.’
‘You’ll be fine, Carly,’ Zoë says. ‘It’ll mean so much to him that you’re here. Come on, I’ll introduce you to his doctor.’
Carly looks terrified and jet-lagged, but Zoë can see that she is also strong. It shows in her eyes, in the set of her jaw, in the effort with which she draws herself up to meet the doctor and walks with her through the doors to the ward. It makes Zoë more curious about Lily – and something else makes her curious about how long Richard has known Carly’s mother.
‘Cup of tea,’ Dan says, handing her a plastic beaker. ‘Come and sit down again. You look wiped out. Was Gran okay?’
‘Okay? She’s become Miss Congeniality.’ She brings him up to date on Eileen’s condition. ‘So, what do you think of Carly?’
‘Nice,’ Dan says. ‘I like her. Not at all what I expected.’
‘I like her too and she’s not what I expected either.’
‘I must have got it wrong,’ Dan says, shaking his head, ‘because I was expecting someone more Gaby’s age.’
‘Yes,’ Zoë says, sipping the tea. ‘And how old do you think she is?’
‘About the same as me, except that . . .’
‘Exactly,’ Zoë says, looking at him. ‘About the same age as you, but that doesn’t make sense.’
Behind its fortress-like exterior, Lisbon’s cathedral is lit within by candles and the light from the great rose window. It is still and gloomy; stripped by an earthquake of the grandeur of its original embellishments and restored by less florid decorators, the Gothic tombs behind the high altar are the only remains of the old interior. Austere is not what Tom had anticipated when he had urged Julia out of the hotel room and up the steep hill from the Baxia. For once, he would have appreciated a flamboyant rococo interior, with an abundance of gold leaf, some chubby recumbent cherubs and a few brightly clothed saints; something essentially hopeful.
‘It’s not what I hoped for,’ he says, taking her arm and steering her to a corner, ‘but we can still do what we came to do.’
They drop their coins in the collection box, take two votive candles from the box and light them.
‘Is it enough?’ Julia asks. ‘Maybe we should light more.’
‘I think one each is enough,’ Tom says, putting his arm around her shoulders and knowing that her shivering is not only attributable to the gloomy chill of the cathedral. They pause in silence, thinking, praying, until he takes her hand and leads her outside to the steps from where they can see Lisbon spread beneath them. The straight, cobbled streets of the old town are busy with traffic; the mosaic sidewalks and squares with their Art Deco buildings are dazzling in the afternoon sunlight.
‘It’s so beautiful,’ Julia says, leaning against him. ‘It’s so hard to see it and remember beautiful things when everything seems so terrible.’
‘But it’s at times like this we need beauty most,’ he says, ‘to help us keep perspective.’
‘What should we do, Tomo?’
‘Nothing at the moment,’ Tom says. ‘That’s what Zoë said, wait another twenty-four hours and see what the situation is then. He’s heavily sedated, not really aware of what’s going on and is in very good hands. There is nothing useful we can do at the moment.’
‘I feel I should be there.’
‘I know, and maybe we will go, but at present I think we can only complicate things.’
‘His eyes, Tom – losing his sight would kill him. His life is making television, showing what he sees.’
‘We don’t know yet, darling. It may not be as bad as you think.’
‘And how will he manage? He won’t be able to look after himself.’
‘Then we’ll have to sort something out for him, but we can’t do any of that yet.’
‘I feel so useless,’ she says. ‘Miles away on the other side of the world, nothing I can do.’
Tom is running out of words; the burden of supporting Julia while trying to keep his own spirits up seems too great, and the prospect that they may become carers again is daunting. But he wants to forget about Julia’s brother for a while and think about his friend; his ideological and intellectual comrade, and sparring partner. He longs to be alone, to be silent and to think. He tries to imagine what it has been like for Richard; ripped from a sweaty, sensuous, scented evening in Bali, cast into fire and flown to a hospital in a strange city, sedated, bandaged, monitored, totally dependent on strangers for everything he needs.
Tom remembers Richard telling him about the time he had been close to an exploding mine in Vietnam. He talked about the sickening quality of the sound that he thought meant death, of the fierce blast of air and flying debris, of the sense of himself being hurled through space and punching down onto rocky ground, and looking up to see fire moving quickly and inexorably towards him.
‘I prayed to die,’ he’d said. ‘I honestly prayed to die because I knew I had no capacity to withstand physical pain, no stamina for suffering, and no stomach to live with the long-term consequences.’
‘Fortunately, your prayers weren’t answered,’ Tom had said then, ‘and you did find the stamina and the stomach you needed.’
‘Eventually. I was quite clear about the fact that I was capable of ending it if I had to. But there was this nurse . . .’
‘I might’ve known it.’
‘No, no it wasn’t like that. She was in her sixties, a sister and a bit of a harridan, really. She said, “The trouble with you, young man, is that you think too much of yourself,
so you think you’re in a worse state than everyone else. But you’ll be back at work in your posh job at the BBC while some of these soldiers are learning to live without limbs or eyes, so get a grip.” That was it, you see; she told me I was going back to work and it was the shot in the arm I needed. I could cope with anything once I realised I’d be able to go back to work.’
Tom closes his eyes against the sunlight. He wonders if Richard is remembering this, if he is once more fighting the battle with his own darkness, and what might constitute the sort of shot in the arm that can harvest his hope and resolve this time.
Justine watches Zoë from the other side of the table. It’s clear that she’s upset and exhausted, but there is something else that she can’t quite put her finger on. She keeps looking at Carly quite intently, as though she’s trying to discover something, and when Carly turns towards her, Zoë looks surprised and slightly embarrassed. Everyone is tired, of course; the tension, the emotion, the waiting. Carly, drained by the flight and the shock of seeing her father, struggles between weariness and sudden bursts of hyperactivity when she insists on doing something, clearing the table, washing things that could be put in the dishwasher. Justine thinks it might be best if she and Dan gather up Harry and leave now; perhaps then, everyone else can settle down and go to bed.
‘So, how are you feeling about all this, Arch?’ she’d asked as they waited for Dan, Zoë and Carly to get back from the hospital.
‘Oh, a bit awkward, I suppose,’ he’d said, pouring them both some wine, ‘and, frankly, somewhat ungenerous. I don’t feel particularly warmly towards Richard. I know he’s been very good to Gaby, but, as far as I’m concerned, the less I have to do with him the better. On the other hand, what’s happened to him is appalling, and we’re the people who are on the spot. You can’t turn your back on something like that.’ He took a sip from his glass and held it up to the light. ‘But, between you and me, Jus, I very much hope that we won’t have to have him here while he’s recovering.’