Absence Makes

by Bruce Menzies

  After the inevitable chaos of unpacking and finding a home for their possessions, they were able to sit back and appreciate their nest.

  ‘Will your mum be worried?’ said June.

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Escapees from the asylum.’

  He laughed. ‘Probably. She thinks it’s full of rapists and axe murderers.’

  ‘She’s not the only one. Most people don’t have a clue about mental health.’

  He hadn’t thought much about that. With June embedded in her psychological studies, she developed an interest in certain arenas where he felt his ignorance.

  ‘Are there aboriginals in there too?’

  ‘I believe so. It’s not a subject that gets talked about much.’

  He wondered what took place behind the imposing walls. The buildings occupied a prominent position, overlooking bushland and with views stretching across the city skyline to the low-lying hills in the distance. Viewed from the road, the asylum could be mistaken for a monastery or an English public school, a cluster of stone and ivy, hoisted straight from Harrow or Eton. By reputation, it was a forbidding place, a human repository of the afflicted and, in some cases, the extremely dangerous.

  ‘I can’t imagine working there.’

  ‘Neither can I. But it would be interesting to see inside.’

  Their musings gave way to more practical matters. ‘How do we organise our money?’

  Good question, he thought. Rachel was the Budget Queen at Duncan Street. Everybody traded on her ability and generosity, depositing into the kitty their allocated amounts and asking no questions. This suited Ross. He considered himself a bit of a wordsmith. Until then, dealing with figures had been beneath his dignity.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ he volunteered. ‘You have enough on your plate.’

  At first blush, this was true. June’s hard slog gave her a toehold on an uncertain ladder to academia. If she continued to show research ability she could be transferred from the master’s program to a doctoral candidature. In any event, funding was conditional on progress. Her thesis was due within eighteen months. Although an extension was possible, they could not rely on it. She needed to knuckle down, and Ross anticipated a low-level social life. At the Department of Housing, his own position was secure, and he’d recently achieved a promotion which gave his salary a slight boost without adding much to his responsibilities. ‘The bureaucrats,’ he could hear his father say, ‘push their pens from one side of the desk to the other and the taxpayer foots the bill.’ He disagreed, of course. With his father it was de rigueur to disagree. If the senior Basset said black, the junior responded with white. They were that far apart on everything important. Politics, religion, careers, aboriginals, homosexuality, and Whitlam. Especially Whitlam, or Lord Gough, as his father disparagingly called him. At home, dinner table discourse had been fraught with impending argument. He invariably rose to the bait, more so it seemed than his brothers who tended to side with his father, except on those infrequent occasions when religion entered the conversation.

  ‘You’ll do a budget?’ June interrupted his reverie.

  ‘Why not? My father’s an accountant. I must have a trace of it in my genes.’

  ‘It’s not obvious. But I’m more than happy for you to keep us honest.’

  Keep them honest he did, though it gave him no pleasure. The pleasure came from being alone with June, coming home to a sanctuary where he could strip off his shoes and socks and suit and shirt and tie and wander around in next-to-nothing, both in and outside the house, and opening a beer and browsing through the paper before June emerged from her study and the both of them prepared dinner, chatting about this and that and later retiring to the bedroom, him to his novel and her to a text book. ‘A boring old married couple,’ he thought, ‘and it’s perfect.’

  The perfection, as he now knew too well, would not last.

  His daughter arrived on 11th December, exactly a month after her grandmother’s death. She weighed eight pounds. The birth, for Alice, was difficult. She was booked into a private hospital in Newcastle Street, one with a good reputation for midwifery and post-natal care, or so Aunty Eve claimed. But the baby had other ideas. After a painful although mercifully short labour, she was delivered by Mrs Simpson on the dining room floor at Hexbury Road.

  ‘I’m never doing that again,’ moaned Alice, as the midwife took the infant into the bathroom.

  Baxter looked down, feeling anxious and impotent, while his wife groaned and twisted about on the pillows. I don’t want to go through that again either, he thought.

  ‘Here she is. All fingers and toes intact.’

  The midwife held the tiny bundle in front of him.

  ‘Let me see,’ Alice whispered.

  He watched as she took the baby.

  ‘Have you picked a name?’ asked the midwife.

  ‘Peggy,’ said Alice. ‘Peggy Elizabeth.’

  ‘Your life will change with a child,’ his mother predicted. He wished Lizzie had hung on long enough to see her latest granddaughter. But she was right. Their life did change. And young Peggy could not be held entirely responsible.

  ‘So you cleaned me out on Cup Day.’

  Baxter was in the back bar of the Victoria Hotel. With the move to Subiaco, ‘the Vic’ became his hotel of choice when he was not in the city.

  ‘For once, Bert. For once.’

  His companion, Albert Dempster, ran an off-course tote. It was illegal, and the local police made the odd raid but Bert swung with the punches. He could well afford the fines, if it came to that. For the most part, he was secure, frequently moving premises and destroying the betting slips after each meeting.

  ‘Why did you pick Artilleryman?’

  ‘What day was it, Bert? Armistice Day. The war ended a year ago. It had to be a sign.’

  The bookie snorted. ‘You’re always going on about signs. This time you just got lucky.’

  That’s probably true, he acknowledged. His method of picking winners lacked scientific method. And it rarely brought him success. All the more reason to celebrate. Lucknow, the beaten favourite was odds-on. His horse came in at ten-to-one. Luck spiced up with courage, he told himself, as he shouted his bookie a beer.

  Alice was unaware of his winnings. Though she had nothing like her mother’s intolerance of alcohol and gambling, it would be beyond the pale if she knew her husband used their money to play the ponies. ‘Their money,’ he reflected. That’s how it was now, even though he earned it. This was another adjustment in the transition from his freedom as a bachelor to a sober, responsible husband. He was now a breadwinner who deposited his pay with a wife and left it to her to organise their finances. Overall, he did not struggle with the transition. He was too besotted with Alice, and wanted to play as much as he could by the rules. But there were limits. He’d followed the horses since he was a boy. Bram, seven years his senior, was the instigator, snapped up by Bert Dempster as a runner once he left school. Under Bram’s tutelage, Baxter learnt to distinguish a trotter from a galloper and to interpret the form guides and calculate the odds. He had no money of his own but would snitch the racing section of the paper when others were done with it. For hours, he pored over the coming meetings and the experts’ tips. Prior to an event, he would select his winner and enter his bet in a notebook kept under his bed. At the end of the week, he added up his hypothetical winnings and losses. After some years he reckoned he was just about even. Wait until I have real money, he thought. I can get good at this.

  Like every gambler, Baxter demonstrated an unquenchable streak of misplaced optimism. He could almost feel his hands on that pot of gold - the big payoff when you backed an outsider who streaked the field, much as Artilleryman did on that wonderful Tuesday in November. Until then, his winnings were meagre but so were his losses.

  Leaving Bert’s makeshift office, clutching a wad of cash, Baxter had felt the adrenalin rocket. He’d kept glancing over his shoulder lest someone notice his good fortune and make tro
uble for him. Now, with the money safely stashed, he pondered his choices.

  ‘How do you like our daughter?’

  He was happy to see his wife sitting up and smiling. Grace’s old room, the same room briefly occupied by Lizzie, was set up for the new mother and child. Clad in a cream nightdress, with a light shawl around her shoulders, Alice cradled the baby.

  He sat on the end of her bed and peered at the tiny bundle, swathed in white flannel. Peggy appeared to be sleeping, her face red and crinkled.

  ‘She looks just fine.’ He knew he should say more. Maybe he should offer to hold his daughter. But his mind was elsewhere and he struggled to focus.

  Alice reached over and took his arm.

  ‘What’s with you, Baxter? You seem preoccupied. Is something the matter?’

  5

  Alice wasn’t the kind to miss much. Of course, there was something the matter. Not that he was able to talk about it, not at the time. How could he describe to her, the daughter of a zealous Methodist mother, his love of the horses, and of having a punt? He and Alice could talk about all sorts of things but not that. Gambling, he well knew, was a thrill for some and a threat for others. It had given him a few thrills, he thought grimly. But, in hindsight, it proved to be a curse. And that wad of cash, the wad he’d carefully hidden, was the beginning of his downfall. The beginning of all those wasted years. Where had it left him? Baxter winced. It left him feeling sad and sorry for himself, eking out his last days with a lot of old codgers, most of whom looked as forlorn as he did. That was his life, and nothing would change.

  Give it a break, he admonished himself, as he rose from the bed. Concentrate on what you need to do now. The past is the past. Right now, he needed to get dressed. What time was his appointment with the matron? Ten thirty? Or was it eleven? He shook his watch, and peered at the dial. Nine forty-five. No need to rush.

  Baxter opened the cupboard. Do I need a jacket? Surely not, in this weather. A clean shirt would do. Maybe a tie, if I can find one.

  In the end, he found both. The shirt sported a few creases as did his trousers but he was impressed with the tie, thick-woven and the kind of dark blue he found reassuring. When did I last wear this? He couldn’t remember. Then it came to him. Jennie’s funeral. He felt a lump in his throat. Yes, Jennie’s funeral, another hot day, with the warm wind scooping up the dead leaves and the dust, as they stood around her grave. This is not the time to think about her, he told himself. I’m nervous enough as it is. As he put the comb through his hair he surveyed his face in the mirror. Apart from a few blotches, his skin didn’t look too bad. One eye was a bit puffy and his hair might have needed a trim. Otherwise, he could pass muster.

  It was not his appearance that bothered him. He noticed his hands shaking. What am I getting into? When Thompson called him to her office, he assumed it was something to do with his escapade at the concert. Perhaps the ambulance officer discovered his identity and reported his fall. Whatever the case, he expected trouble. Visits to the office usually meant trouble.

  He was wrong. The matron put him straight. ‘Baxter, I need to talk something over with you. We’ve been asked to participate in a study and we require volunteers.’ Thompson paused. Was she waiting for him to assent?

  ‘It’s a university study,’ the matron continued. ‘Not exactly a university but similar.’

  He wondered what she meant but said nothing.

  ‘I would like you to be involved, Baxter. You’re one of our more healthy patients and I’m sure you would acquit yourself well.’

  She must have seen his lack of comprehension. ‘Someone will come and talk with you. They will ask you a lot of questions and collect information to write about old people.’ Thompson checked herself. ‘…Elderly people. You will be part of a small number from here.’

  He came away no wiser except he was volunteered for God-knows-what. Now, the actual ordeal was about to begin.

  ‘How do you do, Mr Moncur, I’m Simone Passeri.’

  He was in Thompson’s office. A young woman rose from her chair and extended her hand. He looked down at the hand and then at her. She was smiling. He reached out, on automatic pilot. The grip was firm and her hand felt warm.

  ‘We have set up a place for you.’ The matron put on her official voice, brusque and business-like. He recognised the tone. Senior nurses, long in the system, sounded the same.

  He followed the two women down the corridor.

  ‘Now you’re settled I’ll leave you to get on with it.’

  They had been ushered into a small room – a spare office of sorts. Two arm chairs flanked a coffee table. A desk stood in one corner. He saw the window opened into the courtyard adjacent to the dining room. The young lady sat down and motioned for him to take the other chair.

  ‘Let’s move this vase, shall we.’ She took the green jar containing a solitary flower and placed it on the desk. The flower was plastic and covered in dust. He saw her frown.

  They heard a knock on the door. Angela entered bearing a jug of water and two glasses. ‘I’ll bring you tea later on,’ she said, glancing first at Baxter and then at his interrogator. ‘How do you like it, Miss?’

  ‘I’m not a tea drinker but I brought my coffee percolator. If you don’t mind I’ll show you how to make a brew.’

  ‘I’ll do what I can, Miss.’

  ‘Call me Simone. What’s your name?’

  ‘Angela. I work in the office. Let me know if you need anything.’

  ‘Thank you, Angela.’

  He watched this exchange with interest. She knows how to handle herself. I need to be careful. What am I doing here anyway? I’m just an old bloke with a lot of memories. Memories and hallucinations. Sometimes, I can’t tell the difference. I could die any minute, despite what Thompson says. ‘Healthy,’ she called me. I can walk to the pub, if that’s what she means by healthy. It’s a fair walk. Sometimes I take the bus but only on the way back. I can still talk and think and listen and smell and taste – well, taste is a bit of an issue. It’s true, I’m in better shape than most of the poor fools here. But what good is that for some university study?

  The young woman had turned her attention to him. She’s not a bad looker, some kind of foreigner, I reckon. He returned her gaze and waited.

  As she took in the elderly man sitting before her, Simone smoothed the underside of her top lip with her tongue. She hesitated. The first moments of any relationship are always fraught. A knife-edge of possibility and potential where each takes in the other. Snap appraisals and judgments are made. Fear and disappointment lurk close to the surface, poised to crush hopes and undermine desires. These crucial seconds are themselves worthy of a study. Maybe I’ll get around to that one day, she mused to herself. Meanwhile, here is Baxter. How will we engage? He has been eying me off, full of doubt, wondering what he has got into but just a little intrigued. And he has had some thoughts about me. Thoughts that men tend to have in those first moments when they see the female form in all its splendour. He’s an old geezer but he’ll be having those thoughts, maybe more so. I’ll put money on it.

  ‘So, Mr Moncur, what would you like to know?’

  As she spoke, she knew she’d put him on the spot. There’s plenty he’d like to know. But how can he ask? What’s the protocol? This is all new. Definitely not his comfort zone, especially at his age. She’d best do the talking, at least to begin with.

  ‘Let me go over what this is about. I’m a social worker. I recently graduated from the Institute of Technology out at Bentley. We were the first batch on this new course. The Institute recently received some special funding and employed me to be involved with a research project.’

  He’s not looking impressed. Probably wondering if she’d ever held down a real job. She had. But that can be kept up the sleeve for now.

  ‘This research project, Mr Moncur, is to explore………’

  ‘Call me Baxter. I’m not big on formality.’

  ‘Great. And please call me Simone.’ S
he rubbed her hands together. ‘As I was saying, we want to find out how elderly people are treated when they have no home of their own. And we want to understand how people like you have come to live in a place like this.’

  A place like this! God, how presumptuous was she? What did she really know about this place? Sunset Lodge - the Old Men’s Home, as it was better known. Watch yourself, girl. He’s no fool, this one. He’ll sniff out a patroniser a mile away.

  ‘The way we do this, Baxter, is to ask questions. If you are okay with it, we’ll meet on a number of occasions and get to know each other.’

  She saw the flicker of a frown. He’s thinking: ‘And if I’m not okay with it, what difference will it make?’ She’ll have to lift her game. Demonstrate something’s stuck after four years of study. Plus heaps of extra reading, books not on her course but ones that attracted her interest. Who was it? Rogers? Good old Carl. What would he say? Slow it down. Lots of eye contact. Soft voice. Get the tone right.

  ‘I’m sure this feels very strange, Baxter. You must be wondering who the heck I am, and what right I have to intrude in your life. It’s only natural. We have just met and I have to earn your trust.’

  That sounds good. ‘Earn your trust.’ She knew what needed to follow.

  ‘Our conversations, Baxter, will be confidential. Just between you and me. When I write up my notes I’ll use a code that nobody else will know. We are not interested in names, just details that will help our research.’

  ‘And what research is that?’

  Aha! He’s spoken. A crevice appears. Time to dive in.

  ‘We want to explore how elderly people are cared for, and what they would like to improve. We also want to look at the reasons people end up in places like Sunset and whether there are other possibilities.’