Absence Makes

by Bruce Menzies

  When she pulled up at the pub, she saw his car, parked at an angle on the verge. As she passed, she noticed the clothes and books strewn over the back seat.

  ‘Have you read this?’

  They were sitting in the shade. Ross held out a paperback. She looked at the cover. It showed a man in an apron and a woman in a bowler hat and tie. The man carried a briefcase and the woman carried the shopping.

  Odd arrangement, she thought, before reading the title.

  ‘Open Marriage, is it good?’

  He did not immediately reply. ‘I don’t know. But it makes you think.’

  She turned to the chapter headings. ‘Sounds interesting. I often wonder about marriage. Probably too much. That’s why I’m still single.’

  He shot her a look. ‘You don’t look the celibate type.’

  ‘Who said I was?’ Careful girl, this is not a conversation you want to have with Jeff’s brother.

  ‘I’ve something to tell you. I saw June last night.’

  He explained his nocturnal investigations and asked what she thought. She played a straight bat.

  ‘How did it make you feel – to see June with Claire?’

  He shrugged. ‘Amazed. I was all psyched up for her to have a bloke in her bed.’

  ‘And did you feel jealous?’ They had talked a lot about Patrick, the French lover.

  ‘Not in the same way.’ He grinned at her. ‘I was tempted to knock on the door and ask if I could join them.’

  She did her best to suppress a smile. The perennial fantasy of the over-ambitious male. If only their performance could match their dreams.

  ‘What are you going to do with this information?’

  ‘That’s what I want to talk to you about.’

  ‘You want to talk to me about that? About June and Claire?’

  It’s getting tricky. Originally, she met Ross at Jeff’s request. Once she concluded he was not a risk to himself, she should have removed herself from the picture. But she got sucked in. Or, to be accurate, she chose to get sucked in. Social work, she could already see, was awash with limitations. She needed to dig deeper, to find the elusive entrance into the distressed interiors of her clients. With Baxter – and now with Ross – she was stumbling towards a more rewarding therapeutic plateau.

  Stumbling. That’s a good description. How could she maintain this ambiguous, semi-professional relationship with Ross and concurrently be screwing his brother? Again, the question of trust raised its hoary head. Trust and a couple of ethical issues.

  After the turbulent tryst in the filing room, she had come back to work without regrets. It appeared nothing was amiss. Craig had his partnership to savour and she thought his lips would remain sealed. She was right. But, out of the blue, she was asked out. Jeff Basset, in her estimation, was one of the least obnoxious solicitors. On a scale of one to ten, with ten being the most mendacious, dreary, dreadful and demanding, Jeff rated around five. That was a plus. Most of her ratings began at eight. The invitation poleaxed her. The guy was married. She’d seen the wife come in, displaying a baby for everyone to fawn over.

  ‘Are you serious?’ she asked, as they descended the office steps one morning. He said he was. They settled on lunch in West Perth, the same café where she later met Ross. She soon found out Jeff was the kind of guy who wants to tell you his life story and shows no interest in yours. Perhaps he was obliged to listen to clients all day. They would not expect the authorative bloke sitting opposite to launch into an account of his love life. Commercial lawyers, she speculated, were like papier mache puppets. A tweak of the strings released a flood of advice on leases and contracts and easements and company structures and all manner of complicated things. At the end of an hour, another tweak and bingo! The curtain falls. You are ushered out and left dangling in your own circus of incomprehension. Then you would get the bill.

  Be that as it may, Jeff told her how his wife couldn’t or wouldn’t have sex with him anymore. Predictably, this was something of a furphy, as he went on to have two more children that she knew of. At the time, she listened, still a Pavlovian secretary, all ears and soothing gestures. In fact, that was what he said he wanted – someone he could trust and he could talk to.

  At that lunch date he didn’t let on he fancied her. He didn’t have to. She was already planning for his next move. When it came, she was ready. Germaine had done her work. Yes, she told him, I will sleep with you, and if we find it pleasurable, we can do it again. She felt sure he was taken aback but secretly delighted. However, she told him, the typing pool and her life of servitude were history. It’s high time I was educated. I’ve just enrolled in a social work course.

  There were flowers and speeches when she left. It was summer and they didn’t give her chocolates. She noticed Craig looked a bit down. She supposed the cold shower of her departure dowsed his dreams for the next Christmas party.

  Jeff found a discreet hotel in Beaufort Street, where their weekly meetings took place. There was a view of the park, and she began to practice liberation by flaunting herself in the window. Jeff was always on edge but that didn’t stop her.

  In the beer garden with Ross, Simone pondered how to deal with his request. His wife, if his eyesight was intact, had a lover. She happened to be a woman. His brother also had a female lover, namely her. Only Ross didn’t know that.

  ‘Gay relationships are becoming popular,’ she observed, for want of a better opening.

  ‘In Sydney perhaps but this is Perth.’

  ‘Does that make us immune?’

  He looked at her. ‘You know what I mean. How many gay couples do you know?’

  ‘You’ve got me there. Not many. But maybe this is the time. People want to come out in the open. Or experiment, just like you with your open marriage.’ She pointed to the book.

  ‘Is that what June’s doing? Experimenting?’

  ‘You’ll have to ask her.’ She was floundering. Her knowledge of the gay scene was sparse.

  Her response did not amuse him but he changed tack. ‘Have you ever been attracted to a woman?’

  Impudent little bastard. ‘Have you ever been attracted to a man?’

  He flushed scarlet.

  ‘That’s not the point, is it?’ she continued. ‘We are here to talk about you and June. How do you feel about her right now?’

  He was struggling to ignore her last question. I hope I haven’t opened a can of worms, she thought.

  ‘I’m confused. I tell myself it’s finished but a voice inside me says it isn’t.’

  ‘Perhaps it isn’t.’

  ‘Maybe not. But I feel like I’m in a kind of no-man’s-land. Nothing is very clear.’

  ‘Why don’t you use that space as an opportunity?’

  He looked at her uncomprehendingly. ‘An opportunity for what?’

  ‘To find out a bit more about yourself.’

  ‘Go to that crazy psychodrama, you mean?’

  ‘Not necessarily. There are other avenues open. You just have to be on the lookout.’

  Their conversation did not progress much further. She came away thinking he was disappointed in her. If anything, she was relieved. Perhaps she could wriggle out of future meetings. It bugged her to keep Jeff’s secret. They had been carrying on for a number of years and it had brought her to an interesting position.

  Actually, it was more of a predicament than an interesting position. She had reflected at length on the pros and cons of being a mistress. ‘That’s just what I am,’ she threw at Jeff, after he made some stupid jibe. ‘I’m your bloody mistress. It’s only one step removed from being your secretary.’ He’d looked at her blankly. She’d never been his secretary. ‘What’s the problem?’ he finally blurted. ‘Don’t you enjoy our arrangement?’

  That was the problem. She DID. After their bouts at the Beaufort, her body zinged. Her mood lightened. She often felt like dancing. It was exciting and satisfying. But those feelings didn’t last. Within a few days, she felt flat. She debated what was wro
ng with her. How could she revel in their assignations, and feel slightly unwashed in the aftermath? It perplexed her. So she did what always worked when her mind was full of confusion. She made a list.

  Number one pro: The sex was good. Not brilliant but consistently good. She doubted this would occur if she and Jeff were out in the open. She got off on their clandestine sessions, no doubt about that. And they shared a weekly bed but not daily board. Her feminine mystique remained intact. He didn’t see her at the breakfast table in curlers and with dark patches under her eyes.

  Number two pro: It was an uncomplicated relationship, unlike her teenage infatuations or the fallings into lust of her early twenties. Either, or both of them, could walk away and there would be no emotional hangover, no regrets. Or so she convinced herself.

  Number three pro: She had time to lead her own life, unconstricted by the demands of any boyfriend or husband. This was a real bonus. She was sure Germaine would applaud her clarity. She held down a job. Prospects of an emerging career dangled in front of her. Unlike her mother, she had the chance to create a working life before the babies came. And she was not really sure if babies were her thing. For now, they joined other troubling issues in the Too Hard Basket.

  As for the cons? Two sprang to mind.

  Firstly, the lack of commitment. While she luxuriated in the role of the seductive mistress, she knew that was not her objective. Beneath her bravado, she wanted a life-partner, a soul mate, who would cherish her and be cherished in return. And that was never going to happen with Jeff.

  Secondly - and this rankled with her ethical self - the affair demanded double-standards. She constantly thought about Jeff’s wife and how she would feel if she found out what was going on. If the boot had been on the other foot, Simone knew her vengeance gene would arise in all its unmitigated fury. It would be very Shakespearean and there would be no happy ending. So, when she did think about it, a wave of guilt would come over her and she would contemplate her betrayal of the wife and the sisterhood at large. But the affair continued.

  13

  She was mistaken. Baxter didn’t receive electro-convulsive therapy. Searching the history of treatment regimens at Graylands, Simone ascertained that ECT only became a therapeutic tool when a couple of Italians introduced it overseas in 1938, five years after Baxter said he was released. Well, she thought, at least they hadn’t zapped him. But what had they done? Questions continued to reverberate. How did they manage to keep him there for so long? What diagnoses were made? Who was responsible for his treatment? But the files were not available. Patient confidentiality, she was told. She knew it might be possible to get some material through an official approach from the Institute but, as this had no direct bearing on her research, she relinquished the idea.

  ‘Can we talk more about Graylands?’ she said to Baxter, on more than one occasion.

  His face would harden. ‘I’ve shut it all out. There’s nothing to say.’

  She knew there was plenty more to say. He must have been abused in some way, she determined. Why won’t he open up? It’ll do him good to talk about it. So she continued to press him, until one day he reacted sharply. ‘Just leave it be, Simone. Leave it be.’

  Ever the slow learner, she finally got the message.

  As the weeks passed, the search for Alice went on hold, and she knuckled down to her paid work. The project began to take shape. Her explorations carried her not only to the Old Men’s Home but also to the Home of Peace in Subiaco and two other institutions. She interviewed twenty-two elderly residents. Her supervisor said it was a small sample but sufficient for their purposes. Among the interviewees there were many mumblings and grumblings. Quite understandable, she thought, as she sifted through the questionnaires and listened to the recorded interviews. It became clear loneliness was a common factor. Loneliness and the abysmal food. Having eaten in a couple of the dining halls, Simone could confirm culinary excellence rated low on the list, and she resolved to highlight this in her paper, no matter who it might upset.

  Loneliness presented a different challenge. Most inmates had lost their families and their old friends. They tended to keep to themselves and rarely formed allegiances with each other. She wondered about this. Was it due to their age? Had they resigned themselves to death and saw no value in making new friends who were in the same boat? With one or two gregarious exceptions, none of the folk she met showed any interest in those around them. Most were absorbed in their inner worlds, while others had fading memories and other obvious symptoms of decline. It was altogether quite saddening and, not for the first time in her embryonic career, she felt helpless.

  Eventually, her draft paper was ready. She took a week off and turned her attention to Baxter. He had pleaded for her help in tracking down his wife. ‘It could be a mammoth task,’ she warned him. ‘And we may get nowhere.’

  They both knew he was grasping at straws. But she felt strongly motivated to do whatever she could. The old man touched a chord. She did not want to disappoint him.

  She confessed the results of her delving, including details of her discussion with Gwen Griffiths.

  His eyes lit up. ‘Is she still there? She knew everyone’s business, even in those days.’

  ‘Shall I take you to visit her?’

  ‘Not on your Nelly,’ he exclaimed. ‘I would rather face Al Capone.’

  ‘What about the house? We could go for a drive and have a look at it.’

  He hadn’t been interested.

  She began to think about Melbourne. The trail ended there. Searches of electoral rolls and the phone books proved fruitless. What was left? Jim Townsend claimed to be an artist. Perhaps he’d made his mark? If they could locate Jim or find where he had lived, they might unearth clues to Alice’s whereabouts.

  It was mid-July when Jeff told her he was off to a conference in Melbourne. She seized the day. He was initially resistant, no doubt thinking he could not afford his fellow lawyers to spot him with a floozy. ‘Don’t worry,’ she assured him, ‘I’ll stay out of sight.’

  When they flew in, Sinatra dominated the headlines. He’d sullied the journalists of Sydney, calling them pimps and hookers. ‘They’re a bit thin-skinned,’ she commented but Jeff merely grimaced, no doubt entertaining thoughts of his own philandering. For Simone, it was water off a duck’s bum. Tagging along with a smartly-dressed lawyer and well hidden from his colleagues, she felt like a bit of a hooker herself.

  They stayed in an average hotel near the markets. Most of the delegates were booked into a grandiose monstrosity on Collins. She was not envious, happy to have the days to herself and a little pub on the corner where they took their evening meals. It was not her first trip to the Victorian capital, and she was tempted to forget her mission and hang out in the galleries and museums. Then there was Carlton. Each morning, after Jeff left, she meandered through Flagstaff Gardens before browsing the markets for souvenirs and fruit, and then on to Lygon Street where she would deposit herself in a café and tarry over a delicate patisserie and wonderful coffee. Nothing like this in Perth, she thought, as she watched the street scene and idled away an hour or more.

  When it came to Jim Townsend, Simone hit a hurdle. Blithely, she anticipated she could enter the art world by popping into a gallery here and there and enquiring about the missing artist. Someone must know of him. If that didn’t work she could try the State Library. But wherever she ventured, no one had heard of Townsend. She pounded the streets and explored every gallery in inner Melbourne. Some of the owners were delightful and wanted to help, and she kept on hoping that, around the next corner, she would come across a lead that would take her where she needed to go. Alas, it was wishful thinking. By the third morning, she had all but given up. Then, at Rogues Gallery in Fitzroy, she met Arthur.

  ‘Have you been out to Montsalvat?’

  The gnarled figure in front of her leant on his stick. A black beret clung to his pale scalp like a dried fig on mascarpone.

  ‘Montsalvat? Where’s
that?’

  ‘The artist’s colony out towards the hills. It’s been there for years. You might find someone there who knows your fellow.’

  They were due to catch the afternoon flight to Perth. At noon, she met Jeff as he left the conference hall. He pretended not to know her until they rounded the corner and entered an arcade. ‘We have to change our flights,’ she told him, after she explained the lead. He was unco-operative. ‘And what do I tell my wife?’ He had a point. After a minor argument, they made up back at the hotel. Jeff returned as planned, leaving her to stay an extra day. She hoped it would be worthwhile.

  The train ride out of the city took her to Eltham. It was a grey morning. Light drizzle slaked the windows. By the time she reached the station, the wind was up. A bus pulled out as she came up from the tunnel. She walked down the main road, opening and shutting her umbrella as the showers blew across. When she finally arrived at Montsalvat, she was dying for a coffee.

  Nobody was about as she pushed open the wooden gate and entered the grounds. The tourist bureau hadn’t been any help but Arthur told her the colony was established in the thirties. Immediately, she was struck by the beauty of the buildings. Local stone and timbers made a dramatic statement, as did the distinctive brickwork. To her untrained eye, it looked like a blend of Australian colonial with old European – a kind of wattle and daub meets Tudor England. She stood there, taking it all in.

  ‘Hullo. Can I help you?’

  Simone jumped. From behind a row of bushes, rake in hand, a brightly-dressed matron of uncertain age was advancing towards her.

  ‘Jim Townsend?’

  She was speaking to Celia Weatherstone, one of the residents. A potter, she declared.

  ‘You want to see our Jim?’

  Eureka!

  Twenty minutes – and one coffee – later, she stood outside an adobe hut attached to some old stables. Celia told her Montsalvat was the name of a mythical castle where the Holy Grail had been hidden. It made sense. Perhaps the key to her search would be found behind the heavy wooden door, an impressive portal that would not have been out of place in a medieval fortress.