Absence Makes

by Bruce Menzies

  This will be interesting, Simone thought, as Peggy took the letter.

  Baxter had borrowed a fountain pen from the office. His writing was immaculate, each sentence carefully formed and punctuated. Peggy put on a pair of reading glasses and began:

  My dear Peggy, Alex and Ken,

  You will be surprised to hear from me after so many years. I have been absent from your lives and you cannot imagine how deeply I regret this. I do not know how much your mother has told you about what happened. The details are long past and I won’t rake over the coals except to say I accept full responsibility for my actions and for all the pain they have caused.

  I am sorry, my dear children, sorry that we have not grown up with one another as was my dream when I was a young father. Now that I am old, I have to live with this sorrow. It is not easy and I think about you and Alice all the time, hoping you are in good health and prospering in your lives.

  If this letter makes its way to you, please find it in your hearts to forgive your father. If I cannot ever see you before I pass away then it is my misfortune but in any event I wish you well and offer you my love, belated though it might be.

  Sincerely,

  Your father, Baxter Moncur.

  Peggy put the letter down. She was crying quietly. Simone felt the tears well up in her eyes. Only Alice appeared unmoved. She shook her head when offered the second letter.

  ‘Maybe my mother will read it later,’ said Peggy, as she walked Simone to the door. ‘Thank you for your efforts, Simone, but you will appreciate what a shock this is.’

  ‘Thank you, Peggy. I’d really appreciate it if you contacted me when you’ve had the chance to think it over.’

  She walked slowly to the station. The rain had stopped and the birch trees shimmered, as the light broke through the black sky.

  Baxter expected a visitor. He sat outside the dormitory. From the office came the sound of carols. Either that’s Angela or they’ve put on the Christmas record, he deduced. Someone, one of the nurses, had brought in a record player. Thomson supplied a few of her musicals. He didn’t mind South Pacific but cringed when he heard My Fair Lady. The Christmas carols were sung by Bing Crosby. He disliked the sentiments but found the voice soothing. Christmas was still three weeks away.

  ‘Here he is.’ Angela escorted an old man. Baxter saw he was wearing dungarees and some kind of beret. The face was vaguely familiar.

  ‘It’s Jim Townsend, Baxter. Remember me?’

  He stared at the newcomer. ‘What are you doing here?’

  Jim cackled. ‘They brought me over, the Arts mob. My paintings are on exhibition at one of the galleries.’

  Angela delivered tea and scones on a tray. ‘I’ve brought some of my homemade jam,’ she said shyly. ‘Strawberry. I hope you like it.’

  They thanked her, and his gaze returned to Townsend. ‘Simone said she met you.’

  ‘How is the lovely Simone? I’ve got something for her.’

  ‘She’s over in England.’

  Jim looked at him keenly. ‘On holiday? Or trying to find Alice?’

  ‘Both. I don’t suppose you’ve found an address?’

  ‘I haven’t. But I did come to make a confession.’

  Baxter listened while Townsend revealed his role in the events that occurred after Alice and the children moved to Melbourne. Occasionally he broke in, to clarify a point or ask a question. When Jim had finished the two of them sat quietly, sipping their tea.

  ‘You didn’t mention this to Simone?’

  ‘No.’ Jim shook his head. ‘If I’m going to confess, it has to be to you.’

  Baxter felt the breeze on his face. ‘Why don’t we continue this somewhere else? Have you converted to Fosters or could you handle Emu Bitter from the tap?’

  As they shuffled together out of the grounds towards the bus stop, he wondered how he could get a message to Simone. She’d promised to write if she had news. To date, he’d heard nothing.

  18

  Ross left his job the same week Jacob and Rachel began renovating their new house. ‘You can come over and help,’ said Jacob. ‘We need a hand and you’ll need a free lunch now you’ve cast your fate to the winds.’

  Indeed, his fate had been cast to the winds. June did not attempt to talk him out of it. Quite the reverse. ‘You have to find something that makes you happy. And that can’t happen while you fossilise at your desk.’

  After his win on the Cup, he tendered his resignation. Immediately, he felt a weight lift. A surge of freedom energised him to address his future – their future. Despite the mortgage, he had managed to save, particularly in the period after June left. Apart from the initial splurge on booze, he’d been fairly frugal. More so as his social life dwindled and he retreated into his reading. The desire to travel sat uppermost in his mind. June was also keen and they worked on a rough budget. She picked up on his ebullience as they poured over a map. They could go overland or head straight to London and use it as a base. ‘Let’s go straight there,’ he proposed. ‘We can leave in April and ease into a European summer.’

  It was agreed. Meanwhile, they would tighten their belts and save as much as possible. Casual work with June’s uncles was a strong possibility. They often needed a builder’s labourer. And he was pleased to help out with Jacob’s renovations, free lunches included.

  ‘What do you think?’

  Ross stood inside the dining room. Jacob leant on a sideboard.

  ‘You want to knock down this wall and open up the space?’

  ‘Exactly. And replace these floorboards.’

  Jacob exuded confidence in his engineering ability but had consulted a builder, just in case. Structurally, there’s no problem, he was told.

  They worked through the weekend, demolishing the wall and inserting braces. Ross was on wheel barrow duty, carting the debris to the hired skip. His muscles ached and his nose clogged with dust. But he was happy. Happy with the physical work and happy to be around his friends. On Sunday afternoon Ben and Ariana joined them. Ben limped. ‘Did my ankle in, going for a mark,’ he complained. ‘And all for nothing,’ added Ariana. ‘His team got thrashed.’

  Jacob was finishing off in the lounge, removing the last of the rotting boards.

  ‘Hey, come and have a look at this.’

  They trooped in, beers in hand. Jacob held a metal box. It was padlocked.

  ‘I found it hidden in the corner. A sort of cubby hole. The boards had no nails.’

  ‘I wonder what’s in it?’ said Rachel. ‘Maybe it belongs to the previous owners.’

  Jacob scraped away part of the dusty residue. ‘There’s a name. Can you make out what it says?’

  Ross took the box. ‘E. R. Bailey. Who the hell is that?’

  ‘No idea. Someone must have stashed it.’

  They put the box aside and returned to the business in hand.

  ‘I wish we could go with you,’ said Ben.

  ‘Maybe we can meet up over there.’

  ‘I doubt it, June,’ said Ariana. ‘We don’t have any money. And Ben needs to finish his Articles.’

  ‘We can’t travel right now, not with a baby,’ added Rachel.

  ‘I guess we have to brave new frontiers without you lot.’ said Ross. ‘Anyway, we’ll keep you posted. I’m planning to keep a journal.’

  They looked at him. The memories of their last dinner party were fresh in mind. But no one revisited the subject matter. Open marriage was off the table, at least amongst their friends. Would things liven up in London? June was hopeful, keen to meet new people and explore new fields. For the moment, Ross was happy to go along with her dreams. He was still pinching himself they were back together.

  19

  Two weeks went by without any word. Peggy promised to call when things settled down. Simone wished she was a fly on the wall at Deepdene. Had Alice read Baxter’s letter or consigned it to the fire? Did Claude play a role or was he the kind of man to stay on the fringes, avoiding the family dramas? Was Peggy wri
nging her hands and procrastinating? Simone was impatient for answers.

  In the end it was not Peggy who rang. ‘This is Victoria de Baal,’ said the voice on the line. ‘Can we meet for lunch?’

  ‘So my grandfather’s alive?’

  They were sitting in a pub near Elephant and Castle. Her interlocutor wore jeans and a brown leather jacket. Strawberry blonde hair hung unkempt over her shoulders, and she smoked constantly.

  ‘He’s very much alive. And he would love to meet his grandchildren.’

  It came out piecemeal. When Vickie dropped by to see her mother, she knew something was up. ‘Mother had been crying and my grandmother kept her lips pursed. I cornered my mother and she told me about your visit.’

  When she threatened to fly straight out to Australia, Vickie was shown the letter. ‘It made me sad and then I got angry.’

  ‘Did you speak about it with your grandmother?’

  ‘She’s as immovable as Everest. I can work on my mother but not her.’

  Having met Alice, Simone knew what she meant. ‘Where are your uncles? You must have cousins somewhere, other grandchildren for Baxter?’

  Vickie stared at the floor. ‘I’ve been sworn to secrecy. It’s a bummer but you don’t know my family. I’m already a black sheep and if I cross them, all hell will break loose.’

  This was not good news. One or two pieces of the jig-saw had dropped into place. Alice. Peggy. But what of Alex and Ken? Simone tried not to show her disappointment.

  ‘I guess you need to be careful. Fair enough. But can I show these to Baxter?’

  Vickie had brought photos – her parents, herself and her younger brother. And a lovely one of Alice.

  ‘Yes, take them. I smuggled them out. I want him to know I exist. Please tell him I want to meet him.’

  Simone took a mouthful of Shepherd’s Pie. The mutton was tender and the potato topping had browned nicely. After the Duncan Street extravaganza and Italy, she’d noticed an amplified gastronomic appreciation.

  ‘What do you think your mother will do?’

  Vickie blew smoke. She did not appear to eat much. ‘Who knows? My grandmother has her tied around her little finger. Maybe my father will convince her to break the knot.’

  They exchanged addresses before she had to leave. ‘To meet a man,’ she confided. ‘Another little secret. Don’t tell my parents.’

  Simone lingered, keeping an eye on the bar. Her housemate, when she’d made an alcohol-induced pass one evening, turned out to be of indeterminate gender. He - or was it she? - showed no embarrassment, but Simone went through her failure routine. There must be some simple way to meet a decent bloke, she thought, swallowing the dregs of her pint.

  The Clapham house revved up a notch as the city swung into the festive season. She felt out of sync with the general air of celebration, burying her shivering body under the blankets until late morning, and dragging herself to the deli to replenish the coffee and bread. Leaden skies and biting cold didn’t improve her spirits. As spontaneously as it erupted, her love affair with London disintegrated. Suddenly, she felt like Christmas in the sun. Images of the beach and the sharp light of her homeland percolated through her system. Within a few days, she was in touch with the travel agency and arranged to cut short her visit. She had not written to Baxter. It would be better to tell him face-to-face, she reasoned. Then there can be no confusion. And, of course, she had the photos.

  The flight to Bombay was packed. She took her place at the rear of the aircraft, next to the aisle. The window seat was empty. As departure time loomed, she began to anticipate the extra space. Her book lay in her bag in the overhead locker and she unbuckled her seatbelt to retrieve it.

  ‘Can I get you something?’

  A tall Adonis stood over her. He had long, fair hair and a black beard, and wore what appeared to be white satin pyjamas. She sat speechless and gazed at him. Finally, words came.

  ‘It’s the blue rucksack. Can you hand it to me for a moment?’

  Adonis passed her the bag, waiting until she unearthed the book. It’s going to be hard to concentrate, she thought, as he took his place beside her.

  Much, much later she was wide awake. Her companion mentioned his name but it hadn’t registered. He nestled against the window, serene and apparently asleep. They’d exchanged snippets of their lives. He was from Birmingham, part of a large family and dropped his apprenticeship to go to London. There, the world opened up. For a time he became a peace activist until he saw the irony. Now, he was heading to India to explore his spiritual side. ‘That accounts for the pyjamas,’ she said, in a burst of irreverence. ‘Comfort clothes,’ he said, eyeing her cashmere cardigan and black woollen skirt. ‘Wait until you hit Bombay airport.’

  The cabin lights were off and the hostesses had retired to the rear of the aircraft. Simone’s eyes felt heavy and she drifted into semi-sleep, aware of a crick in her neck and pain in her calves. After a while, she became conscious of his shoulder and effortlessly let her head rest. He seemed to be humming to himself and she giggled. He shifted position and she felt his arm pull her towards his chest. She was about to say something but he took her fingers and placed them over her mouth. She sighed and curled her legs in his direction. Wherever we’re going, girl, it feels indecently fragrant.

  ‘Have you joined the club?’

  Two very wet tongues were exploring unknown mouths. She extracted hers. ‘What club?’

  His hand slipped under her cardigan and located a nipple.

  ‘The One-Mile-High Club.’

  Her nipple answered for her. She contemplated his pyjamas. ‘I think I get the idea.’

  They checked the coast was clear and he followed her down the aisle.

  Her head and her body played out a minor battle. Miss Simmons’ voice came through, loud and forthright: ‘Not endearing, Simone.’ She could see the finger wagging. ‘Your lack of restraint, like your flippancy. Not endearing at all.’

  ‘You are right, Miss Simmons,’ she responded. ‘You are right, as usual.’

  ‘Vacant,’ said the green sign. She turned the handle and entered unoccupied territory.

  ‘You make a habit of this?’ They were in a chrome and ceramic sardine tin. Adonis had removed his top. Her backside pressed against the basin. The cardigan and skirt lay on the floor.

  ‘First time. What about you?’

  She did not answer, filled with visions of Erica Jong and a railway carriage disappearing into a dark tunnel. Yes, yes, yes, whispered a jubilant voice inside. Ultra-potent sex with a nameless stranger, no strings attached. Pulling Adonis towards her, she loosened the cord on his trousers. They floated to the floor along with her knickers. ‘Leave my bra on,’ she said, leaning back. His eyes widened as she guided him into her. Sweet Mary and Joseph, that’s good, so exquisitely good. Take your time, boy, take your breath-stopping time.

  Alas, her psychic communion went unheeded. Three or four thrusts and goodnight Irene. Over and out. Deflation all round. Adonis demystified. She should have known better by now. He did not look at her as he dressed hurriedly, and returned to his seat.

  Extricating herself from the wash basin, Simone picked up her clothes and wiped the sperm from her cardigan. So much for the zipless fuck, she fumed silently. Another over-ripe myth consigned to the carnal waste bin. She knew Miss Simmons would be smiling grimly, wagging that formidable finger. Being liberated is no picnic, she thought.

  She was not tempted to alight in Bombay.

  20

  The day before Christmas. Simone was exhausted but relieved to be home. Tonight, she would go down to her folks. They did the European thing on Christmas Eve, eating a huge meal and opening their gifts around the fireplace. None of this stupid lunching in the heat of a summer day, her father would growl. They supported him in that. She was excited. Her brothers and sister would be there, together as a family for the first time in five years. There were now two nieces, and a nephew who she was yet to meet. Apart from Vince, her sibling
s were married, splurging on Italian-style weddings that unfortunately had set the trend. Vince was also unlucky in love. They both avoided the M-word around her aunts. Marriage was off the agenda. Anything else goes. It would be a riot tonight. She must buy a few presents. Didn’t quite get around to it in London.

  Simone backed out of her driveway. The presents would have to wait. She had a rendezvous to keep.

  ‘Anyone around?’

  ‘Come in, the door’s open.’

  He was sitting on his bed. She rushed over and threw her arms around his neck.

  ‘Is that what they do in Italy?’ He raised his arms but his protest was half-hearted.

  ‘Baxter, you gorgeous old goat. I’m so happy to see you.’

  Simone knew he did not mind her description. She’d copped worse from him. Their repartee had been a source of enjoyment. He commented on her outfits, told her what she should do with her hair, and pried into her private life. She loved it. Both her grandfathers passed away when she was in her teens. She met them only the once and felt cheated. Somehow, Baxter assumed the role. She wondered idly if it was healthy, picturing the stern Dr Freud peering over her shoulder and tut-tutting about transference or whatever. Stuff Freud, she thought.

  They talked about her trip. He listened intently, devouring the details. The photos shook him. He stared at Alice and then at Peggy and her children. He thought the boy, Graeme, looked a lot like Bram.

  When Simone mentioned Alice’s obstinacy, he sighed.