Absence Makes

by Bruce Menzies

  24

  The dining room was decked out for the occasion. Baxter glanced at the balloons and streamers as he wended his way to his anointed place. White table cloths covered the laminex surfaces and a red paper napkin was tucked inside each glass. Christmas crackers lay parallel with the cutlery. Every table contained a vase of fresh flowers, marigolds and aster daisies by all appearances. Above the main entrance hung sprigs of plastic holly combined with pine cones and greenery of some sort, perhaps cuttings from his beloved grevilleas.

  Staff hovered around the fringes, watching as their elderly flock took up their positions. Some of the inmates required assistance. Others leant on their sticks underneath the holly and peered at the scene in front of them. As yet, Baxter did not need a stick although he had begun to notice increasing stiffness and sharp pains in his joints, particularly as the seasons changed. Getting old is not for sissies, he thought.

  At his table sat the usual suspects. Joe, the slurper, minus his teeth, and with a conversational range confined to off-beat remarks about the weather and reminiscences of his long-departed mother, a pastry cook who apparently excelled in Yorkshire puddings. On Joe’s left sat Cecil, a former apple grower from Donnybrook. He’d lost his farm and his wife. His daughters had married and left the area and, as the years passed, Cecil slipped quietly into an uncomplicated dementia. For the most part he stared at his plate and said nothing. Completing the quartet was Jack, a weathered veteran of Gallipoli and a lifetime of roaming the outback, hunting rabbits and dingos and camping with ‘blackfellas who treat a man better than most white folk’. Jack talked a lot, mostly to himself. The four had been seated together since Baxter arrived at the institution. He knew little else about his companions. Neither did he have much desire to do so. His one mate, Alf, a chap he met years ago in the city, sat at another table. They would get together for a smoke after the meal.

  Waiting for the matron to finish her welcome and her formal appreciation to her staff for another year of hard work and dedication, Baxter caught sight of Angela. She stood demurely in a corner, her arms hanging down and her hands loosely clasped in front of her. In a light floral dress which left her shoulders and the lower part of her legs bare, he thought she looked adorable. As he tried not to stare, his mind drifted back to his first Christmas with Alice.

  Peggy was two weeks old. Despite the difficult birth, both mother and daughter bounced back well. Young Peggy suckled and slept, and Alice, though tired, began to recover her spirit. Both of them were in awe of the tiny being who now dominated their lives. Baxter often sat by the baby’s cradle as she slept. He watched her breathing and tossing in her sleep. When he watched birds, he experienced a sense of peace and wonder but this was different. Before him, in all her helplessness, lay the fruit of his loins and, as he remembered from one of the psalms, the ‘knitting together’ inside her mother’s womb. He was not a godly man, far from it, but he saw his child as the expression of a miracle that was eternal and unknowable. And the love he felt was overwhelming.

  Christmas unfolded as a grand affair. The Baileys came up from the farm. John’s precarious health did not preclude him from being in fine fettle on the day. Like everyone else, he was enraptured by the baby – his first grandchild. Though the shadow of Tom still hung over Hexbury Road, four years had elapsed since his death and it was as if the new arrival, in all her unprotected innocence, gave the family permission to express a certain joy and to look forward to a future. A prosperous future, and a future, they prayed, without war.

  As an expression of these new beginnings, John invited Baxter’s family to the Christmas luncheon. Ann and Keith, with their flock of young girls, were initially reluctant, feeling out of their social depth and not wanting to be a nuisance. But when John spoke personally with Keith and impressed him with the sincerity of the invitation, they relented. Neither George nor Jennie felt any such shyness. They accepted with alacrity when Baxter telegrammed them. George insisted on bringing a fine leg of ham obtained from a Katanning pig farmer with whom he boarded. Jennie arrived bearing a box of apricots, the early variety, she said. John opened his wallet and took care of the rest – the poultry, the vegetables and the liquor. When Baxter offered a contribution he was told to keep his hands in his pocket. ‘You’ll be needing it for the wee lassie,’ said his father-in-law. ‘She’ll be a princess.’

  True to his words, Peggy claimed the limelight. The women took turns nursing her while Alice relaxed on a couch. Grace was especially effusive as she cradled the young babe. Baxter saw her glance once or twice at her husband but Jim appeared not to notice. Years later, he wondered whether their childless destiny was already known at the time of Peggy’s birth.

  The concrete tubs in the old laundry at the rear of the house were filled with chunks of ice for the beer and the lemonade. Further down the yard a sharpened tomahawk remained embedded in a sturdy block of jarrah. The previous day, three roosters and a turkey were despatched on that block, then cleaned and boiled in the laundry copper before being plucked and prepared for the oven. Baxter dug a hole under the lemon tree and buried the remnants.

  What a Christmas it had been, full of good cheer and promise, so far removed from the artificially constructed scene within the institution, with the old men going through the motions, and unresponsive to their over-eager helpers. As he watched the serving girls ferry meals out of the kitchen, with the meat pre-cut into neat slices and doused in gravy made from packets, Baxter could visualise the sumptuous feast laid out fifty years before on the dining table at Hexbury Road, a solid oak rectangle that seated a dozen adults. There would have been a dozen that day, he thought. He could see John and Joan, adjacent to each other at the head. Where was he sitting? Opposite Alice or next to her? He couldn’t remember. Aunty Eve was there somewhere, and young John who proved to be such a disappointment, and Grace and Jim who also upset their elders by scarpering off to Melbourne. And his own family – his beloved Jennie, the best sister a man could have, and George, along with Ann and her Keith, not then as troubled as became their lot in later years. Where were their children? Not at the main table. There wouldn’t have been room. Probably around a card table set up in the pantry. Dimly, he recalled a clutch of little girls, decked out in their best dresses and under strict instructions to mind their manners or else.

  What about Peggy? Her crib must have been thereabouts. It was a lovely crib, handmade by a carpenter friend for whom Baxter had done a few favours. When it was ready, only weeks before the birth, he ran his hands over the wood and admired the grain. It was a shame to paint it but Alice wanted everything white, so paint it he did. When he rocked his little daughter he forgot about the raw wood and the fine grain but now, as he pictured the crib, he could only see it in its original form. The white paint had gone and with it the image of his infant child.

  Other images of that Christmas were intact. He could see Eve at the piano. She was a good pianist, possessing a rich voice, a voice that rose above the others as they sang and sometimes danced on Sunday evenings, and on special occasions when Eve could be tempted to perform. She did all the usual carols at Christmas but her favourite was Silent Night which she sang in French and German as well as in English. Baxter was not a strong singer though he could hold a tune, unlike Jennie, who made up in volume what she lacked in melody. They both favoured songs with easy lyrics, like Dumbledum Day, a number popular in many drawing rooms and other locations of less refinement.

  There once was a miller who had a grey mare,

  An’ I were in love with his da’-ter so fair,

  But the miller he said ‘She shan’t be your bride’

  Unless you’ve a horse for my da’-ter to ride.

  Heigh ho! What’s to be done?

  If she wants a horse an’ I haven’t got none,

  With my Humbledum, Rumbledum Dumbledum Day

  O I wish there were someone to show I the way.

  Baxter drummed his fingers on the table as the words came back to him. He
wished the institution owned a piano and he could watch Angela, a modern version of Aunty Eve, tinkling the keyboard and using that golden voice of hers to good effect. She was still in the corner, talking with another woman from the office. He waved and winked and she smiled and waved back. Silly old fool, he thought. Making eyes at pretty girls.

  He reached into the pocket of his jacket and took out the photos. Thank God for Simone and her forethought in bringing these precious images with her when she returned from London. He looked at Peggy, now grown up and with children of her own. With a shock, he realised she looked a lot like Lizzie, his own mother who had died a month before his daughter’s birth. His mind flew back to his discussion with Simone about Buddhism and reincarnation. Had his mother come back as Peggy? He shook his head as he gazed at the photo. Family resemblance, that’s all. Nothing airy-fairy about that. You’re becoming as crazy as some of the others here, he told himself.

  He looked at Claude, posing at Peggy’s side. Fancy marrying a dentist. He must have gone to university. Had his daughter received a good education? She was a bright little thing, eager to learn. He had read her stories and fairy tales. She lay wide-eyed as he read The Ugly Duckling and The Little Match Girl but her favourite from the prolific oeuvre of Hans Christian Andersen was Thumbelina, who wound up with a pint-sized fairy prince of her own. Was Claude a prince to Peggy? The photo indicated otherwise.

  The lunch was over and he caught Alf’s eye. They got up together and wandered outside. As they paused under the overhang near the office, Angela joined them. ‘I’ll bring you both your tea if you like.’ Baxter could have hugged her, there and then.

  25

  Alexander Basset worked in the city. When he and Alison came across from Sydney after their marriage they rented a flat on the Esplanade. Alex could walk up to Murray Street where Handcock and Lennon, Chartered Accountants, established an office prior to the war. After completing his studies at night school and serving a couple of years with the firm, Alex was admitted as a partner in 1948, the year Jeffrey was born. The following year, with Alison pregnant with Ross, the family moved to a large house in South Perth. Alex was confident enough of his prospects to take out a sizable mortgage. His confidence received a boost when the Chifley Labor government fell in December. Conservative by nature, Alex had been worried by the pace of reform under Ben Chifley. The decision to nationalise the banks appalled him and for a brief moment he contemplated a political career. Alison’s reaction convinced him otherwise and he channelled his energies towards the local branch of the Liberal Party and campaigning vigorously for the nominated candidate.

  Ross could not put a finger on the first time he expressed disagreement with his father’s politics. He was at high school, probably in his final year. The papers were full of Vietnam. Jeffrey had joined the CMF – a part-time citizen’s military force that doubled as an army reserve. His brother was not militarily minded and Ross was initially mystified by his decision. But national service had been re-introduced in 1965, this time through a ballot in which birthdates were drawn for those turning twenty in a particular year. Jeffrey, though he shared his father’s abhorrence of Communism, saw no reason to wind up in some god-forsaken jungle trying to help the Americans win a war that even then seemed ill-conceived. He was not yet a lawyer but it required no legal training to find an obvious escape mechanism. Like many of his compatriots, he enrolled in the CMF, secure in the knowledge this minor commitment obviated the necessity to serve abroad. Hanging around the officer’s mess at Karrakatta, quaffing cheap beer, was a small price to pay.

  Ross was accustomed to his father venting his spleen on do-gooders, trade unionists and ‘pinkie’ protesters who had begun to crusade against the war. When Jeffrey took the same line, the chorus grew shrill. In the face of this daily disparagement, Ross decided to read up on South-East Asia and colonialism in general. At school, the history course focused upon Britain and Europe but he was fortunate his teacher was cut from a more progressive cloth and encouraged the students to form their own opinions on events closer to home. When Ross took up the challenge and brought his new-found opinions to the dinner table, a ferocious discourse ensued, as his father and brother combined forces to dissect and belittle his ideas. ‘We can’t let the Commies take over,’ they thundered. ‘Look what Stalin did in Europe.’ In vain, he attempted to show them their analogies were misplaced; that the Vietnamese were engaged in a civil war and, having disposed of the French, were not going to let another bunch of foreigners decide what was best for their future. ‘Rubbish,’ said his father. ‘Look at Red China. If Vietnam goes, so will all those other countries, just like a pack of cards.’ ‘Dominos, Dad,’ Ross had corrected. ‘The domino theory. It’s all propaganda – the idea that if one falls, the others follow. These countries want to sort themselves out. They don’t need us. We’ve exploited them for centuries.’

  He could never convince them. As the years passed and he formed views on other subjects, inevitably they offended his father’s firmly cherished beliefs. At family gatherings, Ross learnt to keep his powder dry. Argument was futile. They were different. He was the outsider, a role he polished and grew attached to. In his own mind, he was a modern species of the prodigal son, misunderstood and unappreciated. In time, he thought, they will see how wrong they are and I will get some respect.

  As they parked outside his parents’ house, June took his arm. ‘Are you nervous?’

  ‘Yeah, a bit. I wish Simone was here and we could get it over with.’

  ‘Don’t worry. We can always regale them with details of our new lifestyle. They’ll be happy to change the subject when she rocks up later.’

  He groaned. ‘Please don’t go there, June. Not today.’

  She gave him a squeeze. ‘No promises. Let’s just see what pans out.’

  For the most part it panned out pretty well. Jeffrey and his wife arrived with their two children. Janet was expecting a third in May. Alexander exhibited a certain reserve with his grandchildren and an intolerance of kids in general. This did not deter Cassie and Todd from clambering all over him, demanding their presents and his attention. When their mother intervened the protests became loud and unrelenting. If we have kids, thought Ross, is this a taste of what it’s like?

  When Seddon entered the room, the screaming ceased as the youngsters transferred their charms to the more boisterous of their two uncles. He scooped them up and took them outside where he could throw them in the air and swing them in circles, whipping them into a delighted frenzy that augured badly for their digestion. Ross marvelled at his brother’s inexhaustible energy. He never seemed to stop. Whether charging up and down a football field or criss-crossing a tennis court, he exuded a tight ball of frenetic and feral energy. As a sports teacher, he had an outlet for his exuberance, and Ross imagined the kids who came within range would be among the fittest or the most fatigued. Out of school, he acted in similar vein, gyrating away his weekends on pub floors as he plunged into the local rock scene, imitating the guitarists and making passes at the groupies. As it was, he wound up with Abbie, a deceptively languid dance instructress, who taught him to jive and much more. Ross liked the way she moved and she floated through his fantasies from time to time. But when she opened her mouth she was a complete air-head, killing any latent desires, at least on his part.

  After the preliminaries, playful and otherwise, lunch was served. Alison was a no-frills cook, altogether too unsure of herself to experiment. In contrast to the previous evening with the Prestons, not much was said. His father, Ross observed, was subdued. Was he unconsciously prescient? Did he have some sixth sense that before the day was over he would be confronted with information that would probably shock him to the core? As he drifted through the meal, half listening to the conversation and drinking more than was good for him, Ross found himself gazing at his father, trying to fathom what made him tick. Why didn’t he keep in touch with his mother and sister in England? How come he’d never mentioned a brother? And s
urely he must have been curious about Baxter, his father? Ross gulped down his wine. Suddenly, he wanted it all out in the open. And he wanted to meet his grandfather.

  Simone took his call at three o’clock. ‘How long before you can get here?’ He was ringing from his parents’ place and she could hardly hear him. Someone, a child, was crying in the background.

  ‘I’ll be there by four.’

  They discussed the rationale behind her unexpected appearance. Ross would leave it until the last minute and inform his family he had come across something important. Simone was the source and had been invited to explain things.

  ‘Have you warned Jeff?’ The more she thought about it, the less she liked it.

  ‘No, why should I? He’ll only cross-examine me. It’s much better you tell them when everyone is together.’

  Much better for you, she thought. Jeff will have conniptions when he sees me arrive.

  As she tooted the horn – the pre-arranged signal – she felt sick in her stomach. But Ross bounded outside and she had crossed her last bridge. Que sera sera.

  ‘This is my friend Simone.’

  They were in the lounge room, drinking their coffee. A box of chocolates lay open on a side table. She saw Jeff looking at her with an incredulous expression. Was he thinking she had come to reveal their affair?

  June came over. ‘I’ll grab you a coffee while Ross handles the introductions.’

  She was given a chair and announced as the bearer of important news. It was now over to her.

  Nobody was smiling. Her stomach continued to churn. She asked Ross for some water.

  ‘You are probably wondering why I’ve been asked to come here, especially on Christmas Day. I’m sorry to interrupt your festivities but Ross thought it would be better if I could speak while you were together.’