Homecoming (5 page)

The strain on her must have been unbearable. There were nightmares. Yelling and incoherent mumbling. Lengthy
showers in the middle of the night coupled with the frenetic scrubbing of his body, as though in an act of ritualistic cleansing. Imitative noise of guns and exploding grenades. When he was unable to bear it any longer, Martin buried his head under a pillow. He was cowed by the accusing looks of imagined faces. Mangled bodies and the warmth of spurting blood. The noise of flies on corpses and the faint rustling of leaves like a serrated knife scraping the nerves.

But Nora—he cannot betray Nora. The truth about her mental state is a mystery anyway. To what extent might she be faking the seriousness of her condition? He recalls her saying once, when they swapped stories about their school days, ‘I loved drama. I lived for the school plays. I would take any part as long as I could play the role convincingly. Acting is so close to what we are and how we behave in life. My favourite was Puck. Once I gave up the part of Prospero to play Ariel. I was determined to go to NIDA.’

Andrew turns the long pause to good use. ‘You are a deceptively complex person.’ A professional evaluation without any trace of exasperation, malice or flattery. It pleases Martin. This is an affirmation of the secret labyrinth within him.

At last he meets the psychiatrist’s look. ‘I think of myself as an ordinary bloke who scratches a living by doing odd jobs. Someone with no ambitions. No desire to do anything else. I will probably go, in the end, wondering: what was that all about?’

‘And?’

There was nothing to add. Nothing further that he could reveal.

Andrew looks at him thoughtfully. ‘Have the new tablets made a difference?’

‘I don’t know,’ Martin replies truthfully. ‘I still tend to turn away from things that don’t have a direct bearing on me. I don’t mean to. But change panics me. I hate making decisions. I resent feeling unsettled…isolated. There are no fences any more to mark one’s territory. I would like to wake up every day knowing that nothing is different. I want to get out of this tunnel—find a windless landscape, where I can sleep without dreams for a hundred years.’

‘But there’s something else you want to say?’ Andrew murmurs.

‘It’s rather silly.’ Martin looks at the psychiatrist for reassurance. ‘I am having this dream about a huge ship.’

‘You’ve never mentioned anything like that before.’ A note of interest in Andrew’s voice. The notebook and pen reappear.

‘It’s only happened in the last few days. Several nights in a row. It began after a road incident with my ute.’ With clinical accuracy Martin describes what had happened. But he allows the two men who pursued him to slip to the periphery of his recollection. And sure enough, Andrew is curious about the attackers.

‘I barely saw them,’ Martin prevaricates. ‘Their faces were distorted against the windscreen. The lights weren’t bright enough. And then they were gone.’

‘Surely you remember some details. Brown hair? Colour of a jumper? Approximate height?’

‘Asians.’ The reluctant admission.

‘Aah…’ Andrew drums his fingers on the edge of the desk.

The sound irritates Martin. This ‘Aah’ communicates a certain logical conclusion that is inescapably simplistic. Its tone conveys the triumph of discovery—as though Andrew is congratulating himself on a shrewd piece of deductive thinking.

‘Can you recall your initial reaction when you realised that these men were Asians? What did you think of first?’

‘They were Vietnamese,’ Martin confesses finally. He clenches his fists in an attempt to control the trembling. ‘I was afraid.’

‘Why Vietnamese? Why not Thai, Korean or Singaporean?’

‘Past association, I guess. Vietnamese are the only Asians I have ever really known.’

‘Why were you afraid?’

‘Isn’t that obvious?’ Martin retorts.

Andrew stares at him. Expressionless. ‘Would you have been as fearful if they had been Caucasian?’

Martin shifts uncomfortably and crosses his legs. ‘I feared for my safety. People are often assaulted in such situations.’

Faint noises of the city filter into the room. Andrew’s pen glides smoothly over a page of the notebook. ‘Tell me about this ship,’ he says without looking up or pausing from writing notes.

‘It’s called HMAS
Sydney!
Martin is embarrassed by the revelation. It is the kind of unbelievable stuff that children might conjure up with conviction.
Peter Pan,
but without the wistful charm.

HIS HANDS FUMBLED
in the medicine cabinet, making a mess of the rows of bottles and packets. He found the sleeping
tablets and swallowed one, washing it down with a cupped handful of water. He closed his eyes and shook his head vigorously. He could have sworn that the girl had appeared momentarily in the mirror above the washbasin, winking and blowing him a kiss.

Martin lay in bed without switching off the bedside table lamp. That girl again. Flawless complexion, shoulder-length brown hair, wide hips and provocatively full breasts. A body that would continue to ripen for a few more years and taunt men. He wished that he could feel a ripple of desire. An urge to touch her. He thought about impulses and the nature of instinct. Beside him on the bedside table sat the bronze cast of Auguste Rodin’s
The Thinker.
Was thinking essentially an exercise in masochism? Martin regularly sought to justify the way he thought, but he did not allow himself the same liberty with his feelings. He cradled the statue in his hands. At some point after midnight he had fallen asleep, the Rodin figure lying next to him.

‘
PEOPLE. THEY WERE
all around me.’ He is aware of a significant pause and of Andrew’s stare.

‘What kind of people?’

‘Men in uniform, from what I could see. There was great excitement…and there was this man, on a raised platform with his back towards us. Every now and again his voice sounded over the noise of the waves and the people. He gave us information about distance and the likely time of arrival. I spoke to an old man in a tattered war uniform. I asked him where we were going. He was amazed and he touched my
arm…as if to awaken me. “We are going home to the land of the banished.” “I haven’t done anything wrong,” I said. He looked at me seriously and pointed to a coffin. “Your crime.” I started to take off the lid—that’s when I woke up.’

‘And this dream has repeated itself?’

Martin nods. ‘It always ends at the same point. I don’t get to see who is in the coffin.’

He is still brooding about his inability to find a precise reason for leaving the hospital in such haste. Martin was uncomfortable during the time he spent with Colin. It could have had something to do with his friend’s frailty; it is a prickly reminder of mortality. Or with the sparseness of the room which made him think how ephemeral life was. Maybe. Martin resolves to go back for a longer visit.

Today is…Wednesday. At least he is certain about the day. But the time…Did Frank say quarter past twelve? Or was it half past?
Time is a personal concept relative to the observer who measures it.
As he walks, Martin is thinking about the words of Stephen Hawking. When is experience transformed into a concept? Perhaps only if it occupies the safety of a distant past, and is filtered through the lens of memory. Then there’d be the inevitable distillation of all that may have happened—until an idea emerges.

But that idea, he decides, is more likely to be universal than personal.

He bumps into a pedestrian. ‘Sorry’ he mutters, avoiding a hostile stare. He is nervous about meeting Frank’s partner. Martin likes the name Maria—probably an Italian background—and he’s curious about the way she may have influenced Frank.

He remains undecided how to broach the subject of bearing children who may—he searches for a euphemism—have problems. But the matter need not be confronted immediately.

The newly varnished door responds noiselessly. Martin looks at his watch again. Twelve forty. No sign of Frank. A waiter approaches as he scans the tables. Not a cheap place. Linen serviettes and starched white tablecloths. A smattering of smartly dressed people.

‘Table for one, sir?’ The waiter is dressed in black. His right earlobe is pierced with a gold stud.

‘Ah, I think there’s a booking under the name Godwin.’

The waiter leads Martin to a corner table where a woman is sipping mineral water and reading the business section of
The Age.

‘The booking would probably be under
Godwin!
Martin enunciates the name slowly.

‘This is the table, sir,’ the waiter assures him cheerfully, pulling out a chair for Martin to be seated.

The woman looks up and then quickly folds the newspaper and drops it on the floor. She smiles expansively and extends her right hand across the table. ‘Hello! You must be Martin. I am Maria.’ She misinterprets his blank stare. ‘Frank’s partner.’

‘Yes, of course!’ Hastily he takes her small hand and holds
it limply in his grasp. ‘Pleased to meet you.’ He thinks of Frank’s other girls. One was blonde and reserved, and the other had finely chiselled features and shy manners. And now Maria. Raven black hair, high cheekbones and flawless complexion. Pregnant.

The waiter addresses Martin. ‘Can I get you a drink?’

‘Some water, please.’

He is relieved by the diversion.

Maria looks at him, smiling gently. His surprise and discomfort must be plain. She grimaces and leans back, shifting to her left. Martin deliberately keeps his eyes above the table’s surface.

‘Frank has told me a lot about you.’ He hears his voice—clichéd and clumsy. When does an exaggeration become a blatant lie?

The waiter returns with a jug of water and a tumbler.

‘Where are you from?’ Instantly he regrets the question. It sounds aggressive and patronising. Why does it matter? She is his son’s partner, carrying Frank’s child. I must not make any assumptions, Martin warns himself.

‘Well, I was born on a boat.’ She pauses to allow the implications to sink in. Smiles again. Not on a luxury liner, then. ‘But I have lived most of my life in Springvale.’ Her tone suggests that the suburb could be a remote town in another country. He is silent, so she goes on. ‘We only moved twice, from one end of a street to another, and then to a house on the opposite side. I lived with my parents until I finished university.’ She watches his fingers twisting a corner of the serviette. ‘My parents came from a village near Ho Chi Minh city. They were among the first load of boat people to come to Australia.’

He can’t help himself now. ‘Did your father fight in the war?’

Maria nods. ‘Frank tells me you served in Vietnam.’

‘Fighting the loser’s war. But it was in the last century.’ Martin gives in, suddenly feeling weary. ‘So long ago that it shouldn’t matter now, I am told.’

‘Wars don’t end when the fighting is over.’

‘What makes you say that?’ Martin says sharply, stung by her acumen. Her confidence.

‘That’s according to my father.’

‘Sorry I’m late!’

Frank’s breathless entry is a welcome interruption. He kisses Maria and asks if she is comfortably seated.

‘How are you, Dad?’ They shake hands. ‘I take it you two have introduced yourselves. I was out buying crockery. Amazing how you can lose your sense of time fossicking among cups and plates!’

Martin is puzzled. ‘Shopping in the middle of the day?’

Maria laughs nervously. ‘You haven’t told him?’

‘Well, no. I haven’t had a chance.’ Frank’s embarrassment is evident.

‘Told me what?’ Martin is envious—something has been withheld from him. He looks discreetly at Maria. Judging from her reaction, it can’t be anything seriously important.

‘I smashed some plates and cups in the kitchen,’ Frank confesses. ‘In fact, just about everything I had.’

Frank orders a beer. He turns to his father. ‘Frustration. You know. Anger. No one to hang it on. I came home late, irritable. One of those days…botch-ups, backlogs, paper work, the boss—all that. Anyway, I put on some vegies to
steam and rice to boil. Thought I’d allow myself a few minutes in front of the telly, put my problems in perspective by seeing what’s happening in the world. Next thing I knew there was the sound of the smoke alarm in the kitchen. A burning smell and then smoke everywhere. Something just burst inside me.’ Frank’s mobile interrupts him. He fishes it out of the side pocket of his jacket and switches it off angrily.

Maria reaches across and strokes the back of his neck. Martin is struck by the spontaneity of her gesture. And then there’s the way Frank hunches his shoulders and smiles at her.

A feeling of emptiness overcomes Martin. In their silence these two have a strength of understanding about each other, much more than words could give. It is the kind of awareness, he sees, that’s not based on any fixed idealism about relationships; they have the capacity to accommodate each other’s weaknesses.

I’m a stranger in a strange land. Martin recalls the words from Exodus. An alien in the world of passion.

Memory is an inadequate compensation for loneliness.

‘
SIX MONTHS
!
WE
’
VE
been going out for six months and you’ve never even made an attempt to hold my hand.’ It was said playfully, the sea waving beside them, but still Martin was mildly perturbed. He had no desire to touch Nora, even though she was attractive. He remembers a slim brunette with infectious laughter. She’d had a violent marriage, but she never talked about her ex-husband or her life with him. At
the beginning Martin had tried to speak with her about her past. But she refused to be drawn.

‘There’s no point in it,’ she insisted. ‘I was young and he was the handsomest man I had ever seen. Things changed in the next fifteen years.’ She smiled.

So somehow, right from the start, Martin had made this his excuse for avoiding physical contact with Nora: it was more than likely that she was still apprehensive about men.

He had first met her in the milkbar where she worked. Nora was new there. She stood defiantly behind the counter and made no effort to hide the bruises on her cheeks and under her eyes. Her face was untouched by make-up, starkly pale. Martin was the only customer at that early hour of the morning, buying bread and milk. He saw the ring on her left hand and frowned.

‘You don’t have to pretend to be so damn polite and avoid looking at me,’ she said calmly.

Martin apologised. ‘Can I be of any help?’ he blurted, steeling himself to meet her eyes. They were blue, like the colour of the southern sea on a sunny day and just as unfathomable. She showed no self-pity, but there seemed to be a deep-seated sadness in her, as if every plan she had drawn for her life had gone astray. Martin wanted to console her.

‘No. But thanks for asking. It takes courage for a stranger to offer assistance.’ She turned her back to him quickly then, and busied herself tidying the shelves.

Martin was back at the milkbar the next morning. And the next.

‘You seem to need a lot of milk,’ she observed laconically towards the end of the week.

‘I drink plenty of it,’ he lied cheerfully. ‘By the way, my name is Martin Godwin.’

‘Nora Hare.’

This, it turned out, was Nora’s last day of work at the milkbar. She had been offered a full-time job in a clothing store. Martin wished her luck; then he said goodbye and left the shop.

After a few minutes he was back.

‘More milk?’ she asked with a straight face.

‘Will you have lunch with me? I wanted to ask you the other day, but I didn’t…couldn’t…’ Martin gave up and shrugged. He was out of breath and knew he must sound as if he had been held under water.

‘I only get half an hour for lunch. But I could make us a couple of sandwiches.’

He came back at noon and waited until she appeared with a paper bag and two styrofoam cups balanced on an upturned lid of a chocolate box. She led him to a bench only a few metres away. She placed the food in the middle and occupied one end of the seat, which left a generous space between them. They ate quietly, as if the sandwiches needed all their attention for a full appreciation of the freshness. After some time Martin commented on the traffic.

‘There’s plenty that goes on here.’ Nora looked at him. ‘There’s even an amateur theatre group rehearsing
The Duchess of Malfi.’
She pointed to a red-brick building across the street. ‘I’ve been offered a part.’

‘You’re interested in drama!’ he exclaimed, as though she had given him an unexpected piece of good news.

She looked down at the palms of her hands. ‘Acting is the best way of discovering yourself Then she looked away and smiled at a child waiting to cross the street with her mother. ‘I’ll be glad when it’s summer.’

SIX MONTHS
!
AND
they’d never held hands. So what could he have said after half a year of companionship?
I am thinking about it…I haven’t quite sorted myself out.

That day on the beach Nora was walking a few paces ahead of him. When she looked back over her shoulder, as if challenging Martin to catch up, he thought, she is still too fragile. Not yet strong enough for demanding commitments.

Besides, he had to tackle his own demons first and expunge them. They both needed more time and healing space. It was a consoling thought. Probably Nora had similar reservations.

He remained silent, quickening his steps to catch up with her. They stopped at a point where there were no fishermen to be seen and the beach began to curve south. Noisy seagulls whirled overhead. Picking up pieces of broken seashells, he hurled them into the water. He had a yearning to run away and begin again without guilt or uncertainties. Re-invent the past and grow into adulthood and beyond in stages of predictable development. No twists or turns. The passage of time without surprises. Hold the same job, live in the same suburb and grow old without the affliction of troubled memories, excuses and self-recrimination.

He took off his shoes and socks, rolled up the bottoms of his trousers and stepped into the sea. He waddled forward until the water touched his knees. It would be simple enough to keep remembering and walk from the warm bleached sand into the turquoise sea. Once, in a faraway place, Martin had allowed the dark vagaries of human behaviour to assert a perverse claim on an innocent life, without even a feeble protest. But all of that could be obliterated within moments. He closed his eyes, feeling dizzy.

He heard Nora calling him and took another step forward. But then there was the image of a brown-haired boy, his teenaged son. What would he say years from then?
My old man didn’t care. He walked away from life. I never really had a father.
As if Frank knew everything.
As ever, the old man managed to dodge his obligations. He didn’t know what it meant to be a responsible human being.

‘Is it very cold?’ Nora didn’t wait for a reply. Kicking off her shoes she waded in, swinging her arms in an attempt to hold her balance. She grabbed his arm. A large wave hissed up and crashed against their legs.

‘Look at the colours!’ Nora pointed to the mixture of grey, pink and gold splattered on the horizon.

Martin had vivid recollections of the ominous transition in Vietnam between the chaotic norm of daytime and the darkness. There was a slice of time that felt out of context. He was always apprehensive of what it might unleash. An orange sun smoked behind the haze of dusk, sinking slowly under its own weight into the distant hills.

‘It’s the angry eye of an ancient god, you know,’ Colin would tell anyone willing to listen. ‘It has seen enough
human foolishness for the day and feels that it’s appropriate to leave the world in blackness.’ The others looked at him in disbelief. ‘Oh yeah? Good one, Col. Keep living in your fantasies until a bullet gets you between the eyes.’

Dusk was the time of insects, the time for dope or for alertness. Their yearnings were basic: the mundane, or the calm, or the sharp-edged.

The routine of a civilian’s working week was now a mirage of luxury. Any one of them would gladly have settled for an uneventful existence, the rhythm of suburbia. Martin longed for the winter months when football fanaticism gripped Melbourne. In the swill hour at the pub on Fridays after work there had never been the slightest urge to talk about anything other than the Saturday footy. As the rain pelted down outside, the beer and conversation flowed with good nature and generosity. After the pubs closed, they gathered in someone’s house or flat in a state of inebriated carelessness.

At dusk in Vietnam, when the odd jet fighter furrowed across the sky on its way to base, Martin had the absurd vision of being on board, holding a gun against the back of the pilot’s head, ordering him to turn the aircraft around and get the hell out of the country.