Homesickness (29 page)

‘I want to see who wins,' Sasha cried. She turned to North.

‘They could be going all day. It's a process. There has to be a loser. One of them might easily die.'

‘Survival of the fittest,' Garry explained.

‘
The Origin of Species
,' Kaddok added mysteriously.

‘Stupid bloody men!' said Violet. ‘You can get some idea of the trouble they cause. Look at them, the fools.'

North laughed and pushed open the gate. ‘They'll be still battling away when we come out.'

Following him, they glanced back at the colliding grunting males.

‘I wish someone'd fight over me,' Sasha whispered. ‘Sheila, what do you reckon? Say a sword fight. Something like that.'

‘I suppose,' she glanced at Sasha. ‘If no one was hurt.'

‘Someone always is,' Violet came between them. ‘I've always found. But that's only me.'

The Kaddoks were at the door bowing and scraping to the guardian of the Institution, a North American redhead, forty-odd, decked out in a tasselled miniskirt, a white Stetson and a lasso. She had a freckled jelly-cleavage and blue knees.

‘Why, hell-o there,' she beamed. ‘Wel-come to the Institution.'

The men had to squeeze past her.

‘Howdy,' nodded Doug, pulled past by his wife.

‘What have you got this thing for?' Garry pointed to the lasso.

‘Keep moving, please.'

They waited in a hall decorated with dried flower arrangements which met with Mrs Cathcart's approval. From another room came the pleasant hum of a domestic vacuum cleaner. Framed on the wall was HOME SWEET HOME in New England needlepoint.

‘Boys and girls, I see. Any singles?'

Sheila involuntarily raised her hand.

‘What does she want to know all this crap for?' Violet whispered.

But Louisa had raised her arm. Louisa was usually obedient. ‘Oh I'm without husband.'

‘I'm sorry,' said the woman. ‘I am sorry to hear that.'

‘He's only out looking at more stripe paintings. He's always been interested in that type of modern art. I don't mind,' Louisa smiled.

‘Where's old Borelli then?' Garry asked, unthinking. They had become accustomed to seeing the two together, talking to one side.

‘He doesn't believe in institutions. He said he wasn't interested. I asked him to come but he marched off somewhere else.' The vacuum cleaner hum was replaced now by light organ muzak. It sounded like a church warming up.

They waited for the redhead. She had both hands on her hips, like a predatory bird.

‘All right now, I won't chatter away. That would be nagging, and I think that's dreadful. It can drive even a good man away.' Slight laughter here and there, stopped short. ‘I'll come along and keep you company, shall I? I think that's best. And hasn't it been a gorgeous day?'

As usual Gerald Whitehead remained at the edge cracking his red knuckles: those of a bachelor. To the Institution of Marriage and to America itself, Gerald had decided merely to tag along; hands in his pockets, so to speak. America hadn't been his idea, and the Institution represented its worse excesses. He would have preferred being somewhere else. Vienna, say; or cobbled Florence say: in Europe where the clocks show Roman time. It invited contemplation; he allowed himself to drift, separate.

He'd raised his hand to poke the glasses on his nose when
Swoooosh
: the whirring loop dropped and wriggled like a quoit around his wrist; and before he knew it, before he could prevent it, he was dragged forward into the arms of the redhead.

‘Gotcha!' said she.

And they were laughing and whistling, joining in, even Sheila in disbelief. Gerald reddened as she undid the lasso.

‘There now…'

Gerald gripped his wrist.

‘I didn't burn, did I?' she asked all solicitous.

But the others were still wiping their eyes, ho hee.

‘It's nothing,' he said.

‘So that's what it's for?' Sasha said. ‘I never thought of that before. Isn't she clever?' Turning to Phillip North she had a mocking shine.

‘There are also other ways,' her friend Violet reminded, ‘you should know.'

‘Say,' Doug was asking, ‘where on earth did you learn to use that thing?'

‘It's bloody lethal,' Garry Atlas shouted.

Ignoring them, or affecting to, she took Gerald's hand.

‘So you're with me. OK? Everyone, this way.'

Again they couldn't help grinning and pointing. The back of Gerald's neck and ears had reddened. It was like a game.

The exhibits here were arranged as in any institution: small rooms and the usual étagère and glass cases (horizontal, vertical), wall fixtures and photographs.

First of all, there was nothing unusual about marriage. Ceremonies and subsequent suburbias had been observed even among colonies of
ants
. The redhead said nothing except a few moist whispers to Gerald. The point was driven home by photographs and scientific statements with arrows.

This put the subject into perspective.

Cabinets at easy intervals displayed the odds and ends employed in the courtship ritual—dead posies, lockets, examples of lavish compliments, theatre programmes and the like. Promises, promises! It was all very familiar and yet Mrs Cathcart and Sheila, and Louisa, why even Violet Hopper, appeared to take a close interest. The redhead here interrupted as Garry began telling everyone about the ‘incredible bloody bucks' night' he'd been to at Bendigo, pissed as lords, and ‘we got the groom and—.' It was easy, only too easy, to make a mockery of the Institution. ‘OK, OK,' he put up his hands, ‘you're nagging me.' Between the furniture of western courtship—the floral sofa, walnut love-seats in the shape of S, the arctic back seat of secondhand cars—the path was so narrow it casually forced them to proceed in pairs. Most of them didn't suspect.

A suspended post-office bag spilled a quantity of letters, many perfumed and one French. It demonstrated the desire to put difficult feelings into words. A few had been opened and ironed flat for easy perusal. Bundles were tied with pink ribbons. Take away the reams of business correspondence and a high proportion of all mail is love letters.

‘I feel sure this is where the phrase “tons of love” originates,' the redhead said. She stared at Garry in case he tried to be funny. ‘And I think that's just wonderful, don't you?'

Gwen bent over with Louisa to read some.

‘You know,' said Kaddok at an inaccurate tangent, ‘France is the only country that doesn't have the air-letter.'

Sasha asked Phillip North, ‘Have you ever written poems to anyone?'

‘Poems? Good God, by the mile. I've lost count.'

‘No tell me,' said Sasha gently, ‘I'd like to know.'

‘They get embarrassed,' Mrs Cathcart said.

‘Do you have any ruddy ball-and-chains here?' Doug laughed, embarrassed.

Marriage was a force. It was subterranean, was light and dark, pink and white, grey, elemental, in its growth and hold. It was meant to be binding. That was its social function. In part it diminished and yet two could ripple outwards; the institution was circular in its shape and helplessness. One Californian couple wrote rhyming letters to each other every day for thirty-three years from the same house. A regular diet of lies is needed.

‘You've all heard the term “fabric of society” bandied about? Well here it is. You can touch it.'

And temporarily dropping Gerald's moist hand the redhead took the hem of a wedding gown and felt it between her fingers, sperm-like in its viscosity. About a dozen gowns were fitted to blonde mannequins, demonstrating the slow almost negligible change in fashions.

Opposite stood an equal number of poker-faced grooms. A guard of honour; visually quite effective. The women clustered around uttering cries and wearing solemn expressions, as they mentioned comparisons with their own ceremonies. The redhead began telling them about her own. They all seemed to like her. There were no distinctions between them.

‘I fear this was a mistake,' North commented to Gerald. To one side Gerald gazed at the ceiling, scratching his throat.

Making a move Garry put out his hand and touched a nylon train—and yanked back.

‘Yeow! I got a boot then!'

It made them laugh. ‘It serves him right,' said Sasha. She turned to the redhead, ‘You were saying?'

‘No kidding!' Garry kept yelling and pointing.

‘Static electricity,' Kaddok naturally explained. He hadn't taken a photograph yet.

In this institution, labels were printed in a cursive hand in the style of invitations.

Black and white, the colours of marriage, represent the shared twenty-four hours a day, split night and day. Wearing black the husband has been designated (genetically?) the earlier death. It has been established since Adam that white represents propagation, future tense, flights of fancy, hope, a clean slate. But it stains easily. In a rare reversal of the designated colours the white sperm swims into the night-black womb. Between the two poles lie the grey tones of every day: gentle acquired knowledge, tolerance, shades of meaning. Hence the colours of marriage, black and white.

‘What do you make of all this?' nodded Doug. Whenever his spouse showed involvement Doug beamed.

‘We could well be here for the day,' North sighed. At least he showed patience.

Doug beamed and glanced back, ‘Ah, but you know, it doesn't do them any harm.' And he rocked on his soles, ‘Yup…'

Gerald made the point, ‘If it's so “elemental” and “subterranean” how is it we feel segregated?'

‘Oh I of course recently had a wife,' murmured North vaguely.

The women now faced them. With their florals, holding their handbags, they looked formidable but for their serene, almost lofty, expressions, as if they possessed inner secrets. They were in agreement.

‘Come on. Don't stand there on one foot,' said Sasha to North. The others could hear. ‘Show an interest.'

She was on the point of saying more.

And Violet and Sheila were talking. Answering Violet's question Sheila looked back. ‘I've never thought—I mean, yes. I suppose so. If anyone would have me,' she added without mockery. ‘I know myself. I am not the easiest person…'

Marriages of convenience, marriages between dynasties, arranged marriages (legalised prostitution?). Mixed marriages and shotgun marriages, marriages of couples who had never been married before; some who dreaded it, others who couldn't wait (for it). There were marriages between in-laws. A marriage of killer and victim's wife. Photographic evidence of child marriages, of giants and dwarfs, yeah, and Siamese twins, nudists and octogenarians, communist marriages. There were marriages at sea.

The redhead lifted a flyproof dome on a silver tray. A coal-like substance made them crane with curiosity.

‘One of our most treasured possessions,' she said to help.

Still they didn't know.

‘Gerald, please read those words.'

Bending close he fogged the sterling silver with his breath.

He read:

‘The Queen's Bridal Cake, Buckingham Palace
Feby. 10, 1840.'

He straightened up.

‘Queen Victoria,' Mr History spelt it out, and decided to take a photograph.

Hooray!

Anyway, Mrs Cathcart had a piece of wedding cake locked away in a sideboard. Sometimes she has a look at it. A practice not followed these days by the young.

The redhead had been listening, interested. She closed one eye.

‘Average age of marriage, 23.6 years. Twenty-two per cent of your marriages are Roman Catholic. Divorce in Australia is on a terrible increase. Already it approaches the United States. It is ahead of England. In the past decade there has been a large swing from gold rings to silver. The man wears the pants.'

The way Kaddok moved his lips showed he was memorising it. ‘Very interesting,' he said.

The ritual offering of food in the wedding ceremony is another universal. Yes, our anthropologists find it practised in the most primitive societies. Always cooked and usually a delicacy the mouthful acts as a social cement. There is an audience (auditors), watchful, almost serious. And isn't it a reward for a job well done; sustenance also for the journey ahead? The symbol is accepted by the couple and verified by the elders. That same orifice—close-up of chewing mouth—soon bears the initial transports of passion.

Unlike other institutions the interior surfaces here were painted in domestic hues; pinks from the bedroom, pale blue of the veins, lilac and such. Casual and pleasant, the rooms were full of interest. It was like walking through a life.

Pinned like butterflies in a spotless showcase an array of stained and torn marriage certificates folded into wings provided just a hint of the worldwide army of printers employed to keep the institution going. But of course they don't prevent the unscrupulous person, nearly always male, abusing the carefully worked-out system. For this same cabinet acted as a kind of transparent arrow to an adjoining rogue's gallery of
bigamists
—mug shots, case histories, from the floor to the ceiling. It was dimly lit and frowned upon, and the redhead began tapping her high-heeled shoes, Gerald stationed at her side; at least he was no bigamist. But the snapshots exerted a fascination. What sort of man became a bigamist? Garry held up his cigarette lighter, like those entrepreneur herdsmen who point to prehistoric cave paintings with flaming torches.