Homecoming (16 page)

Colin sits quietly, thinking. He regains his normal composure, then speaks.

‘We have been friends for a very long time. Over the years I have created an image of you—of what I think you are and your qualities as a person. It has remained as a clear and consoling picture. To have it blurred, well…if I were not
rational, I would be insane with self-pity. It was an unpardonable response, selfish to the extreme. I am sorry.’

What do friends talk about? Martin looks at Colin and thinks about their separate inner lives. They have communicated about words and ideas, speculated and dreamed. But they’ve deluded each other into thinking that the reflections of life are more important than the real thing.

Colin is quite still when he speaks again. ‘I’ve let myself down too, Martin, by not speaking to you about the fear of dying, or what it’s like to be gay, and never to have had a partner. I wish I hadn’t held the rage of it all within me. Now I don’t know how to let it out. I, too, have hidden things that clutter the space inside.’

After a while, Martin makes them ham and cheese sandwiches for an early lunch. And he decides not to tell Colin about the possibility of moving to live near Frank and Maria in the country. Ponderously he says, ‘I’ve given up thinking that everything will be all right and I can retire, having resolved all of life’s problems. I am reconciled to living with pockets of contentment, instead of waiting for a flawless period of old age living.’

‘Speak for yourself,’ Colin responds without bitterness. ‘I won’t experience old age.’

‘The question is,’ Martin looks sharply at his friend, ‘where should one live out the last years of life?’

‘You mean you have a choice? Unlucky you!’

AT TWELVE THIRTY
Martin has an appointment at home. He finds Glenda already talking to the smart young estate agent in front of the house.

‘Stephen Merrick, Martin,’ she introduces them. Martin smiles grittily at her and takes the man inside.

Merrick checks the place meticulously. He looks out at the large well-maintained backyard.

‘I don’t think we’ll have any difficulty getting a buyer, Mr Godwin,’ he says thoughtfully. ‘I’ll have a For Sale sign put up in the next couple of days and—’

‘Can you give me some idea how much it might fetch?’ Martin is blunt, not favourably disposed to this haste.

But Stephen Merrick avoids a direct answer. ‘The land price in this area is high, and there’s a huge demand for houses in the inner suburbs. I think you’ll do very well.’

They leave it like that. When Merrick has gone Glenda appears at the door with a teacake. She looks disturbed and frail.

‘Are you selling the house?’

‘Only getting an idea of what the place might be worth,’ Martin answers truthfully, letting her in. ‘At the moment I don’t really know where I’ll end up.’

‘I never thought that you would even consider moving.’ Tearfully she offers him a wedge of the cake. ‘You are such a dependable friend, and a source of comfort to me.’

Martin is touched by the admission. ‘Glenda, I want to be near Frank, and Maria and my grandchild. You know that there comes a time when you have to make a move towards the final stage of your life.’ He speaks softly to her.

‘You are too young to talk like that!’ she says crossly. ‘Look at me! I’m almost seventy-eight but I don’t make any big decisions. I just flow with my age.’ She looks pleadingly at
him. ‘I wouldn’t like to have anyone noisy and unreliable living next to me. Change upsets me.’

‘It might all fizzle out,’ he comforts her as she leaves. ‘I’ll come around and fix the kennel tomorrow and replace the hinges on the back door.’

As he watches Glenda leave, Martin realises that the dream about the empty coffin has removed the dread of death and the fear of impending danger that has preoccupied him. He has created his own meaning from the anticlimax that culminated the dream. So the emptiness of the coffin has brought him hope. He thinks of Jeffrey Benson and the story of Kisagotami. He feels relaxed and strangely contented.

He makes his way out again to the ute, to visit Nora. A small removalist’s van sits on the opposite side of the street. A man is loading bedroom furniture and a television. Martin’s young neighbour appears with a suitcase and a half-filled garbage bag. He envies her travelling so lightly. He thinks about his own possessions, especially the junk in the shed.

Martin walks across the road. ‘Sorry to see you leave.’

She smiles brightly. ‘Finally! I’m Sally. I meant to come over and say goodbye.’

They have lived opposite each other as strangers, but Martin cannot help a twinge of resentment, as if he were being unfairly left behind. Her cheerfulness reminds him of his own enthusiasm on the day he left for Brisbane. There was so much pride in being a soldier representing his country in a noble cause. He’d had absurd notions of never dirtying his starched uniform or his glossy black boots. The time in
Vietnam would be full of high adventure, culminating in victory. After the war he would find a steady job, marry Moira and raise a family. The years had lain ahead of him like a set of well-lit steps. Sally’s generation is more aware of the complex dimensions that determine their lives.

‘Good luck, and take care of yourself!’ he says heartily. They shake hands.

BY THE TIME HE
reaches the hostel, the afternoon is full of pre-season spring weather. He has vaguely planned to take Nora out at last, drive along familiar routes, hoping it might jog her memory and give them something to talk about. He hasn’t made up his mind whether he should mention a later trip to Daylesford, or even hint that he might be moving. It’s impossible to judge the likely impact.

Inside Sarah Dickson reports that Nora is eating well and cooperating with the staff. ‘She appears to have found great determination to improve her mobility. She’s doing just fine using a walking stick. But take the walker just in case she wants to use it. Her hand movements are steady and her overall motor skills are terrific. Martin, she says she needs to be strong for a long journey.’

Martin does not engage with this. He thinks back, but can’t remember if he told Nora they might go out.

‘We had a problem the other day with a little girl’s doll,’ Sarah Dickson says tentatively.

‘I heard about it.’

‘It was very gracious of the mother to let Nora have it.’

‘I’d like to pay for the doll,’ Martin offers.

‘It’s not worth it. It was a mangled old thing. We replaced it with one we had in stock.’

‘I thought I’d take Nora for a short drive…’ Martin notices the hint of a frown on her face. ‘Since this is the first time, I don’t want to overdo anything.’

‘Well. We think it’s wonderful that you are able to do this much.’ Now Sarah Dickson reveals that Nora has insisted on having her hair shampooed and make-up applied.

‘Let me guess. She’s wearing the blue dress.’

Sarah Dickson laughs.

Martin checks a few details. He borrows a foldable wheelchair. As a precautionary measure he is advised to carry a mobile phone. The walking stick and the walker will go in the car as well. There are no restrictions about Nora’s eating or drinking.

Eventually he finds himself loitering in the corridor, chatting to a few of the inmates. His lips are dry and momentarily he feels nauseous. The door to Nora’s room is ajar. He can hear her talking. Noiselessly he enters and stands with his back against the wall.

Nora is stooped over the walker, facing the window, her right hand clutching a doll. He steps forward. ‘Nora.’

She makes an effort to hide the doll, finally dropping it on the floor. With surprising agility she turns the walker around. ‘Who are you?’ she frowns.

‘Martin,’ he says absent-mindedly, lost in the sad mystery of the doll.

‘I’m busy right now.’

‘I’ve come to take you out.’

She stares at him and makes no attempt to hide her disappointment. ‘I thought it would be someone else.’

Martin unfolds the wheelchair, and checks to see that she has enough warm clothes. He wheels her out to the ute and helps her to climb inside. To his surprise, Nora cooperates meekly. He folds the wheelchair and places it in the back of the vehicle, along with her walker and the stick. He drives cautiously, as though extra care is necessary with Nora sitting next to him. He imagines her as a young woman—rebellious, wild and self-indulgent, without the restrictions of trepidation or sorrow, honest about her physicality He reaches over and caresses her shoulder. ‘Everything okay?’ She nods, almost shyly. He looks at her seat belt several times to make sure that she is securely fastened in.

They turn past Flinders Street Station and reach St Kilda Road. Nora looks wide-eyed at the buildings and the landmarks. She claps her hands and points to the spire of the Arts Centre. Martin turns into Linlithgow Avenue and finds a parking space just around the corner. ‘Do you know where we are?’

Nora blinks at him. ‘River?’

‘And the name of the river?’

Her lips move noiselessly as though she is trying out whatever names she can recall. ‘Journey?’

‘No, the name? We came here often,’ Martin reminds her.

‘To walk?’ Nora looks at him.

‘Yes, and sometimes to sit on the bank to eat and drink. It’s the Yarra.’

Nora giggles, as though recalling forbidden memories.

‘Do you remember the floral clock? There, to your left.’

She takes a while to focus on the circular arrangement of flowers and the movement of the dial. Her hands push against the door of the ute.

Martin comes around and seats her in the wheelchair, with the walking stick across her lap. He looks across St Kilda Road. In front of the entrance to the theatres is a steady flow of pedestrians. A crowd has gathered around two men performing a mime. He turns the wheelchair around and crosses to the other side.

Nora is entranced by the performers. She follows the gestures of their hands, her head swaying in the directions in which the men move. They are dressed in loose-fitting silvery garments, their faces and hands identically painted. Nora begins to imitate them, her arms and legs moving delicately. Martin pushes the wheelchair closer to the players. One of them notices what Nora is doing. He glides up to her and offers his hand. She rises. The look of delight on her face stops Martin from intervening. Nora’s steps are slow, but fluid and graceful. The crowd claps. There are shouts of encouragement. Martin releases his grip on the back of the wheelchair and begins to enjoy the spectacle.

In a little while Nora tires. She moves to one side and pretends to cut the glare by shading her eyes with a hand. She looks up beyond the trees, as if expecting someone to appear. Her facial expression changes from anticipation to disappointment. The two performers circle around her, in harmony with the mood she has created. Slowly Nora drops to her knees. The men bend forward and droop over her from opposite sides with a billowy flourish of their robes like
a flower closing its petals. The energy collapses and there is a moment’s stillness.

The audience murmurs and breaks into applause. The three performers rise in unison and bow. Then the men lead Nora back to the wheelchair. They kiss her hands and retreat.

People mill around Nora and flatter her with generous comments. She beams and looks up at Martin. He claps enthusiastically. ‘That was brilliant! Can you tell me more about that story?’

Nora concentrates on her fingernails and begins to hum.

‘What was it about? What did the movements mean? You looked up with a hand over your eyebrows…’ Martin checks himself. Too many questions were likely to confuse her.

‘It was a story about waiting.’

‘For what?’

‘Waiting,’ she repeats. ‘For whatever you desire.’

‘And do you think we always get what we desire?’

‘No.’ There is sadness in her voice. Martin strokes her head. It is a gesture of apology for being too preoccupied with himself, for not pursuing to know beyond the obvious, for not seeking to communicate about things that really matter.

They make their way to Southbank, where Martin buys some food. Nora draws his attention to the shop windows, occasionally pressing her face against the glass panes.

‘Would you like to walk?’

She stares uncomprehendingly at him. ‘Walk?’

‘Use the walking stick and go inside the shops.’

‘I’m not allowed to.’

‘Of course you are. You can go wherever you want.’ Martin remembers the conversation with Maria. He is surprised by his ready acceptance of what she’d said.

Nora takes a few steps and then pauses near the entrance of a jewellery shop. ‘Go on!’ Martin calls encouragingly. She takes another step before turning around and lurching back towards him. Her shoulders tremble and her hands feel cold. Martin waits until she stops shaking and then leads her into the shop. She clutches his hand and tries to hide behind him. The display of trinkets and costume jewellery attracts her though. She reaches out to touch a beaded necklace and looks in wonderment at the array of earrings, chains, bracelets and brooches. Then she picks up the string of turquoise-coloured beads again.

‘Do you like it?’

‘Yes,’ she whispers shyly.

Martin takes it from her hands. It’s been marked down and is not expensive. He goes up to the counter.

Outside, he unfastens the clasp and places the necklace around Nora’s neck. ‘It looks very pretty on you,’ he says awkwardly.
Haven’t had enough practice at that,
he tells himself wryly. Nora blushes and caresses her neck.

Martin wheels her back to Linlithgow Avenue. He takes a rug from the ute and then follows the path past the Myer Music Bowl and across the bicycle track. He struggles to wheel her to a gently sloping spot close to the river. Martin spreads the rug on the grass and helps Nora sit down. The afternoon is still and sunny, but more than likely the temperature will begin to drop within the hour. Nora eats with a voracious appetite, totally absorbed by the spread in
front of her. She devours a salmon croquet and the sushi, and then reaches for the ham and cheese focaccia.

‘How is Sebastian?’

Nora does not stop eating. She picks up the orange juice and sucks noisily through a straw. Seeming unaware that Martin has not eaten anything he has bought, she picks up the remaining croquet and bites into it. ‘Not well,’ she mumbles, masticating the food vigorously. ‘That’s why he couldn’t take me out.’

‘Tell me about him. What does he look like?’

Nora pretends not to hear, instead blowing into the straw after the drink has finished. She flings away the carton and laughs as Martin gets up to put it in a bin. It occurs to him that he has never been really intimate with any of the three women in his relationships. In each case the creation of distance had been deliberate and of his own doing. Now he regrets his unwillingness to share with Nora thoughts about their inner lives. He should have spoken more often about his weaknesses and blunders, about his loss of potency and the shame and doubts, about anger, frustrations and guilt. Perhaps that would have made him more humanly vulnerable to Nora. And she might have opened up too, enough to create a mutual zone where their comfort would have been their understanding of each other and what they had endured. But an obsession with not indulging in self-pity and a quaint notion of manliness had prevailed and he remained self-contained and silent. Martin thinks now that he must have given the impression of being calm and self-disciplined and, more than likely, cold and self-centred.