Homesickness (34 page)

‘I love cutting men's hair,' Sasha was saying to North. ‘I don't know why. I'll cut yours. It is getting long.'

Collections of early shampoo bottles. Clippers. The stigma endured by albinos and redheads. The extra length of male hair between world wars.

They glanced at each other. ‘That was all, wasn't it?'

‘Who would have thought?' Sheila said, brimming with the extra knowledge.

The high incidence of hairy wrists in English and Australian literature.

‘Everywhere's a museum,' Sasha now complained.

‘The whole world is a museum,' Gerald agreed.

North, and others, nodded. An interested glaze entered their eyes: reflexion and extension. The spectator is forced back onto himself.

‘Museums are a microcosm,' Kaddok added significantly.

‘That's right.'

‘Yes, I wish I'd been,' said Borelli.

‘It's only across the street.'

It brought Mrs Cathcart back to earth. ‘It was unexpected.' She bent over to put on her shoes. ‘I need a rinse and a perm.'

The world itself is a museum; and within its circumference the many small museums, the natural and the man-built, represent the whole. The rocks of Sicily, the Uffizi, the corner of a garden, each are miniatures of the world at large. Look, the sky at night: the most brilliantly displayed and ever-changing museum of harmonic mathematics and insects, of gods and mythological figures, agricultural machinery. The catalogue is endless.

There was the man in a Derbyshire village, Freddy Russell by reg. trade name, who lost his job with the adjoining pottery concern (commemorative and musical mugs), made up for it during the summer months, conducting tours around his nose, chiefly interested Australasian parties, occasional wide-ranging North Americans. Performance and conceptual artists tried to claim Russell. Art historians sporting the crumpled bowtie published formalist essays placing him—catapulting him—at the forefront of the vanguard; Manhattan dealers and three of the world's great modern museums had all offered him prestigious One Man Shows, as they are called; to no avail. Russell would remain the humble retiring sort, ‘Fred' to shopkeepers, neighbours and friends.

His small house in dreary mock-Tudor behind the village main street was distinguished by a yellow no-parking zone outside, the length of several tourist buses, although at the time the only vehicle was a motorbike and hooded sidecar at the twilight end of the street.

Formal behaviour for the first minutes: Mrs Russell in the lounge room rubbing her hands, commented at length about the weather with a fluidity which suggested more rain; they, all bowing somewhat, listened intently, conscious of the personal ornaments and smell of someone else's home. Mrs Cathcart warmed to her at once.

A dun-coloured curtain divided the lounge room. The vinyl sofa, the worn armchair and assorted dining-room chairs and nick-nacks had been arranged facing the curtain in two rows. ‘Please make yourselves comfortable,' she indicated.

The alert photographer in the front touched the curtain with his knees. Doug could sit at the back with the calm skeptics, elbow on the telly. He had his binoculars.

‘Fred, are you ready?' Mrs Russell put one ear to the curtain.

No answer.

‘He always does that,' she smiled back at them, ‘the blighter. Coming ready or not!'

She pulled the curtain aside.

On a camp-stretcher, Russell lay face-up within arm's reach of the front row. Neatly dressed, in his fifties, and lean, he had sandy eyebrows and several days' growth the colour of saltbush; but all their attention centred on his nose. Side-on it was uncanny. It rose out of the red skin and stubble with a monolithic force…instantly recognisable. In slope and proportion, down to the smallest detail, it was a replica (in miniature) of Ayers Rock. The grey tufts in the nostrils matched the dry vegetation choking the two much-photographed caves at the windswept north-eastern tip. And because it looked so heavy, almost false on Russell's ruddy face, it drew a response similar to the first sight of Ayers Rock in a flat Australian desert; murmurs of appreciation, disbelief. A flicker of a smile altered Russell's cheeks like a faint wind in the desert. The wall behind had been painted suitable azure—classic cloudless sky of the Dead Centre.

Breathing heavily Kaddok quickly switched from a telephoto to a wide-angle lens. The others leaned forward on their seats.

By a series of body or ‘weather' changes Russell, lying motionless, successfully duplicated the world-famous colour changes of the rock.

It began as a cold startling presence, factual and grand, of grey weathered stone. Ayers Rock is like this in the mornings.

As they watched and drew nearer it changed by degrees, deepening to heliotrope, majestic carbuncular purple, extraordinary for a rock. Russell achieved this by holding his breath—hence the mirage-like shimmer in the last ten seconds. Any similar change in the rest of his face was hidden by the surrounding stubble.

Next, the glowing brick-red, another aspect of Ayers Rock, much depicted in travel posters, was fairly easily reproduced by swigging in quick succession three cans of beer, quietly belching. The nose reached a bright almost transparent red, and held: Ayers Rock, late afternoon.

They applauded spontaneously and waited for the next change.

Russell now settled down, appeared to brace himself, and with a barely perceptible movement of his hand lowered the lights. The nose immediately registered a different hue. It threw a tremendous shadow.

A long pause, building up the suspense. They were all staring at the nose! It darkened even further.

Suddenly Russell made a sound in his throat like thunder and a cardiganned hand from behind the curtain—that of Russell's wife—poured water from a plastic can onto his nose and face: the cloudburst which flooded Ayers Rock in the mid-1960s, flooding the surrounding mulga and sand, filling the water courses and holes; and Russell's nose duplicated exactly the cascading spray in detail, nostrils leaking, the pitted walls now all grey and defensive, steaming like a great stranded whale.

It was remarkably effective. Again they applauded. At the back Doug passed the binoculars to Gerald who leaned forward squinting; Doug could have sworn he had seen steps cut into the Rock there to the left and a euro trying to escape the deluge. Most of them recalled the dramatic colour photographs published worldwide at the time, which was probably where Russell himself had seen it.

They were still nodding and whispering when the lights came on again—much brighter it seemed.

Again Mrs Russell's well-rehearsed hand entered, this time for Russell to blow his nose.

Ten, fifteen minutes passed. The light definitely was brighter. They found it necessary to shade their eyes. At the same time concealed radiators and an electric blanket stoked up the small room, and before long those seated in front loosened their coats and waved at non-existent flies. Russell's nose was now bone-dry. And like some geophysical litmus, like Ayers Rock itself, it measured the degrees of heat in a series of pastels, culminating in matt ochre as the surface under the glare became almost too hot to touch—baked, Aboriginal ochre. Outlined against the azure walls this had a tremendous impact. The colours could belong only to an ancient hot continent—theirs. Several minutes passed before anyone could speak. Even Gerald had a small lump in his throat.

Now for the first time Russell raised himself on an elbow and smiled wanly. He looked exhausted as if he had suffered fevers in a tent. It had lasted less than an hour.

Clapping and smiling to encourage him they asked for a repeat performance. It had made them homesick.

However, Mrs Russell entered with tea and lamingtons; perhaps unintentionally the green knitted cosy resembled the shape of Ayers Rock. Russell sat on the edge of the camp-stretcher.

‘I have never been to your country,' he said—a quivering voice. ‘But I should very much like to.'

‘Oh you must,' said Louisa.

He shifted his weight and took a sip of tea.

Garry gave a shout: ‘What, and see Ayers Rock?'

‘Oh no. No, that would be unwise. It would be an anticlimax. It's all in the mind, you see. All up here. I'd come away disappointed.'

He chose another lamington.

‘We've never left England,' Mrs Russell explained. She adjusted her hem, placed her cup and saucer on the plastic antimacassar. ‘We're perfectly happy in Buxton. Fred enjoys the imagining.'

‘I have a pretty fair idea what the Eiffel Tower looks like,' Russell nodded.

‘For that matter,' North admitted, ‘few of us have seen Ayers Rock. Has anyone here?'

They all looked down at the carpet. Only Sheila had.

Russell raised his nose. ‘And you've come all the way here? All we've got,' he said self-deprecating, ‘is Brighton Rock.'

They laughed in their cups.

‘He always says that,' said his wife pulling a face. ‘Every time he says that.'

Nodding, Mrs Cathcart sank her teeth into a lamington. This served to confirm her relationship with the other, a woman of her own age. Russell looked at his wife and smiled.

According to Hofmann, breathing on Violet's earring, Russell's wife had been asked to lie alongside, bare-breasted throughout each performance. This would have simulated the Olgas which lie twenty miles to the west of Ayers Rock. She had the properly large breasts, but she had refused. She had a family, three children, all married.

Violet almost spilt her dregs. She had to hold both hands onto the cup.

‘We destroy the very things we go to see,' said North. ‘I sometimes think.' He seemed to be asking Russell.

‘He's a zoologist,' Sasha explained.

‘It's not a rock,' Kaddok reminded. ‘You'll find it's called a monolith.'

No one listened to him now but Russell pointed a finger: ‘So I believe!' Then he stared at Kaddok and looked at the others. He frowned.

‘Eleven hundred feet above sea-level; pre-Cambrian; named after the Premier of South Australia.'

‘You've got a valuable property there in your nose,' someone nodded. That was Hofmann from the back. ‘I'd have it insured if I were you. It was a fine performance. Very good. Some call it Body Art.'

‘What?'

Meanwhile Doug had finished his tea. ‘It's something to be proud of, Ayers Rock. It's a plus in Australia's favour.'

Borelli was still thinking about the function of travelling, of seeing sights, but Gerald began laughing.

‘What with the Great Barrier Reef…'

‘Yes,' said Gerald, ‘and what else?'

‘There's more tea here, if anyone wants some.'

But North and Sasha stood up to leave; Mrs Cathcart offered to help clear away. The men each shook Russell's hand, staring for the last time at his nose. It had been a great success.

‘Well worth the trip out.'

‘Keep it up.'

‘I suspect it's better than the real thing,' said Gerald.

Doug breathed in.

‘Come on,' said Garry.

At the door Mrs Russell folded her arms. ‘Yesterday, we had an Australian gentleman here. Fred, what did he want you to try? For films and television, he said it was for.'

‘The Hamersley Ranges, Western Australia,' Russell smiled. ‘I couldn't help him. He offered the world.'

‘Is that bastard here again?' Garry nudged at Sheila.

‘I don't know,' she fumbled.

The Russells stood waving from the porch.

It prompted Mrs Cathcart: ‘I could have stayed there all day!'

‘They were a corker couple,' Doug agreed. ‘He hasn't let it go to his head. And he's got a really nice little setup there.'

The spectacle had certainly made them reflective. They thought of the remaining sights they planned to see; and their thoughts returned to home.

‘I must say, for a while I thought I was seeing things!' Louisa laughed.

It implied—

‘Don't believe all you see. It just goes to show.'

‘None of us have seen Ayers Rock!'

‘Sheila has,' Violet reminded.

‘I don't think,' Kaddok declared as if their trip would go on forever, ‘there's any point now. We all know what it's like.'

‘But we had an inkling before, if that's what you mean. There's no reason to see anything then. We've all seen pictures.'

Sheila said she no longer knew what was ‘real', what with all the sights; and she laughed, nervously.

‘It was a man making a quid; and good for him.'

‘At least we're asking questions…' Borelli sighed.

They were driving slowly back to London.

Sasha had been silent, spoke up. ‘I'm sick of travelling. I want to go home.'

‘Don't say that, Sasha,' Sheila cried.