by Adib Khan
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 wou
ld 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.
Water splashed up his legs and Nora jabbed him on the arm. ‘Time to come back, dreamer.’
Startled, Martin reacted clumsily. ‘I…Sorry! I was just thinking.’
‘About what?’
‘Choices in life. About how often we make, um…regrettable decisions.’
‘If we didn’t, then there wouldn’t be too much by way of awareness. The wider lens, right?’
He liked that. ‘Well, do you think we are entirely to blame for what we don’t do then?’
‘Most of the time. There is safety in inaction.’
‘Other people and circumstances. They have an influence.’
‘Excuses are the most respectable form of lying. How often do we shift our burdens onto someone else?’
Now her words did not please Martin. He grunted and walked back to the shore.
‘Did I say something to upset you?’ Nora came up to him.
‘Time to think about tea.’
‘All right, then. On the spur of the moment, what will it be? Go on, what will it be?’ By this time Nora knew him well enough to realise that he struggled to make instant decisions.
‘Chicken and chips?’ Martin hesitated about the next few words. He measured them carefully. ‘We could go back to my place.’
It was the first time that he had invited Nora home in the evening. By day he had seen her silent disapproval of the small two-bedroom house, of its peeling paint and tacky second-hand furniture. He kept the place tidy, but the rooms were never touched by sunlight and were perpetually dismal.
He stood digging his toes in the sand, hands buried in his trouser pockets. The breeze on his face felt chilly. He had meekly ventured out of the neutral zone. He eyed the speck of a fishing boat bobbing in the sea. Sunlight perforated the veil of cloud, making it look like the boat was on fire.
He glanced at Nora. She appeared relaxed. He could not tell if she was trying to hide a smile of triumph. Her silence was unsettling. Perhaps it would have been more prudent to suggest going to the Fitzroy Gardens or the banks of the Yarra.
‘With a bottle of wine.’
‘Pardon?’ But he had heard her clearly.
A MIRACLE HAD not occurred. It was some time between midnight and dawn. There was only the starkness of awful reality.
Remnants of the evening were scattered on the kitchen table. An empty bottle of wine. Stale tea in a porcelain pot. A half-filled jug of water. Two smudged wine glasses. Plates streaked with grease and scraps of food. Used cutlery.
Martin sipped tepid black tea. Treacherously he recalled his last couple of years with Moira. She had not seemed to mind when he turned his back to her. Just a phase, he had consoled himself. It’ll pass. I’ll talk it over with her if it lasts much longer. But he never did. And Moira made it easy by seeming unperturbed. After all, she had nursed him patiently through the worst. So Martin convinced himself. He persuaded himself that Moira, in bed, did not mind. Together they focused their attention on Frank, and made domestic calm the proof of stability.
But now…He would have to drag himself to the doctor. There is another problem. I have suspected it for some years. Should have told you earlier, but I kept hoping. It is so humiliating. He tried several variations and flinched at what he might end up saying. And at the prospect of more therapy and tablets.
Martin’s immediate concern, though, was the embarrassment of facing Nora. She was still in his bedroom. He considered ways to avoid contact before she left. He finished his tea and tiptoed to the settee in the lounge. Nora would surely slip away discreetly from the house later that night or early next morning.
He had left her on the bed, half-undressed, a perplexed expression on her face. ‘Sorry,’ he had muttered, miserable and humiliated, as he stumbled away from the bed. ‘I have no right to treat you like this. It’s my fault. I…I am sorry.’
He turned and gave a helpless gesture of appeasement. But her silence made him cringe as he backed out of the room.
He would not phone her again, he determined. It was best to let the miserable business die quietly. That way his shame could be minimised. But then he saw the selfishness in this. In the dark he thought of her. How did she view the bungled effort? With scorn? Dismay? Sympathy? He was aware of the insensitivity of cutting Nora off without an explanation.
Martin had never been courageous about facing problems. What would he tell her? I am incapacitated, he could say. Or blurt out the truth directly without resorting to euphemisms. Sexually, I am dysfunctional. Somehow, not even that was direct enough. I am impotent. He winced and then forced himself to whisper the sentence aloud. No. It would be impossible to make such an admission to anyone. Even telling a physician would be difficult.
Again he hoped that Nora would leave without seeing him.
MARTIN HAD HEARD the noise before he was fully awake. He tensed and lay still, breathing noiselessly. That part of military training was grafted into his being. Survival skill, they called it. Sharpening of instincts. Making oneself inaudible and invisible. Instant reaction to even the slightest hint of danger. In the jungle they would crouch low and cease movement. Communication through eye contact, where possible. Only when it was necessary to manoeuvre to a new position was a hand signal permissible.
The sounds drifted in from the kitchen. Running water. Was she humming? Martin shivered, his nostrils twitching. The smoky aroma of frying bacon.
He pulled the blanket over his head, as though it was an antidote to a hellish dream.
‘Shit,’ he muttered between clenched teeth. ‘Shit.’ But suddenly he was quite hungry.
MARTIN ENJOYS THE hot crusty bread and manages the borlotti bean soup. But he is not thrilled about the oven-roasted rabbit with potatoes in white wine.
Frank and Maria have been talking. They tell him they have just paid a deposit on a house and twenty acres of
land. The building needs renovation, they say, but the soil is rich and they are keen to grow vegetables. ‘Much better than sitting in front of a computer screen, wriggling your fingers and hitting the keys,’ Frank declares, watching his father for a response. ‘You must come and see the place, Dad. It has a large new shed. But as for the rest…’ He grins. ‘It’d be great if you could give us a hand. It’s a very pleasant drive from Melbourne.’
‘Sure,’ Martin agrees, not voicing any reservations. ‘I’ll drive over and help you out.’
Maria has to leave. ‘Doctor’s appointment.’ She beams and runs a hand across the top of her belly.
Martin looks fearfully at her. He has read that the long-term effects of reglone, grammoxone, tordone and hyva across generations ‘cannot be ascertained with authority’. But he doesn’t know how to talk about this with them. Maybe it’s a case of over-anxiety. After all, some studies say there is only a remote possibility that subsequent generations may be affected. Over the years, though, doctors have been hesitant about answering his questions. ‘There is insufficient data for any definitive conclusions.’ Maybe he ought to leave the matter alone. After all, Frank was fine other than the skin rashes he suffered as a child.
SIX
Martin stares out of the large window. He and Ron have been discussing the price of petrol, the greed of banks and the concerns of middle-aged men: the latest news on prostate cancer, weight-related problems. A mesh of words to fend off any talk of Colin Gear’s lingering illness.
The winter’s sun splashes the footpath with buttery light. Martin watches the pedestrians saunter along, most of them with manageable pasts, he muses, only needing to negotiate the obstacles of everyday life.
