Homecoming

by Adib Khan

  Martin becomes increasingly irritated. These pages contain little that he does not know. In disappointment he turns to the academic’s covering letter. The concluding paragraph is the most interesting: As you are probably aware, depression is a condition that afflicts people beyond those Vietnam veterans who have been traumatised by their war experiences. There is no definitive evidence to link their exposure to chemicals with physical abnormalities in their offspring or mood swings and erratic behaviour. Currently, depression affects a large number of Australians whose family members have never been to war. There is much more research that needs to be undertaken and, at this point in time, I can only speculate that the causes of depression have a great deal to do with both social and environmental factors within our community.

  The report is roughly what Martin had expected. Realistically, what else could the academic possibly say without compromising his own objectivity? Yet Martin is unable to curb his frustration and bitterness. He throws it all in the bin.

  Restless later in the lounge, he is tempted by the prospect of Valium-induced sleep. One tablet after six days is not excessive. He envisages Andrew’s disapproval. Half a tablet is a fair compromise. No sea adventures with coffins tonight, he hopes. A sleep without remembered dreams. There are parked cars on both sides of the street. The house opposite is brightly lit up and, despite the cold, there are people drinking in the front yard. He can hear muffled noises. The rhythmic pounding of drums. The volume is turned up sharply. ‘Love me, love me…’ It could have been Nora’s song.

  Resolute now, Martin picks up the notepad from near the telephone and takes it to the kitchen. Near the top of the page he scribbles the word Bank with an exclamation mark after it. Underneath, he adds Estate Agent. At the bottom he writes Bills, Shopping and Andrew. Reluctantly, he scrawls Nora’s name. Immediately he feels the burden of association. Impulsively he crosses out Estate Agent. He crumples up the paper and begins again. ‘Priority,’ he mumbles. ‘Priority.’ This time Nora is first. Frank goes in second. Then Colin. Estate Agent is restored as the last item, and with a question mark.

  There is no one with whom Martin can discuss the peculiarity of his situation with Nora. The supervisor who calls him from the hostel is informative but distantly tactful. When one report suggested that there was ‘accumulated anger that she harbours inside her’, Martin had tried to call Nora’s sister in Darwin. But she could not be located.

  Colin would be sympathetic and analytical, without venturing into heterosexual territory. Martin guesses, though, that there would be no practical suggestions. The intricacies of problems, not their resolutions, interest Colin. Frank knows about Nora but chooses not to be inquisitive. He seems to assume that, years ago, his father had worked out some kind of loose arrangement with her without committing himself to a live-in relationship, and that Martin is in control now. When Frank was a young teenager living in Queensland with Moira, Martin had often thought about his son. He had missed Frank and resented the influence Moira was inevitably having on their boy. Every time Frank returned to Melbourne for the holiday, he appeared to have changed. He was wary of his father, as though he expected to discover a stranger behind the facade of familiarity. He was guarded about what he said to Martin and their conversations were strained and superficial, often dominated by trivia. Even now, despite Frank’s closeness to him over the past decade, Martin can never allow his son anywhere near the core of his personal life. He thinks about the discoveries that children sometimes make about their parents, and how often they are followed by feelings of betrayal and outrage, as though the unearthing of desires and common flaws is akin to the detection of heinous crimes. What is permissible behaviour for children of any age is, it seems, rarely condoned in parents.

  ‘A father must never give the impression of being weak to his children,’ Martin had once overheard his own father telling his mother. But for Martin—and it has taken a long time to admit even to himself—it is the shortcomings in his life that have kept him distant from Frank. He loves his son, but the barrier Martin has created is probably there for life.

  Anyway, can there be a father, he wonders, who can talk to his son about a sexually dysfunctional relationship with a woman? Martin grimaces, imagining Frank’s face. A platonic affair? That’s the kind of comment Frank would make to ease the embarrassment.

  In the past Martin has discussed the image of the mainstream Anglo-Saxon Australian male with Colin, who is less troubled by the shifting patterns in Australian society. But Colin, purely as a matter of academic interest, had raised questions that made Martin even more uncertain. ‘And what determines a cultural prototype?’ Colin had gazed at him. ‘The social values, habits, the moral framework of a wider community? And when there are discrepancies between precept and practice, what then? What happens to identity?’ Colin was unflustered. More than ever, he thought, Australia was being transformed by its diversity. The awareness of such change and the resulting anxiety led to periods of social and political conservatism.

  Unwittingly Colin had pinpointed the features of the struggle within Martin, his sense of dishonesty. Martin had already relinquished the comfort of religion and could no longer claim to be a Christian. He did not attend church, and his participation in religious festivities was minimal and undertaken reluctantly. But at the same time, he derived some comfort from the certainty that Christianity was an intrinsic part of his cultural heritage, and that he preferred the tradition of Christ to Mohammad’s or Buddha’s. Unlike Frank, he had never sought the foreign and the exotic.

  Martin decides on an early night. A crowded day awaits him. He does not expect to return home before six in the evening. And then Ron…

  ‘Pick you up at seven, mate! We’ll grab a steak and a beer. Go to the movies.’ Ron had made a clucking noise with his tongue. ‘And then the real fun begins!’

  Martin changes and swallows half a sleeping tablet. He should have questioned Ron about the implications of ‘real fun’.

  It is one of those nights when he does not feel like reading. He switches off the bedside lamp. It would be easy to drift off to sleep if it was not for the noise of the party in the house opposite his. Young people’s music. Hypnotic jungle rhythm. There are audible words of youthful passion that stir regret. A female voice insists that she will not be ignored. Martin thinks of Nora.

  She occupies more time in his memory than ever before.

  IT HAD SURPRISED Nora when he insisted on walking with her the morning after they arrived at the beach house. Martin was up just after dawn to chop a supply of wood. He lit the fire, made himself a pot of tea and waited for her in the kitchen.

  ‘I would prefer it if you didn’t come with me,’ she said softly.

  ‘Why?’

  Absent-mindedly Nora placed two more logs in the fire.

  ‘I won’t say anything if you don’t want to talk.’

  ‘I want to be by myself She had made up her mind. ‘There are times when I don’t want to be with anyone.’

  He understood this.

  The house itself was just outside Lorne. Martin and Nora stayed there occasionally in their years together. It was an old weatherboard place, badly in need of repair. But they looked forward to their weekends overlooking the sea.

  Martin watched Nora as she wound her way down to the beach. As her size diminished, he reflected on the mystery of her being. She rarely spoke about her adult life, ignoring questions and redirecting conversations whenever they turned to her. By this time he had pieced together fragments of her background. He knew about a sister, with whom Nora had little contact. And then there was Glen, the husband—an elusive figure about whom Nora had spoken briefly as one of those ‘learning mistakes that we all make’. She said nothing more, but Martin guessed the hurt. One difference between Martin and Nora seemed to be that she was able to keep her past simmering in a remote background, never letting it explode into the present, never even momentarily revealing the depth of her self. He wished that he co
uld manage his life with the same self-control.

  Down on the beach Nora shrank even further until she was no more than a speck moving slowly against the expanse of an unsettled sea. He felt sad and alienated. Soon she disappeared from view, swallowed up by the distance and the mist that rolled in from the ocean. He resisted an impulse to run down there. He stood gazing in the direction where she had last been visible and made up his mind about what to do. First he would finish painting his house; then he would invite her over for a special meal…

  What he would say to her could be worked out over the next few weeks.

  Martin went inside to shave and shower. Then, more leisurely he set about preparing a breakfast of bacon and eggs. He had barely started slicing the bread when Nora returned.

  ‘I have a splitting headache,’ she explained, almost as though she was apologising for breaking his privacy. She did not add that over the recent months headaches had become a frequent occurrence.

  ‘You’re probably getting a head cold.’ He reached for the headache tablets. ‘Did I tell you that I’ve decided to paint the inside of the house? Any suggestions about colours?’

  Nora looked at him. Her face was strained and pale.

  EIGHT

  The coffee is hot and bitter. It calms Martin. Having dropped the revolver and cartridges at Frank’s, he has just been to see Malcolm Connery. The meeting began with smiles and a chat. ‘The World Bank is the shining example of global goodwill,’ Malcolm had enthused. ‘Always willing to help the less fortunate nations.’ There was no mention of the interest rates that burdened developing countries.

  ‘Nothing comes free,’ Martin said in an undertone. But Malcolm was not deterred. Every bank owed its existence to the people, he said. In return, they profited from financial institutions.

  Martin understands why Malcolm is good for the bank’s image. He exudes corporate power without sounding arrogant or threatening. After exchanging pleasantries for a few minutes, Malcolm became clinical and precise about Martin’s monetary situation. There were encouraging suggestions. Another meeting in a few weeks? Perhaps after the debt had been paid and the mortgage repayment brought up to date. They could then discuss the possibility of a loan for the tools that Martin needed. ‘It is so easy to fall behind,’ the manager murmured. A smile and a warm handshake. Martin felt outmanoeuvred as he left the building.

  He stifles a yawn and listens attentively. The unit manager, Sarah Dickson, has begun to explain why they’ve called him in again.

  ‘There has been a noticeable change in Nora’s behaviour,’ Sarah says. She smiles brightly. ‘Her mobility has improved. Her motor skills are terrific. There are days when she is a willing helper in the dining room. But, unfortunately, she has become more aggressive, irritable and secretive. She’s showing a marked reluctance to participate in communal activities. And she wants to be in the garden all the time. That’s fine, except she resents the presence of anyone else out there. She is rude to the gardener and abuses any resident who wanders near her. In the afternoons we have a battle trying to bring her in.’

  ‘Any reason she won’t come inside?’ Martin pretends that he is unaware of a motive. It is possible that Nora may have mentioned the presence of her winged friends and created amusement and some confusion among the staff. He braces himself for an implausible reply.

  ‘None that we know of.’ Sarah looks thoughtful, mulling over possible explanations. ‘“You won’t understand,” is all we get out of her. Yesterday when we tried to coax her indoors, she threw a potted plant at Louise, screamed and banged her walker on the path. So, I was hoping you might be able to tell us something?’ She places a hand on Martin’s arm.

  ‘I can’t, no…nothing beyond what you already know.’ One of life’s little lies. Martin is simply unable to bring himself to break Nora’s confidence. It’s not even as if he is dismissive of her secret fairies in the garden, improbable as the story sounds. His own thoughts and dreams have swept away scepticism. Privately he concedes that Nora may exist only in her mind, where reality can be shaped in another dimension. She may be unaware of her physicality and the need to interact with others—but Martin has not lost his resolution to protect her illusions. Without them she would be reduced to a mechanically functional entity, without any focus in life, drifting in a labyrinth.

  ‘She is very lonely,’ Sarah comments. ‘Her sister has never called.’

  ‘Nora hasn’t seen her sister for years.’ Martin hesitates. ‘It wasn’t a close relationship.’

  ‘Ah. Yesterday she accused me of scheming like her sister, then gleefully added, “But I got Glen.”’

  ‘Nora’s ex-husband,’ Martin explains. ‘It wasn’t a harmonious marriage.’ He accepts more coffee.

  ‘Do you think—you don’t have to answer,’ Sarah assures him, ‘was there any violence involved?’

  ‘I think there was.’

  ‘You have been kind to her,’ she says warmly. ‘You take care of her finances, pay her bills, even shop for her.’

  Martin is accustomed to the chores, although he is still self-conscious when he first walks into the women’s section of a department store. But he has learned to find a shop assistant immediately, tell her the requirements and then follow her around with an air of confidence. Nora likes shades of blue and lavender, green and peach. Martin has grown used to taking a dress off the rack and holding it up to check its shape, feel the texture and then look at the price tag. Nowadays he impresses the assistants with his decisiveness about size and colour.

  ‘Nora doesn’t have anyone else,’ he says limply.

  ‘You are such a good friend,’ Sarah looks at him curiously, checking on the word ‘friend’.

  More than friends and less than partners. An in-between status that defies conventional relationships, even in their most flexible forms. But perhaps it is because of his attention that she has meaning now in the eyes of others. Otherwise, what is she here except a faint blip teasing the world by refusing to be tame and conventional?

  ‘Thanks for the coffee. I might go and see her now.’

  ‘Of course. I think she’s outside. Well rugged up, though! Martin, just one more thing…’ Sarah walks with him to the door and opens it for him. ‘We appreciate how much you do for her. But, if at all possible, could you visit Nora more regularly? She becomes very agitated when she doesn’t see you. You do have an extraordinarily settling influence on her.’

  Martin pauses outside the office, his right hand resting on the doorknob. Is it Nora’s needs or the hostel staff’s?

  How much is enough?

  Can love continue on memory, on the strength of what has been? Or is this guilt?

  Under a metallic sky, Martin finds Nora hunched over the walker, mumbling to the pruned rose shrubs. It is unusually cold for June. He tiptoes close to her and listens. But he is unable to figure out whether she is speaking a language or making guttural sounds.

  Suddenly he feels intensely for a life that kept narrowing in its possibilities from a young age until, in one lonely and awful moment, it shrank to a point of near invisibility.

  ‘Nora…’

  She remains unperturbed. He moves closer and lays a hand on her back. ‘Hello, Nora.’

  ‘Shush! Now look what you’ve done!’ She straightens and then turns the frame around in short jerky movements. ‘Oh, it’s you. I was talking to Sebastian. You chased him away.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Martin speaks softly.

  Nora frowns. ‘He wants us to get married soon.’ She lowers her voice to a whisper. ‘You mustn’t tell anyone. He wants us to have lots of children.’

  ‘Shall we go in? I’m cold.’

  Nora tenses and shrugs him off as he tries to button up her coat. ‘Look!’ She claps her hands. ‘Dead fairies’ wings dropping from Heaven!’

  The snowflakes waver and float slowly to the ground. There is a perceptible drop in the temperature. ‘Would you like me to come to your wedding?’ Martin shivers, turning up the collar
of his jacket.

  ‘Will you?’ she pleads. ‘Will you give me away?’ Then her voice hardens. ‘But you mustn’t bring my sister. Mustn’t tell her about Sebastian. Mustn’t…’

  ‘Where is the wedding?’

  Nora blinks, as though the question is crass.

  ‘Where are you getting married?’

  ‘It’s a secret. You’ll have to close your eyes and Sebastian will take you there.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Bye, Sebastian! I love you too!’

  The whiteness of innocence quietens the world. Martin is aware of the unreachable distance of her mind. There are times now when Nora is no more than an elusive shadow. All he can do is pretend to know her, try to communicate on her terms.

  ‘Shall we go inside and talk about the wedding?’

  Nora allows him to help her through the sliding door and back to her room. But she insists on standing near the window and staring at the white blanketed ground.

  ‘Just like the day I met Glen. It was so cold!’ She shudders. ‘He kissed my hand and asked me out. My sister saw us and came running outside. Bitch! But Sebastian won’t hurt me. Tell me that he won’t hurt me?’

  ‘I won’t let him.’ He sees she is trembling.

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘Promise.’

  She looks contented. The extraction of another undertaking. The glow of a small victory.

  ‘Do you have enough money in your wallet?’ Martin is particular about Nora always having some cash on her. ‘Where’s your handbag?’

  She looks blankly at him. ‘On the kitchen table.’

  Martin finds it on top of the television and hands it to her. Clumsily Nora checks the wallet that she keeps in a compartment of the handbag. ‘Nothing.’ She holds up the wallet in front of his face. ‘I gave the rest to Sebastian. He wanted to buy me a present.’

  Martin gives her fifty dollars. ‘Can you put it all in one place? And keep the bag in the drawer of the sidetable, here. Is there anything else you need?’ As ever he drags the conversation down to the mundane, the sparse.