by Adib Khan
Martin stands up. ‘I might check the roof and replace any broken tiles. That was good coffee.’
He hands the mug to Frank and trudges off towards the house. A locked room. He wonders where the key is.
AFTER HE RETURNED from Vietnam, Martin hurled himself into his job as a carpenter, satisfied with the simplicity of long and uneventful working hours. His father had sold his business at a loss, after suffering two heart attacks, and his mother had died of leukaemia. Simon was bad-tempered and bitter. His son had returned from a war that was still raging, leaving Australia on the losing side. Some evenings Simon launched into the heroic feats at Gallipoli. ‘The diggers never gave up! Never! Theirs was the true Australian spirit!’ he thundered, glaring at Martin.
‘It’s a different type of war,’ Martin would begin to explain. ‘The moral issues—’
‘Weak!’ Simon whispered fiercely. ‘Weak!’ He rose from his chair and limped to the bedroom.
It was not until Simon’s death that Martin and Moira married. With his sisters married too and living in Western Australia, Moira was all the family he had left.
The day after Frank was born Martin slipped into an unpleasantly flustered state without knowing why. Both Moira and the baby were doing well. He had recently been promoted in the joinery. That night he gave up wondering and went to bed early, after taking a sleeping tablet. Half-awake, he dreamed of one day taking his son to the local playground to kick a football. The entire area was deserted, except for an old woman sitting on a bench with her back towards them. A stray kick and…the footy hit the woman on her shoulder! Frank giggled and Martin went over to apologise. He heard her speak even before he saw her face. ‘The angry eyes of the dragon are rings of white fire…’
Martin woke with a start. Instinctively his hand reached across to touch Moira. He felt the coldness of the sheet on her side of the bed. He rang the hospital. The night nurse assured him that both his wife and child were asleep.
There was no explanation for this feeling of vulnerability.
He spent the rest of the night reading. Occasionally he was distracted by images that burst to the surface of his mind, despite his efforts not to see them. Burning huts.
MARTIN FINDS THE spare tiles in the shed behind the house. He envies the storage space here and the size of the workbench. On it he has placed the board and the boxes with the pieces of the war game. ‘I’ll clean them all,’ Frank had told him proudly, ‘replace the felt on the board and set it up in the lounge as a showpiece.’
Martin strays away from the shed, stopping to examine what has obviously been a vegetable garden. There are two fenced areas of compost. The ground is furrowed, and a single row of silverbeet is all that’s left. He bends down to touch the soil. Rich and moist. He spies a shovel leaning against the fence.
He yields to a sudden urge to turn the compost over and dig it into the ground. The thought of this work, this enriching of the earth, gives him a peculiar feeling of satisfaction—as though it will be his personal way of atoning for the shrivelled plants, dead trees and scorched land of a different place and time. He wishes that he had some seeds with him. He pictures a garden with cauliflower, broccoli, pumpkin and zucchini. He thinks of his own backyard and the boxed plots of raised earth where his vegetable crops grow, carefully rotated so as not to deplete the soil of its nourishment.
The eagerness of the morning hours has dissipated and the warmth of the sun makes Martin lethargic. He dawdles on the rooftop, admiring the view as he replaces broken tiles. One last check, then he climbs down the ladder to go inside the house.
Maria is preparing lunch. He stands near the kitchen door, apprehensive about his ability to sustain a conversation. There are questions he can ask, about her parents and her health. About the future and her work. Marriage…No, that’s likely to be a frictional issue! Martin curbs his anxiety. Soon they will be better acquainted.
She greets him warmly. ‘I’ve made quiche. Won’t be long.’ Then she senses his awkwardness and offers him a drink.
Except for several boxes of kitchenware, a large esky, four folding chairs and a card table, the kitchen is bare. Maria has removed the curtains from every room. Now the windows are covered with white sheets. The suitcases have all been shoved into one room. A van will deliver the furniture.
As he sips mineral water Martin notices a copy of Time magazine on the table. It is not the face of Bob Kerrey, the former US Navy Lieutenant turned senator, that catches his attention as much as the caption: Ghosts of Vietnam. He stands quietly, his eyes locked on the words.
‘You know the barbecue we’re planning?’ Maria peers through the oven door, which is streaked with burnt fat. ‘In a few weeks, when we’ve settled down a bit…would you like to bring Nora?’
Martin scowls. He wonders what Frank has said about Nora. It has never occurred to him to take her out of the hostel, and now he realises that he resents this suggestion coming from a comparative stranger.
‘I…you might know she is incapacitated.’ He pauses, uncertain about how much he should say. ‘Her behaviour can be, ah, unpredictable.’
‘That won’t bother anyone,’ Maria says quietly. ‘It’s only family and a few close friends.’
Martin worries about how Frank will react to this. Has Maria said anything to him? Frank had been angry when he first found out about Nora. The assumption that a single parent was sexually dysfunctional, and that loneliness was an easily surmountable condition, could have prompted Frank’s lengthy period of hostility, Martin had surmised. Perhaps, he thinks humorously now, Frank is among those who believe that anyone over forty and divorced can’t possibly escape genital atrophy and the neutralisation of their passions.
‘It’s not like that,’ Martin had pleaded back then, desperate to defuse the rising tension.
‘Like what?’ Frank had burst out. ‘You created huge problems for Mum! You might as well know that, out of some misplaced sense of past loyalty, she never speaks about whatever happened. But it must have been pretty bad for her—us—to leave. And now this…arrangement.’
Later Frank had apologised and they never spoke again about Nora, not until after her stroke.
Maria and Martin turn as the front door slams.
‘I’m hungry,’ Frank calls. He walks in, whistling cheerfully. ‘That was a good morning’s work.’ He notices Martin staring at the magazine’s cover. ‘That’s awful, isn’t it? Have you read the article? Vietnam is like an archaeological dig. The deeper you go, the more you unearth.’
‘You sound Freudian,’ Martin says faintly.
Maria speaks quickly. ‘I asked Martin if he would like to bring Nora to our barbecue.’
Frank glares at her. ‘Oh—yes. Well, sure, if Dad wants to. Do you still see her?’
‘Frank!’ Maria snaps.
‘What?’
‘It’s all right,’ Martin intervenes. ‘Yes, I still see her.’
Lunch eases things. Slowly they relax again, over beer and mineral water, discussing last-minute changes to kitchen renovation plans. Martin refrains from making suggestions but offers to come back and add the finishing touches once the electrician and the plumber have done their jobs.
‘Well, I’ll get started then, painting the lounge,’ he says at last. ‘I might take a break later and go into town.’
Having the house to himself when the others go out is a relief to Martin. He picks up the magazine and wanders through the rooms, checking the cracks on the walls and the ceiling. The lounge room is a faded shade of blue. Impulsively he sits on the beige-coloured carpet in the middle of the room. The emptiness around him is disconcerting. He is aware of the gentle pattern of his breathing. Here he can believe in almost anything. Recovery. Redemption. Even Sebastian.
He stares at the magazine cover, unable to make up his mind whether he’ll read the article. But curiosity is a compelling force. Reluctantly he opens it. Burning huts and the massacre of women and children at Thanh Phong. A decorated soldier turned p
olitician, suffering from irrepressible guilt. The reactions of a community that finds it difficult to believe its soldiers are capable of barbaric behaviour. Unanswerable questions. Attempts to understand how it could have happened. ‘There’s hope for you, Ken,’ Martin whispers. ‘Ten years from now there may be hand-wringing and a confession in Parliament.’
But now Martin does force himself to contemplate the deceit of his own silence. His simmering anger with Ken is really frustration with himself. He knows he’s hiding still, now behind the question: What will it achieve after all these years? He imagines going public. The journalists. The sensationalism. The insidious questions on how much money tempted him to speak out. Inquiries and procrastinating politicians. Accusations and denial. An inevitable conclusion about ‘lack of evidence’.
Martin is crestfallen by his capacity to find excuses, the sophistication of his hypocrisy. Oh, there will be more evenings with Colin in front of the open fireplace. Gentle conversations. Civilisation and art, literature, Bach and silence—aesthetic edification. He will continue to learn from his friend. But how would Colin react if Martin told him about that soul-mangling afternoon in a tiny tropical village?
He can imagine Colin recoiling in disbelief, visualises the emaciated figure drooping, the defiance draining out of him. Colin’s spirit has never broken. ‘There is pain in one form or the other in life. Mine is just an extreme physical version. But it does not kill aspirations or ideals.’ To take Colin back to Vietnam, and tell him that he did not know fully about the darkness of those he trusted, would be like sneaking up on him from behind. It could not be done. And yet…
Rain begins to pelt down. For no specific reason he changes his mind about painting the lounge first. Instead he heads into the tiny room that has been set aside as a nursery He takes meticulous care about measuring the walls and cutting the rolls of wallpaper. As he applies glue to a section of a wall, Martin begins to think about his imminent role—as a grandfather! He feels proud, and his mind jumps ahead to a dark-haired child, grabbing a handful of jelly beans maybe, or trotting off to kindergarten with him, or jumping on the bed where Martin lies sleeping.
He works without pausing, driven by the importance of what has to be done. Maria has chosen bright wallpaper with pictures of animals. Martin thinks of the room as it might be when furnished. Matching curtains, parted to let the sunlight in through the eastern window. A cot and soft toys. He has seen a large stuffed panda, Kermit and Snoopy in the window of a toyshop in Melbourne. He chides himself for not buying them all at once.
By the time Maria and Frank return, the wallpapering is finished. ‘I thought you were doing the lounge first,’ Frank grins. ‘Got your priorities right, I see.’
Delightedly Maria hugs Martin. He is embarrassed and confused. Gingerly he puts his arm around her shoulders. They step back towards the door of the nursery to admire the room.
MARTIN CHECKS THE time. It is nearly half-past four and not too late for a closer look at Daylesford. He hurries into town and finds a parking spot. There’s a sharp shower, then the sinking sun appears between masses of grey clouds. He finds himself at an estate agent’s window.
A young receptionist greets him cordially. Then a middle-aged man wearing a white shirt, grey trousers, a navy-blue blazer and a matching tie emerges from a room behind the receptionist’s counter. Martin is tentative, but the estate agent listens closely, making suggestions. ‘There’s a property near Trentham you might like to see,’ he says in the end. ‘It’s about twenty minutes from here. Small, but in good condition. Two bedrooms, lounge and a renovated kitchen. Tank water and ten acres of land. Lovely setting,’ he emphasises. ‘Ideal for retirement.’
‘At this stage I’m really only looking…’ Martin says. But they agree to meet the following day to inspect the house.
The estate agent smiles as Martin turns to go. So much of this man’s time must be taken up with people like him—hesitant, impractical and vague. The frayed jumper and overalls would not augur well in this game.
Martin drives around aimlessly, looking at the town. He has read about the Convent Gallery—it is an imposing old building that towers over everything else in sight. He follows a sign to the lake and the Boathouse Cafe. In the late light, rugged-up couples walk vigorously along the path at the edge of the water. The last of the browsers emerge from a secondhand bookshop. There is a sense of unreality about the surrounding calmness.
Martin feels as if he is deliberately prolonging an indulgence. Being escapist. If only he could begin again—shed his skin like a snake, somehow recreate himself and throw off the entire load that makes him indecisive. He is tempted to continue walking into the brooding twilight until he is engulfed by the darkness. He remembers lines from Robert Frost. They are no longer reflective words from a poem. There are life forces tearing at Martin. ‘Poetry is life at its tumultuous best.’ Colin’s words ring so true here. He turns around and steps on the wet grass.
Everything is dark, deep and inviting.
THE WEATHER SHOWS no sign of clearing by the time he reaches the house.
‘There’s noodles for tea,’ Maria calls from the kitchen. She sounds tired. Frank is at the sink, washing dishes. He is subdued and remote. The long day has drained their vitality.
Martin observes the way Maria prepares the noodles. He writes down the recipe. They eat quietly, puncturing the silence with the occasional remark about what they might do the next morning.
‘Finish painting the rooms, I reckon,’ Frank suggests.
Martin agrees. ‘I should be able to start on the kitchen.’
‘The two of you can also look after the food,’ Maria announces. ‘I’ll probably be away for most of the day.’
Maria goes to bed early, leaving Martin and Frank alone. Suddenly it seems like the right time to unpack the pieces of the battle game. In the shed the board waits, perfectly balanced, its sides extending equally beyond the edges of the workbench.
Martin attaches Caldbec Hill to one end of the board, and then uses a mallet to tap it into shape until it rolls smoothly into what is supposed to be flat ground. Frank handles the soldiers with care, holding each one up against the light before dusting it with a brush. Under Martin’s directions, he assembles the Normans. To the right he places the soldiers of Boulonnais and the Ile-de-France. In the centre he stations Duke William’s own Norman Division with the Bretons on the left.
Martin repairs a few trees and boulders before helping Frank to place the Fryds and the Housecarls on high ground.
‘You can almost smell the battle air!’ Frank stands back to admire the arrangement. ‘It must have taken you months to make! Amazing detail, Dad. But why the Battle of Hastings? Why not something Australian?’
‘Well, you know—in our house everything English was revered. Even the violence.’ Martin says this faintly, without taking his eyes off a flag he is fixing into a standard-bearer’s hand.
Frank gazes at his father. ‘Dad…you’ve never said anything to me about Vietnam. That silence…it’s a gap between us.’ He pauses. ‘There are times when I feel that you’re a stranger to me.’
Martin pushes several trees into a cluster. ‘In some respects, Frank, I’m a stranger to myself. I don’t know what to make of it all, either.’
Tentatively Frank places a hand on Martin’s back, scrutinising his father’s face.
‘How bad was it? I mean, it’s more than the killing and the violence…’
‘The killing and the violence didn’t often last long.’ Martin concentrates on moving a soldier to a specific spot. He places a papier-mâché boulder beside the model. ‘A few minutes of noise. Screams. Confusion. Smoke and smell—sulphur burrowing up your nostrils. The horrible quietness of death. They passed quickly. It’s what happened afterwards. Much later. It’s what you brought back with you. Memory—like an incurable disease. Every detail replays in slow motion. Every mistake you made hangs in clear focus in front of you.’ He is unable to say more.
&
nbsp; After moving a few of the soldiers around, Frank says quietly, ‘I’m sorry I spoke so indifferently about Nora. I didn’t mean to. When I was a kid, I used to think that she had pushed Mum out and taken her place.’
Martin nods. ‘It was never what you thought. I…And now, well, I just want to take care of Nora. You try not to commit the same mistake twice.’ He looks at Frank as though it would be unfair to expect his son to understand. ‘Frank, she keeps me together as a person, even now.’
‘You have to look to the future, Dad.’
‘That is what I fear most.’ Martin notices a ripple where the board should be flat. He and Frank run their hands over it.
‘Dad, there’s something we want to tell you, but Maria thought she might leave it to me. We’ll be getting married soon!’
Martin smiles, and then Frank does too. Outside the rain intensifies.
THIRTEEN
After they’ve switched off the lights and gone back into the house, Martin lies tucked up in his sleeping bag, awake and drifting through the possibilities of a life near Daylesford. He could work the land, pick up odd jobs as a handyman. The nearby farms might offer work. The rest of the time could be devoted to…He stumbles. Devoted to what? There is only so much of walking, listening to music, reading and gardening you can do. And routine is the likely precursor of boredom. Besides, there is something self-indulgent in such a future. Nonetheless, this yearning for a simple life remains.
He wants to be near his grandchildren too, to give them the time and attention he couldn’t give Frank. Is this a selflessness that comes with age? A readiness to give rather than acquire. His grandchildren…He checks himself. The will of a parent must never impose itself, even as a wish, on children. Martin has no way of telling whether Frank and Maria plan to have more than one child.
He imagines it again—himself walking across a paddock, followed by a small figure in parka and gumboots. He sees himself as a patient guide, the grandpa of a child discovering the world without fear. The unicorn and the dragon, he thinks, should be strategically placed among the cattle and the sheep.
