by Judy Nunn
There was a slight hiccup as Jools gained control of herself, then the timid query, 'Did he look peaceful when you found him?'
'Very. I thought he was asleep. You couldn't tell he was dead.'
'When you realised he was, did you cry?' A brief pause. 'I bet you did. Even you, Mike. Go on. Admit it. I bet you did.'
'Nup.' There had been a tear in his eye as he'd patted the old dog goodbye, but he wasn't going to admit it to Jools – he could sense she was starting to get herself worked up again. 'I felt happy for him,' he said. It was the truth.
Mike had chosen the correct tack. His pragmatism and sheer common sense had successfully broken through Jools's instinctive need for drama.
'God, you're a cold fish,' she said, not without affection.
'That's the stupidest saying.'
'Why?' she demanded.
'Ever met a warm fish?'
There was a snuffle that could have been a sort of a laugh and then she asked, 'Where is he now?'
'Dad and I buried him down by the grape vines.'
'Oh.'
Was she going to crumple again, he wondered. But she didn't.
'A proper grave?' she asked. 'With a headstone?'
'No.' That hadn't occurred to him.
'Well, I think it's the least you could do for Baxter,' she said peremptorily. 'He deserves that much after what he's meant to the family.'
Mike made no immediate response. How typically melodramatic she was being, he thought.
'Please, Mike.' Jools no longer sounded peremptory; she sounded childlike, vulnerable. 'Please, will you make him a proper grave? Will you do that for him?'
'No, I won't do it for Baxter – he wouldn't give a shit. But I'll do it for you, if you like.'
'You promise?' She was starting to sniffle again.
'I promise.'
The sniffles got louder. She knew he'd keep his promise – Mike always did.
'I could make it a birthday present for next month,' he suggested. 'The headstone could read Happy Twenty-first, Jools. Love Baxter. What do you say?'
'Don't you bloody dare.'
As Jools hung up the receiver, she marvelled at the difference between the two of them. She and her brother were chalk and cheese, she thought.
Jools had always considered her way of dealing with things far healthier than Mike's. Surely it was better to openly express one's emotions rather than bottle them up the way he did. But she'd recently decided that Mike didn't bottle up his emotions at all, he simply switched them off. It had certainly appeared that way when she'd rung to offer her heartfelt commiserations about Jo's disappearance.
'It's actually just as well she's gone,' he'd said. 'I'll be heading north next year. I can't afford to be emotionally tied down.'
Convinced as she'd been that her brother was suffering all sorts of inner torment, Jools had found his response quite shocking.
And now old Baxter's death was copping the same reaction, she thought as she sat down with a box of tissues in preparation for a good lengthy bawl. Baxter, like Johanna, had become an episode that belonged to the past. Mike had moved on. It seemed that her brother didn't look back, Jools thought. It seemed that for Mike, the road led in one direction only, and that was ahead.
One Saturday afternoon, Mike called around to see Muzza. Spud was at the racetrack. Mike rarely visited on his own – normally he and Spud called in together on a Sunday – but he felt they'd neglected Muzza of late. Pembo hadn't come to town for over a month, Spud had been extra busy, even on Sundays, and Mike was starting to feel guilty.
Muzza had been out of hospital now for a full five months, but he no longer lived with his family. He'd bought a little house in Shenton Park and moved there in early January, refusing to be a burden to his parents and his younger siblings.
'Mum and Dad are glad to be rid of me,' he'd told his mates at the time. 'Shit, with three teenagers in the house, who the hell needs a useless cripple?' He'd said it in a tough, offhand manner, as if cracking a joke.
His parents hadn't been glad to be rid of him at all, but, recognising their son's fierce need for independence, they'd put up half the money for the weatherboard cottage – Muzza's war pension would meet the further repayments – and had arranged for the necessary conversions to allow for wheelchair access throughout. It was generous of them as they weren't particularly wealthy, but they'd have gone into debt for their son if need be. They'd even bought Muzza an automatic car with a specially modified hand-brake, and the passenger bucket seat had been removed to house his collapsible wheelchair.
Muzza was grateful, but he never allowed it to show. 'Keeps me out of their hair,' he'd say in that cynical way of his.
Muzza had changed beyond all belief. Gone was the baby-faced, eager-to-please boy he'd once been. He was chain smoking and hitting the booze hard, his mates noted, and from his occasionally bombed-out state, they suspected he was abusing the prescription drugs he took for pain relief. He was barely twenty-one, but, stubble-chinned, unwashed hair pulled back in a ponytail, he looked fifteen years older. They'd tried to tease him about his hair to start with.
'It's time you had a haircut, Muz,' Ian would say, and Mike would add, 'Yeah, mate, you look like a hippie.' The three of them had always taken the mickey out of the hippie set at uni. But Muzza would just shrug and say 'Who gives a shit?' as he downed another slug of Corio whisky. All three found their old mate hard going these days.
Now, as Mike pulled his bike up in front of the Shenton Park house, he saw Muzza in his car in the driveway. He was heaving his collapsible wheelchair out of the open passenger door. Mike watched as Muzza dragged himself across from the driver's side, set up the chair and then hauled himself into it. Laborious though it was, Muzza was very proficient in the exercise, and Mike knew better than to offer any help.
'G'day, Muz,' he said, walking up the driveway. Muzza was lifting something out of the car and into his lap – two bottles of Corio, Mike noticed, and something in a chemist's white paper bag. He'd been laying in the supplies.
'G'day, mate.' Muzza slammed the car door shut, spun the wheelchair about and headed for the ramp that led up to the small front verandah. 'Come on in.'
The ramp was steep, but Muzza zoomed up it, and had the front door open before Mike joined him. His upper body was strong and fit, and in his angry bid for independence the wheelchair had already become an extension of himself. Much as he referred to himself as a useless cripple, Muzza needed no help. Not in the physical sense, anyway.
'Well, well, well, a lone good Samaritan,' he jeered, wheeling himself through the open arch to the kitchen and dumping the bottles and pills on the table while Mike closed the front door. 'I thought you blokes liked to pity in numbers.'
Mike was floored. That was pretty strong even coming from Muzza, he thought. He watched from the archway as Muzza, apparently oblivious to the offensiveness of his remark, lifted two glasses from the cupboard.
'I'll go if you like,' he said.
'Eh?' Muzza turned, puzzled. 'Why?'
'Well, you've got enough pity for yourself, haven't you? You hardly need mine.'
'Oh.' Muzza realised how insulting he'd sounded, and to Mike of all people. He'd meant it as a joke, but it hadn't come out right at all. He was really glad to see Mike, but he'd got into the habit of playing it tough, as if by anticipating people's pity, he could ward it off. 'It was meant to be a joke,' he said feebly. 'Sorry.'
'Forget it.' Mike grinned as he crossed to the table and sat. 'Have you got a beer? I'm not drinking that muck,' he said, gesturing at the whisky.
They talked for over two hours, and possibly by way of further apology, or possibly because he felt more secure on a one-to-one basis with Mike, Muzza really opened up. He dropped his tough act and the self-derision that masked his sense of uselessness, and spoke with a genuine desire to make contact.
'I didn't serve any fucking purpose, that's the problem. I didn't do anything in Nam – just got myself blown up and landed o
n my back. What's the point in that?'
Mike didn't say anything, but listened attentively. He thought it was healthy the way Muzza was speaking.
'You remember my farewell piss-up at Steve's when Pembo went on about my deferring?' Mike nodded. ' I was so bloody gutless that night. I should have told him that I wanted to go to Vietnam.'
Muzza downed a hefty slug of his whisky and lit a cigarette.
'I did, you know. I wanted to know what it was like to fight in a war. How bloody naïve can you get?' It was said with a touch of his customary cynicism, then he added in all earnestness, 'But there was something else, Mike. I really did feel I was serving a purpose.'
He dragged heavily on his cigarette before downing the remains in his glass – an automatic gesture. Muzza often seemed unaware of the fact he was drinking.
'Sure,' he continued, 'Spud was sending me up that night with the old king and country toast, but he wasn't far wrong. I thought it was my duty to go and fight, to "do my bit" the way the old man had. But what exactly was "my bit"? Bugger all. And now here I am – like this – and for what?' He took a couple more ferocious drags and gave an empty laugh. 'Maybe if I'd lost the use of my legs doing something heroic, I'd handle it better.' Stubbing the cigarette out in an ashtray already crowded with butts, he poured himself another neat whisky. 'Or maybe not. Shit, maybe I'm just looking for an excuse to whinge.'
'I don't think you are.' It was good the way he was letting it all hang out, Mike thought.
Muzza took a swig from his glass and leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes keenly fixed on Mike's. 'Life has to serve a purpose – you said that yourself up at the Abrolhos, remember?'
Mike nodded warily. He remembered the conversation well. He'd been carrying on about the environment and how he felt such a sense of purpose in his research. Life has to serve a purpose, Muz, he'd said, otherwise why bother living it? Muzza had been in avid agreement, and Mike had presumed at the time that he'd been referring to his medical studies. But Muz had already decided that he wouldn't defer his call-up, Mike now thought, so the sense of purpose he'd felt must have been the prospect of serving in Vietnam.
Mike wondered whether, if he'd known that at the time, he could have talked Muzza out of his decision. He'd always been aware that Muz looked up to him as a bit of a hero, so it was quite possible, he thought. He felt a sudden stab of guilt. Why, for God's sake, hadn't Muzza said something?
'Well, you sure as hell have a purpose,' Muzza continued, unaware of his friend's inner turmoil. Then he laughed, this time without cynicism. 'I'm not so sure about Pembo and Spud, but money certainly talks. Maybe when they've made their millions, they'll do something worth-while down the track.'
The smile quickly faded. He skolled the whisky in one hit, lit up another cigarette and leaned on the table again. 'But me, Mike – where's my purpose?'
Healthy as Mike considered the conversation to be, and willing as he was to act as a sounding board, he was fearful about making any comment. What if he said the wrong thing? He sat in silence.
'Come on, mate.' Muzza egged him on while he poured himself another drink. The booze was hitting the pills he'd taken earlier and he was feeling good. 'Where is it? What is it?' The questions were rhetorical – he knew no-one had the answers, but having finally let his barriers down, he didn't want to stop. 'Come on. Give me a purpose.'
'I can't. You have to find it yourself.' Mike replied simply because he felt he had to, but once he'd said the words, he felt driven to continue. 'You picked a bummer last time, but you can't give up because it didn't work out. You have to look for something else.'
Muzza stared at him blankly. He wasn't drunk or bombed out enough yet to not recognise that Mike was serious.
'You had a purpose to start with, Muz – you're not like Pembo and Spud, you never were. They think money's the key to everything, but it's not.' Mike mentally crossed his fingers, hoping he wasn't coming up with something Muzza saw as a mere platitude, or worse still a fob-off. 'Hell, mate, you've only been out of hospital five months, you've still got a lot of adjusting to do. Think about the positives – you've already achieved your mobility and your independence, that's a big start.'
He wanted to say 'Stop drinking yourself into the ground and turning into a junkie', but he didn't dare. Besides, what right did he have? If he were in Muzza's situation he might well do the same.
'You need to give yourself time, but you'll find something worthwhile that you really care about. You might want to go back to uni and finish your degree, or you might find something completely different. But you can do it, I know you can.'
Muzza continued to stare at him for a moment or so. Good old Mike with his 'positives', he thought. Good old Mike McAllister, his hero, trying so hard to answer the unanswerable which should never have been asked of him in the first place. God, he loved the bloke. Muzza threw back his head and gave a healthy guffaw of laughter.
'It's that simple, is it, mate?'
Mike, who'd been squirming under the scrutiny, was relieved that he hadn't offended.
'I know it's not,' he said, a little shamefaced. 'I'm sorry, I didn't mean to sound trite.'
'You didn't.' Muzza downed his whisky and picked up the bottle. 'You just sounded like you.'
'Right.' Mike was unsure as to the meaning of Muzza's comment, but he was happy his friend found the whole thing humorous. He held out his empty beer glass. 'Can I have some of that muck now?'
'Sure.' Muzza poured them a hefty slug each. 'Let's get rat-arsed.'
They talked about their mates for a while, both agreeing that Spud was destined to become a wealthy man. 'He's got tentacles everywhere,' Mike said.
Spud's city bookmaking business and the brothel continued to thrive, and his gambling syndicate had expanded to include professional two-up and card games in most country centres, particularly the remote mining towns to the east and far north.
'Christ, the bloke's going to end up running the state,' Muzza said.
'It could well be his intention,' Mike agreed. 'And Pembo's coming up in the world too. Did you know he's left Western Mining?'
Muzza didn't know – he hadn't seen Ian Pemberton for over a month. He was surprised to hear that Pembo had given up such a prestigious job.
'He'll tell you himself – he'll be in town next week – but he says he's learned enough about the business side of things to go it alone.' Mike grinned. 'Which probably means he's nicked a whole heap of top-secret information. He's setting up his own company. He'll be "chief geologist and managing director of Excalibur Nickel Resources Pty Ltd".'
Mike gave it an impressive ring and raised his eyebrows, but Muzza didn't react. He poured another two stiff whiskies instead.
'Ah well, good luck to them both.' The success of his mates had worn thin, and Muzza, reminded of the emptiness of his own life, felt an irrational surge of irritation. 'They're men who've found their purpose, after all,' he said sarcastically. He raised his glass. 'Here's to Pembo and Spud.'
Mike was forced to clink and drink a toast, but his sip was tentative. He didn't really want a second whisky, and he could tell by Muzza's rapid mood swing that the grog and whatever pills he'd popped were taking effect. He quickly changed the subject.
'Spud says that when Pembo arrives, it's party time, starting with a pub crawl next week. We want you to come with us.'
