Absence Makes Read online

  Absence

  Makes

  Bruce Menzies

  First published 2013 by Vivid Publishing

  A division of the Fontaine Publishing Group

  P.O. Box 948 Fremantle

  Western Australia 6959

  www.vividpublishing.com.au

  Copyright © Bruce Menzies 2013

  isbn: 978-1-922204-21-9 (eBook)

  eBook conversion by Fontaine Publishing Group www.fontaine.com.au

  All rights reserved. Apart from any fair dealing for the purpose of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part may be reproduced without prior written permission from the copyright owner.

  For grandparents everywhere

  And for Danièle

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Acknowledgments & Author’s Notes

  About the author

  1

  Borne by a moonlit angel her voice circled the night. Ross sat transfixed. As the song ended he inhaled the crisp air and turned towards the woman beside him. ‘Worth the price?’ June did not answer. He looked at her and then away. At home, they’d been fighting. A fierce argument that dissipated into frosty withdrawal. He supposed she was still mad at him. Normally, it would be him playing hard to get, holding out for a few hours or even a day before permitting a thaw. He sat in silence, feeling the distance between them and wondering what to say next.

  ‘Where are you, Ross?’ She had taken his hand.

  He felt the warmth of her fingers, momentarily disconcerted by the melting ice.

  ‘Isn’t this an amazing concert?’ June was smiling, glowing in fact. ‘Of course it’s worth the money, even if we’re on rice and beans for the next few weeks.’

  It was interval and the stage had emptied save for a couple of roadies adjusting the mikes and moving instruments about. At the rear of the stands, an old man queued restively for something hot. He wondered if tea was a good option. It would be a tea bag, probably in lukewarm water. But the alternative was odious. The teeth-numbing tar of instant coffee. He winced at the thought. Edging closer to the front of the queue, he decided to go for the tea. To his mild delight the plastic cup was hot in his hand. After adding two sachets of sugar he moved off to the side and surveyed the crowd.

  Patrons awaiting refreshments or searching for the toilet blocks half-hidden in darkness at the extremities of the stadium barely glanced at the old man. Had they done so, they may have observed he was on the short side and slimly built. Wispy grey hair protruded from under a cloth cap. Although the evening was warm, he wore a cardigan over a long-sleeved nylon shirt. Both the cardigan and his trousers were brown, as were his shoes. He carried neither a satchel nor bag, merely a program as crumpled as his trousers.

  The old man – Baxter, he had been christened – attempted to read the program under the light of the kiosk but the tea spilt, scalding his left hand. He almost dropped the cup. ‘Damn it,’ he cursed. ‘I need to sit down.’

  On stage the roadies had faded away. Drifting back to their seats the crowd was surprisingly subdued. In small pockets, the melancholy tang of dope hung in the air. Occasionally a hip flask appeared but more often than not spectators drank water or Coke, usually unspiked. Though suburban pubs did a roaring trade and beer gardens were packed over the weekends, the frenetic consumption of alcohol en masse was not entrenched as an obligatory feature of every outdoor event. On that night – that hot February night – most of the young marrieds and the kids from the suburbs turned up for the musical experience and for the solidarity. Not-all-that-far across the sea an unpopular war still raged. And Ms Baez, for all her sweetness, made sure her audience did not forget.

  A lump came to Ross’s throat as he watched her emerge from the shadows. In his mind he began to formulate the songs as yet unsung, songs he prayed would grace the second half of the show. Though not a confirmed folkie, some melodies tugged at his core. Baez did that to him and, at times, Judy Collins. He could admit his appreciation to his wife though not to his friends, most of whose gastric juices curdled at the sound of a folk ballad. Back in the sixties, the raw power of the Rolling Stones demolished them all. Stored visions of Jagger strutting his stuff at the old Capital Theatre were enough to sustain the hard-core rocksters.

  In swirling black and red she strode into the light. Silence. Pure silence. Under the sprawling magnificence of the Milky Way, the slightest of breath could be construed as a sacrilege. Her slender hands cupped the microphone. She held the stillness, then opened to the heavens: I dreamed I saw Joe Hill last night, alive as you and me…….Clear and sparking as an alpine pool, the notes perforated the darkness and imprisoned the assembly. Ross closed his eyes and felt himself lifted, borne upwards and dissolved amidst the stars. Tears flowed, and he tasted their pleasure. June gripped his hand and he sensed she, too, was crying. He wished the song would go on and on, dissolving the divisions that birthed its penetrating lyrics.

  He opened his eyes as the song ended. The audience, momentarily stunned, burst into prolonged applause. As Baez murmured appreciation, Ross became aware of activity. A fissure of consternation within a section of the crowd, along one of the lower rows. He saw an ambulance officer hurrying towards the scene. ‘Someone’s fainted?’ wondered June aloud. But Baez eased into her next number and Ross’s attention returned to the stage.

  When Baxter came to, he felt a hand cradling his head. He lay inert, trying to conjure up where he was and what had happened.

  ‘You’re awake, then?’

  Struggling to focus, he gradually took in the familiar uniform of St John’s Ambulance. ‘Where am I?’ he muttered, feeling a slight giddiness and a sensation that he and his body occupied different zones.

  ‘It’s okay, mate,’ the voice reassured him. ‘You’re out the back of the grandstand at our first-aid post.’

  ‘What about the concert?’ It was an effort to speak.

  ‘All over, mate. It’s either home or hospital as soon as the doc has given you the once-over.’

  As he absorbed these words, Baxter realised he must have blacked out. He could remember that crystalline voice filling the atmosphere and the crowd clapping and then – a blank canvas. A blackout. It was not his first but they had become so infrequent he’d forgotten their impact. An impact that in his younger days carried consequences, none of which were pleasant.

  ‘Have you anyone we can ring?’ The uniformed chap was speaking. Baxter shook his head. ‘No, just fix me up with a taxi and I’ll be off’. He pulled himself into a sitting position and flexed his legs. The ambo gazed at him keenly. ‘What about the doc?’

  ‘I’ll be fine.’ Baxter heard the sharpness in his voice. He wanted to leave but not to argue. After a minute or so, he slowly rose to his feet and steadied himself against the wall. In a milder tone he assured his saviour he felt a lot better and could get himself home.

  Within a quarter of an hour he stood at the gate, awaiting his taxi.

  During the drive home
there was no need to converse. The aura of the evening hung like a cloak over the car and its occupants. June tapped the dashboard, humming and singing verses at random… It chills the body… but not the soul. All my trials, Lord, soon be over. How disturbingly prophetic were those words? And what did they actually mean, Ross wondered?

  The concert triggered his introspection. Music, the sort of music he really liked, could affect him deeply. Born smack in the heart of the twentieth century, he was the middle child, squirted between two brothers. One day, his elder brother came home with a jazz record. That livened up the household but the fireworks really began when Elvis burst through the front door. Blue Suede Shoes and later Jailhouse Rock were anathema to parents everywhere. Ross’s folks were no exception. ‘What a monstrous cacophony,’ railed his father. ‘Turn it down,’ pleaded his mother. Even Jeffrey, potentially a fraternal ally, retreated behind his stack of Miles Davis and Charlie Parker vinyls, curling his lip and tossing off derisive remarks when he could no longer contain himself.

  Lack of family approval had zero effect. For the first time, Ross felt liberated from the conformity of his household and the society into which he had stumbled. He moved quickly from Presley to Little Richard, flirted for a while with the Beatles, and then found nirvana in the Stones. Each Friday he joined his best friend as they cycled to the local music store to pore over the 45s and the latest Top 40 list. Fortunately, his friend’s parents seemed quite immune to noise and unconcerned about neighbours. Barry, their only child, could play what he liked and volume only became an issue if his mother came home from bridge in a scabrous mood.

  As their Beetle pulled into the driveway, June eased him from his trance. ‘I wonder why she split up with Dylan?’ The question did not surprise him. His wife, under a romantic veneer, carried in his view an immense burden of practicality. The beauty and tenderness of the concert were put to one side as she reflected on one of her favourite themes – the precarious relationship between man and woman.

  Ross sighed. This subject failed to excite him. Drama was not his thing. And from what he could see, drama and relationships went hand in hand. Who cares why they split up? Their music seems to have survived. Prospered, in fact. Surely the concert proved his point? Her sublime voice. Her presence on stage. Baez cracked him wide open and unleashed an emotional disturbance that was both unexpected and unsettling. This was not the time for gossip. He needed to process the chafing potpourri of feelings cascading within him.

  ‘You don’t like talking about the personal stuff, do you?’ June hadn’t finished.

  Switching off the engine he grunted, and braced himself for further intrusions.

  ‘What have you been up to?’

  Baxter looked down at his shoes.

  ‘You look terrible,’ Thompson continued. ‘We thought you were lost.’

  ‘I wasn’t lost.’ He knew the ‘we’ meant Thompson and the night nurse. No one else was on duty at this late hour.

  ‘Where were you then?’

  Baxter detected concern beneath her brusque delivery.

  ‘At a concert.’

  ‘At a concert? Since when do you go to concerts?’

  Baxter hesitated before replying. He knew his inquisitor would not relent until she had the full story. Unless he offered a plausible explanation for his absence there was no chance he could repair to the sanctity of his room and at last get some sleep.

  ‘I got given a ticket. By some young blokes with long hair. Hippies they call them, don’t they?’

  ‘A ticket for what?’

  Baxter could see Thompson struggled to believe him. ‘To see Joan Baez at Subiaco Oval. They had a spare one as one of their mates was crook.’

  ‘You went to see Joan Baez!’ In spite of herself, Thompson was impressed. ‘Baxter Moncur, what will it be next?’

  From the matron’s words, Baxter surmised he would soon be able to take his leave. Like him, she had scant knowledge of the folk and rock culture that arose like an exploding phoenix from the ashes of the fifties. On the other hand, he could not underestimate her. Perhaps she knew about the concert from the prattle in the office or read about it in the paper. He waited for further questions.

  ‘And you took a taxi home. You must be feeling rich.’ Thompson put her hand to her chin and seemed about to add something.

  No, he was not feeling rich. Baxter shook his head but did not otherwise contest the matron’s assertion. He knew her mental calculator was in action, working out how much he had spent and whether his pension could afford it.

  ‘There was enough for a cuppa and a ride home. Now I’m broke as usual.’

  ‘What’s that in your hand?’ Thompson was pointing at his program.

  ‘It’s the concert program. I found it on the ground’. As he spoke, Baxter knew it was strictly true. But like a number of things he said - to himself and to others - a small lie reclined in the bosom of that truth. When he observed the program fall from a patron’s rear pocket, he glanced around and scooped it up when the man moved on.

  Thompson turned away. ‘Well, I’m pleased you’re back and I didn’t have to call out the search party. Get off to bed then. I’ve had enough disturbance for one night and I dare say you have too.’

  He needed no encouragement. Tomorrow the girl at the front desk would ply him with questions. She often sang songs by Bob Dylan. Baxter knew nothing about him except his voice was supposed to sound like gravel spilling from a crushing plant. But young Angela in the office gave out a sweet, clear sound and he quite liked the lyrics, at least those he could understand. Perhaps Angela was also at the concert? In any event, word would soon get around of his nocturnal escapade and he could expect a grilling, come the morning.

  When Ross awoke his head hurt and the unease that came over him the previous evening had intensified. He lay dozing in bed, reaching unconsciously at intervals into the space where his wife usually slept. But on this particular Sunday June had not lingered. She said something about meeting a friend for coffee and he assumed she was already out the door. When he did get up – it must have been around ten o’clock – he noticed the breakfast dishes and the purse on the counter. There was also a note: Did not want to wake you. May stay out for lunch. Don’t forget to defrost the fridge. No signature or endearment but Ross was not affronted. June’s notes were as crisp as her ironed blouses, written in haste and eschewing any sentiment.

  May stay out for lunch? Either someone is paying or she’s forgotten her cash. Ross grimaced and hoped it was the former. Money was tight and the performance set them back a fair sum. He looked at the refrigerator. Like most of their household goods it was ancient, a hand-me-down from her parents. He was in no mood to defrost it, let alone tackle the grime clinging to the underside of the trays and clogging the rubber seals. Looking inside, he saw there was no milk. In a fit of pique he slammed the heavy door. The old fridge shook. A strong temptation arose to kick it but he checked himself.

  His disquiet grew. Seated under the grapevine he surrendered to his feelings and his body shook. The shaking reminded him of the fridge door and he felt a smile attempt to break through the murk. It lasted a brief moment before the thoughts came. A veritable flood of questions, confused arguments and bizarre images bit into him like the venom of a dugite. He tried to analyse the roots of his distress. Stuff had bubbled up unbidden. The concert may have been a trigger. He wanted to protest. Against what? His unfulfilling life? Society? The war, the stupid and unjustified war being waged in the jungles of Indo-China?

  He felt obliged to protest. But he had to face it. He wasn’t Baez, he wasn’t Jim Cairns, and he sure wasn’t Daniel Cohn-Bendit. Manning the barricades was not his thing. Attending one or two peace marches brought it home to him. While many in the crowd kept their passions in check, others – often the leaders – were demonic in their rage. The cause – their cause – became their raison d’etre, a blinkered drive towards a New Society. ‘You’re with us or you’re against us,’ seemed to underlie
every confrontation. No scope for rational debate and compromise. He would shake his head and retreat, unable and unwilling to divide the populace into ‘them’ and ‘us’. His worldview, unformed yet emerging, needed more nuance. Shades of grey amongst the black and white convictions that filled the streets and the airwaves.

  An armchair critic, that’s what he’d become. A fence sitter. A leaver rather than a joiner. And, when all said and done, he was a privileged kid whose marble had not been drawn. National service was not for him, a bona fide draft escapee by virtue of the lost lottery. It meant he did not have to fight. He was thankful for that. But his fortune compounded his dilemma. Born into a community free of starvation, terror and abuse, where lay the challenge? Some notion of needing a challenge niggled at him. But nothing inspired him. For the most part, his waking reality contained a sense of loss, an inexplicable and ungraspable cloud that refused to disperse.

  Above him, sunlight danced on the vine leaves. The red grapes hung at intervals, ready for picking. He could hear a cicada trilling somewhere in the garden. Another idyllic day of summer, a day demanding gratitude, not the incipient gloom into which he descended. What then, he anguished, was the source of his unhappiness?

  2

  Ross dallied under the vine, twirling a piece of grass to keep the flies at bay. He stared at the ground in front of him. Heat radiated from the grey slabs and sweat dripped down his singlet. He felt bereft of energy and slumped back into the cushions on the cane settee, placing one arm behind his head. Yes, he was unhappy. His job didn’t help. He could do it with his eyes closed, counting down the hours until he could escape. He itched to travel but June’s commitments pushed those ideas well into the future. Many of his friends were overseas. Others were focused on marriage and babies or professional careers with the prospect of kudos and wealth. He watched them deal with these choices and transition smoothly into new phases, seemingly embracing and overcoming any obstacles.