Absence Makes Read online

  He kept watching until the bus pulled out. She did not wave.

  Steam rose from his cup. He stretched out on the bed, smoking. Angela’s afternoon invitation remained unclaimed. Tea and a gingernut biscuit were consumed in his cubicle, not under the trees. The heat was getting to him and he did not sleep well the previous night. Too darn old for gallivanting around, as she charmingly called it. Baxter stubbed a Craven-A into the brass ashtray on the bedside table. For fifty years, he’d ploughed through two packets a day but he grew to loathe the coughing, and the taste of tobacco that contaminated his appreciation of food and stayed with him no matter how many lozenges he sucked. Now, he permitted himself five a day – one after each meal. Morning and afternoon tea, respites he always savoured, counted as mini-meals and qualified for a smoke. ‘We don’t have to be too literal,’ his uncle once told him.

  Baxter reached for the paper. More temperatures around the century mark were forecast. He still thought in the old language. One hundred degrees Fahrenheit held a ring of substance to it. You knew it was hot. He would take no pains with Centigrade. Neither would he come to grips with metres and kilometres, another change that was thrust upon him. In the box under his bed he kept a folding carpenter’s ruler, a hand-me-down, probably lost or forgotten by some builder who carried out work at the family pub. Every now and then, he would fetch it from the box and carefully extend it and examine the beautifully embossed figures denoting inches and feet and yards. He rolled those words around on his tongue and felt the satisfaction it gave when he heard them spoken. These sturdy imperial measurements he continued to use when he wanted to work out height – for instance, looking at a gum tree and estimating how far it stood above him. When he travelled, he became irked by bus drivers who said they were travelling at sixty kilometres an hour or that they had another couple of kilometres to go before they reached the city. How fast is that? How far is that? Normally adroit with his mental arithmetic, he could not get his head around the new usage, and he felt aggrieved and helpless.

  He turned the page. The paper was full of the usual nonsense. A State election, due in a month. Politicians posturing, but that was hardly news. If Jennie was there, they could have had a bit of a laugh. A light-hearted debate that pitted her passion against his more measured appraisals. She disliked politicians but loved politics. By contrast, he could see more than one side to people. Strengths as well as weaknesses. Charity as well as cupidity, even amongst lawyers and politicians. As for the grand problems for which the elected experts propagated their version of the right answers, Baxter wondered why he could not share their conviction. Why he felt compelled to turn over the stones and find more problems beneath the proffered solutions. Had he become too cynical, too jaundiced by the vicissitudes of his own life to accept that some political decisions might actually work? Could they - would they - alleviate the predicaments into which many of his fellow citizens had lurched? Was he too self-insulated from the idealism that once coursed through his veins before events took their toll and his personal circumstances began to crumble?

  These inner interrogations came and went as Baxter mourned the loss of his sister. Only a year ago, he stood over her grave at Karrakatta and wept soundless tears. Jennie had been a rock for him, standing firm against the disapprobation that came from all quarters in those black times after the war. She nourished him with her own kind of love, not a mothering love nor even a sisterly love, but a love that reached beyond familial bonds and entered the realms of a precious friendship, a friendship uncontaminated by judgments and competition and, in a strange fashion, by the difference in their gender.

  As he thought about their relationship, he wished he said these kinds of things to Jennie while she was alive. Those who knew them figured they took each other for granted. Friends inferred they were living proof that chalk and cheese could indeed find a home together. He did not see it in this fashion. In some ways, they were chalk and cheese but the invisible conduit that connected them surpassed any surface analysis. They read each other’s moods, anticipated each other’s needs, and intuitively knew where the boundaries began and ended. No matter how it might have appeared from the outside; no matter that it was never put into as many words in their countless discourses over the years, they never took each other for granted.

  Baxter turned another page. ‘Liberals favoured.’ He felt no desire to read beyond the by-line. Again, he thought of his sister. She would have muttered and scowled and, if her arthritis was bothering her badly, it would have been ‘Bloody useless Liberals,’ and ‘Who would vote for that bloody Charlie Court?’ and possibly a stream of more fruity invective would fill the poky kitchen and cause him to raise his eyes from the racing section and wait for the monologue to settle. Jennie did not take too kindly to old John Tonkin – she was still enraptured by Gough – but she bore an impenetrable Labor heart and would sooner walk down Hay Street in her underwear than vote for the Libs, let alone the unmentionable so-called Democratic-bloody-Labor-Party. Baxter admired her fervour but grew nervous when she hauled him into Forrest Place during campaigns. Her excitement was contagious and she would soon attract the attention of other spectators. ‘Good on yer lady,’ some would shout, while others, Lib supporters and worse, would turn and try to glare her into moderation. This always failed. If anything her intensity would go up a notch, and Baxter dreaded the moment – and there were a few – where Jennie would cop a mouthful or a policeman might wander across and ask them all to ‘tone it down, please’. Some appeared to listen. His sister was not among them.

  Once, when he lay bed-ridden at home, she returned from a rally. ‘I may go down to Bella’s place for a week or two,’ was all she told him. A couple of days later he climbed from the cot in his flannels and answered a knock at the front door. He was not surprised to see a policeman. There had been a report in the West of a near-riot in the centre of the city. Tomatoes and other objects – bottles, if his memory served him – were heaved at Pig-Iron Bob during one of his more tendentious orations. The constabulary intervened and names were taken. He saw the summons in the cop’s hand and thought to himself his sister was only delaying the inevitable. He was not wrong. After she was fined, he thought she might ‘tone it down, please’ but, if anything, her cavalier impetuosity gathered momentum.

  Baxter put the paper aside. Jennie’s death was too raw. He cast his mind back to their time down south, in a much cooler climate. They lit the fire, even on some summer days when a storm blew up in the Bight and the southerlies whipped the coast. These summers up here are getting to me, he thought. By mid-afternoon he always hankered for the sea breeze – the Fremantle Doctor, as it was known locally. Everyone loved the Doctor. It kept you sane, he reckoned. It brought the temperature down and you could throw open the house and flush out all that hot air, and crack open a beer and begin to feel human again.

  As Baxter opened the door, a burst of wind ruffled his shirt and trousers. He stood there for a moment, feeling the breeze on his face. Thank goodness for the Doctor. Undoing his top button, he headed down the passageway towards the canteen.

  They did not reconnect until well after exams. When the results came out he searched for her name. She’d passed all subjects, with a distinction in French. He had managed to scrape through but his complacency may have cost him. His mark in English fell short of his own expectations and he suspected Rowlands would be disappointed. When he showed his marks to his parents they did not say much but he knew they would discuss his future between themselves and his father would soon approach him for ‘a bit of a chat’. Fortunately, by dint of a holiday job, he was out of range for a while. But his work at a wheat siding also placed him out of range of June. From a fleeting conversation before they went home for study leave, he knew she would be on holiday with her parents for most of December, and after that she was unsure. In all likelihood, they would see each other towards the end of January and, in his mind, a panorama of opportunity would arise when they began university. Through th
e dry and dusty days at Cunderdin, while he sweated and exhausted himself as the harvest picked up, his anticipation increased. Over Christmas, he endured the ‘bit of a chat’ and, despite some reservations, his father acquiesced in his choice. If he made the grade, he would enrol for an Arts Degree. He hoped and expected June would do likewise.

  When he returned to Perth he was flush with funds. The job paid well enough and he looked forward to some social life. On the bins, the farmers were friendly but they came from another world. He absorbed their good-natured chiacking and gave it back, secure in the knowledge he would not be part of their lives for long. His skin browned and his hair grew. He felt pleased with the way he looked and groomed himself to move into a new phase, a life away from his parents. A life with a girl friend with whom he could explore and share a world opening up beyond the strictures of school and family. A hunger occupied his body. He felt a sense of gravitation, an undercurrent that drew him towards his destiny.

  They met again at North Cottesloe, this time by prearrangement. He now possessed a driver’s licence, and used much of his earnings to purchase a car – a cheap Cortina smelling slightly of oil but showing few miles on the clock and, so the salesman assured him, the province of only one owner.

  After a swim and a milkshake at the kiosk, he proposed they drive somewhere.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I don’t care, anywhere.’

  June suggested Fremantle. They hugged the coast, chatting inconsequentially as the Cortina wound past the marshalling yards, the petroleum storage tanks, and under the railway line and over the old bridge. At Cicerellos, they bought fish and chips and spread out under the Norfolk pines in the park. Ross felt odd, a flutter of nervous activity agitating the walls of his stomach. She was quiet, also a little discomposed, he detected.

  ‘So you’ve enrolled in Arts?’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve taken the leap’. He tried to sound casual. ‘So we can see a bit of each other?’

  He looked at her as he spoke. Her eyes were shining. She adjusted her body and reached for his hand. He trembled, simultaneously feeling the trembling in her. Without warning they were kissing, softly at first and then with urgency. She lay back and he went with her, conscious of the pine needles against his legs. He cupped his hand under her head and pressed his face against her cheek. Her arm came across him and their lips met again. His tongue sought hers and he felt the heat in her body. The throbbing intensified, and his grip tightened.

  ‘Ross.’

  She had pulled away. He wondered if he’d done something wrong.

  ‘Ross, I really like you.’

  A charge ran through him.

  ‘Ross, I really like you but I won’t be at uni, at least not yet.’

  He stared, confused.

  ‘I’m going to France. My parents have arranged for me to board with a family. It will do wonders for my French.’

  Her French? It will do wonders for her French. He heard the words and tasted salt. What about us? It won’t do wonders for us.

  ‘Say something.’ She was looking at him.

  He breathed in deeply. ‘I really like you too. All summer I’ve been hoping we’d get together.’

  ‘So did I. But I didn’t know this would come up. It’s hard, just when we could be getting to know each other. But I can’t pass up the chance to have a year abroad.’

  ‘A year!’ It was getting worse. He shook his head, feeling deflated. ‘A whole year. Anything can happen in a year.’

  ‘I know, I know. But I have the feeling it will all work out.’

  She had the feeling it would all work out. That was the first but not the last occasion she used those words. At the time, he could not share her casual optimism, a sentiment that did not change as the years passed.

  They stayed another half an hour under the pines before he drove her home. In the weeks leading up to her departure they saw each other frequently. The meetings were not without tension, mostly when their thoughts drifted towards the future. It became an unwritten rule to stay on safer ground, exchanging stories of their childhood, and going into great detail about their siblings and sundry relatives though avoiding, he noticed, her parents. He loved listening to her and looking at her and imbibing her odours. She asked him personal questions. Questions that sometimes threw him and made him scramble for answers that would not only make sense to her but also to him. When they were not talking, she liked to sit with him, holding hands and gazing at the landscape and the activities of people around them. Generally, it was too hot to be long on the beach, and they mostly hung out at kiosks and the cheaper cafes.

  Once, when the urge kicked in, they went to Domenic’s and gorged on steaks, washed down with red wine he’d nicked from Jeffrey’s flat. The alcohol quickly affected them. He felt giddy and they did not finish the bottle. Afterwards, they walked for a while before returning to the car. He kissed her neck and shoulders and they curled around one another like pythons. He was bursting and his hands sought the buttons on the back of her dress. She held him tightly and he felt her nails bite through his shirt. He could not manage the buttons and he found her lips again, letting his mouth and tongue stray over her ears and nose and the bridges of her eyes. They were both perspiring and he could feel the warmth and wetness in their clothes and skin.

  ‘We should stop.’

  ‘What?’ He could hear himself groaning inside.

  ‘I’m not ready, Ross. Not now, not here.’

  In some way he knew what she meant, but her words failed to alleviate a deeper frustration. A feeling of defeat and futility. He was being asked to wait. A waiting he knew would be difficult to endure. A waiting that carried the promise he yearned for, but a promise now as fragile as the air he breathed. A year. A whole bloody year. It might as well be a lifetime.

  He slept better. The Doctor arrived late but eventually swept through the open door and windows, cooling and airing the dormitory. Now, as he slowly awoke and shook off the sluggishness, the warm easterly was back in. It was too early for breakfast. He decided to stretch his legs.

  ‘Off for your constitutional?’

  ‘Sure am.’

  Standard repartee with the nurse on late shift. An hour to go before her replacement arrived. Baxter knew she was tired and he made sure she entered his name in the logbook. No reason to stir Thompson up, particularly on a Monday morning.

  On the footpath he encountered one or two dogs and their walkers. He made a habit of pausing when someone approached, curious to see whether they would greet him. The institution, built years ago on valuable real estate, germinated controversy. Local burghers were not always sympathetic to the residents. He caught them staring intently and looking away as he drew nearer. Some, he surmised, felt a kind of pity for the old men but others were uncomfortable if not discreetly hostile. Occasionally, very occasionally, someone – usually a woman - would say good morning and make quick eye contact before moving aside for him to pass. He would raise his cap and murmur his own greeting. These early morning non-encounters did not affect him greatly. He held few expectations, and over the years came to see how the aging process created a sense of distance, both his own and that of others who were yet to register their mortality. If anything, he felt relieved he was not obliged to make conversation, or affect interest in the lives of those with whom he found no affinity.

  Within the institution he felt his aloneness and he missed his sister. But he was not motivated to keep company with other inmates, apart from one or two who shared aspects of his past. Outside the home, he preferred anonymity. The isolation that came with it did not bother him. He could always watch and reflect to himself upon what he observed, and take refuge in his memories when he wandered about or took the bus to town or sat nursing a single schooner in the beer garden of the pub. ‘You were always one to rake over the coals,’ he could hear Jennie say.

  As he took his constitutional that particular summer morning he did rake over some coals, embers that continued to glow red and
burn him whenever he dwelt too long. As they frequently did, his thoughts turned to Alice. She was seventeen, eighteen months his junior, when they met during one of his visits to her parents’ house. He and her brother, Tom, worked together for a short time and an easy kind of friendship developed. When Tom left to join the bank they kept in touch. He gathered Tom regretted his move even though he was doing well. ‘Boring Bax, bloody boring,’ was as much as he said when questioned. Baxter thought Tom’s career as a bank clerk might be short-lived. He was too impatient for action and had already led Baxter into an assortment of escapades.

  It was a windy day, the occasion on which his mind now focused. Alice entered the room as Tom poured him a beer. She looked grave as did the others. ‘Here’s to the Empire,’ said Tom. ‘We’ll soon stick it up the Kaiser.’ He was clear-eyed where his next escapade would be found. Australia was suddenly at war and recruiting offices across the land were full of young men bursting to join up.

  He could distinctly recall the scene. Tom’s eyes were bright and his body vibrated with excitement. Baxter wanted to share his friend’s enthusiasm but was overcome by a feeling of dread. Alice began to cry. His heart leapt and he longed to say something of comfort. But Tom reached across and took his sister’s arm.

  ‘Come on now, Alice, I’ll be fine. They say it will all be over by Christmas.’

  He could see Alice was not taken in. She bit her lip and looked at him.

  ‘Talk to him, Baxter. Make him realise he’s needed here.’ Her voice, normally mellow and confident, carried a pleading tone.

  Her desperation touched him. Though they had met on only a handful of occasions – and never alone – he had taken a shine to this buxom young woman, with her interest in books and painting and lively conversation. He could not figure out if the attraction was in any way reciprocated, and he was on the lookout for an excuse to spend some time with her.

  ‘I’m sure he’ll be okay,’ he heard himself saying. ‘He’s a big boy, our Tom, and well able to look after himself.’