Absence Makes Read online

  Of course it was not okay. Tom died of wounds on a hospital ship off the Turkish coast. After two weeks on shore at Gallipoli, he copped a sniper’s bullet in the stomach. ‘Mad bugger,’ a returning soldier told Baxter. ‘Crazy brave, like so many of them. Always wanting to be first out of the trench.’

  Crazy brave. That phrase stuck with him when visions came to him of Tom and all his other mates lost in that appalling war. He did not think much about it at the time even when the enthusiasm gave way to shock and numbing grief as the telegrams arrived and the casualty lists filled the front pages of the paper. Later, he realised that he, along with others at home, were too stunned and befooled to absorb with any clarity the traumatic events abroad. It was as if a deathly blanket had been thrown over the youth of the world, leaving their elders in disbelief and saddened beyond measure. While Baxter watched with dismay, Alice withdrew from him as her family closed in and attempted to deal with the loss. There appeared no emotional room for outsiders. He mourned as best he could, drinking long into the night with a couple of colleagues and throwing himself into his work.

  The worst of it was he had no wish to enlist. From the newspapers and the pub discussions, he followed events closely, trying to make sense of the reportage and the opinions of those around him. Often, he found himself on the outer, unable to share the breathless fervour and the smug piety of his countrymen. It was not that he lacked patriotism. This was his country, the country of his birth. From a collection of colonies grappling with the notion of a shared identity, a nation had emerged from the shadows of the nineteenth century. As a small child, newly arrived from the bush, Baxter caught the excitement of the celebrations and ceremonies. He watched the crowds on the streets, waving flags and cheering, just as a dozen years later he stood among the crowds rousing the mounted soldiers as they paraded through the same streets prior to embarkation. But he was no longer a child and the celebrations were tempered by the imminent threat to the boys in uniform.

  It was war, after all, and he felt acutely aware of the threat. The fledgling Commonwealth, with scarcely any thought or debate, jumped into the fray. To serve and support ‘King and Country’. What did that really mean, Baxter mused? King and Country. It sounded noble and virtuous but did that justify the commitment to fight an overseas war? He spent his spare time reading voraciously, particularly stories of invasion and conquest. How, he wondered, did those doing the actual fighting – and those who had been overrun and subjected to the rule of foreigners – feel disposed towards their fate? The triumphant accounts filling the pages of popular fiction glorified the conquests and the conquerors. The unpleasantries were ignored, unless it was to list the number of casualties and prisoners. Never did the books convey the real horror and suffering. Or so it seemed to him.

  As best he could, he put these thoughts aside as he propped himself up at the Criterion front bar and sipped his beer.

  ‘Are you going to throw your hat in?’

  The query came from Joey Palmer, the head bookkeeper at Wentworths. He was a large florid fellow with a skinny wife and four youngsters. It was unlikely the army would take him.

  ‘I’m thinking about it.’ This was the truth. In the six months that elapsed since Tom’s death, he had given great consideration to whether he ought to sign up. He wished he could talk to Alice but she and her sister, Grace, had been sent down to Albany for an extended break. Their young brother wanted to put up his age but his father would have none of it. Now John had taken matters into his own hands. He was currently in a training camp at Blackboy Hill.

  ‘My shout.’ As Baxter ordered another round he knew he would have to make a move. There was talk about conscription in any case. Posters everywhere implored for help to fight the Hun and he felt pressure to show his hand. His own brothers, Bram and George, wrote to him from Sydney. They’d opted for the army and asked him what he would choose. Many of his old school mates had departed. Others were trained and eager for action. He came across them in the pub as they awaited their orders.

  A few days later he presented himself at the recruiting office. An appointment was made for a medical.

  ‘Have your ears been bothering you?’ The army doctor looked quizzically at him.

  ‘I’m a bit hard of hearing but it doesn’t bother me too much.’ Even as he spoke he felt an inkling of impending relief.

  ‘Well I’m afraid you’re not quite up to army standard.’

  His heart pounded. ‘I’m not?’

  The doctor shook his head. Baxter slid from the bench. He was going nowhere.

  As he left the barracks, a squad of soldiers caught his eye. A beefy sergeant barked orders as he put them through their drills. Baxter’s relief heightened. That’s not for me, he reassured himself.

  On the way home, his mind moved to the future. He felt some shame about his condition. ‘Rejected on medical grounds.’ It sounded harsh and final, as if he had been branded for life. But it was official. Neither he – nor anyone else – could argue the toss. He was free to go back to work and, he hoped, to pursue an involvement with Alice. How that might pan out he could not imagine but, thank God, he would survive this awful war and have the opportunity to make something of his life.

  What a dreadful period that was. Baxter grimaced as he entered the grounds of the institution. True to form, he raked over a few coals on his morning ramble. Alice – she was still a painful memory. Where was she? How did things turn out for her? There was no way to know if she was still alive. And his life, what of that? He clenched his teeth and felt his jaw lock. Something had been made of it. Irrefutably, something had been made of it. But others might not see it his way. Were they alive, they would have looked at him through narrowed eyes and judged him badly. If their courage was on show, they may have alluded to what he might have been, if this and that not happened. Well, this and that had happened. Much as he wished otherwise, he could not wave Neptune’s wand over the past.

  What then of the future? Could he scrimmage any crumbs of joy before they carried him away?

  Baxter walked towards the dining room. A dog barked in the distance. On the grass, among the dry leaves, a willy-wagtail skipped, pausing to cock its head towards him before resuming the search for grubs. As he drew closer, the unmistakeable smell of fried eggs hung in the morning air. Forget the bloody past, he admonished himself. At least they feed me here. Maybe we’re due for bacon today.

  3

  While June was away his world did not fall apart. With Jacob and Ben he rented a rundown house in Daglish. Jacob began an engineering degree while Ben enrolled in law. Not knowing what to expect at university they took attendance at lectures earnestly before turning their collective focus to alcohol, parties and women. All of them were virgins though this was not discussed openly.

  At the rear, the Duncan Street house gave way to a large, unkempt backyard. A spreading peppermint tree provided shade and a grapevine ran along the side fence. There were signs of a vegetable garden down the back - a patch that became the preferred arena for urination and the storage of beer bottles.

  Ross and his housemates, cosseted by stay-at-home mothers, survived beyond adolescence without acquiring any noticeable culinary skills. Their kitchen contained a gas stove and a grimy oven, the condition of which failed to improve with the boys’ presence. Meals consisted of pasta and frozen peas or slap-up extravaganzas on the brick barbecue where sausages and steaks were augmented with prawns or fish. Ben’s forte was salads. He religiously shredded the lettuce and blended it with cabbage and carrots. On occasions, he added slices of melon and a handful of sultanas, though not when Jacob was home. Dressing consisted of cheap mayonnaise mixed with cider vinegar and a dab of mustard. Salad had been a perennial absentee from the Basset dining table. ‘Rabbits’ food,’ Ross’s father called it. But Ross quite enjoyed the conversion and, well after the Duncan Street house folded, he considered the salads of upmarket restaurants lacked the flair of Ben’s creations.

  As the year prog
ressed, the trio achieved mutual satisfaction in their pursuit of alcohol and partying but their efforts with the opposite sex were completely uneven. Jacob soon found a steady partner in Rachel. She was one of a handful of girls on his course and they teamed up quickly, sharing study habits and who-knows-what-else. Ross got on well with Rachel. She was keen on music and she liked to drink although he felt this might have been a front. On another level she was shy, especially if they were all together in the house. At St Catherine’s, where she boarded, regulations were tight and for a long time she did not stay over at Duncan Street. Ross and Ben were sure she and her beau were having it off, despite Jacob deflecting the inevitable questions.

  Ben talked up his own chances but his priorities lay elsewhere. When not training or playing football, he could be found in the beer garden at Steve’s, the local watering hole. Ross hardly ever saw him in female company. If it did occur, late at night when everyone was half-smashed at one of their parties, the results were sub-romantic. As they nursed their hangovers in the aftermath of these rites of passage, Ben would enquire the fate of some poor girl who was all over him the previous evening. When informed she made herself scarce after some idiot began the beer chucking game, he pretended to be perplexed.

  Ross did not want a regular girlfriend. The image of June was too fresh and his expectation too enshrined. But neither did he want to end up on every Friday and Saturday night with a bunch of mates and a backyard of empty bottles. His search, supreme with purpose but lacking in method, was directed towards a casual liaison, more than one if he was lucky.

  On the subject of his studies he couldn’t be so definite. Daydreaming his way through lectures and frittering away the hours in the library, he knew he would be found out come exam time. Neither the lecturers nor the tutors could arouse his interest, and his mind drifted towards the weekend and the parties he might attend and the women he could encounter. Potentially, the pool was deep, ranging from the young freshers who attended the same English and philosophy classes, to the uniformed young ladies of Princess Margaret and King Edward hospitals where it seemed – were they dreaming? – an assembly of aroused nurses was primed to cut loose. An invitation to Duncan Street attracted a fair sprinkling, and Ross kept on the lookout. But the local culture of beer and chips and frenzied gyrations to the thumping sounds of Hendrix and the Stones failed to foment an amorous climate. He concluded a change of scene was essential if he was not destined to fall to the stupefied level of Ben and fellow desperates. When he heard through the grapevine of some sort of soiree in Shenton Park, he decided to give it a go.

  He parked at the end of a cul-de-sac. The screen door of the house was ajar. Ross entered a long passageway, and headed in the direction of the music. The air was thick with smoke. He passed by a crowded kitchen, full of black-skivvied sorts of both sexes, and eased himself onto the back veranda. People were standing and smoking, most with a wine glass in hand. In the darkened yard, he could make out a few bodies spreadeagled on beanbags. Flanked by bushes, a young man with spectacles strummed a guitar. He wore a cap. When he sang, Ross recognised a Donovan hit. In spite of his preference for rock, he quite liked Donovan.

  ‘Care for a puff?’

  A bearded bloke on his right extended an arm. Ross took the offering and drew smoke into his lungs. The taste did not appeal. ‘Thanks,’ he said, handing it back. ‘Nice party.’

  ‘Make yourself at home,’ said the bearded one. ‘I’m Nick.’

  Nick, it transpired, shared the house with Kerry and Daniel. One did political science. The other had dropped out of uni and was headed overseas to avoid the draft.

  Ross accepted a glass of red. He squatted on the edge of the veranda and watched the singer with the cap. Another joint did the rounds. A skinny bloke reached across and handed it to him. His throat burned but the sensation was not unpleasant.

  ‘You’re not a smoker?’

  A woman with strawberry blond hair and a silver earring plonked herself beside him. He noticed the collection of bangles on her wrists.

  ‘Not really. Why only one earring?’

  ‘It’s the fashion.’

  Her name was Laura. She was twenty-six and tutored in anthropology. They spoke for a few minutes before she excused herself. As the evening wore on, he drifted into a woozy detachment. On the grass, he found a couple of cushions and curled up. He felt light-headed and slightly nauseous. It must be the dope, he thought, I’ve hardly drunk anything.

  He must have slept for a while for when he came to, the singer was gone and the yard had cleared.

  ‘Come on over.’

  In the shadows, he saw a woman. She lay on her back, spread out on a blanket. His body felt heavy as he crawled towards her. ‘Shssh,’ she said, when he asked her name. He pressed himself against her. The sky seemed to be shifting.

  ‘I think I’m a bit stoned.’

  ‘Join the club.’ She began to rub against his chest. He sensed her invitation, and his hand slid under her top. No bra. His hand closed over a warm breast. The woman gnawed on his neck and he twisted, searching for her lips. Suddenly, he felt the hand on his zipper. A rush of panic subverted his excitement.

  ‘I don’t have a condom.’

  ‘Neither do I.’

  His fly was now open and she was playing with him.

  ‘Holy shit!’ A wave of nausea floored him. Mumbling apologies, he staggered into the bushes and retched violently. Upon his return, the blanket was empty. He stumbled through the house and found his way to the car. When he woke up, the sun beat down on the Cortina and the kookaburras were laughing.

  Baxter set off for the pub. If walking aided his constitution, as the girl on night shift inferred, the solace he found in the beer garden by the river brought a benediction to his mood. There, contemplating the water and catching the breeze before it died out in the suburbs, he could sit and quietly cogitate. Alice continued to occupy his thoughts. When she returned from Albany he called round to see her. Her colour had come back but she was thinner than he remembered. In some ways, the war threw normal etiquette on its head. People were preoccupied with work and worry, and their upturned routines - routines disrupted by the comings and goings of the soldiers and sailors. In this new age of uncertainty an unchaperoned woman, in the circles frequented by Baxter, became commonplace.

  ‘You need to get out of the house,’ he said, before inviting Alice down the Hay Street for tea and cake. With her sister involved with Jim Townsend and spending her spare time in his studio, Alice was happy to accept. Her grieving parents were back on the farm, assisting her younger brother. For some undisclosed medical problem, he’d received a discharge from his regiment. With only Eve and the two girls, the Subiaco house felt barren.

  Their courtship, if you could call it that, was a slow burner. At first, he thought her interest in his company stemmed solely from his past acquaintance with her brother. She introduced Tom into their conversation from the start, wanting to revive and embellish his memory, and she picked Baxter’s brains for every detail about their friendship, no matter how minute. Initially, he was keen to oblige, thinking it would help her in some obscure way but, as their meetings progressed and the subject matter did not broaden, his frustration grew. Looking at her, poised and contained across the table, he yearned for expansion - for a discourse that ranged beyond this miserable chapter in history and embraced their futures. On occasions, his feelings must have surfaced. Alice would sigh and thank him for being so patient with her. She knew her brother’s death was only one of many in this cruel war but she could not rid herself of the thought it was such a waste. He was destined for great things that could never come to pass. When she spoke like this, in a manner so delicate, Alice clasped her hands together and appeared not to be breathing. As he held her gaze and listened to her words, it struck him that she folded inside herself like a serviette. He wanted to reach out and take her hands but her demeanour implied a silent prohibition; an injunction he could not breach.

 
She remained in this withdrawal for another year. He kept a lid on his feelings, reminding himself that thousands of his compatriots, wild-eyed and eager, were entrenched on the Western Front enduring hardships he would never know. The stalemate he reached with Alice brooked no comparison. Yet this did little to abate the longing he felt.

  Another Christmas approached and churches were full. Regular parishioners may have noted the influx of newcomers. Many, even the ungodly, were turning to prayer.

  The clock ticked over into 1917. His twenty-third birthday arrived late in March. Apart from Ann, his younger sister, everyone seemed to be away. Down in the country, Jennie helped out at an orphanage and both his brothers were on active service. While he searched for lodgings, Baxter had stayed with Ann and her brood. He’d slept beneath an awning on a patio at the rear, well aware his presence placed a burden on his sister and her husband. They showed great kindness but he was glad to leave. Once secure in his own digs, he still dropped in, though more out of obligation. His birthday presented a suitable excuse but, on the preceding day, he received a summons from Alice.

  They lunched together at their usual tearoom. From her bag she produced a gift. He took it in his hands, touched and pleasantly surprised. In the general gloom, it had become almost sacrilegious to celebrate the mundane. Birthdays and other festive occasions were subsumed under the weight of world events.

  He undid the wrapping paper. A book. Tolstoy’s War and Peace. ‘You haven’t read it?’ she asked. He demurred, and wondered aloud why she chose such a book, a book about war.

  ‘It’s not just about war. Though it’s very sad in parts.’

  He detected a change. Her tone was grave but her voice contained an animated quality that stayed with her throughout the meal. Imperceptibly, the discussion moved away from Tom and on to other topics. When he spoke of the antics at his workplace, Alice laughed. It warmed him to hear her and he grinned back, a little foolishly.