The Memory Tree (38 page)

‘You should like this one. It’s her recipe.’

Hal frowns. ‘Light and fluffy. That’s how I like them.’

In less than an hour and a half, Hal has eaten an omelette followed by peach pie, drunk his cup of tea and showered. He is in his pyjamas at five to seven and is sitting up in bed reading, when Sealie brings his medication.

‘They let me read most nights.’ He peers up at her. ‘It
is
okay for me to read?’

Sealie eats her roast, alone, at seven forty-five.
So
, she thinks,
this is to be my lot.
She has accrued leave and is taking six months off work in the hope that things will work out. She has a few days’ grace while Zav is off fishing—and then what? Her heart begins to beat uncomfortably fast. She could just grab a few things, jump in the car and go. Where? Somewhere far away from this wretched prison of a house. She actually stands up, then sinks back into the chair. She is bound here by complicated ties of obligation, of guilt. And love, too. She sighs and covers her face with splayed fingers; she is so weary. Tired of it all. Resentful. Zav has commandeered her life, but he has no life of his own. And now her father. So what’s the point of it all?

I pity her. I, too, am bound to these men—my father and my grandfather. I, too, resent the fate that keeps me here. I, too, have discovered that, try as I might, I can’t escape them. I need to see this story through to whatever end is in store.

The next few days take on a pattern. Hal is up and showered by seven and finished his breakfast by eight. The days are fine and he spends the morning walking around the garden, occasionally diverted to the magnolia, where he meditates a while before executing his little shuffling dance. After lunch he goes to his room and stares out the window until his evening meal at five thirty. A few chapters of his book, sleep, then another day, exactly the same. Sealie could weep with frustration.

After a few days of this, she rings Godown. ‘I think it’s time for a visit. He does nothing, absolutely nothing all day.’

Godown arrives for lunch and shakes Hal’s hand. ‘Nice to have you home, Hal.’

Hal, head on one side, offers his usual greeting, ‘You’re not getting any younger.’ He touches his own, balding head. ‘But neither am I.’

Sealie leaves them a lasagne and salad and says she is going to the shops. Over lunch with his old friend, Hal broaches the subject that always hangs in the air between them.

‘You understand the Bible, Godown. You’re the only one who can see I
had
to do it.’

Godown’s face registers the pain of memory, but his response is evasive. ‘God alone can judge,’ he says. ‘I’m just a sinful man.’ As always, Godown is careful neither to condone nor blame.

Hal reads what he will into this response and returns, contented enough, to his pasta.

After lunch, he prepares to go up to his room.

‘Hey, what about your visitor?’ Godown takes out a pack of cards. ‘We’ll just clear up here and play a game or two.’

‘In all my time at Aradale, they never expected me to do kitchen duty.’

‘I’ll do the dishes and then we’ll play.’

But Hal has already bolted up the stairs.

Meanwhile, Zav, Scottie and Will are camping by the Murray River, a little way out of Tocumwal. None of them has slept in a tent since Vietnam, and they sit around the camp fire, each with his own thoughts. Will, who has counselled many veterans, is the most aware of this, and as darkness falls, begins to doubt the wisdom of camping.

He slaps his arm. ‘Bloody mozzies! Maybe we should see if there are rooms at that pub down the road.’

Scottie is relieved. His tour of duty had been longer than either of the others, and he has spent more time in the jungle. But before he can respond to Will’s suggestion, Zav dismisses it.

‘You’re a wuss, Will. Since when have you been scared of a few mosquitoes?’

That night, Scottie’s dreams are peopled with soft-footed shadows that flit malevolently through the eucalypts. He cries out—waking Will and disturbing Zav, who has been lying, wide-eyed, preternaturally aware of every rustle, every nocturnal scurrying, every creaking branch. The next morning, in unspoken agreement, they pack up their tent and move to the pub.

Standing at the bar, they could well be any group of ‘ townies’ who have come to the river to fish.

‘D’you reckon there’s any cod?’ Scottie asks a local.

The man scratches his chin. ‘Dunno, mate. I’m not a fisherman. More into the golf, m’self. Pete’ll know.’

Pete comes over and he and Scottie discuss types of bait and the cunning of Murray cod while Will and Zav argue football with their new friend, who introduces himself as Stringer.

Zav becomes quite animated. ‘You can’t tell me that Sanderson’s a patch on McLaughlin. Sanderson couldn’t kick his way out of a paper bag.’

‘What about the semi last year? Four goals against the best full-back in the league.’ Stringer plonks his elbow on the bar with the proprietary air of a man vindicated.

Zav is enjoying himself. ‘So why didn’t he kick any goals in the grand final? What was it? Six misses and one hit the post. He has a good day every now and then and everyone thinks he’s God Almighty.’

Will buys the next round, grinning widely. Others join the argument.

My dad saw Coleman at his best.

You can’t go past McKenna.

A champion is a champion—that’s what I always say.

Zav is surprised when the barman calls ‘time’ and is still making a point as he climbs the stairs with Will and Scottie. ‘That bloke who reckoned he played for St Kilda in the fifties. Even he agreed that today’s game is better.’

Will and Scottie exchange glances as they say goodnight.

Up here, summer can linger well into May, and their final morning holds the promise of another hot day. They have no fish to show for their endeavours, but the lazy days, the easy mateship of the bar, the desultory conversation by the river are all therapeutic in their own way. Zav has enjoyed doing something normal, and for a time feels the stirring of hope. Bush hat pulled low over his eyes, he sits on his little canvas stool and stares at the brown water, his mind blessedly blank.

It’s strange, but the river doesn’t trigger thoughts of me. Just as well, in my opinion. My father’s not really equipped to handle such thoughts. I’ve been bundled away out of sight, like an object in one of Sealie’s boxes—stored in a limbic attic. Zav knows I’m there, but there’s no space in the living room of his mind. That’s still cluttered with the old furniture—humid jungle, rotting vegetation, a damp, grave-shaped home where scorpions and spiders lie in wait. The sound of guns. The cries of men. Zav’s living room is peopled with pyjama’d ghosts who tread softly in rubber shoes through terrain where no horizon is visible.

No room here for one small baby.

I lie in my box, biding my time.

But now, here by the river, my father is the man he might have been—just for a moment, mind you.

Tomorrow, they head for home. Will and Scottie look at each other covertly. In that whole time, neither of them has spoken of Hal.

Scottie breaks the silence. ‘If we don’t catch something today, we’ll go home with an empty Esky.’

‘Brenda reckons she won’t gut a fish anyway.’ Will turns to Zav. ‘What about Sealie? Can she gut fish?’

‘Dunno. Probably not.’ The word ‘home’ reverberates in Zav’s head; he can feel the blood begin its familiar pounding in his ears. He has to tell them he can’t go back. Won’t go back. ‘Hey, guys,’ he’ll say. ‘I might stay on for a few days. The pub’s turned out alright.’

He begins. ‘Hey, guys . . .’

But then, why should he be driven from his home, his safe place? He has faced worse than a crazy old man. It’s a big house. He has his bedroom. He can eat in the round room. He doesn’t have to talk to his father, or even see him
.
‘I think I made that very clear to Sealie.’

Will looks up from winding his reel. ‘What?’

Zav is unaware that he has spoken aloud. ‘Nothing.’

Why doesn’t my father confide in his friends? Why don’t they encourage him to share his fears? I’m beginning to lose patience. Sometimes I’d like to shake some common sense into the lot of them. I really would.

2

‘I
CAN TAKE
H
AL OUT,
if you like.’

Sealie is tempted by Godown’s offer, but it would just put things off. ‘Thanks, but we might as well get it over with.’

Will rings to say they are about an hour from home. ‘We’ll stop at the fish shop for dinner.’ The attempted joke falls flat as Sealie, her thoughts racing, says she has already prepared dinner. Then, ‘Oh—sorry. Very funny.’

‘Do you want me to stay?’ Godown forgets for a moment that Zav will have nothing to do with him.

She squeezes his hand. ‘No. Thanks anyway.’

As the car pulls up in the drive, Hal peers out the window. A tall man climbs out of the back seat and goes with the driver to the boot. The two shake hands and the car drives off. Hal puts on his glasses. Can that stranger be Zav? He’s so thin. When did his hair become grey? And that stoop! Hal is shocked. The gradual process of time has accelerated, and the fine, athletic, young man he last saw in uniform is tragically middle-aged. He watches as brother and sister embrace briefly in the driveway and hears the front door open. Here is his opportunity at last. His opportunity to explain himself to the son who has every reason to hate him.

There is opportunity but Hal’s will is frozen. He is physically unable to take the seven steps to the door. Yes. He knows it takes seven steps from window to door. One step more than his room at Aradale. He wants so much to be back in the safety and certainty that Aradale provided. Some patients spent time in the community—doing a little shopping, going to the cinema, watching or even playing in the local sports teams. They could never persuade Hal to participate in any of these activities, and now he is singularly unsuited to life outside an institution. This room is his haven. The smaller the better. He needs swaddling.

‘Where is he?’ Zav expects his father to materialise like a malevolent ghost.

‘In his room.’ Sealie answers the question implicit in his raised eyebrows. ‘The one he moved into when Mum died.’

‘Locked?’

‘No. I’ve got the key.’

‘Don’t forget to lock your door tonight.’

They’ve had this conversation before. ‘I tell you he’s not dangerous.’

‘We all thought that once.’

‘He eats in the kitchen at five thirty. He’s finished by a quarter past six. I eat later.’

‘I’ll eat with you.’

Despite himself, Zav can’t resist taking a look as Hal goes down for dinner. He sees an old, old man, much shorter than he remembers. He notes the bald, freckled head, the uncertain gait. Hal holds onto the banister as he treads carefully down the stairs, pausing before he places his foot as though he’s testing its stability. Zav feels a brief surge of pity, but the habit of hate is too strong. His father deserves every infirmity time has cursed him with. Zav is very sure of one thing. That shambling demeanour conceals unimaginable evil.

Hal spoons up his soup and gnaws at his bread while Sealie bustles about with a frypan.

‘Zav’s home, then?’ He asks the question without meeting her gaze. Stares at his spoon as he mechanically scoops up the vegetable-laden broth.

‘Yes.’

‘He’ll eat later?’

‘We always eat later.’ She feels the need to establish the sibling bond, confront her father with the long history she and Zav have shared.

Hal finishes his meal without further comment beyond wishing his daughter goodnight before heading for the shower.

Sealie had neglected to mention this part of Hal’s routine and Zav finds himself caught between bathroom and stairs as his father comes back from his shower. Seeing his son, Hal stops, towel draped over one thin arm. He has taken off his shirt, and his singlet reveals grizzled hairs and his sunken, old-man’s chest.

‘Zav. Let me . . .’

‘Too late.’ He almost says ‘Dad’ but the word catches in his throat. He continues down the stairs to tell Sealie he’s not hungry. She offers to bring some soup up to his room but he seats himself at the table and slurps it up in great, unmannerly gulps. Brother and sister eat their meal without speaking.