The Fierneys had retired to ten acres of dry eucalypt forest in hilly country about fifty minutes from the coast. Designed by Max, the house had been built by both of us, under the supervision of a retired builder, during weekends and holidays when we were at Uni. Jobs for students were as scarce as hen's teeth; my parents had no desire to waste hard-earned cash on my frivolous aspirations, so the wages paid for my degree. I spent more happy hours at the Fierney's during and after construction than I can remember. A shattered dream, thanks to Frances.
A scrub-covered mound sheltered the property from south-easterly winds and the prying eyes of passing traffic. The driveway wound down through trees to the garage and back door. From the front verandah the land sloped away to the west, affording a view over pastures, coppices, and distant ranges. A State Forest abutted the southern boundary. The neighbours to the north were invisible among their trees.
Nervous excitement as I coasted down the drive turned to dismay when I pulled up in front of the garage. Two other vehicles were already in the parking area. If they belonged to Max's brother and sister, I'd leave! They'd been delighted when Frances arrived on the scene. As I pulled up, a malevolent caricature of the rural gentleman in tweed suit, waistcoat, gold watch-chain draped across paunch appeared in the garage doorway. Patrick. I got slowly out of the wagon, face in neutral, feeling underdressed in tracksuit and anorak. Trainers were no match for polished brogues; my long hair seemed decadent beside the neat trim of this country lawyer.
"What the hell are you doing here?' The mouth a hard, thin line; eyes, slits encased in fat.
"Your parents invited me."
"They were only being polite. You should have refused."
"I wanted to come. Max was my best friend."
"Friend! Patrick snorted, "My brother had the good sense to get shot of you four years ago. Why can't you leave his family in peace? And driving his car! I've a good mind to charge you with theft!"
He had worked himself into a lather, spraying the threat at the top of his lungs.
Unable to think of anything that might improve matters, I said nothing. This goaded him into action. He turned back to the garage, grabbed a length of dog-chain from a hook by the door, swung it round his head and let it fly. I jumped back, tripped over a coil of garden hose and fell, cracking my head on the edge of the pavers. I rolled over and felt the back of my head - warm and sticky.
Patrick's eyes were blank discs of hate.
"That's the most athletic I've ever seen you, Patrick,' I said as evenly as I could manage. "Now I'm down why not come over and finish me off? Work some fat off your gut.' I struggled to my feet in case he took up the offer, but when I looked up again he was gone.
"Patrick? Is that you shouting? What's the matter?' Hank's voice from the back door. "What the…? My god, it's Peter! Are you all right, son? Here, let me help."
"I'm fine thanks, Hank. bumble-footed as ever. I tripped over the hose.' I dabbed at the cut with my handkerchief.
"There's a lot of blood. Come in and put a dressing on it."
Inside, I was fussed over by Celia, stared at with distaste by Maureen, and glowered at by Patrick, who had just entered.
"Patrick, Peter's hurt himself. Get him a drink would you, dear?' Celia asked.
My erstwhile attacker's discomfort was balm to my wounds as he offered a stingy scotch and water, holding the tumbler just out of reach with finger and thumb. I sat back, forcing him to lean closer. Maureen took over dinner preparation and Celia bathed my cut. It was superficial, but needed a bandage to stop blood dripping everywhere. I looked quite the wounded soldier at dinner, where conversation was stilted but the food was excellent.
Afterwards, as we arranged ourselves uncomfortably in the lounge, Hank plonked himself beside me on the sofa and held out a letter.
"Here's a bit of good news, Peter. Frances's solicitor contacted us to convey the details of Max's will. As you probably know, the estate was held by Max and Frances as joint tenants, so Frances inherits everything. However, the Mercedes and the contents of his bedroom above the gallery; stereo, television, clothes and so on, are in his name only. The will was made last year and his instructions are perfectly clear; everything not in joint names is to go to you."
My heart lurched, triggering a thumping headache. I searched Hank's face, but his look of honest pleasure was unambiguous. Celia's reaction was equally generous. I glanced across and caught Patrick and Maureen staring tight-lipped at each other. No wonder Patrick had let fly at me. It made a bit more sense.
"I'm…. I had no idea that… Max still...' I couldn't continue. My eyes filled, an enormous lump in my throat threatened to choke me and I sure as hell didn't want Patrick or Maureen to see the state I was getting into. "Are you absolutely sure?' I whispered. "Did…did he really..?"
"It's a bloody disgrace! Leaving that magnificent vehicle to a slimy pervert! I'll contest it. His brother and sister should come before this…this sodomite!"
Hank and Celia were mortified. They had obviously not expected such an outburst.
"But Patrick, Maureen, you are both wealthy. You have everything you need! Peter is a struggling artist and was Max's best friend. And is a very dear friend of ours too. I think it is wonderful that he should inherit. It's little enough."
"I'm sorry, Mother,' broke in Maureen icily, "But I have to agree with Patrick. What on earth do we tell our friends? Our brother left his personal belongings to a queer? No, don't protest, that's the truth of the matter. I have no idea what sort of hold this person had over Max, but it was unhealthy and you should be able to see that."
Any idea I had entertained that I might refuse the bequest had evaporated. To hell with them.
Hank looked slowly from one to the other. "You are living in a fool's world, both of you. Your brother was gay. He never slept with Frances. Their marriage was a business arrangement. He told us that himself. We kept it from you to spare your feelings, knowing how narrow your views are, but your insulting and defamatory statements this evening leave me no option but to tell you. As far as your mother and I are concerned, Peter is as much a part of this family as are your spouses. We love him and are sorry that Max's impatience to get rich led to their splitting up. That you have denied Max's sexuality all these years is your problem, but if you contest his Will, your friends will discover that your brother was the much loved homosexual son of Celia and me, and we consider Peter the rightful inheritor of his personal effects."
Patrick stood, turned to his sister and hissed, "I'm going home. I don't know, yet, whether I will return tomorrow. Are you coming?"
"Of course.' Maureen turned to her parents. "I'm staying at Patrick's, if he returns tomorrow then so will I. Otherwise, I'll see you at Margery's engagement party, if you can spare the time for your grand daughter?"
"Darling, I'm sorry you feel this way…"
"You aren't to blame, Mother He has you under his spell too.' She pecked her unresisting parents on the cheek and they followed her to the door like lost sheep.
I don't think I have ever felt so embarrassed. No one said anything until both cars had driven away, then Hank sat down and looked at me with a wry smile.
"We sometimes wonder whether those two were swapped at birth. Quite frankly, I've had enough of them for a while and hope neither return tomorrow. Celia's badly stressed and we can do without their unpleasantness.' He wrapped a comforting arm around his wife.
She smiled sadly. "Peter, I'm thrilled Max willed those things to you, I'm very glad you're here, and I'm not going bonkers. But I am tired, so if you'll excuse me, dear, I'll toddle off to bed.' She planted an affectionate kiss on my cheek, touched Hank tenderly and left us.
After two hours of reminiscence, four whiskies and a pleasurable browse through photo albums, Hank and I also called it a night.
I own a Mercedes was the first thought that entered my head as sunlight splashed across the room, dragging me from sleep. My second, less dishonourable realisation, was that today we would farewell Max, and I cried. Not for him, but for myself and for Hank and Celia who were hurting as much as I, and for the whole, stupid, unfairness of it all. Mixed up in all the wetness were tears of frustration that fat Patrick and his ilk should still be alive, destroying gladness with their bigotry, dogma and hatred, while Max, beautiful Max, was nothing but a cupful of ashes. I indulged the self pity for three minutes, took a cold shower, put on a pair of shorts and sweater, and joined Hank and Celia on the sun-splashed end of the verandah for breakfast.
What a morning. Light, clear, warm and breathless. A hint of mimosa on the air, rising mists turning hills into receding cut-outs, a callistemon splashing its scarlet among the green, lorikeets screeching in the grevilleas, and a million cicadas chirruping in unison. The man-made world of noise, fumes, concrete and stress didn't exist. It was a day in which nothing bad could happen.
The program was simple. After breakfast, Hank and I would collect Max's ashes. The local crematorium was small and could only fire one body at a time, so at least we knew whose ashes we were getting. At ten-thirty, four friends would arrive and the ceremony, such as it was, would begin.
Frances had decided not to attend, much to everyone's relief. She was going to have her own private ceremony she had informed Celia during a brief telephone conversation the previous day. We wouldn't wait for Patrick and Maureen. They'd complained bitterly to their parents that there was to be no Christian service, but on that score Max had been explicit. "No funeral service of any type, especially no religious crap,' were the exact words in his Will, according to Hank. He and Celia shared Max's contempt for witch-doctoring, and were only too happy to oblige.
Brother and sister were on time, minus their families thank goodness. Probably frightened I'd infect them with homosexuality. Nine of us and the dog set out on a zigzag stroll down through the trees to the bottom boundary. We stopped whenever one of us felt like saying a few words in memory of Max, and a pinch of his ashes were sprinkled over the ground. It was simple, moving, and memorable. Maureen and Patrick didn't disgrace themselves.
After tea and sandwiches on the verandah, the guests left, to be followed soon after by Patrick and Maureen. Neither had spoken a word to me all day. I was waiting to close the gate behind them when Patrick stopped the car, wound down his window and snarled, "You are going to regret this for the rest of your miserable, disgusting, perverted life, you filthy pederast.' He gunned the motor, spraying me with dust and stones and sped away.
"I'm not, never have been and never will be a pederast,' I whispered as I closed the gate and retraced my steps down the drive, slipping unconsciously into the adolescent mantra I used to chant endlessly to keep myself sane. "I am a normal human being. I have no power to change the way I was born. I am as worthy as the next person. I do no harm to anyone. I am not evil. I am not perverted. I will not burn forever on the fires of hell. These are the lies of bigots who seek to control others through fear. My worth does not reside in my sexual orientation, but in my thoughts and actions. I will not permit anyone to destroy my self-esteem."
The rest of the day was like old times. A burden had been lifted, guilt was gone, and we relaxed in our friendship. Hank was interested in my plans for the gallery and they were both thrilled that Max's vision was to be continued, at least for a time. I shared their excitement about a proposed summer cruise around the Pacific Islands. We laughed at memories of house building, of the arguments and disagreements that had to be sorted before any decision could be taken, and marvelled at how excellently the house had turned out. They were still very happy with it.
"Don't you miss your legal practice?' I asked.
"One would have to be pretty desperate to miss conveyancing, drawing up the occasional will, advising on a boundary dispute, or witnessing someone's Power of Attorney.' He laughed in self- deprecation. "My old clients are much happier now Patrick's taken over. He's a great deal more in tune with their narrow, right wing attitudes. They were never sure they could trust me."
"But, don't either of you get bored, just pottering around here most of the time? Surely, without day to day problems lives cease to have meaning?"
Celia looked up sharply. "Life has no meaning, Peter. None at all. It simply is. We can either accept it as a precious gift, enjoying it as much as possible, or squander it on greed, lust and trivial disputes. To look for meaning and purpose in nature is a form of insanity to which I am glad I have never succumbed."
"Having few personal problems doesn't mean we are free of concerns,' added Hank. "A glance through a newspaper or five minutes of television news provides anyone with a conscience with enough anxiety to keep them from complacency or boredom. The beauty of those worries is there's nothing one can do about them, whereas the day to day problems of one's workplace can destroy happiness. You feel they have to be solved, yet failure to do so is demoralising. Without shame, I confess I am happy to have few demands placed on me."
"As Sartre said, Hell is other people. Hank is a much more contented man now he no longer has to deal with the public."
Her husband grimaced. "Every morning as I drove to work I used to recite that advice of Marcus Aurelius. “Begin the morning by saying to thyself, I shall meet with the busybody, the ungrateful, arrogant, deceitful, envious, unsocial....” But, it's not only that, something happens to your body from around sixty onwards. The same activities you have always done without thinking leave you tired. You can't build up muscles any more, they seem to disappear between each job. Other people cease to be so interesting.
Conversation becomes reminiscence, and that's only fun for a while. Most people's heads are full of incredible junk. Everyone wants to talk and interruptions abound. Serious thinking only occurs when reading, writing, or walking alone. I love writing letters, but at seventy-two I've few people left to write to. None of them like writing anyway. Letter-writers have time to consider what they want to say, and the reader has time to think about it before replying. That's why I avoid telephones. I resent being expected to respond intelligently without sufficient time to think."
"Do you watch TV?"
"The trouble with television is they have to appeal to such a wide variety of tastes, intellects and ages. Either I have heard or thought it all before, or it is so superficial that I simply get annoyed and fall asleep."
"What we have discovered,' said Celia thoughtfully, "is that we see more, think more clearly, and achieve greater understanding by doing little, than by being constantly active. Until one stands still, much of the world is invisible. If I sit quietly, wild birds come near to scratch around for food.
When I stand silently under trees, butterflies and a myriad other insects appear. The sounds and scents of the countryside are not available when talking, driving in a car, sitting on a ride-on mower, or listening to the radio. When surrounded by others, rational thought is impossible.' She laughed self-consciously, "It's a paradox. Life is richer the less one does. We go out occasionally, visit our few friends, walk in the forest… Of course, we're lucky we get on so well."
Hank raised an eyebrow. "It's not luck. It's determination. Our marriage could have gone off the rails like any other, but we were too pig-headed to let it.' He took his wife's hand in a gesture of ease and trust.
"It's all to do with false desires.' Celia smiled. "I feel sorry for our acquaintances who are unwilling to grow old. They act like unruly teenagers. Many are out every day and as many nights as they can manage. They try all the cheap restaurants, spend hours at the RSL, play the pokies, bowls, bingo, darts, bridge, watch daytime TV, anything to distract them from experiencing their lives. They go on all the Seniors' Club outings, try hang-gliding, ballooning – everything that's going. I would be pleased for them if it left them contented, but it doesn't. They are tired much of the time, get irritated with their spouses, have dreadful rows and are constantly declaring, “If only such and such would happen, then I'd be happy.” It's depressing."
"I hope I'll end up like you two one day."
"You will. You want the right things. It wasn't your fault you split with Max,' Hank said with deliberate firmness. "He was prepared to cut corners and take risks to get rich quickly. You're not like that. If you'd tried to stay together during the last four years, your disagreements would have blown you apart. You are unable to compromise on what you think is right - that's one of the things we love about you. However, it could make you a difficult person to live with. Although we loved Max's daredevil approach to life, during his time with you he was the most stable and thoughtful he had ever been, and we are eternally grateful to you for those years."
I smiled my thanks and took off for a swim in the dam. It was freezing but exactly what I needed to flush away mushy thoughts scrabbling at the edge of consciousness. Hank was right, of course. But what would have happened if we had got together again now? After Max had made his money? Would we have continued as before? What if…? What if…? If only… I had to accept that I would never know and get on with my life. It was time to purge the brain and delete dreary, unanswerable questions. That night I slept well for the first time since Max's fall, and by eight thirty the next morning was waving goodbye.
Forty kilometres south in a wet part of the ranges, my thirty-five acres were as lush as the Fierney's were dry. It was nearly two weeks since I'd seen my house and studio so I wanted to check on them before heading back to the gallery. A new resolve to take charge of life was bubbling through my veins, bringing with it a new feeling - excited anticipation. For the first time in years I was looking forward to whatever lay ahead.
The twelve kilometres of rough, unsealed winding road heading west through the hills to my eyrie, had always seemed a gruelling marathon of bumps, crunches and gear-changes, but that day I glided over it. The council must have upgraded it, I thought, until I realised what vehicle I was driving.
How like life! No two people's experiences of the same thing are comparable. One person takes on the world with the backing of money and supportive parents; another, penniless and alone. Some are emotionally equipped to negotiate red tape; others are intimidated. Only one thing is certain, the playing field isn't level.
I saw the smoke as soon as I crested the final rise, a thin grey column rising straight up into the still air. Rory was probably burning his rubbish. I was lucky to have an almost kindred spirit on the neighbouring block, but he would insist on burning all his waste, including plastic bags. It wasn't until I got to the gate that I realised the smoke was at my place! The house and studio, hidden from the road by a melaleuca-timbered rise, nestle into a north-facing amphitheatre fringed by steep rain- forested hills. Enough land had been cleared for two buildings and a deep dam. I shot over the rise and, as the wagon burst into the clearing, I saw Rory and Lida running from the dam to the house with buckets. I skidded to a halt. They turned, palms outstretched in resignation.
"Sorry, Peter. We came over as soon as we realised it was bad news. When we first saw the smoke, we imagined you had come home last night and were cooking breakfast. So by the time we got here it was too late. The door was locked, but a couple of windows were already broken so we smashed the rest and threw buckets of water through."
I raced over to what had been my cottage. Black smoke-stains oozed up from every broken window, staining the white stucco. The roof appeared intact, but smoke was still seeping between the tiles. I unlocked and threw open the door, gagging on poisonous fumes from all the plastic we forget we own. The fire appeared to be out but we threw a few more buckets of water up over the rafters just to make sure. The interior was a total write-off. Nothing was salvageable.
Wall lining, bed, kitchen bench and cupboards, armchair… everything was either a sodden black smouldering mass, or a charred wreck. Exposed beams and rafters had been singed in several places but still looked solid. I felt numb. It hadn't happened. I'd come to the wrong place. It couldn't be true! This one-roomed cottage was me! I had designed, built, furnished and decorated it. It looked like I felt - gutted. I turned to my neighbours.
"How could this have happened? I'm always so careful. I haven't been here for two weeks. There was no fire left in the stove, there's no fuel anywhere near…"
They shook their heads, wordless, helpless. I raced across the courtyard to the studio, a twin of the cottage. It looked intact until I reached the door, which had been smashed open with my axe, now lying on the grass. Inside was chaos. Every sketch, canvas, drawing – everything I had worked on or could use for a painting had been thrown onto the floor and trampled. Paint, turps, varnish, linseed oil poured on top. Every tube of paint had been stomped on, smeared over the walls, floor, easels and workbench. Total wreckage. Maniacal. Rory and Lida stood speechless at the door. I sank onto a stool. I didn't want to know who had done this, or why. I couldn't see the purpose of living if someone hated me that much. It wasn't worth the fight.
"At least they didn't set light to the studio,' Lida consoled.
No, I thought, they wanted me to experience this mess. To see the extent of their hatred.
"They must have broken a window in the house and thrown a match through. Probably with some petrol-soaked rags to get it going,' suggested Rory. "What're you going to do?"
"You can stay with us, Peter,' offered Lida hesitantly.
That was real friendship. They were living in a caravan while they slowly built their own house. Money was obviously a bit tight as there hadn't been much progress over the last couple of years. I'd have had to curl up under the sink to sleep. I prised myself off the stool and we went outside.
"That's very generous, Lida, but I have to get back to the coast. I've got a job now. I sold the paintings but that wasn't enough to keep body and soul together. I sleep in a flat at work."
They nodded hopelessly while I took a few deep breaths and adjusted my thoughts. It was pointless being upset or trying to understand. Such wanton vandalism is beyond understanding. However, I was getting bloody angry and that felt better. Much better!
I looked across at two frightened faces and guessed their fears. If this could happen to me, then how safe were they? Foreign accents had already made them the butt of racism and anti-immigrant hatred from local rednecks. It was worrying. "I'd better let the cops know,' I said quietly, "otherwise I'll get no insurance. It won't cover everything, but at least I'll get something back from this mess."
"Do you want to use our telephone?"
"Perhaps mine still works?' Miraculously it did, despite the soot, ash and water, and I was promised a visit from a patrol car within the hour. I turned back to my neighbours. "Thanks, both of you. You've been wonderful! Without you the rafters would have gone and there'd be nothing left. As it is, it's just a filthy mess to clean up and replace. I can handle that, no worries. So I owe you one. A big one! I'll hang around till the cops come then pop over before heading off."
They looked unconvinced, but happier as they trudged back along the track to their place. They had enough problems of their own without having to worry about mine. I made a start on the studio while waiting for the police. Forty minutes later they pulled up, scratched their heads and looked willing but pessimistic as they trotted out the inevitable questions. Had I left a fire going? Did I usually leave the slow-burner dampened down for when I returned? Who had done the electrical wiring? What sort of hot water system? Had I any enemies? Got into a fight recently? Jealous workmates? Problems with neighbours? Ex-wives?
I wasn't much help and was careful not to mention Rory and Lida's contribution. They preferred to remain unnoticed by authority, particularly since their permit to live in the caravan had long since expired. I let the officers think it was I who had thrown all the water around. One name kept hammering in my head, Patrick Fierney, but I wasn't going to drag Hank and Celia into this. All I needed was police confirmation of the vandalism and damage so I could make an insurance claim.
After half an hour of note taking, poking around in the soot and spilled paint, and looking for tyre marks on the bone-dry track, they completed their report and left, promising to ask everyone else on the road if they had noticed anything unusual, and to contact me if they had any news. I thanked them profusely.
As soon as they had gone I telephoned Patrick's office. His secretary informed me that he had slipped out for a while. Could she take a message?
"Yes please. My name is Peter Corringe. I may have some business for Mr Fierney,' I said sweetly. "I am a painter of pictures. Arsonists have razed my house, and my studio has been trashed. The police are on the ball and have a good lead. A local resident noticed a strange car drive up my road. I will probably be needing advice from Mr Fierney about what my options are. Could you get him to give me a call?"
She said she would, murmured suitable condolences, and disconnected.
I replaced the receiver, fully intending to get stuck in to cleaning-up, but suddenly couldn't be bothered. It was all too much. One day perhaps I would feel like doing it, but that day I sure as hell didn't.