Ways of Escape

by Hugh Mackay

Genres: General Fiction

Synopsis

If you could slip away unnoticed from your day-to-day life, would you? If you could cover your tracks, if you could fly away, if you could start a new life: would you do it? Tom is a burnt-out counsellor who readers first encountered in WINTER CLOSE. Myra is his client. Ruth, a busy GP and mother of three, is his neighbour. Rich, her husband, has left to make a new life with his lover. Len dreams of retirement but might be persuaded to take on one last job. In WAYS OF ESCAPE they are all forced to confront questions of identity, desire, ambition and truth.

Release date: July 1, 2010

Publisher: Hachette Australia

Print pages: 320

Sample

 

For thirty minutes, our aircraft has been lashed by a violent sub-tropical storm as we descend into Brisbane. Flashes of lightning penetrate the dense cloud that has enveloped us and the bumps feel as if we are hitting solid objects. (It’s a seductive idea, ‘flying above the weather’. Eventually, though, you have to come back to Earth.) Following terse instructions from the captain, the cabin crew were all packed up and strapped into their seats well before the top of our descent.

I’m a reluctant flyer, but Robert, the closest thing I have to family in Australia, flatly refuses to get onto a plane. When I want to see him or he wants to see me, it is I who must make the journey. He’s driven to Sydney only once, and declares he’ll never tackle it again. He complained about the traffic, but that was mere ritual: the real problem with Sydney, for Robert, is that it isn’t in Queensland. He’s never been to Melbourne, or Canberra, or anywhere south of Sydney. Robert is a Queenslander through and through. He grew up west of Townsville, so when he says ‘southerners’ he means the residents of Brisbane, though he’s been one himself for forty years.

This time, he wants to see me. I have no inkling of our agenda: Robert simply said he’d appreciate a talk ‘some time, no rush’, which, knowing Robert, I’ve interpreted as an urgent summons.

Our 737 continues its descent through thick black cloud, rocking and lurching, the engine note fluctuating as the pilot adjusts to the appalling conditions. When we finally emerge from the cloud base, the windows are streaked with rain and a powerful wind is still buffeting us. Through the turbulence, we feel the reassuring clunk of the wheels locking into place, and there’s a burble of nervous chatter among the passengers as we strain for a view of the city lights. The pilot straightens us for our final approach and the cabin falls silent as we touch down, bounce once, then hear the roar of the engines’ reverse thrust.

•

Robert is in his mid sixties and a man of so few words, I often feel garrulous when I’m with him. He’s married to my mother’s cousin, Shirley. Despite that rather tenuous family connection, he’s been a warmly avuncular presence in my life for as long as I can remember. My mother died when I was twelve, my father when I was in my early twenties, so Robert and Shirley and their two children became the only local representatives – and the rather precious symbols – of my extended family, most of whom live in Scotland.

Following our established practice, Robert waits for me at the baggage carousel. The airport is busy, as it usually is on Friday nights, and it takes me a moment to spot him through the crush. (Why are so many people always on the move? Why does everybody look so anxious?) We greet each other with a formal handshake: Robert would not be comfortable with the hug I’d like to have given him. He’s dressed in the ancient tweed jacket that is his uniform, except in high summer, with immaculate moleskins and a battered, broad-brimmed akubra in his hand. He still affects these badges of rural life, even though he and Shirley have lived in suburban Brisbane all their married life.

We grab my bag and head for the car park in silence. Talking is a serious business for Robert, so he tends not to combine it with walking. He can’t bear television programs where the characters do most of their talking on the move – almost as bad, in his view, as programs where people talk while eating.

We climb into his ten-year-old Commodore – Robert has never driven anything but Holdens – and set off into the early-spring evening. The rain has stopped but the gale is still blowing its heart out. Stars are beginning to peep between the scudding storm clouds.

I glance into the back seat. ‘No Monty?’

‘He’s home with Shirl.’

I feel a flicker of anxiety. Robert and his dog are normally inseparable.

‘So how’s everything?’ This is Robert’s standard opening gambit, and I’ve come to understand he means it as a real question. He listens attentively as I bring him up to date on the state of my counselling practice, hint at my growing weariness with the work – my urge to do something quite different – and assure him that, no, there’s no new woman in my life. It’s been almost four years since Clare left.

‘You think you might move on? Do something else?’

It’s hard to know how to answer that with the unvarnished honesty Robert would expect. I’m conscious of his continuing evolution into a quasi-father role in my life, but we extend some courtesies to each other – we keep some distance – not always present in a father–son relationship. There’s no joshing with Robert. There’s none of that close personal history of rearing that many fathers assume gives them licence to intrude on their sons’ privacy or to bring up old stuff. Even with his own children, Robert was always remarkably non-judgmental. He asked plenty of pointed questions that gave them every opportunity to hang themselves out to dry, and uses the same tactic with me. On the single occasion when we talked about the break-up of my marriage, Robert never once uttered a word of criticism of Clare, nor of me. But by the time we’d traversed the ground opened up by his gentle probing, the anatomy of the break-up was fully exposed, my role in it quite clear to him, and to me. Getting people to talk is supposed to be my stock-in-trade as a counsellor, but I doubt if I’m as skilful at it as Robert is.

When he asks if I might actually be planning to move on, the question is framed for me by the knowledge that his entire working life has been spent with the same timber company, starting as a kid sweeping sawdust and now, late in his career, receiving an unexpected promotion to state sales manager. Shirley is intensely proud of that promotion, achieved only three or four years away from Robert’s likely retirement. Loyalty has always been his watchword: he would never have contemplated leaving his employer as long as his work was appreciated.

Robert is slightly in awe of the fact that I seem to have made a living as a self-employed professional, so the idea of throwing away something I’d taken years to build up would appal him. But I have nothing as definite or as dramatic as that in mind.

‘I don’t really know the answer, Robert. The practice is healthy and a number of my clients are quite dependent on me at present, so it’s not a decision I’d take lightly. But I admit to feeling a bit burnt-out sometimes, a bit jaded. I wouldn’t just abandon it, but I wouldn’t mind adding something else to the mix.’

Robert absorbs this and remains silent for some minutes. Eventually he responds. ‘Any ideas?’

‘None at all. It’s just a feeling I’ve been getting.’

He hums a bar or two of some ditty while he ponders this. ‘For what it’s worth, in my experience, it’s better to go with the flow. Things just happen – know what I mean? Nature takes its course. Something turns up. You react – you don’t decide. I hope I’m not teaching my grandmother to suck eggs.’

A great believer in the power of common sense and the lessons learned from life, Robert is deeply suspicious of psychology. He’d never directly question the value of my work, but he operates on the assumption that, regardless of my training, I’m simply too young to understand human nature as he does. He may well be right.

‘Not at all, Robert, not at all. It’s a good point. I see the signs of it all the time in my practice. People who suddenly realise they’ve been doing something for years that they’d never consciously intended to do. Sometimes it’s a job. It might even be a marriage, or having kids. “I don’t remember actually deciding to have kids” – several of my clients have said exactly that. Jobs are a classic, though. One of my clients keeps telling me he still hasn’t decided what he wants to be when he grows up, and he’s in his late forties. A mate once asked him to help out on a building site, and he’s been working on building sites ever since.’

‘Sounds a bit like me – sweeping the floor at fifteen, and still cleaning up the mess almost fifty years later.’ His laugh is too hearty to match the remark, and I wonder again what Robert might want to talk to me about. ‘Different sort of mess, of course. But a lot of people do just drift into things.’

‘How about you?’

‘Did I drift into my job? No way. My father decided it was time for me to leave school and go into the timber game. So that’s what I did. Fifteen years of age. I had absolutely no say in it. Different times, Tom. Different generation. Hard for someone like you to understand. And you didn’t know my father, of course. Not a man to argue with, my father. If you asked him something, he’d fix his gaze on the horizon, tip his hat back, give the subject a bit of thought and then deliver his answer. It was like a pronouncement. A verdict. Discussion wasn’t something we were familiar with in my home. Give my father a problem and he’d solve it. Then and there. Consultation? Forget it.’

‘But it’s worked out okay?’

No response from Robert. This is too close for comfort; too personal; too explicit. I’m still learning where the limits are with Robert; how close to the heart I can aim. Shirley told me she once tried to raise with him the question of their daughter having her long-term boyfriend, now her husband, stay the night. Robert said nothing – literally nothing. The next day, he installed a lock on his daughter’s bedroom door, which mystified everyone at the time but turned out to be Robert’s seal of approval: he wanted to ensure her privacy.

We lapse into silence until he can change the subject without seeming to have done so.

‘You were on the latest 737, I see. The 900 ER. Very flash.’

‘How did you know that? I didn’t know you were interested in planes. I thought you avoided the topic entirely.’

‘Being as old as the hills, I know everything. And I’m actually very interested in planes. Always have been. Wouldn’t want to fly in one, of course – different thing altogether. I’m interested in guns, too, as you know. Doesn’t mean I want to shoot people. Well, not many. Suddenly I’m even interested in nursing homes, but I sure as hell don’t want to be in one. Poor Shirley. Poor bloody Shirley.’

I have never heard him refer to his wife as Shirley before. She’s always only ever been Shirl. This is Robert’s typically oblique way of giving me some bad news.

‘Nursing homes? Shirley? What’s this, Robert?’

After a long silence, he says, very quietly, ‘Shirl’s lost her mind.’

‘Her memory, you mean?’

‘Her mind. Lost it. Gone. Wouldn’t know me from a bar of soap most days. Comes and goes a bit but, basically, kaput.’

‘I’m sorry. I had no idea. Last year –’

‘Last time you came up, you might remember, you never actually saw Shirl. I told you she was visiting her sister, which was code for spending some time in a nursing home near us. Sorry I wasn’t more frank with you, Tom. Wasn’t sure myself, back then, how this would sort itself out. You hope things might improve – the doctor might think of something. I see now it’d take a bloody miracle. Anyhow, she goes into this place every now and then, basically to give me a break. Place is run by some wonderful women who seem to know just how to handle Shirl. It’s beyond me. I soldier on as best I can, until it all gets too bloody hard. Too bloody hard, Tom, and there’s something I never thought I’d hear myself say. Especially not about Shirl.’

We drive on in silence. Robert, normally the most mild-mannered of men, is cursing the traffic. There’s been no hint of any of this on the phone: we’ve only spoken four or five times in the past twelve months, which is about average for us, but never a word of this. Typical of Robert, of course. Play it close to the chest. Wait and see. Something might turn up. No need to alarm Tom – he’s got enough troubles of his own. I can hear him saying it. But I’m not surprised he’s shocked by the speed of Shirley’s decline, if it’s early-onset Alzheimer’s. One of my clients is going through precisely that with her husband, and she describes her struggle to maintain the sense of being a partner when she’s basically become a full-time carer. ‘Spoon-feeding him and wiping his bottom rather changes the nature of the relationship, if you can still call it a relationship.’ I wonder if Robert understands what lies ahead of him.

If this were anyone other than Robert, I’d reach out and touch his arm or squeeze his shoulder. But Robert would value sympathetic silence above anything overt.

‘By the way, this isn’t what I wanted to talk to you about. That can wait till tomorrow. I just wanted to put you in the picture as far as Shirl’s concerned. She’s home at present. You’ll be able to see for yourself. This is your field, I suppose. Anyway, you and I will go out for dinner tomorrow. The other matter can wait until then.’

Another residue of his rural background: ‘dinner’ means lunch.

•

We arrive at their comfortable old Queenslander, a timber home with a wide verandah, in the oldest part of Ashgrove. I’ve been coming here since I was a small boy, and nothing ever seems to change. The walk up the front path is evocative of childhood, especially at night. Though it’s barely spring, the rich perfumes of jasmine and frangipani are heavy on the night air, and I have to duck under the low branches of the jacaranda that dominates their front garden, the vivid blue of its blossom apparent even in the pale light of a street lamp.

Their children, now well into their thirties, both live in the UK. Phillip, still single, is riding the crest of a brilliant medical career in London; Amanda, an academic lawyer married to an Englishman, is taking time out to raise a family in the Cotswolds. Robert would love to see Amanda’s kids – his only grandchildren – but he’ll never fly and Amanda tells him it would be too much of a hassle for the whole family to come to Australia, at least until the youngest of the three children is out of nappies. Money is an issue, too.

Shirley has been to England twice, and brings back glowing accounts. Now it seems her most recent trip will have been her last.

It’s almost nine o’clock, and I expect Shirley to be in bed. Through the open front door, I catch sight of her down the hall, sitting in her favourite chair in front of the television. Monty, a kelpie/border collie cross, is sitting on the floor beside her, his head resting on her lap. She hears us coming and turns the sound down. As we walk into the living room, she looks up and smiles. If Robert had said nothing to me, this would all have seemed perfectly normal. The smile is perhaps a little uncertain – or am I simply expecting it to be? I bend down and kiss Shirley on the cheek and she puts an affectionate hand against my arm. She doesn’t speak; doesn’t say my name. I pat Monty: without moving his head, he rolls his eyes up to look at me.

Shirley looks at Robert, as if waiting for some explanation. His face has fallen into a deep sadness, but he forces a smile. ‘I’ll see Tom to his room. You should be heading for bed soon. I’ll come and give you a hand.’

Shirley’s smile fades into a half-frown. She has no idea who either of us is.

 

By midday on Saturday it’s a relief to be back in Robert’s car, heading towards his favourite lunch spot – the bistro at the Breakfast Creek Hotel – and his favourite lunch: a huge steak, char-grilled. We’ve been coming here together for at least fifteen years, through a series of modernisations that have maintained the faintly Spanish character of this old Brisbane landmark. Once or twice, in all those years, Shirley has joined us, but Robert likes to think of this as a male domain.

Breakfast with Shirley was a strain, but what did I have to complain about? She kept smiling at me, as if she thought I was a visitor to be treated with special respect. She asked no questions and made no spontaneous remarks at all, but when Robert or I spoke directly to her, she responded animatedly, almost gratefully. I remarked on the weather, and she complained about the humidity – but anyone who’d ever lived in Brisbane would know to do that, so I couldn’t tell if it was an authentic reaction or a habit so deeply ingrained it could still function like a reflex. She seemed so gut-wrenchingly careful, so anxious to please, so obviously out of her depth, it was hard to stifle tears of simple sadness. People say dementia is a breeze for the sufferer and a killer for the carer, but this is no breeze for Shirley: she looks as of she knows something is desperately wrong, but has no idea how to put it right. The sadness of their situation has seeped into every crack of the house. It has become a sad house, and it will never be anything else for Robert, whether Shirley is physically present or absent. She’s gone, one way or the other.

Somehow Robert manages to get Shirley dressed and packed up and into the car, to be dropped off for another short stay at the nursing home. After helping her inside and leaving her in the care of the staff, he beckons me to join him at the entrance to a small annexe to the main building.

Monty, napping beside me on the back seat, jumps up when I open the car door and runs across to Robert.

‘I’m not a religious man, Tom, and neither are you, I fancy.’ It isn’t a question. ‘But just take a look in here. It’s a nice little spot for a bit of a think. I’ve spent hours on end here. Just wondering, mainly.’

We enter a small room, furnished like a chapel. The walls are whitewashed, bathed in a soft, pink light coming through two stained-glass windows. Music is being quietly played over a sound system; it could be monks chanting.

Robert sits on a short bench against one wall, closes his eyes, tips his head back and sighs, one hand resting on Monty’s head. He looks completely exhausted, but I know he will recharge his energy and in another day or two be back here to collect Shirley and do what he can to care for her at home. It would be pointless – even offensive – to ask why he doesn’t make this a permanent move.

I sit a discreet distance away. Time passes and Robert remains motionless. I let myself yield to the atmosphere of rest and reflection. Perhaps we are there for ten minutes; perhaps it is half an hour. Suddenly, Robert stands up, turns and smiles at me rather shyly and strides from the room, Monty at his heels.

•

Seated at our usual table in the bistro, Robert is regarding me from under his bushy eyebrows, now almost white to match his crop of still-lush hair. ‘Ever heard of a bloke called Simon Fenner?’ he asks me.

‘Fenner? Give me some context.’

‘Corporate world. Wheeler dealer of some kind.’

‘Fenner. Yes, of course. He was all over the media a few years ago. Wasn’t he caught up in a scandal involving conflict of interest – advising both sides of a deal, something like that? Is he a minor corporate cowboy of some kind? Not sure. I don’t really understand that world, Robert. Not really interested, to be frank.’

‘Ah. Not really interested. I know what you mean. I wasn’t really interested, either. Once. Anyway, what are you drinking? Will you have a steak? Of course you will. Can’t get beef like this in Sydney. Come and choose yourself a beast.’

We go through the Brekky Creek ritual, Robert selecting with great care a steak that, to me, looks indistinguishable from all the others. I follow his lead. We each order a Fourex and carry our drinks back to our table in the spring sunshine. Over Robert’s shoulder, I catch a glimpse of the masts of a few yachts, bobbing on the turning tide in the creek.

‘So why is Fenner on your mind, Robert? By the way, I’ve just remembered something else about him. One of my clients works for his firm in Sydney. Never talks about him, though. What’s your interest in him?’

‘Interest? Hmm. You could say interest. I’m taking early retirement, in a manner of speaking, courtesy of your Mr Fenner.’

‘My Mr Fenner?’

‘Sydney. I mean Sydney’s Mr Fenner. Typical Sydney bull artist, if you want to know what I think.’

There’s a tension in Robert I’ve not seen in him before. Perhaps it’s anger – and why not? First Shirley, and now some crisis at work at an age when he might have thought he was entitled to a few more years of stable employment without too many challenges to contend with. He could be forgiven for thinking his life is falling apart. Those, of course, are not the words Robert would ever use: if pressed, he might concede he’s having a rough trot.

‘Can we start at the beginning? You’re taking early retirement? You don’t sound terribly happy about it.’

Robert shrugs, looks up at the sky, then back at his beer. He takes another sip. Then another. ‘Wouldn’t matter if I wanted to or not. The firm’s been sold, and now we have Mr Simon Fenner lording it over us. Most of the senior people, including yours truly, are for the high jump. What am I saying? Most of the people – never mind senior. It’s the end of the line for nearly everyone, young and old.’

‘Has Fenner bought the company? Is that what you’re saying?’

‘Not Fenner himself personally. It’s never that simple. He’s acting for someone else – could be one of his own companies, I suppose – who knows? Wheels within wheels, Tom. You’d never work out who’s behind it. Anyhow, Fenner’s acting for the new owners. That’s the way it was put to us – acting for the new owners.’

‘Weren’t you taken over once before?’

‘Correct. Good memory, Tom. That’s a few years back now. Didn’t turn out too bad, that time. Bit of a ruckus at first, of course, lots of rumours, the usual thing. But the new owners were timber people. Decent people. They were Kiwis, actually. Knew the game. Respected the way we went about our business. Same ethics – know what I mean? They bought us because they liked us and they let us get on with things the way we always had. Anyhow, we made the Kiwis a lot of money, and now they’ve sold us. God knows why. An irresistible offer from Fenner, I suppose – what else?’

Robert takes another sip of his beer and looks over at the waiter who’s serving the table next to ours. The waiter assures him our steaks won’t be much longer and mentions that he’s thrown a few bones to Monty, who’s tied up in a shady spot in the car park. Robert gives him a thumbs-up and turns back to me. ‘Couldn’t be more different this time. Couldn’t be more different. Know what I mean?’

‘Just a cold commercial deal? Is that what you’re saying? Fenner just wants you for a cash cow, to be milked?’

‘Cash cow? In a manner of speaking, at least for the first few months. They intend to gouge the place. When your Mr Fenner says he’s slashing costs, he means it. The entire technical department is going, for a start – all that expertise costs money. Huge amounts of stock are being shipped off to a new housing estate on the northern fringe of Brisbane. An estate being developed by a company controlled by – guess who?’

‘Fenner?’

‘Correct. Of course. What’s left of the stock is being sold off for a fraction of its value. Everything’s being savagely discounted for quick cash. Never seen anything like it.’

‘Then what? Why wreck a business you’ve just paid good money for?’

‘Good question. I’ll come to that. The sales force is being decimated. Admin’s been torn to shreds. All the financial systems are being harmonised with the new owner’s existing operations. D’you like that? Harmonised. Fenner’s word.’

‘I assume that means you’re being integrated into someone else’s computer system. That would be today’s meaning of harmony.’

‘Correct.’

‘And?’

‘You’ll have trouble with this next bit, Tom. I’m still having trouble with it myself, even though it’s got bugger-all to do with me. I’m out of the place. Gone.’

‘Already? You’re already retired?’

‘Or sacked. We’re calling it early retirement. Finished up on Wednesday of last week. Anyhow . . . ah, good boy, Barry.’

The waiter has arrived with our steaks and a choice of mustards. He and Robert are on friendly terms.

‘Barry, this is Tom, my relative from Sydney. I think you might have met him before.’

Whether we have met previously or not – and I can’t say I recall him – Barry greets me as if any relative of Robert’s must be a fundamentally good bloke.

‘What’s on for the rest of the weekend, Robert? Fishing? They were doing all right with diver whiting off Bribie this morning.’

‘My hands are a bit full this weekend, as you can see. Relatives, and one thing and another.’ He gives Barry a theatrical wink, orders two more beers, and turns his attention to a T-bone steak that is scarcely contained by the plate, accompanied by a potato in its jacket and a generous pile of coleslaw.

‘Enjoy,’ says Barry.

We eat in silence for a few minutes. Eventually, with our steaks half-demolished, Robert takes up his story with renewed energy.

‘Anyhow, after they’ve ripped the guts out of the place, taken all the materials they want, cut all these costs and got rid of all these people – after all that, believe it or not, they want losses. Huge losses. They want the firm to bleed money. Can you imagine that? Red ink. That’s what they want.’

‘I said I don’t understand all this stuff, Robert, and I really don’t. Is this to minimise tax by. . .