Rose Boys, page 16
Her memories of life in the bunker are mostly grinding and unhappy. Not surprisingly, she remembers the physical details. ‘I have vivid memories of having to insert suppositories into Robert’s bottom every second day and then clean up what came out of it. I was doing catheterisations—without any nursing training—and I had to put these tubes inside him. It was a very sterile procedure. I can’t imagine how I did those things. It’s hard to imagine now. But you just did them, I suppose, because you were told that’s what you had to do.’
Terry, too, regrets the lack of counselling. She does remember one rare exception prior to Robert’s release from the Austin, when Dr Burke talked to them candidly about the possibility of a sexual relationship. ‘He did his darnedest to get us going in that area,’ Terry laughed, ‘but it had no effect.’
By now Georgia, Terry’s youngest daughter, aged nine, had come home from school and was cooking fish fingers in the microwave. We began to speak in euphemisms and lowered voices.
Sexual tensions were at the crux of Robert and Terry’s mounting difficulties. Robert desired physical intimacy, Terry didn’t. ‘Robert wanted me in bed with him, but to me it smelt like a hospital—a hospital bed. I couldn’t do that. And he became bitter about that—that I wouldn’t lie with him. It was all quite revolting to me. It put a terrible strain on things.’
This became acute in 1976. Each night was an ordeal, each morning brought recriminations. By early June the situation was untenable. ‘In the end,’ Terry went on, ‘that’s what caused that terrible day when I left. And thinking about it, it’s all because we didn’t have this long, happy, mature love. We were only young. We were very much infatuated with each before the accident, and then for all that to come to an end, if you know what I mean.’
I nodded. Georgia watched us over her pungent snack. No one listens quite as intently as a child. And no one is more conservative.
‘I just remember how dreadfully difficult it was being a young girl and having a quadriplegic husband,’ Terry continued softly. ‘And I often think that if we’d been married for ten years—twenty years—maybe our love would have been more mature and I would have been able to stay and look after Robert. But I was too young and still infatuated with him as he was. He eventually became my patient and my brother, rather than my lover or my husband.’
I began to wonder how many young couples in similar circumstances are defeated by sexual differences. Intimacy is of course still possible, with a degree of trust, openness and ingenuity. Quadriplegics are by no means sexless. Many such marriages survive paralysis. But Terry was right about hers. Their youthfulness, the brevity of their relationship, hindered the exploration and compromises needed to forge a new kind of partnership.
Terry concluded by saying, ‘I just had no understanding at that stage how Robert was feeling and how bitter and frustrating it must have been for him. Now I can think back and imagine how awful it was. I suppose I was a bit selfish—and, well, young.’
By now the Butler household was stirring with all the usual late-afternoon adolescent activity. Georgia’s sister Casey came home from high school, similarly ravenous. Terry needed to visit the local medical clinic. I offered to drive her there. We set off through the magisterial gates. As we approached one of those vast outer-suburban roundabouts Terry mentioned that it was the site of her accident. We negotiated it in silence, very carefully. Then Terry wanted to talk about the mishaps that had dotted her adult life. This surprised me. I had never known her to dwell on past misfortunes. Indeed, I had always marvelled at her resilience, her sunny temperament, her refusal to mope. She listed the five trials and tragedies. Her first husband was crippled when she was nineteen, nine months after the birth of their child. Just prior to the birth of her second child, her new husband, Darryl, developed cancer and for some weeks his survival hung in the balance. Their next child was stillborn. At the age of three, their third child was diagnosed with a rare heart condition that could have killed her at any moment, especially in infancy. Georgia required open-heart surgery but made a full recovery. Then came the accident at the roundabout.
I remembered something an old friend of mine used to say about the crumminess of life. I am often amazed by what human beings are expected to endure—and do.
‘It’s left me feeling very pessimistic about the future,’ Terry said as we pulled up outside the clinic. This was uncharacteristic, like a crack in a sturdy bowl. I couldn’t think of anything to say. But I knew Terry would cope, in her own way, with her daughters, and her devoted husband, and her slightly unreal view of affluent slopes and an albino kangaroo.
After the separation the mood at Crosby Drive was oddly tranquil. There was relief that the tensions of the past two years had been resolved, albeit in dissolution. I don’t think anyone—not even Robert—had expected Terry to stay indefinitely. It was too hard.
It was clear that Robert couldn’t stay in the bunker on his own. Even with an elevator it would have been impracticable. Robert couldn’t be left on his own for more than a few minutes. Because of his violent spasms, someone had to be present at all times. He needed drinks, meals, tablets, cigarettes, newspapers and lifts. He also needed company. My parents installed him in his old bedroom, among the trophies and memorabilia. Mum gave up work to look after him during the day. Now that Dad was no longer coaching, he was able to spend more time with him too. His weekends were largely given over to ‘babysitting’ him, as he sometimes embarrassingly put it. I visited them frequently and sat out on the deck with Robert while Dad gardened haphazardly below. I listened to their ceaseless conversation about cricket or football.
The alternative domestic arrangement was unpalatable. The proposed hostel for the disabled was still just an unacknowledged possibility. Until it opened, the only place for paraplegics and quadriplegics requiring accommodation was in nursing homes. When my parents went to Queensland for a short, needed holiday Robert went into a geriatric hospital. I couldn’t look after him on my own, as it took two people to lift him and turn him at night. I visited him in the dismal ward which he shared with three silent septuagenarians. The thought of him living in such a place was unbearable, and he never went back. My parents intended to keep him with them forever.
Three months after Terry’s departure, I too returned to Crosby Drive. The shared household in East Hawthorn had broken up after several altercations. My six-month initiation had been eventful but doomed. In the middle of the year I had belatedly completed my arts degree, a poet’s degree if ever there was one. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do with my life, but I knew I didn’t want to teach. I thought vaguely about going back to Europe at the end of the year. One of my Tuesday ethicists asked me to marry her—not just for altruistic reasons. I told A. that I was considering it, and he was shocked. Then in May, not long before Robert and Terry’s parting, I made the mistake of falling comprehensively in love with A., my enigmatic gadfly. Propinquity and an unmatched mutual understanding finally broke down the old barriers. To my surprise, A. felt the same way. This passion was disastrous. A. had ghosts of his own and an acquired distrust of intimacy. After a short, euphoric affair, he crudely extricated himself, taking up with a woman. Never having been seriously infatuated before, never having known such killing rejection, I fell apart. It was the maddest time of my life. There had been too many drugs, too much experimentation. For several weeks I was in a deplorable condition, quite unhinged. My journal, often illegible, is full of the old self-hatred and a charged sense of worthlessness. I thought fondly of death, but then I remembered Robert and my parents. This all came to a head, all too memorably, at my twenty-first birthday party, which A. disconcertingly attended. My behaviour was extreme.
Happy majority!
So I moved into the bunker and began to piece myself back together. Robert had returned to the Austin for surgery on his painful right thumb. The night he came home, Dad was in an ebullient mood. I hadn’t seen him looking so relaxed for years. Watching him, Mum said that he was happy because his two boys were home again.
I went to work in a factory on an assembly line, making air-conditioners. The tedium of the work was offset by the humour, life stories and sheer camaraderie of the other workers. I’m glad I spent time in a factory. Perhaps all university graduates and delusive romantics should be encouraged to do so. One day the foreman took me aside. I felt sure he was going to dismiss me for being cack-handed (or for my eight-hour daydreams about A.), but instead he offered me an apprenticeship as a welder. It was the proudest day of my life. I thanked him and explained that I was going back to Greece at the end of the year.
In due course the daydreams became real. A. returned, having missed our marathon talks. We resumed our affair and I offered to take him to Greece. I remember an hilarious conversation with one of my more exotic confidants at the factory. Wayne, a New Zealander with an applied tan and ostentatious past, listened to my story as we ducked in and out of a wall unit with our power drills. When I told Wayne about my offer, which A. had surprisedly accepted, he was furious. He berated me for relenting and said I should go overseas alone to sort out my life. (Do young Australians still resort to Europe in that way: Europe as sanctuary or sanatorium?)
A. and I left in late November. By this stage Robert was utterly miserable. The new living arrangement hadn’t been successful. It was too hard on everyone, himself included. Robert seemed dangerously depressed, and Mum and Dad bore the brunt of his moodiness. His infrequent meetings with Terry and Salli upset him deeply and he wasn’t sure he wanted to see them in future. Yarra Me, as the hostel was named, had opened in early November. After a conversation with Mum and Dad and Dr Burke, Robert decided to put his name on the waiting list. A few days later the matron rang to say that he could move in whenever he liked. Robert, very depressed, elected to go next day. Mum, writing to me in Athens, thought he just wanted to get it over with. They packed up his few things and drove him to North Croydon. That, for all of them, was the most terrible day since the accident. The matron, who knew about Robert’s moods, was understanding. Robert decided to share a room with two other men. The new hostel was large, well staffed and equipped, and designed to accommodate seventy disabled men and women. Referred to as residents, not patients, they were free to come and go as they pleased, but the matron suggested that Robert shouldn’t spend that weekend at Crosby Drive. Home was elsewhere now, unavoidably.
Robert settled in reasonably well, but there were some teething problems with the staff, few of whom had nursed quadriplegics. The first time Robert went back to Crosby Drive, there were blisters around the sore on his bottom. Someone had tried to cure it with a hairdryer.
Robert started seeing Salli again, very happily. Dad took Robert to the cricket and sat with him when he was confined to bed. Thus began the long pattern of parental visits and encouragement. Dad told me in a letter that Robert was thrilled when he got away from Yarra Me. ‘When he does come home he is quite excited—and we are too.’ On Christmas Eve Robert was well enough to go to Adelaide for the Test against Pakistan, ‘burnt bottom and all’. Dad drove throughout the night, with Robert stretched out on the back seat. They stayed at the same motel as the Pakistanis and partied with the Australians each night. During the Test Jeff Thomson injured his shoulder while fielding. His agent was reportedly in tears after visiting him in hospital. Thomson’s career was in jeopardy. People said it was a tragedy. One night Dad and Robert dined with the Sachses. Dad described Janyne as an amazing person. When he got back to Melbourne he was exhausted, ‘but it was worth it to see Robert enjoying himself’.
‘Reuters’ Rose, using my old Olivetti typewriter (‘that bloody aaaa sticks every time’), told me that Dr Burke had published a letter in the Age imploring young people to be more careful on motorbikes. There had been a big increase in spinal care admissions at the Austin. That week, A. and I, now in Rome and fast unravelling, learned that a close friend of ours had been killed on his motorbike.
In Italy I often dreamed about Robert. Usually I was playing sport with him or reliving the accident and life in Ward Seven, always conscious of my parents’ grief. In one dream we attempted to play tennis. Robert stumbled around the court on tin legs. Neither of us played well: I didn’t record the score. In another, he was seriously burnt. I knew I had to get away. I invited Terry to go the movies with me, sensing my mother’s disapproval.
Those weeks in Italy with A. were tempestuous. Wayne was right: it was never going to work. We both wanted different things. A. missed his louche life and all its temptations. Rightly, I suppose, he accused me of wanting a kind of marriage. He despised my gallery crawls and my paradoxical reverence in churches. Politically sterner than I was, and admirably anticlerical, he detested the papacy. Being in the Vatican turned his stomach; like an angry Adam he fled St Peter’s. Quoting Nietzsche all the way, he upbraided me for swooning in front of Bellini’s mooning Madonnas and passive Christs.
In Delphi we had met our witch, or so we liked to think. Judith, a radio journalist and possibly the smallest Canadian on earth, was travelling with a wealthy gentleman in a stetson who seemed to have adopted the courtship methods of Howard Hughes. He kept her locked up during the day and paid all the bills. Sex he deemed unhygienic. When Judith managed to escape from their hotel room she joined us for moody midnight strolls through the ancient site. We sat in the amphitheatre and watched A. sardonically mime some all too guessable tragedy on the stage. Later, Judith analysed us over endless glasses of whisky. Like many women she was fascinated by A., who was tall, manly and good-looking. She quickly recognised a fellow chameleon. She predicted that A. would circle and eventually rise in his own ambivalence. It was a good line and one I often thought about later. Turning to me, she said I had been hurt by someone and demanded to know why I hadn’t been more assertive. Whoever it was had done a real job on me.
After Delphi the harmonious times were few but memorable. One day we visited the English Bookshop near the Piazza di Spagna for more Genet and de Beauvoir. A. asked me to indicate any book I desired. I walked through the bookshop in a saturnalian trance. As we left the shop I noticed that A. was moving rather awkwardly. Reaching the Spanish Steps, he stood and shook. I wrote about it in my poem ‘Memorabilia’ (always apologising to any booksellers in the audience before reading it in public):
Great literature flew from you like doves.
Humbled by such munificence
I led you back to our hotel
and now, when young colleagues
wish to borrow my Prime of Life,
I warn them, ‘Mind you bring it back.
It was stolen for me by a great friend.’
Finally, we parted in Venice. I moved to Padua and checked into a hotel. I felt compelled to write it all down in my journal, every insult and humiliation—a curious, self-coruscating act of reportage. Two days later, on leaving my room, I found the city palely transformed by two feet of snow. The worst blizzard in a generation had happened while I sat there auditing my woes.
I flew home at the end of summer. Next to me—I was in Economy, of course—was a massive, charming, high-strung woman. A purring Irishwoman, she introduced me to her new husband, an English television producer. Over the first of several whiskies, they showed me photographs of their recent wedding in Dublin. They were heading to Australia on their honeymoon. Each take-off or landing was traumatic for the Irishwoman, so we kept on talking. Politely she expressed interest in my poetry. She told me she was a journalist. She showed me a collection of her articles in the Irish Times and talked about her imminent first novel. I had never met a published author before, apart from Lou Richards. We swapped addresses. I wished her luck with her novel. Her name was Maeve Binchy.
Back home, Robert looked happier than he had for three years. He seemed to be adjusting to his new life at Yarra Me. He looked forward to each Saturday morning, when Dad collected him. In a way he was learning to hibernate during the week, anticipating the pleasures to come, knowing that for forty-eight hours he would live intensely, eat and drink freely, surrounded by people who loved him. He sat on our parents’ deck improving his suntan. He asked about my travels, with one eye on the television. Summer, with its surfeit of sport, was a halcyon time.
On Sunday night, at the appointed hour, Dad or I drove him back to Yarra Me. Robert was becoming increasingly punctilious about such things and required us to be equally regimented. I was impressed by the facilities but at the same time deeply saddened by the place. The décor was clinical, but there were several large games rooms and common rooms where the more gregarious residents could congregate. Robert never wanted to join them, but asked us to put him to bed. We made him comfortable and left him after slightly awkward, protracted farewells.
Relaxed though he was at home, Robert’s manner at Yarra Me was different, especially during those first few years. The hostel had rapidly filled. Those beds, too, were never empty long. It was an artificial and disparate population. As in any institution, strong antipathies and alliances quickly formed. Many residents were about Robert’s age, still coming to terms with their disability, but some were middle-aged or older, sardonically inured to paralysis. Some had attentive families, some were abandoned. Some had independent means, most relied on the invalid pension, nearly all of which went to Yarra Me. Some wanted to be active and joined committees, others preferred to stay in bed and face the wall or the stultifying screen. Some acknowledged us when we pushed Robert down the corridor, others dully stared. Some were churlish with the inexperienced staff, others diplomatic, knowing that this was the best of all possible worlds. Some had a future, others hated the thought.
Robert remained aloof at first. He rarely mixed with other residents, preferring to read his newspaper or sit in the large native park surrounding the hostel. The sun became his companion. He was wary of new staff members. Once they had earned his trust, once he was confident they knew how to lift him properly and weren’t going to poison him accidentally, his reserve dissipated. He was equally discriminating with other residents. As we pushed him along the corridor he would indicate with a raised eyebrow those he regarded as whingers or nutters. His sympathies were still black and white.
