Free Homecoming by Adib Khan Page A

um…regrettable decisions.’
    ‘If we didn’t, then there wouldn’t be too much by way of awareness. The wider lens, right?’
    He liked that. ‘Well, do you think we are entirely to blame for what we don’t do then?’
    ‘Most of the time. There is safety in inaction.’
    ‘Other people and circumstances. They have an influence.’
    ‘Excuses are the most respectable form of lying. How often do we shift our burdens onto someone else?’
    Now her words did not please Martin. He grunted and walked back to the shore.
    ‘Did I say something to upset you?’ Nora came up to him.
    ‘Time to think about tea.’
    ‘All right, then. On the spur of the moment, what will it be? Go on, what will it be?’ By this time Nora knew him well enough to realise that he struggled to make instant decisions.
    ‘Chicken and chips?’ Martin hesitated about the next few words. He measured them carefully. ‘We could go back to my place.’
    It was the first time that he had invited Nora home in the evening. By day he had seen her silent disapproval of the small two-bedroom house, of its peeling paint and tacky second-hand furniture. He kept the place tidy, but the rooms were never touched by sunlight and were perpetually dismal.
    He stood digging his toes in the sand, hands buried in his trouser pockets. The breeze on his face felt chilly. He had meekly ventured out of the neutral zone. He eyed the speck of a fishing boat bobbing in the sea. Sunlight perforated the veil of cloud, making it look like the boat was on fire.
    He glanced at Nora. She appeared relaxed. He could not tell if she was trying to hide a smile of triumph. Her silence was unsettling. Perhaps it would have been more prudent to suggest going to the Fitzroy Gardens or the banks of the Yarra.
    ‘With a bottle of wine.’
    ‘Pardon?’ But he had heard her clearly.
    A MIRACLE HAD not occurred. It was some time between midnight and dawn. There was only the starkness of awful reality.
    Remnants of the evening were scattered on the kitchen table. An empty bottle of wine. Stale tea in a porcelain pot. A half-filled jug of water. Two smudged wine glasses. Plates streaked with grease and scraps of food. Used cutlery.
    Martin sipped tepid black tea. Treacherously he recalled his last couple of years with Moira. She had not seemed to mind when he turned his back to her. Just a phase, he had consoled himself. It’ll pass. I’ll talk it over with her if it lasts much longer. But he never did. And Moira made it easy by seeming unperturbed. After all, she had nursed him patiently through the worst. So Martin convinced himself. He persuaded himself that Moira, in bed, did not mind. Together they focused their attention on Frank, and made domestic calm the proof of stability.
    But now…He would have to drag himself to the doctor. There is another problem. I have suspected it for some years. Should have told you earlier, but I kept hoping. It is so humiliating. He tried several variations and flinched at what he might end up saying. And at the prospect of more therapy and tablets.
    Martin’s immediate concern, though, was the embarrassment of facing Nora. She was still in his bedroom. He considered ways to avoid contact before she left. He finished his tea and tiptoed to the settee in the lounge. Nora would surely slip away discreetly from the house later that night or early next morning.
    He had left her on the bed, half-undressed, a perplexed expression on her face. ‘Sorry,’ he had muttered, miserable and humiliated, as he stumbled away from the bed. ‘I have no right to treat you like this. It’s my fault. I…I am sorry.’
    He turned and gave a helpless gesture of appeasement. But her silence made him cringe as he backed out of the room.
    He would not phone her again, he determined. It was best to let the miserable business die quietly. That way his shame could be minimised. But then he saw the selfishness in this. In the dark he thought of her. How did she view the