Free Homecoming by Adib Khan Page B

bungled effort? With scorn? Dismay? Sympathy? He was aware of the insensitivity of cutting Nora off without an explanation.
    Martin had never been courageous about facing problems. What would he tell her? I am incapacitated, he could say. Or blurt out the truth directly without resorting to euphemisms. Sexually, I am dysfunctional. Somehow, not even that was direct enough. I am impotent. He winced and then forced himself to whisper the sentence aloud. No. It would be impossible to make such an admission to anyone. Even telling a physician would be difficult.
    Again he hoped that Nora would leave without seeing him.
    MARTIN HAD HEARD the noise before he was fully awake. He tensed and lay still, breathing noiselessly. That part of military training was grafted into his being. Survival skill, they called it. Sharpening of instincts. Making oneself inaudible and invisible. Instant reaction to even the slightest hint of danger. In the jungle they would crouch low and cease movement. Communication through eye contact, where possible. Only when it was necessary to manoeuvre to a new position was a hand signal permissible.
    The sounds drifted in from the kitchen. Running water. Was she humming? Martin shivered, his nostrils twitching. The smoky aroma of frying bacon.
    He pulled the blanket over his head, as though it was an antidote to a hellish dream.
    ‘Shit,’ he muttered between clenched teeth. ‘Shit.’ But suddenly he was quite hungry.
    MARTIN ENJOYS THE hot crusty bread and manages the borlotti bean soup. But he is not thrilled about the oven-roasted rabbit with potatoes in white wine.
    Frank and Maria have been talking. They tell him they have just paid a deposit on a house and twenty acres of land. The building needs renovation, they say, but the soil is rich and they are keen to grow vegetables. ‘Much better than sitting in front of a computer screen, wriggling your fingers and hitting the keys,’ Frank declares, watching his father for a response. ‘You must come and see the place, Dad. It has a large new shed. But as for the rest…’ He grins. ‘It’d be great if you could give us a hand. It’s a very pleasant drive from Melbourne.’
    ‘Sure,’ Martin agrees, not voicing any reservations. ‘I’ll drive over and help you out.’
    Maria has to leave. ‘Doctor’s appointment.’ She beams and runs a hand across the top of her belly.
    Martin looks fearfully at her. He has read that the long-term effects of reglone, grammoxone, tordone and hyva across generations ‘cannot be ascertained with authority’. But he doesn’t know how to talk about this with them. Maybe it’s a case of over-anxiety. After all, some studies say there is only a remote possibility that subsequent generations may be affected. Over the years, though, doctors have been hesitant about answering his questions. ‘There is insufficient data for any definitive conclusions.’ Maybe he ought to leave the matter alone. After all, Frank was fine other than the skin rashes he suffered as a child.

SIX
    Martin stares out of the large window. He and Ron have been discussing the price of petrol, the greed of banks and the concerns of middle-aged men: the latest news on prostate cancer, weight-related problems. A mesh of words to fend off any talk of Colin Gear’s lingering illness.
    The winter’s sun splashes the footpath with buttery light. Martin watches the pedestrians saunter along, most of them with manageable pasts, he muses, only needing to negotiate the obstacles of everyday life.
    ‘Remember how delighted we were as we boarded the ship on our way back?’ Ron recalls. ‘The lucky ones! Able to walk, limbs intact, no serious injuries. Off to new lives.’ He shakes his head. ‘But home wasn’t the same.’
    ‘We weren’t the same. Another one?’ Martin picks up the empty tumblers and escapes to the bar. The visit to the hospital has chastened them into drinking mineral water and orange juice.
    It is too early for the regular