Tom Houghton (20 page)

The truth of the matter was Damon was ignoring me. I had not heard from him since he'd left my flat that morning. Oh, he sometimes responded to a text or a voice message with a one-word reply that seemed to have no bearing whatsoever on what I'd said. I offered to let him stay in my flat via a tentatively worded voice message and after three days he sent a text that said,
Vanilla
. I immediately sent three question marks in reply but needless to say it went no further and for hours on end I tried to work out what he'd meant, or if in fact it was even meant for me. More recently when I texted that I was flying out in a few weeks and did he want to meet for a drink to get my keys he wrote back (quickly this time)
Dresser
. Which I could only interpret as where to leave payment for a hooker.

‘Do you have any of these problems with Jakob?' I said to shift the focus off me.

At odd moments, Hanna's life became a fantasy for me and I imagined myself the dutiful housewife and Hanna single again, exploring the world, pitying me for the compromises I'd made. Hanna had thought that Bankes's existence would encourage her husband to be home more, but that hadn't transpired. On paper they had a successful life, but spiritually it was as full as a retiree's optimism.

Rain started to patter onto the rubber-backed blanket, so we moved it to shelter beneath a tree, but the space was home to a swarm of mosquitoes and we were instantaneously under attack. We went to sit in Hanna's car to finish the last of the wine (well, I did, as she was driving), scratching at our fresh welts. Her car was filthy and smelled like melted sugar treats, stale bread and nappies.

‘Where is this all leading?' she asked as she gazed out at the frenetic activity of a park packing up in the rain.

‘Sometimes I wish I knew, but mostly not.'

‘Did you ever think in our university days that we'd be here?'

‘No.' I drained the plastic cup and looked at her. ‘But it's not all bad, is it?'

‘Not all. Things could be a lot worse, I suppose.'

‘Yes, just look at Lana,' I said.

M
al was around for another morning to drive me to school. It was a stinking hot day already, the air thick with humidity, distant dark clouds threatening an afternoon storm. Mal was wearing blue shorts and a tight singlet that made the roll of his lower belly more pronounced. His arms were wide but unshaped, and the hair under them was so thick it looked as though there was no skin beneath. I'd heard my mother making love to this man just a few hours before, lying in bed, mesmerised, ashamed to be overhearing but too fearful of being caught out as a voyeur to make a move to block out the sounds. Afterwards, Mum's mood was unbelievably light and for this I was thankful. It was a far cry from the nights after Pa's death when she'd cried herself to sleep like an inconsolable baby. Mal was thoughtful and considerate around the house, too. He didn't leave his crap lying about, he always helped clear away the dishes and offered to help me with outside chores. And he was clean.

Unlike most of my mother's callers, Mal wasn't afraid to engage in conversation with me; he was genuinely interested in my movie index cards and gave no indication that he was judging me unfavourably. Being dropped at the school gate by him filled me with a sense of pride and I hoped Harlen and the rest of them had caught a glimpse of Mal, who for sure would not take any shit from any of them, or their dads.

I lingered near the gate waiting for Spencer to arrive but the nine o'clock bell tolled and there was still no sign of him. I figured Spencer had seen me waiting and changed his course to sneak in one of the side gates, but when I made it to the classroom, running late and panting, Spencer's seat was empty. Perhaps he was just sick, or running late too.

Today we were learning about Australian prime ministers. I could name them all in order because we'd learnt this at the beginning of fifth class, but obviously Mrs Nguyen hadn't thought to check what had been on last year's syllabus. As Mrs Nguyen continued to ramble, my thoughts turned once more to Katharine Hepburn. I knew I had to write to her, discuss with her the possibility of us being distantly related, whether she could remember meeting Ma and, most importantly, what she thought her brother Thomas would be doing if he were alive today. Maybe I needed advice on how to be Thomas? Did she, in some not insignificant way, credit part (or most) of her success to his existence? We were barely on Menzies when I'd mastered the opening paragraph of my letter, and for the remainder of the morning, without Spencer's presence to distract me, I drafted the entire contents in my mind. Its closing paragraph would declare that I was ready to become Thomas Houghton.

News came through at about two o'clock that Spencer had broken his collarbone. Mrs Nguyen announced it to the class and suggested we all help him out when he returned, see if he needed assistance carrying things, or taking down notes from the board. The class was in shock, low murmurs echoing from one side of the room to the other. It wasn't often that a serious announcement such as this was made midway through a lesson and a broken bone was not a common occurrence in sixth class.

Before long, notes were passed along the rows and I could see enough of the large scripts and hear enough of the whispers to know that Simon Harlen boasted it had happened during the previous afternoon's soccer match and he'd been the one to walk Spencer down to the doctor's to get it seen to. Mrs Nguyen asked him to stand and announce his gossip to the class, which he did proudly, so she commended him on his common sense and it did not take long for a new ripple of whispers to spread through the room.

I worried for my friend, and wanted now, more than ever, to make contact with him, to see how he was getting on. I wanted to raise my hand and ask to go and be with him, to at least visit him and take him his homework. Of course this had to happen when he and I were not talking and there was no way in the world he was going to let me be of any help.

•  •  •

As soon as I walked in the door after school I went to my room, lay down on the bed, picked up the telephone and dialled the number. Mrs Michaels answered and did not hesitate to get Spencer on the phone, even taking the time to thank me for calling. With any luck, Spencer had kept the whole episode in Pa's garage to himself and my overactive mind had simply blown it out of all proportion.

It took quite a while for Spencer to get to the phone, understandably so, and when the other end of the line finally crackled as he picked up the receiver, I had second thoughts. If Spencer's mother hadn't identified me, I would definitely have hung up.

‘Hello?' He sounded tired.

‘It's Tom.'

‘I know. Mum said.'

‘Well, thanks for picking up.'

‘Okay.'

‘I heard about your arm . . . your collarbone, I mean.'

‘Yeah.'

‘Are you okay?'

‘Fine.'

‘Did they . . . did Simon and them hurt you? Was it really an accident?'

‘I tripped.'

‘Oh . . . oh, okay then. Does it hurt?'

‘A bit.'

‘Can I – ?'

‘Mum's calling me for something.'

‘Well, before you –'

I looked at the receiver and wondered what technical mishap had occurred to disconnect us. But there was no other explanation: Spencer had hung up on me. It made my blood boil to think that I had done the decent thing, called to see my friend was all right, only to have him take the stupid moral high ground and hang up on me. I wanted to knock some sense into Spencer and was tempted to march straight over there so we could talk it over like adults. As I fantasised about that conversation, how we'd end up laughing over the simple miscommunication and agree to spend the night at one or the other's house, the phone rang. I jumped.

‘Hello?'

‘Hello, Tom. This is Spencer's mother.'

‘Hello?'

‘Spencer is very upset. What have you been saying to him, please?'

‘Sorry?' I thought it must be some kind of joke, Harlen and them getting someone to pretend to be Mrs Michaels. But she continued.

‘He has not been the same since being at your house. Can you tell me please what is going on?'

My mind was racing with the very real possibility that Mum (and worse, Mal) would be told about what had happened in the garage. I panicked, and self-preservation was the unforeseen instinct that kicked in. I cannot say why it happened the way it did. Maybe I wanted to punish Spencer more than I wanted to save myself, or maybe I was re-enacting a scene from a film.

‘I . . . I . . . It wasn't our intention to tell you this, Mrs Michaels, we had wanted to keep it a secret.' I spoke slowly, importantly.

‘Yes?' She sounded grim.

‘I'm afraid some money of my mother's went missing while Spencer was here.'

‘It what?'

‘I've been trying to get him to return it because we didn't want to involve the police. I'm sorry it's come to this.' I knew I sounded convincing and while my cheeks were ablaze with guilt, there was no turning back now.

‘Police? Not my Spencer. How much money is missing?'

‘Fifty dollars. It was a fifty-dollar note.'

‘Oh dear, please, is your mother home? I would like to speak with her in person?'

‘My mother is working, sorry. Mrs Michaels, we don't wish to make a big deal of this, we just thought Spencer would return the money of his own accord.' Blood was hurtling through my veins, my pulse pumped hard with adrenaline, but my voice remained firm. ‘We do not want your cash, that's not acceptable. But perhaps . . .'

‘Please, do not worry, Tom. Spencer's father will deal with him this evening and he will return the money to you, have no fear of that.'

‘Thank you, Mrs Michaels, my mother would be most pleased.' I hung up.

It was thrilling, in a vindictive Hollywood kind of way. I knew it was just a matter of time before Spencer turned on me, told his parents what had happened in the garage, maybe even spoke about it at school. The drama filled me with the anticipation of a fight, one I felt confident of winning, even though I couldn't quite grasp how it would be played out, or when. This way, at least, I'd made the first move and shown Spencer I wasn't one to be messed with. Spencer had better think long and hard what he was going to tell those other boys about Tom Houghton. The master plan, such that there was one, was to impress Spencer with my cunning and make him see that I wasn't a weakling; I wasn't just someone to pick on. Tom Houghton was much more than that.

I returned to the garage and spent the afternoon hunting through more of my grandfather's things. The dream about Hepburn had reminded me of the promise of that signed theatre program, Pa's tantalising hint that it existed somewhere up in the rafters. I replaced the box of magazines, now dwindled to just the explicit few, and hunted around for something that looked as though it might contain more of my grandmother's things. I climbed up the shaky wooden ladder and spotted a faded grey port with brass combination locks. While still up high, I tested it to see if it was open. The catches sprang to life at even a soft touch and I smiled to myself. I pulled it free of its dusty resting place and struggled with it atop the ladder. I rested it on the tops of my feet, manoeuvred myself around it to climb down the ladder's steps, then dragged it down to the concrete floor. Opening it brought with it the unmistakable smell of my grandmother, even though I'd only been eight when she died. Here was her scent, the embodiment of her.

The suitcase was full to the brim with ephemera. A newspaper clipping of a boy who'd drowned in a backyard pool, the young child a distant cousin of my grandmother's. Cards received for her birthday, Christmas cards, handcrafted notes from when Mum was a toddler. A copy of the newspaper from the coronation day of Queen Elizabeth II. These things I flicked through. I would return to them some day and thoroughly enjoy the titbits of her life, try to get a better sense of who she was. But not now.

About three months before she died of a sudden stroke, Ma took me to the cinema. It was a Sunday tradition she'd begun with Mum, a brief escape from the real world, just to get away from it all. That day Mum had said she was too tired and stayed in bed. Ma and I caught the train to the city then walked all the way to a small cinema in Glebe, one showing a restored version of
Casablanca
. We got along well, Ma and I, conversation flowed easily between us and we always managed to share a laugh. We got to the cinema and bought our tickets, she settled me in with an ice cream and told me she needed to go to the bathroom. I said okay. I watched as she walked towards the front doors of the cinema.

‘Ma! Ma!' I called out after her but kept my voice low enough so as not to make a scene. ‘They're in here!'

I saw her hesitate for a second, she'd obviously heard me calling out, but on she went, into the bright sunshine. I looked around the cinema foyer and was suddenly petrified. It was small and dark, unpredictable city types lingered in dimly lit corners. I jumped out of my seat and ran to the front door to catch up with Ma, determined to abandon the whole idea of the movie and just head home, back to somewhere safe. I saw her then, about fifty metres down the road, heading to the pub on the corner and sneaking in like she was about to shoplift.