Tom Houghton (28 page)

‘But any questions I ask my mother,' I told Eddie, ‘usually end up with her asking ten in a row then clamming up. “Why do you even want to know?” she'll ask and then go on with the passive-aggressive “It's me, isn't it, Tommy? It's because I've been a wholly unsatisfactory parent and you want me replaced.” Or the like, and then I will need to spend three weeks reassuring her I think she's done a commendable job. And so I just got to the point where I stopped asking, because at the end of the day whoever he is isn't going to change who I am.'

‘And did she? Do a commendable job, I mean . . . ?'

I wasn't sure how to answer him because I had never asked myself the same question. She was no saint, but she had reasons for her behaviour that ran deeper than any child could have comprehended.

‘When I think of Lana, I think of the young woman who was determined to make me happy,' I said. ‘I was everything to her up to a point in our lives and it's that Lana I am most fond of. She did her best, despite her affliction.'

He asked me to explain but I wasn't ready for that, not yet. Perhaps not ever. I still felt guilty whenever I aired Lana's dirty laundry in public, a Pa hang-up I'd never been able to shed. Instead I told Eddie more about our movie days, and how she tried to immerse us in something other than our Seven Hills existence.

‘Seven Hills? It sounds Welsh, green countryside, farmers and mountains . . .'

I laughed out loud. ‘Think council estates with a poetic aspirational name.'

‘Still, I'd like to visit it some day.'

‘Why on earth – ?'

‘To understand you better, silly.'

‘You poor deluded fool.'

‘We'll see. So anyway,' he said, beginning to wind down the conversation. ‘Aside from your fancy play, I was wondering what you were doing late next Saturday night?'

‘No plans.'

‘And the one after that?'

‘Hmm, let me think. Nope, no plans for that one either, strangely enough.'

‘Good then. Keep them free. In fact, keep every Saturday night free while you're at it.'

‘The calls will cost you a fortune,' I said, giving him his way out.

‘Not as much as all those train fares.'

•  •  •

I couldn't help myself, I needed to call Hanna and share my excitement. She didn't answer her mobile, so I tried her desk phone. Her way was to speak too quickly, before the receiver got near her mouth, so all you got was, ‘Ah speaking.'

A few obligatory inanities and then I blurted out: ‘I think I've met someone.'

‘What's her name?' she asked deadpan.

‘Hah-de-ha. Eddie.'

‘Well . . . ?'

I told her about our conversations and the fact that he was my daughter's boss, which drew a sharp intake of breath. Hanna suggested I was playing with fire when I went on to say that Lexi knew none of what was happening.

‘Can he be trusted not to tell her?'

The question took me by surprise and I honestly didn't know the answer.

‘You never take the easy route, or root, I should say.' She chuckled. ‘I mean, not only does he pay your daughter but he also lives on the other side of the fucking world. Tell me, if he lived in the apartment next door to you would you feel the same or are you getting a bit flighty with the whole travel romance thing?'

Of course I hadn't called Hanna to hear coos of delight. She was asking all the right questions, making the right kind of statements.

‘I don't know,' I said with a sigh. ‘I don't know why I fall for the impossible. But he's just so unlike any of the losers I've fancied before now. He's real. There doesn't appear to be any game playing.'

‘Yet . . .'

‘See, there I think you're wrong. Not every single relationship has to be a minefield of who called last and is it too early to send another message?'

‘We shall agree to disagree, my dear. I'm happy that you've met someone nice, I really am. Shows you not all the puppies in the world are worth petting. But I worry about you getting hurt, that's all. Have you thought about what you're going to do when you return home? Aside from pine, of course.'

Well, of course I hadn't thought further than the next few weeks. And why should I? Why live in fear of what might be rather than in awe of it? I went on to tell her how close Eddie and I had become in just a few conversations but that we'd resisted the physical.

‘If you haven't even fucked him,' she whispered, conscious of her co-workers, ‘how could you possibly know he's a man worth getting excited about?'

‘For once in my life the physical is not swaying my feelings. I thought you'd be commending me on that.'

‘So where's your penis-brain, in a coma or something?'

‘No . . .' I laughed. ‘I am definitely attracted to him.'

‘You know what? I'm reserving judgement for now. I want you to go and have fun with your new plaything and remember: I'm the one who'll be here for you when things go tits up.'

‘Gee, thanks.'

‘But the beautiful thing about me is that I'll also be the one helping you choose your wedding dress of ivory if you manage to survive the odds of holiday shag-cum-long-distance Skype-cum-see-each-other-once-a-year pressures.'

She said she had to run to a meeting, so we promptly finished our conversation. Maybe she had a point. I would be much safer pushing Eddie away while I still could.

H
e was not expelled, suspended or dead. Spencer came back into the classroom on Monday morning amid a murmur of confusion and excitement. His arm was still in its sling and he had shaved his head, close to the scalp. Fitz moved seats and allowed Spencer to sit next to Simon Harlen. He was, it now seemed certain, a fully fledged member of their group. I took the moral high ground, decided I would no longer make any effort at all with Spencer, would no longer silently hope for a return to our friendship. It hadn't been that great, after all, and had barely had the chance to get off the ground, so how could I miss something that fleeting? As the rest of the class struggled to learn the capitals of the world (something I had memorised and could now rattle off like a machine), I wondered where my letter to Katharine Hepburn was now, whether it was in a plane, or had landed in the US, or whether, by chance, it might have even made its way to the Academy. I knew I was being premature, but I imagined it being delivered to Katharine Hepburn's New York house, her assistant Phyllis collecting the stack of mail from the postman at the door. She'd flick through them quickly and then she would pause at the envelope from Australia, the sender's eerily familiar name. Would she open it or take it straight to Katharine Hepburn? More than likely she would open it and read it aloud to her employer. I could see her now, Hepburn, listening to my words but I could not imagine how she might react. It would not be an easy letter for her to receive but she would have to respond to me, regardless.

‘Montevideo,' I said distantly.

‘Thank you, Tom. But raise your hand next time please,' said Mrs Nguyen.

At recess and lunch I was more than content to go to one of my new hiding places – the cool quiet concrete slab under one of the recently installed demountables – and read my magazines. After lunch, Belinda Frame invited me to her birthday party, but I knew I would say no. She'd invited every one in the class, so it wasn't exactly a privilege to get a look in, as Pa would have said. At three o'clock, when the rest of the class went storming out of the room – Simon Harlen paused to hiss ‘Dolly' at the back of my head – I chose to stay behind and help Mrs Nguyen tidy up.

‘Exam results are announced on Friday,' she said. ‘I won't spoil the surprise but you've done very well for yourself, Tom. You should be very proud.'

‘Thanks, miss.'

‘Have you figured what you're going to wear to our Hollywood day?'

‘I have, miss.'

‘Any clues?'

‘No. It's a surprise. A big surprise.'

‘Oh good.' She smiled sweetly. ‘I'm glad you're getting into the spirit of things. Now . . . Tom? How's your mother?'

‘Good.'

‘Coping, is she?'

It took me a moment to work out what Mrs Nguyen was talking about. I found it awkward that she wanted to dwell on Pa's death when, frankly, Mum and I had just got on with things as we should.

‘It was a terribly sad shock when he passed away,' I said smoothly. ‘But life has to go on, doesn't it? What with work, keeping house, studies . . . there's really no time to mourn too deeply, is there?'

Mrs Nguyen looked at me as though waiting for a punch line, reconsidered, then made her face appear serious. ‘Well, ah, give her my best, won't you, Tom?'

I carried a box to her car and bade her farewell. It was twenty past three but I still went to the back gate and walked the long way home.

Mal was there, cooking dinner for us. Mum was still in bed. Despite this, Mal was behaving childishly, as though he knew some secret and wasn't letting me in on it. I went about my chores, picked all the ready vegetables, gathered them together and washed them under the tap. I carefully collected all of the eggs in an old cotton-lined basket Mum had made specifically for the purpose and put it under the shade of the lemon tree. I scraped up all of the chook poo and spread it over the empty garden bed next to the garage, which was just about ready for its new crop. It was then I realised I'd not seen the angry bird for a while. I looked in all four of the small boxes, expecting her to be playing some trick on me and biding her time to launch a surprise attack, but she was not in any of those. I squeezed in behind the garage and checked among Pa's building supplies to see if she was hiding in there.

Under one of the makeshift shelves, I found her. She was dead. I couldn't help but feel a certain sense of loss, our long-standing rivalry now complete, never again the adrenaline of attack and counter-offensive. I couldn't bear the thought of eating her, so I decided not to tell Mum about her, choosing instead to bury her under the lime tree. I worked quickly and efficiently, digging a hole that was altogether too large for her, but at least it was deep enough that the other chickens would never be able to scratch their way down to her body. I paid my respects to a worthy opponent and carried the eggs and vegetables in to the kitchen.

‘Thanks, Tom,' Mal said when I came back. ‘I've put your dinner in the fridge.'

‘Thanks. How's Mum?'

‘She'll be all right, mate, eh? Just needs her rest. Don't forget to collect all of those rubbish bags from the garage, we'll need to put them out tonight.'

My stomach sank and I thought I might be sick. He'd found the magazines and now he was going to confront me about them, found it funny I was playing with myself up there alone. My face turned scarlet, my pulse quickened and I wished I could dig myself into that hole with the angry bird. I went up to the garage and noticed for the first time the roller door was closed – so Mal had been up here. I took a deep breath, rubbed my belly to try to calm it and slowly opened the door, fearful of what I would find.

The first thing I saw was the couch. Not the stained, perpetually damp one from the yard, but a low, comfortable-looking plush couch, deep enough for me to have my feet up on. In the corner where the boat had been now sat a television on a milk crate. On top of it was a video recorder. I heard Mal behind me then, coming to share the surprise and see that everything was to my liking.

‘I don't understand.' I struggled to find the right words. ‘It's not Christmas yet.'

‘It can be, today! My housemate was moving out, he went back home. Said he was going to chuck it all away, so I brought it over this afternoon in my van.'

‘Thanks, Mal! He was gonna chuck out a television?'

‘Well, actually, I bought that off him.'

‘How much do I owe you?' I would have given him just about the whole five hundred for this.

‘I don't want your money, eh, bro? My treat. Go have a look next to the telly . . .' Mal tilted his head in its direction.

There on the milk crate was a box set of films starring Katharine Hepburn.

‘I know she's one of your favourites, thought maybe after the biography you would be interested in seeing some of her earlier movies.'

One of them was
Christopher Strong
, and it was a sign my plan was correct, my fate was sealed. I confirmed this by gently rubbing my fingers against the small square of material in my pocket.

•  •  •

The next day at school was unremarkable except for the fact that Spencer did not show. The rumours circulated excitedly again; so he had been expelled after all. I listened carefully to Simon Harlen's role in their spreading, but it was clear to me, at least, he knew no more than anyone else. I doubted they socialised much outside of school, doubted that Simon Harlen had ever set foot in Spencer's house and certainly would never have slept tip to toe in his bed. The mystery of Spencer's absence seemed to distract the thugs enough for them to ignore me and I found it a comforting change, though perhaps it just meant the storm would be worse when it returned.