The Good Son

by Greg Fleet

  Sophie nodded encouragingly and James did as he was told. Was this actually working? Sophie seemed to think it was, and if Sophie thought it was . . . He sat next to Mrs Harrison and her hand gripped his as though she never wanted him to leave.

  Her hand felt happy and, after all, wasn’t that the whole point of this?

  ‘Now, tell me all about your work and the oil rigs,’ she said, and then to Sophie: ‘He’s an engineer, don’t you know?’

  ‘Mum, it’s all been very exciting. I’ve just flown in from a rig off the coast of Mexico. We had a huge oil fire there and they had to shut her down for a couple of weeks.’

  A sudden wave of panic flew through Sophie; James was going off script. He was going to screw this up. She should have known that things were going too well.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Mrs Harrison. ‘What’s its name?’

  ‘What’s name, Mum?’

  ‘The rig. What is the rig called?’

  ‘Oh, the rig . . . She’s called the Machu . . . Picchu . . . Express . . . Yes. The Machu Picchu Express. She is an absolute beauty – when she’s not on fire.’

  ‘How exciting! The Machu Picchu Express. It sounds like a train!’

  ‘Yes, it certainly does. A train . . . But tell me about you, Mum. How are they treating you here? That Sophie seems a little severe.’

  ‘No, they’re treating me very well. Sophie is wonderful!’

  Sophie smiled from the corner, relieved that things were getting back on track.

  ‘I don’t know, Mum, she reminds me a bit of Nurse Ratched from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest,’ said James, sneaking a look at Sophie and clearly enjoying himself.

  ‘Oh be quiet, Steven. I think you have a crush on her,’ Mrs Harrison replied.

  ‘No I don’t!’ said James, suddenly looking and sounding about twelve years old.

  ‘I think he does,’ said Mrs Harrison sagely to Sophie. ‘He is always mean to the girls he likes.’

  ‘Mum!’ This was getting too real all of a sudden for James.

  The visit flew by in an exchange of affectionate banter, and the excitement in the room was shared by all three of the people present. Eventually James leaned down and kissed Mrs Harrison on the cheek again.

  ‘I better go, Mum, but I’ll be back to see you next week.’

  ‘Oh, Steven, I’m so very proud of you. I could not have hoped for a better son.’

  When the two of them got back to the office and Sophie shut the door, there was a single second’s silence before they erupted into a mini party. Jumping around, whooping, high-fiving, even a couple of slightly awkward hugs.

  ‘How was it?’ asked James. ‘Was it okay?’

  ‘It was sublime,’ replied Sophie, who was looking into James’ eyes as though she could see something that up until then had been shrouded in a fog. A look that spoke of trust. ‘You were amazing.’

  ‘It was great. It was way easier than I thought it would be. I did kind of panic at the start . . .’

  ‘I saw that,’ said Sophie. ‘But then you just punched on through. You were surprisingly impressive.’

  ‘Yes,’ said James theatrically, ‘I was rather impressive, wasn’t I?’

  ‘Except for the Machu Picchu Express bit. What was that?’

  James took out his phone and starting looking for something, petulantly, clearly not enjoying being chastised. ‘I was improvising!

  The Machu Picchu Express was the first thing that came to mind. It was fine.’

  ‘It was dangerous, is what it was. What if she somehow finds out that it doesn’t exist? I mean, I’m sure we can handle it, but don’t do that again. We have to generalise. Crazy specifics like that could screw the whole thing up.’

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I get it, stick to the plan.’ Downtrodden, he turned to leave, and then stopped, a smile that threatened to engulf the room spreading across his face.

  ‘There is one thing I thought you might like to see . . .’ He handed Sophie his phone, which was open to an online news site, with a headline that read:

  OIL RIG FIRE SHUTS DOWN PRODUCTION IN GULF, MACHU PICCHU EXPRESS EXTENSIVELY DAMAGED

  The story went on to tell about how the Machu Picchu Express, a modern, top-of-the-line rig, had caught fire and been damaged, but fortunately without the loss of life.

  Sophie read the piece and then, though trying not to, started to laugh. He’d been telling the truth. As she handed him back his phone she said, ‘James, you shit. You look just a trifle self-satisfied.’

  ‘I prefer to call it “organised”,’ he smirked.

  ‘Come here,’ she said, her arms open wide, genuine affection shining in her eyes. Was she about to kiss him? The three steps he took to reach her were loaded with possibilities and seemed to take years. When he stood in front of her she placed one hand on his shoulder and did something quite unexpected. She punched him, hard, on the bicep.

  ‘Ow! That wasn’t what I had in mind,’ he said.

  ‘Let’s call it a day of surprises,’ Sophie replied.

  The punch and the Machu Picchu Express appeared to have brought them even closer together.

  ‘I think I’m starting to like you, James Rogers,’ said Sophie.

  ‘I’m way ahead of you. And if all it takes to gain your affection is the occasional punch in the arm – please, punch away!’

  As James got to the door and turned to leave they exchanged smiles. The kind of warm smiles that tell you things are going to be okay.

  And who knows, maybe this time they really would be.

  Dr Alexander Harvey, who was ninety-six years old and had been at the Peggy Day Home for twelve years, was next on Sophie’s list. He’d been a surgeon in the Korean War and then worked at the Prince Alfred Hospital, but now he was losing his memory and balance and had extremely limited sight. Sophie admired him because, despite everything he’d been through, Dr Harvey was still one of the most energetic people in the home – and without doubt he had the best sense of humour of any of her patients.

  He loved to tell jokes (although he never called them jokes – common names were, it seemed, not his thing). He especially liked jokes with a medical theme, which were usually quite complex and very funny. Because of his failing memory, though, Sophie knew that he, like many of our prime ministers, would one day start a joke and not be able to finish it.

  One morning, for example, Sophie saw him completing a crossword puzzle in the recreation room and went to his left side, his ‘good’ side, to talk to him.

  ‘Morning, Dr Harvey. Do you know a two-letter word for handsome?’

  ‘Me,’ replied the old man, smiling. ‘That’s easy, it was in yesterday’s Times.’

  ‘Of course it was,’ said Sophie, ‘because it’s the truth.’

  ‘Would you care to experience an amusing inquiry?’ (The doctor’s word du jour for joke.)

  ‘Of course I would, Doctor. I love you for your mind just as much as for your impressive physique.’

  Sophie sat down in the chair next to him.

  ‘All right, my friend. What do you call the instrument that a doctor uses to remove all signs of hope and positivity from a patient?’

  ‘Wow, Doc, you don’t mind going straight to the grim stuff, do you? Okay, all signs of hope and positivity . . . Can you give me a hint?’

  A change had come over Dr Harvey. His witty expression had been replaced by one of confusion.

  ‘I’m sorry, what?’ he asked.

  ‘A hint? Can you give me a hint?’

  ‘My dear girl, I really have no idea what you’re talking about.’ Suddenly he was a picture of contained panic. ‘I think I need to go back to my room now.’

  Sophie’s heart dropped. This was what she had feared. What she had expected.

  ‘Of course, Doctor. I’ll have someone take you straight back.’

  ‘Why were you asking me about hints? Hints at what? What is it that you think I’ve done?’ He was growing increasingly agitated and had that look of being
lost that you only ever see on the faces of the very young or the very old.

  ‘Nothing, it was a joke . . . It was my mistake. I’ll have Malcolm take you back to your room. I’m very sorry.’

  Sophie turned away to attract the attention of Malcolm, a genius musician who worked at the Peggy Day Home as an orderly to supplement the meagre income that the majority of great musicians receive. Before she had time to get Malcolm’s attention, though, Dr Harvey’s hand shot out and grabbed her by the wrist.

  She was shocked.

  She spun around just in time to see a huge smile spread across his face and to watch him stifle a surprisingly big laugh. Sophie was completely dumbfounded. The old man collected himself and began to speak.

  ‘Oh, Sophie. I am so very sorry. I don’t know what came over me. But you walked straight into that!’ His delight was palpable.

  Sophie was aghast. ‘Doctor Harvey! You . . .’ Suddenly she was laughing too. ‘That was extremely inappropriate.’

  ‘Yes, my dear, yes it was, but it was also extremely funny. I may be old and I may be losing it but I haven’t lost it yet. In fact, if anyone around here is getting soft, I’d say it’s you. Toughen up, old girl; the medical business can be a cruel mistress.’

  His face: the cat, the cream.

  To Sophie, his smile shone like the lights of a great hotel after a long and tedious car trip. These brief moments of joy were what kept her working in an environment where all too often heartbreak and tragedy were the order of the day.

  As she walked away, she turned back to him and said, ‘The bill . . . The instrument that a doctor uses to remove all signs of hope and positivity – it’s the bill.’

  Dr Harvey was suitably impressed. ‘There may well be hope for you yet.’

  He went back to the Times crossword. Sophie went back to the world. Both destinations were cryptic.

  That night James Rogers went home and did his research. He skimmed Dr Harvey’s file but kept returning to the part where Dr Harvey served as a medic in the Korean War. Wars, noted James, often have very positive and even cheerful names. The ‘War of the Roses’ or the ‘Great War’ (a war that history has shown us was not ‘great’ at all, but actually rather ‘shit’). After a couple of wines James ruefully noted that there had never been a war called the ‘I got shot in the side of the face and died in the mud behind a chook shed, thousands of miles from my home and my loved ones war’. But maybe, he thought, that was just implied. Maybe that is the small print for all wars, no matter how rosy or great we are told they are.

  According to the LAGS, Dr Harvey’s wife, Linda, had come to the Peggy Day Home with her husband twelve years ago and then died in her sleep four years later. Their only children were the apparently much doted on twin boys, Michael and Finn. The Harvey clan were a tight family who prized education, travelled the world, and leaned into life in a way that only those who are truly loved and financially secure can. Not with a swagger, but with an ease, or at least that’s how it seemed to James as he read. But then it all came crashing down.

  When the twins were nineteen, Michael and Finn had been travelling in a car heading down the coast for what was to be one more in an endless string of university parties. There was drinking, an accident, and the car rolled. Michael and two of the other passengers were killed instantly. Finn was the only survivor.

  James dropped the file into his lap. He looked up at the picture of Charlie Girl on the beach with the ball in her mouth.

  ‘Jesus, Charlie Girl. Sometimes life is just . . . mean.’

  There was no mention of Finn ever having visited his parents at the Peggy Day centre. Clearly the accident had thrown acid onto what had once been an idyllic family portrait.

  Dr Harvey had often told Sophie that what he wanted more than anything in the world was to see Finn again before his time was up. To one last time see his family, his blood, his only surviving son. So tomorrow James was going to be Finn. He and Sophie were going to grant the dying surgeon his last wish and hopefully give joy to someone who had seen so much pain.

  There was absolutely nothing else in the file about Finn after the death of his brother. No pictures, no education or work history; nothing. James would be flying blind. And playing someone years older than he was.

  That night after James Rogers went to bed, he dreamed of Cash Driveway, Charlie Girl and Dr Harvey fighting in the trenches of World War I. In his dream a loudspeaker was playing the theme song from M*A*S*H, ‘Suicide is Painless’. It was some dream.

  The next morning James got up early as he had to meet Sophie, to run through the plan, and then to become Finn Harvey. He had noticed that since meeting Sophie he was taking longer to get ready each day. Where once he would have just rolled out of bed, thrown on any old clothes, cleaned the cinemas and maybe headed over to Cash Driveway’s place, now he was spending a long time in the shower, using new and assorted body scrubs and shampoos. He was shaving more often, plucking his nose hairs and trying on various shirts before deciding which one to wear. That morning, he looked in the mirror and, after at the last minute rejecting a beret, decided that he liked what he saw. He hoped Sophie would feel the same way.

  Sophie had got to work early that morning to check that everything was in order for that day’s engagement. She and James had discussed shutdown plans for if things went to shit during one of the ‘reunions’. They had decided that if one of the patients seemed to know that what was happening was bogus, if they didn’t buy what James and Sophie were selling, the two of them needed a way to retreat from the plan while causing the least amount of distress. The cleanest and simplest way to do this was what they called Plan B. If someone were to sit up in bed, look at James and declare, ‘Who are you? You’re not my son!’ Sophie would quickly glance down at her clipboard and say to James, ‘Oh, I am so terribly sorry. This is my fault. Steven, your mother is in room 313 not room 212. I’m so sorry. This is Mrs Jennings, not Mrs Jackson.’ James would then politely bid them farewell and be quickly ushered out into the relative safety of the hallway.

  Plan B was obviously not ideal, though, because of the potential to cause upset and because of the extensive explanations that would necessarily ensue. For this reason, it was decided that James would never instigate conversation with his ‘relative’. It was easier and better for all concerned if the patient was the one to make the first overture. If James were to enter the patient’s room, and that patient was to smile and say, ‘Tim! Oh, Tim, my boy. Come in, sit down,’ that was the gold standard of introductions. If James and Sophie could pull off that kind of beginning to a ‘reunion’, assuming they had done their research and that James bore enough resemblance to whoever he was pretending to be, assuming they had picked the right patient, and that patient wanted to believe (because, after all, if James and Sophie were selling anything, it was belief), the two of them were sure things would run smoothly. If, however, the first thing to come out of a patient’s mouth when James entered the room was ‘That’s not my son. My son is a six foot seven Sri Lankan man who had his left hand amputated’, Plan B would swing into full effect and that meeting would be shut down fast.

  Sophie went to the little kitchenette and started making herself a cup of tea. Through the window over the sink she could see Mrs Murphy making her way out to the oak tree for her daily vigil. James entered the office behind her.

  ‘Good morning, fuck face,’ came his voice.

  ‘Hi, shit head’ was Sophie’s reply.

  They had evolved to the point where they had abusive nicknames for each other. To James it was a very good sign. All of his relationships had begun with he and his partner giving each other insulting nicknames. There had been Rabbit Face and Monkey Girl, Stick Woman and the Weasel, Stalin and Idiot Boy, even Gulag and Ebola. Sometimes James thought that all great relationships had to have had an abusive-nickname phase. Then again, none of James’ relationships had lasted longer than six months, so in many ways the jury was still out on this one.

 
Sophie continued to gaze at the old woman by the tree.

  ‘Mrs Murphy?’ asked James.

  ‘Today and every day.’ Sophie’s voice was full of resigned sorrow.

  James came and stood behind his friend.

  ‘It must be ten a.m. She’s like a clock, Mrs Murphy.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Sophie, ‘a heartbreaking clock. Do you want a cup of tea? I’m having chamomile but we have got “normal” now.’

  ‘No. I’ll join you in a cup of “abnormal” tea, if you don’t mind. I’ve got to admit I’m developing quite a taste for it.’

  ‘I knew you would,’ said Sophie with a smug grin.

  He wasn’t. He didn’t like chamomile tea at all. He preferred coffee to tea. And he preferred normal tea to abnormal tea. To James, chamomile tea tasted like hot water poured over straw. But as Sophie handed him his cup he smiled and thanked her. It can be astounding to see the sacrifices that some people will make.

  They both sat down at Sophie’s desk, she on the boss side of the desk, he on the employee side.

  ‘How did you go with Dr Harvey’s LAGS?’ she asked him.

  ‘Great,’ he said, handing the file back to her. ‘But I’m still a little nervous about winging it as Finn. I mean, we know virtually nothing about him. No pictures. No history. All we know is that he travelled a lot when he was young and he survived the car crash in which his twin brother died. What if I am nothing like Finn? I mean, I’m so much younger than him.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. Just stay more than a foot away from his face, and be vague. It’s all about the first couple of seconds. If he likes the first bite, he’ll finish the dessert.’

  ‘He’ll finish the dessert?’ said James, impressed. ‘Where did you hear that?’

  ‘I didn’t,’ said Sophie. ‘I just made it up.’

  ‘You rock,’ said James, before taking a huge swig of chamomile tea and not wincing. Maybe he was starting to like it after all.

  Ten minutes later, their tea finished, Sophie looked at the clock. ‘It’s time.