The Good Son

by Greg Fleet

  ‘You can even smash something if you want to. I do sometimes. It helps. And most of the stuff in here is just cheap junk . . .’

  ‘I’ll be fine, but thank you,’ said Catherine Darling crisply.

  Sophie suddenly felt the need to get the conversation back on track, away from petty vandalism and back onto aged care.

  ‘Look, I can assure you that if your mother comes to stay with us she will be cared for, she will be treated with dignity and she will have access to the best of all professional care. We really would look after her.’

  ‘Well, that sounds ideal,’ said Catherine and then after a long pause added, ‘Do you have anyone here who could convince her of that?’

  ‘I’m sorry? Convince her?’

  ‘Yes. She is most definitely going to take some convincing. She seems to think that everything is fine. She rolls around blindly in that big house in complete denial of her physical and mental situation. I’ve lost track of the number of conversations we have had where I have expressed my desire, and my practical need, that she move into some kind of assisted-living situation.’

  ‘And what does she say?’ asked Sophie.

  ‘She dismisses it out of hand. She seems to think that she will live forever and that she can do everything by herself. But the truth is, things have to change, and they have to change now.’

  ‘I understand. Of course. But the thing is we generally don’t get involved in that side of things. The family usually deals with that and then brings their loved one here. We then show them around and do our best to make them feel safe and appreciated. Is there anyone else that could help? Any other family members?’

  ‘No,’ replied Catherine firmly. ‘There is only me. My father went years ago. There is no one else. I had a younger brother but he disappeared about twelve years ago. Black sheep of the family – always surrounded himself with very dubious and dangerous people. He went to England and we never heard from him again.’

  ‘Oh, god, I’m so sorry to hear that!’ said Sophie.

  ‘No, don’t be. It’s all just history. My strange family history. But the point is there is no one else; it’s just my mother and myself. If there’s any way you can help facilitate this, or assist me in convincing her that this is the best place for her to be, I would greatly appreciate it.’

  Sophie looked across the desk at Catherine Darling. For all of her obvious education, high-end accessorising and a lifetime of good fortune she was, in that place and at that time, simply another exhausted, desperate woman trying to do what was right by her mother and by herself. Sophie took a deep, calming breath and said, ‘There is one thing we could try. Tell me more about your brother . . .’

  ‘You told her fucking what?’ James yelled into the phone.

  As Sophie had anticipated, her having told Catherine Darling about what they had been doing at the Peggy Day Home was not going down well with James.

  ‘I mean, who is this woman? She could wreck everything! She could have us shut down! Or arrested or something!’

  ‘Relax,’ said Sophie. ‘You only have to meet her for, like, ten minutes. If you don’t feel good about things, we’ll leave it. Okay? Tomorrow morning. Ten a.m. Just a meeting.’

  ‘All right,’ said James. ‘I’ll be there. But I’m pretty sure this is how World War II started.’

  ‘I’m pretty sure it isn’t,’ said Sophie.

  The next morning James arrived at the centre half an hour earlier than he had to in an attempt to get there before Catherine Darling. Sophie was in her office.

  ‘Please don’t be pissed off,’ she said as soon as James walked in.

  ‘I’m not,’ said James. ‘Seriously. Not any more. I was, but then I talked about it with Cash. He thinks it’s a great idea. A way for me to show my skills in an away game. I mean, I’ll be trying this on in the woman’s own house! That’s pretty out there . . . What do you know about the son?’

  ‘Not much. His name was Robert and he disappeared about twelve years ago in mysterious circumstances in the UK.’

  ‘See? This sounds awesome!’ said James.

  ‘Just keep it together, champ. You haven’t even met the woman yet.’

  ‘Did you just “champ” me?’ he asked.

  ‘Did I what?’

  ‘Did you just “champ” me? It’s a thing. Sometimes you can call someone champ just because they’re a champ. But sometimes you can call someone champ if you’re trying to patronise them or make them see that they’re behaving like an idiot.’

  ‘Well, in that case,’ said Sophie, ‘yes. I definitely just champed you.’

  A short while later Catherine Darling was shown into the office by a member of staff.

  ‘Good morning,’ said Sophie, ‘Catherine Darling, this is James Rogers.’

  ‘So, you are the master of disguise?’ said Catherine archly as the three of them sat down.

  ‘Oh well, that may be exaggerating my skill set slightly,’ said James. ‘To be honest it’s more just us going for a rough physical resemblance and then hoping that the old people are blind enough and out of it enough not to notice the difference . . . Sorry, I’m making it sound kind of shitty.’

  ‘No, not at all,’ said Catherine Darling. ‘And it just so happens that my mother is both “blind enough and out of it enough” to go for this. The fact that your body shape and size are roughly the same as Robert’s is a convenient coincidence. I honestly see this working. All you have to do is convince her to move in.’

  ‘Can you tell us a bit about Robert?’ asked James.

  ‘Of course. Robert was my only sibling. My younger brother; he would now be forty-one years old. A few years older than you, by the looks of things, but I don’t think that will be a problem.’

  ‘What happened to him?’ asked James.

  ‘No one really knows. Or more correctly, someone definitely knows, but we don’t. Robert was always a little bit drawn to crime. God knows why; he certainly didn’t need the money. I think it was probably just the thrill he got from being around those kinds of people. He went to the UK and that was the last we ever heard from him. I think he got out of his depth, in over his head, and somebody killed him. The police found his wallet and his passport on the side of the M1.’

  ‘How was your mother with his disappearance?’ asked Sophie.

  ‘Well, she never really wanted to know about his dark side. In many ways, he was her favourite. At the time that he went missing she was concerned but I think she always assumed that he would come home. Over time, I guess that became less and less likely. But in the last couple of years, as she has slipped further away from reality, she has started talking about him as though he will be coming home from England any day. I think the best way to go forward is that I will tell her that Robert is indeed coming home, and then I take you, James, as Robert, around to the house as soon as possible. You chat with her, you spend some time with her, and you convince her that it is in her best interests to leave the house and move into the centre,’ said Catherine.

  ‘Well, sure. I guess so,’ replied James, not entirely happy that someone was muscling in on his one-man show. He wanted to say ‘I don’t take notes!’ in a theatrical voice, but, in a rare case of sound judgement, thought better of it.

  ‘Did you bring the information on your mother?’ asked Sophie.

  At that Catherine Darling produced a manila folder marked ‘Tamara Higginson’ and placed it on the desk between James and Sophie.

  ‘I imagine everything is there,’ she said. ‘If you need to print anything I also have the whole thing on a USB,’ she added, dropping a stick on top of the file. ‘Listen, I know this is all very short notice, but if you can pull this off, and have “Robert” convince her to move into the centre, you will be doing my family an enormous favour. As such, I would like to do something for you in return. The moment my mother signs the papers and agrees to come live here, I will, on behalf of my family’s trust, donate fifty thousand dollars to the Peggy Day Home, to be spent
however you see fit.’

  Sophie was genuinely shocked. ‘Oh no. Catherine, you don’t have to do that!’

  James was also genuinely shocked by the offer but, unlike Sophie, he was far more ready to run with it. ‘When you say to be spent however we see fit —’

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ said Sophie, firmly. ‘We greatly appreciate the offer but really it’s too much.’

  ‘Well, we’ll see,’ said Catherine as she got up to leave. ‘Perhaps we can discuss it another time. I hope everything you need is in the files. If not, feel free to call me at any time. I will ring in the morning and if the two of you are comfortable with everything, I’ll take James around to meet my mother in the afternoon. Does that sound like a plan?’

  ‘It certainly does,’ said Sophie.

  ‘Yes. We’ll see you then,’ said James from the desk, still somewhat in shock at the thought of 50 000 of anything, let alone dollars.

  After Catherine had left, Sophie and James sat down to go through the file and to talk about what she had suggested.

  ‘What do you think?’ asked Sophie.

  James looked up from the file. ‘Why not? It seems pretty doable.’

  ‘Yeah but . . .’

  ‘But what?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, you’ll be on your own. I won’t be there. What if it goes horribly wrong?’

  ‘It won’t. Catherine will be there. She’ll back me up. And the fifty thousand dollars . . .’

  ‘We are not taking the fifty thousand dollars. Forget about it.’

  ‘Oh Soph! Why? Think of all the cool things we could spend the money on. Things to make this place rock. Things that the residents need. And then we could spend the rest on wild parties!’

  ‘It’s not going to happen, champ.’

  ‘Ouch!’

  ‘So, are you fine with this as it stands?’ continued Sophie. ‘Just take the file home, learn everything you can about Robert and Tamara, and we’ll meet up in the morning.’

  James got up to leave. ‘No problem. I’m feeling really confident. I think this could be the best one that we’ve done.’

  ‘Great. Great. I’m glad. If anybody can pull this off, it’s you. If you need anything tonight just call me, okay? And James?’ He looked back to her. ‘You really are a champ. I mean it.’

  That night over dinner from Thai-tanic, James told Cash about Catherine and Robert and Tamara Higginson. Cash liked the plan, but then again Cash liked most things except for offal.

  ‘If she says that you don’t look like her son,’ suggested Cash, ‘just tell her that you have been working for the CIA and that they made you get plastic surgery.’ If anyone else had suggested this James would have thought they were trying to be funny. But someone else wasn’t suggesting it; Cash Driveway was suggesting it, and the look on his face said he was being completely serious.

  ‘Okay,’ said James, ‘I’ll keep that in mind.’

  ‘Did I ever tell you about the time in England when for a day and a half I had a job as Tony Blair’s body double?’ asked Cash, as though this was the most normal thing in the world.

  ‘What? Tony Blair, the former prime minister?’

  ‘Well, he was the current prime minister then,’ replied Cash.

  ‘But you don’t look anything like Tony Blair,’ said James, baffled.

  ‘I know. I think that’s why I only had the job for a day and a half.’

  ‘Why did he even need a body double?’ asked James.

  ‘Well, I don’t know. I guess in case someone tried to shoot him or something,’ said Cash.

  ‘But Cash! That means somebody could have shot you!’ James said this assuming that the possibility would not have occurred to Cash.

  ‘Probably not,’ said Cash calmly. ‘They would’ve just looked at me through the scope of the sniper rifle and thought, “That’s not Tony Blair; that guy looks nothing like him,” and then they would’ve just packed up and gone home.’

  James’ face had the expression it often had when he was talking to Cash about things like this. Not so much ‘is this true?’ but more ‘how did we end up here?’

  Cash picked up Tamara Higginson’s folder, studying a photo of her. ‘James, she’s beautiful. She looks like someone who has lived life on her own terms. Like someone who is rich but isn’t an arsehole. I would very much like to paint Tamara Higginson.’

  ‘Well, old friend, if I work my magic tomorrow and she moves into the Peggy Day Home, I’ll ask her if you can come down sometime and set up the easel,’ said James.

  ‘Great. Hey, do you know where the word easel comes from, James? It comes from a time when artists would sell their paintings, out in public, as they were painting them. Having them on display as they were being done made for an easier sale. “Easy sale”. Thus, “easy sell”, thus “easel”. That’s where the word comes from.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘No. Not at all. That’s a ridiculous notion. I just made it up. And with that attempted deception, I’m off to bed.’ Cash loved making James believe the unbelievable, and he smiled as he said, ‘Goodnight, Mr Rogers.’

  ‘Goodnight, Mr Driveway.’

  James sat up for another hour or so reading about Tamara Higginson before going to sleep. I’d tell you what he dreamed of, but, as we all know, other people’s dreams are tedious.

  The next morning, after a series of phone calls, it was decided that the plan would go ahead; Catherine would pick James up from the Peggy Day Home at eleven.

  As she drove, Catherine had a steely focus that had been missing at their first meeting.

  ‘Are you ready for this?’ she asked him, her eyes on the street.

  ‘Sure, no problem,’ said James.

  ‘Good. You have to come through for me, James. We can’t go on like this. I’ve told her that Robert is back from London and that I’m bringing him over today. When we get there I’ll say hi and then leave you two to talk.’

  ‘What, without you there?’ said James, a hint of panic in his voice.

  ‘You’ll be fine. She’s thrilled that you’re coming home. And I’ve told her we can only stay for a little while as I have to take you into the city to see about a job managing a hotel. Just talk with her for an hour or so, have a cup of tea, convince her to move into the centre, and it’s job done.’

  ‘You make it sound really easy. It hardly ever is. In fact, the only times it was easy were the first time and the third time,’ said James.

  ‘How many times have you done this?’ asked Catherine.

  ‘Three.’

  ‘So it has been less than easy one time? All the other times it’s been easy?’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose,’ said James.

  At that point Catherine pulled the Range Rover over. They had been driving through the streets of South Yarra and Toorak. Nice people in a nice car moving through nice suburbs towards deception, however well intentioned. She pulled on the handbrake and turned to him.

  ‘James. It is vital that this happens today. When we leave the house she has to have agreed to move.’

  ‘Well, I’ll certainly give it my all,’ he said, not really sure where this was going.

  ‘You have to,’ she said with sudden grimness. ‘Look, yesterday when I mentioned donating the fifty thousand dollars, I noticed that you were far more interested in the idea than your girlfriend was.’

  ‘She’s not my girlfriend!’

  ‘Whatever. You liked the idea better than Sophie did.’

  ‘Yeah, coveting money is one of my hobbies.’

  ‘Okay. I really need you to get my mother to agree – but it has to be today. If you can get the job done, and I have enormous faith that you can, I will transfer ten thousand dollars into your bank account this afternoon.’

  ‘What!’ exclaimed James. The way that Catherine talked about giving away large sums of money so casually was making him nervous. It was making him feel like they were doing something wrong, and that’s not what this was. They weren’t doing anyt
hing wrong; they were doing just the opposite. They were trying to make people feel good. And at least up until then, large sums of money had had nothing to do with it.

  ‘Are you okay with that?’ asked Catherine.

  ‘God, yes, I’m okay with it. I’m extremely okay with it. But you don’t have to do this.’

  ‘I know I don’t have to do it. I’m doing it because I want the job done,’ she said as she put the car back into gear. ‘Do we have a deal?’

  ‘Yes! Yes, we have a deal.’

  And with that Catherine and James drove the last few minutes to the house.

  Tamara Higginson lived on one of the better streets in one of Melbourne’s better suburbs, Armadale. James had always liked the area, because Armadale, while incredibly beautiful, was not austere or forbidding. Unlike similarly luxurious suburbs, Armadale did not give off a vibe of ‘what the fuck are you doing here?’

  James was still thinking about the $10 000 as they pulled off the leafy street and into a driveway. The house in front of him was old and stately, and the garden was immaculate.

  ‘Wow,’ said James. ‘This is pretty cool. Did you grow up in this house?’

  ‘I did,’ said Catherine as she turned off the car. ‘It was lovely. Are you ready?’

  ‘I guess so,’ replied James.

  And with that he followed Catherine up the winding, manicured path that led to Tamara Higginson.

  Inside, the house was warm and light with high ceilings and expensive, tasteful furniture. As they walked down the hallway James noticed the art hanging in various rooms. He saw reproductions of twentieth-century masters, painters he had studied at art school: Klimt, Picasso, Bacon, Whiteley, Dali, Warhol. Tamara Higginson, or someone who had lived here, was a fan of modern art.

  Catherine was calling out in a singsong voice, ‘Mother, he’s here! Robert’s here!’ At the end of the hallway was a large open-plan kitchen with what looked to be a comfortable den off to one side. It was there that James first saw her. Tamara Higginson was an old but very impressive woman. Dark glasses covered her eyes and she moved her head in a way that suggested she was almost totally blind. James also noticed that she wore two hearing aids. But what struck James the most on their first meeting was that she was just sitting there, doing nothing but waiting. Waiting for what? For him? For something more permanent? ‘God,’ James thought to himself, ‘getting old really sucks.’ He snapped out of it just in time to hear Catherine saying, ‘Look who’s here, Mother, it’s Robert!’