The Good Son

by Greg Fleet

  Tamara had The Pretenders on the stereo. James turned it up louder as they pulled onto the highway, both of them smiling into the sun.

  By the time they got to Canberra, it was late. James parked the car outside the hotel Tamara had booked, and as they got out he stretched and breathed in air that was much thinner than he was used to.

  ‘What, no valet parking?’ he asked Tamara with mock outrage.

  ‘I’m sorry, are you terribly disappointed?’

  ‘I was kind of looking forward to it being like a movie. You know, tossing the keys to some young guy in a suit, slipping him a twenty-dollar note and saying something cool.’

  ‘Like what?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know. Something like “G’day, mate. Whatcha reckon of me car?”’

  ‘Very cool,’ smiled Tamara. ‘Are you hungry? Do you want to find somewhere for dinner?’

  ‘Not really. I’m more tired than hungry.’

  ‘Excellent. I agree. Let’s just sleep and then have a ridiculously large breakfast tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Best plan ever,’ said James.

  After they had checked in, James, wearing his backpack, dragged Tamara’s suitcases up to her room. When he had lifted the two big bags onto the shelves provided, he stood there panting for a moment.

  ‘Thank you, James. Tomorrow night we’ll stay somewhere with valet parking and staff to carry bags,’ said Tamara. ‘I rather like the idea of you tossing the keys to some chap. And we have to try to spend as much of Catherine’s money as possible in the next few days.’

  ‘Your money,’ he corrected her.

  ‘You know, I don’t usually surround myself with outrageous displays of wealth. It all feels very shallow. It’s wonderful to have nice things, but there are limits . . . Have you ever seen the film Chariots of Fire?’ she asked suddenly.

  ‘Sure,’ said James. ‘The Paris Olympics, Eric Liddell, not running on Sunday because he was a Christian. I love that film.’

  ‘Well, you know the section where a wealthy English athlete is practising on his estate, and he has hurdles set up for 100 metres on his beautifully manicured lawn and his butler places a half-full glass of champagne on each hurdle? The idea is that he hits the hurdles with his foot as he clears them, but not hard enough to knock the champagne off. And do you remember what the athlete says as he’s about to launch himself down the line? He turns to his butler, who is standing there holding a half-full bottle of champagne, and he says something like, “Touch but don’t spill, Peters. Touch but don’t spill.” And you know, ever since seeing the film thirty-odd years ago, that particular line of dialogue returns to me again and again. I’ve come to think of it as a kind of metaphor for life. Touch but don’t spill . . . Goodnight, James Rogers,’ she said, smiling warmly.

  ‘Goodnight, Tamara Higginson,’ said James, closing the door to her room and going to his own.

  ‘Touch but don’t spill,’ he thought to himself, nodding.

  Like a lot of places that were designed on a flat piece of paper, Canberra is at its most impressive when viewed from above. From the balconies of their respective hotel rooms the next morning, James and Tamara admired the nation’s capital as they both made phone calls, Tamara to Catherine and James to Sophie.

  Tamara told Catherine what she and James were doing. She told her about having faked most of the medical conditions and why she had felt she needed to do so. She also told her daughter that in a week or so, when she and James returned from Byron Bay, she would be moving out of the house and into the Peggy Day Home with a minimum of fuss. Catherine was relieved. When they rang off both women felt they could breathe easier, and they did. So all in all, a good phone call.

  As was James and Sophie’s.

  ‘So what’s it been like?’ she asked. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Canberra. We stayed here last night, about to smash a huge breakfast and then on to beautiful Byron Bay,’ he said, sounding like a poorly made ad for a travel company.

  ‘I’m so jealous. Is it like some huge adventure?’

  ‘Yeah, It’s been pretty cool. I always forget how varied the landscapes of this country are. And it’s only going to get better. It’s kind of like a geographical representation of getting to know you.’

  ‘Shut up, dickhead,’ she said.

  ‘God, you are romantic,’ he replied. ‘How’s Mrs Murphy? She’ll be out waiting by her tree in exactly one hour and fifty-three minutes.’

  ‘She will indeed. I’ll send her your love.’

  ‘I can’t believe I’m not going to see you for a week,’ he said.

  ‘I know,’ replied Sophie. ‘But I think you’re doing something really important. And when you get back and Tamara moves into the home, the three of us can hang out together all the time.’

  ‘Great,’ he said. ‘And the next time we are in the same bed . . .’

  ‘I’ve been imagining what it will be like,’ Sophie said shyly.

  ‘Well, don’t imagine it too much. I mean, don’t imagine it being too good. Imagine it being awkward and terrible so that when we actually . . .’

  ‘Shut up, James. You are an idiot,’ she laughed.

  ‘I better go. I’ll call you tonight, when we get there,’ he said. ‘Bye, beautiful.’

  ‘Bye, dickhead,’ she replied.

  Thirty minutes later James and Tamara were sitting in the middle of the hotel’s restaurant. As a barista made them coffee Tamara turned to James and asked, ‘Have you ever fed toast to a horse?’

  ‘No. No I haven’t,’ he replied, surprised.

  ‘Hmm. It seems there are a lot of things you haven’t done,’ said Tamara philosophically.

  ‘What is that supposed to mean?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ she replied. ‘It was just an observation. Now let’s eat. I’m starving.’

  After what they both agreed was an astoundingly good breakfast they got back in the car and hit the road. James was in charge of the music that day and he opened the voyage with an American mix that he’d made years before. Tamara continued to impress and annoy James with her knowledge of music – even if she didn’t know the band or the song, she knew something about it, like who wrote it or who made the film clip.

  ‘How come you know so much about music that is, dare I say it, “of another generation”?’ he asked.

  ‘Because I listen, James. It’s quite a good thing to do. And it’s not “of another generation”. If I’m alive while something is being made, played or performed, as far as I’m concerned, it’s being made, played and performed for me to enjoy. Don’t limit yourself so much. Go out, do something that surprises you. Feed toast to a horse. Live in —’

  ‘Excuse me!’ broke in James. ‘What is with feeding toast to horses? Is that even a thing?’

  ‘I don’t know if it’s “a thing”, but I have done it. It’s kind of as you would imagine, really. Like feeding toast to any large animal. I just wanted to think of something that you hadn’t done and see if I could make you obsess about it. Have you been obsessing about it?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I have. I haven’t been able to concentrate properly since you first said it.’

  ‘Then you are simply going to have to do it. Feed some toast to a horse. Conquer your demons. We’ll stop at the next roadhouse, buy some toast, and have an equine picnic,’ she said.

  James reached over, across Tamara, and opened the glove box in front of her. Inside, very neatly displayed, resting on one of the red serviettes from the hotel restaurant, were two pieces of wholemeal toast.

  ‘I’m way ahead of you,’ he said, ridiculously proud of himself.

  Soon they were standing against a wire fence on a side road off the highway, feeding toast to a couple of very grateful horses.

  ‘This is pretty rad,’ said James. ‘It’s kind of exciting because they almost bite your fingers off.’

  ‘Everyone knows that horses like carrots and apples, but only a select group of people, of whom you are now one, also know th
e giddy delight that a horse gets from eating a simple piece of toast.’

  ‘They sure do,’ he said. ‘If I’d known how much they were going to enjoy it, I would’ve buttered it back at the hotel.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous, James. You can’t feed butter to a horse!’

  Back in the car, as he was about to turn the key and fire up the Jaguar, James stopped and surprised himself by turning to Tamara and asking, ‘What do you think happened to your son? To Robert?’

  Tamara paused for a moment, adjusted herself in the seat and looked into James’ face.

  ‘To be honest, I can’t answer that question definitively,’ she said.

  ‘I’m sorry, we don’t have to talk about it . . .’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Tamara, ‘it’s fine. In fact, I’d rather like to talk about him. It’s just that so much of what happened at the end is a mystery. More questions than answers. And when you’re a parent, no matter what the evidence says, you always hold out a terrible kind of hope that one day your child will walk back through the door, even if you know that’s not possible. Even if you know that your child is dead.’

  ‘Are you sure this is okay to talk about?’ asked James nervously. ‘I don’t want to upset you.’

  ‘It’s fine, James. In fact, it’s good. I’ve actively not talked about him for a very long time and I now think that was a mistake. My beautiful, silly, crazy Robert . . . Are you sure that you’re ready for this?’ she asked him.

  ‘Of course. I’d be honoured,’ he said. And as he started the car and pulled out onto the road in the beautiful morning light, Tamara Higginson told James Rogers about the loss of her son.

  ‘He was a very kind and loving child, but Robert was an escalator,’ she said, ‘in that from an early age he would escalate any situation that he found himself in. If something was bad he would make it worse; if something was dangerous he would make it life-threatening. But, on the flip side, if something was good he would make it perfect. He was a very bright boy but he realised very early on that he didn’t have to work hard to succeed. By the time he was fourteen he had become part of a group of boys who preferred smoking and skulking around the city to actually attending school and studying. In fact for an institution that cost around ten thousand dollars a year in fees, with alumni including prime ministers and captains of industry, his school produced a remarkably high number of fairly infamous criminals. Mostly white-collar, going to prison for financial crimes or having assets stripped by the tax department.’

  ‘Sounds like they may have known my father,’ interjected James.

  ‘Really, why is that?’

  ‘No, no, keep going,’ said James.

  ‘Robert, unlike some of his friends, actually finished school with good enough marks to get him into Melbourne University, but instead he drifted towards criminality. He and his friends embarked upon numerous failed careers, growing dope crops on the coast or trying to deal drugs to the nightclub crowd. He was never a violent person but I think he liked to surround himself with the unpredictable possibilities of that world. Sadly, and in a strange way understandably, I think he found the real world, our world, uncomfortable. Like a suit that simply did not fit him . . . Am I boring you yet?’ she asked.

  ‘Anything but,’ said James. ‘You’ll know when I’m bored because the car will leave the road and crash into a tree.’

  ‘Oh, well that’s nice to know,’ said Tamara before continuing. ‘Like everyone in our family, Robert loved to travel, and most of the time I don’t think he cared where he travelled to. He just enjoyed being out of his comfort zone, assuming he ever even had a comfort zone. At one point, through a very old friend of mine in the music industry, I got him a job in New York. He was assistant manager at a rock venue in the Bowery, but he didn’t stay there for very long. In hindsight it may have been a mistake to send someone with a fascination for the drug trade to work in New York’s East Village surrounded by punk rockers and drag queens.

  ‘After that he came back to Australia and for the next few years he would travel to another country, stay for a little while, and then return home. The fact that many of these trips were to Asian or South American countries would probably have been a red flag to most mothers in my situation but by then I was quite defeated by it all.’ She paused for a moment, remembering difficult things, before shaking herself slightly and continuing.

  ‘The last time I saw my son he was heading off to England to spend time with old friends. I recall that he seemed happier than I had seen him in years . . . And then he simply vanished. The police told us that after he’d been in London for a few days he had withdrawn twenty thousand pounds from his bank account. At first I hoped that he was simply on another nefarious adventure, but a week later Scotland Yard called to tell us that they had found his briefcase and his passport abandoned in the dirt on the side of the M1. He would never have left those things behind willingly. The briefcase had been a gift from his father, and he loved it very much. And any kind of journey that he was going on without his passport was only ever going to be a short and brutal one. It pains me to think of how frightened he must’ve been at the end . . . He would have been terrified, don’t you think?’

  ‘I hope not,’ replied James, feeling honoured to be hearing this but also as though he was eavesdropping on something deeply personal.

  ‘Orphan; widow; widower,’ said Tamara. ‘There are names for those who have lost the people they love. We give them names because we feel for them. But there is no name for those who’ve lost children. Not in our language. That is a bridge too far.’

  They drove for a long time without talking. James shifting the Jag into fifth gear was the only hint at just how fast his heart was racing. He took a deep breath.

  ‘I’m so very sorry about your son,’ he said.

  Tamara briefly placed her hand over his on the gearstick and then turned to look at James, side on, as he drove. She knew he could see her looking but deliberatelely said nothing. She was pushing him, because she could. Eventually he shot her a glance and said, ‘What? What are staring at me for?’

  She held his gaze and said, ‘James, I admire the fact that you ask questions, that you are interested in other people, but I’ve noticed something about you – you ask but you don’t tell.’

  ‘What do mean?’ asked james, knowing exactly what she meant.

  ‘You talk about Sophie and Cash, but that’s about it. Don’t you know anyone else?’

  ‘I know a Thai guy called Graham.’

  ‘What about your parents? What did they do?’

  James made an ‘ouchy’ face before replying, ‘Well, my mother was a mother and fairly recently she died in the place that you are about to move into. So that’s a cheerful topic.’

  This didn’t throw Tamara at all. She carried on as though they were discussing the weather. ‘That’s what old people do, James – we die. You mentioned your father earlier. Tell me about him.’ She had a way of making James do things, even if he didn’t want to do them.

  ‘He died too, but . . .’

  James stopped talking. He looked deeply uncomfortable, a look Tamara had not seen on his face before.

  ‘But what? Come on, James. It’s your turn to share something personal.’

  James pulled the car over to the side of the road and turned to face Tamara. ‘Are you sure you want to hear this?’

  ‘Oh, James, are you serious? Can you imagine anyone, and I mean anyone, saying no to that question? Of course I want to hear it. I mean, it must be intense; you stopped driving, for god’s sake.’

  He leaned back in the driver’s seat and exhaled deeply.

  ‘Okay,’ said James, ‘here we go. My father was an investment banker. A big one. His name was Bill Rogers . . .’

  Tamara cut him off. ‘You don’t mean “Dollar Bill” Rogers? He was your father?’ She looked shocked.

  ‘Do want to hear the story?’ said James grumpily. ‘I mean, fuck, this isn’t exactly my favourite thing to
talk about. He mucked up a lot of people’s lives. Including mine . . .’ James paused, looking slightly lost. ‘So you know who he was?’

  Tamara raised an eyebrow. ‘James, I think everybody knows who he was. I’m not trying to be rude, but . . . He was Dollar Bill Rogers. I mean, he was famous. Up there with Skase and Alan Bond. Although I’m not sure I ever heard the full story?’

  James looked straight ahead and started the story.

  ‘My father, who was essentially a good man, pulled off the largest ponzi scheme in Australian history. He was a financial genius who made millions of dollars for thousands of people. But he was so confident, and so used to being right, that when the crash came and the market went to shit, he just couldn’t see it or accept it. He honestly believed that he could ride it out – turn it around. You see, he’d never been wrong. Never. And that is a dangerous thing. So he started taking risks, big risks, with other people’s money. He was 100 per cent convinced that he would win, that he would triumph, and everyone would keep getting rich. And then it got worse. So, like a gambling addict, he doubled down. Again. And again. Eventually, he couldn’t stop; he was in too deep. It was all falling apart. He ruined the lives of his friends, his family. A couple of people lost everything; at least one committed suicide. Because of my dad. A man so blinded by success that he simply couldn’t comprehend failure. When the police came for him, I was the one who opened the door for them. I remember being deeply impressed by their uniforms. I was nine.’

  James exhaled and drummed on the steering wheel.

  ‘When they took him away, I didn’t realise he was going to end up in jail. I didn’t go to the court case – that day was the last time I ever saw him. The most confident, able man I have ever met was reduced to a confused mess. As a kid, it is terrifying to see your invincible father broken like a stick. They walked him out the door and he looked like the victim of a terrible misunderstanding, or like someone who had lost his keys. The last thing he said to me was, “I’m so sorry, Jimmy. I’ve just got to go sort some things out.” And I think he honestly believed he could. Just sort it out. Three days later, he died of a heart attack in prison. Dollar Bill Rogers. A man who had been right too many times to understand that he was deeply, deeply wrong.