The Good Son

by Greg Fleet

  ‘My mother was both heartbroken and humiliated in equal measure. Most of my parents’ so-called friends dropped her immediately. It was just too awkward to have her around. Claudia and I became her life. To make sure that we could eat and finish school, she had to work for the first time in her life. For two years she worked in the local fish and chip shop, where every Friday her former friends would drop in and buy their dinner. I know she felt ashamed at our sudden fall, but she also felt pride. She would do anything for her children. If it meant working in a fish shop, so be it.’

  Tamara reached over and placed her hand on his cheek. ‘Oh, James. I’m so sorry.’

  James smiled awkwardly, and then suddenly he was serious again. ‘You know, I wish we’d never had money. Being rich, and then suddenly being kind of poor? It sucks. It’s like being given a birthday cake or a pony called Tarquin, and then having someone take it away, saying, “Oh, sorry, there’s been a mistake; this is for someone else.”’

  He smiled again. ‘I resent every rich person on earth – except you.’

  They got to Coffs Harbour just in time to watch the sun go down behind the Big Banana, a vast walk-through reproduction of a piece of fruit.

  ‘Why?’ asked Tamara, echoing a question that must’ve been asked by hundreds of thousands of people over the years.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said James. ‘Maybe it’s here to dissuade alien invaders? Maybe if they see this they’ll think, “Shit, if their bananas are this big, their people must be huge. Let’s leave.”’

  ‘I don’t think aliens would fall for that. I mean, it’s got “The Big Banana” painted on the outside,’ replied Tamara.

  While Tamara and James were philosophising over the relative merits of ‘big’ things, a thousand kilometres away Sophie Glass was finishing up at the Peggy Day Home. It had been a trying day and she wished that James was there with her. Just because.

  Sophie’s day had centred on Mrs Murphy, the woman who waited each day for her by now middle-aged twins to come visit her. Mrs Murphy had an unflinching but heartbreaking optimism. She never complained that she had been waiting that long, but rather approached each day as though it was going to be the day. The perfect day. The day that her children finally came to see her. So that she could tell them everything – so that she could tell them how much she had loved them.

  For the entire time that she had worked at the home, Sophie had watched Mrs Murphy and her inspiring but devastating daily dance with the ghosts of possibility. While Mrs Murphy’s lonely vigil had often moved Sophie to tears, she had never thought it was her place to tell the old woman to stop, to give up and accept the reality that, after twenty-eight years, her children were never going to come. But that day, as Sophie stood in her office drinking a cup of chamomile tea and gazing out at the proud old woman standing by her proud old tree, something shifted in her. She began to think about the wasted hours that Mrs Murphy had spent in her quest for . . . what? Redemption? Absolution? Sophie went to her desk, picked up her phone and opened the calculator app. Two hours per day × 365 days equalled 730 hours a year. And 730 hours a year × 28 years equalled 20 440 hours. Mrs Murphy had spent 851.67 days out there waiting and waiting and waiting.

  ‘No,’ said Sophie to herself fiercely. ‘It’s not fair.’

  The twins were never coming, thought Sophie, and it was time for someone to tell her. To show her that it was all right to let go.

  But was it all right? What if not letting go was what Mrs Murphy lived for? What if those two potent hours, those 120 minutes of anticipation, were what made the other twenty-two hours of her day bearable? Sophie had spent her life believing that you should let people do whatever they chose to do; that no person had the right to tell someone else what they could or could not do, if they weren’t hurting anyone. But as Mrs Murphy’s carer Sophie also felt that it was her responsibility to do what she could to improve the quality of whatever was left of her life. This was Sophie’s dilemma – Sophie’s choice, if you will . . .

  That afternoon, Sophie went to see Mrs Murphy in her room. The old woman was reading as Sophie stood in the doorway and knocked on the open door.

  ‘Oh hello, Sophie, don’t you look beautiful,’ said Mrs Murphy. ‘What a nice surprise. Come in, come in. And please, sit down, you’re on your feet all day.’

  ‘Thanks, I don’t mind if I do,’ said Sophie, sitting down in a deep green armchair opposite her. ‘How was your day?’

  ‘Quite lovely,’ replied Mrs Murphy. ‘I had a wonderfully long talk with Dr Harvey this morning. Good god, that man is irascible, but also very charming.’

  ‘Ah Dr Harvey, yes, he is quite a handful,’ said Sophie, surprising herself by using a sentence that sounded like it came from the 1940s.

  ‘He’s a dark horse that one. He comes across as such a stick in the mud, but he surprised me today when he said that he was a big supporter of gay rights. He even voted Yes for marriage equality!’

  ‘He did what?’ said Sophie, genuinely shocked.

  ‘Yes. I was extremely pleased. It seems he has a gay son of whom he is very, very proud.’

  ‘Does he just?’ said Sophie. She was stunned by Dr Harvey’s turnaround, and fought the urge to get up and do a little victory dance for herself and James.

  ‘Yes and his son came to visit him recently. It sounded quite lovely.’

  With those few words Sophie became uncomfortably aware of why she was there in Mrs Murphy’s room and what she had come to talk about.

  ‘I saw you out by the oak tree earlier,’ said Sophie.

  ‘Today and every day,’ smiled Mrs Murphy. ‘For longer than I care to remember.’

  ‘How was it?’ asked Sophie.

  ‘It was lovely. It always is,’ replied Mrs Murphy. ‘There are magpies in the tree with a four-week-old baby. It’s started to fly and it’s very sweet. And the adult birds never swoop me because they are used to me now and they know that I am not a threat. I have named the baby Matilda.’

  ‘How long have you been going out to the tree now?’

  ‘Twenty-eight years,’ said Mrs Murphy without having to think about it.

  ‘Do you think . . .’ said Sophie, ‘that maybe . . . it’s time . . .’

  ‘That maybe it’s time I stopped?’ asked Mrs Murphy.

  ‘Yes. I just think . . . What if they aren’t coming? I see you out there every day, and I worry for you.’

  ‘Oh, Sophie, that’s very kind of you,’ she said. ‘And you know, perhaps they won’t come – but perhaps they will. And really, at my age, what is life but waiting? Waiting for dinner. Waiting for your children. Waiting for yourself. Waiting for beginnings, or for an end.’

  Sophie eyes began to fill with tears. ‘I just . . .on’t want you to feel alone.’

  With that the dam burst and Sophie cried. She cried for all the hurting. She cried for Mrs Murphy, and she cried for everyone. Her friends, her family, for the lost and the broken. She cried for Charlotte Durham and Dr Harvey. She cried for herself and for James and Tamara, somewhere on the road. She cried for old Cash Driveway. She didn’t try to stop; she just cried.

  ‘I’m sorry, this isn’t very professional of me.’ But the crying eased something in her and the tears kept running like rivers.

  ‘It’s okay, Sophie,’ said the old woman, handing her a tissue, and then the entire box of tissues. ‘You cry, my girl; it’s a balm for the soul. But you needn’t cry for me. I’ve done enough of that for a few lifetimes.’

  Mrs Murphy went quiet for a minute, contemplating, and then said, ‘I want to tell you something. I know that they probably won’t come. My children. They have their own lives now and perhaps their own children. I am like a story to them, if that. But it doesn’t really matter any more because when I’m out there, waiting, it’s as though they have already arrived. They’re out there in the tree, in the grass, in the sky. Even if they don’t know how much I have loved them, I do. I know. And sometimes that’s enough.’

  ‘You a
re going to make me cry again,’ said Sophie. After a moment, she continued, ‘Mrs Murphy, do you think – would it be okay if sometimes I came and waited with you?’

  ‘I think that would be splendid.’

  I know. I know. I know.

  At around nine o’clock James and Tamara drove into Byron Bay. The moon was shining on the ocean, silhouetting the mountains like in a movie, or a really describey book. James eased the Jaguar into a parking bay outside a very swanky hotel. What hotel? I’m not saying. Not until I reach a level of fame where I get sweet payola and free accommodation for name-checking such an establishment. Suffice to say, it was one of those places where everything has been thought out in advance – a place where, just as you realise you want something, it magically appears in front of you.

  After Tamara had checked them in and a porter had taken their bags up to their rooms, they exchanged looks in the foyer and, without saying a word, made their way to the bar out on the verandah. It was dark and cool and James found their seats even more comfortable than his seat in the Jag. The waiter came over to their table and they ordered two extremely dry martinis.

  ‘It feels good here,’ said James as the waiter arrived with their drinks. ‘And it’s about to feel even better.’

  ‘Here’s to you and Sophie,’ said Tamara.

  ‘Here’s to you and Baylor,’ replied James.

  They could hear the waves breaking as they took their first sips.

  One hour and four martinis later, as they sat staring out towards the sea, Tamara asked, ‘Why did you agree to this? To coming here with me?’

  ‘I don’t really know,’ replied James.

  ‘My daughter offered you ten thousand dollars. I don’t imagine that is still on the table.’

  ‘No. Probably not.’

  ‘So why did you come?’

  ‘I guess because we get on well,’ he replied. ‘And maybe I just needed to feed some toast to a horse.’

  ‘Hmm. Perhaps,’ said Tamara. ‘Speaking of food and horses, how’s eight o’clock for you for breakfast tomorrow?’

  ‘Well, I have a few business meetings but I’m sure they can be rescheduled,’ James replied. ‘Eight sounds fine.’

  Tamara nodded in approval and paid the bill, leaving a very large tip.

  ‘You really are trying to spend all of your money, aren’t you?’ asked James as they made their way to the lifts.

  ‘Oh, I’ve been trying for years. If you decide that you want any food and drinks or anything, just charge it back to your room.’

  When he got to his room James wandered around, exploring its majesty. Unlike a lot of people, he loved hotels, especially hotels as fancy as this. He went straight to the minibar and fixed himself a vodka and ice.

  Taking his drink out to the balcony James sat and pondered his good fortune. He was very aware that, of all the great things being afforded him on this trip, the greatest luxury was Tamara Higginson’s companionship. He thought about this as he listened to the waves crash onto the shore. He hadn’t seen the waves yet but was confident that they existed somewhere out there in the cool dark. Then, feeling like hearing from home, he called Cash Driveway.

  ‘Hey, CD, what’s up?’

  ‘Not much, friend. I’ve just done a huge painting of Kim Jong-un doing a horsey off a high-diving board. It’s not very subtle but at least I haven’t set anything on fire. And I had lunch with Sophie today. She is a real winner . . .on’t know what she sees in you.’

  ‘Thanks, friend.’

  ‘She told me about Mrs Murphy waiting by the tree. That’s a grim story – it’s gothic.’

  ‘I know. It’s messed up. And she is a really nice lady. But what can you do?’

  The brief shared silence translated to ‘not much’.

  ‘So I assume you guys made it to Byron. How goes it?’ asked Cash.

  ‘It’s great, Cash. I’d almost forgotten how beautiful it is up here. I feel . . . lighter. How’s the cinema going? How’s having an actual job? I told you it was easy.’

  ‘It sure is. I get why you love that place so much now. I actually really dig being in there when it’s empty. You can really sense the history. All those movies, all those people . . .’

  ‘And all those choc-top wrappers that you have to clean up,’ said James.

  ‘Yeah, but it is pretty cool – for a job. And speaking of “pretty cool for a job”, how’s Tamara? When are you guys coming back?’

  ‘In a few days, I guess. I’ll let you know.’

  ‘Great,’ said Cash, and then began a routine the two of them had shared many times. ‘Now, what is the past?’ he asked.

  ‘Something that once happened,’ replied James.

  ‘What is the future?’

  ‘Something that will be.’

  ‘And what is the present?’

  ‘The present is all. The present is now. The present is eternal.’

  ‘Amen to that, brother,’ said Cash before hanging up.

  James Rogers and Cash Driveway shared a belief that the meaning of life was to be found in its moments, and that anyone who spent their existence romanticising the past or imagining a magical future was missing the point and was probably going to end up disillusioned.

  After he had hung up, Cash went back to his painting of the North Korean leader but he couldn’t concentrate. His thoughts were on his friends, and on Mrs Murphy, a woman he had never met. A woman lost in time.

  He sat down at his computer and composed the following email:

  To: srglass@hotmail.com

  From: cashdriveway@gmail.com

  Sophie.

  Cash here. This is our first email! Remember today’s date and we can celebrate this momentous occasion every year!

  I’ve been thinking about Mrs Murphy and I’d like you to send me whatever information you have on her. After what you told me today, I also spoke to James, and the way that the two of you talk about her . . . It made me want to do something, or to at least try.

  I know a guy who’s a private investigator (don’t ask) and I was thinking that maybe he could try to find her children. I mean, that’s what private eyes do, isn’t it? She had twins, right? A boy and a girl? That should make them easier to find, I reckon. My friend the detective is called Ken Rosalind. I’m telling you that just in case after you send me the information he wants to get in touch with you directly, and decides that I should be killed. Unlikely but possible. I don’t know if he’s a good private investigator or a shit one, but I know he owns handcuffs and a gun so at least he’s a reasonably serious one.

  Soph, I doubt very much that he’ll be able to find Mrs Murphy’s children but I thought I at least better have a crack at doing something about it. And like the man said, the only way for evil to triumph is for good painters to do nothing.

  This is my way of trying to do something.

  Yours with love,

  Cash xxx

  See? I told you Cash was a good unit.

  The next morning as they sat down to breakfast James noticed that Tamara looked more frail than usual, slightly jumpy and distracted.

  ‘You all right, champ?’ he asked, watching carefully as she swallowed some heavy-duty painkillers.

  ‘Don’t try “champing” me, James; it doesn’t sit well with you,’ she said, and then added, ‘Have you ever had spinal cancer?’

  ‘Ah, no,’ said James. ‘No, I can’t say that I have.’

  ‘Well, as it happens, I do. And believe me, it is far from pleasant,’ Tamara told him.

  James opened his mouth but initially he couldn’t speak.

  ‘What?’ he said. ‘Are you serious? You have spinal cancer? This . . . this isnt part of your “thing” is it? Like pretending to be blind?’ He could tell just looking at her it wasn’t, though.

  James stood up in a panic. ‘Jesus, are you okay?’

  Tamara smiled. ‘Well, not really. I have spinal cancer.’

  James got up and knelt next to her, and started very gently rubbing
her back. They looked into each other’s faces for a long time, and then he broke the silence. ‘Me rubbing it isn’t really helping, is it?’

  ‘Not really,’ replied Tamara. ‘But I appreciate the intent.’

  Returning to his seat, James looked destroyed by the news.

  ‘Oh god,’ said Tamara archly, ‘don’t get morbid.’

  ‘Well, it’s a pretty heavy piece of information! What’s it . . . what’s it like?’ James asked clumsily.

  ‘I’ll make a deal with you,’ she said. ‘I’ll tell you what it’s like – exactly what it’s like – if you promise to make me laugh.’

  James thought about it for a second and then agreed. What choice did he have?

  ‘Okay, you tell me about it and I’ll make you laugh. But not if laughing is going to make your spine fall out . . .’

  She gave him a ‘nice try’ look. He gave her an ‘I wasn’t trying’ look. Then he took a deep breath and, with a genuinely worried look on his face, asked, ‘Okay. What’s it like?’

  ‘Well, think of the worst pain – physical, emotional, spiritual, whatever – that you have ever experienced. Can you recall it?’

  ‘Yes, but I don’t think it is suitable breakfast conversation.’

  ‘All right,’ said Tamara, ignoring his comment. ‘Now imagine that pain being doubled and then doubled again. Have you got that?’

  ‘Yes,’ said James. ‘But this really is a shit way to start the day. And I’m not sure how funny I can be about this.’

  ‘But these pills, the blue ones, are Endone. They take that kind of pain and wipe it out. They make the worst pain like nothing. So I can bear it.’

  James thought about that and said the first thing that came into his head. ‘Fuck, that’s impressive. Can I have one?’

  Tamara locked eyes with him. ‘Are you in constant, blinding pain?’