by Greg Fleet
I have also taken a few liberties with Sophie, Cash and yourself. You’ll have to go to see my lawyer; I’ve included his details.
First, I want you to take the car. You are virtually the only person who has driven it in the last few years and you obviously enjoyed it, so that is done. It is yours. Shut up.
Second, I left a sum of money for Sophie to spend on the Peggy Day Home in whichever way she sees fit. She actually cares for other people, and that is to be celebrated. You will never meet a more caring person. For god’s sake, she even cares for you and Cash. That speaks volumes.
I have told my lawyer to give Cash as much money as he needs to build a ‘big’ thing. Something along the lines of the Big Orange, the Big Pineapple or the Big Koala. I want it to be something that pleases half the people who see it and infuriates the rest . . .
‘Consider it done,’ said Cash.
My final act is this – and while it’s aimed at you, James, nothing would make me happier than to have all three of you involved with it.
Last week I had someone make an offer for the Majestic cinema, and the offer was accepted. The cinema now belongs to James Rogers and there is money set aside to renovate and maintain it.
A week ago you came into my home pretending to be my son and, though it sounds bizarre, in the last several years, few things have made me as happy. If I have brought even half as much joy to your life as you brought to mine, I die a very happy woman. Which reminds me, I better stop writing as I took the pills half an hour ago and I just remembered that I’m dying. Just so that you know, dying doesn’t feel bad. It actually feels like . . .
There was a long pause.
‘What?’ said Cash. ‘Dying feels like what?’
‘I don’t know. That’s all she wrote.’
‘What? She can’t leave it there! I reckon she’s just deliberately holding out on us.’
‘I’m going to have to agree with Cash on this one. I sense a certain degree of joy in her not letting on,’ said Sophie.
It was only after he had finished reading that James realised he was crying. They all were. Three people standing in a hotel bar bawling their eyes out. Something had to change. Sophie raised her martini.
‘To Tamara,’ she said.
‘To Tamara,’ repeated James. ‘The greatest pretend mother I ever had.’
Five days later Tamara Higginson was buried next to Baylor Petersen in the least racist part of the beautiful Bangalow Cemetery. It was a wonderful service. There were about thirty people there, and, importantly, Catherine came. When James first laid eyes on her he felt an odd combination of anger and fear, but he needn’t have. She simply walked up to him with tears in her eyes, put her arms around him, and said, ‘You made her happier than you will never know. Thank you.’
A couple of days after the funeral it was decided that the three of them would drive back to Melbourne using the same car and the same route that James and Tamara had used to get to Byron. On their way out of town, they stopped in Bangalow and bought a two-litre cask of reasonably brutal white wine and some plastic glasses. After pouring a little wine onto the graves of Baylor and Tamara, they sat down and drank and talked.
‘Have you decided what “big” thing you’re going to make?’ Sophie asked Cash.
‘I’m not sure yet,’ he replied. ‘I’m thinking maybe a 200-foot-tall bowl of tom yum soup out of various coloured clothes pegs, and, if I can get permission, I’d install it on the roof of Graham’s restaurant.’
‘Yeah,’ said James. ‘I like it: “The Thai-tanic, Home of the Big Tom Yum”.’
Just then Cash’s phone buzzed. He read something on the screen and then watched a short video that had accompanied the message.
‘Holy shit,’ he said as he watched. ‘Holy, holy shit.’
‘What is it?’ asked Sophie.
‘I think you are going to like this,’ he said to her. ‘Remember the email that I sent you, the one about Mrs Murphy standing out by her tree?’
‘Yes,’ said Sophie.
‘Remember I said I had a friend who was a private investigator, Ken Rosalind?’
‘Yes, Cash, I remember.’
‘Well, Ken went looking for her children, for the twins. I assumed he would never find them . . .’
‘What are you saying, Cash?’
Cash handed his phone to Sophie and she and James watched what Ken had sent. It was a video shot on the grounds of the Peggy Day Home. It showed Mrs Murphy standing as she did every morning by her tree, and it looked no different from any other day. But then something happened. Something that hadn’t happened before. Two people appeared in the corner of the frame. A man and a woman, both in their forties. And slowly, gently, they approached Mrs Murphy.
‘Oh god,’ whispered Sophie. ‘Please let this be real.’
There was a cautious moment as the two people stood in front of Mrs Murphy, not knowing what to do, before slowly she reached out to them and they fell into her arms.
Like a mother and her children.
Like a family.
Sophie, James and Cash took their time on the drive back to Melbourne. What was there to hurry for? James felt a certain responsibility introducing the other two to the mysteries of life on the Tamara highway. And he took that responsibility very seriously. He shared the story of their journey to Byron with Cash and Sophie as they fed toast to a horse over a wire fence by the side of the road. And, though James was telling the story, the other two were hearing every word of it in the strong, bright, beautiful voice of Tamara Higginson.
And how do I know all of this happened?
How do I know that any of it occurred?
I know it because my name is Cash Driveway, and, as your humble narrator, I was there, people.
I was there.
Acknowledgements
This book would not have happened without the remarkable support of the following people:
Roz Hammond for the inspiration, the love and the belief. I’m sorry.
Pauline Davies for encouraging me when I first thought of the story, and for being the kind of parent that I wish I had been.
David Rogers for the roof and the roasts.
Kristen Fleet for taking care of our mother to the end.
Tony Martin for refusing to be pressured into turning on his friends for the simple crime of falling in love.
Sophy Blake for friendship, vodka and art.
My wonderful editor Cate Blake for cutting out the waffle.
Josh Durham for designing a cover that so perfectly captures the story.
Malcolm Hill for coming up with the greatest name ever: Cash Driveway.
Frehd Southern-Starr, stay gold.
Charlie Girl, the best dog ever.
All the authors, filmmakers and musicians who continue to inspire me.
And finally to Ian Darling, for the kindness, wisdom and generosity. A great man, a great artist and a great friend.
About the Author
Greg Fleet is an actor, comedian, broadcaster and author. Born in Michigan, USA, his family moved to Victoria when he was aged four. He studied at Geelong Grammar School for twelve years and then attended NIDA for a year before being expelled. His acting career began opposite Nicole Kidman in 1984 and he went on to star in Prisoner (as ‘Delivery Man No 2’), Underbelly: Squizzy (as Richard Buckley – Australia’s most violent prisoner), and Neighbours (his character killed the much-loved character Daphne), as well as treading the boards as Feste in Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night for the Melbourne Theatre Company, and developing a stand-up career that saw him acclaimed all over the world. Both here and in the UK, his comedy across TV, film, radio and theatre, and the honesty with which he speaks about his long-term drug addiction, have made him one of the most respected, beloved and in-debt stand-up comics around. Greg Fleet’s hilarious and harrowing memoir, These Things Happen, was published in 2015.
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First published by Penguin Random House Australia Pty Ltd, 2018
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ISBN: 978-1-760-14387-9