The Rosie Result

by Graeme Simsion

  He was asleep when we arrived, and my mother made us tea.

  ‘Are you going to cut off a finger or something when he dies?’ asked Hudson.

  ‘Hudson,’ said Rosie, but my mother smiled.

  ‘Why would we want to do that?’

  ‘For the DNA. So we could clone him. And we’d get him back.’

  ‘Except he’d be a baby,’ I said.

  ‘That’d be so weird,’ said Hudson. ‘Pa coming back as a baby and we’d watch it grow and…’

  ‘That’s enough, both of you,’ said Rosie.

  ‘It’s okay,’ said my mother. ‘I had three of them asking me questions like that.’

  ‘Did you keep any of Dad’s sister?’ said Hudson.

  My mother got up and went to the kitchen.

  Rosie was visibly angry. ‘I told you to stop. But you kept going. And now you’ve upset your grandma.’

  Hudson burst into tears, and then my mother came out and hugged him, which added to his distress.

  ‘I’m not in any pain, thanks to science,’ said my father. ‘How’s the bike riding going?’ he asked Hudson, who had benefited from a time-out period in the garden.

  ‘Badly.’

  ‘Training wheels?’

  ‘Uh-huh. It’s easy with them on.’

  ‘Tell your father to forget the training wheels.’ I was in the same room and thus able to hear directly, so ‘tell your father’ made no sense. I guessed he was losing some cognitive function. ‘Your dad always wanted training wheels but ask him how he actually learned.’

  Incredibly, because I had learned to ride a bike eventually, I did not know the answer. I had memories of practising, but not of any breakthrough that had overcome the falling problem.

  ‘If he hasn’t remembered by the next time I see you, I’ll tell you. But don’t leave it too long.’ He pointed to me. ‘Next time you come down, bring me a CD of Beethoven’s Opus 125—the Ninth Symphony. The Karl Böhm 1980 version. Can you remember that?’

  I looked at the rack of CDs. ‘I thought Mum had bought them all for you.’

  ‘She bought the von Karajan version. The 1977 box set. I’d like to hear someone else have a go at the Ninth. But don’t tell your mother or she’ll be upset.’

  ‘I can download it,’ said Hudson.

  ‘Thank you, but I’m too old for things I can’t hold in my hand.’ He pointed to me. ‘Don’t leave it too long.’

  I spent some time trying to recall how I had learned to ride, and found it disturbing that I had lost or suppressed the memory. Finally, I enlisted the help of Claudia.

  ‘Why is it bothering you?’ she asked. ‘You were how old when you learned to ride?’

  ‘Eleven. Just after I started high school. I remember because I had to walk to school for the first part of the year.’

  ‘Forty years ago. You must have forgotten a lot of things from that time.’

  ‘First, I have a good memory. Second, learning to ride a bike is a significant achievement and I remember the approximate timing. Third, I remember failing to learn, falling off, when I was eight.’

  ‘But, again, why does it matter to you?’

  ‘I need to teach Hudson, and I want to remember the technique. Since he is also encountering difficulties.’

  ‘You can’t assume the same approach will work…’ She laughed. ‘It probably will. You may just have forgotten. Not everything has a deep-seated psychological cause. But you think this does, don’t you?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘Well, I could send you to a hypnotist, or tell you that it’ll probably come back to you now that you’ve started digging, but there’s an easier way. Of course, the reason you haven’t taken it may have its own deep-seated psychological cause.’

  ‘You’re being obscure.’

  ‘Ask your father.’

  I had not planned to attend the school swimming carnival. Hudson had a medical certificate exempting him from water sports due to a phobia of having his head underwater. It may have been hereditary: I had a strong dislike of submersion and Rosie also failed to conform to the Australian stereotype of enjoying having eyes and nostrils inundated with seawater.

  But Hudson had invited both of us to attend, perhaps to avoid drawing attention to his non-participation. Rosie had commitments at work, so I arrived alone at the Aquatic Centre, which the school had hired for the event. I was surprised to find Phil there.

  ‘School sports: got to fly the flag,’ he said. ‘Hudson tells me they’ve found something for him to do.’

  Of course. There would be a requirement for marshals, judges and record-keepers, roles that would offer experience in organisation, observation and documentation for future scientists. It was important that parents support these intellectual endeavours as well as the physical performances.

  Phil and I talked as the younger children competed. For a while Hudson held a rope which served as a finish line for swimmers who were not required to attempt the full fiftymetre length.

  The Years Five and Six events commenced. One boy had entered a high proportion of the races and was winning all of them. He was in Blue House and an adult male immediately behind us was supporting that team with an enthusiasm that seemed excessive for children’s sport. Blanche was also in Blue House; she finished next to last in a backstroke event, but received loud applause, presumably because of her disability, which was not swimming-related.

  ‘Pay attention,’ said Phil, and pulled a video camera from his bag. It was the medley relay: each of four swimmers performing a different stroke. ‘The key is the butterfly leg, because not many primary-school kids can swim fifty metres of butterfly. If Blue House gets the big guy to swim it, they should win, but I bet they use him for the freestyle leg.’

  It was illuminating to have an expert explain the tactics. But then the Green team walked to the starting end of the pool, and I saw a tall child with an unmistakable loping gait. Hudson was in a swimming costume and wearing small goggles, like an Olympic competitor. His long hair was tucked inside a swimming cap. I was stunned.

  Two swimmers from each of the four teams walked to the far end of the pool. Hudson stayed where he was and the remaining swimmer from his team entered the water for the backstroke lap.

  ‘Thought so,’ said Phil, and pointed out the Blue House champion, who was walking to the other end. ‘The big kid will swim the freestyle leg.’

  I was looking at Hudson. Someone called his name and he waved awkwardly, and then I heard his name chanted, followed by laughter. He was being mocked.

  The race started, and by the time the swimmers had changed over and the breaststroke exponents were in the pool, there was a substantial gap between the leader and Hudson’s teammate in last place.

  The Blue House swimmer beside Hudson was first into the water and it quickly became obvious that he was incompetent at the butterfly stroke. The second had the same problem, as did the third. Phil was right—the technique was too difficult for primary-school students. The school had made an astute decision in Hudson’s interest. Since no student could swim the butterfly stroke, he could compete without embarrassment. But he was terrified of water.

  Hudson’s teammate touched the wall and Hudson dived into the water—unbelievably dived into the water—and suddenly he was swimming the butterfly stroke, effectively, arms operating in synchrony, his head clearing the water to enable breathing, moving swiftly as the other swimmers struggled to maintain any momentum.

  Phil was cheering loudly as Hudson overtook them and opened a lead. The crowd was also shouting his name, now in a positive way.

  For many years I had ignored sport, but Dave had encouraged an interest in baseball and I had slowly acquired the ability to engage emotionally with the outcome of a contest that had no direct bearing on my life. It was apparently transferable to a school swimming event. I was yelling too. It was hard to believe the person I was cheering for was my son. People with autism often have poor physical co-ordination.

  T
he big kid was waiting for his turn, jumping on the spot and shouting at his teammate who had paused to tread water. Hudson had slowed noticeably but still had a substantial lead when he touched. The final swimmer for Green House was halfway down the pool before the champion dived in.

  He almost made up the distance: he was an excellent swimmer and trying hard, but Phil’s tactical assessment had been correct. Hudson’s teammate held on to win by approximately two metres.

  ‘Fuck,’ said Blue House Fan, behind us. It seemed an inappropriate comment for a primary-school competition, but I was still trying to work out how Hudson had not only overcome his fear of water but gained competence in a difficult stroke. He must have needed his swimming costume laundered. Had Rosie been keeping a secret from me? If so, why wasn’t she here?

  I watched as Hudson’s team hugged each other and Hudson pulled away.

  ‘Something wrong with him,’ said Blue House Fan, presumably to his neighbour.

  I had an urge to respond but fortunately, the neighbour had an appropriate answer. ‘Nothing wrong with his swimming.’

  There was one more race—the girls’ hundred-metres freestyle—before the champion reappeared for the equivalent boys’ race, the final event on the program. He stepped up and received a round of applause. Then Hudson walked out to an even bigger round of applause and cheering. He was slightly taller than Big Kid, but not nearly as strongly built.

  ‘Payback time,’ said the voice behind us.

  ‘Get a life,’ said Phil, and I heard the sound of breath blown out between pursed lips, but then the race started. Big Kid surfaced from his dive well ahead of Hudson, and quickly increased his lead.

  ‘Give it time,’ said Phil. ‘The champ’s swum a lot of races and that medley took it out of him. Hudson left him with just enough of a chance to make him go all out.’

  ‘Deliberately? Hudson slowed down to encourage him to think that he could win?’

  ‘Let’s just say Hudson paced himself intelligently,’ said Phil.

  At the turn, Big Kid was still in front, but slowing. Hudson began narrowing the lead. Trying to judge the rate of gap-narrowing against the distance remaining was too difficult, and I joined the entire crowd in standing and making noise as they touched the wall together—almost together. The two judges, both children, walked from opposite sides of the pool, conducted a short conversation and raised Hudson’s hand, as if he had won a boxing match.

  ‘Bullshit.’ The voice from behind again.

  Phil turned around and I deliberately did not. People became passionate at sporting events, and it was better to avoid confrontation.

  ‘Settle down, mate,’ said Phil. ‘It’s primary-school sports.’

  ‘You ever play sport?’

  ‘I’ve played sport.’

  ‘I was a professional kickboxer,’ said Blue House Fan.

  ‘And I played on the half-forward flank for Hawthorn. So, your point is?’

  ‘If you knew sport, you’d know the weird kid didn’t win. They gave it to him.’

  ‘You call it as you see it. But don’t go saying kids you don’t know are weird.’

  ‘I’ll say whatever I like.’

  ‘You do that, mate. Talk to yourself. We’ve got a winner to congratulate.’

  Phil got up quickly and I followed him. He began laughing. ‘He was hoping I’d have a go. Might have detracted a bit from Hudson’s moment of triumph to have his dad and his coach carted off in a divvy van.’

  Phil put his arm around my shoulders and I was too busy processing what he’d said to object.

  ‘It’s you? You’re his coach? He hates water.’

  ‘You hate water. You’re as bad as Rosie. What chance did he have? We’ve got a swimming coach at the gym—you might have noticed a pool there? She’s great with kids. And adults who can’t swim, in case you’re ever interested.’

  Phil removed his arm. ‘He trains every time he’s there. He may be a talker, but he can keep a secret. VIP member; we even wash his togs.’

  ‘He’s competent?’

  ‘You saw. Not as good as the kid he beat, but that’s what you have a coach for. Tactics. The big kid blew himself out. Hudson went two for two and left them wondering.’

  18

  After the swimming carnival, Phil joined us for dinner, and we played his videos for Rosie with commentary from the three of us. Hudson was extremely pleased with the results and the contribution made by Phil’s advice. The atmosphere resembled that of a New York sports bar after a Yankees victory, obviously adjusted for the smaller number of people.

  That thought prompted me to invite Dave over and we replayed the videos for him.

  ‘Who’s the big kid?’ Dave asked Hudson.

  ‘His name’s Blake. He’s okay. He was crying afterwards because he has to get up at 4.30 every morning to train and his dad expects him to win everything.’

  ‘Did you know how close he was?’

  ‘I could see him, but I couldn’t go any faster.’

  ‘You opened your eyes underwater?’ I said.

  ‘That’s what the goggles are for. But I can do it without them if I have to.’

  ‘We’re very proud of you,’ said Rosie.

  I raised my glass of beer. ‘World’s greatest junior swimmer.’

  Hudson laughed. ‘You’re more excited than when I came top in maths in New York. That’s pretty weird for you.’

  After Hudson had gone to bed, Phil told the Blue House Fan story. ‘I was in the line at the kiosk afterward, and he came over and it was: “No offence, buddy; didn’t know he was with you; chill out.” Dickhead.’

  ‘You know how I feel about violence,’ said Rosie, ‘but I’m sort of sorry he didn’t get physical. He’d have picked the wrong guys.’

  I was pleased with Rosie’s confidence in me, but Blue House Fan’s voice had reminded me of a category of martial-arts practitioner that did not fit the popular stereotype of humble, conflict-averse disciple. I would not necessarily have defeated him. Also, I was out of practice. Before going to bed, I reinstated karate and aikido classes in my schedule.

  On the next visit to Shepparton, my father, who was continuing to deteriorate, took Hudson aside and privately explained his theory of learning to ride a bike. Hudson shared it with me, but only after we arrived home. To my surprise, the recommended procedure turned out to be totally different from the way my father had attempted to teach me.

  ‘Both my feet have to be able to touch the ground,’ said Hudson, sitting on my bike.

  ‘It’s not possible to adjust the seat that low.’

  ‘You’ll have to buy me a smaller bike. Or borrow one.’

  The bike shop was prepared to lend us a second-hand cycle, but it lacked a crossbar—a girls’ bike.

  ‘Perfect for learning,’ said the bike-shop guy.

  ‘Pa said a girls’ bike is fine,’ said Hudson. ‘Actually, better.’ Incredible.

  We put it in the back of Phil’s Toyota and took it to the park.

  Hudson’s approach, as dictated by my father, was to walk the bike with his feet on the ground, and, when he had mastered that, advance to propelling it with both feet, at which point he was travelling short distances unsupported. As I watched his tall, thin body on the bike without a crossbar, my memory returned.

  This was how my sister had taught me to ride, after dinking me miles from our home so that we would be out of sight of anyone who might have seen me riding a girls’ bike—an even more shameful display of sissiness than using training wheels.

  The bar project was progressing. Minh had negotiated a percentage of the business in place of rent, and I would initially work for reduced remuneration to pay for my own share. Amghad was enthusiastic about the concept, which Minh had conveyed to him in person, and the liquor-licence application was being processed.

  There was already a bar named Chill in Melbourne and we reverted to Dave’s original proposal: The Library. There were obvious advantages in our customers being able
to say, ‘I’m going to The Library,’ but I also hoped that it would convey a feeling of sanctuary and emotional calm.

  In keeping with the conventions of social reciprocity, Blanche visited our home as Hudson’s guest after school. I was interested to know how his swimming achievements had affected his social status. I was not optimistic: success at martial arts had done little to improve mine. If anything, it had added to the reasons to classify me as weird. Once the label has been applied, even conventional behaviour and achievements are seen as weird, since they are not expected of a weird person.

  I asked the question with Blanche present, in the hope of obtaining an independent opinion. ‘Has your social status improved as a result of the swimming victories?’

  Blanche laughed. ‘Everyone was pretty amazed—but, you know, other stuff happens.’

  ‘Any progress on the class clown?’ I should probably not have asked that question in front of Blanche. However, Hudson gave no indication of being embarrassed.

  ‘I did what you said. Asked him if he wanted to be my friend. It didn’t work.’

  I realised that my advice had been incomplete. While social media was built on the concept of asking someone to be your friend, it was, for no logical reason, not considered appropriate to do so in real life.

  Our conversation was interrupted by a loud bang: a pigeon had flown into the glass door and was now on the ground. I went outside and established that the collision had been fatal: birds cannot afford to carry much natural armour due to the flying requirement.

  When I returned with a shovel, Blanche was bent down examining the bird.

  ‘Dad dissects animals—mice,’ said Hudson. This had once been true, but it had been a long time since I had done the work personally.

  I expected Blanche to say ‘gross’ or give some other indication of revulsion. Instead she said, ‘Could you dissect this one? So we can see inside it?’

  ‘Gross,’ said Hudson.

  ‘Animals should be properly prepared for dissection,’ I said. ‘And there are specialised instruments which I don’t have available at home. Also—’