I lingered near the gate waiting for Spencer to arrive but the nine o’clock bell tolled and there was still no sign of him. I figured Spencer had seen me waiting and changed his course to sneak in one of the side gates, but when I made it to the classroom, running late and panting, Spencer’s seat was empty. Perhaps he was just sick, or running late too.
Today we were learning about Australian prime ministers. I could name them all in order because we’d learnt this at the beginning of fifth class, but obviously Mrs Nguyen hadn’t thought to check what had been on last year’s syllabus. As Mrs Nguyen continued to ramble, my thoughts turned once more to Katharine Hepburn. I knew I had to write to her, discuss with her the possibility of us being distantly related, whether she could remember meeting Ma and, most importantly, what she thought her brother Thomas would be doing if he were alive today. Maybe I needed advice on how to be Thomas? Did she, in some not insignificant way, credit part (or most) of her success to his existence? We were barely on Menzies when I’d mastered the opening paragraph of my letter, and for the remainder of the morning, without Spencer’s presence to distract me, I drafted the entire contents in my mind. Its closing paragraph would declare that I was ready to become Thomas Houghton.
News came through at about two o’clock that Spencer had broken his collarbone. Mrs Nguyen announced it to the class and suggested we all help him out when he returned, see if he needed assistance carrying things, or taking down notes from the board. The class was in shock, low murmurs echoing from one side of the room to the other. It wasn’t often that a serious announcement such as this was made midway through a lesson and a broken bone was not a common occurrence in sixth class.
Before long, notes were passed along the rows and I could see enough of the large scripts and hear enough of the whispers to know that Simon Harlen boasted it had happened during the previous afternoon’s soccer match and he’d been the one to walk Spencer down to the doctor’s to get it seen to. Mrs Nguyen asked him to stand and announce his gossip to the class, which he did proudly, so she commended him on his common sense and it did not take long for a new ripple of whispers to spread through the room.
I worried for my friend, and wanted now, more than ever, to make contact with him, to see how he was getting on. I wanted to raise my hand and ask to go and be with him, to at least visit him and take him his homework. Of course this had to happen when he and I were not talking and there was no way in the world he was going to let me be of any help.
• • •
As soon as I walked in the door after school I went to my room, lay down on the bed, picked up the telephone and dialled the number. Mrs Michaels answered and did not hesitate to get Spencer on the phone, even taking the time to thank me for calling. With any luck, Spencer had kept the whole episode in Pa’s garage to himself and my overactive mind had simply blown it out of all proportion.
It took quite a while for Spencer to get to the phone, understandably so, and when the other end of the line finally crackled as he picked up the receiver, I had second thoughts. If Spencer’s mother hadn’t identified me, I would definitely have hung up.
‘Hello?’ He sounded tired.
‘It’s Tom.’
‘I know. Mum said.’
‘Well, thanks for picking up.’
‘Okay.’
‘I heard about your arm . . . your collarbone, I mean.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Are you okay?’
‘Fine.’
‘Did they . . . did Simon and them hurt you? Was it really an accident?’
‘I tripped.’
‘Oh . . . oh, okay then. Does it hurt?’
‘A bit.’
‘Can I – ?’
‘Mum’s calling me for something.’
‘Well, before you –’
I looked at the receiver and wondered what technical mishap had occurred to disconnect us. But there was no other explanation: Spencer had hung up on me. It made my blood boil to think that I had done the decent thing, called to see my friend was all right, only to have him take the stupid moral high ground and hang up on me. I wanted to knock some sense into Spencer and was tempted to march straight over there so we could talk it over like adults. As I fantasised about that conversation, how we’d end up laughing over the simple miscommunication and agree to spend the night at one or the other’s house, the phone rang. I jumped.
‘Hello?’
‘Hello, Tom. This is Spencer’s mother.’
‘Hello?’
‘Spencer is very upset. What have you been saying to him, please?’
‘Sorry?’ I thought it must be some kind of joke, Harlen and them getting someone to pretend to be Mrs Michaels. But she continued.
‘He has not been the same since being at your house. Can you tell me please what is going on?’
My mind was racing with the very real possibility that Mum (and worse, Mal) would be told about what had happened in the garage. I panicked, and self-preservation was the unforeseen instinct that kicked in. I cannot say why it happened the way it did. Maybe I wanted to punish Spencer more than I wanted to save myself, or maybe I was re-enacting a scene from a film.
‘I . . . I . . . It wasn’t our intention to tell you this, Mrs Michaels, we had wanted to keep it a secret.’ I spoke slowly, importantly.
‘Yes?’ She sounded grim.
‘I’m afraid some money of my mother’s went missing while Spencer was here.’
‘It what?’
‘I’ve been trying to get him to return it because we didn’t want to involve the police. I’m sorry it’s come to this.’ I knew I sounded convincing and while my cheeks were ablaze with guilt, there was no turning back now.
‘Police? Not my Spencer. How much money is missing?’
‘Fifty dollars. It was a fifty-dollar note.’
‘Oh dear, please, is your mother home? I would like to speak with her in person?’
‘My mother is working, sorry. Mrs Michaels, we don’t wish to make a big deal of this, we just thought Spencer would return the money of his own accord.’ Blood was hurtling through my veins, my pulse pumped hard with adrenaline, but my voice remained firm. ‘We do not want your cash, that’s not acceptable. But perhaps . . .’
‘Please, do not worry, Tom. Spencer’s father will deal with him this evening and he will return the money to you, have no fear of that.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Michaels, my mother would be most pleased.’ I hung up.
It was thrilling, in a vindictive Hollywood kind of way. I knew it was just a matter of time before Spencer turned on me, told his parents what had happened in the garage, maybe even spoke about it at school. The drama filled me with the anticipation of a fight, one I felt confident of winning, even though I couldn’t quite grasp how it would be played out, or when. This way, at least, I’d made the first move and shown Spencer I wasn’t one to be messed with. Spencer had better think long and hard what he was going to tell those other boys about Tom Houghton. The master plan, such that there was one, was to impress Spencer with my cunning and make him see that I wasn’t a weakling; I wasn’t just someone to pick on. Tom Houghton was much more than that.
I returned to the garage and spent the afternoon hunting through more of my grandfather’s things. The dream about Hepburn had reminded me of the promise of that signed theatre program, Pa’s tantalising hint that it existed somewhere up in the rafters. I replaced the box of magazines, now dwindled to just the explicit few, and hunted around for something that looked as though it might contain more of my grandmother’s things. I climbed up the shaky wooden ladder and spotted a faded grey port with brass combination locks. While still up high, I tested it to see if it was open. The catches sprang to life at even a soft touch and I smiled to myself. I pulled it free of its dusty resting place and struggled with it atop the ladder. I rested it on the tops of my feet, manoeuvred myself around it to climb down the ladder’s steps, then dragged it down to the concrete floor. Opening it brought with it the unmistakable smell
of my grandmother, even though I’d only been eight when she died. Here was her scent, the embodiment of her.
The suitcase was full to the brim with ephemera. A newspaper clipping of a boy who’d drowned in a backyard pool, the young child a distant cousin of my grandmother’s. Cards received for her birthday, Christmas cards, handcrafted notes from when Mum was a toddler. A copy of the newspaper from the coronation day of Queen Elizabeth II. These things I flicked through. I would return to them some day and thoroughly enjoy the titbits of her life, try to get a better sense of who she was. But not now.
About three months before she died of a sudden stroke, Ma took me to the cinema. It was a Sunday tradition she’d begun with Mum, a brief escape from the real world, just to get away from it all. That day Mum had said she was too tired and stayed in bed. Ma and I caught the train to the city then walked all the way to a small cinema in Glebe, one showing a restored version of Casablanca. We got along well, Ma and I, conversation flowed easily between us and we always managed to share a laugh. We got to the cinema and bought our tickets, she settled me in with an ice cream and told me she needed to go to the bathroom. I said okay. I watched as she walked towards the front doors of the cinema.
‘Ma! Ma!’ I called out after her but kept my voice low enough so as not to make a scene. ‘They’re in here!’
I saw her hesitate for a second, she’d obviously heard me calling out, but on she went, into the bright sunshine. I looked around the cinema foyer and was suddenly petrified. It was small and dark, unpredictable city types lingered in dimly lit corners. I jumped out of my seat and ran to the front door to catch up with Ma, determined to abandon the whole idea of the movie and just head home, back to somewhere safe. I saw her then, about fifty metres down the road, heading to the pub on the corner and sneaking in like she was about to shoplift.
The bell sounded to announce the start of the film. I stood there waiting for Ma, eyes fixed on the pub door. The usher told me there was no time to spare; I needed to take my seat immediately. I walked into the theatre and took a seat in the back row, waiting expectantly for Ma to return, ready to whisper her name in the darkness. I turned around every minute or two, expecting to see her there, but then the movie began. I wanted to leave, run out to get her from the pub, or maybe take the train home alone. After twenty minutes, my imagination roamed free and I was convinced Ma had been hit by a car in the street, or else mugged by someone in that decrepit pub filled with the city’s scum. A floodgate released tears down my face, streaming down past my chin and dropping onto my shirt. I tried to be as silent as possible, needing the release of the tears but not wanting to draw attention to myself. I couldn’t be sure how long I sat there crying, didn’t know whether it was audible to the other patrons.
In the shadows created by the black-and-white film, the man in front of me took on a newly creepy form; a woman who turned in my direction, her glasses catching the light of the exit sign behind me, was someone I needed to hide from. I was rigid with fear, cemented to my seat, my only movement the tears that would not stop rolling.
Ma eventually returned. She took the seat next to me as though she’d only been gone a minute. My tear ducts eventually dried up, the snot in my nose stopped creeping towards my top lip. I sat there wondering how she could have left me alone like that without even telling me where she was going, and I hated her for leaving me crying like a newborn. I wanted to scream at her, punch her even, but I did not. A ball of anger formed in my gut and I resolved to tell Mum about this, would enjoy watching my grandmother squirm with remorse. We watched the film in silence and while Ma joined the clapping at its close, I did not.
‘Isn’t it a great one?’ Ma said enthusiastically as we walked back out into the day, our eyes taking a few seconds to adjust to the sudden burst of light.
I looked at her. She was calm, smiling, oblivious to my previous fear or sense of desolation.
‘Pa never wants to do anything like this with me,’ she said with a frown. ‘Maybe we should come here again next Sunday. They’re showing Hitchcock.’
Now, with her belongings spread before me, and with the wisdom that even a few years can bring, her life took on the reek of desperation. The banal, unimaginative cards Pa had bought for her birthdays and their anniversaries, filled with tepid verse created to apply universally to sentimental wives and mothers. The simple, scrawled script of Pa, never expressive. Happy Birthday, Pa. 35 years! Pa. Enjoy your Mother’s Day, Pa. I wondered what, if any, gifts had accompanied these fading coloured cards. I walked over to the workbench, pulled out a large garbage bag and began throwing things into it. Any card with no personal message I threw away. Anything my mother created as a child, I kept. Newspaper clippings of relatives I’d never known were thrown away. I worked methodically, no time or room for sentimentality. If I was to make the garage my own, turn it into my space, then things bearing no connection to my heart or mind would simply have to be discarded.
The garbage bag was three-quarters filled when I came across it. My heart rate jumped a few notches. A theatre program. Shakespeare. The familiar name my grandfather couldn’t remember – Helpmann. The most familiar name in Hollywood history – Hepburn. And there, on the inside cover, her shaky script. I knew Hepburn was renowned for being a non-signer. Seeing it now, her name, a word above it I could not decipher, the animated exclamation mark, knowing that the great star had touched this booklet, rested her palm against it as she signed, had looked Ma in the eye, perhaps . . . waves of euphoria swept through my body. It had a physical power, something beyond my control. This was my link to greatness, I thought, a grail of sorts to catapult me from this time and place into my rightful place in destiny. In my possession, rescued from neglect up in Pa’s rafters, the program and its signature confirmed what I already knew to be the truth. Hepburn was my relative, and I was more than some distant cousin, nine times removed. This moment marked something momentous, bigger than Tom Houghton of Seven Hills. It was proof.
I ran back to my bedroom, program in hand, shuffled around in my desk for some writing paper my mother had given me. Cream with autumnal leaves, fine texture of lines to guide my sentences. I wrote the letter to her hurriedly, careful to keep my writing neat and small and while it flowed at an incredible pace, when I finished, I was quite amazed to see that I’d made not one spelling or grammatical error. I placed it in an envelope and licked its adhesive strip. My DNA, touched by the great Hepburn! Our two DNAs intertwined as fate insisted they should be. I wrote the address of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, knowing they would be able to forward it for me as they had done so many of my other fan letters, and I placed it carefully in my schoolbag so I could stop in at the post office on the way home the next day.
I made my way back up to the garage and collected together all the rubbish. I walked it down to the bin, opened the front gate and put it out for collection. Then I went back to Pa’s magazines. Their hold over me was insistent, strong as the day they’d been discovered. They transported me to a magical place, not the same as movies on a cinema screen, but some darker place, a secret entry into an adult world that was dirty and shameful, one in which I was an intruder. My heart raced frantically with the fear of getting caught, the thrill of getting away with it, the power of self-control . . .
‘Hello? Tom, you up there?’
Mal’s voice was some metres behind me, down in the yard, but I was so close to reaching that burning moment that I could not stop. Now with Mal’s voice in the background I was living outside of a magazine and the feeling on my skin was real.
‘Bro?’
I let out a cry, hot embers burned in my cheeks. I held the sodden tissue to my nose and pretended to sneeze. I wiped it, so mucus-like, across my top lip, then wiped clean with another corner of the tissue.
‘Mal, hi, what’s going on?’ I tried to keep my voice even, refused to look him in the eye in case he would be able to see through me and know my dirty secret.
‘Went to se
e your mum at work, eh, and got talking. Thought maybe you could do with a bit of company or something? What you think?’
‘Oh . . . yeah. That’d be good, Mal. I was just cleaning up a bit.’
‘You getting a cold or something?’
‘No . . . Just all the dust.’ I forced the tissue into my pocket and smeared my fingers against the lining.
‘Hey, is that a boat, mate?’ Mal asked, gesturing towards the canvas in the corner.
‘Yeah . . .’
‘Is it yours?’
‘It was my pa’s. Mum said I could have it, so I’m gonna clean it up and sell it.’
‘Can I take a look, bro?’
He whistled in appreciation at the boat. It was a dinghy, really, nothing at all to get excited about, but then not that common in a backyard in Seven Hills. It was no longer than three metres, made of unvarnished, cracking wood. It had no engine. Coils of rope sat on its floor, dried pieces of seaweed interwoven with the fibres.
‘How long since she’s seen water?’
‘I dunno,’ I said nonchalantly. ‘Be good to get rid of it.’
‘Don’t you reckon we could have some fun in her? You ever been fishing?’
I had, once. Sat on some slippery beach rocks with Pa. I had been squeamish about threading the bait onto the hooks and had insisted Pa do it for me. Every time he cast out for me, and handed over the rod, I would feel a light pull on the end of my line and I’d reel it in frantically, only to find an empty hook and sinker at the end. Pa would then have to thread on another piece of bait. Five times this was repeated before Pa lost his temper and told me to stop being a baby and thread it my damn self. Another fisherman overheard and befriended me, baiting my hook for me for the rest of the day while Pa sat there sullen, refusing to speak. We went home empty-handed.
I tried to dampen some of Mal’s excitement before it became an idea needing acquiescence. ‘I don’t really like fishing.’
‘Yeah, but you ain’t been with me, have you, bro?’
That was true. It piqued my curiosity. ‘Why?’
Tom Houghton Page 15