Tom Houghton

by Todd Alexander

  In the last year of her life, Katharine Hepburn recounted a dream, though she said it was not like a dream at all; as if it was all unveiling anew, Hepburn thought she knew the story but she was wrong.

  Look, he said to her. I figured it out. The trick. I know how to do it. I know what I did wrong. I learnt how to do it but . . . too late.

  I find his memorial almost instantly. It is a plain plaque placed squarely in the ground. No place for flowers, no adornment. It reads:

  Thomas Houghton Hepburn 1905–1921

  Nothing more.

  At the sight of his name I weep, unencumbered. He deserves my tears at least.

  • • •

  That night over dinner, I look at Eddie and see the truth.

  ‘Where have you gone to?’ I ask him. ‘Where is the Eddie I fell in love with?’

  His response is not at all what I am expecting.

  ‘I might ask you the same in return.’

  Shocked, I raise my eyebrows.

  He continues: ‘This is going to take some time, can’t you see?’ He looks out the restaurant window for a second, then returns my gaze. ‘The Tom Houghton you thought you were never existed.’

   Acknowledgements

  Most writers are left for months or years without knowing whether what they’re working on is worth it, will be something that might impact readers from all walks of life. With Tom Houghton, I’ve been incredibly fortunate to have support from the get-go, encouraging me to continue with telling this story.

  Jeff Ross – you’ve always believed in Tom even when, at times, I was losing confidence that I could do him justice. Thanks for frequently reminding me he sat in a drawer and needed to see the light of day.

  Jon Appleton – one of the very first to read an early draft, you planted ideas that stayed with me and helped make it a better book. Thank you.

  Jane Hunterland – I will always remember the phone call we had when you finished reading the manuscript. Your support means the world to me, and your suggestions so considered, they have been incorporated with gusto.

  Larissa Edwards – there would be no Tom Houghton without you. You have been one of his biggest supporters for years. I am indebted.

  Roberta Ivers – objectivity is often a writer’s greatest foe but you guided me towards it with passion and dignity.

  Elissa Baillie – your energy and enthusiasm is an inspiration.

  Dan Ruffino – thank you for championing this book and giving it life.

  Anna O’Grady – when a marketer knows your book as well as you do, you know you’re onto a good thing! Thank you.

  Kylie Mason – thanks for adeptly tightening all those nuts and bolts.

  Kirsti Wright – well, yes, the name says it all.

  Cheryl Akle, Tess Knight, Mark Taylor, Lachlan Jobbins, Ann Turner – thank you for your generosity.

  Sometimes the lines between joking, teasing, bullying and cruelty are easily blurred. Writing Tom Houghton has been cathartic on so many levels that I need to end on two not insignificant notes:

  If you’re being bullied, talk to someone you can trust, or if that feels too much, talk to your GP or conduct internet searches about professional options and foundations that can help. To bury it is to drown beneath it – it needs to be discussed and exposed. Never give up hope that the future can deliver wonderfully exciting changes to life and even your darkest days will have light in them once more.

  I acknowledge that I have been guilty of demeaning others. It is not acceptable and I wish I’d had the maturity, sensitivity and foresight then to be more conscious of its impact, for it would never have occurred. If you are a witness to bullying and do nothing to prevent it, you are just as culpable as those who bully.

  Todd Alexander

  Also by Todd Alexander

  Pictures of Us

  Pictures of Us

  Todd Alexander

  © Todd Alexander

  Published by Hachette Australia, 2006

  Maggie

  ‘You have to be strong, Maggie. Just stay strong.’

  Maggie was shocked to hear such a cliché and stared at her friend in disbelief. She thought it was a stupid thing to say to someone whose husband might be dying. Strong? Strong? She felt like arguing, why do I have to stay strong? But outbursts of that type were so unlike Margaret Apperton – she was a well-spoken woman who kept her emotions to herself. Why did no one know what to say in moments such as these?

  The table had turned completely silent and no one could look her in the eyes. Their lunches lay untouched in the warm sunlight. It was almost as if she was the one who’d been hurt. Please, someone say something, she thought. I can handle anything but this silence.

  She rose slowly from the table, the feet of her chair making a high-pitched scraping sound. Two or three of her friends made a half-hearted move to follow, but Maggie left them behind as she walked numbly from the restaurant.

  • • •

  The lunch had begun so beautifully with a bright blue sky, the harbour’s emerald green glimmering with the glare from the sun and seagulls riding high on invisible currents of air. Once a month she and five friends took the train to Sydney and spent the afternoon in a nice restaurant, drinking wine and chatting about their lives. Maggie started the club after spending two years of retirement bored and lonely, placing an advert in her local paper seeking a ladies’ luncheon club. It’d been so out of character that she feared what her children would have thought, had they known she was being so bold.

  ‘I just need some company while your father is at work,’ she would have defended herself weakly.

  The first lunch was overly formal – six complete strangers meeting for the first time, asking polite questions about each other’s lives and answering with reserve. Maggie thought about cancelling the club after its forced debut; at fifty-seven she felt it was too late for new starts. Then Kathy called her the next day to say thanks and to help organise another lunch. Kathy’s enthusiasm had overwhelmed Maggie and she had felt trapped into going again. It had, after all, been her idea.

  Maggie woke at six as usual, the morning birdcalls serving as her alarm. She got up, went to the toilet and let the dog in. It was Patrick’s dog really – a frumpy but lovable mongrel called Leroy. He followed Maggie everywhere unless Patrick came home, then it was as if Maggie didn’t exist. In the mornings the dog was docile and affectionate, following her from room to room and standing at her feet as she cooked Marcus’ breakfast.

  While the eggs were crackling away, she made herself some herbal tea and toast with marmalade. Together, she and Leroy looked out at the Broadwater as two pelicans circled in to land. She could almost hear what the dog was thinking – if I could jump that bloody fence I’d get amongst ya’s – and, as if sharing the joke, he turned to look at her and licked his lips. She threw him the crusts of her toast, marvelled at his peculiar ability to smile, and went back to the stove to turn the eggs.

  Marcus was still snoring when she went into the spare room to wake him. They only ever shared the same bed if they had company, because his snoring was so pervasive it kept her awake and made her irritable. She stared a moment at his exposed foot, its heel rough and scaly, the toes oversized and hairy.

  ‘Breakfast.’

  He half grunted and came to instantly. ‘I was dreaming about plane crashes again,’ he mumbled. ‘Can’t seem to shake it.’ This was one of his recurring dreams, along with the one where he lost his teeth, rotted out with decay. He read that dreaming about losing teeth was a sign of sexual frustration but hadn’t managed to find out about crashing planes.

  ‘Breakfast is on the table,’ she repeated, not wishing to enter into today’s analysis.

  Leroy came in and began licking between Marcus’ toes. ‘Hey, fella.’ He smiled and patted the bed. ‘Come jump up here.’ With tail wagging, Leroy jumped onto the bed and landed heavily on Marcus’ chest.

  ‘Aw,’ he moaned, ‘you’re getting heavier, old boy.’


  ‘Marcus, you don’t want to be late for work,’ Maggie urged him to get up.

  ‘I’ll be right,’ Marcus said as he continued to rouse Leroy into an energetic frenzy.

  So much for him being quiet today, she thought disapprovingly.

  • • •

  Maggie and Marcus owned a restaurant supply company that had begun as an operation from a friend’s garage and grown to have a multi-million-dollar turnover. Maggie felt the stress of her office administrator role had steadily increased as the company grew in size and eventually knew it was time to retire. The business looked after them well; they’d come a long way since Marcus was working three jobs to support Maggie and their young children.

  When Maggie announced her retirement plans to Marcus he was supportive and encouraging and told her that she deserved to have time to herself, she had been integral to the company’s growth so retiring before him could be her reward. She thought that he would find it impossible not to join her in retiring, hoping they could rekindle some of the friendship responsible for bringing them together in the first place, but he insisted that he was still healthy enough to keep working and the ninety-minute drive wasn’t too taxing. Now, almost seven years later, he was sixty-eight and still working a five-day week to retain absolute control of the business.

  Marcus finished eating and went to have a quick shower. Maggie rinsed the breakfast dishes and fed Leroy some raw chicken wings. Leafing through the cable television guide was a habit she was unable to break, but sitting in front of the TV for hours on end was something she refused to indulge in.

  ‘What’s on tonight?’ Marcus asked.

  ‘Not sure,’ she replied, without looking up. ‘I’ll probably be too tired after our lunch.’ The ‘our’ was used to exclude Marcus and he detected it easily.

  ‘Ah, of course,’ he said, smiling in defeat. He pecked her on the cheek and walked out the door, slamming the screen behind him. Every morning the loud bang of the screen made her clench her teeth but she’d long given up reminding him to close it quietly. Maggie didn’t look him in the eye to say goodbye, she rarely did.

  • • •

  At eight o’clock she made the twenty-minute walk to Kathy’s house and joined the chaos of getting three school-aged children ready. They all called her Maggie, which was a nice compromise between calling her Aunty or Gran (which she found too affectionate). On lunch days Maggie always went to Kathy’s in the morning. The excitability of young children provided a welcome change of pace to Marcus’ silent shuffling around the house.

  The walk to Kathy’s was mostly uphill and it bothered Maggie that with each passing year she felt it becoming more difficult. She found herself resting against the boot of a car at various stages to catch her breath, making her feel every one of her sixty-two years.

  There was no need to knock on Kathy’s door – it was always unlocked, if not ajar, and she had been given an open invitation early in the friendship. As she opened the door, Emily ran out in front of her, screaming. David, her eight-year-old brother, followed closely.

  ‘Oh dear, hang on a moment,’ Maggie stopped them. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘David put my Action Man in the toilet!’ Emily wailed.

  ‘Did not!’ David yelled.

  ‘Did so!’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure he didn’t do it on purpose,’ Maggie said awkwardly.

  ‘I told you, Emily, Action Man was just looking for his enemies in the pipes.’

  Quite ingenious of him, thought Maggie, best to diffuse the situation by playing along with him. ‘My son Patrick used to have an Action Man and he was forever sneaking into my drains and toilets. I remember I had to keep all the toilet lids closed and the plugs in all the sinks.’

  Emily looked at Maggie inquisitively. ‘Really?’

  Maggie nodded slowly so Emily smoothed over her sodden Action Man and walked away satisfied.

  David chuckled. ‘Thanks, Maggie, she was gonna dob on me and Mum would’a lost it.’

  Maggie watched as he went back into the house, deciding to leave the comment hanging. Disciplining other people’s children wasn’t something she did. Maggie wasn’t very comfortable with children and had treated her own like adults. She couldn’t fathom how their little minds worked and preferred not to risk getting close. She kept herself at a safe distance because she couldn’t bear the thought of getting too attached to such fragile beings. She made her way into the kitchen where Kathy was buttering the top slice of a toast stack.

  ‘Hi,’ Kathy said. ‘You’re looking nice.’

  Maggie always tried to make an effort on lunch days. The blue dress she wore was quite a snug fit but the colour highlighted her eyes and made the most of her grey hair. ‘Thank you,’ she blushed, unable to accept compliments easily. ‘I think I’m putting on a bit of weight. It’s a size sixteen and it seems to be getting tighter each time I wear it.’

  ‘Maybe it’s shrinking,’ Brett, Kathy’s oldest, charmed her.

  ‘Oh, I don’t think I can blame it on my washing machine,’ Maggie blushed again. Blushing in front of a fourteen year old, for goodness’ sake.

  ‘Well, size sixteen is hardly enormous, Maggie,’ Kathy said.

  ‘I know, but I remember when I was a size twelve, would you believe?’ In fact, she had been a size eight when she had first met Marcus.

  ‘Size twelve! Ha! Imagine being a fourteen through adolescence and ending up a size twenty,’ Kathy said, clutching a corner of her oversized dress. Kathy wore her weight in a motherly kind of way. Maggie could see that the children loved cuddling into their mother’s bulk; it was one sure way of calming them down.

  Maggie’s mobile rang in her handbag. Brett chuckled to himself, sniggering at an oldie with a mod con. Marcus had given it to her just last Christmas for emergencies, but it only ever rang when he called to ask her something related to the office systems she’d put in place. She hurried into the living room, which was littered with toys and children’s clothing.

  ‘Hello, Maggie speaking,’ she said loudly into the small device.

  ‘Of course it’s you speaking, it’s your phone.’

  ‘Hello, Marcus, what’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he sighed. ‘I was wondering if you were okay. You seemed a bit distant this morning. Everything all right?’

  Maggie looked at the caller ID display. Was this her husband? He never asked her how she was, what she was thinking, why she was sometimes quiet.

  ‘Marcus, I, I . . .’ She was simply lost for words.

  ‘Something’s wrong, isn’t it?’

  ‘No, no!’ She felt embarrassed, hoping he wouldn’t ask her any more questions. ‘I’m surprised by your call, that’s all. I was fine this morning, just thinking about lunch, you know how I get. You shouldn’t worry about me.’

  ‘I know, but sometimes I can’t help it.’

  ‘Well, no need to. I’m fine, but thank you for calling.’

  ‘I was just thinking about you, that’s all. I wanted to tell you I hope you have a beautiful lunch today. I . . . I . . . lo–’

  ‘Goodbye,’ she said quickly, uncomfortable with this level of emotion. ‘I’ll see you tonight.’

  He hung up.

  Maggie was tempted to call him back to make sure there was nothing he was meant to be telling her. Did he really just say those things? For the life of her she couldn’t remember the last time he’d ever showed any interest in her life. Maggie frowned and shook her head. Foolish woman! To think that he may have said the L word! She realised hearing three simple words could have had a profound effect on her. I love you. She could have said them to him, she supposed, but it had been so long since she had said them to anyone. Instead, she would surprise him with a nice meal tonight, then she would say, ‘I just wanted you to know I appreciate you.’

  ‘Good news, Maggie?’ Brett asked as she re-entered the kitchen.

  The colour rose again in Maggie’s cheeks. Why did children have to be so perceptive? ‘No, it w
as nothing.’

  ‘I bet,’ Kathy said. ‘You look like a schoolgirl.’

  Maggie shook her head again. ‘That was my husband – just calling to wish me a beautiful day.’

  ‘Oooh!’ the children all chimed at once.

  Maggie smiled inwardly, surprised that she should be so affected by Marcus’ call. When was the last time she felt needed by anyone? She had wanted to feel it for longer than she could remember.

  Maggie started making the kids’ lunches while the family sat down to eat breakfast. In all these years she had never sat down to eat a meal with them. Maggie preferred to keep herself busy with the task at hand, any task really. She took their orders for lunch and made sandwiches according to their individual specifications. Thin cheese slices for Emily, three slices of devon for Brett.

  Before too long, they had finished their breakfasts and were rushing about getting their bags packed. Maggie liked it least when it was time to say goodbye because Kathy insisted all three of them kiss and hug her. Affection was a confrontation and, in the face of it, she visibly tensed. Brett was first with his teenaged restraint and she could handle that because he disliked the routine almost as much as she did. A taut peck near her ear and a nice pat on the back – easy. David was next, he was more into cuddling than kissing so she could easily plant one on the top of his head as he threw his arms around her. Last, and most dreaded, was Emily, who planted three or four wet kisses on Maggie’s lips, hugged her with tiny hands which travelled all over her back and then returned for one or two more kisses. She went through this charade purely for Kathy, as a thank you for the friendship she’d provided all these years.

  • • •

  As Kathy showered, Maggie washed the dishes and tidied the kitchen. When that was done, she busied herself with tidying the lounge room and was even able to make all of the children’s beds before Kathy was ready. Maggie knew Kathy wouldn’t notice her tidying until later that night.