“When are your parents coming down again?” Abe asks.
“Next week,” she says quietly. “Grace wants to be here in case the baby comes early.”
“How are they?”
She shrugs. “They’re with friends and Auntie Margie Finch is driving down so they’ll be together. She was pretty emotional.”
Because Auntie Margie Finch would never forget her little brother, Tom Finch. “Wives can replace their husbands, Georgie,” her aunt once told her. “But sisters can’t replace their brothers.”
“And when does he . . . get returned?” Jonesy asks, on his best behavior without a mobile in his hand.
“They say it could be anywhere between two to four weeks,” Dominic says. “There’s a lot of ID rigmarole.”
Then some of the vets arrive. Word has got round quick and they’ve come from as far away as the mountains. They had always frightened Georgie as a child, with their wounded eyes and trembling hands. Although they’re of the same generation as Bill and Grace, they look as if they’ve lived one thousand years more. These fragile men, the last to ever see her father, are so emotional as they squeeze in with them. They want to tell their story of the day they had to move on and leave one of their own behind. Then it gets a bit quiet and she looks up to where Tom is standing on the counter.
“I want to make a toast,” he says, his voice so strong, so powerful. There’s still a bit of noise and next minute Francesca Spinelli is on the counter next to him. “Shut up,” she yells.
Then there’s silence. Francesca is watching everyone like a hawk and Tom is looking over everyone’s head, at Georgie’s table.
“I want to make a toast on behalf of my family,” he says. “On behalf of my father, Dominic, and my aunt, Georgie, and my nanni Grace and my pop Bill and my sister, Anabel, and my great-auntie Margie Finch . . . and for the guys in my grandfather’s battalion.”
The silence accentuates the beauty of him. The beauty of this first boy of theirs.
“A toast to Tom Finch and this is the perfect place to make it. Because he fell in love with Nanni Grace here when he was twenty years old, and the day he went off to Vietnam, he had a drink with his best mate, Bill Mackee, here. He made Bill promise to look after Grace and their twins and Bill’s been doing that ever since. So here’s to Tom Finch, who’s finally coming home to our family.”
Georgie can hardly breathe.
When the toast is over, some of the uni kids approach them shyly and ask the vets and Dominic and Georgie if they could buy them a beer and she’s anxious the whole time that Dom will want one. Of all times, he’ll want one now because he’s shaking from emotion. And then Tom’s there, squeezing in between her and Dom, shaking the vets’ hands and she sees the tears in the old men’s eyes, the same tears she sees in Auntie Margie Finch’s, because opposite them is the young Tom Finch they remember, sitting alongside the Tom Finch he would have grown up to resemble.
When they get home, she sits with Dominic on his bed in the study. They can’t speak about Tom Finch because only Bill and Grace can provide the memories for them, so they speak of the one they haven’t been able to get out of their minds since the phone call.
“There are probably a million things I’ll never forgive myself for,” Dominic says quietly, “and one is leaving you to take care of bringing back Joe. Sam’s told me some of it. About the hospitals and the press and the other families. And the survivors. And what they remembered and how the worst thing he’s ever had to tell you is that there was no body. He said he’d kill me if I asked you anything more now. But I need to know, Georgie.”
“Even if it’ll break your heart?”
“I need to know if he had regrets,” he says. “We’d seen him upbeat all his life. I need to know if he was having a good life. Was he happy that week? Was he in love with his girl as much as we thought he was?”
She wonders how to tell him the good and the bad, because it’s what Joe’s last couple of hours were about. Fate too. Bill told her a story about fate once. That he had known Tom Finch from the time they were born. It was how their mothers met. In the hospital. One was born before midnight, the other after. Those hours between them meant nothing at all for most of their young lives. Until the draft.
“The day before . . . he had a fight with the great Ana Vanquez,” she begins. “Ana couldn’t remember what it was about. I think he had stayed out too long or had been drinking after indoor cricket and she wanted him home and they had a big blue. So he left for work that morning with both of them so angry at each other.”
Georgie takes his hand because he’s going to need her strength now, more than ever.
“He went back, Dom. He went back to say he was sorry. You know Joe. He hated any kind of conflict. How many times did he say, ‘Let it go, guys. Not worth it’?”
Dominic nods and there’s a smile there too and it kills her to see it. “And because he went back to make things right, he missed his train, Dom. And he got on the other one.”
And she doesn’t realize how much she needed to say those words to Dominic. That those words bring her solace. That’s what he would have been thinking of, her little brother. That he had made good with his love, the great Ana Vanquez. He would have had a cheeky grin on his face thinking of her, the same grin he would have had as a kid, when they told him he had done good. He would not have known the anger and rage of a young man standing next to him. He would have been oblivious.
“Remember when we were kids at the Easter show,” Dominic asks, “and Bill ripped into me for losing Joe? Shit, that was the belting of a lifetime. But do you want to know the truth, Georgie? I didn’t lose him.” He’s shaking his head. “I didn’t lose him. Not accidentally, anyway. I let go. On purpose. On purpose, Georgie. I let go of Joe’s hand on purpose because I was so pissed off at Bill.”
And then Dominic’s sobbing. “I let go, Georgie. I let go of Joe’s hand and he was so small. It shouldn’t have been him. It should have been —”
“Don’t. Don’t you dare say it, Dom.”
But he just shakes his head and says it anyway and she cries at the sound of those words spoken.
“It should have been none of us,” she says fiercely. “None of us. We didn’t deserve it. No one does.”
“Christ, Georgie, just say I lose Tom,” he says, beating a fist against his temple, as if he wants to hammer the thought out of his head. “Just say I lose my boy.”
Since his talk with Will, he finds himself itching to e-mail Tara and ask her about that night in her parents’ house. He doesn’t like this thing called fate getting in the way. Worst-case scenario is that she’ll stop speaking to him again. Except the one thing he’s come to realize over the last couple of months is that worst-case scenario is the last thing he wants. So he chickens out. He’s not sure he can go through any more emotion this week. Last night he had sat on his front porch listening to Georgie and his father talking about Joe. Sometimes the way Georgie cries rips holes into Tom. Hearing what his father said was a thousand times worse.
He goes outside for a smoke and a moment later Mohsin the Ignorer is there.
“Didn’t know you were a smoker,” Tom says after a while, because they are both just standing there.
Mohsin clears his throat. “I feel we have misunderstood each other —”
“No misunderstanding on my part,” Tom says coolly.
Mohsin belongs to the Stani school of intense gazing. Tom hasn’t noticed it until now.
“When I was a young boy . . . in my town, there was a very big explosion —”
“Look,” Tom says, interrupting him. “Mohsin, I’m not responsible for what happened in your country. It doesn’t give you a reason to see us as the enemy.”
Mohsin is shaking his head; he’s confused. “See who as an enemy? I am speaking of fireworks. The explosion. They were fireworks, Tom. And now for many years, I have not been able to hear from this ear.” He points to his right ear. “So I am very sorry for not hearing
what you were saying when you sat here,” he says, pointing to his right side, “but when you speak, even when you stand here,” he says, pointing to his left side, “you sound like this.” And Mohsin the Ignorer does an impersonation of him. The same one his father would do when imitating Tom’s mumble at the dinner table.
“So all I see is this face,” Mohsin says, doing another impersonation of a frown, “and hear this voice,” and then he does the muttering. “You need to speak English better, Tom.”
Tom could probably count on the hands of every member of his family, and extended family, and the city of Sydney, how many times he’s felt like a dick this year.
“You finished?” he asks, trying to clear his voice because he has absolutely nothing to say and he’s trying to buy time.
Mohsin shrugs. “No, not really. What happened to us on the weekend, Tom? If they do not get Benji Marshall back from injury, we are finished.”
Tom’s furious. “Say that again and I don’t know what I’ll do. So what? We lose a few games, big deal. Souths have been losing game after game for years and their fans don’t give up on them.”
Mohsin is sighing and shaking his head.
“I have supported this team since I came to this country and I will continue to support them, but I am very disappointed and one day I may stop going to the game and only watch it from my TV.”
“You going Sunday?” Tom asks.
“Yes. And you?”
“I usually make it a point not to go to Brookvale because Manly are a bunch of . . . well, you know what they’re like, but if you’re going, I might tag along. My father goes as well.”
“As does my uncle.”
At work one day, Tom checks his e-mail and sees Siobhan Sullivan’s name. He’s not sure what to expect. Part of him isn’t in the mood for a tongue lashing or whatever it’s called when someone lashes you in cyberspace. But he opens it all the same because chances are that Siobhan may shed some light on what Tara’s saying about him these days.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Date: 20 October 2007
Dear Tom,
Frankie wrote and told me about your grandfather coming home after all this time. My father texted me, too. Isn’t that strange? My father and I have a texting relationship and I kind of enjoy it. He even does those smiley faces.
Anyway, it seems strange to give my condolences and even stranger to say congratulations. But tell your family I’m thinking of them. I always do, you know. I didn’t want to tell you this because I was angry about how you treated us, but for the last two years I’ve been to the anniversary service down at Kings Cross Station to put some flowers there for your uncle. I thought perhaps your family would like that. Some of his students turn up, you know? They reckon they’ll come for the rest of their lives, for “Sir.” That’s what they call Joe.
Do you know if anyone’s heard from Jimmy? I don’t like to ask Frankie because I know she gets upset. She thinks we’re never going to see him again, or that he’ll end up in Guantánamo, and we’ll have to begin a Free Jimmy Hailler campaign. Maybe if you try to contact him, Tom. He always seemed to understand why you didn’t want to have anything to do with us two years ago. He said we had to learn to stop crying in front of you, but none of us could. We tried. I promise.
Love,
Siobhan
P.S. I don’t recall the word dick or head being in Frankie’s text to us that day you turned up at the Union. As you pointed out, I have a brilliant memory, and the exact words were, I think we’re getting our Tom back.
Later, the computer-illiterate woman who sits opposite him wants to be taught how to save old e-mails into folders and it’s while he’s showing her on his own computer that he sees Joe’s last e-mail. The one his uncle sent that week after his father was in the backyard crafting a table for the whole Mackee family to fit around. When his mum and Anabel still lived in Sydney. After Tom had been with Tara in Georgie’s attic and was about to spend the Saturday night alone with her in her parents’ house while they were away. That time.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Date: 1 July 2005
Subject: Nothing Comes of Nothing Part Two
Damn, Tom. I don’t know what kind of advice to give you from here. Make sure you know where it’s going because you’ve become a bit of a tomcat when it comes to the opposite sex, and this girl doesn’t seem the type who plays your games.
It’s all a bit of a gamble, mate. That’s all I can promise you. And we never get to see what that other life would have looked like if we don’t take chances. You know what I did on the day before I started at this job? A practice run on the Tube from Convent Garden to Arsenal. I was miserable Joe sitting on the Tube, homesick for you all, honestly thinking of packing my shit up and flying back to Georgie’s place and meditating in her attic for the rest of my life. I’d been here for almost six months and nothing had happened. And I was praying, Tom. I was praying for a sign. I was so close to being a no-show the next day. But thank God I went through with it because every day, now, I sit on the Tube and think I almost missed out. Just say I didn’t know I was twelve minutes away from the rest of my life. Twelve minutes away from meeting a bunch of the most decent kids I’ll ever teach. Twelve minutes away from meeting my girl.
Anyways, enough of this sentimental crap. Just do the right thing. Don’t be a little man, Tom Thumb. Give a kiss to Anabel. Why is it that the sanest member of our family is an eleven-year-old? She played me “The Last Post” on the trumpet over the phone the other day and I fucking bawled my eyes out.
See you in twenty-three days for the great Finch and Mackee reunion. Can’t wait. And I mean that.
Love,
Joe
Nothing comes of Nothing.
Tom starts writing.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Date: 20 October 2007
Dear Jim,
I feel like a c-bomb for not being around when your granddad died and I know that Frankie and her mum have dibs on you, but know that when you come back, you’ll always be able to crash wherever I’m living. Always. And I don’t give a shit if you think I’ve got sentimental in my old age.
I just wanted you to know that.
Tom
P.S. I’m thinking of going to Walgett in December to help build something long overdue. I heard you could be out west, so if you’re not doing much, we could do with the help.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Date: 20 October 2007
Dear Tara,
Tell me if you remember everything about that night in your parents’ house like I do. I need to know.
Love,
Tom
His finger has never been so powerful. It presses the send button, and he knows it’s going to be a waiting game now. But the new Tom is patient. It’s what boredom has taught him to be. He’ll wait and if she doesn’t respond, he might just have to plan himself a holiday. Step out of that grid.
The place is full to the brim and he can see Stani behind the bar, where Justine and Francesca are serving with Pitts, the new guy. Georgie and his father and Sam are here and so are Francesca’s parents and Luca, back from overseas, and Justine’s brothers. And so is every other drop-kick band in town who thinks they’re performing tonight. He pushes his way through the crowd and jumps the counter.
“He’s here,” Justine shouts to him above the noise.
“Who?”
“Ben the Violinist. Near the door, wearing the Ramones T-shirt.”
The violin guy is as nondescript as any other guy Justine’s been interested in. He stands between two somber-looking guys who share a feral alikeness and some Asian dude. All four are either holding guitars, violins, or a saxophone.
“Don’t like him.”
“Tom!” She laughs. “You don�
��t even know him.”
“Don’t like who he hangs out with. Look at them. Pissed-off looks on their faces. He’s too short for you, anyway.”
“Don’t listen to him,” Francesca says, squeezing between them to hand back someone’s change.
“We’re the same height,” Justine says, her voice weakening.
“Justine!” Francesca says, irritated. “You are not going to lose interest in him just because Tom doesn’t approve. Stop pushing in!” she snaps at the guy who’s just shoved to the front. She points to one of the regulars over his head and serves him next and when the shoving guy gives her lip, she sends him to the back of the line. Tom doesn’t know if the guy’s pissed off or turned on.
“I can’t believe you convinced Stani to do this,” he says to her.
“I kind of lied a tiny bit,” she says, grabbing a bottle of wine out of the fridge and pouring it. “I told him it would just be our band. Five covers. Five originals. Do you think he’s okay about it?”
He looks over at Stani, who’s staring at all the musical equipment being dragged in. The moment Stani sees an amplifier, he sends a scathing look toward Francesca.
“I probably would keep away from him for the rest of the . . . year,” Tom says.
Later, the three of them join Ned in the kitchen while there’s a quiet moment.
“He hasn’t come near me,” Justine says. “He’s only here to play. He’s not interested. I think you’re right, Tom. I think he’s gay.” She heads straight to the toilet.
Francesca punches him hard in the shoulder. And it hurts.
“It’s exactly what you told me about Will when we were at school.”
“No, I didn’t. It was Siobhan telling you he was going to join the priesthood.”
They watch most of the action from the doorway and when the first band goes up, there’s silence, which is a pity because they’re crap and he’d like noise to drown them out.
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