The Rosie Result

by Graeme Simsion

  ‘Jim wasn’t exactly a people person,’ said Uncle Frank, and, inexplicably, the audience laughed. Perhaps they were giving the response he had historically sought, out of kindness to an old man.

  ‘My family weren’t too sure about it when Adele said she was going to marry him. We thought he was a bit of a boffin. Turned out we were right.’ More laughter. ‘Couldn’t get him to join the masons. I said to him, “All you need is a belief in a supreme architect, and the desire to spend time having a drink and a yarn with your fellow man,” and he said, “Nought out of two, Franklin.”’

  Judging by the response of the audience, it appeared that Uncle Frank had succeeded in making fun of my father after all, although I would have given much the same answer to the masonic-lodge offer.

  ‘I used to give him a bit of a hard time, all in fun, and he’d take it seriously. He used to correct me if I got my nouns and verbs wrong. But when we fixed up the masonic hall, he donated everything we needed, and he was there every minute he didn’t have to be in the shop, making sure we didn’t stuff it up. Jim didn’t like anyone stuffing up.’

  Uncle Frank stopped and wiped his eyes with a handkerchief. My mother, who had joined in the laughter at Uncle Frank’s earlier comments, was now crying again.

  ‘Some of you here know that I came close to stuffing up, many years ago now, and it was Jim who set me straight. He had a very clear sense of right and wrong. If I didn’t know before, I knew then that my sister had seen further and deeper than we had.

  ‘He wouldn’t see his kids stuffing up either. I’m sure they didn’t always like it, but all of them, even Michelle who we lost far too young, had their…challenges…and he wasn’t going to see any of them go out into the world and get knocked around like he did…That’s another story.’

  Lynda pulled at his arm, but he continued. ‘I know how proud he was of Trevor keeping the business going, and of Don who just gave such a wonderful speech. And young Hudson. He loved his grandson. And…’

  Uncle Frank’s speech had slowed. Now he was looking around the room, and it was apparent that he had lost his concentration.

  ‘I just can’t tell you how much Jim did for Merle and I.’

  ‘Merle and me.’ Hudson’s voice was loud in the hall, and within seconds of him speaking, I could see that he was embarrassed.

  Then there was a huge round of laughter and applause, and Lynda used the opportunity to help Uncle Frank back into his wheelchair. Hudson and I were possibly the only ones not laughing. I knew—as the audience surely also realised—that the relevance of his interjection had been accidental, and in a year or two such behaviour would no longer be cute.

  It was appropriate at a funeral of a family member, but I was surprised to find that I was crying. Uncle Frank had been right: my father had given high priority to teaching me the skills I needed for school and adult life. And I hadn’t liked him for it.

  22

  The wake was at the family home. Judas congratulated me on my speech and encouraged me to return to work.

  ‘I’d say front the committee. Get the African woman to support you. They won’t be game to take her on, you’ll get off, and you’ll be doing a public service for the rest of us.’ He laughed.

  ‘I’m required to look after our son during the day. If I went back to work, Rosie would have to return to part-time. Your advice is against your own interests.’

  Judas laughed again. ‘That’s me, always looking out for the other guy. But, Don, I want you to know that I can see Rosie’s struggling with the work–life balance. If at any time…’

  ‘I thought the project was on schedule. And the pilot’s producing interesting results.’

  ‘That’s true. But it must be tough for her finding the time.’

  Hudson went to bed in the room that had once been my sister’s, after we had persuaded my mother that he did not require the comfort of the dog sleeping with him. Rosie had expected he would be troubled by the change in routine, but I had briefed him in advance, emphasising that he would be required to take two days off school.

  There was some Scotch left over, and my brother Trevor suggested that Rosie and I make sours again. It was a cheap brand—one I would never consider ordering for The Library. But with lemons from the tree in the garden, and Rosie’s cocktail-making expertise, the result was as good as the Yellow Spot Irish whiskey version.

  My mother wanted us to exchange stories about my father, though she provided the majority of them.

  ‘Remember when you let that little disabled boy win the karate tournament? Your father was so proud of you.’

  It was amazing that she could fit so many errors into such a short statement. It was aikido, not karate, and only a single bout in an early round rather than the entire tournament. The boy was neither unusually little nor disabled, but merely awkward. And, unknown to my mother, I had earlier done a terrible thing: I had deliberately tripped him at school, participating in the sort of bullying more frequently directed at me.

  I had not been caught, but my self-inflicted punishment had been more severe than any the school would have prescribed. I had been obsessed for weeks with thoughts of what I had done and what it indicated about my character. When the boy’s parents enrolled him in self-defence classes for the same reason that my parents had enrolled me, I assisted him and formed a plan to compensate for my actions.

  My mother would not have known those details, but she had got one major thing wrong.

  ‘Dad wasn’t proud of me. He criticised me for losing.’

  ‘Donald, he did not. He wouldn’t have, and I remember it anyway.’

  ‘I remember it too. He went on and on about—’

  My mother laughed. ‘He was teasing you. You took things so literally. He wasn’t silly. He saw exactly what you did, and he was very proud of you. He always has been. Of all of you.’

  Trevor coughed. ‘Any of that cold remedy left?’

  I refilled his glass from the shaker. Trevor drank most of it in one gulp, then put it down firmly. ‘Well, everybody, I always promised myself I’d do something on this day, so I hope it’s not going to upset anyone. But I’m almost fifty now and I think you should all know that I’m gay.’

  Incredible. It was consistent with his never having had a female partner, but nor, to my knowledge, had he had a male partner. He had suggested in the past that I might be gay and had implied that this was a negative, an attitude consistent with my view of him as a redneck.

  My mother laughed. ‘Well, of course you are, Trevor. Your father and I have known that for a long time.’

  I interpreted Trevor’s reaction as ‘flabbergasted’. It was several seconds before he spoke. ‘Why didn’t…’

  ‘It’s not the sort of thing you talk about, is it? And we didn’t think you’d be comfortable with us knowing. But your father didn’t have any issue with it. As long as you didn’t flaunt it, of course.’

  I had hoped that my sleep would be less disturbed now that I had completed the public-speaking task. Although Trevor’s revelation was surprising, it was unlikely to have any impact on my life. But I needed to review the Hudson Project.

  The parallels with my own upbringing were obvious. My father would probably have assessed that I appreciated his help, but my co-operation was motivated by my desire for his approval. I guessed that Hudson felt the same way, and that the pizza incident had been a manifestation of his underlying dissatisfaction with me. I was pleased with my analysis but unhappy with the conclusion.

  In the morning, Rosie said, ‘You’re planning to teach Hudson something today?’

  ‘No, he’d normally be at school. Hence, no plans.’

  ‘Good. We should do something he’d like to do,’ said Rosie.

  ‘Excellent idea.’

  Hudson’s response was instant. ‘Is Clunes on the way home?’

  ‘Why Clunes?’

  ‘It’s the capital of second-hand bookshops. But you should have told me, and I would have brought so
me books to trade.’

  I checked the GPS: ‘We can go via home and collect the books.’

  ‘What?’ said Rosie. ‘We’re not driving home from Shepparton then driving to Clunes and back. It’s miles.’

  ‘Kilometres. One hundred and forty from Northcote. I’ll take Hudson. You can put in some extra time at work with no possibility of being needed at home.’

  We arrived in Clunes at 3.12 p.m. On the journey, Hudson spoke in detail about the books he was seeking. At his age I had read exclusively non-fiction and had been under pressure from school to broaden my reading. Hudson’s specialisation was different, but the principal had made an equivalent recommendation.

  We conducted a tour of the bookshops. Hudson talked knowledgeably and at length with the booksellers and provided them with specific requests, as well as selling the books he had brought with him and purchasing others. In these interactions with adults, I detected zero social inappropriateness. I made use of the time by borrowing a book from the shelves at each shop and time-sharing reading with some floor exercises.

  At the final bookshop, I offered to buy Hudson any book that did not have a theme of space travel. He had a quick conversation with the proprietor, and selected a large, illustrated book of twentieth-century fashion. An incredible choice.

  I said nothing and made the purchase.

  ‘The problem is the conflict between developing Hudson’s life skills and maintaining a positive father–son relationship,’ I told Rosie that evening.

  Rosie was not convinced. ‘If he is rebelling a bit, well, he’s eleven, he’s on the verge of puberty, he’s still dealing with moving here from New York, he’s got some issues at school, his grandfather’s just died, he’s developed a relationship with Phil…It could be anything.’

  ‘Agreed. But I think it’s the coaching.’

  I had continued to reflect on my feelings about my father trying to mould me into something that he considered desirable. He was, in retrospect, largely right, but emotionally—meaning irrationally—I had resented it. If Hudson was in the same position, I would be wasting my time trying to convince him of the value of the skills I was teaching him. I had learned, reluctantly and over many years, that rational argument seldom overcame irrational resistance.

  ‘What about the swimming?’ said Rosie. ‘He got over a huge psychological hurdle. And the bike riding’s coming along, isn’t it?’

  Rosie was right. Hudson was teachable. I had a flash of insight. ‘Phil taught him swimming. Or the coach at the gym did. Lucy taught him to snowboard. My father gave him the instructions for bike riding. Blanche taught him the greetings protocol.’

  ‘That’s what I’m saying. He’s learned heaps.’

  ‘From other people. The problem is me. Because I’m his father.’

  Rosie laughed. ‘You’re probably right. To some degree, anyway. Isaac would give you a lecture about oedipal jealousy. I guess that’s why we have schools.’

  ‘And grandparents,’ I said.

  But schools and grandparents were demonstrably insufficient in this case. The solution was clear. The Hudson Project would need to be outsourced.

  23

  Outsourcing the Hudson Project solved two problems—my lack of expertise in several domains, and the need to free up time to code the ordering app for The Library, which had fallen behind following my father’s death.

  After considerable thought, I settled on three multi-skilled mentors.

  ‘Have you asked Hudson?’ said Rosie, before I had even named the team.

  ‘I thought I should check with you first.’ It was a neat answer, but I did not anticipate any objections. There would be no increase in Hudson’s total time allocation.

  ‘Phil will be in charge of physical development and sport,’ I said.

  ‘So far, no surprises. I hope you’re not going to get Gene to coach him on relationships with girls.’

  ‘Obviously not,’ I said. ‘But both of his children will contribute. Eugenie for mathematics and social skills, and Carl for personal presentation.’

  ‘Carl’s gay, isn’t he?’

  ‘Correct. Gay men are famous for their expertise in style and etiquette, even for straight people.’

  ‘Whoa. Stereotype alert.’

  ‘I selected him because he owns a male-clothing shop.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say that?’

  ‘I would have, but you wanted to talk about his sexual orientation.’

  ‘It’s still sounding like an episode of Queer Eye for the Straight Guy.’

  ‘You’re assuming Hudson is straight. If not, Carl will provide a positive role model as an alternative to Trevor, who has spent his life living a lie.’ I had not mentioned the fashion book.

  ‘It’s like The Italian Job,’ said Rosie. ‘I hope you’re not planning to get the team together and give them all a pep talk before you send them off.’

  I had not planned to do so, but the idea seemed good, except that Rosie had just rejected it.

  Hudson was easily persuaded to undertake mathematics coaching. He had become accustomed to success and was frustrated that he had dropped back.

  ‘I haven’t tutored a primary-school kid before, but let’s see how it goes,’ said Eugenie when I called. ‘And the social stuff—I needed someone like me back then, so I’m sort of paying it forward.’

  At Rosie’s suggestion, I did not mention Phil’s expanded role directly to Hudson but simply asked him to assist with the physical-skills items on my list, to which I added Australian Rules football. It seemed foolish not to take advantage of having a relative who was an expert in that sport.

  ‘He’s the school hundred-metre swimming champion,’ said Phil. ‘When I was playing for Hawthorn, teenage girls walking around with my number on their shirts, nobody asked me whether I was any good at tiddlywinks.’

  Phil was making no sense. His success had come from football. I pointed this out.

  ‘If he wants to spend his childhood kicking a ball back and forth so he can play two seasons of top-level football and end up spending more on knee surgery and dental bills than he ever earned playing the game, I’m your man. But I’ll ask him first.’

  ‘He doesn’t have to be good,’ I said. ‘Just not embarrassing.’

  ‘Embarrassing to who?’

  It was a good question, except for the grammar. I had no evidence that Hudson was embarrassed or even concerned that he lacked football skills. But one day he would be sent into a game and it was important that his performance did not become legendary in the wrong way.

  The visit to Carl’s shop was interesting, firstly because Hudson was not interested. Rosie attempted to persuade him.

  ‘Dad’s going to buy you clothes. New stuff. Whatever you want as long as it’s not too expensive and looks okay.’

  ‘I hate clothes shopping. I’ve got clothes. I don’t care about clothes.’

  ‘What about the book? The fashion book?’ I had intended to defer discussion on the subject, but Hudson’s statement that he didn’t care about clothes was so contrary to his purchase that the words came out of my mouth before my mind could block them.

  ‘I sold it. You said I could have any book in the shop, so I picked the most expensive.’

  I abandoned the idea of purchasing clothes. Hudson would probably sell them on eBay.

  ‘We have a ninety-minute slot scheduled. I allocate it to visiting Carl, who is an expert in personal presentation. You can acquire the knowledge and choose whether or not to use it.’

  Carl’s business was in a city lane. I had minimal difficulty recognising him, as I had seen him five years earlier when he stayed with us in New York. Also, he was the only person in the shop.

  He stepped out from behind the counter and we exchanged greetings according to the tradition established when he was an adolescent: he attempted to punch me, and I blocked the punch, locked his arm and levered him to the floor. It was probably the first time Hudson had seen me deploying my martial-arts exper
tise. A man looking in from the entrance walked away quickly.

  I released Carl, and he stood up. ‘Oh dear,’ he said. ‘I feel like a dentist saying, “Why did you leave it so long?”’

  Hudson was wearing his school uniform. It seemed inappropriate for Carl to be so critical of an eleven-year-old, particularly when we had chosen to seek help. Then he pointed to me—specifically, the place where my T-shirt was tucked into my trousers.

  ‘We came to evaluate Hudson,’ I said.

  ‘Quite, but I can’t have you walking out of here looking like that. For a while you were looking quite spiffy. Who’s been dressing you? What are these—expired running shoes?’

  Hudson began laughing (autistic people don’t get jokes) and I realised that Carl was exaggerating his manner to achieve a comedic effect as well as reducing the pressure on Hudson by directing his attention to me. Very neat.

  I explained that in New York I had undertaken a shopping expedition with Rosie and purchased clothes that she found acceptable. I had subsequently bought multiple examples of the shirts, trousers, sweaters, shoes, underwear and socks, in a range of colours. Most had eventually worn out, and the shirts and trousers I had retained had shrunk since our arrival in Australia, presumably because of the change in laundry equipment. When I attempted to restock, I was unable to locate identical items.

  ‘That’s called fashion,’ said Carl. ‘Time to update, but, frankly, what I have here is not really you. But let’s have a little play.’

  Carl enlisted Hudson as his assistant in fetching clothes and in evaluating the results as I tried them on, a tedious and annoying process, especially as some of the selections were patently unsuitable.

  ‘Don’t you have other customers?’ I asked.

  Carl waved his hand to indicate what was obvious: we were alone in the shop.

  ‘How do you make any money?’

  ‘We have a modest number of loyal patrons who are happy to pay a price for quality. Now, Hudson, I think we’re agreed on the jeans, the three shirts, the tees and the black knit. And the belt.’