Tom Houghton

by Todd Alexander

  It was time. I was to replace Hepburn. If I started by imitating this vision of her emergence into beauty, her birth into stardom, then I could usurp her greatness. I was about to become the real Thomas Houghton.

  My fat slug of a body would be sheathed by the shimmering silver, its ugliness would disappear and in the light of day at that assembly, my silver moth costume would dazzle and awe the audience. I was no caterpillar, I was a thing of beauty and destined for legendary status. I would be talked about for years to come. Now they would get it! Now everyone would see that I was Thomas Houghton and I would become a legend. I was too emotional too speak. Water welled in my eyes, my whole body trembled.

  ‘Oh no,’ said Mrs B, ‘you don’t like.’

  ‘You . . . you . . . no! No, I love it. Mrs B –’

  ‘Oh, thank the Lord!’ Mrs B raised her hands and head to the ceiling. ‘I know there is still some work to do for you. I need to do the antenna . . .’

  ‘It’s perfect, Mrs B. You’re brilliant!’ I threw myself at her and locked my arms around her back. ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you!’

  ‘Okay! Okay!’ she said with a laugh. ‘I know you like now! You take book back now and here, I have something for you. My son did this.’ She rifled around in her drawer and pulled out an A4 image of Hepburn in the suit. To the back, she’d stapled a large piece of the silver material.

  ‘Wow,’ I said with genuine awe.

  ‘You hold this when you want to be thinking about your costume, until she’s ready.’

  I insisted I shouldn’t try it on yet, that I must wait until she’d done all of the finishing touches before we tested it for size. Mrs B’s telephone rang and she left the room to answer it. I walked up to the silver skin and placed my face against it. It was surprisingly soft to the touch and smelt new and fresh. I was desperate to put it on, right there and then, but knew this would spoil the moment. I had to contain myself, had to resist every urge, my entire body willing me into the silver suit, maybe to just try on the grey flowing cape, feel how it swam over my limbs like angel’s wings. I forced myself away, out of the room, folding my new picture carefully and placing it in my pocket where no one could see.

  Mrs B was speaking her own language animatedly into the phone. I planted a peck on her cheek, she cooed excitedly, and then watched me as I ran out the front door like I was in love for the first time, up on the silver screen, skipping a celebratory dance.

  • • •

  Mal left early the following morning. Mum said he didn’t want to intrude on our movie day. I was disappointed, had wanted to show Mal some of the Hollywood glamour he often dismissed, the antithesis to the videos he brought over. Today’s double feature was going to be a corker, Mrs Miniver and A Star is Born. We hadn’t decided if we were staying for the third one, yet another Doris Day flick, With Six You Get Eggroll.

  Mum sounded unusually tired, said work had been full-on, with three fights and Kit getting herself in the middle of one of them. She’d been taken away in an ambulance.

  ‘They’re talking about getting a security guy in full time,’ she said.

  ‘Are you okay there, Mum?’

  ‘Yes, Tommy, I’ve told you that before. I know how to handle myself and I’ve been in enough fights to know how to win. I’m not scared at all. Besides, Steve is there most nights and there is no way he would let anyone do anything to hurt me.’

  ‘Maybe we should . . .’

  ‘What, baby?’

  I wanted to offer her some solution, suggest perhaps that we move somewhere else, some place nice. Mal had spoken so longingly about his hometown I thought it would be a beautiful place to live. But there was still work for me to do, especially at school. The timing was not yet right, nor was it the right thing to do merely to escape, ride off into the night without some confrontation. Katharine Hepburn’s brother had surrendered and if I did the same, well then, what would have been learnt? I knew I needed to have my victory and it was weak to just walk away from them and let them beat me.

  ‘Oh nothing,’ I said, forcing another piece of toast into my already crowded mouth. ‘I just don’t want you getting hurt.’

  ‘No need to worry about that, handsome, I told you to stop worrying about anything. I’m the parent, not you, it’s my job to worry and I will always look after the both of us!’

  In the cinema, in the quiet, dark cool, I reached over to Mum and held her hand tightly. She squeezed it firmly and brought it to her lips. She leant in close to me and whispered, ‘I love you.’ My other hand was tucked into my left pocket, lightly stroking the silver material that hid there. Nothing else in the world mattered to me as I sat watching movies with Mum – not Mal, not Spencer, not Simon Harlen – nothing.

  But just after the opening credits of A Star is Born, she started crying. Without talking, I asked her what was wrong, was she okay. Her whispered reply was barely audible.

  ‘I need sleep, Tommy, I need to go home. You’re staying here and when the movie’s over you’re calling in sick for me.’

  ‘But Mum . . .’ I said a little too loudly.

  ‘Just do it,’ she hissed.

  People around us glared and shushed and this kept me glued to my seat. Mum gathered up her things and walked out like a zombie. Tears streamed down my cheeks but I could not follow, I knew enough to give her space.

  After the movie, I called her boss and apologised, saying she had yet another migraine then I went back into that dark cinema and watched stupid Doris Day act all sweet and supple and it was all I could do to keep myself from vomiting.

   Twenty-one

  Eddie called me, as he’d promised, as soon as he walked in the door of his apartment. We had agreed not to mention anything to Lexi. We were, after all, merely getting to know each other better.

  ‘The train trip sucked,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘It was slowed down about twenty times and, against our best judgement, Lexi and I grabbed some beers from the bar.’

  ‘Hours stuck on a train and too many beers sounds like a recipe for a kiss and tell all.’

  ‘I promised you I wouldn’t, Tom, so you need to stop with that shit, okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ I said with the softest hint of a huff.

  ‘And you can stop that too!’

  ‘What?’ I tried innocently but we both began to laugh. Stamp out the diva, I told myself.

  ‘So anyways, I’m home now. The cat’s been fed, my shirts have been collected from the cleaners. I’m all yours till we both get too tired.’

  It was already late on Sunday evening, our only performance-free night of the week. Eddie didn’t ask how the matinee had gone but then I already knew not to expect him to.

  ‘So what did you want to talk about?’ I asked. I was lying under my covers and had a bottle of red wine next to me, sipping on my third glass of the evening.

  ‘Let’s not force topics,’ he said, ‘it’s best to just let things flow.’

  ‘I sometimes wonder why Lexi doesn’t hate me,’ I volunteered. The question had been plaguing me for some time. I could never have blamed her for feeling antagonistic.

  ‘I’m sure she’s had her moments,’ Eddie said. ‘I know my old man and I went years without talking . . .’

  ‘Years? What happened?’

  ‘He’s just a bit of a cunt is all. I decided one day I didn’t want him in my life any more.’

  ‘Just like that?’

  ‘Yep, of course. I mean, when I came out to him his reaction was, “How in god’s name is one to explain this to the boys in the club without looking like a nancy oneself?” And that sort of laid the foundations for the next couple of years . . .’

  I laughed because to take it seriously would have been too melodramatic.

  ‘Yeah, funny now,’ Eddie said.

  ‘A bit. I was going to compile a book of quotes from parents at their child’s coming-out.’

  ‘Why, what did your parents say?’

  ‘My mother, you mean. She said, “Oh Th
omas, always so dramatic. Pass me my fags, would you?” And yes, she did use that particular word.’

  ‘What about your dad?’

  It took me quite a long time to explain the situation to Eddie. As an adult, Lana was less resistant to talking about who my father might have been. And that was just it: might have. It was all very Mamma Mia, one of potentially three men, though I suspected in my mother’s bad maths that probably meant one of five. She only spoke of two of them, which led me to believe it was neither of those. One was a truck driver, someone she’d met at a carnival and rendezvoused (her word) with in his cab. He was either from Taree or Albury, she couldn’t remember, and was married with six kids. The other one she spoke about was one of my grandfather’s work colleagues, a man twenty years her senior and – she was ninety per cent certain – had since died of a heart attack. At least I think it was him, she said. Pa did go to someone’s funeral and the name sounded vaguely familiar.

  ‘But any questions I ask my mother,’ I told Eddie, ‘usually end up with her asking ten in a row then clamming up. “Why do you even want to know?” she’ll ask and then go on with the passive-aggressive “It’s me, isn’t it, Tommy? It’s because I’ve been a wholly unsatisfactory parent and you want me replaced.” Or the like, and then I will need to spend three weeks reassuring her I think she’s done a commendable job. And so I just got to the point where I stopped asking, because at the end of the day whoever he is isn’t going to change who I am.’

  ‘And did she? Do a commendable job, I mean . . . ?’

  I wasn’t sure how to answer him because I had never asked myself the same question. She was no saint, but she had reasons for her behaviour that ran deeper than any child could have comprehended.

  ‘When I think of Lana, I think of the young woman who was determined to make me happy,’ I said. ‘I was everything to her up to a point in our lives and it’s that Lana I am most fond of. She did her best, despite her affliction.’

  He asked me to explain but I wasn’t ready for that, not yet. Perhaps not ever. I still felt guilty whenever I aired Lana’s dirty laundry in public, a Pa hang-up I’d never been able to shed. Instead I told Eddie more about our movie days, and how she tried to immerse us in something other than our Seven Hills existence.

  ‘Seven Hills? It sounds Welsh, green countryside, farmers and mountains . . .’

  I laughed out loud. ‘Think council estates with a poetic aspirational name.’

  ‘Still, I’d like to visit it some day.’

  ‘Why on earth – ?’

  ‘To understand you better, silly.’

  ‘You poor deluded fool.’

  ‘We’ll see. So anyway,’ he said, beginning to wind down the conversation. ‘Aside from your fancy play, I was wondering what you were doing late next Saturday night?’

  ‘No plans.’

  ‘And the one after that?’

  ‘Hmm, let me think. Nope, no plans for that one either, strangely enough.’

  ‘Good then. Keep them free. In fact, keep every Saturday night free while you’re at it.’

  ‘The calls will cost you a fortune,’ I said, giving him his way out.

  ‘Not as much as all those train fares.’

  • • •

  I couldn’t help myself, I needed to call Hanna and share my excitement. She didn’t answer her mobile, so I tried her desk phone. Her way was to speak too quickly, before the receiver got near her mouth, so all you got was, ‘Ah speaking.’

  A few obligatory inanities and then I blurted out: ‘I think I’ve met someone.’

  ‘What’s her name?’ she asked deadpan.

  ‘Hah-de-ha. Eddie.’

  ‘Well . . . ?’

  I told her about our conversations and the fact that he was my daughter’s boss, which drew a sharp intake of breath. Hanna suggested I was playing with fire when I went on to say that Lexi knew none of what was happening.

  ‘Can he be trusted not to tell her?’

  The question took me by surprise and I honestly didn’t know the answer.

  ‘You never take the easy route, or root, I should say.’ She chuckled. ‘I mean, not only does he pay your daughter but he also lives on the other side of the fucking world. Tell me, if he lived in the apartment next door to you would you feel the same or are you getting a bit flighty with the whole travel romance thing?’

  Of course I hadn’t called Hanna to hear coos of delight. She was asking all the right questions, making the right kind of statements.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said with a sigh. ‘I don’t know why I fall for the impossible. But he’s just so unlike any of the losers I’ve fancied before now. He’s real. There doesn’t appear to be any game playing.’

  ‘Yet . . .’

  ‘See, there I think you’re wrong. Not every single relationship has to be a minefield of who called last and is it too early to send another message?’

  ‘We shall agree to disagree, my dear. I’m happy that you’ve met someone nice, I really am. Shows you not all the puppies in the world are worth petting. But I worry about you getting hurt, that’s all. Have you thought about what you’re going to do when you return home? Aside from pine, of course.’

  Well, of course I hadn’t thought further than the next few weeks. And why should I? Why live in fear of what might be rather than in awe of it? I went on to tell her how close Eddie and I had become in just a few conversations but that we’d resisted the physical.

  ‘If you haven’t even fucked him,’ she whispered, conscious of her co-workers, ‘how could you possibly know he’s a man worth getting excited about?’

  ‘For once in my life the physical is not swaying my feelings. I thought you’d be commending me on that.’

  ‘So where’s your penis-brain, in a coma or something?’

  ‘No . . .’ I laughed. ‘I am definitely attracted to him.’

  ‘You know what? I’m reserving judgement for now. I want you to go and have fun with your new plaything and remember: I’m the one who’ll be here for you when things go tits up.’

  ‘Gee, thanks.’

  ‘But the beautiful thing about me is that I’ll also be the one helping you choose your wedding dress of ivory if you manage to survive the odds of holiday shag-cum-long-distance Skype-cum-see-each-other-once-a-year pressures.’

  She said she had to run to a meeting, so we promptly finished our conversation. Maybe she had a point. I would be much safer pushing Eddie away while I still could.

   Twenty-two

  He was not expelled, suspended or dead. Spencer came back into the classroom on Monday morning amid a murmur of confusion and excitement. His arm was still in its sling and he had shaved his head, close to the scalp. Fitz moved seats and allowed Spencer to sit next to Simon Harlen. He was, it now seemed certain, a fully fledged member of their group. I took the moral high ground, decided I would no longer make any effort at all with Spencer, would no longer silently hope for a return to our friendship. It hadn’t been that great, after all, and had barely had the chance to get off the ground, so how could I miss something that fleeting? As the rest of the class struggled to learn the capitals of the world (something I had memorised and could now rattle off like a machine), I wondered where my letter to Katharine Hepburn was now, whether it was in a plane, or had landed in the US, or whether, by chance, it might have even made its way to the Academy. I knew I was being premature, but I imagined it being delivered to Katharine Hepburn’s New York house, her assistant Phyllis collecting the stack of mail from the postman at the door. She’d flick through them quickly and then she would pause at the envelope from Australia, the sender’s eerily familiar name. Would she open it or take it straight to Katharine Hepburn? More than likely she would open it and read it aloud to her employer. I could see her now, Hepburn, listening to my words but I could not imagine how she might react. It would not be an easy letter for her to receive but she would have to respond to me, regardless.

  ‘Montevideo,’ I said distantly.
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  ‘Thank you, Tom. But raise your hand next time please,’ said Mrs Nguyen.

  At recess and lunch I was more than content to go to one of my new hiding places – the cool quiet concrete slab under one of the recently installed demountables – and read my magazines. After lunch, Belinda Frame invited me to her birthday party, but I knew I would say no. She’d invited every one in the class, so it wasn’t exactly a privilege to get a look in, as Pa would have said. At three o’clock, when the rest of the class went storming out of the room – Simon Harlen paused to hiss ‘Dolly’ at the back of my head – I chose to stay behind and help Mrs Nguyen tidy up.

  ‘Exam results are announced on Friday,’ she said. ‘I won’t spoil the surprise but you’ve done very well for yourself, Tom. You should be very proud.’