Tom Houghton Page 10

  Around ten, Auntie suggested it was time for bed and we said goodnight to the women who remained, now sipping brandy in the reading room. Kathy went on ahead upstairs to her room, while I stayed behind to thank Auntie again for taking me to the movie.

  ‘This visit has been the most pleasant experience of my life,’ I said and kissed her on the cheek.

  I walked up the stairs to Kathy’s room and hesitated. I should go up to the attic and straight to bed, but those night-time demons still awaited me. I walked along the hall to the bedroom where she slept and, to my dismay, found she had locked the door. I tried it again, certain it must be some trick of the contraption, but there was no denying its status. My own sister had forcibly locked me out.

  ‘Kathy?’ I whispered, mindful of Auntie downstairs. ‘Please won’t you open this door? Please, Kathy.’ Only silence from the other side. I felt as empty as a shoe abandoned by the side of the road.

  ‘I just want to know,’ I continued whispering through the door, ‘that you’ll always be my girl, Kathy.’ Nothing. ‘That’s all.’

  I tried desperately to talk myself out of my terror. The world was closing in. The feelings I had inside disgusted me, I wanted to carve them out of my soul with violence. I had turned into an abomination. Why was nobody here to help me, why would nobody be able to understand why I trembled so and why had this darn shaking returned now that I was on the verge of becoming a man? Weak and pathetic, that’s what I was, growing ever weaker with Kathy inching away from me day by day, becoming a woman and no longer my girl, only mine. Kathy was all I could think of. How disappointed she would be in me, and hadn’t she already started showing signs? Keeping just those few further inches apart, forcing a sense of the taboo between us. I locked the door behind me and faced the steeply ceilinged attic once more.

  And then something came over me and started acting for me, I was stepping through the motions without thought. I stood beneath one of the rafters – it was barely taller than me, it wouldn’t do. Not enough height. I took one of Auntie’s muslin bed sheets and tried its silkiness around my throat. Yes. I unravelled it and tied one end tightly around the beam. I pulled on the knots with all of my weight – it would hold. The other end made a comfortable noose, an easy slipknot. I sank to my knees and the knot tightened – again I saw Kathy’s face. I refused to allow myself to become a man of whom she would be frightened. With all of my weight I pulled against that knot. I was trudging through waist-deep snow; I was pulling myself out of this life and into nothing. It was a relief, pure and simple. Relief.

   Nine

  When I woke on Monday morning I was no longer Tom Houghton of Seven Hills. I was never meant to be that Tom Houghton. So quaint, so horrifically suburban. My school, the bullies, our backyard and those stupid chooks. It all meant nothing. Pure vacuous, paltry shit. It was all a lie and I had finally uncovered the deception and now it was up to me to put it right.

  ‘I am not meant to be here,’ I wanted to call out to the world. ‘This is all a twisted mistake.’

  I put the pieces together upon waking. Thomas Houghton. Like me, a lover of drama, someone with tics that drew taunts just like those I received at school. A boy confused, yet knowing the complete desolation that was his due, just as I knew mine. A violent death. One of struggle, not only emotional, but also the act of wriggling finally, drawing frantically for breath despite no longer wanting it.

  After he died, at home none of the Hepburns ever spoke again about Tom. It was as if his decision that night had wiped any trace of his existence from history. He was buried in the family cemetery and each of the siblings was forbidden from ever visiting. This ripped Kathy to pieces but instead of protesting, of insisting that she keep the memory of her brother alive by speaking about him at any chance she got, she reacted in the most fantastic way: she became him. When she returned she took on his interests, telling anyone who would listen that she should be called ‘Jimmy’. She pursued most vigorously all of the interests Tom had excelled at: sports, music, the arts. Especially drama and the theatre – these were his destiny and now she eased herself into his empty space as though it had been designed specifically for her own boyish frame. Without Tom the four-time Oscar winner would never have existed. And oh, what an actress! But what about Tom? It wasn’t just the Hepburns . . . no one ever spoke of Tom.

  My body flushed hot with this secret discovery. I could not even comprehend why it felt so momentous, so otherworldly. This boy, with my same name and my same birthday. Tom Houghton. November 8th. He was the one who deserved to be the star. It struck straight at my heart. Hepburn had served as the revered embodiment of what should have been. Tom would have dropped the Hepburn surname, clear of his father’s influence and the name Tom Houghton, my name, should be known by all. I wanted to write to Katharine Hepburn and tell her that she had done enough now, she could rest. I was Tom Houghton, the true incarnation of the dead boy, sixty-five years later, here to reclaim what was rightfully ours.

  And I knew then that this was my destiny. Everything was falling into place; the sense of purpose I felt was overwhelming. I felt whole, I felt bigger than everything surrounding me. I just needed to bring the realisation to light, prove once and for all that I was undeserving of those school-yard taunts, and I would turn them into deafening applause.

  • • •

  My teacher, Mrs Nguyen, pulled me aside before class. ‘I’m sorry for your loss, Tom. If you need to talk, you just ask. If any children harass you in any way, you tell me immediately. Otherwise, let’s just get you back to being you. Yes?’

  I was out of sorts. Now Thomas Houghton Hepburn and I were one and the same, being there, stuck inside with the other kids, was inane absurdity. I could not get the image of Tom out of my mind. I could see myself there with him in that attic at Charlton Street and I knew that only I had the power to convince him to stop, save him from such a horrific end. And this was it, at the end of the day; the only thing I now longed for was saving Thomas Houghton Hepburn. Since that was physically impossible, then I had no other choice but to save myself.

  I ignored the entire morning’s lessons, consumed with how to bring about the turnaround. I looked around the classroom and wondered how many of the other kids had seen a dead body . . . and how many of the other boys had discovered what I’d inadvertently done in the money room. Simon Harlen, surely, with those wiry rough legs of his. But life threw me something strange that day at school, something I could never have anticipated. It formed the beginning.

  Mrs Nguyen announced that to celebrate the end of the school year, we would be doing something very special. Here she smiled fondly in my direction and bowed her head slightly in acknowledgement – or so it seemed to me, at least.

  ‘On the second-last day of term our class has been chosen to host the final assembly and we’re having a themed day,’ she said with a beaming smile.

  ‘Oh, miss!’ half the class sang in a collective groan.

  ‘Shoosh! I won’t hear any nonsense! We’re going to have a day centred around the theme of . . . wait for it – Hollywood movie stars! We’re all going to dress up as our favourite star and there will be awards for best dressed. Won’t that be fun?’

  I felt the boys’ eyes boring into the back of my head. The concession Mrs Nguyen had made, so obvious to my mourning the death of Pa, would not go unnoticed by the rest of the class. And yet, at the same time, something inside me began to glow, a warm little ember that with the right fuel would turn into an all-encompassing fire. Instantly, the idea came to me. I would win over everyone who’d ever taunted me, ever doubted me, and begin on my path to incredible greatness. It was time for me to emerge from this hopeless suburb full of hopeless suburbanites. It was time for me to shine, just like Thomas Houghton Hepburn should have done.

  As Mrs Nguyen continued about her morning, rehashing some rules of spelling and vocabulary I’d memorised last year, I let my mind wander over the costume I’d decided on. I began to make crude sketche
s of it in the back of my movie index card notepad. I knew I’d be able to talk Mrs B into making the costume for me, just as my mother had convinced her that a box full of fresh eggs and vegetables was fair compensation for the front curtains she’d made for our house. Mum had begun forcing me to visit Mrs B on a daily basis, ask her if there was anything I could get her from the shops, any veggies she needed for the evening meal. This was Mum’s way of acknowledging the safety net Mrs B provided each night while I was home alone.

  At recess, I went to the spot behind the sports wall and sat reading a movie magazine. A fresh pile had been outside my bedroom door that morning. In exchange for a belly full of beer, Tony Moore, the local newsagent, brought Mum a stack of recent movie magazines every second Sunday, all complete (and perfect in my eyes) aside from the empty space where he’d clipped out the title to send back to the publisher for his refund. If Mum worked the bar efficiently enough, eight beers could easily go astray from the evening’s takings. A smashed glass would normally be replaced with a fresh complimentary beer, but not every second Sunday. Tony never asked what Mum needed all these magazines for, probably just assumed it was a tool for her daydreaming when she wasn’t pulling beers in that stinky old pub.

  Before Ma died and Mum was not working so much, we called Friday nights Hollywood night. Pa never participated because he thought most movies were fair and square a stupid waste of time. While I was at school, Mum would go shopping for treats. I’d come home to doughnuts, crisps, popcorn and mini hotdogs, and during intermission, when our rotund, enthusiastic host would enthrall me with the history of the film we were watching, she would duck into the kitchen to make us a platter of happy food. I would stay glued to the screen, almost enjoying this part more than the actual films. I wanted to be the host; I wanted to be surrounded by all those books and posters, to be immersed in the celluloid world.

  I spent all of recess hunched over a magazine, pleasantly excited by the new discovery of Geena Davis, a former model getting good reviews for a silly film called The Fly. After doing some research, I was able to trace one of her earliest performances to Tootsie. Though she’d been acting, therefore, for somewhere between five and ten years, she (like hundreds of others before her) was only deemed worthy of one of my cards when it looked as though there would be some longevity to her career. As a rule, television stars were excluded unless they’d appeared in a significant number of films, and only those debut performances receiving consistently high praise would result in being rewarded with a card, but they were becoming scarcer.

  The cards had begun when I was ten. I’d always loved watching movies, even as a child, when most of the adult references went over my head and I’d sit and ask Mum a barrage of questions. She often commented on how my face lit up when I spoke about films. From this early passion, she invested in a few magazines for me here and there, mostly picked up from second-hand stores, and it amazed her how good my memory was, how I could retain just about every snippet of information about any actor. When we went to the cinema, or when we stayed at home together to watch Bill Collins’s The Golden Years of Hollywood, I would often turn to my mother and say, Oh there’s so-and-so, he played that priest in that other movie, or Did you know that Debra Winger voiced most of ET’s lines?

  ‘You ought to write some of this stuff down, Tom, before you forget it.’

  That’s how my hobby was born, a simple throwaway remark.

  Now the cards had become something more – they gave me purpose. With each new piece of information, I made another note on the actor’s card, little codes for important events: AA – Academy Award; GG – Golden Globe Award; MN – maiden name.

  • • •

  After the bell rang I was walking to class when Fitz approached me slyly.

  ‘Hey, Tom,’ Fitz said, to which I gave no reply. ‘I just wanted to say I was sorry to hear about your grandfather.’

  I looked up at him then, looked behind him at the usual hiding places for Harlen’s posse of fools, wondering what the latest prank was. If they thought they would ever catch Tom Houghton out again, they’d better have another think.

  ‘There’s no trick this time,’ Fitz said. ‘I just wanted to say I was sorry, that’s all.’

  ‘Lord, what fools these mortals be.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  I said nothing.

  ‘I was just trying to be nice, Tom-girl, you don’t always have to be such a little poofter, you know.’

  I watched as Fitz slumped off into the distance but as far as I could tell there was no rendezvous with the other pranksters. I felt guilty for a moment, to have shunned what may have been genuine sympathy, but then felt valour: why should I suddenly be grateful to a boy who’d been so cruel to me in the past? The same sort of kid who would have teased Thomas Houghton Hepburn about his tics?

  At recess, when I saw Mrs Nguyen approaching, my immediate thought was that I was in trouble for sending Fitz away. I started concocting an excuse, must be the nature of my grief, so sorry, didn’t mean to be rude, just can’t really talk to people right now . . . when I caught sight of a stranger following in her stride.

  He was as dark as night itself. Skin glistening with a sheen that was neither oil nor perspiration, hair tight and curled against his skull. His eyes were wide and alert, as though Mrs Nguyen was leading him to a slow, painful torture and once she’d dumped him, the whole playground of children would turn on him and devour him whole. Images from Suddenly, Last Summer coursed through my mind, the frenetic energy of the young boys as they’d chased Katharine Hepburn’s son down cobbled streets. But when our eyes met, this captivating stranger’s with mine, a sudden grin leapt across the boy’s face and claimed it, turning the solemn eyes to sparkling ones. His teeth were square and blinding white. On his right cheek there lurked a deep dimple.

  ‘Thomas Houghton,’ said Mrs Nguyen officially, ‘I’d like you to meet Spencer Michaels. He’s new today and I’ve chosen you to be his chaperone. Do your best, please.’

  She turned to Spencer and spoke to him as though he was deaf. ‘This. Is. Tom. Houghton. Tom! He will show you. A. Round?’ To me she added, ‘Remember, be your nicest!’ And she walked off as briskly as she had arrived, reaching inside her handbag for a packet of cigarettes.

  I looked carefully at my new ward. Of course it was a sign. We stared at each other. Who should say the first thing? I wondered what this Spencer character must have been thinking. As it happened, the bell signalling the end of recess spoke for us both and we decided that it was significant enough to carry us all the way back to the classroom in silence.

  ‘I’ll take you around at lunch,’ I said to him, just as we were about to enter the room.

  ‘Thanks,’ Spencer said, and the pure Australian of his accent surprised me.

  Spencer sat somewhere behind me, probably next to one of the thugs. More than likely, they would befriend him in the next two hours and Spencer would choose to be with them instead of stay by my side. I genuinely didn’t like it when new people started in my class, always avoided Mrs Nguyen’s eyes when she scanned the room looking for ‘volunteers’ to be chaperone. I supposed Spencer was her way of ensuring I did not sink into some trench of grief, keeping me active in class so my emotions didn’t do anything silly like make me lose interest in her lessons. All I could really think about though was my Hollywood costume, the fitting sessions I’d have with Mrs B, and how I would keep this a secret, even from my mother, so that when I emerged from my quiet Tom cocoon, everyone would witness my newfound stature, my destiny to be a star.

  At lunch, to my complete surprise, as soon as the bell rang and the rest of my classmates emptied the room like commuters at a station, Spencer stayed behind to follow my movements. Feeling I had no other choice, I turned to him and said, ‘What do you want to do first? Eat or take the tour?’

  ‘Whatever you want to do,’ Spencer said, ‘I’m happy with your choice.’

  I took him on a tour of the school grounds. Th
e buildings were all made of the same drab brown bricks; the sash windows long ago having lost their cords, most of them were propped halfway up with a piece of dowel. The younger the students, the more colourful the window panes, decorated with cellophane collages and crepe paper balls, but for the older kids there were the more sensible world maps and flags. The asphalt was uneven, which made playing on the long-ago sprayed lines for tennis or basketball, or even hopscotch, near impossible. In the centre of the main quadrangle stood an imposing grey flagpole and it was awkwardly placed because during general assemblies half the school was seated before it, and half after, so the singing of the national anthem was preceded by several minutes of noise and chaos as kids turned to look at it. I stopped at every single room, outlined what it was used for, whether I had ever been taught in it, and what year, what the teacher’s name was, and a brief outline of any bullies who resided there. I spoke in an endless stream, the perfect tour guide, even though I’d never before been chosen for the task.

  Tired from our loop of the halls and grounds, we decided to eat under the shade of the wattle tree behind the kindergarten rooms. Though my mother had warned me about ticks, I loved the smell of wattle and its vibrant colour and I thought perhaps Spencer might like it too, as well as the chance to stay away from the noise of the other kids. He seemed fairly quiet, after all.

  ‘Were you scared this morning?’ I asked him as he munched on his biscuits. ‘Starting at a new school, I mean?’

  ‘I’m used to it by now, and besides, I knew when I met you that you’d be all right. Aren’t you eating any lunch?’ Spencer asked over the munching of his sandwich.

  ‘I eat my sandwiches at recess,’ I said nonchalantly. ‘I prefer it that way.’

  ‘I might try that too then.’

  ‘What have you got on yours?’

  ‘Just . . . it’s just cheese.’

  I had been watching him carefully and could tell that Spencer’s bread was only spread thickly with margarine. Here it was, the first little secret between us. He would have had no idea just how safe it was with me.