Tom Houghton Read online

  To be allowed to enter my grandfather’s domain, to sift through an entire history and decide for myself what of it should live on, gave me a genuine thrill.

  While she was focused and business-like during the day, each night my mum repeated the routine of stroking my back until she was tricked into thinking I was asleep, and she’d sob some more into my pillow and the back of my hair. On the third night she’d developed a chill and her shivers had shaken me awake from the deepest of sleeps. Though Mum called me her little man, I wasn’t equipped to deal with her pain, and I chose instead to concentrate on the treasures that might be found in the garage and, specifically, whether that signed Katharine Hepburn theatre program existed.

  • • •

  Now that he’d been farewelled, and his body was more than likely on its way to being tickled, then melted, by flames, a routine without Pa needed to be established. Friday evening marked Mum’s return to work and she’d come up with a brainwave. I was not old enough to be left on my own all night and, despite my protests to the contrary, on this matter she refused to budge. Behind the bar there was a tiny manager’s office where they counted and stored the evening’s takings. I was to remain locked in the room and not move, under any circumstances. The pub could get quite rough, especially on a Friday night, and she was concerned for my safety, not to mention what would happen to Roger’s licence if a child was found on the premises. She’d spoken to her colleagues and they’d cautiously agreed to her idea, acknowledging that it was temporary and feeling sorry for her in light of her loss. The alternatives were impossible to consider. Her father had died while she was at work and if anything were to happen to me, she said, she’d never be able to forgive herself. At least this way, she could control what happened.

  So I found myself curled under the desk in the money room, my pillow from home propped behind my back. It was not uncomfortable, but difficult to stretch out my legs and I worried they might cramp. Mum had snuck me in the back door ten minutes before her shift began, out of sight of any of the patrons. I’d been set up with a large bottle of cola, a packet of crisps, a large packet of chocolate buds and an empty cordial bottle in case I needed to urinate.

  Beyond that closed door I heard a bevy of deep male voices, gradually getting louder as the evening progressed. Music played in the background and occasionally the volume would be turned up for one song then lowered again. Female shrieks were sometimes heard above the din, a squeal of delight, perhaps, a cackling, flirtatious laugh. Once in a while I heard the timbre of my mother’s voice: calling out for so-and-so to settle down; her familiar throaty chuckle in response to someone’s crude joke; calling out to her colleague they were running low on such-and-such. Motorbikes came and went, parked directly beneath the window of the manager’s office. One pair of male and female voices kept returning to the car park – talking, giggling, sighing. Back inside the pub, the chinking of glasses and, once or twice, the smashing.

  My only entertainment was the Katharine Hepburn biography. That, I conceded, was really all I needed to keep myself occupied for the night, however long it would be. With the turmoil of Pa’s death, I found it impossible to pick up where I’d left it, so I started again from the very first page. Within minutes, I was up to that heart-pounding moment, the discovery that the greatest actress of all time, at least if the number of Academy Awards under her belt was anything to go by, could possibly be a distant relative. Even though I already knew this, and had considered it several times during the week, reading it again somehow added validity, as though a dream had been made real.

  Most Hollywood biographies followed a formula with which I was accustomed and this was no exception: it began with a glimpse of the star now and moved on to create a portrait of her in her heyday, a timeless snapshot of someone who’d reached legendary status. Then a time machine transported the reader back to before – prior to the fame and adulation, the success and accolades, the wealth – and it was the reader’s duty to make the connection between those early beginnings and link what took the subject from mere mortal to international sensation. For Hepburn, it had been life as a tomboy in a busy family with a renowned and wealthy surgeon father and a mother who fought to have the rights of women recognised. I wondered whether Hepburn had been left alone by her parents, just as my mother was forced to leave me so often. But like my mum, Hepburn’s was a fan of the arts and shared this love with her children – taking them to plays, introducing them to actors and playwrights, and instilling a love of the movies. Unlike us, the Hepburns lived comfortably, had more money than my family would ever know. And their house was full of activity and life, an endless array of characters and helpers filling its rooms with a hum the young Katharine found mysterious and glamorous. There was no chance she had been lonely like me, for, aside from all of that, she also had her siblings. I had noticed that a majority of stars suffered some kind of trauma. I wondered what Hepburn’s was going to be, or if she’d be the exception to prove my rule.

  The biographer wrote of the conjecture over Hepburn’s true birthdate: her birth certificate stated May 12, 1907, but the star often referred to her birthday as being November 8, 1905. But November 8th was my birthday! Though Ms Hepburn had not confirmed his discovery, the author was confident of his detective work. I shook my head in confusion and read the date over and over again, convinced I was imagining things. I even went back to the early pages to confirm that Houghton was her mother’s maiden name. Could we not only be related, but share a birthday as well? My heart started pounding heavily; I was the private eye tantalisingly close to the climax of the case. My eyes skipped ahead to grab snippets from further down the page, then darted back like frightened fish to try to absorb what was on the line in front of me.

  Katharine Hepburn had many siblings, but her favourite and the one she was closest to had always been her older brother, Tom. Again the familiarity of the name struck me and it made my heart leap with excitement. Tom! Thomas Houghton Hepburn! This was my namesake, my relative – it just had to be, didn’t it? A surname was possible to overlook, but my first name too? How else to explain the coincidence? It just wasn’t possible that this connection to Katharine Hepburn was not my preordained, deserved destiny. I shared the same name as her brother, and the same birthday, damn it! I knew then that I would need to write to Ms Hepburn and she would write back, introducing me to her older brother with my same name. Why did this make me so special, though?

  Over the past months, with all the schoolyard taunts, the pushes and shoves, I knew deep down that things were not going to miraculously get better on their own. I could ignore them for as long as I pleased, but it wasn’t going to change the way they felt towards me. My only way out was if I could just show Harlen and them that I was better than stupid Seven Hills Tom Houghton, if I could impress upon them that I deserved better, that I had something special about me. They needed to see me not as someone to tease, but as someone whose differences had a reason, a purpose. Oh that Tom, they’d say, he’s a bit different but he’s okay, that Tom. Did you know . . . And the rest of the school would know it too. Why I was special. Why I should be celebrated not decimated.

  But why would those boys give a damn that I shared something in common with some brother of an ancient celebrity? I knew it had to be something more than mere coincidence to make an impression on those stupid thugs. Something bigger was coming to me, otherwise why would I have felt so full of promise? The excitement I felt was indescribable. I was utterly convinced the answer would lie in those pages but I could not bear to face my destiny in that stinking room.

  I heard the murmur of the patrons outside in the bar, I pictured my mother standing there in her black shirt, I heard her laughing gaily at some stupid joke and I knew she’d unbuttoned her blouse just so, enough to garner more tips. The men would have their biceps bulging as they rested hairy arms on the bar. Mum would be bringing one of them home, of that I was sure. Maybe it would be Steve again, or maybe a biker, like that other time.
All the men would be ogling my mother and she could take her pick of them, take any single one of them she wanted. Lana was a flame.

  I put the book down and felt a sudden need to urinate, my bladder bubbling at the brim. I reached for the cordial bottle, double-checked that the money room’s door was bolted, pulled down my pants and took my penis in my hand to force it inside the bottle’s mouth. The Hepburn book was open to a page of photographs where images of the young woman stared out at me. I closed my eyes, pulled back slightly on my foreskin. I felt such relief, a dissolving of tension when I let my stomach relax. Nothing would come so I jiggled my stubborn doodle to prompt it into action. I opened my eyes again and saw Hepburn in a silver dress that hugged tightly to her body, her eyebrow arched. The image next to that was of the young Tom. My face burned hotly, my bowel relaxed deep within, I felt dizzy and hot – such heat – my stomach was about to explode with – what? Not pain, but the burning sensation was so acute, the threat of release built and now, finally it came from inside. It came in three short, sharp bursts, dribbling down the inside neck of the bottle like shame itself.

  I knew what this was, though there’d been no awkward conversations with my mother to prepare me. But even with everything I knew of this, it was nothing at all as I’d anticipated, this pure, uninhibited pleasure. I wanted that feeling to last forever, the heat, the unrivalled relief and how I had completely lost myself, could have been anyone – especially a man.

  • • •

  I woke to realise the pub was now quiet. I’d fallen asleep with the open book across my chest. Embarrassed by the contents of the cordial bottle, I stood up and forced myself to wee. My mother was the only one with a key to the money room and with the bolt firmly locked from the inside, I was confident no one else would catch me shaking up the new, mixed contents.

  ‘He still asleep?’ I heard Kit say at the bar.

  ‘Yeah, out like a light.’ My mum’s familiar voice.

  ‘Little darlin’. So spill your guts about Steve then!’

  ‘Oh fuck off, Kit. Nothin’ to tell.’

  ‘What was he like?’

  ‘Honestly? Hot! Just unbelievable.’

  ‘Why haven’t you seen him again? He hasn’t even been in for his beers.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. Not sure why he hasn’t come back, I thought he would . . . you know?’

  ‘Fucking typical man.’

  ‘Kit? He . . . well, he said Tommy was a bit too much for him to think about taking on and then with my dad dying, he said he wasn’t looking for anything that serious.’

  ‘Wanker. You just wanted a nice fuck, not a husband or anything!’

  ‘Yeah, tell me about it. Still, I suppose I get where he’s coming from . . .’

  ‘Men are all bastards, they just use us for our slits. And you know it.’

  ‘Kit! Keep your voice down!’

  ‘You said he was asleep.’

  ‘He is, but you know, he’s just a kid. Bloody Steve but, can’t believe he’s got me all school girl.’

  With the bar blacked out, and everyone else gone, Mum finally unlocked the money room door to rescue me. I pretended to be asleep and spoke to her groggily because I knew she found it cute.

  ‘Is it morning?’ I joked.

  ‘Well, early, yes. Come on, I’m taking you home, gorgeous boy.’

  I pretended to slowly perk up in the car and we eventually struck up a conversation.

  ‘So I’ve been thinking,’ she said rather ominously. ‘About how I can keep my job, and keep you sane at the same time.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Were you awake for most of the night in the money room?’

  ‘No.’ It was only a half lie.

  ‘There were two fights, three smashed glasses, two car chases, an idiot jumped over the bar and tried to kiss me, I smell like a chimney, my hair’s thick with stale alcohol . . . This isn’t right.’

  I wanted to protest but I was incapable of seriously arguing against her. I found the money room oppressive and after what had happened with the cordial bottle, felt somehow affected by the goings-on of the pub. All the adultness, the male voices on the other side of the bolted door, had conspired to trick my body into something that now made me feel alien, disgusted with myself. I felt guilty, soiled. I knew I could never explain what had happened to my mother because I blamed her in part: not just the way she acted at the bar, for dragging me there and forcing me to overhear, but also how she behaved at home and the images she’d exposed me to. I waited patiently for what she had to say.

  ‘You’re only twelve,’ she began slowly, drawing an audible breath, ‘and I personally think that is still very young.’

  I looked at her and rolled my eyes.

  ‘However . . .’ she continued, raising her brows to silence me, ‘I can see that you’re more mature than most kids your age, and you’re a good boy. I can trust you with just about anything. I’m going to duck over and see Mrs B tomorrow, have a little chat to her about keeping a distant eye on you. I came up with a scheme.’

  ‘Uh huh?’

  ‘We’ll leave the pantry window light on, she can see that plainly from her house. If you’re scared, or worried, or hurt yourself or anything, all you need to do is turn that light off. Now I know what you’re thinking,’ she raised her finger in front of my face to silence me once again, ‘that’s a long way from your bed, right? Well, Doug at work is good with electricity, so he’s coming over tomorrow . . . today . . . and he’s going to set you up a little button next to your bed. So if you need help, all you need to do is hit a switch, like in a hospital, and it’ll turn off the pantry light and Mrs B will know you’re in trouble.’

  ‘But I –’

  ‘And,’ she continued, ‘Doug’s also putting a phone into your room. We’ll program in my work number, the police, ambulance and Mrs B. I’m sure you’ll never have to use any of them but they’re there, in case you need them. And besides, I think this is also about making me feel better, not just you!’

  ‘Thanks Mum, really.’

  ‘It’s a trial, Tommy . . . A trial. Any problems, we’ll scrap that and think of something else, okay?’

  ‘I’ll be totally fine, just you wait and see.’

  I was so excited to have her treat me like more of a grown-up. The incident with the bottle meant I was no longer a child and now I would be free to invest as much time as possible with my cards and hunting down more information. I knew I’d never need the silly panic button or to pick up the phone.

  I desperately wanted to tell my mother about Hepburn and me that night, that I was on the cusp of a discovery that would lead me to incredible heights. But even Mum, who loved movies as much as me, would never understand what it all meant. Mum worked behind a grubby bar in Seven Hills – she couldn’t possibly grasp the gravity of it all. I needed to hatch a plan, find a way of sending into the stratosphere the secret to my being a different Tom Houghton. I would ride the rocket as high as it would take me.

  • • •

  That night in bed, as Mum reached around to spoon me, rubbing my back as she slowly drifted off to sleep, I felt changed. When I detected my mother’s sleep-breaths, and sensed her grip around my ribs had lessened, I painstakingly crawled my way out of the bed, replaced the bedclothes and tiptoed across the room like a jewel thief, stealthy in the night. Then, in the coolness of my own bed, so rarely slept in, I drifted off to a trouble-free sleep, only to wake the following morning with my mother curled in tightly behind me.

   Seven

  The two glasses and multiple shots of white wine were just enough to prevent me from becoming a bumbling mess during my performance, but not quite enough to force me to lose my place or stuff up any of my lines. The vibe from the audience was electric, one of the best I had encountered, and it came to light afterwards that we’d been blessed by an audience largely made up of a rural amateur troupe who loved everything Victor did. It wasn’t uncommon for me to well up at various points of the performance an
d, while Damon had failed to show up for work, I still found myself searching for him in the wings. Certain lines in the play hit harder.

  When I’m on stage, I’m not always the character I’m meant to be. Sometimes I’m an old lady reaching out to the audience to tell my story, others I’m me as a child, putting on a show for my mum. Try though I might to avoid it, other nights I am Thomas Houghton Hepburn. He reaches out through me, a stuttering sixteen-year-old boy trying to overcome his nerves and tics, living a life that was meant for him, albeit ninety years late but somehow more agreeable to him than any day he had while he was alive.

  During the third curtain call, a ridiculous depression engulfed me and I sobbed like a diva, stupid helpless fool that I am.

  As I was smearing the make-up from my face, now run through with tears, there was a polite knock at the door from the stagehand, who told me that Turner, our lighting guru, wanted to have a word with me, something about mood, something something, shouldn’t take long. I left my dressing room (so blissful to finally have one to myself) and took the dimly lit halls towards the wings of the stage. All the other dressing rooms were empty – arrays of costumes, make-up and personal belongings strewn as though the inhabitants were forced to exit in a hurry. I passed the rehearsal studio where usually whoever was newly hooked up would be making out but tonight there was no one. It didn’t even occur to me that all of this was suspicious. Not only were the hallways deserted, everything was deathly quiet. I should have known, I should have at least suspected, and taken my cue to duck out the back door, grab a bottle of gin and head to my bedsit to see out my fortieth, as any saner person would have.

  When I made it to the wings I could hear the quiet murmurs and then all was not-so-surprisingly revealed. The whole company was there, technicians included. Victor was not in Europe after all, neither was Damon missing in action: they stood in front of an over-sized croquembouche with a fizzing sparkler bent out the top. The inevitable singing began and I shed a few more puerile tears, received my kiss on the lips from Victor and peck on the ear from Damon then surrendered to the mood and did as all insane people do on their fortieth – lost control.