Tom Houghton (37 page)

In truth, the play is already written. The last days of Thomas Houghton Hepburn. There is no role in it for me, no way for me to inhabit his body as I'd once assumed was necessary for my very survival. I still have no title, but that is unimportant in the grand scheme of things.

In between bands we speak of what we've gotten up to over recent months, not that we haven't already shared it all via electronic means. It feels like we communicate better that way than face to face, because in the flesh I innately find it harder to forgive myself for the way I've treated him. We walk home chastely – ever chaste – and say goodnight in the lobby as he stays behind to have another drink. I so desperately want to stay and talk, share a drink, reignite the Edinburgh days, but that is impossible, they were never real.

•  •  •

Having travelled the East Coast many times before, Eddie deftly gets us out of the city and heads the car in the direction of Hartford. We've organised an overnight stay before heading back to New York, where I am to see the coroner's report. In the car, conversation is stilted and without my constant barrage of questions, we would sit in complete silence like Doctor Hepburn and his son many years before. I try to laugh at the right moments, be interested in what he is saying, but I am afraid he bores me and I know what was before has suffered irrevocable damage. I will never get that Eddie back, he is too insecure now that he's been dealt my wrath.

I look out the window at the passing countryside. It arouses nothing in me but a longing to be home again.

Cedar Hill Cemetery is not the quaint family setting I have imagined. Even my research could not prepare me for how vast nearly three hundred acres spread. There is no mention of Thomas on the official visitors' guide only, of course, his famous sister. But the internet can be a wondrous thing and it has told me precisely where to find him. I leave Eddie to explore; he knows this is something I need to do on my own.

In the last year of her life, Katharine Hepburn recounted a dream, though she said it was not like a dream at all; as if it was all unveiling anew, Hepburn thought she knew the story but she was wrong.

Look,
he said to her.
I figured it out. The trick. I know how to do it. I know what I did wrong. I learnt how to do it but . . . too late.

I find his memorial almost instantly. It is a plain plaque placed squarely in the ground. No place for flowers, no adornment. It reads:

Thomas Houghton Hepburn 1905–1921

Nothing more.

At the sight of his name I weep, unencumbered. He deserves my tears at least.

•  •  •

That night over dinner, I look at Eddie and see the truth.

‘Where have you gone to?' I ask him. ‘Where is the Eddie I fell in love with?'

His response is not at all what I am expecting.

‘I might ask you the same in return.'

Shocked, I raise my eyebrows.

He continues: ‘This is going to take some time, can't you see?' He looks out the restaurant window for a second, then returns my gaze. ‘The Tom Houghton you thought you were never existed.'

M
ost writers are left for months or years without knowing whether what they're working on is worth it, will be something that might impact readers from all walks of life. With
Tom Houghton
, I've been incredibly fortunate to have support from the get-go, encouraging me to continue with telling this story.

Jeff Ross – you've always believed in Tom even when, at times, I was losing confidence that I could do him justice. Thanks for frequently reminding me he sat in a drawer and needed to see the light of day.

Jon Appleton – one of the very first to read an early draft, you planted ideas that stayed with me and helped make it a better book. Thank you.

Jane Hunterland – I will always remember the phone call we had when you finished reading the manuscript. Your support means the world to me, and your suggestions so considered, they have been incorporated with gusto.

Larissa Edwards – there would be no
Tom Houghton
without you. You have been one of his biggest supporters for years. I am indebted.

Roberta Ivers – objectivity is often a writer's greatest foe but you guided me towards it with passion and dignity.

Elissa Baillie – your energy and enthusiasm is an inspiration.

Dan Ruffino – thank you for championing this book and giving it life.

Anna O'Grady – when a marketer knows your book as well as you do, you know you're onto a good thing! Thank you.

Kylie Mason – thanks for adeptly tightening all those nuts and bolts.

Kirsti Wright – well, yes, the name says it all.

Cheryl Akle, Tess Knight, Mark Taylor, Lachlan Jobbins, Ann Turner – thank you for your generosity.

Sometimes the lines between joking, teasing, bullying and cruelty are easily blurred. Writing
Tom Houghton
has been cathartic on so many levels that I need to end on two not insignificant notes:

If you're being bullied, talk to someone you can trust, or if that feels too much, talk to your GP or conduct internet searches about professional options and foundations that can help. To bury it is to drown beneath it – it needs to be discussed and exposed. Never give up hope that the future can deliver wonderfully exciting changes to life and even your darkest days will have light in them once more.

I acknowledge that I have been guilty of demeaning others. It is not acceptable and I wish I'd had the maturity, sensitivity and foresight then to be more conscious of its impact, for it would never have occurred. If you are a witness to bullying and do nothing to prevent it, you are just as culpable as those who bully.

Todd Alexander

Also by Todd Alexander

Pictures of Us

Pictures of Us

Todd Alexander

© Todd Alexander

Published by Hachette Australia, 2006

‘You have to be strong, Maggie. Just stay strong.'

Maggie was shocked to hear such a cliché and stared at her friend in disbelief. She thought it was a stupid thing to say to someone whose husband might be dying. Strong? Strong? She felt like arguing, why do I have to stay strong? But outbursts of that type were so unlike Margaret Apperton – she was a well-spoken woman who kept her emotions to herself. Why did no one know what to say in moments such as these?

The table had turned completely silent and no one could look her in the eyes. Their lunches lay untouched in the warm sunlight. It was almost as if
she
was the one who'd been hurt. Please, someone say something, she thought. I can handle anything but this silence.

She rose slowly from the table, the feet of her chair making a high-pitched scraping sound. Two or three of her friends made a half-hearted move to follow, but Maggie left them behind as she walked numbly from the restaurant.

•  •  •

The lunch had begun so beautifully with a bright blue sky, the harbour's emerald green glimmering with the glare from the sun and seagulls riding high on invisible currents of air. Once a month she and five friends took the train to Sydney and spent the afternoon in a nice restaurant, drinking wine and chatting about their lives. Maggie started the club after spending two years of retirement bored and lonely, placing an advert in her local paper seeking a ladies' luncheon club. It'd been so out of character that she feared what her children would have thought, had they known she was being so bold.

‘I just need some company while your father is at work,' she would have defended herself weakly.

The first lunch was overly formal – six complete strangers meeting for the first time, asking polite questions about each other's lives and answering with reserve. Maggie thought about cancelling the club after its forced debut; at fifty-seven she felt it was too late for new starts. Then Kathy called her the next day to say thanks and to help organise another lunch. Kathy's enthusiasm had overwhelmed Maggie and she had felt trapped into going again. It had, after all, been her idea.

Maggie woke at six as usual, the morning birdcalls serving as her alarm. She got up, went to the toilet and let the dog in. It was Patrick's dog really – a frumpy but lovable mongrel called Leroy. He followed Maggie everywhere unless Patrick came home, then it was as if Maggie didn't exist. In the mornings the dog was docile and affectionate, following her from room to room and standing at her feet as she cooked Marcus' breakfast.

While the eggs were crackling away, she made herself some herbal tea and toast with marmalade. Together, she and Leroy looked out at the Broadwater as two pelicans circled in to land. She could almost hear what the dog was thinking – if I could jump that bloody fence I'd get amongst ya's – and, as if sharing the joke, he turned to look at her and licked his lips. She threw him the crusts of her toast, marvelled at his peculiar ability to smile, and went back to the stove to turn the eggs.

Marcus was still snoring when she went into the spare room to wake him. They only ever shared the same bed if they had company, because his snoring was so pervasive it kept her awake and made her irritable. She stared a moment at his exposed foot, its heel rough and scaly, the toes oversized and hairy.

‘Breakfast.'

He half grunted and came to instantly. ‘I was dreaming about plane crashes again,' he mumbled. ‘Can't seem to shake it.' This was one of his recurring dreams, along with the one where he lost his teeth, rotted out with decay. He read that dreaming about losing teeth was a sign of sexual frustration but hadn't managed to find out about crashing planes.

‘Breakfast is on the table,' she repeated, not wishing to enter into today's analysis.

Leroy came in and began licking between Marcus' toes. ‘Hey, fella.' He smiled and patted the bed. ‘Come jump up here.' With tail wagging, Leroy jumped onto the bed and landed heavily on Marcus' chest.

‘Aw,' he moaned, ‘you're getting heavier, old boy.'

‘Marcus, you don't want to be late for work,' Maggie urged him to get up.

‘I'll be right,' Marcus said as he continued to rouse Leroy into an energetic frenzy.

So much for him being quiet today, she thought disapprovingly.

•  •  •

Maggie and Marcus owned a restaurant supply company that had begun as an operation from a friend's garage and grown to have a multi-million-dollar turnover. Maggie felt the stress of her office administrator role had steadily increased as the company grew in size and eventually knew it was time to retire. The business looked after them well; they'd come a long way since Marcus was working three jobs to support Maggie and their young children.

When Maggie announced her retirement plans to Marcus he was supportive and encouraging and told her that she deserved to have time to herself, she had been integral to the company's growth so retiring before him could be her reward. She thought that he would find it impossible
not
to join her in retiring, hoping they could rekindle some of the friendship responsible for bringing them together in the first place, but he insisted that he was still healthy enough to keep working and the ninety-minute drive wasn't too taxing. Now, almost seven years later, he was sixty-eight and still working a five-day week to retain absolute control of the business.

Marcus finished eating and went to have a quick shower. Maggie rinsed the breakfast dishes and fed Leroy some raw chicken wings. Leafing through the cable television guide was a habit she was unable to break, but sitting in front of the TV for hours on end was something she refused to indulge in.

‘What's on tonight?' Marcus asked.

‘Not sure,' she replied, without looking up. ‘I'll probably be too tired after our lunch.' The ‘our' was used to exclude Marcus and he detected it easily.

‘Ah, of course,' he said, smiling in defeat. He pecked her on the cheek and walked out the door, slamming the screen behind him. Every morning the loud bang of the screen made her clench her teeth but she'd long given up reminding him to close it quietly. Maggie didn't look him in the eye to say goodbye, she rarely did.

•  •  •

At eight o'clock she made the twenty-minute walk to Kathy's house and joined the chaos of getting three school-aged children ready. They all called her Maggie, which was a nice compromise between calling her Aunty or Gran (which she found too affectionate). On lunch days Maggie always went to Kathy's in the morning. The excitability of young children provided a welcome change of pace to Marcus' silent shuffling around the house.

The walk to Kathy's was mostly uphill and it bothered Maggie that with each passing year she felt it becoming more difficult. She found herself resting against the boot of a car at various stages to catch her breath, making her feel every one of her sixty-two years.

There was no need to knock on Kathy's door – it was always unlocked, if not ajar, and she had been given an open invitation early in the friendship. As she opened the door, Emily ran out in front of her, screaming. David, her eight-year-old brother, followed closely.

‘Oh dear, hang on a moment,' Maggie stopped them. ‘What's going on?'

‘David put my Action Man in the toilet!' Emily wailed.

‘Did not!' David yelled.

‘Did so!'

‘Oh, I'm sure he didn't do it on purpose,' Maggie said awkwardly.

‘I told you, Emily, Action Man was just looking for his enemies in the pipes.'

Quite ingenious of him, thought Maggie, best to diffuse the situation by playing along with him. ‘My son Patrick used to have an Action Man and he was forever sneaking into my drains and toilets. I remember I had to keep all the toilet lids closed and the plugs in all the sinks.'

Emily looked at Maggie inquisitively. ‘Really?'