Tom Houghton (15 page)

When I got home from school I was greeted by Mum. Miraculously, she was out of bed and had just gotten home from the butcher shop. I'd seen this behaviour before, a total rejection of the previous day's meltdown and snappiness. She was rushing about the kitchen, preparing the evening meal, wet sheets hanging out to dry in the afternoon's warm wind. I was now in charge of all things outside – the chooks and the plants and, after I finished my homework, went outside to water, weed, pick and plant. This cut into my movie index card time but I was mature enough to accept that, without Pa around, I was forced to take on the man's role about the house. Mum was working one and a half shifts to cover for a last-minute sick call. Kit had scored last night, I'd overheard her say on the telephone, and they were all suffering for it as a result. I pretended to be busy with yard chores when she left, telling me my dinner was in the fridge and that she loved me. But the second I heard mum spark up Pa's old Holden in the driveway, I raced to my room. I found the picture I wanted and went to Mrs B's house.

I enjoyed the kitchen smells that engulfed me whenever I walked into Mrs B's. Especially on Mondays. Monday, she cooked a dozen meals for herself and the family, who'd visit her throughout the week to collect them. Mrs B lived alone and had since I was born. She had four sons, all grown up with families of their own, but still they called on their mum for food. It gave her something to do, she said, her European accent reminding me of
Sophie's Choice
.

After some initial chitchat, I finally found the courage to ask her to make my Hollywood costume. This was a test of sorts, as she was the first person allowed to know of my transformation. She grew excited by the prospect, peering into my book as I fished around for the picture.

‘None of my boys, they wanted nothing like this,' she said. ‘Always the sport with their father, not at all interested in what their mother could do for them. Until now! Now they want this, they want that. Always wanting something from their poor tired old mother! But you, Tom, this will be my fun treat. I have not made any clothing since before last year.'

Her house was similar to ours in layout but the decor was as foreign as Mrs B's accent. The upholstery was brightly coloured with flower prints, the carpet, though now worn, would have been plush and thick in its heyday, the deep maroon of it still holding fast. The wooden furniture in the living room was solid and dark, shining with Mrs B's furniture polish, the chemical smell of it still floating in the room. These pieces were old, she explained, shipped to Australia by her husband, all of them handed down through the years. She told me her sons weren't interested in any of this either, their houses were all brick and stone and furniture so light you could hardly see it against the white of the walls. Mrs B led me into her front room, the one that was mine in our mirror-image house.

Under the window sat an ancient-looking sewing machine.

‘This is where we make the masterpiece.' She clapped her hands together with anticipation. ‘You find the picture?'

I opened the book to the right page and held it out for her to see.

‘Oh my, my, my, my, my!' She seemed uncertain, hesitant.

‘Can you make it?'

‘Are you sure you want me to make this, exactly like it is here?'

‘Yes, of course I'm sure . . .' I said, though now she was making me feel self-conscious.

‘It's just . . . this movie no one knows about. I never ever heard of this. Maybe you don't want to think about something more popular? Tom Cruises? Anything like this?'

It was a mistake to expect that I could rely on anyone else for my transformation. Not even Mrs B, who I'd thought would do anything out of the kindness of her heart. I wanted to take the book from her, snatch it with disappointment and run back to the house. But I didn't. I had to stand my ground. This was going to be difficult, but if I didn't believe in this myself, how could I expect the jerks at school to believe me?

‘This is the one I want you to make,' I said firmly. ‘Unless you can't do it?'

‘No no, I can make. I will make. It's a real beauty, Tom. It's just not what I expect. You can leave book with me?'

She measured every part of my body with her yellowed tape. My arms (over and under), legs (inside and out), shoulders, waist, neck and circumference of my head, ankles and wrists. She made notes of the measurements in a little blank address book she kept next to her sewing machine, offered me a container of spicy rissoles – which I rejected because my mother told me never to take food from her like those greedy sons – and told me to return next Sunday, same time, for the first fitting.

‘You are one hundred per cent sure this is what you want to wear to your school?'

‘I've never been more sure of anything,' I lied.

S
pencer was a real talker, a bit of a joker, always interested in listening to me speak. On Friday, with an air of great anticipation, Spencer very excitedly asked me if I would like to stay the night at his house. He said this was okay by his mother, who was cooking a special meal, and would I like to run it past mine to see if she agreed? The thought of spending the night out of my home was at once intriguing and terrifying. I liked Spencer, had already become comfortable with him, and was very interested to peer into his home life, meet his parents, and taste their African cooking.
Experience is food for the mind
, my Pa used to say,
fantasy is poison for it
. But on the other hand, I'd never spent a night in someone else's house.

When I got home, Mum was rather taken aback by the idea.

‘Do you really want to spend the night away from me?' she asked a little defensively.

‘He's new at school,' I explained, ‘it feels rude to say no. I mean, I don't want to leave you here alone, Mum, so if you'd be scared without me or something –'

‘Tom Houghton, where do you come up with such things? Scared here on my own! Did you ever think that maybe I might actually enjoy the house to myself, you little creep?' she mocked, making me feel more at ease.

•  •  •

As I walked, I loved listening to the sounds of Seven Hills. Barking dogs, too-loud televisions, crying children and screeching mothers, the calls of magpie chicks out of place in such an urban scene. Spencer lived six streets away from us but they were all so similar that they might as well have shared the same name. The houses were mostly made of white fibro, built by the Housing Commission in the 1950s or 1960s Mum told me. Each had a long deep yard stretching back to a laneway that was once used to deliver milk, or else take away the sewage. Now the lanes were a haven for graffiti artists and bored kids looking for something to vandalise, so that barbed wire twirled above our back fences and the back gates had been permanently nailed shut. In front, the lawns were sharp kikuyu, a khaki carpet that felt like splinters beneath naked feet. No fences marked the territory between each front yard, though some now grew ragged hedges no longer trimmed to any discernible shape. Garages were located far up the back right-hand corner of the yard, two parallel concrete lines leading to their rusted roller doors, ditches of white pebble in between. In our front yard grew a strange bottlebrush that rarely flowered and yet it had grown high enough to touch the electrical wire feeding off the street poles into the front of our gable, a lifeline to the modern world. Two doors up, the grown-up kids parked their disassembled cars in the front yard, these patients lying patiently in wait for attention, their innards askew.

The first night I ever spent outside my house was a revelation. The Michaelses' rented house was sparse and simple. They had no television, no books, only an odd assortment of family photographs and landscape posters of Africa. The house smelled strongly of the evening meal, of foreign spices, and the kitchen was a hive of activity with large pots of food steaming away on the stovetop, the fridge door ajar to show plates of laboriously prepared food. It was mayhem. Noise and excitement, a lack of routine, a complete family not sitting crammed around a table in a corner of the hot kitchen, but outside. The Michaelses' table was wooden and large enough to seat twenty, crudely made but majestic in my eyes, and oh so civilised, a scene straight from a film.

Spencer shared a room with his two rowdy brothers. They ran in and out, chasing each other around the house and the yard, squealing and yelling as they went. Occasionally his mother, Miriam, would poke her head in the doorway of the room and ask us if we wanted something to drink, a snack before dinner? When she met me, she took me aside and spoke to me like an adult.

‘You've been very kind to my son,' she said, her eyes connecting kindly with mine. ‘For that you will always be welcome in our home. You must be a very likable boy, because I've never heard Spencer speak so much about a friend at any of his other schools.'

‘Thank you, Mrs Michaels, for having me here.'

The father was tall and broad and he looked much younger than his wife. His hand cupped mine completely when we shook and he gave it a tight squeeze. I felt dwarfed by his presence. Both parents had honey-thick accents that flowed like song.

Outside the boys continued their game, or their argument, I couldn't tell which, and Mr Michaels removed his shirt to soak in the last rays of the sun. He was easily the largest man I had ever seen and was reminiscent of Sidney Poitier, who must also be an imposing figure. Mrs Michaels delivered each dish and explained them carefully to me but all the words went straight over my head, as though she was using a jumbled concoction of English and an African language strung together. Samp and beans, whatever that was supposed to mean. I did not enjoy the dhal or the mutton, which had a texture unlike any meat I'd ever eaten, but the chicken, despite the fact that it still had bones, melted at the touch of my lips and it burst into my mouth with so much flavour that I thought my tastebuds would never again act so frenzied.

Over the meal, the family spoke about the day, shared highlights and mishaps, laughed at some of the foolish things they'd seen. Mr Michaels asked me about my family, what my father did for a living. I was used to this question and I'd rehearsed my answer so well over the years that the lie felt as real as any fact.

‘My father is a photographer,' I said, ‘though unfortunately my mother and he are no longer together. We believe he's doing very well for himself but I don't speak with him, so I can't be sure.'

Silence followed for an indeterminate period of time, even from the younger boys. It was Mrs Michaels who spoke first, though the way she hesitated worked against her accent and I found her difficult to understand.

‘I'm sorry?' I said as politely as I could.

She repeated herself more slowly but not more clearly. I turned to Spencer, who was looking at me expectantly, until he finally understood I needed translation.

‘She said sorry about your Pa.'

‘Oh, thank you, Mrs Michaels,' I said, just as I'd heard my mother utter close to a thousand times since last Tuesday. ‘A terrible shock, but his time was up.'

‘You boys and your accents,' was all she said in return, shaking her head and beaming an incredibly infectious smile.

After dinner, it was dark outside and time for the boys to go to bed. Mrs Michaels ran them a bath and made sure they cleaned themselves well. She left the water in the tub and asked Spencer and me if we wanted it. The idea of sitting in lukewarm, used bath water horrified me and I was glad to hear Spencer reject the offer outright. I wondered if she meant we would have been sharing it together and I couldn't say if the idea repulsed or excited me.

Spencer and I were allowed to stay up for another ninety minutes. We sat on the living room floor playing the two games in the house – Connect Four and Yahtzee. Both were new to me and though it didn't take long for me to learn the rules, I lost every single game, making Spencer's dimple a permanent fixture.

As we crawled into bed, trying hard not to wake Spencer's brothers, it felt strange to have a male body next to mine, even though it was tip to toe. We whispered our way through another hour until Mrs Michaels coughed unsubtly outside our closed door.

‘I think that's our sign,' Spencer said with a giggle. ‘Does your mum have a sign?'

‘Not really. She's not home very much so I get to decide when I'm tired, not her.'

‘You being serious?'

‘Yep.'

‘Wow, man. That would be totally cool.'

‘Well, Mum wanted me to ask your mum if you wanted to come stay at our house . . .'

‘Why didn't you? Don't you want me to?'

‘It's not that, it's just . . . well, my mum works late at nights so there wouldn't be an adult to look after us.'

‘Far out!'

‘Mum said she'd call your mum to make sure it was okay, but after watching you together tonight, I don't think your mum would really want you to.'