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Tom stares at him. The resemblance must be too obvious. At the AA meetings or at the IR rallies, or anywhere he goes where his father’s world exists, there’s always a double take.
“Tell him Bert said hi.”
“Will do,” he says casually. “Let’s go,” he says to Ned.
“I owe your father some money for something he did for me once. Take it. Sort of quid pro quo.”
“Maybe you should work that out with him,” Tom says coldly.
The guy shakes his head.
“He wouldn’t take it and I don’t like owing.”
Some other customer comes along and the guy’s attention is elsewhere.
“Take it,” Ned says.
Tom looks at him, shaking his head. “It’s bloody expensive, you know. He’s making it seem as if it’s not, but it is.”
“Then whatever your father did for him must have meant a lot,” Ned says.
Despite the voice in his head that says he doesn’t want anything that’s owed to his father, Tom can’t wait to get his hands on it.
“Just take it. Hit your old man over the head with it. You’re dying to.”
They go back to Georgie’s place, lugging the timber in with them through the house and into the back. On his way in, Tom sees the mail poking out of the box and grabs it as they shuffle in.
“What’s going on out here?” Georgie asks, stepping out onto the back veranda. She’s just started her maternity leave and he wonders if that’s going to drive them all crazy.
“Ned. Georgie,” he says, pointing to one then the other as a form of introduction.
“What are you making?” she asks. Georgie never acknowledged new people until they’d been in her house a dozen times, and then they were family. With his father, the world was accepted at a hello.
“Something special. For the baby Jesus.”
She looks confused for a moment and then he sees it register on her face and she covers her mouth and walks inside.
“You’ve made her cry,” Ned says quietly.
“She cried during the elimination rounds of Idol the other night,” Tom informs him. “Anything can set her off.”
He goes to call out to her because he remembers the mail, but stops when he sees his mother’s handwriting. A letter addressed to Dominic Mackee. He’s never been home in time to get the mail. He wonders if Anabel was right and his parents are writing to each other or whether this letter is a one-off. Instead of putting it in his father’s room or in the kitchen, he keeps it with him. He wants to read his father’s reaction.
He sits in the backyard with Ned for the rest of the afternoon, for the most part talking films and music. And then somehow it gets back to Joe.
“You can know someone all your life, like your parents or family, but I’ll tell you this, Ned. There’s an expression on their face, or a tone in their voice, or a way they walk, that you’ve never ever seen before. Like they’ve kept it hidden. Until their brother dies. Or their son. I remember those days and they were like these strangers and I wanted to say, Who are you people?”
Ned’s not an interrupter. He doesn’t offer anything. He just sits and waits.
“And I hated everyone. Every single person in the world. Bush. The Muslims. The Pakis. Blair. Howard. The Israelis. The press. Frankie. Justine. Tara. Siobhan. Jimmy. My parents. Joe. Bloody Joe.” He swallows hard. “There were jobs here,” he says, trying to keep the anguish out of his voice. “Why go there to teach?”
He doesn’t want to break down in front of Ned for the second time in a fortnight, so he stops for a moment.
“And the press were all over us. Every racist in the world came to the surface wanting to use us for their own shit reasons. And others would say, ‘Well, you know, those people would have been oppressed by the West, and they would have had a reason.’ What reason? What fucking reason is there to fill your backpack with explosives and blow yourself up with a bunch of people who just wanted to go to work that morning?
“And then you just get tired from it all. You go dead, you know, and you don’t hate anyone because you don’t feel anything. Ah, the joys of mind-numbing drugs.”
He looks at Ned and laughs. “Sorry. A bit heavy.”
“They used to talk about you a lot,” Ned says. “Frankie said you had all waited forever to meet each other and that it was the real thing as friendships went. ‘He’ll come back to us,’ she’d say. I heard every story in the world about every moment you all had and I remember once you came in and they pointed you out. ‘That’s him. That’s our Thomas.’ I was like, What the? No offense, but you didn’t really rate as a person when you were hanging out with Sarah or What’s-His-Face. And Tara was there, at Easter, and she looked really cut to see you and that’s how I heard about the one-and-a-half-night stand.”
Tom stares at him, stu
Ned nods. “You were pretty wasted.”
The back door opens behind them and they turn to see his father standing there. His eyes go straight to the timber and he walks over, sliding his fingers over it.
“Ned,” Tom mutters. “Dominic.”
His father sighs and holds out a hand. “His father,” he explains.
“His boss,” Ned replies, shaking Dominic’s hand.
Tom gives a snort.
“Do you need all of this?” his father asks.
Tom doesn’t respond.
“Ernie from the lumberyard said you had to share it,” Ned says, feigning i
His father looks confused.
“Bert,” Tom corrects, sending Ned a dirty look.
He sees his father’s eyes flicker to the bunch of envelopes lying on the lawn.
“Forgot to give Georgie her mail,” Tom says, shuffling them together and handing them up. His father takes the bundle and without flicking through them, he picks out Tom’s mother’s letter and stuffs it in his back pocket. It’s as if he would have known her stationery in his dreams.
Francesca insists on meeting them for lunch with Will the next day and they end up in a Vietnamese café in Marrickville. Trombal doesn’t make much eye contact and gives Ned a run for his money in the introverted stakes. Francesca has that intense, manic “I want everyone to love each other” look on her face, so Tom’s relieved when the menus come and they can all study them without speaking.
“I’m going to go the beef salad,” Francesca says.
“It’s got coriander,” Will says.
“Then I’ll go the shitake stir-fry.” She looks up at Tom. “Will’s coming down to the pub tonight. You can keep each other company, seeing you’re not rostered on.”
Tom and Will make eye contact finally and the lack of ecstasy in both their stares conveys their feelings about the prospect.
“I . . . have something on,” Tom says.
“You?” Francesca asks, screwing up her face in disbelief.
He’s going to spend the next five days hating her.
After they order, he decides to put some effort into the conversation.
“Tara tells me you’ve caught up once or twice,” he says politely to Trombal.
“Yeah, we did.”
Tom would like to explain the rules of dialogue etiquette. One asks a question, the other keeps the conversation going.
“She was homesick, I hear.”
Trombal stares him straight in the face.
“No. Her boyfriend was on the other side of the island for a couple of weeks. She was missing him. Thank God the engineers cheered her up.”
A declaration of war.
“So do you have anything romantic pla
Will Trombal gives Ned a look that says he doesn’t appreciate being told what his girlfriend will like.
“Just stuff,” he mutters.
Tom decides to step in with some good advice, especially after Francesca’s discussion with him about Will not being a romantic.