Free Tom Houghton by Todd Alexander Page B

and on an almost daily basis too. It struck me that we knew so little of a person’s complete life, just the pockets to which we’re exposed. None of these people knew my grandfather, and I knew nothing of their colleague or brother. How many parts made a whole? Who would ever know of the school-bullied me, and the lengths I went to escape the person I did not want to become?
    I looked up at Mum. She was silent and focused, moving only to dab away the tears that collected in the corners of her eyes. I reached out for her hand and squeezed it tightly. I wanted to tap her on the shoulder, ask her to lean in close, and then whisper in her ear: ‘Mum, I think we’ve stumbled across the wrong funeral.’ Maybe this would make her laugh, or smile at least, but this was her father, and I was old enough to know that my brand of humour, the one my mother and I shared, was not acceptable today. I imagined for a moment this was her funeral. Tom alone in the world, not having her there to snuggle into at night when I felt my isolation could drown me.
    My mother is dead, I said inside my head. I have no mother, I am an orphan.
    The image of Fitz at school appeared before me then, how believable he’d been. Instead of pain lurching inside me, I felt anger. Which one of them thought up that joke? What was wrong with them that they should care so little for another human being? I forced thoughts of my enemies aside and picked up my mother’s hand, raised it to my lips and kissed it lightly.
    After the eulogies, an old song was played and we walked to the coffin to rest our hands against it for a moment. We bowed our heads, then left the room. That was the last touch, the finale to a long life. I was positively bursting with questions – where did the coffin go, who took it, where was the crematorium, how hot did it have to be, who collected the ashes, was there a way of separating wood from bone or did all the ashes get collected, where were the ashes sent, who was responsible for all of this?
    Mum stood at the exit to the small room and shook people’s hands as they left, many of them referring to her as Trish (which she did not correct, for once in her life). I stood beside her, staring at the faces of the strangers, wondering how many of them had been close to Pa, how many of them would truly miss him. Though we had by no means been the closest of friends, and Pa had a way of making me feel so ill at ease, I knew I would miss the old man; miss his constant presence and the certainty of him toiling away in that garage, his large square frame at the dinner table, the waft of soap on his skin as we ate. I had to hand it to the old man, his final gift, the knowledge that Ma had met Hepburn – well this was just the greatest thing anyone could have done for me. This made Pa’s death endurable.
    It had been decided there would be no wake. It was easier that way, my mother had said, for all concerned. No forced conversations, no struggling to find the right thing to say. Besides, we simply couldn’t afford to have thirty people at the house, and feed and water them.
    As though it was tainted – my grandfather’s killer – I hadn’t returned to the Hepburn biography since the night Pa died, just as I hadn’t returned to school or my mum to work. We’d spent the week preparing for Friday’s funeral, moving about the house, hardly speaking. When I had placed the emergency call to her at work on Monday night, I’d spoken to her calmly and told her in a mature, matter-of-fact tone.
    â€˜You have to call an ambulance, Tom!’ Her voice had been shrill, frantic.
    â€˜There’s no point in that, Mum. He’s not breathing. He’s already dead.’
    â€˜Can you be sure? For how long?’
    â€˜I’m positive, Mum. I sat and watched him for a few minutes, I tried to wake him, I was yelling. I tried to get a pulse like they do, but I couldn’t find