Tom Houghton by Todd Alexander

take on sinister tones. An old fridge sat in the opposite corner to the boat, its large metal handle almost daring me to open it but I wouldn’t, not tonight. The space smelled like Pa: sweat, engines, sullied tools and stale booze. Mum had barred me from ever talking about it after I’d once queried that omnipresent smell. She explained it matter of fact, said old age brings with it a certain measure of despair, or else boredom, and somewhere between the two, Pa was just looking for a way to escape the predictability of his days. I suppose I understood this, recognised that even adults didn’t want to face up to certain things, but if Pa loved it up there so much, why would he want to make it smell bad?
    As I crept closer to the buzz of the bulb, my present was gradually revealed. Pa had tied a red bow on it, crudely fashioned from an old rag. There was no card, no wrapping paper. It was three metal bars set into pairs of old coffee tins that had been filled with concrete. I can’t begin to describe the despair and hopelessness I felt. Pa wanted me to be a man, wanted me to be something other than myself. He’d never once mentioned weightlifting to me before, never suggested that my muscles were something to invest in.
    I didn’t want to speak to Pa then, couldn’t acknowledge my disappointment at such a barbarian, meathead gift. I would have rather swallowed razorblades than spend my time lifting a heavy metal rod over and over. Wasn’t it my brain that needed the most exercise and deserved the most attention? After turning off the light in the garage, I let myself back in the house as quietly as possible and went to the bathroom to brush my teeth hurriedly before climbing into bed. I figured my grandfather wouldn’t even notice I was back in the house but that night of all nights we ran into each other in the hallway.
    â€˜I knew you wouldn’t exactly love them,’ Pa said with a shrug. ‘But in time I think they may become very good friends of yours.’
    â€˜You spent a lot of time making them,’ I said, scrounging around for some measure of positivity. ‘I appreciate that.’
    â€˜When you’re ready, I’ll show you some of the exercises that get the fastest results.’
    â€˜Yes, Pa.’
    â€˜What book you going to read, then?’
    â€˜It’s one about Katharine Hepburn.’
    â€˜Oh yes! A strange duck, that one!’
    I was offended by his choice of term. She was one of the greats, an icon beyond all icons. It just went to show how little Pa understood of the world outside his stupid garage. ‘I don’t know a lot about her . . . yet, but I like her movies. A lot.’
    Pa followed me into my room and invited himself to sit at the foot of my bed. ‘She was your grandma’s favourite, that Ms Hepburn. That’s what your Ma used to call her. Never Kate, never Katharine, always Ms. Like she actually knew the woman. Ma insisted I find the money for her to go see that damn expensive play with her in it. Just would not let up till I gave in.’
    â€˜Shows how much she respected her talent, I guess.’
    â€˜Yeah. Yeah.’ Pa nodded his head in agreement. ‘I guess you’re right. She just about gnawed my arm off to go but then the play was not enough – she would not give up till she got to meet her.’
    â€˜Who met whom, Pa?’
    â€˜Ma! Ms Hepburn. Caught the train in and waited outside the stage door for hours but she never did show that first night. Wouldn’t give up that easily, but – went back night after night on her own and stood there with her paper and pencil.’
    â€˜You’re not pulling my leg, are you, Pa? She really tried to meet her?’
    â€˜More than tried , Tommy. She met the woman!’
    â€˜Ma met . . . Ma met Katharine Hepburn?’ I jumped up onto my knees and leant towards Pa, egging him on.
    â€˜Too right she bloody