Tom Houghton by Todd Alexander Page A

well did!’ Pa said and clapped his hands. ‘Only just remembered it now that you say you’re reading about her. Never understood your lot’s fascination with all that make-believe.’
    â€˜Pa, tell me!’
    â€˜Well,’ he said with a smirk, ‘it must have been about fifty-five, fifty-six?’
    â€˜Forget about the year! What happened?’
    â€˜Yes, yes,’ he said to calm me. Forget Sundays at the movies with Mum, Pa was the closest I was ever going to get to the real thing. I could have hugged and kissed him, was hanging on every syllable like each was the greatest high. ‘So Ma made sure I got home early from work night after night so I could look after our Trisha. Well, that’s what she was known by then . . . before all this Lana business. Ms Hepburn – would you listen to me – Katharine Hepburn, was here doing a tour of Shakespeare. Some nimble fella brought her here . . . a dancer . . . Helpin or something . . .’
    â€˜Helpmann? Robert Helpmann?’
    â€˜Rings a distant bell . . .’ he said, gazing off as though he could indeed hear one. ‘Yeah, I think that’s it. Anyway, they did some touring around the country and your Ma went, managed to get backstage, and met the great woman. It was more than just a stage-door autograph, as I recall.’
    â€˜So they actually spoke? They exchanged words?’ It was all too fantastic, almost impossible to believe. Why had I never known this before? Why had Mum never mentioned it?
    â€˜The way your Ma told it, they became best friends! But no, not really. I can’t remember how she managed to get her way in, but they exchanged pleasantries and shook hands.’
    â€˜What is she like? In person, I mean . . . what is it like to be that close to a Hollywood legend?’
    â€˜Your Ma said she was – divine was her word. Not your typical Ma word so it sticks in my head. Well spoken, gracious enough to accept compliments from a theatre novice like Ma. That’s about all I can remember really, Tommy. Now, you should get some sleep so you don’t miss any more school.’
    â€˜But Pa, this is just amazing! I can’t believe you never told me before.’
    â€˜Well then, I’m glad you liked hearing about it. Enjoy your book tonight, but just for a little while and then maybe tomorrow after school we can have a go at the weights together?’
    â€˜Okay, Pa, ’night.’
    â€˜Ni’night, Tom. Maybe you’ll dream Hollywood dreams? I think . . . I don’t want to get your hopes up or anything, mate, but I seem to remember a signed theatre program among your Ma’s things. We’ll have a look for that tomorrow too, eh?’
    â€˜Tops,’ I said, practically out of breath with excitement. And already my mind was beginning to race. I knew it would be another sleepless night.
    I opened that Hepburn biography like it was a map to secret treasure. I half expected there to be mention of her tour of Australia, and a chance encounter with a charming woman from Seven Hills, details of their meeting and what was discussed. I raced through it faster than any book I’d started before and I was less than ten pages into it when something quite unusual leapt out of the page at me: my own surname, staring me boldly in the face, the familiar word with its repetition of H and O. The skyline of the letters jumped out – so uncommon to see it in print – and my eyes darted ahead to the name. No doubt about it, there it was. I had to backtrack to find why it was there. Hepburn’s mother’s name: Houghton. My stomach was in my throat. It was more than a chance encounter with Ma; I was utterly convinced of it. They had met and exchanged more than mere words because we were related.
    â€˜Pa!’ I cried out, jumping from the comfort of my bed, running to my bedroom door and