He goes outside for a smoke and a moment later Mohsin the Ignorer is there.
“Didn’t know you were a smoker,” Tom says after a while, because they are both just standing there.
Mohsin clears his throat. “I feel we have misunderstood each other —”
“No misunderstanding on my part,” Tom says coolly.
Mohsin belongs to the Stani school of intense gazing. Tom hasn’t noticed it until now.
“When I was a young boy . . . in my town, there was a very big explosion —”
“Look,” Tom says, interrupting him. “Mohsin, I’m not responsible for what happened in your country. It doesn’t give you a reason to see us as the enemy.”
Mohsin is shaking his head; he’s confused. “See who as an enemy? I am speaking of fireworks. The explosion. They were fireworks, Tom. And now for many years, I have not been able to hear from this ear.” He points to his right ear. “So I am very sorry for not hearing what you were saying when you sat here,” he says, pointing to his right side, “but when you speak, even when you stand here,” he says, pointing to his left side, “you sound like this.” And Mohsin the Ignorer does an impersonation of him. The same one his father would do when imitating Tom’s mumble at the dinner table.
“So all I see is this face,” Mohsin says, doing another impersonation of a frown, “and hear this voice,” and then he does the muttering. “You need to speak English better, Tom.”
Tom could probably count on the hands of every member of his family, and extended family, and the city of Sydney, how many times he’s felt like a dick this year.
“You finished?” he asks, trying to clear his voice because he has absolutely nothing to say and he’s trying to buy time.
Mohsin shrugs. “No, not really. What happened to us on the weekend, Tom? If they do not get Benji Marshall back from injury, we are finished.”
Tom’s furious. “Say that again and I don’t know what I’ll do. So what? We lose a few games, big deal. Souths have been losing game after game for years and their fans don’t give up on them.”
Mohsin is sighing and shaking his head.
“I have supported this team since I came to this country and I will continue to support them, but I am very disappointed and one day I may stop going to the game and only watch it from my TV.”
“You going Sunday?” Tom asks.
“Yes. And you?”
“I usually make it a point not to go to Brookvale because Manly are a bunch of . . . well, you know what they’re like, but if you’re going, I might tag along. My father goes as well.”
“As does my uncle.”
At work one day, Tom checks his e-mail and sees Siobhan Sullivan’s name. He’s not sure what to expect. Part of him isn’t in the mood for a tongue lashing or whatever it’s called when someone lashes you in cyberspace. But he opens it all the same because chances are that Siobhan may shed some light on what Tara’s saying about him these days.
From: [email protected]
Date: 20 October 2007
Dear Tom,
Frankie wrote and told me about your grandfather coming home after all this time. My father texted me, too. Isn’t that strange? My father and I have a texting relationship and I kind of enjoy it. He even does those smiley faces.
Anyway, it seems strange to give my condolences and even stranger to say congratulations. But tell your family I’m thinking of them. I always do, you know. I didn’t want to tell you this because I was angry about how you treated us, but for the last two years I’ve been to the anniversary service down at Kings Cross Station to put some flowers there for your uncle. I thought perhaps your family would like that. Some of his students turn up, you know? They reckon they’ll come for the rest of their lives, for “Sir.” That’s what they call Joe.
Do you know if anyone’s heard from Jimmy? I don’t like to ask Frankie because I know she gets upset. She thinks we’re never going to see him again, or that he’ll end up in Guantánamo, and we’ll have to begin a Free Jimmy Hailler campaign. Maybe if you try to contact him, Tom. He always seemed to understand why you didn’t want to have anything to do with us two years ago. He said we had to learn to stop crying in front of you, but none of us could. We tried. I promise.
Love,
Siobhan
P.S. I don’t recall the word dick or head being in Frankie’s text to us that day you turned up at the Union. As you pointed out, I have a brilliant memory, and the exact words were, I think we’re getting our Tom back.
Later, the computer-illiterate woman who sits opposite him wants to be taught how to save old e-mails into folders and it’s while he’s showing her on his own computer that he sees Joe’s last e-mail. The one his uncle sent that week after his father was in the backyard crafting a table for the whole Mackee family to fit around. When his mum and Anabel still lived in Sydney. After Tom had been with Tara in Georgie’s attic and was about to spend the Saturday night alone with her in her parents’ house while they were away. That time.
From: [email protected]
Date: 1 July 2005
Subject: Nothing Comes of Nothing Part Two
Damn, Tom. I don’t know what kind of advice to give you from here. Make sure you know where it’s going because you’ve become a bit of a tomcat when it comes to the opposite sex, and this girl doesn’t seem the type who plays your games.
It’s all a bit of a gamble, mate. That’s all I can promise you. And we never get to see what that other life would have looked like if we don’t take chances. You know what I did on the day before I started at this job? A practice run on the Tube from Convent Garden to Arsenal. I was miserable Joe sitting on the Tube, homesick for you all, honestly thinking of packing my shit up and flying back to Georgie’s place and meditating in her attic for the rest of my life. I’d been here for almost six months and nothing had happened. And I was praying, Tom. I was praying for a sign. I was so close to being a no-show the next day. But thank God I went through with it because every day, now, I sit on the Tube and think I almost missed out. Just say I didn’t know I was twelve minutes away from the rest of my life. Twelve minutes away from meeting a bunch of the most decent kids I’ll ever teach. Twelve minutes away from meeting my girl.
Anyways, enough of this sentimental crap. Just do the right thing. Don’t be a little man, Tom Thumb. Give a kiss to Anabel. Why is it that the sanest member of our family is an eleven-year-old? She played me “The Last Post” on the trumpet over the phone the other day and I fucking bawled my eyes out.
See you in twenty-three days for the great Finch and Mackee reunion. Can’t wait. And I mean that.
Love,
Joe
Nothing comes of Nothing.
Tom starts writing.
From: [email protected]
Date: 20 October 2007
Dear Jim,
I feel like a c-bomb for not being around when your granddad died and I know that Frankie and her mum have dibs on you, but know that when you come back, you’ll always be able to crash wherever I’m living. Always. And I don’t give a shit if you think I’ve got sentimental in my old age.
I just wanted you to know that.
Tom
P.S. I’m thinking of going to Walgett in December to help build something long overdue. I heard you could be out west, so if you’re not doing much, we could do with the help.
From: [email protected]
Date: 20 October 2007