Tom Houghton by Todd Alexander Page B

had snuck me in the back door ten minutes before her shift began, out of sight of any of the patrons. I’d been set up with a large bottle of cola, a packet of crisps, a large packet of chocolate buds and an empty cordial bottle in case I needed to urinate.
    Beyond that closed door I heard a bevy of deep male voices, gradually getting louder as the evening progressed. Music played in the background and occasionally the volume would be turned up for one song then lowered again. Female shrieks were sometimes heard above the din, a squeal of delight, perhaps, a cackling, flirtatious laugh. Once in a while I heard the timbre of my mother’s voice: calling out for so-and-so to settle down; her familiar throaty chuckle in response to someone’s crude joke; calling out to her colleague they were running low on such-and-such. Motorbikes came and went, parked directly beneath the window of the manager’s office. One pair of male and female voices kept returning to the car park – talking, giggling, sighing. Back inside the pub, the chinking of glasses and, once or twice, the smashing.
    My only entertainment was the Katharine Hepburn biography. That, I conceded, was really all I needed to keep myself occupied for the night, however long it would be. With the turmoil of Pa’s death, I found it impossible to pick up where I’d left it, so I started again from the very first page. Within minutes, I was up to that heart-pounding moment, the discovery that the greatest actress of all time, at least if the number of Academy Awards under her belt was anything to go by, could possibly be a distant relative. Even though I already knew this, and had considered it several times during the week, reading it again somehow added validity, as though a dream had been made real.
    Most Hollywood biographies followed a formula with which I was accustomed and this was no exception: it began with a glimpse of the star now and moved on to create a portrait of her in her heyday, a timeless snapshot of someone who’d reached legendary status. Then a time machine transported the reader back to before – prior to the fame and adulation, the success and accolades, the wealth – and it was the reader’s duty to make the connection between those early beginnings and link what took the subject from mere mortal to international sensation. For Hepburn, it had been life as a tomboy in a busy family with a renowned and wealthy surgeon father and a mother who fought to have the rights of women recognised. I wondered whether Hepburn had been left alone by her parents, just as my mother was forced to leave me so often. But like my mum, Hepburn’s was a fan of the arts and shared this love with her children – taking them to plays, introducing them to actors and playwrights, and instilling a love of the movies. Unlike us, the Hepburns lived comfortably, had more money than my family would ever know. And their house was full of activity and life, an endless array of characters and helpers filling its rooms with a hum the young Katharine found mysterious and glamorous. There was no chance she had been lonely like me, for, aside from all of that, she also had her siblings. I had noticed that a majority of stars suffered some kind of trauma. I wondered what Hepburn’s was going to be, or if she’d be the exception to prove my rule.
    The biographer wrote of the conjecture over Hepburn’s true birthdate: her birth certificate stated May 12, 1907, but the star often referred to her birthday as being November 8, 1905. But November 8th was my birthday! Though Ms Hepburn had not confirmed his discovery, the author was confident of his detective work. I shook my head in confusion and read the date over and over again, convinced I was imagining things. I even went back to the early pages to confirm that Houghton was her mother’s maiden name. Could we not only be related, but share a birthday as well? My heart started