‘Mama, are the toasties ready?’ The flywire door banged as Ada appeared in the kitchen. ‘Can we have icy poles?’
Ada leaned on the bench, her little brown arms propping up her face. Ada had Mike’s sensuality. She loved food. She was the one at the birthday party left eating the cake while the other children ran off and played. She was the one who checked through her lunchbox and made sure there was enough. She was the one who demanded cuddles, who wanted her back tickled and would not go to sleep without this touch. Martha had resorted to placing baby Ada in bed with Tilly to get her to sleep, and Ada still climbed in with Tilly.
‘Yes, you can have icy poles, after the toasties.’ Martha was determined to be popular.
‘And, Mama, you won’t get cross at Tilly, will you? Or Dad?’
Martha cut the toasties in half and shoved them on a plate. ‘Your father can look after himself. And don’t worry about Tilly. Here, take these outside and share them out.’ It always annoyed her that Ada sought to protect Tilly. As if Tilly needed protection. Tilly was selfish enough as it was, and she had turned Ada into her minion.
Martha smiled. ‘Go on,’ she said. Ada was examining her; she could feel it, and she could feel that Ada didn’t believe her. She turned away. Why did she worry about Ada? Was it because she was the youngest and her last? Or was it because Ada didn’t have her older sister’s prettiness. Martha looked at Ada’s frowning face. It wasn’t that Ada wasn’t sweet. As a toddler she had been like a little brown-skinned pudding with round, startled eyes and a declaring little voice, and everyone was instantly charmed by her. She still had such a wide-open face and an endearing way about her. She looked as if she had tumbled out of a Dickens novel: orphan-like, hair askew with a sleep-nest of knots at the back, mismatching clothes, often back-to-front or piled on in layers—a summer dress over a woolly jumper—a hairclip as a deliberate but awkward attempt to adorn, which added to her ragged charm. When Martha did try to polish her up, Ada looked straitjacketed, pinched in, like a child who had been dressed up for a family portrait. And she became instantly gloomy, as if the real Ada had been harshly rubbed off with soap. But then there were her strange sensitivities and her unearthly scrutiny—they made people uneasy. Martha lowered her head and began to wipe the bench. Ada sniffed the wafts of buttered toast, and ran outside, eager to share her bounty.
Martha marched down the hall to Tilly’s closed door. She paused before opening it, gathering her accusations up in a hot intake of breath. Tilly lay with her back to the door, her ink-black curls spilt behind her on the pillow. Martha scanned the room first and, finding nothing other than the mess of carelessly peeled-off clothes, she stood above Tilly and whispered her name.
‘Tilly.’
Tilly had hardly stirred. She had always been a good sleeper, unlike Martha who woke at the slightest sound.
‘Tilly, wake up.’
Tilly groaned and rolled over. She saw her mother and closed her eyes for a moment. Then she sat up and sighed, awaiting judgment.
Martha launched into her speech with an equally disgruntled sigh. ‘You realise that you are meant to be looking after Ada. What are you doing in bed? It’s past one o’clock.’
‘I slept in.’ Tilly was sullen.
Martha pursed her lips. ‘And what about Ben? Weren’t you meant to be watching him play?’
‘Mum,’ Tilly simpered, ‘Ben doesn’t care. Why do I always have to go and watch him play?’
‘Well, I don’t see why you don’t want to. He’s your brother. He’d come and watch you if you did anything apart from going to parties.’
Tilly didn’t reply.
Martha felt terrible. Why did she say that?
Tilly started to get up. Martha’s voice rose, as if scrambling up after her. ‘And the kitchen was left in a mess, again. I really think it’s time you became more responsible and stopped just thinking about yourself. No one ever thinks to help me. I shouldn’t have to come home to a dirty kitchen.’ She placed her hand on her heart, as if to protect it from this mistreatment. Tilly was old enough to be more thoughtful. She had to be told.
Tilly sat on the edge of the bed. She picked up the clothes that lay on the floor. ‘If the kitchen is in a mess, it’s Dad and Ben who left it. It was tidy last night. Don’t blame me.’
But Martha did blame her. Tilly was slippery. She slid behind things like a shadow. Martha always had to catch hold of her and haul her into the light. Show her how to behave, how to be responsible.
Tilly stepped into a short sundress and reached behind her to zip it up.
Martha eyed her warily. She was like a just-opened flower, still soft, dewy, and quivering in fragility, on the brink of something. It plunged Martha into a sudden tumult of yearning for her own youth and then the familiar tang of regret that she had lost it. She had missed it somehow, or messed it up. Tilly had drained it out of her and taken it all for herself.
Tilly pinned her gaze to the floor. Her shoulders hunched against the weight of Martha’s disapproval. The more Tilly brooded, the angrier Martha grew. Was it possible that she simply didn’t like Tilly? Tilly pulled shadows around her like a coat and shrank beneath them. Martha had told her right from the start to stand up properly. But Tilly wouldn’t listen, or she wouldn’t learn. She was furtive and unassured, moving always in awkward bursts, like a tree in a gust of wind. And her personality was indistinct; as if she had purposefully blurred her own edges. No matter how much Martha wanted Tilly to do better, Tilly refused to improve. Martha’s anger pulsed at her throat. It had been like this from the very start with Tilly. She had been a difficult child. Not like Ben. He had gurgled and smiled and slept like a plump and cheerful Buddha.
Martha tightened herself inwards. She stared coldly at Tilly, and as she spun around to leave the room, her voice shook with emotion, ‘All I can say is that you can be difficult to love.’
12
Tilly waited to find her father on his own. He and Ben had come home from the cricket, jocular and sweaty, bristling with an exclusive and masculine chumminess. Her father slapped Ben on the back, beaming. ‘He played well. Really well,’ he said with a sort of proprietary satisfaction.
Martha, who was preparing their lunch, rolled her eyes. She wasn’t impressed with Mike’s vainglorious adoption of their son’s talents.
‘Do you want some help?’ said Tilly. It was a grim sort of offer and she knew Martha could tell.
‘If you want to do something, put some plates on the table.’ Martha sliced rapidly at the tomato, as if in a rush because there was so much to do and no one to help. Martha liked to play the martyr. Tilly’s parents were performing their favourite roles to each other and neither was watching.
Martha’s whole life was a performance, with men as the only audience. Everyone else, especially Tilly, was backstage and failing her. Martha gazed at Ben as she always did, as if he was her only hope. He was her shining star.
‘Did you win, darling? You must be starving.’ She spoke in her sweet tones. One voice for Ben and another one for Tilly.
Mike answered. ‘They didn’t win, but Ben was best on field. His team let him down.’
Ada danced over to the kitchen bench and nabbed a piece of cheese. ‘Did you hit any sixers?’
Ben ignored Ada. He sawed himself a piece of bread. ‘What about Brunner? He played a cracker game. Cavallo let us down, by not showing up. If he’d been there, we mighta had a chance.’
Tilly blushed, but no one noticed. The sudden burst in her heart surprised her. She tried to unravel the Raff Cavallo who danced with her, from the one who only showed up when it suited him. He was probably still sleeping, flat out across the bed, a sheet wound around him. She blushed again, and quickly pushed the whole thought of him away, in case Ben noticed.
Ben wasn’t watching her though. He was leaning back on a kitchen chair, like a king, waiting for the world to come to him. And it would come. Martha would bring it on a plate. His game would be admired as it always was. An
d he accepted his adeptness as if it was just the skin he’d grown in. There was talk at the matches about Ben and his way of ‘reading the play’, and how he had a ‘sense of the ball’, which anyone who knew him like she did would know was just an adaptation of his inclination for trouble. He sniffed around for any possibility of transgression, grinning while he did, and escaping any consequences as well. He was caught driving Martha’s car without a licence once, and he and his partner in crime, Jimmy Grigson, had also been found lying drunk on the crash mats in the gymnasium after nicking a bottle of wine from the staffroom at school. But these were the only two incidents he had been punished for, and since he was a sporting hero, these misdemeanours just added to his reputation as a charming rascal. Both he and Ada were blessed with their father’s olive skin and animal grace.
Whereas Tilly came from Martha: she was circling above the ground, pale and filled with ether rather than flesh. She didn’t care for sport and she wasn’t entranced by lunch. She’d never learned piano, because Martha didn’t believe in extra lessons—school was enough for a child, she always said. Alice had lessons though. She had showed Tilly the major and minor scales, in both hands, and then Tilly was off, rough as a child pounding at playdough and just as intent.
She lingered on the piano now while they all had lunch. Martha was often irritated by her playing, since Martha thought she was the only one with an ear for music and she was always sighing and said Tilly never played a tune through. But now, while Martha was absorbed in Ben’s glories on the field, Tilly could play without anyone bothering her. Playing the piano always soothed her, just as eating honey toast soothed Ada.
After lunch, her father had a shower, which was unusual for him. He showered punctually every morning, straight after his alarm went off. He rarely broke routine. But it was a hot day and he didn’t like to sweat. Tilly waited till he went to dress in his room and followed him. He stood on the other side of the bed with a towel around his waist, reaching into the cupboard.
‘Dad,’ she said.
He swivelled around, a folded shirt in his hands.
‘Dad, Ada saw you last night.’ This was the best way to say it. She had considered not saying anything, but that would have left it too unattended in her head and in Ada’s too. And it wasn’t to defend their mother that she confronted him, but to bring the transgression to light, to show him that they knew about it. This was something her father had done to her and to Ada. He had damaged his role as father, and he had to repair it. She wanted to believe he could fix this, he could explain it or make her feel it wasn’t as wrong as it looked. Maybe it hadn’t happened, and Ada was dreaming.
His head had dropped, and he’d picked up a corner of the top sheet, as if it had just occurred to him that he ought to make the bed. The shirt he was holding unravelled. For an instant nothing happened at all. Then, when he spoke, he shook the sheet and let if float down like a leaf falling.
‘Ada saw what?’ His voice was petulant, even accusatory. He wriggled into a collared T-shirt as if it was some protection from the accusation.
‘She saw you…with Mrs Layton.’ She realised she didn’t know exactly how to say it. It was ugly after all. She did not want to speak of sex to her father. But it needed to be clear. ‘On the couch, Dad. Ada knows Toby Layton.’ Tilly’s voice rose. Did she need to elaborate? He knew Alice Layton was her friend. Her best friend. The Laytons were family friends. They all knew each other. It was not only wrong, it was a mess.
He rose too, with her voice, as if her words had drawn them both upwards and he leaned forward. His body pitched as if he were about to charge. He pointed his finger at her, flicking it as he spoke.
‘Look, Tilly, Mrs Layton came to discuss insurance matters. I don’t want to hear another word about it. And I certainly don’t want you talking to anyone about this, including your mother. You understand?’
His face was rigid, glowering.
Tilly backed away. ‘Why would I tell Mum?’ she said. ‘I just want you to be truthful.’
He didn’t speak. He slammed himself shut. He turned his back on her and began searching in the cupboard.
Tilly ran down the hall to her room. She lay on her bed. Ada wasn’t dreaming, and her father wasn’t truthful. If he wasn’t truthful, then what was he? What sort of parent? And he hadn’t even defended it, or tried to fix it; he just blasted the whole thing out of existence, as if it could be forced out, annihilated.
It was still imprisoned inside Tilly’s mind, and Ada’s too, a stalking, hideous waft of something that would lurk behind everything her father did, everything he said. What else was not true? She shut her eyes and tried to think of something else. But she couldn’t find a way to steady herself.
Ada woke her sometime later. She climbed on the bed. Tilly was curled on her side and didn’t turn to look at her.
‘Tilly,’ Ada said, stroking Tilly’s hair.
Tilly moaned. ‘Snug, you woke me up.’
‘Have you got a sore head?’
Tilly gave the semblance of a nod.
‘Did you kiss Raff Cavallo?’
‘Of course not.’ She stirred agreeably at the thought of him. And then frowned. Raff Cavallo.
There was quiet. Ada was making her own appraisal. Tilly closed her eyes. But Ada started up again. ‘I took Captain George and Bolshie for a walk in the wheelbarrow. Louis said I was bossy. But I wasn’t bossy. I was just trying to help. He can’t even read yet. I was reading out the instructions.’
‘For what?’ Tilly gave up trying to go back to sleep.
‘For how to set up the badminton net.’
‘That’s not bossy. Louis is just frustrated that he can’t read yet, so he gets cross at you.’
‘I don’t like him, anyway.’
‘You always say that, and then you forgive him again.’
‘Well, I won’t this time.’
‘Snug, you took those silver shoes back to mum’s room this morning, while I was sleeping, didn’t you?’
‘When I woke up. In case Mum came home early. Did you get in trouble?’ she whispered, proud of her stealth.
‘Not really. I owe you one.’
Ada was quiet for a moment, as if considering her options.
‘Can you buy me an ice cream at the theatre?’
‘Sure.’
‘Rainbow flavour?’
‘Whichever you choose.’
Ada was pleased. She began to trace a shape with her finger on Tilly’s back. ‘Guess what I’m drawing?’ she said.
‘A butterfly.’
‘How did you know?’
‘You always draw butterflies.’
‘Yes, but this butterfly can’t fly because it’s too hot, so it’s sitting on a little dog. See.’ Ada was drawing the dog now.
‘Not PJ?’
‘No, not PJ. Elmer. The little blind dog.’
It was quiet again. Tilly couldn’t remember who the little blind dog was.
‘Did you say anything to Dad?’ Ada whispered.
Tilly hadn’t yet worked out what she would deliver back to Ada. She sighed and turned over. She took Ada’s hand and held it. ‘Don’t think about it anymore. I won’t either. Deal?’
Ada pouted. She climbed off the bed and ran out.
Ada wouldn’t forget it. And Tilly wouldn’t either. It was there now, like a hard bit of grit flung in Ada’s eye. Nothing as insubstantial as a few words could change it. She had given Ada nothing but a blind, bald deal—the same one her dad had forced on her—the Old Maid card. Tilly stuck her hands over her eyes. Her head ached. She heaved herself up. It was a shame. Another sort of child might just forget it, but not Ada.
13
It was still hot when Mike Bloom undressed for bed. Martha took no notice. He unbuttoned his shirt and threw it, with an exaggerated flourish, on the chest of drawers, mostly to amuse himself. Martha’s gaze didn’t swerve from her book. She lay in the bed, on her back, under the white sheet, straight and small and clenched, hold
ing the book close to her face. She frowned as she read, and Mike wondered if her reading was causing her a slight displeasure or whether she was frowning at the possibility that he might intrude and warding him off, should he try. Martha had many ways of warding him off. It was the same every night.
Whereas Susie was hungry for him. Susie would peel off his shirt as if unwrapping a delicacy. She took audible pleasure in touching his chest; her hands ran over his arms, she deposited kisses on his stomach; she sought him out and moaned. Her body was soft—a landscape of accommodating flesh that she willingly arched over him. She gave herself as if to be eaten.
‘Did you get everyone fish and chips last night?’ Martha looked at him, finally, as he pulled back the sheet to get in.
‘Well, I got home late from work; I had to.’ It annoyed him the way she asked. It was just to show him that she knew and she disapproved and that he had failed. Why did he need to justify himself? They were his children too.
‘What time did Tilly get home?’
Again the implied criticism. He frowned. How could it possibly be his fault that Tilly got home late? He sighed. He hadn’t wanted it to go this way. He was tired and he wanted to sleep but he also wanted to make love to his wife. His desire was more proprietary than carnal. He had to balance things out. But she was already pissing him off. He propped himself up on his elbow, looking at her.
She frowned at him almost pityingly. ‘It’s too hot tonight,’ she said.
Martha had always been coy. No matter how much Mike complimented her, she still tried to hide herself. He thought it was just a girlish habit that he would break with the force of her attraction to him. No matter how much he adored her—he even pleaded with her to stand naked before him—she wouldn’t do it. Susie Layton was not perfect, but her perfection was that she didn’t care. She almost purred. In bed, she crawled over him, her breasts above his face.
The Last Summer of Ada Bloom Page 6