The Last Summer of Ada Bloom

by Martine Murray

  Martha smiled wanly at Susie and struggled to swerve her energy towards graciousness. Susie looked as if she had dressed for an occasion. Was it her hair, had she done it differently?

  ‘How funny. I sent Ada off with Tilly. They’ve gone to your house. I’ve got a bit of a headache.’ Martha rubbed at her temple for effect. It was unusual for Susie to drop over unannounced, especially lately. Martha had vaguely wondered if she had offended Susie in some way. Susie had cancelled swimming twice. Martha would have to offer her a cup of tea, now she would have to waste her precious Martha time chatting.

  ‘Cup of tea?’ she said. Susie looked agitated. She fiddled with the Indian bangles on her wrist. Her eyes—Martha now realised what it was—were rimmed with eyeliner and her gaze roved distractedly from one corner of the room to the other.

  ‘Oh, I don’t want to interrupt? Especially if you’ve got a headache. I’ve just barged in…’

  ‘No, no, it’s lovely to see you,’ said Martha, improving her smile and silently bidding her hour away as Susie wriggled onto the kitchen stool.

  ‘So, where’s Mike?’ she said.

  ‘Playing tennis.’ Martha rolled her eyes. She poured the tea. ‘It’s Sunday, his one chance to do something with the kids and instead he plays tennis.’

  ‘At least it keeps him fit, though it’s wasted on you, darl. Joe, gawd, well you know, he’s so flabby now, he’s past the point of no return, even if he did take up tennis, which I can’t imagine. He’s not the sporty type.’ Susie smiled and picked at her tooth.

  Was Mike wasted on Martha? He was still physically attractive; it was just that he had turned out to be so very self-centred, and small-minded too, that she had stopped admiring him long ago. Once the admiration had gone, everything about him had lost its shine. He had become ordinary, a man who took out the rubbish, who made irritating sucking sounds and didn’t care to think about the drought or the Third World. And yet she was beset by feelings of obligation. Even if she could smother all that disregard and throw it out of the bedroom, his desire was always there, like an open mouth waiting, and she never had a chance to want him. Sex had become yet another wifely duty and the bed another battleground, so that she climbed heavily into it, her mind set like a fortress door against him, against what he wanted from her. Nothing he did could open her and the more he tried, the more pressure she felt and the harder she had to close. Yet in closing him out, she’d blocked her own access to desire too. This dismayed her. She wanted to feel it. She wanted to feel what Susie obviously felt. Every now and then, when he wasn’t pressing her, when he was up a ladder and reaching to pull pine needles out of the gutter, his shirt lifted, revealing a place on his body that she liked without even realising it, and it caused a puzzling glimmer of attraction. Or was it just that for once he was doing something helpful, so he seemed capable?

  ‘The holidays just do me in,’ she said. ‘I’m exhausted.’

  ‘Darl, you look exhausted. Why don’t you go take a nap while the children are out? I’ve got to get going, anyway.’ Susie stood up to leave as suddenly as she had arrived, gathering her bag onto her shoulder.

  Martha was surprised. ‘That was a short stay.’

  ‘Yes, it’s…’ her hand flew to her mouth. ‘The heat, it tires you out and, you know, I should get home to Joe. I think he’s still depressed. Everything makes him sad. It’s so frustrating.’ She closed her eyes, as if to give a moment’s respect.

  ‘Oh, god,’ said Martha, rubbing her own brow as she searched her mind for the right words of solace. ‘Life…’ This was hopeless. She couldn’t explain what she meant.

  Susie nodded as if she’d gleaned something from it. Was she even welling up? This was so unlike Susie that Martha felt a sudden rush of sadness, as if she might cry, and she went quickly to the sink to stem the emotion.

  ‘Anyway,’ Susie said shakily, waving her hand, bracelets jangling at her wrist. ‘What you need, honey, is a little trip away, just on your own. Promise me you’ll think about it.’ She forced a grin and patted Martha on the arm, before she swept herself out.

  16

  Tilly woke early. She had a plan. She’d listened to her new record as soon as she had got home yesterday. Ada had left the room once she realised the singing would never begin, singing to herself to make up for it. Miss Mary Mac Mac Mac…

  Tilly wanted her own room. She was too old to share with Ada. She wanted somewhere to hide. The country was all space. It was sprawling and empty and hot—like the skin of something, and the vast distances were like bleached bone. It was all so inhospitable, so endless. The house was hot and old and full. She wanted a forest, a long, sheltering, dappled-dark forest.

  The music was strange—probably glorious and exultant or something. Tilly had to find out about it. Especially because Mr Layton had given it to her, she had to take the time to make sense of it, and to like it. If she didn’t like it, would that mean Mr Layton was wrong about her?

  But the music wasn’t songs with verses; it was just piano that went on and on, like thoughts themselves, rolling over and over, pounding and mournful and as restless as an ocean, with that same sense of lamentable inevitability. She had better like it. Every now and then the man who was playing it moaned, and because of this, she could picture him trance-like at the piano. Imagine knowing the piano well enough that you could make it sound exactly how you felt. What if everyone spoke in piano, everyone’s laugh a different melody, everyone’s anger a stampede of black notes? If people spoke with sounds and not words, who would she be?

  She put on the sundress she had bought herself at the Salvation Army op shop and went out the front door. She didn’t want to see Martha, the early riser, already out watering her vegetable garden before the morning sun struck it.

  Tilly rode her bike, but got off and pushed it up the hill, so as not to arrive in a sweat. The hill led to the Cavallo’s house. The house sat below the road, and to enter she went down a driveway and past the gaping mouth of an old garage. The garden was old and dark and the house as long and thin as an old ship. There was something neglected and secretive about it. At the front of the house, there was a concrete patio with a round stone table. Tilly took off her hat and wiped the sweat off her forehead. She went around the back and knocked on the kitchen door.

  Daisy Cavallo opened it. Tilly had never seen her up close. She was a similar age to Martha, but everything about her seemed smooth, as if beneath her skin she was alight. Her face was wide and her eyes seemed to hide a secret laughter. She had an apple in one hand, and she wiped at her mouth with the other. Then she laughed. ‘Oops, I shouldn’t open the door when I have a mouthful.’

  She was like an elegant, grown-up child. Her dress came all the way to the ground. It was white, with a panel of green embroidered birds at the chest. Who else could wear a dress like that?

  ‘I’m Tilly, Ben Bloom’s sister.’

  ‘Oh,’ Daisy said, and then she smiled, looking comfortably lost.

  ‘I was at school with Raff. We were in the same class.’

  Daisy wasn’t like a normal mother. She wasn’t making an effort at all. It was strange. Time ebbed back and forth between them like liquid, so slow and hot, as if they were both as dazed as recently hit skittles.

  ‘Oh,’ said Daisy again, and then, as if she had just realised what the etiquette was, ‘Come in. That’s nice. Are you visiting Raff?’ She ushered Tilly inside. ‘It’s too hot to stand out there. I’m so fed up with this heat. I’m sorry our house is hopeless against it, but come in and I’ll get you a drink. I’m not sure where Raffie is. He might still be in bed. Would you like an apple?’

  Daisy called out to Raff, and Tilly hurried to explain. ‘I didn’t come to see Raff. I wanted to ask you about piano lessons.’

  But she hadn’t worn her dress for Daisy, though she did want to make a particular impression. She wanted to appear to have nerve and independence of mind.

  But there were the feelings that had snaked up inside her wh
en Raff had danced with her, and then later had barged in on her dreams, all steaming and elusive in that dream way. They were now safely stowed—nothing could be worse than Raff suspecting her of having feelings for him.

  ‘Piano lessons!’ Daisy feigned disapproval, her hands landed on her hips. ‘You realise I’m a scandalous person, though?’ Her voice dropped down instead of climbing up.

  ‘I don’t mind.’

  Daisy looked delighted. She folded her arms across her chest.

  Tilly felt more and more certain that this was exactly what she wanted, because of Daisy standing there in the white dress unlike anyone she had ever known before.

  ‘Do you play already? Read music?’

  ‘I don’t read music. I can only play what I play.’

  Daisy bit into her apple and stood back to let Tilly enter. ‘I like the way you say that. How about you show me what you know.’

  The kitchen was small, flooded with sun and crammed with brightly coloured and randomly stacked crockery. Vases sat on top of the cupboards, and there was a bunch of proteas in a green jug on a table, along with a wooden bowl of lemons, and a novel, letters, a spanner, a ukulele and a half-peeled banana. The bench was crammed with appliances: kettle, toaster, a bottle of vodka, orange plastic canisters. Dirty dishes were stacked beside the sink. A large, uncurtained window looked out over the garden.

  Daisy pulled a pin out of her hair, and stuck it in her mouth as she used both hands to rewind a stray lock and pin it back. ‘Sorry about the mess.’ She threw her hand towards the sink and rolled her eyes, ‘I’m a terrible wife—probably why I’m not married. Would you like a drink first? Coffee? Maybe you don’t drink coffee?’ Her hands opened, she smiled like a god, with an easy grandeur.

  Tilly took a glass of water and followed Daisy down a long thin corridor lined with precarious towers of books and magazines and doors to other rooms, some open, some shut. One of these had to be Raff’s room. If he came out, she would feel so childishly ashamed and astray.

  Daisy opened a door onto a large room, apologising again for the mess. ‘It’s such an old house. It belonged to an uncle of mine, but I’ve given up on it. It’s too much work, I can’t do it.’

  The room was arranged around an impressive stone fireplace with a mantelpiece on which sat a bronze bust, candles, an empty wineglass and books. It was faced by two shabby crimson armchairs and a well-worn Persian rug. Unframed oil paintings covered the walls. Some were vivid and abstract, others were sombre landscapes, and one was a large modern portrait of a man holding a bird in his hand. At the other side of the room was an upright piano. There was a glass door, which led outside to the front patio and another large window facing the garden.

  ‘My uncle was a painter. These are some of his paintings, but some are by his friends, too. Here, this is my favourite.’ Daisy pointed to a small, unremarkable landscape. ‘It’s not one of his, of course. Have you heard of Clarice Beckett? No? This is one of hers.’

  Tilly said the name in her mind to make sure she would not forget it. Clarice Beckett.

  ‘She had to look after her parents who were ill, so she only went out and painted at dawn or dusk. All her paintings have this misty, smoky aura, which I Iove. Some silly man, another painter, claimed there had never been a great woman artist and there would never be, because women didn’t have the capacity to be alone. Well I never heard such rot; her paintings are much better than his. Look at this painting. It’s all about being alone. Do you like it?’

  Did she like it? Was this the test? Did truly artistic people like this painting? Did she need to know about paintings to be able to learn piano? She peered into the painting: an almost empty street or pathway, clumps of trees, a grey sky, two small figures, possibly old ladies, who looked as if they’d stopped briefly to say a few words as they passed each other on an empty country road. It was all indistinct and drizzly, misty like Daisy said. Tilly thought that the two old ladies’ passing moment was a small, precarious comfort that was at risk of being swallowed up by the wash of greys.

  ‘Yes, it’s lonely,’ Tilly declared. She had made up her mind.

  ‘Isn’t it? She wasn’t respected in her time. Critics found her work dreary. But they were all men. They didn’t understand; it’s way too quiet for them.’ Daisy’s hand rose to her chin. Her head tilted, and she stared sadly into the painting, seeming to forget that Tilly was there. But then she continued dreamily, caught in some weary reminiscence, ‘What men don’t understand they disparage, but you mustn’t let them get away with it.’

  She swivelled suddenly and caught Tilly’s eye, grinning. ‘Don’t you think, Tilly, girls would change the world if they could only speak up? Or if they could only be heard?’

  ‘Yes,’ Tilly stammered.

  Did she mean that? There was no point speaking when no one listened anyway. How would that ever change? How would she change the world if she could? It was a confusing question, the way Daisy had put it. Daisy Cavallo was saying things that made her very uncomfortable. She didn’t know any of this. She couldn’t know it. She wasn’t clever enough to know how to answer these kinds of questions and she had never once thought about changing the world. What did the world need changing from? And who was Tilly to it? No one. A pale speck of a person in a tiny dot of a town. Daisy was taking Tilly for someone she wasn’t. She would be disappointed once she realised. Her courage withered. Her arms felt like useless weights she didn’t know how to hold.

  ‘But that’s a silly question,’ Daisy continued. ‘When I was young I thought I could change the world. And then you don’t change it, but at least you find your own place in it. And you can be generous to the unknown. Everything is so uncertain anyway. Fight even the smallest fight, I say. It still makes a difference. Do you like the abstracts?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Tilly said. She felt a sudden thrill. It was as if the light of a new truth had just poured in through a crack. Still, she didn’t want to admit she didn’t know. It was shameful how little she knew. The unknown was where she faltered, moment by moment. But it was also what drew her forward.

  ‘That’s funny. Sometimes I do and sometimes I don’t.’ said Daisy. ‘Now come here, to the piano.’ Daisy marched towards it, lifting the lid. ‘Sit!’ she commanded. ‘And don’t be shy, it doesn’t matter what you play. Just show me what you know already, and we can work from there.’

  Tilly played badly. She couldn’t play like she played at home, where no one listened. It was all coming out stiff and thumping, with such effort. ‘Sorry, sorry,’ she whispered. But the wrong notes kept chasing her.

  Daisy shook her head. ‘Don’t apologise. Think of it this way: there aren’t any mistakes, just choices. The more you learn the more choices you have.’ Daisy sat down next to her. ‘For instance, you are playing only in C. Let’s show you another key.’

  Raff appeared behind them.

  There he was, after all. Tilly drew herself up, so she could hold in a little jolt of panic.

  ‘Hey,’ he said. He wore only his pyjama bottoms: bottle green with a black ribbon where they tied up. He looked so undressed Tilly blushed instantly. His body wasn’t a boy’s body. He looked back at her as he reached one elbow above his head, and rubbed the back of his neck, carelessly lengthened himself beneath her gaze.

  ‘Ah, you’re awake,’ Daisy pointed out, triumphantly. ‘He can sleep in this heat. It amazes me.’

  Tilly’s eyes wanted to look at him but she tried not to. In the confusion—it had never been like this before—her hands dropped from the piano keys and found each other in her lap, wrapping and fluttering like birds.

  ‘What’s going on? A jam? Shall I get my trumpet?’ Raff dropped his arm and slapped both hands on his thighs.

  ‘It’s a lesson,’ said Daisy. ‘Well not really a lesson, we were just working out if lessons would be a good idea. Where’s Sigrid?’

  ‘Getting dressed. I didn’t know you played piano, Tilly Bloom.’

  It was nice how he calle
d her Tilly Bloom. It made her feel that he held her name in his mind, that her name had a place. ‘I don’t really,’ she said. ‘I just decided I wanted to learn. And your mum was recommended to me.’

  ‘Recommended? By who?’ Raff seemed sceptical.

  Tilly reddened. ‘By Mr Layton.’

  ‘Well,’ said Daisy, ‘isn’t that nice of him? He’s a music lover. He came to the concert I did once, during the festival, remember?’

  She turned to Raff who was leaning against one of the crimson armchairs watching them as if he were at the theatre. A girl walked in. She was the same girl he had been talking to at the party. She swivelled towards Raff, uncertain. He delivered his explanation with a contrived formality. ‘This is Tilly. She’s learning piano from Mum. Tilly, this is Sigrid.’

  Tilly jumped up straightaway. She said, ‘Nice to meet you.’ It was hard to pretend. She was silly to have ever thought of Raff Cavallo. No doubt her cheeks were red and everything was obvious. She needed to get home—because of Sigrid, who was dressed in a white shirt with a badge and a straight tight skirt. She had a proper job, she was older than Raff, and she must have been his girlfriend as she had stayed the night. Tilly’s insides were hot and taut and pounding. ‘I should get going,’ she said.

  ‘Well, of course. It will be too hot to ride home soon,’ said Daisy. Her eyes flicked from one person to another. ‘When would you like to come back and begin? You have a good ear; I think we could work well. Are you leaving too, Sigrid, for work?’

  Tilly had waded way out of her depth and was now engulfed by the vast room of paintings and piano and fireplace, all remnants of a grandeur that now seemed alive in Daisy and Raff, and even Sigrid, whose blonde curls gave her an unusual Hollywood glamour. This and her apparent disregard for convention (older girls didn’t even usually consider younger boys, let alone sleep at their houses) made her either oddly sophisticated or wilfully naïve, both of which fitted this bohemian household way better than Tilly did. Not only that, Tilly had to approach the subject of money. She’d come without asking her parents, with only the intention of earning the money herself, and it would be awkward to have to explain this in front of Raff. Sigrid had now nestled herself under Raff’s arm and was clearly independent of her parents. Most of all, Tilly had to get out before this jumbled panic turned her red and speechless. She would just arrange a time for a lesson and talk about the cost of the lesson then.