The Last Summer of Ada Bloom

by Martine Murray

  But Ada ran outside instead. No one stopped her. She stood on the grass with her arms up, her palms cupping the rain, her face bracing to receive the splattering of water as if everything in Ada was rising to meet the downpour, to join in with its drama, to claim its wildness and its might.

  35

  Anne Dresden drove Martha home. Martha was grateful. At least there was Anne. Anne’s broad arms, her flat-shoed unerring practicality, her ox-hearted steadiness. She had been exactly what Martha had needed. Susie would have made jokes, been flippant even. Anne had stayed with her and taken charge. At the hospital they’d given her antibiotics, injections, wrapped her in bandages and recommended rest. Hand wounds were the worst. Anne had nodded sensibly, patting Martha. Martha burst forth with her visions of mad salivating dogs. She was nauseated.

  Anne took her home to her place, initially just for a cup of tea.

  ‘You’ve moved?’ Martha had said as they pulled up to a small house on Duke St.

  ‘Yes, I told you. You don’t remember?’

  Martha remembered then. Anne wasn’t a close friend; she was one of those good women Martha couldn’t relate to, though she liked her and even admired her goodness. But Anne made her conscious of her own selfishness. So Martha hadn’t asked about her move, but had felt afterwards that she should have, that she should have given Anne the chance to tell her because maybe she needed to.

  ‘Oh, yes, I remember. Why did you move?’

  ‘Greg was having an affair. I’ve got the kids.’ She shrugged. ‘Don’t worry, I’m doing fine. A relief actually to not have to clean up after him as well as the kids.’

  Martha was so ashamed. Her own injury seemed hysterical in comparison, and Anne was tending to her, giving her a cup of tea. Suddenly she was weeping again. ‘Oh, Anne, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Don’t cry on my account. Come on, have some cake.’

  Anne had squeezed her for an instant with her broad brown hand, and Martha had felt better.

  Now Anne was driving her home through the downpour and Martha was preparing herself for her entrance. Anne Dresden wouldn’t do such a thing: contrive her arrival for maximum effect. But something had happened to Martha, finally something had happened. To be attacked by an animal was not just unusual, it set off a deep, thrilling, primordial fear. Martha had been dragged to the very edge of life. She had bled. She had a tale to tell. And while she had survived the attack, the possibility of infection still hung over her, so she was owed not only enthralment in her story, but also ongoing solicitude for her threatened health. They should all see how shaken she was, how fragile and shocked. They should understand, like Anne did, how frightened she had been, how upsetting and brutal it was to fight to the death. This would all be conveyed by her appearance, her bandaged hand and foot, her limp, the war-weary expression. Because, once the initial questioning was over, she would lose their attention. Martha had already anticipated this and was hurt in advance. She would have to hide this brittle aspect of her feelings if she was to be received with tenderness. She wanted to be cared for. No one could deny that, after such a terrible attack, for once she was deserving.

  Only Ada would understand the fabled portent of the attack. Martha’s hand rose to her heart; she had become aware of both this embarrassing need to be attended to, and of a deep, nameless grief that was at the root of this need and which now overwhelmed her. She was alone—surrounded by people, but alone. All this emotion—the tears, all for nothing or for everything, it didn’t matter which. It was the fox who had died, not Martha. It was Anne Dresden who had lost her husband. Martha wrung emotion out of air, weather, even foxes. That was why she was sad.

  But this was how it always was. She wasn’t poor or ill or divorced or childless or otherwise slighted. She was privileged actually. And her husband didn’t cheat on her, or beat her. She had nothing to complain about. And yet she was unhappy. But to be unhappy when she had so much was all wrong and shameful. It showed deep personal failure. If Anne could smile and roll up her sleeves, why could Martha not do the same? But Martha wasn’t like Anne. She never would be. She just had a miserable case of quiet, unspectacular, unwarranted unhappiness. And the realisation just made her worse.

  Now she leaned out the window so Anne wouldn’t notice, gulped in a deep breath of the rain-washed air and turned on the radio. She had to stymie the swelling of this. She had to stop thinking. She had to begin again to prepare mentally for the theatre of her return, where for once she would get her due.

  36

  When Martha came in dragging Ada by the hand, Tilly felt everything contract.

  ‘I can’t get a word out of Ada,’ Martha said. ‘What was she doing in the rain?’ She stood there, pulling wet clothes off Ada, even with her hand all bandaged up. ‘Tilly, help me please, my hand…Can you run the bath?’ Martha held her bandaged hand up like an exhibit. Her tone of irritated self-sacrifice was so familiar that they all responded not to the wounded hand but to the ordinary pattern of life that she brought with her.

  Mike stood up. He looked as if the rain had washed him out. ‘Susie Layton rang. Joe is missing.’

  Martha bent down to get Ada’s sandals off. She frowned. ‘Knowing Joe, he probably went out to help someone who got stuck because of this rain.’

  Tilly felt an unfamiliar churning of pity for her mother. For the first time Martha was the one who was innocent. Martha was the one who had been wronged. And she didn’t even know it. Martha, who had to know everything, didn’t know the thing that mattered most. Mike said Martha was probably right, but he had answered so dutifully, he appeared to Tilly like a stunned child reciting a lesson that he hadn’t prepared for or one that he would fail at. Tilly suspected he knew more about Joe being missing than he was revealing. Even if Martha saw this she wouldn’t understand why.

  Then Ada turned to Martha and said loudly that the fox hadn’t been killed and could she see Martha’s bites. They had all forgotten about the fox attack. Poor Martha. Tilly had seen her mother’s bandaged hand but hadn’t wanted to think about it. She should be more caring. She should offer to make her a cup of tea.

  But Ada had already reached out to take Martha’s bandaged hand and was examining it. Ada gauged the importance of an injury by the amount of blood that issued from the wound. When she found none, she returned her attention to the fox.

  ‘We couldn’t find the dead fox anywhere.’ Ada lied with too much portentousness. ‘Does it hurt, Mama?’ At least this was sincere.

  Martha looked bewildered. ‘You think the fox is alive? I was sure it died. I knelt on its throat.’ She turned to Mike in a panic. But Mike said nothing.

  ‘Mum, do you want me to make you a cup of tea?’ Tilly pulled herself together. She could do the right thing after all.

  Martha’s eyes filled with tears. The sight of her mother crying always upset Tilly, and she looked away. Mike finally put his arms around her. Tilly couldn’t tell whether this was consolation for the fox attack or for some other private sadness between them. She couldn’t tell what exactly had moved Martha to tears. But whatever it was Martha accepted Mike’s embrace as if it were the haven she had been seeking all along. She leaned her head into his chest and closed her eyes. Her bandaged hand hung limply by her side and Mike bent his head over her shoulder and stroked her back. They looked like two people who loved each other.

  But Tilly rarely saw them hold each other and it unsettled her, and Ada too. Ada stood transfixed. If life had swerved even their parents so far off course that in the middle of the kitchen they sought out the shelter of each other’s bodies, then no wonder Tilly was afraid to ask either of them what had happened to Mr Layton.

  37

  Mike didn’t go to work the next day. He wasn’t like his father after all. He couldn’t just keep going, though how the hell would he not keep going? It wasn’t that he had lost direction; it was that direction had lost him. The life that, up till now, had accommodated his lust and ambition, and also his boredom, wasn’t
there anymore. Some other life was, and he didn’t like it. He lay in bed while the rain eased and sorrow knocked. His guilt was stone hard, and he couldn’t chase it away. The rain had gone on all night, and while the clamour of it rose and fell, he thought again and again of his children: how Tilly had accused him, but Ada had known and not said anything. And, worst of all, Joe Layton wouldn’t leave his mind, replaying the moment of his arrival at the door, the shock, his departure, and then what? Mike tried to arrange the events. Had he had gone out and then come back? Had he come back for the salve of alcohol? Had he walked like a blind man with a bottle of whisky to a private place to drown his humiliation?

  Mike needed to tell someone he was sorry. Martha’s mouth was slack with sleep; she twitched and turned her back to him. He should have taken her trauma more seriously. But he was so trapped in his anxiety, he couldn’t get out of it. He got up early and started to dress. He would go for a run.

  Martha was surprised when he said that he wasn’t going to work. He told her that he had hardly slept. She frowned, momentarily perplexed. Mike always slept. Then she got out of bed too and came over and stroked the back of his neck as if he had finally proved that he too could feel deeply. But this tenderness from Martha just curdled inside him and he barged out of the room.

  Now he found himself beneath the old pine tree where the chickens were buried. The remnants of Ada’s wreath of flowers were brown and sodden with the rain. There was no reason to be standing there. He had just fled from Martha’s caress and the resentment he had suddenly felt. Why now? Why did she never touch him lovingly, not until he didn’t deserve it? It was too late now. He stared out bitterly to the distant skyline as if the distance had something to offer. There was mist and the smell of wet ground, which was forgiving in a way. But it wasn’t right to just stand there, staring out. Something had to be done.

  Maybe he should go to work after all. Work would contain all of this, bring it into perspective. He had made a mistake, and because of it, Joe had fled. That was it. This was what he had to contend with. His body loosened itself around this fact.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  It was Tilly. Was no one sleeping?

  ‘Nothing,’ he said. He was too tired to make something up. Tilly didn’t even realise what sort of secret she held and how it would smash everything to pieces if she let it out. Martha would despise him. The marriage would end.

  ‘Aren’t you going to work?’

  ‘Not today.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Mike rubbed at his eyes. ‘Why are you up so early?’ he said.

  ‘Ada woke me. She’s gone to see the burnt bush block.’

  ‘I bet it looks awful.’

  Tilly shrugged. It annoyed him. Always this nonchalance. She had closed herself to him. He had kept trying. He had given her that money for a new dress. Usually she would have beamed. But she had just been polite. Her smile was cold. As a kid she had adored him, climbed all over him, sang him made-up songs. He had tried to put the change down to adolescence, but it wasn’t that. It was a blanketed hostility towards him because of what Ada had seen. This is what happens when you break the law: the judges come after you.

  He missed Tilly. In time she would forget. After all, he loved her and love prevailed, surely. Once she gained some maturity she might even understand.

  Ada came running across the yard towards them, PJ hobbling behind her. Her hands were covered in soot. She held gumnuts, which she dropped when she saw Mike. She frowned at him.

  ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘Why? I live here, for godsake. Why is everyone asking me?’ he shouted. It surprised him that he had, and he turned away. It was all getting to him and there they were accusing him just for being here in his own home. He was the one who had showed up every day in that stuffy office and slugged away arranging other people’s affairs so he could pay for that house that he was not meant to even be in. No wonder he was mad. He had to make it up to Ada, though. He turned around to say sorry, but she glared at him, dropped to her knees and wrapped her arms around PJ. Tilly turned and walked away.

  He couldn’t just keep standing here beneath the pine. He needed to do something. He could try to talk to Ada. Or Tilly. His own daughters—the keepers of his terrible secret. He looked at Ada, but she turned and ran after Tilly.

  Mike rubbed his face again. He called out to PJ. He would take him for a walk. He never did this. PJ ambled over and stared up at him expectantly. He was almost deaf. He couldn’t even hear the word walk anymore. Yet there was something about him that just continued so solidly. Lucky PJ. He didn’t see Mike any differently. This was so immensely reassuring. Mike turned and slapped at his thigh, whistling for PJ to come. He would walk towards the Laytons’ house and if there was no one there, he would go in. He had to do something. He had to move life forwards and away from this.

  38

  Everyone was thinking about the fire and Mr Layton. Alice was worried. Tilly was worried too. Mr Layton wouldn’t desert them. He would come back.

  Was it lying if Tilly said nothing about her father and Mrs Layton? What if it was all mixed up together? The fire had rushed through eating up everything, even Mr Layton in some way, but all the torrid urgency of her secret was still there. Maybe now it was worse.

  She left the house, creeping out into a world that felt all enlarged and imbued with the scorched remains and the disappearance of Mr Layton. She went to Daisy Cavallo’s.

  ‘I have a plan,’ Daisy whispered, at the door. She held up one finger. ‘We’re going to lie back and just listen for a while. Come in. I’ll put a record on. No, you put it on. You choose? Anything. But not the nocturnes. I’m too melancholic already. Is there any news on Joe Layton?’ Daisy flopped on the couch, like a fainted Victorian.

  Tilly paused. She wished Daisy had not mentioned Mr Layton. And she didn’t know which record to choose. Daisy’s records weren’t what you would expect for a piano teacher: Jimi Hendrix, Bach, Thelonius Monk, Nina Simone, but also Neneh Cherry, Hank Williams. They were just names to Tilly.

  ‘It’s terrible that we don’t make a practice of listening. Just to fill ourselves with a beautiful song? Everything is too intentional now. Did I tell you, next week I’m going to a women’s peace camp at Pine Gap. I’m taking my accordion.’

  Tilly felt immediately ashamed of her own escape plan.

  ‘Can I come?’

  ‘Well, you could, but it’s a long way. I’m flying there. Make me a sign though and I’ll carry it for you. Surprise me!’ Daisy sang. Tilly chose Dollar Brand, slipped the record out of its inner envelope. She didn’t know who Dollar Brand was. When it started, Daisy smiled, closed her eyes.

  ‘See I knew you would make a perfect choice. Close your eyes. It helps. Let’s listen together.’

  Together. Daisy was her secret companion, Dollar Brand their accomplice. Dollar Brand played the piano. Tilly lay over the armchair, let her arm dangle. She tried to rid her head of plans.

  Daisy opened her lazy eyes. ‘Are you listening, chicken? Doesn’t he make it sing?’

  ‘Yes, I’m listening.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well, I’m going ice skating.’

  Daisy sat up. She stretched her lovely neck. ‘Oh, now that it’s cooled down…’

  Dollar Brand kept playing. The music was lilting, like something running up and down a hill.

  ‘If I was your age,’ Daisy said. And then she stopped speaking, and kept listening. Tilly waited for her to continue. It was odd just waiting there with the piano and everything languorous and damp, as if ready to take flight. She felt like a seed wedged in the earth just beginning to push up.

  Daisy let out a long sigh. ‘Whatever you do, you must do it all before your legs get stiff and arthritic.’ Daisy twirled her bare feet in front of her.

  Tilly watched Daisy’s feet. They seemed anything but stiff.

  ‘It’s a wonder to have a life, really,’ Daisy continued.

  ‘I’
ve decided I want to study music.’

  ‘Exactly! And so you should. And when you travel you can switch from piano to violin.’ Daisy clapped her hands. ‘You know, Raff is in the city. I can give you his address. He is staying with his cousin.’

  It was what Tilly wanted, though she never would have asked for it.

  Daisy sat up. ‘Come, let’s play the piano now. We will channel Dollar Brand. African piano.’

  Having Raff’s address was like holding a ticket out of town far away from the disappearance of Mr Layton and the creeping fear that she might know something about it.

  Her life was ready to get going all on its own without her pleading with it to move. Soon her results would arrive, her future would be decided, but now, for a moment, everything had parted just enough for her to slip through. Tilly could go to the city without telling anyone. She left a note for her parents, saying she was staying with Alice.

  She gave her backpack a little heave, patting the small weight fondly. It was just she and it.

  She should have told Alice what she was doing. But she wasn’t sure anymore where the feeling of having to leave had started and she began to doubt its integrity, because it had possibly started as a very small idea, and then it had grown inside her. It was shaped like a little arrow and it had flung her towards an elsewhere.

  It was almost dusk by the time she got there. Shop interiors sang out as bright as beating hearts in the coming night. Cars swished by. People marched homewards. Tilly waited momentarily on a busy corner, leaning back against a lamppost. She would just watch what it was that rushed around her, steady herself in the evening’s swell.