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. And 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.