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.