Tuvalu (15 page)

We reminisced about Japan, about Phillip's model planes, about sushi and Moaning Man, then I went to bed, sleeping two hours at most. If Tilly did visit me in the middle of the night, it was during this time and I knew nothing of it.

True to his word Mr Willoughby put me to work the next morning. I had expected to cut lavender, having heard about the three absent staff, but apparently this was paid work and the positions had already been filled.

I had never split wood before and I found it difficult to say the least. Mr Willoughby would stack one chain-sawed block on top of another, grain up, then point to where the axe should land.

‘There's always going to be a circle,' he said. ‘You look for that circle, then you strike parallel with the grain. Never across. Across, and you'll get nowhere.'

The axe felt coarse in my hands. Its long, narrow head was roughly equivalent in weight to a brick. The handle was made out of a faded, pink plastic which I guessed to be fibreglass, and grey tape had been wrapped around one end. Whenever I swung the thing up over my head it mostly fell back down of its own accord. I always looked at the position Mr Willoughby singled out, but the axe thudded down wherever it pleased. Sometimes it sheeted off the block or missed outright, lodging itself in red dirt.

‘There's a knack to it,' said Mr Willoughby, before ambling off to tend to the harvest.

It was a menacingly hot day to learn to split wood. Sweat dribbled from my hairline into my eyes. Mucus clogged my throat. I kept hauling the axe up into the air, feet braced, only to bring it down ineffectually. Tilly came to watch midway through the morning, dressed in jeans and an old Chicago Bulls T-shirt. She took the axe and gave me a demonstration, lopping blocks into two, then four.

‘There's a knack to it,' she said, just as her father had.

At dusk Mr Willoughby brought me a beer. I sat, turned my empty palm up and stared at blisters full of grit. He dropped the dog food—still the shape of the can—into the dirt, then returned to the softly lit house without a word. Crickets harped as the dog cleared the side of the house at a run, pink tongue thrown back like a hanky from a car window.

The living room in which we sat contained three pianos. When I asked why, Mr Willoughby said, ‘Family.'

‘Family?'

‘Big Catholic one,' he explained, rolling a cigarette. ‘My father, for example, had seven siblings. Over time they all died and we ended up with their pianos. There are actually five in this house. For some reason we get the pianos.'

‘It's a farm thing,' said Tilly.

Mr Willoughby nodded. ‘As it is with clocks.'

I cocked my head. ‘Clocks?'

‘You haven't noticed?' Tilly laughed. ‘Listen.'

I did. And sure enough I heard clocks. All sorts of clocks, tick-tocking. At a glance I counted one grandfather clock, three wall-clocks and a few antique silver alarms with bells on top. In addition to this there appeared to be a collection of wristwatches piled on the mantelpiece—all broken-in leather bands and lacklustre metal.

‘You do have a lot of clocks,' I said.

Mr Willoughby finished rolling the cigarette but did not light it. Instead he chased bits of stir-fry around the plate with his fork. He had eaten less than half his meal but did not seem ready to give it up.

‘Do either of you play the piano?' I asked, thinking I should have known if Tilly did.

‘No,' said both firmly.

‘How about you, Noah?' Mr Willoughby asked. ‘Do you play an instrument?'

‘The clarinet.'

‘But he gave it up in Year 9,' Tilly added, standing to collect the dirty plates. ‘His teacher told his parents they were wasting their money.'

‘I see.' Mr Willoughby fumbled around inside his shirt pocket for a lighter, withdrew a hot-pink one, then lit his intricately rolled cigarette. Soon the smell reached me and I was struck with a sudden urge to smoke. I wanted something to do: I felt like a charlatan before this man.

Tilly left the room with a tall stack of dishes.

‘Do you mind if I try and roll one?' I asked.

‘Not at all.'

Mr Willoughby passed me the pouch of tobacco and packet of papers with curiosity.

‘You smoke?' he asked.

‘No.'

‘Me either. I'm just taking it up, actually.' As if to prove this he blinked smoke from smarting, wrinkled eyes. I shuffled tobacco on the paper. When I licked it, most of the contents fell onto the table. A few strands stuck to my wet lips and fingertips like rusted wire shards to a magnet.

‘How long have you been a farmer?' I asked.

‘A while now.'

‘What were you before that?'

‘I was an academic—a biologist. That was before meeting Tilly's mother.'

‘Where was she from?'

‘Here. This was her family's place. It was a beef operation but her parents were too old to run it. I came in and planted
lavandula intermedia grosso
everywhere, then
intermedia super.
A little
angustifolia vera
.'

‘Why lavender?'

‘I thought I could do it all better. I had an abundance of theories and the sort of crude confidence that comes with never having farmed. Tilly's grandparents were horrified. They watched the place turn purple, shaking their heads.' At this recollection, Mr Willoughby smiled.

‘So you moved here straight after getting married?'

‘I slowly bought the place out, but we never married. Tilly's mother didn't believe in marriage.'

Tilly re-entered the room carrying three saucers.

‘Marriage?' she asked, without waiting for an explanation. ‘I'm afraid these aren't much better than the main course.' She set down the plates. On each was a soggy Anzac biscuit. She then returned to the kitchen for freshly brewed coffee while her father ate his biscuit, rolled another cigarette and slowly smoked it. I finished rolling my own, suppressing pride, and lit up. But, clamped shut at one end with saliva, it quickly went out.

As soon as the meal was finished Mr Willoughby excused himself from the dining table. Even at this early hour he seemed ready for bed.

That night, lying in the dark guest room on my wood-plank bed, still fully dressed, arms up behind my head, I thought about Tilly—tried to recreate her. Outside there was no traffic, only bugs and a lone, bellowing cow. I tried to recall the moles coating her body, their pattern.

Would she visit?

This question was answered by a soft knock and the sound of the metal knob turning in its wood socket. A shaft of light photocopied the carpet: Tilly opening and closing the door. Prior to her entering I had been able to make out a huntsman spider. Now it was gone. I could see nothing.

Tilly was quickly on top of the bed. I found myself aroused as she paused above, hands and knees either side of my body, soapy-smelling nightgown covering my face.

‘Hello,' she whispered, breath warm.

Clumsily I tried to pull off my shirt, but it tangled around my head. She laughed.

‘Shhh,' I said.

‘Why?'

‘Your dad.'

‘His room's at the other end of the house.' She helped me pull off my tangled shirt, then lifted her nightgown over her body and threw it to one side.

‘I'm not sure about this,' I said.

‘About what?'

‘This. What if your dad hears?'

‘He won't.'

I could make out the shape of her freckled breasts in the dark. How many times had I seen and felt these breasts? I sometimes wondered that. How many times had I slept with Tilly? It was impossible to say but I tried to conjure a total. I guessed, in the preceding year, factoring in time spent apart, I had slept with her on average once every couple of days. This might have been a generous estimate but it provided me with a rough total—150 times.

‘I'm going to go down on you,' she said, speaking like a doctor explaining an intrusive procedure. I said nothing and soon felt her tongue. But instead of thinking of Tilly I thought of Mami—the first night in her hotel room, her neck and hands. I pictured her kneeling before me, the pattern of her hair, the width and shine of each strand and the back of her neck. I felt her face with my fingers, could put it together as if there.

‘God, sorry,' I said. ‘That shouldn't have—that was—' ‘I don't mind,' said Tilly, kissing my belly.

She licked and bit a nipple on her way back towards my mouth. And within a few minutes I was exhausted. My muscles ached from the day's work, a pleasant, full ache. The bed was trying to drag me down into thick, warm mud, trying to bury me in the bottom of a timeless swamp. It was certainly Tilly above me. I could smell her skin, her sweat like a fingerprint.

‘Excited,' I said, not sure how it tied into our conversation. Tilly laughed. ‘You're sleepy?'

I nodded, teetering on the brink of sleep. I wondered why Mami had joined in. I had often thought about other women while having sex with Tilly but never about a specific woman. Never a woman I knew. The women were all featureless. They had a shape, maybe even a nationality, but never a face. They could have been store mannequins.

I woke up. It was suddenly as though I had never been drowsy. I was wide awake and aware that, somehow, I had almost said ‘Mami' aloud. Or had I said it? Feeling anxious and unable to make out Tilly's face, the curve of her mouth, I listened to her breathing. She sounded relaxed. She put her cold hands over my ears playfully.

‘Can you hear me now?' she asked.

‘Did I just say something?'

‘ “Excited” '

‘Oh …'

‘Are you?' Tilly asked. ‘Do you want to touch me?'

I did as requested. She felt thinner than I recalled— frailer. Placing her hand on mine she led me through a reciprocation of that which I had received, allowing for little autonomy. Despite being religious, Tilly had no qualms about breaking sex down into its essential components; deconstructing it so that, as an act, it facilitated maximum pleasure. Sexually, Tilly was a mystery. She would elect to have sex at odd times, then decline to make love when we were lying naked in bed, wrapped in one another's arms. Or she would ask me to assume a position only to change her mind and place me in another, like a photographer preparing a nude model. So long as Tilly was in control she was happy to try just about anything.

She came—or pretended to. Then I set about trying to make love to her, set about proving to myself I could without reverting to fantasy. I kissed her face intently, her mouth and neck, and said whatever sweet things popped into my head. Tilly played along, but soon the sex was difficult—painful. Our bodies betrayed our lie. And with a frustrated sigh I gave up and rolled onto my back. My stomach churned and I went limp.

‘Fuck this,' I said.

‘Don't get angry.'

‘Well it matters—before you say it doesn't.'

‘I wasn't going to say that.'

‘So it does matter?'

‘Shut up.' Tilly stood and started to dress. The moment she let go of my hand, she was swallowed by darkness. Only her voice remained. ‘It was me.'