Birmingham Friends by Annie Murray Page B

‘How could you let them see me like that?’
    ‘Like what, Livy?’ I was rather frightened.
    ‘So abandoned-looking. When I play like that I’m . . . naked. I can’t bear the thought of them seeing me . . .’ She began to sob, her voice rising. ‘It doesn’t matter in front of you because you really know me.’
    ‘Do I?’ I asked sadly.
    She cried in my arms, shuddering with the strength of it like a small child. Then she raised her head and stared up at the sky, a desperate expression on her face.
    ‘Livy – darling. What’s the matter?’
    Olivia didn’t answer. She sat shaking her head.
    ‘Look.’ I spoke briskly, trying to overcome the disturbed feelings welling inside me. ‘That lot are all as thick as two short planks anyway. All they saw was you playing the piano and making music, nothing more. Now do come in with us, or they really will start wondering what’s going on.’
    ‘Just wait one moment, will you?’
    I sat down beside her and waited as she tried to compose herself. I put a warm hand on Olivia’s arm, and she leaned over and rested her head on my shoulder. I stroked her wild hair.
    ‘I’m sorry.’ She sounded exhausted. ‘I didn’t mean to be such a witch earlier.’
    ‘It’s all right.’ The skin of her upper arm was cool and smooth where I touched it. It reminded me of when we were younger, comforting Olivia in some quiet place at children’s parties when the clamour of it all had proved too much for her. ‘You know I’d do anything for you, don’t you?’
    Olivia twisted her neck and looked solemnly round at me. ‘I do believe you would.’
    We walked slowly up the garden together. Olivia seemed tired, almost dragging her feet along. When we went inside the boys had started on a game of bagatelle. Olivia and I stood behind them quietly. I watched as Angus concentrated, pushing the wooden stick, flicking one of the small metal balls so that it flew round the board. I felt very tender towards him too.
    When his go was finished he straightened up and turned to Olivia, deliberately including her. ‘You know your piano playing is just beautiful. Have you ever thought of applying to a music school?’
    Olivia let out a harsh laugh. ‘Oh, I’ve thought about it,’ she said. ‘But Daddy would never let me. I thought you knew – when I leave school I’m to take my place as a breeder of sons.’
    *  *  *
    OLIVIA
    I wasn’t supposed to go up to Izzy’s attic, but she never minded and that day Mummy was out. I called Izzy by her Christian name. She liked children, was still almost a child herself, with hair the colour of rust curling round her face and deep blue eyes.
    It was two days before my seventh birthday, back in those days before I had started to watch and listen at doors. I was lovely then, clean. Life was sweet, mutual adoration. Daddy. My beautiful, talented, worshipping Daddy. I was his princess in white gossamer dresses, his fairy, his angel. Comfort and trust: his embrace, his tobacco smell, the scratchy worsted of his flamboyant suits, bright checks dazzling my eyes and the strong warmth of his long, long body.
    A thin carpet curved up the attic stairs, the colour of green baize. But at the top the floor was bare for the maids, a peg rug or two in their rooms. I had new shoes: black patent leather, rounded toes, with a strap and a button to fasten them. I watched my feet as I ran up the stairs, my thin brown legs beneath a cherry-coloured skirt, white ankle socks, the shoes . . . They tap-tapped loudly on those wooden boards. I ran to Izzy’s door, rapped with my fingers, didn’t wait –
    ‘Izzy, look – I’ve got new shoes!’
    It was his face. For seconds as I burst in on them, Daddy was in crisis, deep in his body’s pleasure. He curved back over Izzy’s little body, pushing down on his arms, her knees very white drawn up each side of him as she held him. His face was thrust back, red and sweating, mouthing the air, eyes squeezed shut.
    Before