The China Bird

by Bryony Doran

  ‘Would you like it grated? Or a slice off the wedge?’

  ‘I didn’t know I had a choice,’ Edward says.

  ‘What are you making?’

  Edward fishes in his pocket and pulls out the recipe card, ‘Mou-Moussakka.’

  ‘Mm, lovely. To be honest I’d go for the ready-grated. It’s a bugger to grate if you’re not used to doing it. I hate it. Always get the wife to do it.’

  In the late afternoon sun, Edward hobbles back up the hill. He sees his reflection in a shop window and tries to straighten up. He stops outside a shoe shop and studies the merchandise in the window. He likes what he sees and on impulse, enters the shop. He asks for his size in a light tan slip-on that he has seen in the window.

  ‘Would you like to try them on?’

  Edward shakes his head, ‘No, but may I bring them back if they don’t fit?’

  ‘It would be much easier if you tried them on here, Sir.’

  ‘For you, maybe. Never mind, I’ll leave it,’ he picks up his stick.

  ‘I’m sorry, Sir. I didn’t realise. Of course you can bring them back.’

  As Edward is paying for the shoes with four crisp twenty-pound notes from his wallet, he notices at the side of the till a long shoehorn, the colour of the buttons on his tweed jacket. He reaches out and runs his thumb and finger down its length.

  ‘What a lovely thing. It’s just what I need. It would make life so much easier having one this length. How much is it?’

  ‘I’m sorry, but it’s not for sale. It’s real horn. I’ve had it years.’

  ‘My father had one just like this. I think my mother threw it out. Oh well, never mind.’

  As he pulls the shop door open the bell tinkles. The tone is the same as at the delicatessen.

  ‘Excuse me, sir.’ The assistant is extending the shoehorn towards him. ‘Pop it in your bag’

  ‘Are you sure? Won’t you get into trouble?’ he asks.

  She shakes her head. ‘It’s my shop, but not for much longer. I’ve sold up. I’d like you to have it.’

  The shoebox bangs against his leg as he walks. He should have asked her to take them out of the box but he can never resist a shoebox. They are useful for so many things. As he walks along, he hums to himself and thinks, is this what happens when you feel happy? Other people want to buy into it? How kind of her to give him the shoehorn. As he passes the bus stop he taps his stick against the metal of the shelter to listen for the echo. He walks along the ridge of the hill and down past the park. He watches the park keeper coming through the big wrought-iron gates and remembers long ago, when he was a boy, being chased out of the park at dusk so that the park keeper could lock the gates. He is suddenly overcome by a strange sadness. He does not want to go home yet. He wants to be among people. He stops for a coffee - two coffees – and a light salad. It was yesterday that he had arranged to meet his mother for lunch. He wonders how long she would have waited for him; imagines her growing state of confusion, her flux about whether to order or not. He watches the light outside begin to fade, listens to the chatter of the other people in the café. He will cook the Moussakka tomorrow.

  Edward opens the door and feels inside for the light switch. He hears a ping as the light bulb in the hall blows, fusing all the lights.

  ‘Damn.’ He comes into the darkness and closes the door. He can see the shape of the keyhole lit up by the streetlights outside. He puts his key in the hole and turns it. He feels his way along the wall and notes the roughness of the woodchip wallpaper under his hand. He grasps the handle of the lounge door and pushes it open. There is a faint orange glow on the ceiling from the streetlights across the valley. His high-backed chair is silhouetted against the window. It resembles the head of a black horse. He walks over to the window and stares out across the valley. A double-decker bus is making its way up the hill on the opposite side.

  He undresses in the dark. It is much darker in the bedroom than in the lounge. He stands by the chair and as he takes off each item of clothing he drops it onto the chair. In the morning he will have to search out the fuse box. Coming into the flat in darkness has made him think about things he’d rather not. He fumbles his way along the bed, searching for the top of the sheet. The cotton is cold against his skin.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Angela is in bed and fully clothed. She has had a flannel wash and combed her hair, just in case, and tries, without success, to concentrate on her book. Surely he was joking, a throw away line, a final tease so that he could say that he’d stood up an Emmett.

  She listens closely to the sounds outside; the sea is quieter now. She turns out the light and sits by the window. A headlight beam is tracing its way down the opposite hill. She gulps, hoping it will make its way back up the other side of the cove. A white van turns into the pebbled lane and comes to a halt under her window, its engine thrumming quietly.

  ‘Shit!’ She pulls open the sash and carefully eases herself onto the wall below. She taps on his window. He motions her to get in. Again, she taps on the window.

  He lowers it. ‘Get in.’

  ‘I’m not coming.’

  He arches an eyebrow and smiles. ‘Bottled out, have you?’

  She laughs and shakes her head, feeling the sea breeze lift the hair on the back of her head. ‘This is crazy.’

  ‘Come on, get in. They won’t let us in the pub if we’re much later.’

  The wheels spin on the pebbles as he reverses out.

  ‘That was clever,’ she hisses. ‘Wake them all up, why don’t you?’

  ‘Sorry,’ he grins.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Padstow.’

  ‘Isn’t that miles away?’

  ‘It’s not that far. It’ll only take us twenty minutes.’ The engine screams its way up the steep winding hill.

  Angela grasps the door handle. ‘Yes, at this speed it probably will.’

  ‘You think this is fast?’

  They come to a junction where the road is wider and the hedges seem lower. A rabbit runs across in front of the van. ‘Bugger! I could have had him.’

  She ignores him, closes her eyes and for a while they drive in silence.

  ‘Have you been out fishing then?’ She finally asks.

  ‘Yeah, we had quite a good catch. You must have brought me luck,’ he says turning down towards the harbour.

  ‘Your lucky night, is it?’

  He pulls up on the harbour front with a screech. ‘Let’s hope so, shall we?’

  He winks, and comes around the car to open her door. He extends his hand, bows low and pulls her out of her seat.

  She laughs, ‘Mister Gallant.’

  He leans forward, pushes her up against the side of the van and kisses her, seeking out the inside of her lips with his own. ‘You taste wonderful, Maid.’

  ‘Christ, you don’t waste any time, do you?’ She says pushing him away. She runs her tongue over her lips. She can still taste him. Peppermint.

  He takes her hand and they walk along the harbour where the streetlights are reflected in the water. The moored boats chatter gently amongst themselves. I’ll have to get Alex to bring me here during the day, she thinks.

  ‘I like to get all the crap out the way. Get everything up front and out in the open.’

  ‘Sorry,’ she turns away. ‘What were you saying?’

  He stops and kisses her again, longer, slower this time. She presses herself up against him.

  ‘And it’s obvious you agree,’ he says.

  ‘I wasn’t listening,’ she says, laughing.

  ‘So, you agree then?’ He turns up a side alley pulling her with him.

  ‘About what? Where are you taking me?’

  He steps down off the street and opens a door. Inside she can see a bar.

  ‘Ev’nen, Paul.’

  Paul, she muses, yes I suppose it suits him. Three men playing darts turn to look as the barman speaks. They nod over at Paul, giving her the once over.

  ‘Tw
o rum and shrubs please, Albert.’

  Angela wriggles herself onto a barstool. ‘Don’t I get asked what I want to drink?’

  ‘Listen, I’m take’n you out for a secret evening, so we’re having non-Emmett drinks.’

  Angela takes a swig and gasps. ‘Christ, what’s that? It’s like bloody rocket fuel.’

  Paul and the barman laugh. ‘Do you like it?’ Paul asks.

  ‘Yeah, it’s wonderful.’ Angela takes a cautious sip. ‘Are you trying to get me drunk?’

  ‘I wouldn’t think I needed to. Fresh, young, maid like you.’

  ‘Depends if I think you’re any good.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Not sure.’

  ‘How are you going to find out?’

  ‘Mmm.’ She leans forward and sniffs his neck, and then nuzzles it with the end of her nose.

  ‘What you sniffing for? Aftershave?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good, ‘cos I hate the stuff.’

  ‘You smell nice, sort of outsidey, like washing that’s being on the line all day.’

  ‘Going to hang me out to dry are you?’ They laugh. He leans forward and sniffs behind her ear. His lips graze her neck down to her shirt collar. She shivers and pushes him away. He laughs, ‘Mmm, lovely. You smell like a foxglove.’

  ‘What does a foxglove smell like?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, but you make me feel like one of those days in June, when I’m driving along with the windows down and all the foxgloves are bending towards me from the hedgerows.’ He places his hands on the top of her thighs and rubs up and down her jeans, opening his eyes wide. She puts her hands on top of his and stills them.

  ‘Would you like another drink, Angela?’

  ‘You think you’re so clever ‘cos you found out my name don’t you, Sherlock?’

  ‘That’s not my name.’

  ‘No, I know it isn’t your name, Paul.’

  ‘What makes you think that’s my name?’

  ‘The bloke behind the bar thinks it is.’

  ‘Yeah, but that don’t mean it’s my name, does it? I call you Maid, but that’s not your name is it?’

  She holds up her hands. ‘Okay, you win. I suppose I shouldn’t have expected to follow the logic of a man who calls me maid. I’ve never been called maid before, it’s quite quaint.’

  He puts his hands on her shoulders. ‘Quaint, am I?’

  She raises her eyebrows, ‘We’ll see, shan’t we?’

  He laughs and shakes his head, changing the subject. ‘They made a Sherlock Holmes film near where you’re staying, you know? Have you seen that castle-looking place out on the headland?’

  ‘Yeah, I keep wanting to walk out to it. What was the film? The Hound of the Baskervilles?’

  ‘Oh yeah. The hounds rose out of the sea. Hey, I’ve got the key for that place. We could go there tonight.’

  ‘I hadn’t got you down as a between-the-sheets man.’

  He laughs, ‘What do you reckon then, in the back of my van? You might get a fish hook in that lovely rump of yours.’

  ‘What makes you think it will be my rump?’

  He rubs his hands together. ‘This gets better by the minute.’

  She takes a sip of her drink and leans her elbows on the bar, pressing her hand into her forehead. He takes her other hand between his burred palms and rubs it gently. He plays with the underside of her Gran’s eternity ring, turning it so that the green stones are on the underside of her finger. He bends forward and kisses her on the cheek, as if he senses her doubt.

  ‘I’m just going to the bog,’ he says, letting go of her hand.

  She watches him walk the length of the room. He has the self-assured swagger of a man that she would normally detest but there is something animal about him; an honesty that appeals to her, a raw sexuality. Even their conversation she finds sexual. She can’t remember the last time she fancied anybody so much. Yeah, she’d fancied Dan, he’d had all the right ingredients, but that magic spark just wasn’t there.

  She thinks back to earlier that evening, sitting in the dark, listening to the stream, remembering what had happened between herself and Edward, and trying to make sense of it all. If only life were a dream from which she could awake.

  She leans on the bar and gazes into the gaps of mirror between the bottles. The subdued lighting twinkles and sparkles amongst all the polish, glancing off from the oddest of places. She smoothes her hand along the bar rail and watches the glow blur and then clear. She feels warm inside, and wonders if it is the rum, or the dream.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Rachel had always wanted to draw, to become an accomplished painter. It was a dream she’d held from being a very young child and, after all, George was dead and Edward had left home, so she was free to do whatever she liked, but she hated the fact that most people in the class were not there to paint, or recreate the world in the way they saw it, but to pass a bit of time, have some company. She stuck it out for three Wednesday afternoons and then never went back. She saw her teacher one day while she was sitting in the gallery.

  ‘We missed you. You were my best pupil.’

  Rachel had grimaced and told her, ‘That wasn’t saying a lot, was it?’

  The woman had laughed and asked her to explain.

  ‘I came to paint,’ Rachel explained. ‘To be part of the excitement, and what I got was the reek of boredom. People just dabbling into something as a way of passing time, not because they had a passion for it.’

  ‘And is that so wrong?’ The woman had asked.

  Rachel shrugged, ‘Maybe not, unless you’re looking for lost dreams.’

  ‘How about coming to my life class, then? That’s a totally different experience.’

  ‘I think not. I really wanted to do landscapes, but you know, maybe I should have just left it as a dream. It felt like visiting a place you’d held dear in your memory for so long, to find that going back destroyed the image. Yes, I should have left it as a dream.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you’d consider modelling for us, would you?’

  Rachel could absorb the atmosphere around her without having to become a part of it. All eyes were on her. At first it seemed strange, but then she began to take a pride in it and over the years she became a regular fixture, someone the tutors talked to with respect, and yes, there were those who desired her too. Those who, from the look in their eyes, wanted to do more than just draw her body.

  Rachel had always been attracted to men who desired her. One boy had followed her home and stood at her gate in the falling dusk. She’d gone upstairs, turned on her bedroom light and undressed for him, turning around in the window so that he could see her silhouetted shape. When she looked out again he was gone. He didn’t come to class for two weeks. When he returned she slipped him a note, invited him to tea without giving her address.

  He came one Sunday afternoon, tongue-tied, with no flowers. She asked him if he had ever had sex. He shook his head and reddened. He stood up to go. She asked him if he would like to have sex with an older woman. Then he’d looked at her, and said she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and that he’d dreamed all day of stroking the soft, white, dimpled flesh of her inner thigh. She took him; not upstairs in her bed, but out of the house and round the back, down the steps and into the gentle, must smell of the cellar, where George’s workbench with all his tools were still arranged as neatly as he had left them the weekend before he died.

  There were others after him; a lecturer, shabby, bored and waiting for his retirement. She didn’t take him home. The boy was her only special one. He would seek her out at the oddest of times. She would hear a soft tap on her door and know by the timidity of the knock that it was him. She would shut the front door behind them and take him around the back of the house and down the cellar steps. As his confidence grew, he visited less often; spending more time with people of his own age. She had loved the passing secrecy of it, even though she no longer had to keep these things from G
eorge.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Edward sits in the darkened room. All day he has sat in his chair, watching the changing light through the curtains. He had got up as normal and organised himself for work but, again, he had not gone, not even rung to say he would not be in. He sits silently until darkness has swept in across the valley. Tabitha mews and rubs against his legs. She is hungry. He gets up and presses the light switch, darkness. He’s forgotten to look for the fuse box. Edward Anderson, what is wrong with you? He sits back down again.

  He lays his head against the wing of the chair and feels the wet of his tears drop to his bare shoulder. The pain in his belly is hard, jagged like a rock, as befits a man who has waited until he is forty-nine to fall in love. The rawness of it all eats away at him, how is he to go on? He closes his eyes and again, behind his lids, sees the same scene – he and Angela lying naked. It is as if he had not been part of it, but looking down from above where he can see the mushroom texture of her skin, the glistening where the flesh is full and plumped and the slightly tawnier colouring where the bones touch the surface. He can see her hair cut into the nape of her neck and, if he takes a deep breath, he can smell her; that slightly cloying, musky smell. He groans out loud, ‘Oh God!’ If only things could go back to how they were. If only this awful ache would go away. Is he going mad? His head feels as if it wants to explode, to spill out pink flesh like an overripe pomegranate.

  He had meant to go back on Saturday but the mounting anticipation had been too much. If only he could have reached inside his chest and clawed out the angst that he’d felt. His whole life now feels like a dream. Every night he wakes, his body throbbing with confusion and excitement. ‘Oh God, Oh God,’ he sobs, rocking back and forth in his chair. Tabitha jumps onto his knee and nuzzles him like a child.

  Tomorrow he must go back to work, or to the doctor.

  The doctor says he is suffering from depression. Edward wonders how he knows. He hadn’t said anything except, ‘Well, I’m not sure what I’ve come about really.’

  ‘Quite normal these days, stress of work and all that.’ From his printer the doctor takes a pale green prescription and then, as if noticing Edward for the first time, waves it at him, ‘This should do the trick, and I’ll do you a sick note for two weeks.’