The China Bird

by Bryony Doran

  ‘I love you,’ she mimics.

  Well, it wasn’t her problem. She will write to his mother, give her his address. She can sort him out.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  Tabitha is waiting on the metal walkway. She meows up at him, complaining.

  ‘I’m sorry, puss. Come on, let’s go in and get you a nice saucer of milk.’

  Edward had peeled the potatoes for his evening meal earlier that day, placing them in a half-pint Pyrex bowl of water to keep them from turning brown. He opens the soy sauce and shakes the contents of the bottle liberally over the thinly cut strips of pale pink pork. He stretches cling film over the dish and places it in the fridge, pours himself a half measure of red wine into his special goblet of old-fashioned glass and goes to sit in his rocker by the window.

  The whole of the valley and the distant hills are captured in the mauve of twilight. He takes a sip of his wine, ‘Mmm … perfect.’

  The cat stretches, arching its back; its mouth wide to show the thin white stripes of teeth against a pink tongue. It pauses a moment, then pounces onto his knee. He gently scratches her under the chin and she purrs her contentment loudly, nestling up against his jumper and burrowing her face into his neck. He strokes her back and, closing his eyes, he listens to her soft purr, the hum of the traffic on the front and the lone magpie screeching in the beech tree. He hates that magpie.

  He thinks of Angela standing beside him, out there on the balcony. He had frightened her, and she had run away like a startled fawn, out of his flat and down the road, dropping her scarf in her haste. He picks it up now and sniffs her scent. She had run from his words. And yet, in his head, it feels better now that he has told her.

  There is a loud rat-tat on the door. The cat jerks back and claws his jumper. Putting her gently on the chair he goes to answer the door. Could it be Angela returning for her scarf? He swallows hard.

  Standing there, silhouetted in the twilight, is his mother.

  ‘Mother, how are you?’ It doesn’t sound like his voice.

  She is standing there on his threshold looking very frail, and for the first time he sees a vulnerability that perhaps he does not want to see.

  ‘I am fine, Edward, fine. But I was not so sure about you, so I came to find you.’

  Edward clears the back of his throat. ‘And here you are.’ He steps outside and grasps the handle, pulling the door closed behind him.

  ‘It must be three months, Edward.’

  ‘Yes, Mother. I know.’

  ‘It seemed strange not getting your letters. I missed them, and our lunches,’ she says, a plaintive note in her voice.

  ‘I’ll just get my coat and we’ll pop down to the local café, shall we? Wait there.’ He closes the blue door in her face.

  He picks up his coat and stick from the bedroom and pauses, looking at his reflection in the mirror. He is shaking, his teeth chattering. He does not want to see her. He will tell her to go away.

  When he opens the door he sees that Tabitha is arching her body around Rachel’s stockinged legs. Traitor, he thinks.

  ‘Edward, is this cat yours? She’s lovely.’

  He looks down at his cat, irritated by its betrayal. ‘No, Mother, it’s not mine, it’s my neighbours.’

  ‘Shame. It’s a lovely cat.’

  He prods the treacherous animal with the end of his stick and says nothing.

  ‘How long have you lived here, Edward?’

  ‘A couple of months. Why?’

  ‘Nothing. I was just wondering. I called round at your lodgings you know, met Mrs. Ingram for the first time.’

  He taps his stick on the walkway and hears the dull echo of the metal. He takes a deep breath. He must tell her to go away, that he never wants to see her again.

  ‘Edward, would you mind very much, but I don’t think I can walk any further. Can I come in?’

  ‘No.’

  He hears her gasp.

  ‘But, why not?’ she says, weakly.

  ‘I don’t want you to. I never want to see you again.’

  ‘Edward, why?’

  ‘Why what?’

  ‘Why are you treating me like this?’

  He doesn’t reply.

  ‘Why, Edward?’ she pleads.

  ‘I know,’ he blurts out.

  ‘Know what? I don’t understand.’

  ‘About you and Uncle Jack.’ There. Finally he has said it after all these years. He looks straight at her. She stares back. He sees a flicker of fear pass across her face.

  ‘Uncle Jack?’ Her voice is almost a whisper.

  ‘Don’t try to deny it. I saw you. I must have been ten years old. You were in the barn, like a couple of dogs on heat. It was so ugly.’ He shudders. ‘It has destroyed my whole life.’

  He sees her grab hold of the rail to steady herself.

  ‘How could you,’ he continues. ‘With your own uncle, and look at me, the product of your badness.’

  In the light shining from above the door he sees the blood drain from her face.

  ‘How do you think it has felt, knowing all these years?’ He goes on, ‘To live with that secret. To know that the man that I called father was in fact not my father.’

  He sees tears on her face reflecting in the overhead light. It is the first time he has ever seen his mother cry.

  She looks up, shocked. ‘You thought that Jack was your father?’

  ‘I have my back as proof, don’t I?’

  ‘I think I’m going to faint,’ she says. Just in time he catches her arm and steadies her. She weighs so little.

  She sits at his kitchen table sipping a glass of water, ‘Edward? Why now? After all these years?’

  He sits down opposite her. She looks terrible, a deathly white.

  ‘I, I don’t know.’ He holds his head in his hands. ‘It’s like I built a dam that day. A dam to block out all my emotions and.’ he pauses, ‘this last year the walls have started to crumble. I think it was Angela that started it off. Damn her,’ he murmurs.

  She speaks quietly without raising her head. ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you Edward, but George was in fact your father.’ She snaps open the clip on her handbag and brings forth a black and white photo in a clear plastic cover. She holds it under the light. It is of Edward and George. Edward is about fifteen. They are sitting at a table outside a pub in York. She pushes the photo into his hands and for the first time he sees the truth. In the photo the light is behind them, the shapes of their heads, which are slightly silhouetted, are identical.

  She stretches her hand across the table, tries to take his hand. He shrinks away.

  ‘I don’t blame you for hating me.’ He feels Tabitha brush against his legs. She continues, ‘I’m not going to try and explain or justify anything to you. There would be no point. What happened between Jack and myself … started when I was nineteen and went on until he died. All I can say is that I still cherish those moments we had. It has sustained me throughout my life. I only hope that one day you can experience a similar passion.’ She looks at him, searching his face for understanding.

  He shakes his head, unbelieving. ‘Were you in love with him?’

  ‘Yes, but not in the way that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him. There was just this passion between us, made even more intense by the fact that we knew that what we were doing was wrong. I’m so sorry that you had to see us.’

  ‘And what of father?’ He rolls the word around in his mouth. For the first time in many years it doesn’t feel like a lie.

  ‘We didn’t have that kind of a relationship.’

  ‘Never?’

  ‘No. I never should have married him.’

  ‘Why did you, then?’

  ‘He seemed,’ she hesitates. ‘It was just one of those things. I knew on our honeymoon that I had made a mistake. That was when you were conceived. One of the few times we ever had … relations.’

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  When she opens the door, she doesn’t know what t
o say to the girl. She ushers her through into the back room. They both stand there a moment, saying nothing. Angela glances around the room as if she is expecting to be asked to sit down, or even if she would like a drink, but Rachel does neither. Instead she sits in her own chair and pretends to be absorbed in stroking her cat.

  ‘You mind me coming?’ Rachel hears the girl ask, thinking she can detect a slight tremor in her voice. This child is scared. I really hurt her. Rachel looks up and studies her face.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ the girl stutters. ‘I thought from your letter you wanted to see me.’

  Rachel sighs, ‘I need to talk to you. Sit down. I’ll put on the kettle.’ She gets up from her chair, letting the cat fall easily to the floor. ‘You’re very contrite today, young lady.’

  Angela laughs nervously, ‘Sorry. I just, well, sort of feel a bit awkward, after last time.’

  Rachel sits back into her chair and examines her hands, ‘I’m sorry I was so very hard on you. Not that you didn’t deserve it.’ She looks up. Angela is staring out of the window. She nods, but does not look at her. The cat, seizing an opportunity, tries to jump back onto Rachel’s lap. She stops it with her hand. It meows loudly. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with this cat lately, meow, meow, meow. It never shuts up.’

  When Rachel comes back into the room with the tea, Angela is standing by the window, staring out into the garden. Rachel places the wooden tray on the table and observes, as she has many times before, that the grains and colours of the wood are remarkably similar.

  She goes to stand next to the girl and points to a rustic bird table. ‘I bought that yesterday from the pet store on the front. The man in the shop said I would have to wait up to a year for the birds to get used to it. But do you know what? I dangled some bacon rinds from it, the cat was most annoyed at me for giving away his precious bacon rinds, and this morning when I drew back the curtain there was a blue tit clinging to it. I felt so privileged. It sounds silly doesn’t it, especially when I can remember when birds were so abundant that they used to drop out of the sky dead on the pavement in front of you. And now we even get excited if we see a sparrow. I noticed in the local paper that they are planning on having a dawn chorus meeting in the cemetery once the birds start nesting. I’m tempted to go along.’

  ‘I thought,’ Angela stares down the garden, ‘that after my first visit we had become friends. I know I shouldn’t have called round without warning, but even so, you were very hard on me.’ Her voice wobbles, ‘You really upset me.’

  ‘You want to be friends with an old woman? Why?’

  Angela shrugs. ‘I just like talking to you. It’s like still having a link to Claudette.’

  ‘I’m not sure I’m worthy of the comparison, my dear.’ She pushes the cat away with her foot. ‘Especially after the way I reacted to Edward modelling for you. I’m sure Claudette wouldn’t have reacted like that. But thank you for the comparison, and thank you also for sending me Edward’s address.’

  Angela turns from the window, ‘Have you been to see him?’

  ‘Last night. He was very funny with me. I don’t know what’s up with him these days. Do you?’

  Angela shakes her head. ‘Shall I pass you your coffee?’

  Rachel takes the cup and saucer. Her hands shake, making the teaspoon chink against the cup. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me, either. Look at my hands. I can’t stop them shaking.’

  The cat meows, wanting to get onto her lap. ‘Shut up, cat. Shut up.’

  Angela sits down in the chair opposite, ‘Thank you for the ballet ticket.’

  ‘One week to go, I’m really looking forward to it. We have the best seats in the house. You don’t mind going with me, do you?’ Rachel adds as an afterthought.

  Angela shakes her head and smiles.

  ‘That was the other thing,’ Rachel continues, ‘I knew there was more than one reason why I was cross with you, young lady.’ Rachel points a finger at her. ‘You told Edward about me modelling at the college.’

  Angela blushes a deep red. ‘Yes, I know. I’m really sorry. It was wrong of me.’ She glances up at the portrait. ‘It was looking at him made me remember where I’d seen you before.’

  ‘Did you know the first time you came here?’ Rachel asks.

  Angela nods, her blush deepening.

  ‘You little minx,’ Rachel tuts.

  They both sit silently sipping at their coffee.

  ‘You know,’ Rachel puts down her cup. ‘I really miss it. I think that’s one of the reasons I was annoyed at Edward modelling for you. I was jealous.’

  ‘Why did you stop?’

  ‘I’m not sure really. I think I began to lose confidence in my body.’

  ‘I’m sure they’d love to have you back. There’s always a shortage of older models.’

  Rachel shakes her head. ‘I couldn’t, not now. Suddenly I feel very old.’ She looks down at her hands, noting the liver spots. ‘That reminds me, go and get the photo album off the kitchen table will you?’

  They leaf through the photo album one page at a time. Pointing to the last page, Rachel asks, ‘Did you notice anything about the boy?’

  Angela takes a closer look, ‘He looks a bit, well, retarded.’

  ‘Look at his back.’

  ‘Oh yes. How peculiar. It’s just like Edward’s. How odd.’

  ‘Maybe not so odd. You see, if this boy is who I think he is, he would have been my father’s half-brother. Maybe it is just as well that Edward never had any children.’

  Angela gets up off her haunches and stands beside Rachel’s chair, ‘He could still have children.’

  ‘Who? Edward?’ Rachel shakes her head. ‘I doubt it very much.’

  ‘Have you told him about it?’

  ‘No, not yet. Like I said, he’s a bit tetchy with me at the moment.’

  ‘But you don’t know for sure who this boy is, do you?’ Angela asks.

  ‘If only Claudette were alive.’

  ‘How many times did you meet Claudette?’

  ‘Only the once. Strange that. It’s as if we had nothing else to say to each other after the first meeting.’

  ‘Did she never meet Edward?’

  ‘No. All the time I was married, and even after George died, I kept parts of my life sectioned off. Edward’s father and I, well, we had a very dull marriage, and the only way I managed to survive was by leading a double life. But I think, looking back on it, it was a bit unfair on Edward. I wish now I had done things differently, included him more.’

  ‘May I?’ Angela takes the album from Rachel and sits down on the chair opposite. She gently prises the photo from its corners and turns it over. ‘Edward Pascal and Madame Pascal.’ she reads.

  ‘Then I was right.’ Rachel leans forward and takes the photo from her. ‘I’ve gone all shivery. Even the same name. Come to think, it was my father who suggested I call him Edward. How very, very strange. I wonder if he’s still alive?’

  Rachel is glad that she didn’t turn the girl away a second time. Although this time she might have been gentler. She might have told her she felt unwell, which was partly true. She had lain awake all night thinking of Edward, remembering his face contorted with hatred for her. She shivers. All those years he had kept that terrible secret. He had intended to cut her out of his life completely. She suddenly feels very cold. She thinks back to when he was eleven or twelve but she can’t remember any real change in his behaviour. Any minor ones she must have put down to his adolescence. Theirs had never been a terribly close relationship. She’d never, even when he was a tiny baby, felt much of a bond towards him. It was nobody’s fault, just one of those things.

  She washes the willow pattern cups in the white froth of too much washing up liquid, raises up her yellow rubber hand and gently blows. A single bubble lifts, holds and then pings against the window. She thinks back to why she used the willow pattern set. She knew that the girl would take pleasure from them, that’s why. She’d remembered the first time sh
e’d come, and how they’d talked of the way she used to make up stories about the figures on the bridge. A mere skit of a girl and yet – Rachel blows another bubble – and yet something about this girl intrigues her. Rachel is glad that she had given her a big chunk of the ginger cake to take with her. She had told her it wouldn’t keep, which was a lie, because ginger cake got better with keeping.

  She hooks each cup back into place on the white hooks under the cupboard. She will write to Edward, and ask him if he would like them for his flat. She doesn’t want them any more. They will go nicely in his kitchen.

  Angela shivers, hoping that a bus will soon come round the corner. The ginger cake is still slightly warm. She puts the package inside her coat to warm her.

  ‘I love you,’ he’d said. How could he do that to her? Standing out there on his balcony, just as she’d thought things were returning to normal. She thinks back to that moment in the studio and finds it is held there in her memory like a bubble, glistening in blues and greens; a perfect moment. But it couldn’t be. It had spoiled everything, like a single cup smashing to the floor. Like the willow pattern cup of her gran’s; the way it had fallen from her hands. She hadn’t told Rachel the full story about her gran’s willow pattern cups that had sat unused, in pride of place in her glass cabinet. One day, after Angela had nagged her incessantly for months, her grandmother had relented and let Angela get them out: ‘but only the once, mind.’ But when Angela was carrying them back to the cabinet, each cup and saucer carefully washed, one cup had slipped from her grasp. She had watched in horror as it fell and shattered onto the red quarry tiles of the kitchen. Jagged pieces lay on the floor, sharp as her gran’s tongue. Her voice, Angela shudders at the memory, ran through her like ice. She shoved her out of the way, ignoring her wobbly lip and, crouching down, lovingly brushed up each fragment before carrying the dustpan out to the garden. Angela watched from the kitchen window, as she carefully trowelled the fragments in around the roots of her beloved roses.