The three of them sit down to Sunday afternoon tea. Her father has apologised for cursing, though it’s obvious he blames his wife. Out in the street, children are playing football and hopscotch. Tirzah wishes she were younger and still played games outside. She wishes she were someone else’s child, allowed to do such things on a Sunday. She wishes her parents said damn more often. And bloody, and sod. Her mother has been crying, but still briskly eats a tinned half-peach coated in evaporated milk with a tiny spoon, her mouth opening only slightly for each lacquered orange chunk. Now and then she dips a folded piece of bread and butter fussily into the clouded syrup in her bowl and takes a nibble. Tirzah knows exactly what she is expressing by eating a huge and lengthy meal. It is exactly what Tirzah would do: See how much I care. I am not even put off my food. This is because I am right. The clock on the dresser ticks unevenly, and her father, peach untouched, sips from a cup too small for his hands, elbows on the table.
There is a thud on the window, and he rushes out to the front door, spilling tea on the white tablecloth. Tirzah can hear him yelling at the children. He’s confiscated their ball again. Be off with you! he shouts. Haven’t you got homes to go to? This is the Lord’s Day! Tirzah and her mother exchange looks. Tirzah knows all the little kids, and pictures their terrified faces. The shouting from the front door continues. Can I have some apple tart, Mam? she asks. It looks delicious. First eat some bread and butter, her mother says, and a nice slice of this tongue. And a couple of Bampy’s spring onions. Then, after, it’s tart for you, how’s that? Tirzah hates tinned tongue, its spongy, cream and maroon speckledness. The smell of death coming from it. Especially its fatty, granular texture. Even the shape of each slice – an oblong with one squashed-in end – is horrible. Who thought up tongue and spring onions? Ugh, she says, involuntarily. No need for rudeness, her mother comments. Never will I allow another slice of tongue into my mouth, Tirzah vows silently, looking down at her clasped hands. A dead creature’s tongue being licked by her own tongue, in her own mouth? It’s not right.
Picking up the dinky brass prong, she spears a pickled onion and pops it whole into her mouth. Then she crunches, sending a jet of scalding malt vinegar juice down her throat, and starts to cough. You are a silly, cariad, her mother says, now calmly chewing. Have a mouthful of tea. The vinegary fumes of the onion make Tirzah weep. She wipes her eyes with a napkin. It’s almost as if she’s crying for all the poor deformed babies in the world. Before her father comes back she speaks to her mother. If God cares about every sparrow that falls, Mam, how can He do such things? she whispers, throat burning. Exactly, her mother says, pushing away her empty bowl. But shush, now, and she nods towards the opening door.
In prayer meeting on Tuesday night the brothers and sisters sit in their usual circle. Tirzah calculates how much longer prayer time will go on. There are another four people who might pray. Her father is doing his little hums and coughs. Soon he will tune up. Fifteen minutes, she decides, if only one pair pray. And another twenty if Osian’s father starts. She sneaks a look at Osian. He is leaning forward, head in hands. He had smiled at her earlier, when they were listening to Pastor’s talk. Now, to pass the time, she looks at the various footwear people have on. Osian wears his brown lace-ups and looks very neat, but as it’s an unusually warm spring evening, several folk are wearing sandals. Oh, never, she thinks, gazing at Mrs White’s naked, tortured toes. How can people show them? Don’t they realise how disgusting they are? The old weather-beaten twin brothers who always sit side by side are wearing ancient sandals. They are farmers, and mostly silent in meetings. Tirzah is amazed at the length of their toes: each brown foot is a long, wooden hand, the toes like thin, clutching, muscular fingers. Each horny nail is grey and yellow. It’s as if someone has thumped them with a hammer.
When she has surveyed the whole group, her eyes finally rest on Pastor’s exposed feet. She’s amazed he is wearing sandals. It’s a rare occurrence. Idly looking at his off-white toes, suddenly she is rigid. He has six on each foot. She counts again, just to be sure. The toes are chubby, and splayed out so that the last-but-one and the pinky toes fall off the side of his sandals. Each big toe isn’t big – it’s almost the same size as the others. Then she studies his prayerful face, and thinks about last Sunday’s sermon. It’s like being granted a vision. Everyone is here with their eyes tightly closed. Behold! she wants to declare to them. Don’t feel too bad about yourselves. Verily I say unto you, Pastor is an abomination! But what does it mean, she wonders, that he is here, showing himself to the fellowship, and only she can see?
A Brand Plucked out of the Fire
(Zechariah 3:2)
Now that spring has really arrived, the mountainside is interrupted all across its length by fresh growth. In spaces between the huge, battered gorse bushes, ferns emerge like verdant scribbles and push up and out, each frondy arm stretching sideways for room as it climbs higher every day. Osian passed a note to Tirzah in chapel, saying he wanted to see her, and they have slipped secretly away. Ever since the kiss in the attic, Tirzah has been confused about Osian, needing to speak to him, and yet unsure what she would say. They see each other, of course, in all the meetings. But as they’re supposed to have no communication, they don’t have much chance to talk. Tirzah is nervous on the climb towards the mountain, and not sure why. I know, she realises with a jolt. I’m actually afraid to speak to Osian, that’s what it is. Behind this fear is another she doesn’t want to admit to herself. I am afraid of myself, she thinks. Of another, unknown version of myself. I didn’t know that girl in the attic who, just for a moment, enjoyed the pressure of Osian’s lips and the taste of him. She is walking quickly, looking straight ahead. And which Osian is he now? She hates the way things are these days. I never used to worry about Osian or myself before, she thinks, baffled.
They have come up a steep lane, its walls bulging every now and then where ancient yews grow. One yew in particular has always been a stopping point. When they were children, they could climb up behind it, using the trunk’s fat warts as footholds, and get right into its crown. They loved perching on the hairy branches, entirely invisible to anyone on the lane below. As they pass today they smile, remembering. Higher, there is a spot that’s perfect to sit and have a breather. Behind them, a line of wizened hawthorns wave their tattered blossoms, and beyond the trees the mountain sleepily rests, its top obscured by a long, swelling shoulder of bracken and boulders. The air is warm, and so full of the scent of growing things it feels damp. Osian lies back and rests his head on one folded arm. Come by here, you, he says, and with the other arm pulls Tirzah close to him. She stiffly lays her head on his chest and allows his breathing to rock her slightly. Up above, the smallest clouds meander against the polished blue sky. Everything is as ravishing as it can possibly be, and Tirzah’s fears have quietened; now that she can look at Osian and be near him, he seems normal. Are you getting a job soon? she asks, thinking about how Biddy is already doing a paper round. Osian sighs. I’ve got to help Dad in the shop. Sweeping up and filling shelves. He’s found me a bike for making grocery deliveries. What I really want to do is come here every day, he says. We could build ourselves a proper, tidy little place. There’s plenty of wood around.
Tirzah sits up. I don’t think that would be a good idea, Osian, she says. I do, he answers, his eyes eager and smiling. We’re like two homeless waifs. With nowhere to call our own. Sad, it is. He laughs, and pulls her down again. But we can call each other our own, he adds. You are mine own, Tirzah. Their faces are close, and they look into each other’s eyes. Tirzah is turning stiff, as if she were made of cooling glass. How can she stop Osian without shattering herself into sharp pieces that will hurt them both? Now I think we should kiss, he says, and does just that. The kiss is long, and Tirzah’s body relaxes despite herself. Soon she is loose and alive like the wind in the beech tops, and wants to wrap her arms and legs around Osian, squeezing him hard until something happens. Opening her eyes she sees the dark hair swep
t back from his smooth forehead, and the way his eyelids are softly closed, silky and boyish, as if he were asleep, and she pushes him firmly away. Breathless and exhausted, her head completely empty, she only knows she doesn’t want to kiss him any more.
She gets up and steps over him, taking in huge mouthfuls of grassy air. I’m sorry, she calls back, moving away. I’m sorry. But all around her lovely things are happening and she is impatient to look at them. Here are the armies of furry, half-grown foxglove spears, with their tight bunches of purple buds, and amongst the bracken, old, scrambling ropes of scarlet pimpernel she can follow. Osian doesn’t move, his body flat in the coarse grass. Tirzah wanders to where the cowslips stand sturdily, each flower alone in the turf. She folds her arms across her body, gazing at the oak wood below, and listens to the scream of some small creature unseen in its depths, unsure what to do next. Suddenly it feels as if they should go; imperceptibly the sun has been rolling down the mountainside, kicking up shadows, changing the atmosphere, leaching colour from the sky. Come on, you, she calls, brushing herself down. Home time! Shift your stumps!
Tirzah bends to snap off a few cowslips, even though she knows they will not survive the walk home. I’ll take these to press in our Bibles, she decides. Then it isn’t so wrong, picking them. She is relieved that Osian doesn’t seem upset with her. They take another route home, through the pinewoods, following the man-made road the forestry vehicles use. It is almost completely silent, except for the occasional creaking branch. Once or twice the sound of small scampering feet or the cronk of a crow makes them jump closer. They begin to get the idea they are being watched. This is always the mountain’s way, they know; it has its own life, after all, quite apart from people. Something can happen that sends you screaming and running in different directions. This is when you might find you are suddenly alone if you’re not careful, and fall, wounding yourself. Tirzah and Osian hold hands, soberly walking. Do you feel as if you daren’t turn around? Tirzah asks. Osian squeezes her fingers. Yes, he answers. Let’s keep going just the way we are. Everything will be all right. So Tirzah masters the desire to pelt down the tree-stalked road and out into the world of streets and chemists and chip shops, ice-cream vans and women in head squares shopping for veg.
They come towards the long bend in the road. There is a flat area of rough, stone-strewn ground that opens out in a crescent shape where the forestry lorries turn. This ground rises sharply when it reaches the steep, rocky face of the mountainside. The first foxgloves sit in amongst the creases of the rocks, but nothing else. As they walk on, they detect a strange sound ahead. It is so out of place they don’t recognise it at first. Osian stops, and looks at Tirzah, but there is really nothing to be done; the forest is to one side, falling steeply away, and the sheer mountain wall to the other. It’s too far to go back, he says, moving around so he will be nearest to whatever is going on. As they walk further around the bend they smell petrol smoke and realise there is a fire roaring ahead. Osian grips her hand more firmly.
On the waste ground a car is burning furiously. The air above it quivers, and a high-pitched howling sound comes from the flames. Tirzah and Osian shield their eyes; the heat and noise is shocking. There’s Brân! she shouts. Brân and the little boys are dancing round the car. Get away! Osian yells at them. That car could go up any minute! But Brân and the boys can’t hear. Suddenly a window explodes and the group around the car scatter. One boy trips and sprawls on the ground, his jumper smouldering. Osian runs forward, his arm over his face, and drags the boy by his leg to safer ground. Tirzah’s kneecaps are quivering like upturned saucers. There is a final explosion and parts of the car are flung high in the air. The boys are jumping around on the far side of the wreck, waving burning branches at each other. Tirzah sees Brân striding through the smoke towards Osian, with his flaming torch. Before she can move or scream a warning, he is standing over Osian, who is patting the jumper of the fallen boy and talking to him quietly. Tirzah watches as Brân raises the smouldering branch high and brings it down with force on to Osian’s bent back.
As if she has been electrified, Tirzah springs forward and darts towards Brân, flinging herself at him, using her nails to rake his smudged face. Brân throws down his branch and holds her at arm’s length. Again Tirzah has the jab in her heart she felt before. Brân’s eyes are so light, she wonders if he can actually see properly. They are flecked with grey, and Tirzah can’t look away from them. We were havin’ our own sort of meetin’ until you turned up, he shouts, baring his teeth at her. Why don’t you and your boyfriend fuck off where you belong? He shakes her easily, his fingers biting into her flesh. Tirzah spits at him, aiming a wild kick at his stomach. Her foot connects; he lets go of her shoulders, sending her sprawling, and bends double. I belong here just as much as you, she screams. And he’s not my boyfriend, she adds, remembering Osian, and glances round to check if he is all right. Osian is curled up next to the little boy. She turns to Brân, hating him. You are going to hell, Brân! she shouts, giving him one final kick in the ribs. The Devil won’t save you and I’m glad!
Osian struggles to stand, and the gang gather round the fallen boy and pick him up. You children, go home! Tirzah yells. Leave Brân to his own wicked devices. She watches the boys straggle off down the road, prickling with embarrassment. Devices? she thinks. Why did I say that? I sound like Pastor. She wipes her blurred eyes and rushes to help Osian up. Ducking her head so that his arm can rest across her shoulders, she notices she’s no longer holding the cowslips. Dear Osian, she says, and kisses the smoky hand near her cheek. But even as she walks slowly home with him, she is surprised by the way her mind replays the moment when she was close to Brân amongst the flame and smoke. And even though she doesn’t want to, there is an unnameable thrill in the pit of her stomach, small and strong as an opening fern, when she remembers how Brân had held her by the shoulders, before throwing her to the ground.
Go Ye Therefore and Teach All Nations
(Matthew 28:19)
New families have moved in to the recently built council housing estate. Some of the young people are in Tirzah’s school year. They have different accents and keep to themselves at break time, but Tirzah can’t see any problems with them, apart from the fact that they are the lost, like the rest of her classmates. She is friendly with everybody, just as usual, even though the newcomers look at her as if she’s gone off her rocker when she talks to them. They don’t single her out, though; they act as if all the village kids are going to give them the plague or something. But in chapel, everyone is exercised about the darkness of these new council house tenants’ hearts, and the way they conduct themselves. Tirzah’s not sure why; they are not badly behaved, or poor or dirty or anything. Some of the families who live there have cars and TVs, and neatly mown bits of grass, Biddy tells her. Some people she knows who live in the narrow, terraced streets of the old village haven’t got two pennies to rub together most of the time, and are always popping round for a cup of sugar or a few potatoes. Not that being poor or needing sugar and spuds makes you a lost soul, but some even have the police on their doorsteps most weeks, and certainly would never dream of darkening the door of a place of worship. It all has to do with the fact that these new people are incomers, she decides. The heathen can live amongst us, it seems, as long as their parents and grandparents did too.
Tirzah’s next-door neighbours are a family of what her mother calls work-shy scroungers who never clean their windows and keep a sad, mangy dog chained up behind the shed. They sit smoking all day on a broken-down sofa in the back garden, bare legs poking out from their bathrobes. The chip pan is forever on the go over there, her mother says. One of the grown-up boys steals bumper tins of Quality Street chocolates from who-knows-where and brings them home to his mother sometimes. She has watched them, squashed on the sofa, chewing, and chucking the coloured wrappers all over the place. Once they threw a handful of sweets over the fence to Tirzah when they saw her peering at them. She remembers now how sho
t through with delight and horror she’d been at the sight of three purple brazil nut and toffee chocolates rolling along the concrete.
She recalls once being in Mrs Bryn-Davies’ kitchen for some reason. The chip fat was smoking and Mrs Bryn-Davies was throwing together sandwiches for her husband’s tea. Tirzah recalls how fascinated she’d been, watching Mrs Davies slap a thick slice of cheese on to the bread. Now then, she’d said, and hawking like a man, she’d spat expertly into the centre of the cheese before plonking another piece of bread on top. See ’ow you like tha’, you miserable old bugger. She pressed the sandwich together, then winked at Tirzah. ’S’our secret, ennit? she whispered, and Tirzah had nodded. Every afternoon, Mrs Bryn-Davies puts on her headscarf and goes off with her sister to the pictures, even though her younger children have nothing to eat but Jacobs crackers and marg. But none of this makes you one of the lost, or even worthy of being put on the altar, it seems. Only if you live on the new estate must you be evangelised, and everyone is concerned about you. And that doesn’t really add up. Of course, I’m not a deacon or an elder, Tirzah allows. What do I know?
Tirzah and the Prince of Crows Page 5
