The next day, Tirzah goes to school, still light and strong inside her force-field. If the image of a white sheet or pointing finger or wounded look threatens to encroach on her mind’s eye, she only has to remember the dusky mountain’s breath flowing over her as she lay amongst the thorny bushes, and everything becomes safe again. Nothing can trouble her. As long as she doesn’t question the sensation, the layer of light and peace she rests in is impermeable. Deliberately she turns her thoughts away from Osian and what happened at the prayer meeting. He will have to sort his own life out, she decides. I don’t think I can help him now. I need all my strength for myself. I am going to pass all my exams, she decides. Who knows what I will do? She sees herself with a case, catching a bus, then maybe a train, and travelling to a new town, her head full of all the things she’s learnt. Ignoring how Osian told her it was not the same for him, turning away from his stricken eyes and chalky face, she tells herself that he is surely capable of doing the same.
Not long ago, some of the teachers announced they would be handing out old O-level papers so that everyone can get in extra exam practice before the real things. While they are waiting in the yard for school to start, Tirzah explains to Biddy that she has decided to work hard from now on. I will be busy most evenings, she says. But you can come and revise with me if you like. Biddy shrugs. I’m just going to hope for the best, she announces, chewing a wad of gum. Do you think that’s a good idea? Tirzah asks. This is important, you know, for our futures. Got more crucial things to do with my time, Biddy says. The future isn’t here yet. Anyway, we’ve already ploughed through our blinking mocks. Ta ra. This doesn’t surprise Tirzah; Biddy always wants to be contrary, and she hates studying.
So Tirzah works carefully through her revision alone, following a timetable she has devised. Every evening she pushes more facts into her brain, slotting them in as though returning a heap of finished books to their places on the shelves of a library. It’s as if the more she slots in, the bigger her mental shelves become. For the first time she enjoys the process. Her mocks had gone well, and she hadn’t really worked at all. I’m actually quite brainy, she realises with a flare of pleasure, as she goes through her pencil case, sharpening to points the Staedtler Noris pencils her father buys her each year for Christmas. She begins to think about A-levels and suddenly can’t wait to learn new things and spend her time in the common room kept only for the sixth formers. She’s heard they are allowed to make their own coffee and bring a mug from home. Perhaps she will even be a prefect. On Sunday she persuades her mother she’s poorly, and although her father makes a point of giving one of his funny looks when he pops his head around her door, she is allowed to stay home from chapel.
When the first practice exams are given out on Monday, each paper is a serious joy; never has she felt so clever and prepared. The hall with its parquet floor and smeared windows doesn’t flatten her. The rows of single desks, the breathings of her hunched classmates and the prowling of the teacher in charge don’t make her afraid. When she gets home, she eats with her parents, then goes upstairs and spreads her books on the bed. The evening before the history exam, Biddy appears with dishevelled hair and a pimple at the side of her mouth she’s obviously been picking. She slumps on the rug, sighing. What’s the matter? Tirzah asks, sitting on her pillow, legs crossed. Then she stiffens. Is something else wrong? Her tongue shrinks from helping her say the name Osian. Is it about the sheet thing? she asks. What’s happened? Is he OK? With an arid mouth she waits to know how Osian is and pretends to read her notes. The guilt she’s stifled about not going to see him moves like fog to envelop her.
Biddy shrugs. What do you expect? she asks. He’s as right as he can be, I s’pose. She bites the side of her thumb. He’s trying to concentrate on his schoolwork. He says some of the boys at his school have been crying, they’re so worried. Tirzah is groping her way, trying to listen to Biddy, struggling blindly to grasp what the words really say about Osian. He says he can’t think straight, Biddy adds. And I know what he means. Tirzah isn’t at all satisfied with this report. It’s not what she wants to know. Biddy doesn’t have a clue, going on about his schoolwork. Why should he worry? He’s always in the top class, with all the brainy boys. Tirzah can hardly stand to look at her, sitting there, whingeing and covered in spots. That’s all he said? she asks. I suppose he couldn’t tell you how he was really feeling, with everyone at chapel around. Actually I spoke to him at the Co-op, Biddy answers. He was shopping for his mother if you must know. Tirzah glares at her. Honestly, you look grotty, she snaps, drawing herself up. You are no oil painting yourself, missus, Biddy says, her voice tear-muffled. Anyway, I just wish I’d revised more. She starts to cry openly. I should have listened to you, Tiz. Tirzah glances at her reluctantly. Well, it’s not completely too late, she says. These are only practice exams. Anyway, you usually narrowly sail through without much work, don’t you? Biddy nods. So, Tirzah goes on, with your luck you’ll be absolutely fine. Why don’t you stop snivelling, go home and do some revising? Biddy roughly wipes her eyes. Is that all you can say, Miss Perfect Pants? she shouts, jumping to her feet. You are a nasty old cow! And she slams the door on her way out.
After the history paper, Tirzah manages shakily to recapture her sense of peace. She enjoys the biology exam. It’s one of her best subjects. When she turns the completed paper over and looks up, she sees Biddy sprawled in her chair, already finished. They don’t speak on the way out. At home, she finds her mother with her legs up on a sofa cushion in the front room. What have you been doing? she asks, patting her hair. Working towards my O-levels, Mam, Tirzah says, dropping her bag in the doorway. Honestly. Have you forgotten I’ve got exams this year? No, cariad, her mother says, shaking her head. Course not. My clever girl, you are. It is obvious to Tirzah that her parents are content to see her working, but she knows that, as usual, they will be concerned too much emphasis is being placed on the things of this world. So there’s no surprise when it starts on Thursday morning. All the learning in the universe won’t help you one jot when you stand before the judgement throne at the Last Trump, her father announces over his egg and bacon. It’s possible to be too clever. Course, it’s all as filthy rags, he adds, rolling the r of rags with obvious pleasure while shaking the tomato sauce bottle vigorously. And more toast, if you please, Mair. He tucks his chin in to smother a belch before returning to his theme. Yes, filthy rags, he goes on with satisfaction, waiting with his napkin pushed in the front of his shirt. Tirzah sees, like tiny yellow beads, a perfect string of dribbled egg yolk and a splodge of blood-red sauce dead in the middle of the white linen, and at last she doesn’t fight the dimming of the force-field she has been holding on to. It’s almost a relief to let it go.
She’s further jolted by her mother, who drops the toast to his plate and says that she’s had enough talk of rags in this kitchen, filthy or otherwise, thank you. In a shocked and sorrowing voice her father says, Mair, what is wrong with you this morning? Remember your place, please. Oh, I know my place very well, she answers. If you must know, I am grieving over that poor boy. Tirzah suddenly pays attention. Quiet, her father murmurs, glancing at Tirzah. I say this is not the time for that particular discussion. But Tirzah’s mother is not to be silenced. She has tears in her eyes, and her neck is blooming with blotches. Have you seen him? she asks Tirzah, who shakes her head, her stomach contracting to ward against an invisible blow. That lovely, innocent boy is being forced to do the rounds of the fellowship, begging forgiveness. Is this right? I ask you, Gwyllim. Is this what our loving Lord would want? Tirzah’s mouth is full of cornflakes, but she can’t swallow.
Her father jumps to his feet as if he’s been stung by a wasp, overturning the kitchen chair, and pulls the napkin free of his shirt. Silence! he shouts, making Tirzah jump. What the Lord would want is contrition, he says. As you know full well. He frowns, and his thick eyebrows meet to form an emphatic line. I am sick to the back teeth of your namby-pamby, female way of looking at things. He
is leaning across the table to yell into his wife’s face. Wishy-washy, that’s what you are, Mair. Tirzah’s mother is calm, except for the twisting of her hankie. I will say one more thing, she answers. What I do know full well is this: there are people I could mention, not a million miles away from this spot, who think they are so perfect that humble pie is not on the menu for them. She dabs her eyes. But I say they should cut themselves a big slice and trot around the houses sharing it out.
Tirzah trembles, suddenly so sad she cannot lift a finger, her vision clouded by an image of the soiled bed sheet. Have you finished? her father shouts, thoroughly rattled. There is silence. Good, he says, sending a speck of toast on to the tablecloth. Now I’m off to work for some blessed peace. The blasted noise of that foundry is heaven on earth compared with what I have to listen to down by here.
When he’s gone, Tirzah quickly kisses her mother’s cheek and runs upstairs, the wet wad of unswallowed cornflakes like a slimy mulch in her mouth. She spits into the toilet and splashes water on her face. Her legs are so weak she has to sit down and breathe deeply. Oh, Osian, she whispers, clenching both hands so that her nails bite into each palm. What sort of friend have I been? Will you forgive me for deserting you? Her heart is heaving miserably in her chest.
The next morning, there is one last practice exam to get through before dinner break, but Tirzah’s mind refuses to work. How can she concentrate now, with the picture of Osian continually before her eyes, plodding round, asking forgiveness? She can almost see his flat, dark hair and bowed shoulders. It makes her wince to think of him that way. She can’t eat school dinner either, even though it’s Russian goulash. Biddy sits opposite in the canteen. Friends? she asks, her nose shining and her pimple almost gone. Tirzah nods. Of course, Bid. I’m so sorry I was nasty. And I’m sorry I called you a cow, Biddy says. But look, she continues in a Russian accent, enough of this apologising. Can I finish your grub? And she takes Tirzah’s plate without waiting for a reply, forking goulash into her mouth. Scrummy, she says. I doubt it has been any closer to Russia than Pontypool, mind, and the peas are a bit stone-like, but still, I love it. She finishes and sighs, leaning closer. So, what’s the matter, Tiz?You’ve been a drip all through break. Is this about Osian? Tirzah looks at Biddy blankly. Why are you talking in that funny voice? she asks. Biddy starts to explain. No, stop, Tirzah says. What do you really know about Osian? If there is something else, why haven’t you told me? I asked you the other night, and all you went on about was his exams. Biddy raises her hands to ward off Tirzah’s questions, then picks up the laden tray. Answer me, Tirzah demands, visibly shaking. Oh, all right, Biddy says. One, I didn’t know the details. I just overheard my parents talking about him having to confess to everybody. And two, we weren’t speaking to each other. Also, I didn’t want to upset you.
Tirzah stares across the table. How could I have been so selfish? she says in a thin voice. I should have gone to see him. He must think I’m disgusted like all the rest and don’t care about him. She hides her face in her hands. Biddy comes around to cuddle her. He won’t think that, Tiz, she says, tearful herself now. He knows you love him. You always have. But Tirzah will not be comforted. She is so ashamed of herself it is overwhelming. There is no excuse for my behaviour, she thinks. If I was disgraced, Osian would never abandon me. She recalls his sweet half-smile and can’t move; more than a week’s worth of tears are waiting to be shed. All the tears she’d turned her back on are falling, here, in the canteen. Now what shall we do? Biddy asks, pulling a tissue from her sleeve and wiping Tirzah’s wet face with a clumsy hand. Finally she wipes her own eyes with the tissue. I know, she says. The stupid practice exams are finished. You go home, and find him if you like. I’ll say you were poorly.
After Tirzah collects her coat, she starts for her house. It’s highly unlikely she will bump into Osian walking the streets, but she sees him so clearly in her mind she can’t think straight, and decides to take a shortcut along an unfamiliar alley between the backs of two rows of houses, just in case he’s there. Overflowing bins line the lane. There’s a bicycle with a single warped wheel, a propped-up old mattress and a stoved-in kettle lying around. Tirzah has to step carefully over a heap of black plastic bags. Overhead, seagulls are fighting each other for a clear way down. It’s shocking to see; the village has always been so neat. And you could almost eat out of her own mother’s bin. Tirzah stands still, realising she has stumbled on another version of things. This has been here all along, she thinks. Only I was so wrapped up in my own life I didn’t know it.
Gradually, she becomes aware of a smell like candied lemons slicing the tainted air. On one side of her, sprawling over the brick wall and stretching ahead to the far end of the lane, some shrub she doesn’t know the name of is flourishing. The plant’s blooms cluster like speckled, yellow stars, filling the air with a delicious citrus scent. Tirzah watches as greeny-white butterflies open and close their wings, intent on exploring the minuscule golden filaments that burst from the eye of each domed flower head. Maybe things aren’t so bad, she thinks, inhaling deeply before swinging her school bag on to the other shoulder. She will find Osian and talk to him, make sure he’s coping. Maybe she’ll even go with him on his visits around the houses. That might bolster him. On she walks, accompanied by screaming seagulls, past the flower-covered wall, until something catches her eye and she slows down. It’s difficult to make out what is propped against the wooden garden gate ahead; it could be a stack of rubbish, but Tirzah instinctively knows it’s Osian.
She runs to him and drops her books. He’s hunched up, resting his head on his knees. Dust smudges the dark fabric of his school trousers and one shoe is undone. Osian, she says helplessly, and falls to the dirt beside him. He is unresponsive. Tirzah takes his inert hand and presses it to her cheek. She can’t think of one thing to say. Instead she kisses his soiled palm, trying to convey through her mute lips what is impossible to explain. After some time, his legs straighten out, and he doesn’t seem to care that one trouser leg is working its way up to his knee, or that his bare calf is scratched by stones. Are you poorly, Osian? she manages to ask at last, hating herself for the ridiculousness of the question. He turns his head and looks at her. It’s me, Tirzah, she tells him. What are you doing here? Osian searches her eyes with his, but seems incapable of speech. Never mind, she soothes him. Come on, now, up with you. We’ll go home. My mam will look after you. Tirzah has to pull with all her strength to get him upright, and drapes his arm across her shoulder to support him. She is gasping with sorrow and love, her throat filled with a choking substance. Beside her, Osian struggles. And so they make their slow way out of the filthy lane.
For Thou Hast Been a Shelter for Me, and a Strong Tower
(Psalm 61:3)
When they finally arrive at the front door of her house, she realises the key isn’t attached to the length of string hanging from the inside of the letterbox as usual. Dammo di! she says quietly, still supporting a swaying Osian. She was hoping to get him inside without any doorstep drama and seated in the kitchen before going to tell her mother she’d found him. She has to knock several times before she hears someone running down the stairs. Biddy answers the door and catches Osian as he collapses. Whoa, what’s going on? she asks, looking over him to Tirzah and adjusting her hold. Are you in one piece, Tiz? Don’t worry about me, Tirzah says, just help get this one inside. What are you doing here, anyway? Waiting for you, Biddy answers. I scarpered straight after I told the secretary you were ill. Your mam’s out. They support Osian as he walks down the hall. In the kitchen, they sit him in an easy chair by the fireplace. Biddy puts the kettle on, and Tirzah gets the bread and butter out of the pantry.
Tirzah busies herself with cutting slices of bread, emptying her mind of broken, dusty Osian and the filthy, rubbish-strewn lane. Biddy brings a plate for her to put the slices on and butters the bread expertly. I can do stuff like this, you know, she says, and winks. I’m not completely useless in the kitchen. I’m sure
you can, Tirzah answers, pretending not to be surprised. Where did you find his nibs? Biddy adds. Still holding the bread knife, Tirzah starts to cry. That’s not going to help anybody, as you so rightly told me not that long ago, Biddy says, shaking her head and taking the sharp knife from Tirzah’s hand. Stop grizzling. You’re twp, that’s what you are. Bringing Osian here. Your mam and dad will be tamping. She gets up to make tea and brings the teapot to the table. Tirzah wipes her eyes and cuts the bread and butter into little squares. She knows her mother won’t mind. Osian looks asleep, his head resting on an embroidered antimacassar.
If in doubt, have a cuppa, Biddy says, putting cups ungently on the table. Be careful with the china, Tirzah tells her. You are like a blinking navvy. What we need are biscuits, Biddy states. Tirzah points to a container decorated with roses on the dresser. After she’s poured the tea, Biddy puts two sugars in one and stirs it. Sugar’s what he needs, she says. Tirzah takes Osian’s cup over to him. Wake up, sleepyhead, she croons, bending over. This’ll help. He opens his eyes and accepts the cup. Drink it all up, please, she says, and he obediently sips. Then she puts four quarters of buttered bread on a plate and slips it on to his lap. And this, she adds. Again, Osian does as he’s told. In silence they eat the fresh bread and butter, sipping their sweet tea between mouthfuls. The bread is so tender and white, and the kitchen so homely that Tirzah can feel herself brightening. That’s better, isn’t it, Osian? she asks. Biddy takes the biscuit barrel, offering it to him. Ginger nuts, she says. I love ’em. Especially when you dunk ’em. She refills the cups, and they dip their biscuits. Tirzah can’t think of what to do next, so she concentrates on the melting, spicy dough in her mouth.
She has begun to wish they could stay in the kitchen eating ginger biscuits for ever, sheltered from all the things that could hurt them, but the sound of a key turning in the front door makes her start. It’s Mam, Tirzah says, and jumps up to meet her in the hall. She leads her mother by the hand, trying to explain about Osian. Her mother halts at the kitchen door and takes in the crumb-strewn table and Biddy chewing. Navy blue! she says. I can see you two have made yourselves at home. Why aren’t you in school? And what am I running here? A café? Look at the mess on my clean table. Mam, Tirzah says, and tugs her arm. Osian is here, and I don’t know what to do with him. Her mother quickly shrugs off her coat and unties her headscarf. Biddy has been helping me, Tirzah adds.
Tirzah and the Prince of Crows Page 8
