Mrs Rowland and Muriel are due to arrive at seven on Friday evening. Everything is ready. Tirzah’s mother has found a picture of a rose-smothered cottage in the attic and hung it. She has even bought a bunch of white carnations from the market for the bedside chair. I’m doing this for the Lord and the Lord only, she says, arranging the dry-looking buds in a jug. Throwing money down the drain, I call it, buying flowers. I know, Mam, Tirzah says. They look at each other across the bed. Mrs Rowland and Muriel are going to have to sleep top to tail in the bed that was barely big enough for Derry. Tirzah hopes they are small. She and her mother have been exercised about this sleeping arrangement. Let’s have a go, her mother says, and they lie on the bed together. Tirzah has her head on a pillow at the bottom of the bed, and beside her are her mother’s small, stockinged feet. Half of her body is resting in thin air. I don’t think I can hold on much longer, Mam, she says, and falls to the floor. Oh dear, her mother giggles, peering down at her. This is going to be a tall order for them. Still, it’s better than nothing, I suppose.
At half past six they are summoned to the front room. Tirzah, you sit there, please, her father says, indicating the sofa. And, Mair, you there. They sink down, and Tirzah wonders what he is going to tell them that can merit a visit to the front room. Tirzah looks at the silver bowl on the sideboard and the sculpture of a sailor’s head on the wall. All her mother’s best things are in here where she rarely gets to see them. Tirzah waits for her father to speak. He is quiet for so long that Tirzah’s mother asks him if he’s feeling all right. You’re frightening me, Gwyllim, she says, getting her hankie out. He seems to snap to attention. First we will pray, he says, and starts by asking for wisdom and grace. Tirzah opens one eye slightly to look at her mother, but quickly closes it again when she sees her mother is not praying at all, but looking boldly at her husband. Amen, he finally says. Amen, echoes Tirzah.
This is a delicate matter, he tells them, running a finger round inside the collar of his work shirt. And one that requires the utmost discretion from both of you. Well? her mother asks, not at all meekly. Cough it up, man. He shoots her a look from under his brows, and says, all in one breath: Mrs Rowland is what you would call a fallen woman, and poor Muriel is the fruit of one of her illicit relationships. He puffs out his cheeks and lets them deflate slowly. These are the sorts of people we are supposed to be helping, he adds, patting the air with both hands in a hushing gesture towards his wife. He who is without sin, Mair, cast the first stone. That is what the Son of God said. Just as Tirzah’s mother opens her mouth to speak, there is a knock on the front door. That will be them now, he states, jumping up. And may the Lord help us.
But the Righteous Are Bold As a Lion
(Proverbs 28:1)
When Tirzah eventually gets to bed, she cannot rest. The past few hours have been so strange that, when she recalls each scene, it flashes on and off in a series of unlikely shades. She is reminded of the Quality Street wrappers she loved in Christmases past, and the way you could look through the little coloured squares and see the front room and all its usual things bathed in blue or red, or the one she loved best, topaz. She thinks about the moments in the hall before her father had answered Mrs Rowland’s knock. Here they were again, she and her parents together, leaning forward to look through the front door’s misty panel at the strangers outside. This time, in place of the dread they had felt on seeing Derry’s unexpectedly tall shape, Tirzah was perplexed at how small Mrs Rowland’s outline was. The girl Muriel must be minuscule, she’d thought, unable to make her out at all.
There had been a sense of inevitability about everything: her father pulling the door open, her mother’s uneven breathing, the faces of Mrs Rowland and her daughter floating like two dulled hand mirrors in the porch. For a moment it was as if time had snagged, and no one could move or say a word. Tirzah, standing behind her mother, who in turn was peering out from around her father, tried to focus on the figures outside. Mrs Rowland was the size of a girl, and Muriel barely came to her shoulder. Neither of them smiled. Mrs Rowland’s painted mouth did not appear to be the sort of mouth that ever smiled. Muriel had on a bedraggled green party dress and a tiara. On her feet were wellington boots she’d decorated with stickers. Mrs Rowland’s blouse exposed her fallen-in, almost mauve-coloured chest flesh. Tirzah had never seen such tight trousers or such high, toy-sized shoes as the ones worn by Mrs Rowland on her bare feet. Somehow, none of this was a surprise. Then her father sprang into action. Welcome, welcome, he shouted, making a series of flapping movements, as if trying to waft them in. Her mother was silent, but Tirzah could sense her extreme queasiness about the idea of Mrs Rowland and Muriel setting foot inside her home. Now, as Tirzah turns to try to find a cool spot on the pillow, she recalls the scene. Everybody’s skin looked bloodless. It was as if Mrs Rowland had sucked the life out of them all with her purplish lips.
Muriel and Mrs Rowland stepped over the threshold simultaneously and soundlessly, making Tirzah jump. Pick up our guests’ bags, please, her father said, already leading the way. He disappeared into the front room with them, leaving Tirzah and her mother in the hall. They stared at each other, and Tirzah could see her mother’s two front teeth biting into her bottom lip. Never mind, Mammy, she remembers saying. You go on, I’ll sort these bags out. Indeed you will not, her mother answered, her voice rising. Tirzah could see two points of blood glinting on her bitten lip. She’d plunged forward to grab the various packages left on the doorstep. No child of mine is playing skivvy to the likes of those two, she’d gone on in a kind of stifled scream, swinging the bags into the hall and letting go. They both watched the bags slide to a halt on the polished hall tiles. Well, it’s pointless us standing here like two statues, she went on, her voice now faded to a quiver. I suppose I will put the blessed kettle on, as usual. You go and ask them if they take sugar.
Tirzah couldn’t help thinking that she should knock the front-room door, but then decided that was ridiculous. This is my home, she’d thought. I don’t need permission to go where I like. She opened the door and stood waiting for the three of them to look up. They were huddled together with their heads almost touching, her father on the edge of his chair, Mrs Rowland and Muriel on the settee, pointed knees inclined towards each other, hardly taking up any space. They all swivelled to look at her. Well, I never did, her father said, sending her an over-emphasised frown. We were right in the middle of praying. Oh, really? Tirzah said. Sorry. Would anyone like a cup of tea? Mammy wants to know. I don’t allow Muriel to drink tea, Mrs Rowland announced in a deep, catarrhal voice. Tirzah had felt her eyes widening; how could such a hollow, reverberating voice come out of that narrow throat? I’m sure we can find her something, Tirzah’s father said. Mrs Rowland ignored him. I will have a strong cup with three heaped spoonfuls, and a glass of fresh milk for Muriel. Tirzah looked at her father. You heard, her father said. Three sugars. Strong. Off you go.
In the kitchen, Tirzah’s mother sat like a dropped bundle of washing. The kettle was beginning to hiss. Tirzah bustled about, trying to chat while she set the tray. She splashed milk into a glass for Muriel, and shook out some biscuits from the barrel. Finally, she hunkered down before her mother. Now, Mama, what’s the matter? she coaxed, giving her mother’s clasped hands a squeeze. But her mother hadn’t said a word. You’ll be better after a sit down, Tirzah said, and poured her a cup of tea. I’ll just take this to that lot in there. She was about to leave when she realised her mother was struggling for breath. Almost dropping the tray on to the table, she darted back. It’s all right, it’s all right, her mother said between long gasps. I’m just so angry I can hardly breathe. And this is righteous anger, mind. Why, Mam? Tirzah asked, fanning her flushed cheeks with a place mat. Her mother’s breathing calmed. In a few moments she was her normal self again, but the look in her eyes was new to Tirzah. I do not like being tricked into something. I will have it out with his majesty, she answered evenly, nodding her head towards the door. Once and for all.
/> Tirzah tries to close her eyes tightly so she can sleep, but it’s no good, they just keep springing open. Looking around, she is struck anew by the room she is in, how utterly dismal it is. Poor Derry, how did he manage to sleep in this hammocky contraption? He was much bigger than me, she thinks, and I barely fit. The street lamp beams through the curtains, and a cold breeze, rising from the lino, seems to be active under the bed. A faint memory of the absent white carnations pervades the air. Up the stairs comes an unfamiliar sound: her parents are having a proper, yelling argument. Tirzah strains to hear, and after a few minutes realises that her father has stopped shouting and is silent. Now the only voice is her mother’s. Earlier, he’d announced that Mrs Rowland and Muriel could not possibly be expected to sleep in the box room. Tirzah knew he was speaking, but the words made no sense. Finally, she’d understood she was to give up her own bed for them. She opened her mouth to object, but snapped it shut when her mother gripped her arm. Shush. Don’t say a word, bach, she’d whispered into Tirzah’s hair. Go to Derry’s room now, and tomorrow night you will be back in your own bed, I promise.
Now, in spite of the collapsed mattress, Tirzah begins to feel sleepy. Before her eyes close she sees Mrs Rowland and Muriel in the front room, their dark eyes patient and watchful over the rims of their cups while the discussion about room changes goes on. She remembers her father struggling up the stairs with all the bags behind the pair of them, and her mother’s stiff walk down the hallway to the kitchen. Maybe tomorrow she will pop to Biddy’s and tell her all about Mrs R and her daughter. She smiles, thinking how Biddy will kill herself laughing. By then, Tirzah will be able to join in, and the whole sorry incident can be folded away. Suddenly she is fully awake, remembering the way her mother had slammed the kitchen door; this was something that had never happened before. Then she half gets out of bed, shaken by a realisation that her mother’s anger is not just for her own self, but for Tirzah too.
She can’t help suppressing a small throb of sympathy for her father. He is always trying to do the right thing, but he so often gets them all in a mess. He is a good person, she knows, seeing in a flash that she is very much like him in some ways. And now he’s in for it from dear Mam, she thinks, her throat full. She recalls her mother’s trip to the market to buy the bunch of flowers, and the way she’d tried to make the room a bit pretty for the then unknown Mrs Rowland. Perched on what feels like a metal bar, she hears again the ripple of her mother’s giggle and recalls her pink face when she’d peered over the mattress edge to see Tirzah on the floor. Finally, she remembers the entirely unfamiliar topaz glints in her mother’s usually soft brown eyes, and the way her mouth looked as she said she was going to have it out with his majesty. Tirzah allows herself to lie back down, aware of a blanket of warmth lowering itself gently over her in spite of everything.
When Thou Doest Thine Alms, Do Not Sound a Trumpet
(Matthew 6:2)
Tirzah is confused for a moment when she wakes; the cheerless room is so unfamiliar to her. She pulls the eiderdown up to just below her eyes and decides to pretend to be asleep for as long as possible. The day stretches out before her, an expanse of rocky terrain she is compelled to cross. She can sense herself shrinking away from her own life. It’s as if the will to go about doing normal things is being whittled away in barely noticed strips. One day soon she will be incapable of standing upright, so thin will she have been shaved. But the truth is that her normal life is not what other girls would call normal. It makes her tired, thinking about the way things are now. Everybody I love, or even like, is leaving me, she thinks. Derry’s gone, just when we had started to be friends; Osian is as good as gone too. Brân is a locked box with a thrown-away key. School will be changing, and in sixth form, people will already have their established friends. Apart from Biddy and Ffion, there are lots of people she could have been friends with, but that was never allowed. So even might-be friends have always been lost to her. I am lonely these days, she thinks.
The house is quiet. Maybe her father has already gone to work. She concentrates on listening. Usually, she wakes to the sound of her mother bustling in the kitchen. She loves to hear the chime of spoons and the other kitchen noises from her bed. But today there is not a peep from anyone or anything. A startling idea pops into her mind: maybe the Rapture has occurred and only sinful Tirzah is left behind. Everyone worthy has been caught up to heaven. Life could be so much simpler without the fellowship and all the rules that went with being saved. And most of the village would just go on its lost way. Gran and Bampy would still be here, and people like Mr Singh in the shop. Lovely, Tirzah thinks, imagining the way her new life as one of the lost could expand. She’s often watched the other kids in school and been amazed at how easy everything is for them. They never appear to be chastised, or searching their souls. If they want to, say, have a new bike or a pet, no one interrogates them about their avarice and worldliness. If they’re naughty, they get a clip round the ear and all is forgiven. She is checked as her thoughts dance about: Mrs Rowland and Muriel would still be around, unfortunately.
Tirzah pauses on the landing. No sounds from anywhere. The door to her own bedroom is ajar. Are Mrs Rowland and Muriel still asleep? It doesn’t seem that early. Tirzah feels as if she is being willed towards her bedroom, and walks to the door, avoiding the creaky floorboards. She can’t resist putting her eye to the gap. The sliver of room she can make out is empty. Without further thought, she steps in and surveys the made-up bed. The small bowl of carnations sits on the bedside table but none of their visitors’ things are visible. Sure enough, her room is its dim and peaceful self, waiting for her to come back to it. She climbs on the bed and lies down. It’s almost like being embraced, lying here. But when she snuggles her head into the pillow there is a long, dark red hair, very much like the colour of her own, stark as a vein against the white cotton. The only way she can tell the hair is not hers is that it’s straight. Reluctant to even bring herself to pick it up and throw it away, she leaps to her feet, thinking about the doll-like, unmuscled limbs of Mrs Rowland and Muriel lying together, their waxy hair flung on her pillows.
There is a noise downstairs that pulls her back to the landing. Her mother has come in through the front door and is in the hallway, shoving bits of clothing into Mrs Rowland’s holdall. Tirzah watches as she zips the bag when it is full and gives it a kick with her small foot before turning away and walking out of sight to the kitchen. Tirzah runs down to find out what’s gone on. Her mother is at the stove, humming a hymn tune. Mam, Tirzah calls, walking forward to tug the trim bow of her mother’s apron, where are Mrs Rowland and Muriel? What have you done with them? Her mother turns, smiling, and kisses her on the forehead. They’ve flown away, she answers, fluttering her fingers. Really? Tirzah asks. And where have they flown to? Sit down, her mother says, and I will make you a special little breakfast to celebrate. Tirzah waits for her bacon butty. Would you like HP sauce? her mother asks. She is behaving as if nothing has happened. Tirzah keeps studying her face for signs of upset, but there are none.
When the bacon sandwich is ready, Tirzah takes a salty mouthful, then puts it down on the plate. Now, Mama, you must explain. Must I? her mother says. Tirzah’s breakfast is delicious, but she folds her arms and will not eat another bite unless the beans are spilled. There’s naughty you are, cariad, her mother says, still smiling. Aren’t you hungry? She leans to take the sandwich away, and Tirzah grabs the plate, capturing her mother’s hand. Come on, Mama, she says. Tell me, please. Well then, her mother answers, squeezing Tirzah’s fingers before letting go. All I will say on the subject is that I have sorted the whole sorry mess out, and Mrs Rowland and Muriel are gone from this house for good. Tirzah’s tongue is stuck to the roof of her mouth. What about her father? She can just imagine his fury at being thwarted. Is Dada all right? she manages to ask, picking up her sandwich again and taking a huge bite. And where have the two of them gone? Your father will get over it in time, her mother says. I have my
limits, and they were reached when I set eyes on that lewd woman and her child. Mind, she adds, not that I blame little Muriel. But she must go where her mother goes. So I took the pair of them up to the manse and left them on the doorstep. See how Pastor and his missus like that. Tirzah’s ears stretch, she is so shocked.
After breakfast, they go upstairs to give the bedroom a good clean again. Look, Mam, Tirzah says, pointing to the long hair on the pillow. Her mother takes a look, squinting. Dammo di, she says under her breath and doesn’t apologise. There’s nasty. She picks up the hair and opens the window. Out you go, she says, and good riddance. They strip the bed and open both windows. Mama, Tirzah says. I feel sorry about Mrs Rowland’s having nowhere to live, don’t you? Her mother doesn’t answer. These wretched flowers can go too, she says, grasping the flowers by their necks and plonking them in the wastebasket. The sight of carnations will always remind me of this business. Tirzah doesn’t want to chuck the flowers away; they had just begun to shake out their frilly, ice-white hearts, releasing a peppery scent. Can’t I keep them? she asks, already disentangling the stalks from the bin. If you like, cariad, her mother says, her arms full of bedclothes. I’m off to put these in the twin-tub; you get on with putting the hoover around. Later I’ll take Mrs R’s bags around to the manse.
Alone in her room, Tirzah snaps each carnation at a slightly higher joint and rearranges them in the bowl. As she puts her nose to their cold faces, she thinks about Mrs Rowland and Muriel, now at the mercy of Pastor and his wife, and feels a twang of sadness. What will happen to them? They have no home to go to obviously. It must have been wrong to throw them out. But then she’s forced to admit that her mother’s action has saved the family months of who-knows-what, and that’s the simple truth. As she turns away from the flowers, she sees her old coat hanging on the back of the door and notices something like a thin tube sticking up from the pocket. Pulling it out, she is puzzled to find it is a tight roll of money. She sits on the bare bed and teases it open, counting out four five-pound notes. For a moment she stares at them. Wait a minute, she thinks. When did I last wear this? And then she remembers: she had been so cold and unhappy on the day Derry left, she’d put it on while she was waiting to say goodbye to him. Her mother must have taken it from Derry’s room and put it back on its hook here.
Tirzah and the Prince of Crows Page 16
