When she is settled, Tirzah tells her mother about the O-level results. I’m not a bit surprised, is all her mother says. You are a clever one. Of course, she goes on, looking out of the window, you won’t be going back to school this September. There is no point. And it would be most unseemly. Maybe next year you will be able to pick things up again, if you still want to. Tirzah feels as if all the bones in her body have been extracted, and she slumps further into her mother’s lap, then makes an effort to sit up. Yes, Mama. I do want to go back to school, she answers, if you will look after the baby for me. You do? her mother says, squeezing her hand. Then of course I will. Tirzah returns the squeeze, relaxing a little, and listens to the rhythm of the train on the tracks. Clever one, clever one, you are a clever one, it seems to sing as she falls asleep, head against her mother’s shoulder.
The next morning, Tirzah walks in through Biddy’s open back door. Her aunty nods hello from where she is kneeling in the hallway. It’s too hot to be polishing tiles, Tirzah says. Her aunt goes on rhythmically wiping with a cloth. Someone’s got to do it, she answers, not looking up again. Not everybody can swan around all day sunbathing like some I could mention. Tirzah blushes and stumbles up the stairs to find Biddy. They wait in her bedroom until Biddy’s mother has left for her job at the village butcher’s. As soon as she’s out of the way, the girls lay a tray with three glasses of squash and a plate of digestives. Then they go out to the garden and sit on the loungers, listening to the bumblebees manoeuvring themselves in amongst the roses. Dead on time, Osian knocks the garden door and Biddy lets him in. Tirzah watches as he walks towards her. He has changed, but it is difficult to say in what way. You sit down there, Biddy tells him, indicating the empty lounger. I won’t be a minute. From the bottom of the garden there is a disturbance in the chicken run, and the chickens take a while to settle again. They sense a stranger is here, Tirzah says. But I am not a stranger, Osian answers, looking at her expressionlessly from under his dark fringe. She remembers to ask if he is happy with his exam results. What? he asks, as if she’d said something strange. Your results, she repeats. How did you do? Oh, not bad, he answers. She is squashed by a certainty of the wrongness of everything; her small mound of a belly and fattening waist are mysteries to her. All the words she wanted to say scatter. They wait until Biddy comes back with the tray. I’ll have that, Biddy, Osian says, springing up and taking the tray out of her hands as she walks carefully towards them.
In the garden, Tirzah senses all the plants leaning in to listen, and her unhappiness rises like a cake in a hot oven. Osian is so unlike himself she begins to suspect this grave person sitting upright on the lounger is an impostor. Where is the boy who created a miniature world in his attic and put a girl with a ponytail and a basket in the centre, like a queen? Where is the easy, lanky boy she loved? She studies his mouth. Where is his lopsided smile now? Biddy kneels and hands out the squash. Osian drinks in one go, his throat convulsing with each gulp. Tirzah holds a biscuit in her hot hand. So, Osian, Biddy says, what is it you want to say to Tirzah? His eyes switch back and forth between the girls. Tirzah bites her biscuit, but it has a gritty texture in her mouth. I want Biddy to stay here with me, she tells him. Of course, he says, and clears his throat in a way she does not recognise.
He tells her that he thinks they should both go on the CYC weekend. I know, Tirzah says. You said that in your letter. He ignores her and goes on to explain that his plan is to talk to Deacon Humphries first. Let’s see what he thinks, he says. Tirzah waits for a few seconds, searching his face. You do know I am having a baby, don’t you? she blurts at last, hoping to make him say something about it. Osian nods slightly, not meeting her eye. It will be a chance for us to get away from all this, he continues, making a gesture with his arm, both stunted and impassioned. Then, as if someone had switched him off, he stops talking. Tirzah is defeated. Well, Biddy says, after the seconds have lengthened hopelessly. You do what you just said, Osian. Talk to Mr Humphries and see if he can think of a plan of action. Then we’ll see. She looks at Tirzah for approval, and Tirzah nods again. Osian says goodbye, and for a moment it looks as if he will shake their hands like a minister. Biddy walks with him to the garden door, but Tirzah can’t imagine she will ever move again.
Uncovered, Yea, Thy Shame Shall Be Seen
(Isaiah 47:3)
For a while after Osian leaves the garden, Tirzah continues to lie on the lounger. Something is lodged in her throat, bitter as a crab apple. All she wants to do now is hide in bed with the curtains closed and the door shut. Before you ask, Biddy says, I will come with you on the blimming weekend away, if you are allowed. They contemplate the gentle curve of Tirzah’s stomach. Flip, Biddy, she says. I don’t think I have the power to even get home. Biddy stands over her. Shall I get your mam? she asks, biting her bottom lip. You do look a funny colour. Tirzah grabs her arm. No, she says. I’ll just sit up for a bit. Biddy pours some more squash. Maybe you should eat another biscuit? Tirzah nods. I’ll join you, Biddy says. They sit on the lounger together, the hot, scented garden glittering black and green around them. What do you think about Osian now? Biddy asks, crunching. Tirzah shrugs. I thought he was acting as if he wasn’t all there, if you know what I mean, Biddy adds. Tirzah nods; she is remembering his odd new way of clearing his throat, and those jerky gestures.
When Tirzah finally stands, it is as if she has wads of cotton wool under her feet, and her joints are stiff. Biddy links arms and helps keep her upright. When they get to Tirzah’s house, Biddy yells, Yoo hoo! Aunty Mair! and pushes the back door open with her knee. Is anybody home? Tirzah’s mother appears. Tut, she says, ducking her head under Tirzah’s limp arm. Between them they support her up the stairs. Just when I think I’ve prayed enough, up pops something else to lay on the altar, she goes on, almost to herself. Now what jinks have you girls been up to? What has happened? Her bosom rises and falls as she looks down at Tirzah, now prone on the bed. Nothing, honest, Biddy says. Just chatting in the garden, we were. They help Tirzah out of her clothes. She’s boiling, Biddy says, shall I get a cold flannel? When she has gone, Tirzah opens her eyes. I don’t know what’s the matter with me, Mam, she says. Tears trickle into her hair. Hush, bach, her mother says, coming to perch beside her. All you need is a rest. Overdone it, you have. Biddy brings the damp flannel and her mother wipes Tirzah’s flushed face, pushing the thick hair away where it is stuck to her cheeks. There we are, she whispers. Mammy will look after you. Soon Tirzah is half-asleep, but part of her feels as if it is hovering over the bed, seeing how ridiculous she looks lying there in her underwear with her swollen tummy. As the cover her mother is throwing over her floats down, Tirzah snaps back to herself in the bed. No, Mama, she says. I won’t lie here like an invalid, and she stands unsteadily, wrapping herself in the sheet. She stares at them both for a long moment, then her mother turns abruptly, and Biddy follows. Tirzah trails behind, her feet tangling in the sheet as she negotiates the stairs.
In the kitchen, Tirzah’s mother turns to Biddy and takes her hand. Will you do something for me, cariad? she asks. Biddy nods. Run to the doctor’s and see if Mrs Palfrey is on duty, would you? If she’s there, ask her to come round as soon as she can. I think that would be the best thing. If not, leave a message. There’s a good girl you are. She kisses Biddy on the forehead. No, Mam. Stop, Tirzah shouts. I’m not ill. But her mother pretends she is not there. Would you like a little cake to take with you? she asks Biddy. When the old Quality Street tin is offered her, Biddy selects a chocolate fairy cake, and is already eating it before she gets to the door. Don’t rush, mind, in this heat, Tirzah’s mother tells her. I’ll be all right, Aunty Mair, Biddy says. I won’t be a tick. She stops briefly. Bye, Tizzy, she calls, and is gone.
Defeated, Tirzah returns to bed, where she falls into a light slumber. Gradually, she becomes aware of voices, and drifts up through white, weightless films of nothing. The voices echo, oddly doubled, and she is being hauled towards them. She tries to dive beneath the sur
face again; it was lovely, that place where she was light and delicate as a meringue, but already her room is taking shape around her, and the sensation of heaviness returns. Now the voices are getting louder; her mother and somebody else are coming to the room. Tirzah shrinks under the sheet, like a creature yanked from its shell. Her mother’s head appears around the door. She’s awake, she tells the stranger who is waiting outside. Are you decent? she asks. Tirzah scrabbles to sit up and pull the flimsy cover to her chin.
Mrs Palfrey steps in carrying a medical bag. Tirzah gives her mother a narrow-eyed look. Don’t look at me sideways like that, madam, her mother says cheerfully. I told you Mrs Palfrey would be calling soon. Tirzah is frozen, aware of how naked she is under the sheet. Mrs Palfrey comes to the bed and takes Tirzah’s hand. Now, there’s nothing for you to worry about. We’re all women here. Firstly, please call me Betty. Her mother nods brightly at Tirzah. This is what we’ll do today, she goes on, taking things out of her bag. Tirzah listens, blushing. How can her body suddenly be something strangers can look at and examine? The thought of Mrs Palfrey handling her is unthinkable, but she is helpless to prevent it. The world of adults is unspeakably vile, she decides, as she lies down and does as she’s told. Mrs Palfrey’s hands are cool. They touch her without really touching. Tirzah closes her eyes and tries not to feel anything, but still the cool fingers flutter over her until she thinks she will scream. Finally Mrs Palfrey gently rocks Tirzah’s small bump, spreading her hands around it. Tirzah studies her face, without meeting her eyes, waiting for a worrying pronouncement, but Mrs Palfrey smiles and winks. Nearly three months, I would say, she announces. More or less. She gives Tirzah a questioning look, and Tirzah gives the smallest of nods.
When Mrs Palfrey has gone to the bathroom to wash her hands, Tirzah’s mother sits on the bed. Now, that wasn’t so bad, was it? she asks. But Tirzah is too upset to answer. Things will never be the same. Again, everything she thought she knew has ratcheted around, and she will have to change position with it. Her body, which she has always hugged to herself, is now something anyone can prod and poke. Her mother tucks her in, and Tirzah deliberately will not look at her. She senses her mother has changed too, become someone who is not to be trusted. I suppose this is what it’s like to grow up, she thinks, a sensation of extreme loneliness gathering like fog around her. Her mother takes her hands. Listen, she says. I know you believe I’ve betrayed you, getting Betty here, but that is a silly thing to think. I have to look after you. There are rules and regulations surrounding a pregnant girl of your age, you know. Sooner or later, arrangements have to be made with the authorities. Things you don’t give a thought to. I have to arrange them. When a person is pregnant, they don’t just waltz around and then pop out to have their baby under the nearest tree. They have to book a bed in the maternity ward. They have a midwife. She gently shakes Tirzah’s hands, forcing her to look up. It doesn’t all just fall into place, you daft thing.
Tirzah sees her mother’s brown, spiky-lashed eyes and pink cheeks. Here is her curly hair caught up in its thin bun. Best of all are her mother’s small, freckled hands, like two homely birds. Suddenly Tirzah sighs, and when she breathes out, most of the furrowed, barbed thoughts she’s had flow out with it. Oh, Mam, she whispers. Thank you. But, there’s embarrassing it all is. Her mother smiles. That’s not the half of it, love, she says. You wait. Mrs Palfrey comes back in. Not the half of what? she asks. The embarrassment, Tirzah’s mother says. The two women laugh quietly, and even though she doesn’t want to, Tirzah can’t help smiling with them.
Later, Tirzah wakes from another sleep and is hungry. So all the usual things still go on, even when you believe the end of the world has come, she thinks, sitting on the toilet. She shakes her head, remembering Mrs Palfrey’s cold hands, like two instruments, examining her. Still, I’ve done that now, I know what it’s like, she tells herself, realising she is making small steps towards something, even though part of her would rather not. But anyway, this is all my own doing. No one forced me to go with Brân. I will just have to get on with it. The smell of frying sausages wafts up the stairs, and she quickly dabbles her fingers under the tap and rushes down. She can see her parents have been talking by the way they turn bland-eyed faces towards her when she appears in the doorway.
Just in time, her mother says. I have made bangers tonight. With onion gravy and mash. Thank the Lord for small mercies, her father says, rubbing his hands. I could eat a maggoty horse between two bread vans I am so famished. And I am surprised at your flippant attitude, Tirzah’s mother announces, ladling onion-strewn gravy on to her father’s plate. As if the Lord would bother Himself with a couple of sausages. Now, now, Mair, her father says, it was only a little joke. I apologise. Half-listening, Tirzah contemplates the pillow of creamy potato cradling the slightly burnt sausages, and the way they sit in their pond of gravy. It all acts like a kind of balm to her. She eats, flanked by her gently bickering parents. When she has finished, and is waiting for pudding, all the swirling fear and loneliness she felt in the bedroom has gone, for the time being.
Awake Thou That Sleepest, and Arise
(Ephesians 5:14)
There is a grubby flatness to each day now. The grass in Biddy’s garden is singed, and when Tirzah steps on it with bare feet, the dry blades are like the bristles of a scrubbing brush. The street drains give out a murky, rotten breath, making her gag when she walks to the shops for her mother. The rows of houses are utterly silent, their curtains motionless as carved marble, their front doors peeling. Patches of tarmac melt by midday, splitting to reveal glittering black seams, and the roads are aflap with mysterious bits of paper that turn over slowly when the occasional car drives past. Tirzah’s eyes are drawn to the exhausted sky hovering over the valley. Several days crawl by without a single cloud to break them up. Sitting on the shady kitchen doorstep with her knees bent, the egg of her pregnant belly pushes against her thighs. The concrete her father laid years ago is breaking apart, and sturdy plants have crept out of the cracks. Stretching her legs, she traces the outline of her belly button, but then stops; thinking about what’s happening below the surface makes her queasy. Even though she doesn’t think it’s true, she imagines the red root, knotted with veins, burrowing all the way inwards to where it is attached to the hungry stranger she will have to push out come winter.
Instead she tries to remember the way the gutters spurt water when it rains, and the pounding on the roof when a storm visits the valley at night. She rests her head against the doorpost, hungry for the commotion of gurgling, splashing water. Up in the forestry, the firs’ desiccated arms must be reaching up to the unkind sky. Surely even the poor sheep are panting under the hawthorns. It’s as if she’s only ever read in ancient books that the horizons used to frown with clouds. Could it be true that cool water fell in dashes and darts on to the waiting earth once upon a time? I can hardly believe it, Tirzah thinks, watching a swirling devil of dust career across the crumbling garden.
She can’t be bothered to go and pour herself a drink, even though she would love one. The house is empty, each room full of stuffy odours. Her father is at work, her mother out. Biddy has roped Ffion into one of her many schemes for making a bit of extra money. People are doing: earning money, working for a living. Osian’s serving in his father’s shop. Somewhere, Derry is hard at work in his factory. Probably everyone in the fellowship is beavering away at something. She is the only person in the whole valley who has absolutely nothing to do. Even her Sunday school class has been taken from her. Now she doesn’t teach them any more, the little girls who used to drive her mad are very dear. For a few days last week she’d busied herself making six pretty hairclips as goodbye gifts for them. She looks at her hot, idle hands. The Devil is probably stymied; he can’t shake himself to conjure up even the smallest act of naughtiness for her. Anyway, he’s done a fine job already. She gets up from the step and supports herself by holding the doorknob, less and less sure if the Devil even exists. I don’t
need much prodding by anyone to do the wrong thing, she thinks. And neither do some other people I could mention.
Tirzah runs the kitchen tap and immerses her wrists in the flow for as long as she can stand it. The cold water seems to dawdle up her arms and over her shoulders, settling under her shoulder blades, cooling her body. Drying with the rough kitchen towel she finally decides to start organising her case for the CYC holiday at the weekend. Osian had pushed a note through the door a few days after their meeting in the garden to say everything was settled with Mr Humphries. She told her father while he sat in the easy chair by the empty fireplace. I am doubtful about the wisdom of this, he’d announced, shaking his open newspaper into order. I will have a word with Brother Humphries myself. Please don’t do that, Dada, she’d said. I don’t want you to. Everything has been settled. As she left the room, her father was saying he detected a shamelessness about Tirzah these days that he did not like. Tirzah waited behind the partially closed door and listened, sure her mother would stand up for her, but there had been silence.
Tirzah packs a maternity smock, some big panties and her spare, robust flesh-coloured bra. One nightdress should be enough, she decides, stuffing it in. Gathering her iron tablets and toiletries together, she remembers how, not that long ago, she’d forgotten to pack undies and a sponge bag, so excited had she been to be going to stay with her gran. That girl was an entirely different person to the girl I am now, she thinks. For a start, I was not pregnant then. I was light and happy. But she knows this is not true. I was pregnant, she tells herself. I just didn’t know it yet. Already, secretly, the baby she and Brân had made was growing faster than a weed. She pities that blind, silly girl. But shutting her case, she also acknowledges how the girl she used to be exasperates her now – and scares her too. She doesn’t want to think about the young people she will soon see. How will they behave towards her? Not one of them has called round recently. Osian said in his note that everyone was happy she had decided to come.
Tirzah and the Prince of Crows Page 22
