Tirzah and the Prince of Crows

by Deborah Kay Davies

  All Friday morning, Tirzah ricochets between a sense that the weekend is going to be wonderful and a swooping dread. By the afternoon she is exhausted. I have to lie down, Mama, she says, leaving her oily cheese on toast uneaten. In the bathroom, she leans over the toilet and allows thick, stringy saliva to spool out of her mouth. Her mother knocks the door and comes in. Now, what is the matter? she asks. Tirzah straightens up and inspects herself in the mirror. There are pockmarks around her lips and her hair stands out like the broken spokes of a wheel. In the middle of her forehead is the scar from Brân’s stone. She examines the white, puckered area and decides it looks as if someone has tried to gouge her brain out in a hurry. I can’t go, she says tremulously to her mother’s reflection. Daddy was right. It would be shameless, don’t you think? It’s a bit late for such thoughts, her mother answers, gazing back at her. Your father’s got the blessed car out of the garage, and you know how much of a song and dance he makes about that. Come on. She smiles. You are stronger than you think. Am I? Tirzah asks.

  Biddy is going to travel with them. Tirzah’s mother waits in the doorway to wave them off, and her father is running the engine, his click-on sunglasses crookedly attached to his specs. Tirzah tries not to look at him in the rear-view mirror. He tuts, peering out of the window, and toots the horn. Where is that benighted girl? he mutters, rummaging in his tin of car sweets. Biddy scrambles in at last. Here, she says, and gives Tirzah a posy of forget-me-nots. Raising them to her nose, Tirzah can detect a whiff of something like waterweed quivering briefly above the car’s heated leather. She closes her eyes as a lightning-sharp image of Brân and the stream in the woods flashes through her head. So piercing is the memory she gasps, and forces her eyes open to look at the flower clusters; they are already dying, but each tiny floret still has an orange, three-pronged eye. Are you all right? Biddy asks, and Tirzah tries to smile.

  Her father tells them the journey will take an hour and a half and there’s to be no stopping. I don’t want to think about the petrol we will consume, he adds. Why you two couldn’t go on the bus with everyone else, I will never know. Biddy and Tirzah look at each other. Not good enough for your ladyships, was it? he says, his double-lensed eyes glaring at them from the mirror. But, Uncle Gwyll, Biddy says, I have been looking forward to a ride in your posh car for ages. Thank you very much for letting me come with you. She leans forward and kisses his cheek. Well now, Tirzah’s father says. Who would like a little car sweet? The girls both take an icing-sugar-drenched cube and then they are off. When they turn the corner at the end of the road, Tirzah is smitten with the realisation that she forgot to wave. She sits thinking about her mother’s cheerful face as she stood in the doorway, and trembles with sadness. Biddy slips her arm through Tirzah’s. Now what’s up, Tizzy? she whispers. I will miss my mam, Tirzah says, wiping her eyes with the backs of her hands. You are a funny one, Biddy says. I’ve been counting the seconds till I could leave mine behind.

  Biddy dozes, but Tirzah keeps her eyes on the road rushing past; she doesn’t want to miss the new bridge across the estuary when they get to it. She has only seen pictures of its white, soaring wings and the wide, sullen water beneath. Everyone says how wonderful it is. Suddenly, her father is waking them up. Have we arrived? she asks, shocked that she could have fallen asleep. Her father is already emptying the boot. But I didn’t see the bridge, she tells Biddy, gathering her tattered flowers and struggling out. You don’t mean the Severn Bridge, surely? Biddy says. We haven’t gone to England, you dimwit. We are still in Wales. Tirzah can sense, even though she has never been here before, that they are in the middle of that empty, nothing time in a seaside town when afternoon is over and there is a pause, like the long space between one slow breath and the next, before evening arrives. She shivers, sniffing rain and decaying seaweed, afraid to ask where they are in case Biddy gives her another disbelieving look. This place has a very different atmosphere to the beach they went to with Gran and the Hope Baptist Women’s Guild.

  Gulls scream over the long row of B & Bs. Opposite is the deserted promenade, with the grey line of the sea above it. On the breeze comes a burst of iodine and frying chips. Her father carries their bags to the front door and then gets back in the car. Without waiting to hear their goodbyes, he nods and drives off. Tirzah and Biddy stand outside the garden railings. The garden is small and covered with crazy paving, and inside there is a pretend well sitting on a manhole cover. From the middle of a pile of old tyres, red-hot pokers erupt on long stems, and flaking gnomes peer out from pots of begonias. A No Vacancies sign rucks up a net at the window. Tirzah allows Biddy to grab her hand and pull her towards the front door. Wake up, Tizzy, she says. We are in Porthcawl. You’ve heard of that, haven’t you? Now, listen hard, she says, leaning her head to one side. Tirzah listens, and gradually, from far across the bay, she hears screaming and woozy, discordant music. That’s the funfair, Biddy tells her. I am dying to go, aren’t you? I love that music. Tirzah fights the urge to cover her ears; the deep, far-off beat seems to be affecting her pulse rate, and she doesn’t like it.

  As a Wandering Bird Cast Out of the Nest

  (Isaiah 16:2)

  After ringing the bell, they wait. Tirzah is about to give up when, through the etched ferns on the frosted glass, they detect a figure approaching. Half a female face appears in the gap of the opened door. We’re with the CYC group, Biddy says. A woman they presume to be the landlady answers. Her eye doesn’t move, and the portion of mouth they can see barely opens. You’d better come in, she says, and allows them to squeeze past her into the hall. Tirzah bangs her case on pieces of furniture trying to get through. The woman raises both hands to adjust her hair. Welcome to Glan-y-Mor, she says, examining herself in the mirror behind them, and making a pouting gesture with her lips. I’m Mrs Partridge. She leans over and sniffs them as if she suspects they have gone off. You’re early, she adds. I wasn’t expecting anybody for a good hour. She straightens, looking from Tirzah to Biddy and then back again. A silence that the radio in a back room cannot fill blooms as she gives Tirzah’s smock a hard survey. Aren’t you lot chapel people? she asks, putting her hands on her hips. I’m very particular, you know. I don’t have just any old Tom, Dick or Harry in my establishment. It’s not a policy of mine.

  Tirzah pulls her cardigan across her body. Oh, we are certainly chapel, she says, blushing. Mrs Partridge ignores her. Your Mr Humphries never mentioned anything out of the ordinary, she goes on, sniffing again, this time in a way that lifts her top lip. And I’ll tell you something straight. I would have said no. I run a respectable house, for tidy people. Before Tirzah can speak, Biddy moves to stand in front of her. Well, we’re here now, she answers the woman loudly, and I’m telling you something straight back: we have never been treated so rudely in our lives. Mrs Partridge blinks. An icy few seconds are filled by faint sounds of music from a room at the back of the house. That’s my Roy Castle programme starting, Mrs Partridge tells them, veering round. First left at the top of the stairs, she calls, walking away. In a louder voice she shouts, Cooked dinner when the main party arrives! and then slams the door behind her. Biddy and Tirzah are left standing with their cases in the hall.

  They climb the stairs and, when the door of their bedroom closes, stare at each other. Tirzah turns away first. Well, at least that’s over with, she says in a quivery voice. Biddy falls on to one of the narrow beds. Oof, she says, her arms behind her head, what a nasty cow that one is. Quiet, Biddy! Tirzah says. I felt so ashamed. Did you see the way her X-ray eyes bored through my dress? Biddy blows a raspberry. Rubbish, she says. For a start, there’s nothing to see. That woman is just a suspicious old boot. Oh, I don’t know, Tirzah says, dropping on to a spindly chair. Can you blame the poor thing? I mean, look at the state of me. Yes, I can blame her, Biddy answers. You look perfectly lovely. I’ve seen her sort before. Holier than thou so-and-so. Biddy! Tirzah repeats, now in a stronger voice. Will you stop it? But she can’t keep her face straight. Oh, stop it
yourself, Biddy answers. You are far too soft. It’s one of your few faults, Tiz. She wriggles, moving so she can check the bed sheets under the candlewick cover. Typical, she says. Blinking nylon. And if I’m not mistaken, someone’s been in here squirting air freshener around. Mrs P, I expect. She doesn’t strike me as the type who’d do any actual cleaning.

  They prowl the room, opening drawers and checking inside the rickety wardrobe. There is a large, knobbly package wrapped in tightly bound plastic on one of the shelves. What do you think is in there? Tirzah asks, poking it with her finger. Probably a previous visitor who didn’t fit with madam’s policy, Biddy answers. I know, Tirzah says, let’s make a picnic of the bits and pieces we’ve got. They pile the items on her bed. One Club biscuit, a Marathon, half a packet of Polos, some iced gems and a crushed bag of salt and vinegar crisps. Not bad, Biddy says. Tirzah is hungry but can’t decide what to eat. Finally, she has a few iced gems. She walks over to the window. I didn’t want to have a sea view anyway, she says, looking out at a wall. She sucks her iced gem and feels the tiny turban of stiff icing atop the stale morsel of biscuit collapse on her tongue. Down below there is a line of bins and what looks like a one-wheeled motorbike and sidecar, partially covered with a tarpaulin. Tirzah rests her forehead on the window and decides not to think any more. I’m going to have a rest, she says, and lies on the other bed, watching Biddy work her way through the food. You can’t eat crisps and Polos at the same time, she mumbles, before falling asleep.

  They are woken by a clanging bell. Where are we? Tirzah asks, expecting to see her bedroom at home. Don’t ask me, Biddy says. This is s’posed to be a holiday. That bell sounds like junior school assembly. They smooth their clothes and hair and walk down the stairs. Warm air greets them, laden with the moist smell of boiling broad beans and some sort of roasting meat. I think everyone’s in the dining room, Biddy says, jumping the last few stairs. Through the door the sound of chattering and scraping cutlery can be heard. You go first, Tirzah says. Before she can stop her, Biddy throws the door open. Surprise! she shouts. Guess who I’ve got here? The sounds in the room die, and all the young people gaze at Biddy. Mr Humphries is standing at one of the tables, dishing meat to each plate, and he looks up, a floppy slice of meat ready on his fork. Tirzah has to step in, so she does, lips trying to form a smile. It feels cold where she stands. Almost as if a sea wind were bowling through the hall, trying to knock her down.

  No one moves. No one makes a sound. Tirzah seeks out Osian’s face, and when she sees him looking through his black fringe at her, she knows he has not told anyone about her coming. No one has given permission. She looks at Mr Humphries. He is trying to say something, still holding the meat-pronged fork. Someone lets out a bleat of laughter, and then the room is suddenly boiling with the noise of raised voices. Tirzah can’t leave the doorway or walk any further into the room. Biddy tries to pull her by the hand. Let go of me, Tirzah says, in an appalled whisper. She’s like an upturned jigsaw; all the small fragments of herself she has been holding together for so long are losing their grip on each other and falling away. Then a girl she barely recognises shouts something. Pardon me, Tirzah stutters, stepping forward. What did you say? The girl shouts again, this time louder. What are you doing here? she calls clearly across the room. Tirzah looks in turn at each face around the tables, trying to understand what the girl means. It’s not difficult, you scrubber, the girl shouts, red now and bolder. My mam and dad would never have let me come if they’d known you were going to be here. Get lost, why don’t you?

  Biddy rushes in a zigzag through the seated people, yelling, Shut your gob, girlo! Skidding to a stop, she promptly grabs the ponytail of the now silent girl and with two fists yanks forcefully. The girl and Biddy fall to the floor amidst the chairs, and Mr Humphries finally drops his serving fork to lunge after them. As Tirzah turns to leave, she can see Osian trying to get across the room. He has kicked his chair away and is pushing through the crowd, but she doesn’t wait. Flying like an injured bird, she flits through the front door and out on to the crazy paving. Rain is falling in graceful curtains all along the promenade. Tirzah hesitates on the kerb; from across the bay she can smell frying burgers. The air is odd here, and the sounds are incomprehensible. The colours are not colours she’s used to. She allows herself to drift across the gritty road and down the stone steps on to the compacted sand.

  I should get lost, she thinks, feeling the strange girl’s words slap her afresh, and begins to race towards the shoreline. It is difficult to run over the wet, sculpted beach; her body is like lead and her feet are awkward on the bumpy surface. Splashes of just-warm water sting her legs. Sheets of falling rain soak her face and bare forearms. The sea’s long, curved margin moves forward and back, tearing and mending itself incessantly. Tirzah scans the flat horizon. A band of glowing light keeps it in place. Hundreds of seagulls flock above her, shrieking to each other. She is running fast now, so fast that at last she trips and falls heavily, belly-first, unable to save herself. The force of the fall knocks the breath from her body. Spreadeagled, she feels the sea wind lick the whorls of her ears; her long hair is spread out and coiled in salt water. Sand grinds her cheek and closed eyelid. She pushes with her arms, rising slowly to her knees.

  Through gulps, she hears someone shouting her name but cannot turn. She is thinking of her tiny, jolted baby holding on in the warm dark. She shudders at the thought of how he must be feeling and massages her tummy with soaking hands. There, there, my little bud, she whispers. Go to sleep again. Mama is here. She is panting, her stomach tense, throbbing with the shock of the fall. She wipes her eyes and plants one foot on the ground. Then, using both hands, she presses on her bent knee until she is upright. At the water’s edge, she watches a saturated crow struggling, its wing trailing like part of a mangled umbrella in the foam. What are you doing here? she calls. This isn’t your place, or mine. Everything that happened earlier in the dining room has been wiped from her mind. She’s untethered, rising easily away from the horrible ruckus in the B & B, freed from the fear that has piggybacked on her for the past weeks. Squawking, yellow-beaked seagulls flock around the injured crow, their pristine grey wings like weapons. Tirzah turns away. She thinks about the long rows of secretive houses at home, and the thistle-strewn fields. She remembers the places where the scarlet blobs of wild strawberries swell in the summer. Even the beech woods and the little brown stream she vowed she would never go near again are beloved. How could she have ever wanted to leave all that? She pictures her parents settling down in the kitchen to eat their tea and imagines her empty place at the table, and her heart thumps with longing.

  Behold, Thou Art Fair, My Beloved

  (Song of Songs 1:16)

  Tirzah becomes aware of the salty rain slanting across her body, then the sand rising over her sandals, and her stinging face. Finally, she realises she is still standing on the beach. The sodden hem of her dress is wrapped around her knees, and she bends to squeeze out the water. At her feet sit small shells like glossy bumps. Tirzah stoops to get a closer look. The hinged, cream-and-brown shells look like the folded, shrunken wings of petrified angels. Some have fallen into separate halves. Every upturned half is a minuscule ridged bowl brimming with water. Every other is a convex nail that could have fallen from the tips of some sea creature’s fingers. The beach is embossed with millions of them, all the same, all different. She can hear the faintest of clicks and holds her breath to listen better. The sounds are coming from countless holes in the compacted sand. How lovely this is, she realises. How perfectly belonging to itself. She brushes her hands, but the wet sand is stuck to her skin. Suddenly she is wary.

  Not far off, Osian is standing silently, waiting for her to see him. Everything that happened earlier in the dining room falls on Tirzah again, like a pile of dirty washing thrown down the stairs. She waits for her thoughts to settle. Further up the beach, over Osian’s shoulder, a line of three donkeys plod to their warm stables. She can hear the donkey man sh
out, Hup, hup, hup, and suddenly lighter, she smiles. Osian, she shouts, dragging her eyes back to his face, you shouldn’t have lied to me. He makes the briefest movement with his head. Tirzah is transfixed by his spray of black hair and the beautiful, stark face beneath. Oh, Osian, she says. What has happened to you? He makes another helpless gesture, with his hands this time. All her old love for him billows like smoke across her heart. He steps towards her, holding out his arms stiffly. There are tears on his cheeks, and his lashes are clumped together. He is trying to say sorry, but she stops him with a kiss on his cheek. It’s all right, she says, as the gulls soar over them, laughing. Everything will work out in the end, you’ll see.

  Tirzah wraps him in her arms. He is breathing raggedly, and his whole body trembles. Enough, she says. Quiet, now. Tirzah gazes up the beach again; she is sick of the curded shoreline behind her, and the crow turning over and over in the shallows. She is thinking about ways to get home. I’m not meant to be a girl with wet clothes and salty hair, she thinks. I need to go back to the mountain and the valley. The flicker of warmth she felt when she saw the sweet donkeys bursts into a blaze. Up in the sky, beyond the white birds and the rain clouds, she senses the sun glowing. Or maybe it is something else, she thinks, remembering the glittering presence she saw months ago on the summit of the mountain, and then in the evening fields. Now she is impatient to be gone. It’s as if she is standing on a familiar, deserted platform, waiting for the train to transport her to the next bit of her life. Osian is part of this long, sorry day, and it’s already finished. Come on, she says to him. Time to leave.