Tirzah and the Prince of Crows

by Deborah Kay Davies

  Biddy has been watching television. How come you have a television again? Tirzah asks. What about the devil-in-the-living-room, and all that? Biddy doesn’t look away from the screen. I worked on the pair of them, she says. Ground ’em down. You know. And it turns out Mam really loves that New Faces programme. Tirzah doesn’t know about grinding anyone down, or at least, doesn’t think she does, so she tries to concentrate on the cartoon. An outsized dog lopes down a dark passageway with a scrawny, tousle-haired boy. Something monstrous is running after them, roaring. What is this? she asks, a little nervous for the pair on the screen. Biddy tells her the programme is called Scooby Doo. I love it, she says. It’s hysterical. I watch it every Saturday. Tirzah is dying to ask Biddy about the meeting but doesn’t want to interrupt. The cartoon is long, but finally, two sensible-looking girls are reunited with the other, nutty pair, and the monster is revealed as an old man they all know well.

  I didn’t expect that, Biddy sighs, getting up to switch the television off. He seemed like such a nice old gentleman to me. Just goes to show. She throws herself back on the sofa. And now I have to get through a whole week until the next one. Tirzah stares at her, vexed by how she can spend so much time thinking about a stupid cartoon. Listen, she says. This is serious. Do you know what the meeting is about? Biddy gives her a look. I thought you of all people would already know, she answers. Tirzah is silent as everything becomes obvious to her. The meeting is about you, Biddy says, moving to sit close. Didn’t you realise? What do you mean? Tirzah asks, her voice weak. Well, Biddy goes on, trying to find the best words. There is a disagreement about whether you should be allowed to come to meetings now. Some folk think you should be cast out, some want you to stay.

  Tirzah’s heart is slowing down. Each muffled beat sounds like the footstep of a monster in a dark tunnel. She gasps for air. At this very moment her parents are facing the fellowship on her behalf: the row of elders in their tall seats, the congregation shouting at each other, Pastor in the pulpit. She understands now why her parents were so strange last night, poor little Mam lying with her feet up, Dada rubbing his forehead and calling her a bad penny. She can sense Biddy looking at her. Tirzah, she is calling, her voice making Tirzah jump. Then everything snaps back and she is herself again. I must go to them, she says, struggling to get up. This is to do with me, after all. Biddy grabs her hands. That’s not a good idea, she says. Your parents wouldn’t want you to. Tirzah stares at her. How do you know? she asks. Because if they had wanted you there, they’d have taken you with them, Biddy answers. You should try and be a bit more like me, she continues. Your trouble is you care too much about chapel and God.

  Tirzah lets Biddy persuade her to lie down while she goes to get her a drink. She closes her eyes, knowing Biddy is right. But then Biddy would never get herself into any of the predicaments Tirzah has stumbled into. She wonders if Pastor will speak for her, and thinks about the times she has been to the manse because of her wrongdoings. Pastor’s wife will not be on her side, that’s for sure. She remembers the splodges on her black patent shoes. Osian’s father will be strongly against. What about Aunty Ceinwen and Uncle Maldwyn? Are people going to be ripped away from each other because of what she’s done? The funny old chapel she has known since she was a baby broken apart? All those powdery ancient ladies who used to slip her a Murray Mint or a fruit pastille and pat her cheek? And what will her punishment be? Mr Humphries probably rang Pastor last night and told him about the CYC fiasco. She sees now what an outsider would see: trouble follows her around. Things are disrupted wherever she goes, and she doesn’t even know how it happens. But underneath all these things she is not wicked. If God can see my heart, He will know, she thinks, a fraction calmer.

  Soon Biddy is back with a drink. What’s this? Tirzah asks, sipping obediently, and pleasantly shocked by the cold prickle of tiny bubbles bursting on its surface. It’s cola. I did a bit of grinding to get my mother to buy it for me, Biddy says, looking at her over her own glass and burping. This is a right to-do, she continues. Now will you tell me who the father is? There is no father, Tirzah answers. Into her mind leaps the sharp, brindled face of Brân. But after the first moments his image begins to dissolve like a freshly painted picture splashed with water. In a moment or two she can no longer remember what he looks like. There never has been, she adds. Have you gone completely round the twist? Biddy asks. You’re not the blimmin’ Virgin Mary, you know. She is staring at Tirzah with her mouth open. Heavens to blinking Betsy, she goes on. Are you actually saying you never went with a man? Tirzah gives Biddy a kiss on the forehead. Putting her empty glass in the washing up bowl, she leaves without saying another word. At the bottom of Biddy’s garden the chickens make their little chuckling queries, and the swags of streaky, apricot-coloured roses lolling over the path sway in a breeze. Tirzah presses her nose into an overblown flower and sniffs. Brilliant petals drop until she is left holding nothing but a hairy-tongued heart.

  All she can do now is go home and wait. In the hall the clock ticks unevenly. The house is empty and without comfort. She walks from room to room, touching the familiar objects. She is trying to say goodbye to it all, just in case. Outside her parents’ room she pauses, but does not open the door, understanding now that the room is their sanctuary. The sound she has been painfully listening for finally arrives. Her parents are not speaking, but she hears the sound of the tap running in the kitchen and realises one of them is putting the kettle on the flame. If things were really that bad, would they be thinking of making tea? She dismisses that thought immediately. Of course they would. It doesn’t matter what occurs, people always make tea. Mama? she calls from the landing. Dada? Her father appears at the foot of the stairs. You’d better come down, child, he says.

  Strong Drink Shall Be Bitter to Them That Drink It

  (Isaiah 24:9)

  Tirzah joins her parents at the table. I don’t know about you, Gwyll, her mother states as the kettle starts its heating-up song, but a cup of char will not cut the mustard with me at a time such as this. Her father doesn’t seem to hear. I’m getting the brandy out, that’s what I’m doing. She heads for the pantry, and once inside, starts clinking and banging. Now, where is that bottle? she asks, her voice muffled. Tirzah knows that the unopened bottle is at the back of the sideboard in the front room and goes to fetch it. Returning to the table, she puts it down and then gets three glasses. What is this? her father says, startled back to life. Spirits? And in the middle of the day? He looks as if he’s going to start ranting. Tirzah’s mother gives her a slant-eyed look. I won’t ask how you knew where the bottle was, madam, she says, struggling with the stopper. Tirzah’s father opens his mouth to speak. Hush, please, her flushed-faced mother tells him, raising a small hand. I need something to bolster me. The Lord will understand. Tirzah’s father folds his lips in on each other. His face is claylike and damp, and his hair has slipped from its usual sharp shape. Strands spring forward, giving him a rough air that Tirzah has never seen before. I don’t want any argy-bargy, her mother goes on briskly. Everyone is having a little tot.

  They sit with their glasses in front of them. The smell of the brandy is like spicy toffee. God forgive us, her mother says and swallows hers in one go. Tirzah does the same. She and her mother both have a fit of coughing and start to laugh. Come on, Gwyll, Tirzah’s mother says, gasping and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Down the hatch with it. Never did I think I would see this day, he starts. Oh, shush, Gwyllim, it’s for the shock, Tirzah’s mother tells him. Tirzah thinks she can already feel the liquor running like a small, hot train through her veins. Her father’s hand is shaking as he lifts the glass. He swallows the brandy down. I took the pledge when I was twelve, he announces, licking his lips, bemused. And now, on this day of all days, I have broken it. There is a small silence in which they sit and wait. Tirzah can’t stop a little snort of laughter escaping. Her mother pours them each another generous measure. Well, if the blessed pledge is broken, one more won’t ma
ke much difference, will it? she says, suddenly animated. They drink again. Your face, Gwyll, her mother giggles, pointing with a wandering finger. It’s like a slapped dap. Tirzah’s head is a wind-filled pillowcase, blowing on the line. Whee! she shouts, watching her father’s mouth twitch. Together, they all yelp with laughter.

  Just as suddenly, the swell of laughter falters. Tirzah is uncertain: has she been howling with sorrow? Her parents are wiping their eyes; all three of them are shaken. Very bitter, her father says, out of nowhere. People were very bitter today. He gives his eyes a final dab and folds his hankie. Tirzah’s mother weaves her way to the stove. I will make tea now, I think, she says carefully. Go on, Gwyll. Tell her. Her father goes on in a flat voice. It seems that as soon as everyone was more or less present, Pastor had tried to remind them they were children of God, urging them to love one another, but Osian’s dad strode to the front, shouting him down. People were arguing across the pews, brother to brother. There was no order at all, her father says, shaking his head. I felt sorry for poor old Pastor. Unseemly, it was. Tirzah is staring at her father, but he appears reluctant to proceed. What happened next? she asks. Then Osian’s father pointed with his Bible, her mother says. Foghorning, he was, as is his way, and he denounced us before God and man. He said you were a bad influence on the young people, and we were weak parents. Did Osian’s father say anything more about me? Tirzah asks. Her head is deflated now, and she has no inclination to laugh. Her parents both look at her. Tirzah’s body prickles with needles of heat. She jumps as the kettle starts to scream. Never mind what else he spouted, her mother says. Your father was very calm, credit to him. Eventually, though, he got up, marched to the front and punched the sorry man right in the mouth. Knocked him down in front of the pulpit.

  Tirzah’s vision is suddenly obscured. She rubs her eyes. That her father would strike another brother, even if it was Osian’s horrible father, is outside her understanding. That the fellowship has fallen apart over so small a thing as a baby is shocking. When her sight clears she turns her father’s hand over and sees it is cut across the knuckles and swollen. Every word she wants to say shrivels in her mouth even before she has begun to form it. She goes to the sink and splashes her face with water, and then turns to her parents. I am sorry, she manages to tell them. In her womb, the baby feels like a dead weight, and her legs give way. Mama, she cries. Her mother rises as Tirzah crumples to the floor, but is hampered by her chair. Tirzah comes round almost immediately, but she cannot move. If I could just lie here on the cool tiles for ever, she thinks, I would be content. She keeps her eyes closed, listening to her parents struggling to help her, and knows for their sake she must look lively. I’m not hurt, she whispers. Let me lie by here for a bit. Her parents sit close to her on the floor, stroking her as if she were a sick pet.

  When Tirzah is in bed, her mother sits with her. I am so ashamed of all that drinking we did, she says. I am to blame. It was my idea. Tirzah tries to think of something to say. Brandy, of all things, her mother goes on. I don’t even like the stuff. Her lips are ashen, not their usual sweet, pink colour. The Devil has swooped in by here, through the chink we gave him. Tirzah pushes her hand inside her mother’s so that it is held like a small bird. I don’t know what to do next, cariad, her mother sighs. Your dada has gone to the manse to officially resign from the deaconship. Uncle Maldwyn is stepping out with him. Even if we are to stay, Dada says it is only right. It will be a blow for him. She shifts to lie with Tirzah on the bed, and Tirzah moves to make room. A breeze wraps itself around her, even as she snuggles into her mother’s shoulder. Their hair mingles as they rest their heads on the propped-up pillows. We have an appointment at the hospital clinic on Monday, she hears her mother say. Try to rest. Tirzah is staring at the ceiling. I am going to lay this family on the Almighty’s merciful altar, and leave us to Him, her mother adds. Tirzah stretches out her tense legs until they tremble, listening to her mother praying for them all.

  They are woken by the front door banging. I must have dropped off, her mother says. Dada’s back. She tidies herself at Tirzah’s mirror and leaves the room. Tirzah forces herself to join them. Her mother is busy again in the kitchen. We will have a bite to eat, she says, rushing to the pantry. Her father is sitting in his easy chair. Tirzah tries to read his profile, but he looks like a stranger to her. She barely has the strength to make it to a chair at the table, and once there, she rests her head on her folded arms. Soon there is a plate of corned beef sandwiches and some buttered Welsh cakes laid out. Spit spot, you two, her mother says. You will both feel better after a little something. Dad? Tirzah prompts. What happened at the manse? But her father doesn’t answer. He is making his way through a sandwich, stopping at intervals to take gulps of tea. He could be chewing leather from the look of him, Tirzah thinks. His eyelids are reddened and his mouth set oddly. Don’t bother your father now, her mother says, stealing a look at him. Without a word to either of them, he leaves the kitchen and goes out into the garden. They both get up and peer round the net curtain. What’s he doing? Tirzah asks. Her father is standing on the cemented-over lawn, hands on his hips. He is gazing around as if the garden is a strange, new sight. Tirzah’s heart jounces unpleasantly in her chest. Is Dada going funny in the head? she whispers. Don’t talk so soft, her mother says, and gives her a sharp jab in the chest with her elbow. Who could blame him if he did? Go to your room, for goodness’ sake.

  Instead, Tirzah decides to have another look at him from behind the curtains in the bathroom. Her mother is out in the garden now, and from this angle, they look stunted, their heads overlarge. She carefully opens the window to listen. Her father is squatting on the edge of the empty china sink. I’m going to plant this up again with some nice mint, Mair, he’s saying. Are you, Gwyll? her mother answers. And all this, he gestures with his arm to the expanse of cement. All this is going to be broken up. I’ll have plenty of time now I’m not one of the brethren any more. Tirzah eyes blur and she clutches the curtain, watching as her mother stands close and puts her arms around him. There is silence for a while, and Tirzah begins to feel guilty for spying. She is about to leave when her father starts speaking again. The babby will need somewhere nice to play, see, Mair, he says. Come next summer it will be crawling, and this surface will hurt its soft knees. Her mother nods. We can’t have that, he adds. Grass is what a little one needs. Somewhere to toddle around. Then they are silent again. Tirzah gazes at the way her father’s head rests on her mother’s breast, her tears unchecked and her nose running, then tiptoes away.

  He Shall Appear to Your Joy

  (Isaiah 66:5)

  Tirzah is trying to aim her wee into a jug while her mother gives instructions from outside the bathroom door. I can’t do it, Tirzah says. I can’t go. Her mother pushes the door open. Stop being so childish and squeeze a few drops out this minute, she says. Then give the wretched jug to me. She slams the door behind her. Tirzah manages to produce an eggcup of urine at last. We’re going to be late, her mother shouts. Tirzah carries the jug down and puts it on the kitchen table. Thank you, and about time, her mother says, pouring the scant contents into an empty tablet bottle. Now we must go. Tirzah has a hectic churning in her stomach. As they walk to the bus stop she wants to explain how nervous she is, but her mother is rushing, nose pointed in a way that Tirzah knows means she is not happy to talk. Keep up, child, she says, without looking round. Waiting for the bus, Tirzah can’t stop herself. Tugging her mother’s sleeve and talking quietly so the ladies in the queue can’t hear, she explains that she doesn’t want to go to the hospital. Her mother is peering up the road. I’m perfectly well now, Tirzah adds, so no need, see? Shush, her mother says. I don’t want to listen to you any more today. If we miss this appointment I will be cross.

  Down the valley they go on the snaking road, the bus racketing over potholes. They hold on to the seatbacks in front. I will put pen to paper and complain about this driver, the woman opposite says to anyone who will listen. We could all be ki
lled. Her mother checks that Tirzah is all right. Have a mint, she says. Not long now. They sit and suck, shoulders bumping as the bus swerves and rattles. Next stop, please! her mother calls, blushing, and the bus, sounding like a stirred-up box of cutlery, churns to a halt. Her mother walks past the driver and down the steps, announcing she is going to report him to his betters. Then they are on the narrow pavement, their dress hems flaring as the bus drives off. Walking down the road to the hospital, Tirzah’s legs are as frail as two long blades of jointed grass, but she keeps following, and soon they are through the tall pillars that stand either side of the hospital gates. Her mother asks the way to the antenatal department from a face that appears through a gap in the window of a kiosk.

  The department they need is in a row of single-storey corrugated iron structures shaped like tunnels. What are these? Tirzah asks. She doesn’t want to go inside. Old buildings left over from the war, her mother tells her. Still, they’ve made an effort, painting them white, and the curtains are pretty. Around the borders of the buildings, scarlet flowers crowd. If Tirzah squints, they look like smeared clots of blood on big rolls of bandages. She puts her sweating hand into her mother’s. Oh, her mother says, stopping at last. Are you frightened? Tirzah can only nod. There is nothing to it, she goes on. Millions of women are pregnant every day, and they all survive a little check-up. She is trying to get Tirzah to smile. And after, we’ll go into town and have a treat. In the waiting room, every other seat is taken by a pregnant woman, and in between sits the non-pregnant person who has come with them. Two places are free, so they take them. Tirzah looks around. She feels as if she doesn’t belong, but here she is, with her bump like a mushroom pushing her smock out.