Tirzah and the Prince of Crows

by Deborah Kay Davies

  The dark-skinned girl sitting opposite her is even younger than Tirzah. She is cradling a family-sized pop bottle of amber liquid in her arms. Tirzah nudges her mother, who is looking for something in her bag. Here it is, she says, bringing out the tablet bottle of wee. You hold it. The girl looks at Tirzah’s sample and stops swinging her legs. She has elongated, solid-looking ringlets, and her top does not cover her stretched belly. Tirzah is shocked by the way the girl’s navel sticks out like a knuckle. With her is a tiny, sun-seamed old lady, whose oiled iron-grey hair is plaited tightly around her small head. The girl and the old lady are holding hands and sharing something crunchy from a paper bag. Tirzah realises that the enormous bottle is full of the girl’s urine. She starts to blush for her. Gypsies, her mother whispers over-loudly. I can spot them a mile off. Tirzah is almost relieved when a nurse calls her name.

  The examination room smells medicinal, icy somehow, and she holds her mother’s hand, deliberately unfocusing her eyes; there are too many dishes and metal instruments glinting. When the nurse comes towards her with a gleaming contraption in her hands, she is frozen. Her mother says to lie back on the tissue-covered bed and relax. Tirzah’s body obeys, but her head is detaching itself. Like a long, cold finger the thing slides in between her legs and seems to burn her shrinking insides. Finally, the nurse washes her hands and says they can go. Out in the open air again, Tirzah can’t stop talking. Her mother listens, smiling now and then. Tirzah is already turning her back on the way her secret, private places have been investigated. She walks quickly back to the bus stop, shaking the hair from her hot forehead, and sees the buddleia drooping over the hospital walls. A continuous, throat-catching perfume billows from them. Their nodding, rusty-purple snouts are thronged with black butterflies whose scalloped, white-spotted wings never stop vibrating. Tirzah halts. It is as if someone has called her name. A rushing sensation swirls around her. Everything seems burnished; the dusty cars, the drain covers, even the bins outside the terraced houses, all seem to be held in a sparkling net. Oh, Mam, she calls, her throat clogged, isn’t everything wonderful? Her mother looks back. Come on, you daft article, she laughs. First you are terrified, then you are ecstatic about some old, weedy flowers. It’s relief you’re feeling. They carry on, arm in arm. Do you understand me, though? Tirzah asks. She can’t find words for the way the world has renewed itself. I think I do, her mother says.

  They get off the bus outside the town hall. We could go to the park first, her mother says, examining Tirzah’s face. I think you’re flagging, though. Tirzah loves the park with its bandstand and avenue of sweet chestnuts, but she needs to sit down. Her mother takes her to a café and orders hot sausage rolls for them both. Tirzah has a cup of milky coffee from the shining machine on the counter. There is a particular cake sitting amongst the others in the display cabinet that she loves. Her mother follows her gaze. Would you like one of those? she asks. Tirzah is still dreamy from the buddleias. Thank you, Mam, she says. They eat the sausage rolls with blobs of ketchup, using knives and forks. This is nice, her mother comments, gathering up the curled flakes left on her plate with a licked finger. Speaking as a cook myself. When Tirzah’s cake arrives she turns the plate round to get a good look; in a pleated silver cupcake case lined with fragile pastry, there is an uneven mound of coffee icing crowned with a half-walnut. I would never choose a custard tart, she says, eyeing her mother’s choice. Each to their own, madam, her mother answers, and pats her cheek.

  Tirzah sits on a bench watching the crowds walk past while her mother goes into Woolworth’s. I am a rock in a boisterous stream, she thinks. Soon her mind turns to the broken fellowship and what will happen next. Her earlier mood deflates like a piece of punched bread dough as she remembers her father’s damaged knuckles and the way he had sat with his hair mussed up, dutifully eating a sandwich. She is puzzled now by how happy she felt coming out of the hospital, smitten by her own selfishness again. Then, looking up, she sees Derry walking towards her, his strong eyebrows raised in recognition.

  It’s such a long time since she saw him. Dear Derry, she says, feeling a flare of warmth as he comes to sit by her side, and then cannot think of another thing to say. ’Ello, stranger, he says, you look beautiful, and he reaches to curl a coil of her hair around his finger. Remembering the other time he tried that, she doesn’t stop him. He appears less famished now somehow, and his hair is cut in a different way. You look tidy, she tells him. She is aware of her growing bump under her maternity smock, and a blush billows up from her chest. Derry holds his cigarette away from her. How’s it goin’? he asks, looking briefly at her tummy. I ’eard about you on the grapevine. Tha’ must’ve set the cat amongst the pigeons. He is smiling, showing his irregular teeth, and she can’t help smiling too. Then he coughs, hunching his shoulders. Shoppers still walk past, but Tirzah does not see them.

  After a silence, he blurts out that he’s sorry he didn’t write like he promised. I couldn’t find the proper words, see? he says. Looking away for a moment, he drops his fag and steps on the stub. I’m no’ much of a writer. And I got it into my ’ead you didn’t wanna ’ave nothing to do with me. I was a bit of a pig. Wasn’t I? He gazes at her, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Yes, you were a bit, especially at first, Tirzah says, smiling. But later I saw through all that. I did wait for your letter, and I thought maybe you were fed up with us and had changed your mind. Not that I blamed you, she adds. No, Derry says, his hand slicing the air emphatically, I should never have touched you up, stuff like that. So stop sayin’ otherwise. I feel bad. A bit fresh, I was, to say the least. She looks steadily back at him. Never mind that now, she says. I would have liked to at least thank you for the money you gave me. He listens intently, jutting his jaw, the two deep lines between his eyebrows noticeable. Tirzah is suddenly distracted: from a distance she can just see her mother coming towards them through the crowds. You have to go now, she tells him. He looks around. Can we meet? he asks quickly. It’s important, like. All right, Tirzah says, surprised. But not in the village. It’ll have to be here. Derry nods and says he has a few days off work soon. They hurriedly make arrangements and Tirzah is alone again on the bench. Who were you gassing to? her mother asks when she arrives. She is laden with bags and puffing a little. Only I thought I saw someone sat beside you. Tirzah shakes her head. On the bus, she thinks about Derry. She believed he had forgotten her. But now she sees that isn’t true.

  That Which Hath Wings Shall Tell the Matter

  (Ecclesiastes 10:20)

  Tirzah’s mother has her sleeves rolled up and is using a pair of large wooden tongs to transfer dripping laundry to the spinning compartment of her twin-tub. Out you go, she says, you are under my feet. Tirzah slowly leaves the soapy kitchen. The throb of the twin-tub has been getting on her nerves, but even so, she wanted to hang around. Fresh air, her mother shouts over the spin cycle, it’s good for you. Without giving much thought, Tirzah wanders round to Biddy’s. Aunty Ceinwen is also washing. Through a patch of clear glass in the misted-up kitchen window, Tirzah sees her hot face passing back and forth, tied around with a headscarf like a pudding ready for steaming, and decides not to enter. Her uncle and aunty have stuck by them and left Horeb, but she knows they are upset with her, so she drifts down to the chicken coop. Purple-leaved mint has seeded itself all along the paths, giving up a clean, clear smell as Tirzah’s ankles brush past. Two dusty chickens are pecking in the sparse grass, so she sits on the edge of an old log to watch them. One of the chickens jerks towards her. Helloooo, Tirzah croons. What’s happening in chicken world today? The bird stares fiercely out of one eye, then jabs her big toenail with its beak. Oi, Tirzah exclaims. That hurt. The chicken makes off, back to the grass.

  Someone is coming down the garden path, and for a moment Tirzah thinks it might be her aunty, but Biddy appears with a bowl of bits for the chickens. Hiya, she says, stopping abruptly. What are you doing all on your tod? Well, it’s washing day, isn’t it? Tirzah answers, looking at the chickens. I’
ve been chucked out of the house. I see, Biddy says, and gives a series of low whistles as she strews peelings on the grass. Here you are, ladies, she calls. A little treat because you’ve been so good. We’ve been up to our eyes in eggs, she tells Tirzah. I’ve been allowed to sell some and keep the money. The chickens run to the food, shifting their light bodies from side to side, tiny heads motionless, their scarlet combs wobbling. Biddy contemplates Tirzah. What do you want to do? she asks. I know. Shall I show you my new dress?

  Leaning against the wall in Biddy’s room, Tirzah’s hands are squashed behind her back, but she doesn’t move. The same not-belonging mood she felt in the hospital waiting room is on her. Biddy poses in a new maxi dress. What d’you think? she asks, fishing in the top to align her breasts. This is called shirring, she explains, pulling the bodice to show Tirzah how the little elasticated seams stretch. The effect is a nice, close fit. Tirzah, with an effort, steps forward to have a better look. You are a sight for sore eyes, she says. But where will you wear it? Biddy drops on to the bed, the tiered skirt riffling all around her. Through her dishevelled hair, she says something about a beginning of term sixth form disco. What? Tirzah asks. You never said anything about sixth form. Then she understands: Biddy didn’t want to mention her new school plans for fear of upsetting her. Oh, she says. I see. That sounds nice. It’ll probably be boring, Biddy says, you know what these school things are like. I managed to get a smattering of B’s and scraped a place, goodness knows how. Dunno if I’ll stick it out, mind. She’s chattering, her face pink, but she can’t help playing with the lovely, swishy fabric of her dress. You will be the prettiest girl there, Tirzah tells her. She can see herself, distended and lumpy, in Biddy’s mirror.

  Biddy takes the dress off and puts it away. Anyway, she says, from inside her T-shirt, let’s stop talking about stupid me. How are you about, you know, being denounced? Her face appears in the small neck hole. It looks strange, devoid of all her hair. Tirzah gives her a look. Poor little Osian, though, Biddy adds, squeezing her whole head through. Tirzah’s ears prick up like a pony’s. What do you mean? Has something else happened? she asks. Biddy’s blush intensifies. Snatching up her hairbrush, she turns to the mirror. I thought you would know, she says, settling herself at the dressing table. You always think I’ll know, but I don’t, so tell me, Tirzah presses. She is looking into the blue eyes of Biddy’s reflection, suddenly chilled. Biddy sighs. I don’t want to say anything to upset you, Tizzy, she explains. Don’t ask me. But Tirzah must know. She grabs Biddy’s shoulders and squeezes. Quick, she says. Spit it out. You’ve already shoved being denounced in my face, so I think I’ll survive anything else you have to say.

  So Biddy tells how, after Osian’s father had denounced Tirzah and her parents, he turned on Osian. This is the man, he had shouted. He is her despoiler! We all know him and his lustful ways of old. Tirzah’s knees won’t hold her upright, and Biddy helps her to sit on the bed. Oh no, Tirzah says, her hands covering her mouth. Then what happened? Osian stood up and stared at his father for a moment, Biddy goes on, her eyes growing big with unshed tears. White, he was. Even his lips. Everyone thought he was going to give his father what for at last. But, instead, he swore before God he was not the father of your baby, and then ran out of chapel. Oh, she adds, then Pastor announced that the fellowship believed him, so that was good. Where is he now? Tirzah asks, her voice choking. No one has heard, Biddy says. He’s disappeared. Osian, run away? Tirzah cannot believe it. So now two people she knows have gone. Even if she has been told there is no such thing, she must be very bad luck. I am a terrible influence, she thinks. And without saying goodbye, she leaves Biddy. Unable to see clearly, she stumbles going downstairs and stops briefly, realising she must take care.

  In her room, she closes the curtains and lies down. Her mind vacillates between worry for Osian and thinking about Biddy in sixth form now. Biddy doing A-levels is a shock. Tirzah was always the clever one, and Biddy came to her for help. She pulls the list of results out of the drawer and has another look, smoothing out the crumpled paper. What’s the use? she thinks, tracing down the row of A’s with her finger. All that stuff is over for me. Over and dead. Next year might as well be next century. The joke is that Biddy never wanted to stay on after O-levels. She boasted she was going to scarper to the city as soon as possible and get a job in a boutique. I want to blimmin’ live a bit, have a laugh, she always said. And I worked really hard, Tirzah thinks, and did well, and now look. She ignores the fact that she will be caring for a baby. The thought of waiting another whole year before going back to school seems unbearable. And then there’s Osian, with his feet firmly mired in the valley, never really wanting to leave. And he is the one who has flown away. But where to? He always talked about doing A-levels. Why would he give up on all that?

  She wishes she was the one making plans to go back for the autumn term. I would love to have a new pencil case and bag, she thinks, imagining the walk to school on one of those high-sky, thin mornings when the trees are spreading their flames all across the woods and mountain. In the past, she would meet Biddy and walk to school with her. She clenches her fists and shuts her eyes tightly. What she wouldn’t give for things to be as they used to be. She’d never complain about wearing sensible shoes and a long skirt again if she could be one of those girls now. For the first time, she properly thinks about the fact that she can’t go back to school with everyone else this September, and how much she is taking for granted that her mother will babysit next year for her. She winces, remembering how upset her mother had been when she and Dada came back from the meeting with Tirzah’s headmaster and someone from social services. I don’t want to speak of it, she’d said, flopping on to a chair. Never have I felt so ashamed in all my born days. Her father had gone up to his study without saying a word. Tirzah barely took any notice of them at the time. I must have a proper talk with my mother, she decides. Like a proper adult. And now, on top of all these things, she must find out where Osian has gone. Soon she is so burdened and hopeless the only thing to do is sleep.

  For a moment, when she wakes, it’s as if the room is frantic with ragged black wings, and her ears echo with harsh, spiralling cries. She tries to breathe slowly and evenly, and gradually, the familiar outlines firm up, and she becomes calmer. The room is dim, and what light there is seems to come and go. There is a furious tapping at the window, and for a second she is terrified again. It’s probably only rain, she tells herself. There is nothing to be afraid of. It seems unlikely, though, after the incessant sun, so she goes to the window to check. Finally, without warning, the hot weather has broken, and she is glad, watching rivulets of water worming their way down the glass. Soon, the grey dust that has settled over everything will be washed away, and the valley will gleam again. Back on the bed, she recalls the dream, and her heartbeats quicken. She had been in a twilit place, hemmed in by saw-toothed plants, the air so hot and laden with vegetable smells she could barely draw it in. The more she’d struggled, the more lost she became, and underfoot were all sorts of creatures waiting to take hold if she didn’t keep moving. Soon she was hungry, her eyes wild from trying to see the way. She’d looked up through the undergrowth, straining for a glimpse of the sky.

  Tirzah doesn’t want to think about the dream any more. Downstairs, she can hear her mother moving about in the kitchen. But she needs to remember the dream before it fades, so she closes her eyes and sees her torn clothes and bleeding feet. The branches pressing in on her were alive, and scored her skin as she blundered around. Just as she was about to sink down and give herself up to the nameless creatures waiting for her, a huge black bird swooped, grasped her with its claws and carried her high above the terrible forest. Then, after a long journey, it let her down in a grassy place. She recognised the stream and the beech trees flanked around the smooth, open area. The crow that had rescued her opened its beak and spoke in its own language, then flew away, filling the air with the sound of beating wings. Tirzah had called after it. Now sh
e realises the sounds coming from her own throat were in that unknown language too.

  Tirzah shivers, and with her bare feet searches for her slippers on the floor. Then she puts on her old woollen dressing gown, wrapping it tightly. In the mirror, her eyes look strange; the irises are a glittering, artificial blue, the pupils shrunk to tiny black dots, and she turns away appalled. Mam, she shouts, Mama? and dashes downstairs, stumbling off the last three steps. What on earth is the matter? her mother says, running from the kitchen. Tirzah throws herself into her mother’s arms. Now, now, her mother whispers. Did the storm scare you? Come into the kitchen. I know I usually make this in the spring, but there was some nice meat in the butcher’s today. Tirzah allows herself to be led, loving her mother’s neat back ahead of her, and the big bow of her apron tied in the middle. Lamb stew is simmering in a saucepan on the stove, and soon Tirzah is sitting at the table with a broad bowlful. The liquid is fragrant and clear, with tiny discs of oil on its surface. As always, there are bright green rings of leek and chunks of carrot floating alongside the peas and nuggets of sweet lamb. On her side plate is a fat, floury bread roll. Tuck in, her mother says. Can I dunk my bread just this once, Mama? Tirzah asks, tearing the bread. Of course you can, my sweetheart, her mother answers. It’s only you and me in by here.