In the morning, when Mrs Palfrey comes, Tirzah is up and dressed. You’re looking perky, she comments. That’s what I like to see. I told her to stay in bed, her mother says, but she is a naughty, wilful girl who knows best. Mrs Palfrey laughs. Don’t you fret, Mair, she says. Tirzah’s as strong as a little horse. Later, when her mother is busy polishing the hall tiles, Tirzah tiptoes down the stairs and out through the back door. She has to rush but manages to catch the bus to town. When she gets to the park it’s early, so she sits on a bench and looks up into the linden trees. A breeze is lifting the skirts of the yellowing leaves so they show their silvery underthings. Most leaves have a bunch of fuzzy sage-green berries hanging with them. Their smell of candied fruit is all around her. Golden sunlight lies over the silent bandstand and the barely swaying swings. Tirzah is content to wait. Soon she is half-asleep. Then a shadow falls on her face and she wakes. Derry is looking down at her. Sleepin’ Beauty, he says, and sits by her side.
The warmth and drowsiness of the empty park have sent Tirzah into a peaceful, distant sort of mood. So, Derry, she says, smiling. You needed to speak to me about something? The effort of turning her head to look at him is huge somehow. He talks quickly and emphatically, and Tirzah makes an effort to listen. Incredulously, she hears him say he loves her. I wan’ us to get ’itched, he finishes, running out of steam. Well? he asks, nudging her when she doesn’t answer immediately. Wha’s your answer? I’m sorry, Derry, Tirzah manages to say, I can’t. He drops down on to one knee and opens a tiny box. But have a gander at this, he says. Tidy, tha’ is. Tirzah’s bag falls off her lap. Derry is holding up the box with its sparkling ring for her to look at. Put that away, she says, unsure of what to do next. Get up, dear Derry, she adds at last. You are so sweet, and I know you want to help me. However, I won’t marry you. Derry wipes his nose on his sleeve and shoves the box back in his pocket. I knew you’d say tha’, he continues, getting to his feet and sitting beside her. But I always loved you, see? From the first time I clapped eyes on you, I knew I’d love you for ever, and tha’s the truth.
His face is young and entirely unguarded, his eyes magnified by tears. You sure? he asks after a moment, his Adam’s apple jigging up and down. Yes, she says, her own eyes watering. You should have a pretty girl who is mad about you, not some nutty, pregnant mess like me. He shakes his head. It’s only you I do want, he says, his lips quivering. The thing is, I don’t have to even think about it, Tirzah tells him, forcing the words out. I won’t marry anybody. It’s not just you. She links arms with him. I’m so sorry to make you sad, though. The wind in the trees sounds like distant applause. They sit side by side on the bench. So, it was love, was it, when you went and shoved your hand up my skirt? All those times you gave me the eye? Tirzah asks, nudging him. Smutty, that was, he says. Didn’t know no better then, see? The gilded quiet is all around them, and here and there coppery leaves twirl to the ground. Anyway. Let’s just sit by ’ere for a bit. I need a fag.
I Saw in the Night Visions
(Daniel 7:13)
On Sunday, they are all up early for chapel. Tirzah’s mother makes a special breakfast to mark the occasion. Drop scones and jam, she calls excitedly, waving her spatula. Tirzah’s smock dress is starting to fill out, and her lips and toes are oddly swollen and unpliable every day when she wakes. I’m not quite the ticket, Mam, she says, slipping into her chair. Shush, please, her mother says from the stove. I don’t want to hear talk like that this morning. Look lively. Dada will be down in a minute. She slides some golden, lacy-edged drop scones on to a warmed plate and brings them to the table. Have some of your gran’s goosegog jam, she urges. Do you good. Tirzah’s father appears at the kitchen door. Oh, Gwyll, there’s handsome you look, her mother says, hands on hips. Doesn’t he look handsome, Tiz? He turns one way, and then the other, wearing the suit he always wears on Sundays. I’m glad to see you in your nice suit again, Tirzah mumbles, averting her eyes. He sits and helps himself to scones.
Thank you, both, he says, chewing. While I set no store by earthly appearances, I understand these things are important to you women. Tirzah can see her mother’s back stiffen, but she continues to turn the scones smoothly on the bakestone. There, she says, finally joining them. Eat up, and I will tell you my vision. Tirzah’s father halts the progress of his laden fork midway to his mouth. What’s this, Mair? he asks. Has the Lord made Himself known to you? He puts the fork down. Tirzah gazes at her mother’s blotchy neck and wobbly lips. Last night, Gwyll, she tells him. It was wonderful. Steady on, he says. Just tell us what you saw, please. We don’t need the dramatics. Tirzah gazes out through the open back door to the heaps of broken concrete. Well, in my vision, her mother says, I was at the stove, cooking. Stop right there, her father commands, raising a finger. How do you know what you were doing? You could have been boiling washrags. Her mother shakes her head impatiently. Gwyllim, take care. As usual, you are trying to quench the Spirit, she says.
Tirzah swallows a bite of warm scone, and it clogs her throat like a lump of uncooked dough. Go on, Mama, she says, after taking a sip of tea. Her mother stands up and walks away from them. Where are you off to now? her father asks, his lips pursed. I was standing right here, cooking, she goes on, indicating the spot and giving her husband a look. Cottage pie, it was. When something turned me round. Wait, he says again. What turned you round? Tirzah’s mother’s face is transfigured. Something turned me round, she repeats. And here, on this old mat, was the Son of God; sort of hovering He was, all billowy and white. They wait for her to continue. Get a move on, Mair, her father says finally, picking his fork back up. Then what? Then, she continues, the Lord called my name. Mair, Mair, He said. Yes, Lord, I answered. Tirzah’s father makes a tiny clicking noise in the back of his throat. Her mother goes on:Then He said, Mair, lift up your apron. So I did.
Tirzah’s eyes are stretching, her fingers clenched. Lift up your what, Mama? she whispers, balanced on the edge between screaming and laughing. Her mother’s eyes leak tears and her smile’s intensity is disfiguring. My apron, cariad. She lifts her apron as if she were about to curtsy. The Lord told me that He would fill my apron to overflowing with blessings. And then He dissolved before my very eyes. Tirzah’s father scrapes back his chair. You have been under a great strain these past weeks, he says, clearing his throat. He nods towards Tirzah. And for that I blame you, child. And while we are on the subject, I do not like this talk of the Son of God dissolving. What is He? An Alka Seltzer? I’ll say no more. You are always too familiar with the Lord for my liking. Tirzah’s mother sits down and wipes her eyes. Do not mock what you don’t understand, brother, she tells him calmly, and he folds his lips in on themselves and leaves the room. Tirzah is so tired of this old argument between her parents. A yearning to run and run and never stop settles on her. Everything about home is so samey and stifling. But she helps clear the table in silence. Her mother tidies up, sounding like a radio with a faulty signal as she sings little snatches of various hymns. When everything is in order, she takes Tirzah’s face in her hands and plants a passionate, moist kiss on her forehead. You understand me, I know, she says. Ignore your dad.
They call for Uncle Maldwyn and Aunty Ceinwen. Biddy isn’t ready, so everyone waits on the pavement. Aunty Ceinwen gives Tirzah a long hug. There now, she says, flustered. Tirzah is pleased and waits for something else, but her aunty has turned to see where Biddy is. Walking into chapel, Tirzah scoots down the aisle, inhaling the smell of holy dust and damp hymn books; her belly seems to be leading the way. She keeps her head down, so as not to show the star-shaped scar on her forehead; it pulses painfully, as if annoyed. Her parents stop to shake hands and kiss people. In their usual seats, Tirzah slumps and looks around. There are many gaps in the congregation: no Osian and his family, no Mr and Mrs Dainton, no old Mrs Elias. Hardly anyone from CYC. But from across the way, Biddy is smiling at her. In the row in front, Pastor’s wife and the twins sit. The boys swivel to have a nose, identical eyes level with the pew back.
Tirzah holds out two Polo mints, and their small fists palm them as they turn to face the front. Pastor walks from the vestry alone and Tirzah realises that all the deacons and elders have deserted him. Dear Pastor, she thinks, her eyes prickling. The service proceeds as always, though the singing is weedy without Osian’s father’s powerful bass and the others who have left. Tirzah sings her hardest, trying to make up for the lack. Her mother is transported for the whole meeting, whispering words to Jesus, catching her breath sometimes when He answers back, Tirzah supposes. Pastor finally says a word of welcome. Praise the Lord, someone shouts, and the fellowship sound the amen.
In the graveyard, autumn lies over every monument and headstone. Barrelling mountain breezes bring with them the tang of sheep droppings and drying grasses. Tirzah and Biddy sit under the angel and wait for their parents. Tirzah’s hair is moving as if the mountain’s fingers were rearranging her curls. No one has spoken to her yet, but still she feels at home. These are the faithful people who have known her since she was a tiny child. Several of them smile as they pass on the way home to dinner. Tirzah closes her eyes and lifts her face to the flickering, late September sun. Soon she becomes aware of a shadow. Pastor’s wife is standing before her, handbag looped over her elbow. Tirzah says nothing. Mrs Thomas keeps darting glances over to the group outside the chapel door. I just want to get one thing straight, young lady, she says, enunciating each word quickly and precisely. Butter wouldn’t melt, but you don’t fool me. Tirzah gets up unhurriedly. And I could say exactly the same about you, she answers, leaving Mrs Thomas gaping. Da iawn, Biddy says, clapping. What a nasty piece of work she is.
The grown-ups talk all the way home, and the girls stroll ahead, arm in arm. Ta ra, Biddy calls, disappearing down the street after her parents. Tirzah waits for the front door to be unlocked and then tells her mother she is going for a little walk, rushing away before she is forbidden. The smells of roasting meat and boiling cabbage drift from doorways as she meanders along the quiet streets. Up ahead of her a lone woman walks. Tirzah catches up, realising it is Osian’s mother. Hello, Aunty Margiad, she says as they come abreast. Mrs Evans gives her a vague look, her coat undone and hanging unevenly, and puts a hand to her forehead. They are standing in the road, and Tirzah realises they are nowhere near Osian’s house. She wants to tell Mrs Evans that Osian is not to blame for anything, but can’t find the words. Are you coming from the meeting, Aunty Margiad? she asks instead. Mrs Evans is even thinner now, and Tirzah sees her girlish, muscular legs are bare. The T-shirt under her Sunday coat is one of Osian’s.
Shall I walk you home? Tirzah asks, gently leading Mrs Evans back down the road. Come now, you need a rest, I think. Mrs Evans stops abruptly and clutches Tirzah’s arm. Her lips are dark red, as if she has been chewing them. My boy has gone, she says. His father threw him out. Tirzah feels the nerves sparking up her spine. Gone to my sister’s, he has. And started a new school. I packed his bag and threw it to him out the bedroom window. He’ll be safe now. Tirzah is so elated to know where Osian is she barely listens to his mother for a moment. Mrs Evans is speaking in a monotone, but each sentence is punctuated by a dry sob. He was hiding in the garden, waiting for me, she says. Tirzah can hear her own heartbeats echoing in the chambers of her ears. Helplessly, she begins to cry, thinking of Osian, alone, hiding behind the shed. There, there, little one, Mrs Evans soothes, gazing up the street as if looking for someone. He’s going to Bible college after his A-levels, to be a minister, she adds. Shhh, though. It’s a secret.
Tirzah sits on the kerb and Mrs Evans wanders away, retracing the steps they took together. Tirzah is powerless to stop her. She rests, and recalls her mother’s apron of blessings. It’s a long time since I was blessed, she thinks. Poor Mama, perhaps she’s going off her onion as well. It’s all so sad. The Osian she once knew would not have thought for one minute of becoming a minister. He was always telling her she worried about God too much. The only good thing is he’s far away from his father now. Blodwen meanders up and rubs against Tirzah’s knees, purring loudly. What are you doing so far from home? Tirzah asks, picking her up and stroking the dense, dappled fur. There’s a naughty girl you are, Blod. And she tries to empty her mind of everything spiky and painful. The patched-up congregation, Pastor’s wife, Mrs Evans, Brân and his crows – she sends them all on their way, but round and round her head they go like chipped horses on an unhappy merry-go-round. In the houses on either side, people sit down to beef and roasties. How many are having rice pudding for afters? she wonders, and is surprised when Dada’s car slides to a halt beside her, her mother’s furrowed face peering from the window. Jumping out, she runs to Tirzah. Quick, Gwyll, she calls, and between them they help Tirzah, still clutching the cat, on to the back seat. The purring engine sounds familiar to Tirzah. Mama? she murmurs, almost asleep. Are the blessings in your apron for everyone, or just for you?
Make Thee Mourning, As for an Only Son
(Jeremiah 6:26)
Biddy brings in a plate. Wrap your laughing gear round this, she announces. Tirzah is lying on a new, prickly sofa in Biddy’s lounge. Thanks, she says, reaching for a handful of Ritz crackers. What’s happened to your posh brown settee, Bid? Mam got fed up with it, Biddy says through a mouthful. And is that what’s happened to your telly? Or did your dad have another change of heart and burn it on a pyre in the garden? Biddy pops a cube of cheese in her mouth. Sort of, she answers. They were convicted of their sin, and off the poor old telly had to go again. Honestly, I wish they’d make up their minds. I miss it, though. The girls munch, thinking. I really, really loved Robinson, Tirzah says. Who didn’t? Biddy asks, her mouth full of Ritz. Tirzah remembers Robinson’s beautiful hair and smooth, gleaming chest. Mostly she’d loved his arms. What would it be like, having those arms embracing you? He had the most gorgeous legs, Biddy says. But shove Robinson, I’ll miss Scooby Doo. They lie either end of the sofa and silently make their way through the goodies Biddy has filched while her mother is out. Tirzah tries several times to frame the question she needs to ask. What’s the matter with you, Tiz? Biddy asks eventually. Have you got a pain?
Tirzah decides just to come out with it. Would you help me do something? Even if you thought it was stupid or wrong? she asks. Yes, Biddy answers. Tirzah explains about the parcel she left in the woods. You know the scruffy boy we saw by the stream that day we were picking bluebells? The one you said you fancied? she asks. Biddy slowly nods. Well, he’s been living in the woods for months. Biddy narrows her eyes. Anyway, Tirzah continues quickly. He’s still there, and it’s getting cold, and his boys have left him. So? Biddy says. So I want to leave him some food and a blanket. It’s going to be winter soon, but I don’t think he wants to leave the woods. Will you help me? I daren’t go on my own now, in case I fall over or something. Biddy shakes her head as if in disbelief. Tizzy, you are nuts, she says at last. But yes, of course I will help you. Shouldn’t we try and talk to his mother first? See what she says about him? Tirzah realises this is a good idea. We could do it now, Biddy suggests, jumping up. I know where she lives. What’s his name, anyway? For a moment, Tirzah struggles with a strange reluctance to tell her.
The girls go into the kitchen and look through the cupboards. Biddy puts the half-full Ritz box in a carrier bag, and the cheese. Let’s make sandwiches for him, she says, and quickly butters four slices of bread, spreading them with Bovril. Tirzah keeps watch at the back door. In the pantry Biddy finds a bottle of dandelion and burdock pop. This’ll do, she says. Come on. Tirzah runs round to her own kitchen and stands, listening. Her mother is upstairs changing the beds, so she dashes to the pantry and takes a handful of Welsh cakes out of the tin, then runs back to where Biddy is waiting. Biddy insists on carrying the bag. Tirzah looks at the shiny tip of her nose and bouncing hair. You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? she asks. Biddy nods. But I’m also sorry for him, she says. The poor dab. She stops and looks as if she is about to ask Tirzah a question. What? Tirzah says. But Biddy shakes her head. Nothin
g, she says. Let’s go.
They walk through the village to the area where Brân’s mother lives. The alleyways are stony and sharp with the smell of pee, clogged with nettles, holed saucepans and torn wellies. Tirzah realises this is not far from the place she found poor Osian crouching. Biddy leads the way and ignores the groups of children who watch them. This is it, she says, putting the carrier bag down. You wait here, I’ll go and investigate. But Tirzah brushes past and walks to the front door. Up against the mottled glass she can see piles of mail held in a bulging swathe of net curtain. Biddy stands behind her as she knocks. They can hear music blaring in a distant room, and Tirzah bangs again. The door opens a few inches, and a little girl with a sore at the corner of her mouth peers through her fringe. A strong smell of frying fish billows out. Tirzah smiles at the blank-eyed girl. Are you Brân’s sister? she asks. The girl nods, but before Tirzah can get any further a woman with mottled bare legs appears and grabs the girl, thrusting her out of sight. Biddy quickly moves to shield Tirzah from view. The woman surveys them, arms folded and legs planted wide. Whatever you’re selling, we don’t want it, she says, and puffs on the stub of a cigarette. Bugger off afore I sets my dog on you.
Tirzah and the Prince of Crows Page 28
