Tirzah’s heart is jumping in her chest. Excuse me, she says over Biddy’s shoulder, but we are friends of Brân and wondered if you could tell us where he is? I dunno nobody called Brân, the woman shouts, ash dropping to her cleavage. Now fuck off, the pair of you. And she slams the door on them. The girls hurry down the path, only slowing for Biddy to pick up the bag. When they are safely in the alley again they stop. Well, Biddy says, blowing out her cheeks, she is what my mother would call a slummocky piece, and they laugh weakly, holding on to each other. When they’ve sorted themselves out, they set off for the woods. It’ll be getting dark before we know it, Biddy says. So they walk briskly, the air chilly and overlaid with the smell of rotting moss and dying allotment fires. Biddy helps Tirzah manoeuvre over the stone walls until the woods appear. They decide she will wait while Biddy climbs down the bank and finds a spot to leave the bag. You know where he built his wigwam, don’t you? Tirzah calls. That’s the place. Biddy is already making her way towards the rustling, coppery branches, and soon she has ducked under and disappeared.
A layer of dewy air rises from the grass and plays around Tirzah as she sits. Overhead, two crows swim through the grey sky, making for the woods. A spider with long, hair-thin legs and a tiny body skitters across her folded hands. How can Brân live in the woods with just his birds for company? she wonders, trying to imagine having absolutely no one to talk to. How does he clean his teeth and wash? The next time she comes she will bring toothpaste and a toothbrush, even some soap. Silence nudges her from every direction, and she begins to become uneasy. Just as she’s struggling to her feet, Biddy is back, holding the tablecloth Tirzah packed everything in last time. This was neatly folded on the ground, she says, handing it to her. At the sight of it, Tirzah’s eyes blur; the thought of Brân finding the bundle and rooting through, ravenously eating, turns her heart to a plummeting stone.
Laboriously, they make their way back across the fields, and Tirzah can barely carry the weight of her laden heart, but soon they are amongst the lamplit streets. Curtains are being drawn against the evening as they come down the road. This is a secret, mind, Tirzah whispers when they stand outside Biddy’s house in an oval of yellow light. Promise? Biddy kisses her, and Tirzah watches until she disappears before going in through her own door. Where on earth have you been? her mother asks, stopping to take in her damp, tendrilly hair and red cheeks. I’m all over the place, she adds, not waiting for an answer. We have a visitor, in the front room. Tirzah washes her hands at the kitchen tap and rearranges her hair, fighting the desire to climb the stairs and fall on her bed. In the front room, sitting pressed into a corner of the sofa, is Osian’s mother. Tirzah is so taken aback that for a moment she says nothing. The gas fire is glowing, and Mrs Evans seems fascinated by the tiny blue and orange flames. Hello, Tirzah manages to say. But Mrs Evans does not respond. She is busy twisting her undone black hair into a long rope. Grouped beside her are three stuffed shopping bags.
Tirzah waits for her mother to come in. When she does, the room seems to warm up and grow lighter. Marg, she says, smiling and pulling out a little bent-legged table from the nest of three, what you need is a nice cuppa and a bite to eat. Her mother has made some dainty sandwiches. On another plate are buttered scones. Tirzah offers a plate, but Mrs Evans goes on gazing at the fire, so they busy themselves with cups and pouring. Tirzah’s mother sits and the cushion makes a sighing sound. Now, dear, she says gently, please have a little sip. Go on. She offers the cup and saucer, and Mrs Evans takes them. Then she picks up her own cup and raises it to her lips, over-emphasising her movements, as if teaching Mrs Evans what to do. Good, she says. Now a sandwich. Mrs Evans takes a triangle and nibbles the edge. Soon she has eaten it and drunk half her tea. How are you now? Tirzah’s mother asks, taking Mrs Evans’s limp, empty hand in her own warm hands. Mrs Evans nods. You are missing your lovely boy, I expect, she goes on. And that is natural. But you must look after yourself, for his sake at least. It is good he is at his aunt’s and still getting on with his studies. There is a pause. Would you like me to get some hair clips and a brush? she goes on, her voice coaxing. I could put your hair up nicely for you.
Mrs Evans is listening, Tirzah can tell, even though she is unresponsive. She is still wearing Osian’s T-shirt. The fire makes small popping sounds and the purple evening waits calmly outside. Mrs Evans begins to stir. Rest a while longer, Margiad, Tirzah’s mother says. I will get Gwyllim to walk you home. But Mrs Evans wants to leave. Tirzah watches the two women in the hallway. While her mother fastens her coat, Mrs Evans stands patiently until all the buttons are done up. Dear sister, she can hear her mother say. I will pray for you. Then Mrs Evans is gone. The bags shift by the side of the sofa, and Tirzah sees one of them has a note pinned to it with her name written in red biro. As she sinks to the rug, pieces of Osian’s train set clatter out. Picking up a red carriage and a bundle of signals, she remembers Osian’s onion-scented mouth on hers in the attic, and the way that had all ended. Then she sees something half-hidden under the sofa and snatches it up. It is the tiny girl with the auburn ponytail who waited on the platform for a train that never took her anywhere, still carrying her empty basket.
He Had Prepared for Him a Great Chamber
(Nehemiah 13:5)
October moves forward in a haze of garden fires and misty evenings, and Tirzah tries to read the textbooks that have been delivered from school. Her mother’s cleared the dining-room table for her to work at and given permission for the heater to be used on cooler days. Now that last month’s despondency has lifted, Tirzah feels a sense of urgency about keeping her brain on track, ready for next year. Apart from anything else, studying gives her jumpy mind something to worry at; when she has spent the morning taking notes and reading, it’s smoothed out. But some days Tirzah spends her time looking out from her bedroom window at the hemmed-in street, her mind like a jagged rock rattling about inside her skull. Some days, thrumming, poker-straight rain falls in concentrated intervals, and when it lets up, spoilt leaves are flung around on the gusty breeze, their faces splatting briefly on to her window before being snatched away again. On those days, she doesn’t read or talk; nothing she could say would be of any interest to anyone, she thinks. I am waiting for this child to be born. That’s enough. Her mother leaves her be. On Sundays, they all go to chapel. Now Tirzah can wear a coat, she doesn’t feel so utterly naked amongst the fellowship.
Today she is lying down, her mind working its way through the usual groove. How can it be that my brain will only think about Osian, Brân, my parents, my bump and blimmin’ chapel? she wonders, dog-tired of them all. She shifts position on the bed. Knock, knock, Biddy calls. Tirzah doesn’t respond. Well, look at you, Biddy smiles, walking over to the foot of the bed. What a sight. And she squeezes in beside Tirzah. Not much room in by here now, is there? she asks, giggling. After a little silence, she raises herself on one elbow. How’s the studying? she asks. Next year you will be the most brilliant girl in the whole school. Tirzah eyes her, unimpressed. How are you getting on, Biddy? she asks, hoping Biddy doesn’t complain about school. She’ll punch her if she does. Biddy flops back down. It’s blimmin’ hard, she answers. But I think I’m all right. Tirzah is silent. Seriously, Tizzy, Biddy says after a few moments, as if continuing an interrupted conversation, you must get up and doing. Your mother is worried about you. Tirzah gives her a narrow glance. She’s down there, she adds. Crying her heart out.
Tirzah struggles to get up. What has she got to cry about, may I ask? she says, dressing hurriedly. I’m the one who should be crying. I’m the one having a wretched baby. I’m the one who can’t go to school. She stops abruptly and closes her mouth; there are so many other things wrong that she can’t explain. Biddy sits back, her hands behind her head, watching as Tirzah hops about, trying to find a lost slipper, looking for her hairbrush. When she is struggling with her knotted hair, Biddy gets up and gently steers Tirzah to the stool near her desk. Let me do that for you, she says, takin
g the brush. You’re going to be bald, pulling at it. Just sit still, for goodness’ sake. She begins to work through the confusion of Tirzah’s curls. What a flipping fusspot you are, she goes on, tapping Tirzah on the head with the brush handle. They look at each other in the mirror. Now, what’s been happening? Tirzah shrugs. She is thinking of her little mother weeping in the kitchen. And of her dada, going to work, coming home, going to work, coming home, even if he doesn’t want to. No one asked them what they wanted. But you can be sure it wasn’t a pregnant daughter who got them thrown out of chapel. I am a selfish pig, she says at last. Selfish piglet, Biddy corrects her. Piglets are much cuter. There’s nothing very cute about me now, Tirzah murmurs, her nose congesting.
Biddy concentrates on braiding Tirzah’s hair. When it is a thick, knobbly column she ties the end with a thin black ribbon. There, she says. Lovely. Your hair is so much thicker than mine. Tirzah examines her reflection, but all she can see is a suety face, a swollen mouth and a double chin. I’m so fat, she says, even my nose is fat. Biddy leaves the room while Tirzah glares at herself in the mirror, filled with an urge to scratch her own stupid, doughy cheeks. She remembers a time, not that long ago, when her face was pointed and her hair lively. Where has this podgy, indoor person come from? Suddenly, Tirzah wants to get out of the house and feel the rain-laden wind on her neck. She avoids looking at her blotchy eyes and wipes her face with a corner of the bed sheet. When she turns, her mother is standing in the doorway, tear-stained and red-lipped. What are we going to do with you? she asks, and makes a helpless, open-palmed gesture. Oh, Mam, Tirzah says, and runs to her mother’s side. Words spill up into her mouth, but she is incapable of putting them in order. Against her cheek, she feels the worn fabric of her mother’s pinny, and inhales the smell of fresh ironing she always seems to carry with her. When Biddy calls them, they wipe each other’s eyes and go down.
I’ve got a great idea, Biddy announces, after they have been at the table for a while. She reminds them it will be half-term soon. Tirzah nods. So why don’t the two of us arrange to stay at Granny’s? she finishes. Ta dah! No need to thank me. Tirzah thinks this is a wonderful idea. We’ll see, her mother says, smiling. Tomorrow I will arrange it, if I can.
The next week, Tirzah’s father takes the girls to their grandmother’s. He leaves the big car’s engine growling in the lane to carry Tirzah’s case. Two girls for you, he announces, and puts the case down in the conservatory where Gran is having five minutes with the paper. Her old mousing cat draws itself into a plush black pool under the chair. And may the Lord give you wisdom, he adds. I have a bit of wisdom of my own, thank you, Gwyll, she says, heaving herself out of the chair. Look, you’ve scared Queenie with your pronouncements. Goodbye, Mother, he says, and she flaps him out with the newspaper. The girls kiss her on the cheek and rush upstairs, each wanting to be first through the door of their room. Biddy wins. Oh, hallelujah, praise the blimmin’ Lord, she shouts, laughing.
Tirzah takes off her dress and long socks and lies on the bed, welcoming the way the house washes over her. Here is the rag rug and the flower-wreathed bride in her frame on the mantelpiece. A coal fire is fizzing in the small grate. Biddy twirls around and then runs downstairs again. Soon Tirzah is asleep, and when she wakes, it’s as if the little bedroom has delivered her to a simpler, scrubbed-clean place, where no one is looking for her to do anything at all. She rests on the pillows and listens to the gentle, living hum of the house. Outside it is dark, and the wind screeches over the garden’s high stone walls, battering the dying dahlias in the borders. She can make out the sounds of Biddy and her grandmother in the scullery, laughing and clinking plates. She lets out a deep breath, allowing her whole body to relax. Just as she’s thinking about moving, the door opens.
Biddy jumps up next to her. You’re not to stir, she says. We are going to have a picnic. Tirzah watches as her grandmother mends the fire and Bampy brings up cheese and bowls of soup. Gran and Bampy sit in the easy chairs and Biddy is cross-legged on the rug. Bread rolls, Gran announces, I knew there was something, and Biddy runs down to get them. The cat slinks in and sniffs the air, then turns and struts out. Queenie doesn’t like soup, Gran says. Fussy little bugger, she is. Tirzah isn’t hungry; it is enough to sit and watch the others, and listen to the shifts and purrs of the fire. Thank you, she says. For doing this. They all gaze at her, waiting for what she will say next. She wishes there was something she could do to show them how much she loves them. As they sit watching her, soup bowls in their laps and bread on their plates, it feels as if they are expecting her to carry on.
Tirzah settles herself. I have something else to say, she announces. Biddy puts another morsel of bread slowly in her mouth, and Gran quirks an eyebrow. Tirzah swallows and blurts out that she knows they would like to know who the father of her baby is. She senses them all lean forward. So I can tell you honestly that it is not Osian. Nor is it Derry. They continue to wait. And that’s all, Tirzah says, trailing off. Her grandparents start spooning soup up again and the point of Biddy’s nose goes pink. Is that it? she asks. Is that all you are going to say? Tirzah nods, her lips folded tightly. Well, save your breath, Biddy goes on. Keep your flipping secrets if you want to. I don’t care. I’m fed up of the sight of you. And anyway, Osian swore it wasn’t him, and I could tell he was speaking the truth, so that’s yesterday’s news. She turns towards the fire with her arms crossed, slopping her soup. Now, now, Bampy says, pulling out his hankie to wipe his mouth. If this is all Tirzah can tell, so be it. He gets ready to stand up, shifting himself back in the chair. Although, dear, he goes on in his usual dry voice, that is very slim pickings. Tirzah tries to speak. Don’t be a-worrying, he goes on, I’m sure you have your reasons. And we must respect them. Though why you won’t trust your own family is beyond us all. Tirzah is soon alone again and too dispirited to do anything but lie in bed.
For the rest of the time away, Tirzah cannot shake the feeling she has disappointed everyone. Biddy is unhappy with her, but Tirzah knows she will come round. It’s Gran and Bampy she’s heart-sore about. Throughout the quiet days, in the garden helping Bampy tidy his borders ready for winter or sucking boiled sweets and reading old Woman’s Realm magazines with Gran, Tirzah tries to discern what they are really thinking. Biddy is giving her the cold shoulder. In the end she is exhausted. It’s like climbing up a huge slippery boulder only to fall back each time; with nothing to hold on to she makes no progress. Soon it is time to go home. When they are packed and ready, she sneaks out to the scullery where Gran is making jam. Finished my onions, she says, nodding towards the pantry. Jars crammed with white orbs are lined up on a shelf like specimens in a laboratory. Heated, blackberry-laden air catches in Tirzah’s throat as she tries to explain. No need to utter a word if you don’t want to, Gran says, taking off her glasses to wipe them. She gives Tirzah a brown paper bag. This is a special drink I have made up for you, she says. Make sure you take it twice a day, there’s a good girl. In boiling water. Off you go now. Tirzah walks up the long path fringed with orange-red rose-hips and seeded flower heads to the garden door. Looking back through the car window she sees her grandparents waving, and quickly turns to face the front; never before have they looked so small and old.
The short journey back is like the slide down a chute. Tirzah stares so intently from the window that the view blurs. Biddy is still angry with her, and in such a hurry to be gone she jumps out of the car when they arrive, gets her things and barely manages to throw a goodbye over her shoulder before she runs home. Tirzah leans against the car door for a while after her father carries her case in. The street is just the same: the neighbours’ curtains twitch as always, the lights shine through the small rectangles above each front door, the same stray dog cocks its leg against a lamp post. In the empty kitchen, the table is laid for a meal, the radio tuned to her mother’s special programme. Tirzah is wondering where her parents are when she hears her mother’s Yoo hoo! From the bottom of the stairs she sees them both smiling
down at her. They beckon, flapping their hands. Tirzah climbs each step slowly. The three of them seem a crowd on the landing. Well? she asks, out of breath. We have something to show you. Close your eyes, her mother orders, so she does, and two sets of hands guide her forward. Now, open them! her mother cries, in a voice throaty with excitement.
Tirzah stands in the doorway. Before her is the old box room, but now it is like a glowing, cream-coloured cave; the walls give off a soft light, the carpet’s pile is deep and speckled. Tirzah gasps and steps forward to breathe the smell of new things. Well? her father asks. But Tirzah is rapt. She is taking in the freshly painted old wooden crib and the sprigged curtains. There is even a toy box with teddy bears stencilled on the lid. For a moment, she soars above it all, she is so full of sudden joy. Then she turns to look at her mother and father huddled in the doorway. You darlings, she says, stepping towards them with her arms open, her heart uncreasing. Later, when they sit together in the kitchen eating golden-crusted cheese pie and fried bacon, she thinks for the first time about the living, breathing baby whose toys will soon be in the box her father made. She sees a picture of its small, sweet body snuggled up in the crib, warmed by the blanket her mother has knitted, and realises everything is now ready.
And Thou Shalt Rejoice in Thy Feast
Tirzah and the Prince of Crows Page 29
