And I Will Turn Your Feasts into Mourning
(Amos 8:10)
By late afternoon on Christmas Eve, the heat in the kitchen is so unbearable Tirzah’s mother opens the back door a little. Oh, that’s lovely, she says, sniffing the chill, and fanning her face with an oven glove. Just for five minutes, and then we’ll close it again. Gusts of icy snow skitter across the tiles, bringing with them freezing swathes that briefly carve gaps in the kitchen’s savoury warmth. Her father is asleep by the gas fire in the front room, his open mouth like a bashed-in bucket rim. Every so often he lets out a throaty snort. Her mother has worn him out this year with her chattering about festive decorations. All right, all right, I give up, he’d said. This tree business is the final straw! I am a lone voice, crying in the wilderness. Yes, you are, Gwyll, her mother answered from atop the stool in the hallway. Now pass me some drawing pins, thou poor, ignored prophet of doom. Tirzah thought he didn’t look too unhappy, though it was difficult to tell with Dada. He’s been going around, pretending to bang into the decorations, knocking cards off surfaces, just to make his point. But Tirzah and her mother pick them back up and don’t say a word. Now that all the work is done, they have put on tidy clothes and wait for the visitors to arrive.
The dining table is laid for a special supper; there are seven red candles. It’s like Sunday, but better, with the holly boughs over the frames in the hall, paper garlands radiating out from the central lampshade in the dining room, and on its own little table in the front room, the sparkling tree. Tirzah quietly walks past her father and sneaks behind the curtains, worrying her grandparents will not make it. Putting both hands to the sides of her forehead, she presses against the frosted window, belly resting on the windowsill. Outside, around the glowing halo of the street lamp, snow masses like a swarm of flies. There is only a narrow walkway down the middle of the street now; on either side, solid, mauve-shadowed white piles rise to well over elbow-height. The space between the window and the curtains is a cold hinterland, and Tirzah feels like Jane Eyre, hiding behind the curtain at Gateshead House: neither inside the room nor outside, halfway between two worlds and not part of either. Gradually, shapes firm up through the teeming flakes, and Tirzah lets out a little scream, waking her father. It’s them! she shouts. And she and her mother run to open the front door. Come in out of the weather, both, her mother calls, grabbing their arms and pulling them in as if they were drowning.
Her grandparents’ coat fronts are white, and only their eyes visible in the gaps between scarves and pulled-down hats. They need help to get things off. Now, into the front room with you, her mother says, make yourselves comfortable. Tirzah kneels and helps both of them put their slippers on. Gran has scarlet cheeks and a white nose. You poor thing, Tirzah says, touching it, your hooter is frozen. Nothing that a little mouthful of my famous pick-me-up won’t cure, Gran says, winking, and she pulls a bottle of purply-black liquid from one of her carrier bags. Tirzah’s father gives a sniff and folds his arms. Come now, my boy, Bampy says. It won’t hurt you to have a swig of seasonal cheer. Soon they are all sipping the sloe gin’s dark sweetness from stubby, gold-lipped glasses that Tirzah’s mother keeps in the display cabinet. Made this myself, Gran says. Last year was a good one for sloes. When Tirzah goes out to the kitchen to fetch a bowl of crisps, pools of melted water already surround the two pairs of boots, and the sodden coats are steaming on the airer.
After supper, Dada distributes carol sheets and they all sing while Bampy plays the piano. Tirzah looks around at her family, and thinks about the houses lined along the valley sides and the serious, silent mountains above them, all slowly disappearing under a layer of glimmering white. Her heart thuds, and she stops singing. Brân is somewhere out there. Or maybe he has gone home to his mother. But just as quickly as that thought lights up, it falls to earth. She cannot imagine the mottled woman who had slammed the door on her and Biddy welcoming Brân back after all this time. At least Biddy had agreed to trudge over the fields with two hot-water bottles. The woods were silent, she’d reported, but there’d been a smell of smoke in the air when she’d dropped the bag in the clearing. Surely that was a good sign? Now they are singing In the Bleak Midwinter, her mother’s favourite carol, and Tirzah cannot stand it any longer. She slips out as they harmoniously sing the bit about earth standing hard as iron, water like a stone. By the time she is in bed, she is so cold herself that it’s impossible to push her feet down between the rigid sheets. An uncomfortable pressure is building between her legs. Her mother comes in to say goodnight. I cannot find the hot-water bottles anywhere, she says. Have you seen them? No, Mam, Tirzah answers. I haven’t.
On Christmas morning, Gran comes in with a tray. Wakey, wakey, festive greetings! she calls. It’s a splendid day, if a bit nippy. Tirzah stirs. Is it still snowing? she asks. Gran opens the curtains. Tirzah sees a wan sky and a tiny, weak sun like a punched-out hole adrift over the houses. The temperature is dropping, Gran says. I predict more later. Tirzah falls back on the pillows, reluctant to move. By the time she gets up, her parents have already gone to Horeb for the Christmas morning service and her grandparents are busy peeling vegetables in the kitchen. She offers to help but is told to sit down and put her feet up, so she parks herself at the table and waits for the rest of the family to come home. At dinner time, Dada brings the Christmas chicken to the dining table. God bless, he says, and smiles around at them all. Tirzah has a portion of everything on offer, but her best things are sage and onion stuffing and the little golden sausages. Those, and gravy. This is lovely, Mair, Granny says. Well done. And everyone joins in until Tirzah’s mother is blushing all down her neck. While they wait for Christmas pudding, they pull their crackers. Bampy puts his paper hat on upside down and pretends not to notice, and as a surge of laughter goes up from around the table, Tirzah suddenly shivers. In her mind’s eye, an image of Brân has appeared. Briefly she meets Biddy’s gaze, but then the picture of Brân reasserts itself. He is walking through the white village, his footsteps bloody and his head crowned with snow. She sees him looking in through the lighted windows, and rubs her eyes, trying to clear them, but he is still there, moving from house to house.
Excuse me, Tirzah says, and leaves the table. In the chilly hallway, Biddy joins her. Are you feeling poorly? she asks. But Tirzah shakes her head. She grips Biddy’s hand. I have a feeling he is out there, she whispers, pointing to the street. In the snow. Who’s out there? Biddy asks. What are you talking about? You’re scaring me. Tirzah moves to the front door, but does not open it. Biddy comes close. Do you want me to look into the street? she asks. Tirzah nods. The girls look at each other for a moment, then Biddy opens the door and glances up and down, peering through the swirling snow. No one is out there, she says firmly, and comes inside, drawing snowy gusts with her. Look again, Tirzah says. No, Biddy answers. You imagined it all. Stop it. And she leads Tirzah back to the table. Tirzah puts her party hat back on, but her Christmas pudding has the texture of gravel, and all she can think about is the picture of Brân in tatters, stumbling past the house, trying to find her.
Consider Mine Affliction, and Deliver Me
(Psalm 119:153)
Tirzah lies on the sofa in the front room, surrounded by piles of opened Christmas presents, consumed by thoughts of Brân. It is as if her brain is made of barbed-wire fencing, and he’s caught in the mesh like sheep’s wool. She hates to be alone now, because that’s when he appears and eventually blots everything else out. She struggles up and goes to find someone to talk to. Her mother is ironing, the kitchen soft with the smell of freshly pressed clothes. The kitchen window is busy with snowflakes. Well, what a wet weekend you are, madam, her mother says, sprinkling water on to the dry shirt in front of her. But, Mam– Tirzah starts. But Mam me nothing, her mother chips in, flicking her with water. Buck up. The sight of you is enough to make a clown weep. Tirzah walks out. In her bedroom she sits at her desk. It’s true, she thinks, fishing her notebook out of the drawer, I am an absolute dr
ip. After sucking her pen for a while, she rests the book on her bump and writes Things to Do in twirly letters on a fresh page. Then she sucks her pen again.
Biddy comes round after tea. When they are sitting on her bed, Tirzah explains that she needs help thinking of things to keep her distracted. Easy-peasy, Biddy says. Let’s brainstorm. What’s that when it’s at home? Tirzah asks. It just means firing off ideas, Biddy explains. Come on. Get your pen and paper. Tirzah can’t think of anything, and listens, open-mouthed, while Biddy reels off some ideas. Write ’em down, Tiz, Biddy says. Honestly, being pregnant has made you a bit slow. After a while, Tirzah remembers to tell Biddy that she’d like to get a parcel of provisions to Brân each week. She asks if Biddy will take them to the woods for her, pointing helplessly at her large belly. Don’t tell me anything about anything though, Tirzah says. I just want to know when it’s done. I promise, Biddy says. After she leaves, Tirzah reads the list through, and decides to start in the new year.
Over the following weeks, Tirzah fills her days. It’s still too snowy to go out so she writes to Osian, care of his mother, and invites Ffion and some girls from school for tea. She learns to make Welsh cakes and has lessons from her mother about how to pin nappies. She forces herself to work through her school books. Steadily the time creeps on, and Tirzah hardly notices, until one morning in the bath she is confronted by the size of her enormous belly, smooth as an egg, decorated around its sides with silvery hairlines. She strokes it with soapy hands, marvelling at her transformed body’s firmness and girth. One of her mother’s friends from chapel has a ten-month-old baby, and brings her round for Tirzah to look after while she goes to the weekly ladies’ meetings. This is Tirzah’s favourite new thing to do. She surprises herself. Babies never used to interest her, but Mrs Taylor’s little one, Sioned, is so dimpled and soft that the times she plays with her in the front room fly by. Nothing bad can happen when Sioned is perched on her knees, dribbling over a rusk. She rocks Sioned when she’s tired, pressing her cheek gently on the baby’s petal-like cheek. You don’t believe in bad things, do you, cariad? she whispers. You don’t know about the woods yet, or wigwams, or anything.
January is nearly over, and Tirzah is in her room, bending down to pull something out from under the bed when a huge movement in her bump makes her cry out. Something has happened to the baby that doesn’t feel right. She can tell it has shifted into a new position and is pressing on the roots of her belly. Gingerly, she lies on the bed and waits until the pressure lessens. Soon she begins to feel normal again, and decides to say nothing about it yet. In a few days Betty will call, and she will tell her then. In the meantime, she lies down a lot and reads her Christmas books. Every time she passes her baby’s bedroom, she finds herself looking in through the open door with a kind of fascination, reluctant to step over the threshold.
On the day Betty is due to visit, Tirzah stations herself in the front room, listening for the door. Soon there is a commotion, and she arrives. Tirzah gets up carefully and stands in the doorway. Betty’s hat is piled with fallen snow, and she is wearing her husband’s wellingtons. Tirzah’s mother takes her coat and lays it on the airer above the kitchen fire. Betty is out of puff and there is a wavy wet border of darker blue at the bottom of her uniform. That snow is definitely easing a bit, she says, pulling off her gloves and shooing Tirzah back into the front room. Still. A little bit of snow never stopped me, she adds, accepting a cup of tea.
Betty puts her cup down and listens intently, head to one side, as Tirzah described what happened a few days earlier. Her mother tuts. Naughty girl, why didn’t you tell me? she asks, but Betty raises a hand. Mair, don’t worry about that now, she says, dropping to her knees and shuffling to the sofa. Let me have a gander. Tirzah examines Betty’s face, but her mouth with its faint moustache has its corners firmly turned up in the usual smile as she puts her hands around the bump and gently rocks it. Does anything hurt at the moment? she asks. There’s just a dull ache in my back, Tirzah says. As Betty scrambles up to sit on a chair, Tirzah looks at her mother. What if we have more snow and the baby comes, Mam? she asks. I won’t be able to get to the hospital. Then what will happen? Hush, her mother says. Don’t go down to Llantarnam looking for trouble coming up from Newport. What does that mean? Tirzah says. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof, her mother answers. Amen to that, Betty adds.
She gets out a bulging diary from her big black bag. Now, we must face facts, she says, looking at Tirzah. Your baby is due at the end of February, but it has already moved into what we call the engaged position. Tirzah stares at the buttons on Betty’s uniform, and the small watch pinned by its half-strap to her large bosom. This means it is getting ready to be born. I won’t lie to you, Betty continues. This child is on the move. Tirzah bites her lip and looks at her mother. Oh, Mam, she says. The two women move close to her. I know you’re scared, and that is understandable, Betty says calmly, taking her hands and giving them a squeeze. But you are a healthy young woman, your pregnancy has been problem-free, and I am not scared. I’m not concerned one bit. And that’s the main thing. I have helped hundreds of women give birth up and down this valley. Some of their babies have come early, some late. We will take care, and be fine. And the roads will be clear soon, thank the Lord. Bed rest for you now, she tells Tirzah. She turns to her mother. And, Mair, ring me any time, day or night. I will be back tomorrow.
After Betty leaves, Tirzah gets undressed and into bed. Her mother has gone out to telephone Gran; her father is not home from work yet. She closes her eyes and takes some deep breaths, thinking about all the other pregnant women who live the length of the valley, until she feels calm. The ache in her back comes and goes. Then she turns her bedside lamp on and starts to read her new book, Ben Hur. With a thrill she sees that his sister’s name is Tirzah too. He and his mother and sister are all so happy, she just knows something horrible is going to happen to them, and after a while she closes it. Her mother has come back and is in the kitchen, cooking, and she can’t resist going downstairs again.
When her mother sees her in the doorway, she puts down the chopping knife with a bang. Never in this world did I meet such a wilful girl, she says, flushing. What are you doing out of bed? She manoeuvres Tirzah into the front room, and makes her lie on the sofa. Now, stay there, she says, putting a blanket over her and turning the heater on. I will bring you some casserole in a while. She fusses with the blanket around Tirzah’s chin. Gran is walking down to stay with us, she says in a calmer tone. Your dada is going to meet her. You would like that, wouldn’t you, cariad?Yes, Mam, Tirzah says, smiling up at her mother. Alone in the quiet room, her mother’s china sailor and parrots watch Tirzah. Nothing to see here, she tells them, aware of the pairs of painted eyes fixed on her. Curled up on the sofa, Tirzah is still, but inside, her body moves without her say-so. Her forehead prickles, and she holds her breath against the churning ache developing in her belly and lower back.
After a half an hour when the pain advances and retreats regularly and the pressure at the roots of her belly intensifies, Tirzah gasps. A new, sharper feeling forces her to scramble off the sofa. As she straightens, she senses a distinct pop in the very centre of her body, and out of the most private place between her legs, like an uncontrollable secret, rushes a cascade of cloudy liquid. She sees it splash all over the rug in front of the gas fire. Mama! she shouts, and her mother rushes from the kitchen, dropping the tray she is carrying as she gets into the room. Dammo di, she says, under her breath. I’m sorry, Mam, Tirzah sobs, looking at the chunks of beef and carrot strewn across the carpet. Not to worry, her mother says, and helps her to step over it. Together they take the stairs slowly, and Tirzah is ashamed of her wet pants and soaking slippers. Your waters have broken, cariad, her mother tells her. Remember Betty told you? But Tirzah remembers nothing.
When she has changed her nightdress and the plastic sheet is put under the two layers of flannelette, she settles her breathing to concentrate on what is happening. Smal
l surges of pain, like the wavelets of an incoming tide, ripple through her belly. I will make believe I am a leaf on the surface of a lake, she thinks, picturing the smooth, mirrored surface of a vast expanse of water rimmed with dark trees. Above her, like a clouded silver bubble, the moon bobs. She imagines the water, slow as quicksilver, lapping her body as she lies suspended on the lake’s surface. She lets the water penetrate, working its way strongly into her innermost places, and closes her eyes against the white moon’s rays. Soon she is asleep. When she wakes again, it is dim in the bedroom, and warm, and she is aware of the presence of her mother and grandmother. Where is Betty? She asks. I’m here, Betty says, coming to the bedside. The three women lean in. What time is it? Tirzah asks. Late, her mother whispers. I suppose it’s still snowing, Tirzah says, as if to herself. In the corner are the gas and air canisters. Betty pushes them on their little wheeled frame over to the bed. She offers the mask. Breathe deeply on this, she says, and Tirzah takes three breaths and is asleep again.
All through the night, Tirzah dreams she is being raised and lowered on a fretwork of grinding pain. There is a constant moaning sound, but she does not know where it is coming from. Then, towards dawn, she is forced into consciousness by a huge, final wave that sucks her up and flings her far out of reach. When she opens her eyes, the room is light, and her grandmother is asleep in the chair by the bedside. Granny, she calls. Gran? And her grandmother is instantly with her. Now, love, she says. Betty is going to check you over soon. She’s popped home for some things.
Tirzah and the Prince of Crows Page 31
