Bird Inside

by Wendy Perriam

  ‘You’re very overwrought, darling. I think you need to rest. It’s not a good idea to discuss things late at night.’

  Jane glanced up at the clock above the dead and chilly hearth. Three A.M. – a nothing time, neither night nor morning. Nothing, like herself. She’d been suddenly wiped out, the person she assumed she was, the daughter of her parents. She stared at them, bewildered. She had always thought she’d looked like them – small-boned like her mother, with the same blue but dark-lashed eyes; her father’s dead-straight hair, which had been the same mid-brown as hers once, judging by the photographs; even his full mouth. Had she just imagined it, made bonds where there were none? They seemed strangers now, or foreigners; two unknown hostile people dressed in drooping party clothes, sitting in a living-room she had once believed was home. Even the room itself had changed; no longer snug and comfortable, but coldly stiff and grim. And those photos on the mantelpiece, they were wrong as well, now – not a mother with her baby, one she’d given birth to, carried in her body, but a cuckoo child, a substitute.

  She kicked her chair back angrily, slumped down on the floor. ‘Why couldn’t you have told me? I feel completely …’ She broke off, half-ashamed, gagging on the words, which all sounded too extreme – betrayed, shattered, bitter, panicked, overwhelmed. ‘Uncle Peter said you couldn’t have children yourself. Shouldn’t I have known that, known I wasn’t yours?‘

  She saw her mother flinch, her face still set and tense, pale beneath its tattered mask of make-up. ‘Let’s leave Peter out of this. He’s behaved very irresponsibly, ruined the whole party.’

  ‘Ruined my whole life, you mean.’

  Her father reached across to take her hand. ‘Now, don’t be silly, darling. You’re getting the whole thing out of proportion. Nothing’s really changed at all. We’re still your parents – legally, emotionally, in every single way except …’

  ‘Except the most important way.’ Jane shook off his hand, hugged her arms around her chest, as if to stop herself unravelling.

  ‘That’s not important, darling – not to us.’

  ‘I don’t believe you. It can’t be not important. You’re just lying to yourselves, like you’ve lied to me all these years and years.’

  ‘We never lied, Jane – never.’ Her mother now, voice shrill, hands twisted, taut, together. ‘We decided very carefully that it would be better not to tell you – best for you, and kindest.’

  Jane smoothed her crumpled skirt. That too was a lie. They’d been thinking of themselves, didn’t want the world to know they couldn’t have a child. It had all come out in public – yes, right there on the dance-floor – Peter and her father confronting one another, blurting out private shameful secrets; old hurts and quarrels flooding back; her mother frantic, floundering, trying to hush them up, mutter sweet inanities, spray rose-scented deodorant on a raging forest fire.

  Jane tugged off her earrings, rubbed her aching head. The Southern Comfort hadn’t helped, only made her queasy. She was surprised by her own voice – the fury in it, vehemence, when she felt so tired, defeated. ‘So if Peter hadn’t let it slip, you’d have kept me in the dark until I died. You’re meant to tell adopted children when they’re barely more than babies, before they can even understand the words, I know. Anne Mathieson’s adopted, and she said her parents told her when she was still in nappies.’

  ‘And what was the good of that, dear, if she couldn’t understand?’

  ‘She could! She got the feel of it, the sense of trust, of openness, of people not deceiving her, trying to pass her off as …’

  ‘Look, you must believe us, darling, we did it for your good.’

  Her father sounded panicky, his usual neat and tidy hair ruffled and unkempt, one foot tapping nervously, as if all his dammed-up tension had drained into that leg. She felt a sudden pang of pity for him, tried to calm her voice, accept what he was saying. Of course they were her parents; had fed and clothed and cared for her, supported her and listened; done all the things that parents should and did. She mustn’t think of blood-ties, or genes or wombs or childbirth, inheritance, conception; must dismiss them as irrelevant. Except she knew that was a lie as well. All those things were vitally important, things that people died for, which gave them their identity, their origins and ancestry, the whole history and foundations of their life.

  She stared down at her hands, small hands like her mother’s – or so she’d always thought. How could she have never guessed, somehow known instinctively, or been told by someone else, a friend or a relation? Except her clever plotting parents had stage-managed even that; had moved away from the county they were married in, the net of close relations, the prying street of neighbours, and come up north to Shrepton, when she was still a tiny baby. They must have felt they’d be safer in the north, removed from all the questions, the idle speculations, the chance that someone, sometime, might whisper in her ear. Strange it hadn’t happened long before this evening – at a Christmas get-together, or a christening or a wedding, when they’d been forced to brave the relatives, or return to their home ground. But now she came to think of it, the occasions had been few. On the whole, they had lived apart, just the cosy three of them, good at finding reasons why relations couldn’t visit, or which prevented them travelling south themselves.

  She leant against her chair-seat, back aching, head still thick. ‘Did … does Granny know?’ she asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yes.’

  The two voices overlapped. Her mother flushed; her father cleared his throat. ‘You know how ill she is, darling, and eighty-six next birthday. She gets muddled anyway.’

  Jane ignored his bluff, eased one chafing shoe. ‘Except she’s not my grandma, is she?’ A great hole had opened up. Who was her real mother, her first and secret family? Was she a ‘mistake’? Did she have a father – one who’d cared and wanted her, or was she just the product of some brief and sordid grope? ‘Look, you’ve got to tell me who I am – who my mother is – was. I mean, is she even still alive?’

  The silence seemed to scream, close tighter tighter round them, like a shroud. Their refusal to answer was surely a bad sign. Were they trying to hide some scandal – a mother who was criminal, or not right in the head? She might have those genes herself, be the daughter of a moron or a murderer. ‘I’ve a right to know, haven’t I? Uncle Peter said so, said I had to ask you, and if you won’t tell me, he will.’

  Her father suddenly jumped up, thumped his fist against the mantelpiece. ‘I told you this would happen, Amy. I warned you from the start.’

  ‘So now you’re blaming me.’

  ‘Yes, I am. It was absolutely crazy to try to keep it from her.’

  ‘Why did you agree, then?’

  ‘Because you went on and on and on until I did. You were bloody near hysterical.’

  ‘I’ve never been hysterical. That’s a downright lie. Do you honestly imagine that anyone hysterical would ever get a baby in the first place? They vetted us for years – those snooping bossy social workers – every word we said put under their microscopes, in case it proved we were cruel or lax or stupid. Of course it made me nervous. Can’t you understand that?’

  ‘I was there as well, you realise, but I suppose I didn’t count. You always made me feel that, if you really want to know. It was your baby, wasn’t it, never mine as well – your bloody pain and purgatory. All right, I’m not complaining. It was a lousy time for both of us, but that’s not the point I’m making. We should have told her later, when things had quietened down and …’

  ‘I’m tired,’ said Jane. ‘I’m going to bed. Okay?’

  No one seemed to hear her, so she slunk towards the door, shambled up the stairs, still listening to their voices rising from below, accusing angry voices. She closed her bedroom door, hung her dress neatly on a hanger, removed her shoes, lined them up together in her wardrobe, placed the gold chain in its box, her tights back in their cellophane. She had always been untidy, a disappointment to them, not
the child they wanted – the precise and careful daughter they would have obviously preferred. She folded back the counterpane as smoothly as she could, picked up her rag doll – the one she’d had since babyhood, the one made by her grandma – laid it face down on the floor.

  It was time she slept alone.

  Chapter Eight

  ‘Did you leave that night?’ asked Isobel.

  ‘No,’ said Jane. ‘The next. I hadn’t planned to leave at all, or thought it out or anything. But they wouldn’t talk, you see. Daddy said my mother had gone down with a bad migraine, and he felt it wasn’t fair to discuss things on his own. She stayed in bed all Sunday, pretending to be ill. It was just another cop-out.’

  ‘Hard for her, as well, though.’

  Jane shrugged. ‘I suppose so. But I mean, the way she just avoided me and …’ She heard her voice falter like a tired horse at a jump; eased away from Isobel, who had her arm around her – a hot and heavy arm which had been bolstering her for half an hour, helping her continue with the story. She mustn’t mustn’t cry again; had managed not to all that festering Sunday. ‘It was really odd, you know,’ she said, slapping at her wasp-sting to try to stop it throbbing. ‘I was sort of numb inside, as if I’d died or shrivelled up. I couldn’t cry, or even shout, or stand up to my father. We had this gruesome Sunday lunch together, just the two of us, pretending we were hungry, and talking about dahlias and next year’s summer holiday. And then I found myself creeping out at midnight – except it wasn’t me at all, but someone cool and callous, who had no qualms about upsetting them, or fears about the future – no feelings whatsoever. I was just a robot, really.’

  ‘Poor robot,’ whispered Isobel.

  ‘No, don’t be sorry for me. It only makes it worse.’ Jane jumped down from the bed, let out a sudden laugh. ‘Dahlias – I ask you! My whole life blown to bits and Daddy’s into slug-killers.’ She leaned against the balcony, hands gripping the top rail. ‘I suppose you think I’m stupid, leaving home like that. I’m not sure why I did it now, except I was so shocked and shaken up, I just had to be alone. And once I reached the station, I got this crazy feeling that I had to go on running to the other end of England, maybe even go abroad. It seemed terribly important that I put some space between us – miles and miles, if possible – so I could think things out, decide on what I’d do.’ She jabbed one foot with the other, clawed her sting again. ‘I took my passport with me and all my birthday money, felt the further I could get from them, the safer I would be, and if I could only cross the Channel, then the sea would cut me off, cover up my traces, like footsteps on a beach. That’s also why I avoided the south-west. My parents came from there originally, before they moved up north, you see, so I was scared they might alert the Bridgwater police, who’d check on any relatives and somehow hunt me down.’

  Jane wiped her clammy hands, always felt a tug of fear when she thought of the police. ‘Okay, you disapprove – I can see it on your face – but how could I have stayed there, gone on living with them as if things were just the same, or do what they were hoping and simply scoop the problem up like a lump of nasty dog’s mess, chuck it in the dustbin and slam the lid on tight? I felt like an intruder in the house, there on false pretences.’

  ‘Adoption’s not like that, Rose. You’re legally their child and …’

  ‘That’s what Daddy said. And my mother tried to tell me she was more ‘‘real’’ than my real mother, which is just a load of claptrap.’

  ‘Well, I do know what she …’

  ‘I’d actually asked her sometimes about my birth and everything – where she had me, was it painful, all that sort of stuff – and she was always very vague, or tried to change the subject, so I assumed she was embarrassed. She hates talking about bodies, or anything too personal. But now I’ve got this feeling that I wasn’t born at all, just bought from some department-store, like a sofa, or a teapot.’ Jane swung back to Isobel, crouched down by the bed. ‘Look, how could she have lied to me like that?’

  ‘People do lie, sadly. Out of fear, or shame, or …’

  ‘You seem to be on her side.’

  ‘No, I’m not. Of course I’m not. I’m just trying to see her point of view as well.’ Isobel seemed shaken, gnawing on her thumbnail, forehead creased, hands taut. ‘And I do realise how upset you feel, and probably very angry. Perhaps you even ran away to punish them a bit?’

  ‘What d’you mean? They were punishing me – Daddy in particular. I mind about him most, you know. He’s always been quite strict with me, laid the law down, told me what to do, but I knew he really loved me, and I had this sort of feeling that he and I were allies, ganging up on Mummy. Now I find it’s just the opposite. They were in cahoots and …’ Her stomach rumbled suddenly, a shameful plaintive gurgling, which swamped her final words.

  ‘Was that you or me?’

  ‘Me.’ Jane clutched her midriff, blushing.

  ‘You sound as if you’re hungry.’

  ‘Yes. Absolutely starving.’

  Isobel peered down at her watch, a cheap one on a plastic strap, which looked as if it had been issued free with a gallon of Shell oil; contrasted strangely with her expensive antique rings. ‘Good grief! Is that the time? Rowan’s popping over with half a dozen chums and I promised I’d be there to cook them brunch. Come and join the party. I know she’d love to meet you, and once we’ve got some food inside us, you and me can sit and really talk. I think we need to, don’t you? That’s quite some shock you’ve had.’

  ‘It’s odd – I feel much better now, as if it didn’t actually happen, not to me, at least, but was just some crazy story I watched on television.’

  ‘I felt like that when Tom died. In fact, I laughed instead of cried at first, when they said there’d been a crash.’

  Jane eased up to her feet. ‘Do you still dream about it?’

  ‘Yes. In colour. Always red.’

  ‘So do I, but black and white – well, sort of ghostly grey, like no-man’s-land, or …’ A second growling rumble whinnied from her stomach.

  ‘Food,’ insisted Isobel, shaking out her skirt and collecting up stray hairpins from the bed. ‘That’s number one priority. Fancy kedgeree?’

  ‘Mum, you’re ruining that rice. It’s gone all wet and soggy.’

  ‘Give it time, my darling, and the water will boil off.’

  ‘Time! It’s been stewing for at least an hour already.’

  ‘It’s brown rice, which needs longer. Anyway, I’ve got to boil the eggs.’

  ‘I’ll do those,’ Jane offered.

  ‘No, you’re the guest.’

  ‘The invalid,’ laughed Mark.

  Jane flushed. Mark was studying medicine, and had attended to her wasp-sting, bound up her right arm, as much to stop her scratching it as to demonstrate his skills. He was Gill’s fiancé, and Lisa was his sister, and the tall man in the purple cords was Rowan’s next-door neighbour, and Neville was her boyfriend (curly hair and glasses), and the plump girl with a pony-tail was Kathy with a K. She’d got them straight, at last. They had burst in like an army, talking all at once, scattering the cats, setting off the boxer who was still barking in the garden; hugging her and Isobel with equal warmth and vigour, as if she were Rowan’s younger sister, not a stranger and an interloper. Now they’d trooped off to the games-room for a table-tennis tournament, though nobody had eaten yet, just downed two rounds of coffee and one small bag of crisps. Only Mark and Rowan had stayed behind with Isobel. Mark was washing up, working through a pile of dirty dishes, which looked as if they’d accumulated over several days – or weeks. He washed up like a juggler, tossing plates and cups about, sculpting shapes from bubbles, or suddenly whirling round to recount some anecdote.

  The whole kitchen seemed alive. Every gadget and utensil appeared to have leapt out of the cupboards, or erupted from the drawers, and were now jumbled on the worktops, each fighting for more space. The eight-foot-long pine table was all but lost beneath a stack of books and records, the rema
ins of last night’s supper, and a tide of folded washing – a twitching ginger cat curled up on the topmost sheets and shirts. Isobel was slicing bread, hacking off thick slices with jagged crumbly edges. Everything looked fattened up – the yeasty loaf, the portly cat, the plump cushions on the tubby chairs, the paunchy scarlet teapot, Isobel herself. She was nothing like her daughter. Rowan was much stiller, sitting at the table squeezing oranges for juice, her movements small and deft, whilst her mother rattled around her, beating sauces, stirring pots; her clothes and hair and jewellery jangling, bouncing, rippling, as she dived from sink to stove. Rowan’s hair was short and neat, moulded to her head; her figure slim and spare, her quiet hands bare of rings or flashy bangles. Her most unusual feature was her eyes, eyes the tawny colour of a lion’s, though nothing else about her seemed predatory or wild. She had a lion on her sweater, a fuzzy one with a stick-up mane made of loops of yellow wool, and a bashful red-wool smile.

  Jane went to sit beside her, feeling more and more uncomfortable about the state of her own clothes. Her tracksuit was disgusting – creased and stained and sweaty – and she had nothing underneath it; had dragged it on in panic, when faced with what she thought was Christopher’s wife.

  ‘I … I think I’d better go and have a wash. I still smell of that foul wasp-killer.’

  Isobel dipped a finger in the saucepan, grimaced as she burnt herself. ‘Yes, pop upstairs. The water’s nice and hot. Rowan will go with you, won’t you, darling? Find Rose what she needs.’

  Rowan led the way, pausing in the hall to remove a rubber bone from the gold-toned Persian rug. The house, like Isobel herself, was a disconcerting mixture of the tasteful and the garish. The living-room was furnished with graceful antique chairs; a nylon-covered sun-lounger plonked incongruously between them. The impressive grand piano had been used as a repository for tools, toys, sweets, knitting, even a hot water bottle. The pictures on the walls ranged from traditional gold-framed still-lifes to painful writhing abstracts, and one peculiar collage made from shells and torn-up bus tickets. Every room seemed over-stuffed, as if Isobel’s possessions had mated with each other, and produced more hybrid offspring – ornaments and sculptures, photographs and silver cups, pouffes and rugs and cushions, grinning china dogs. Even the garden had crept in, clearly reluctant to remain within its boundaries outside. There were seed-trays in the study, and half a bag of compost; a broken-handled trug-basket reclining on a chair.