The China Bird

by Bryony Doran

  ‘Hey!’

  Angela turns.

  ‘I don’t want your apple.’ The girl throws the apple for Angela to catch. She ducks and it falls to the ground, smashing against the edge of the kerb and splitting into two almost perfect halves.

  ‘I need money.’

  Angela snorts, ‘Tough, I’m just on my way to work to earn some. Shall I bring you my wage packet after?’

  The girl shrinks back against the wall, curling deeper into herself, closing her out. Angela turns away and searches the crowd for Edward. He is nowhere to be seen.

  Edward stands at the pelican crossing and presses the button. He closes his eyes and waits for the beep, beep to tell him it is safe to cross. He hears it, hears the halted cars revving their engines and smiles to himself as he presses the button again. When the green man flashes for the second time he crosses the road and stands outside the restaurant window. He tries to peer in but he cannot see past the tall ferns in the window. He has been here before with his mother, he is sure he has.

  Edward pushes open the door and enters the restaurant. The ceilings are high and the noise of the place disorientates him. He glances round, searching for an empty table.

  ‘Hello. Fancy seeing you here, I was just thinking about you.’

  Angela is standing in front of him holding an empty tray. When he looks down at the tray she drops it to her side and, as he looks into her face, she says, ‘I saw you on Surrey Street a bit a go.’

  ‘Did you?’ He smiles, ‘I thought I’d come and see you, apologise for my mother’s behaviour.’

  ‘Let’s find you a seat. Look, there’s a free table over there.’

  She guides him over to a table and waits as he removes his coat and sits down.

  ‘Right. What can I get you?’

  He ignores her request and asks instead, ‘How are you?’

  ‘Okay,’ she smiles.

  ‘I nearly didn’t recognise you with your hair dyed black.’ He fingers the edge of the menu and watches as she pulls her hair into a bunch at the nape of her neck.

  ‘My gran,’ she shrugs. ‘She didn’t like it. This is a compromise.’

  ‘You said you were an art student. Is that right?’

  ‘Well remembered,’ she slides into the seat opposite him, ‘Final year. I’m supposed to come up with an idea for my dissertation, but I don’t seem to be able to get my head around it.’ She gets up, ‘What can I get you?’

  ‘I’ll have a coffee please.’ He pauses, ‘Maybe I could help? I work in the library.’

  She puts her pad back into her apron pocket, ‘Funny that, I’ve just been in the library. I went in to see if they had any different art books than at college.’

  ‘And did they?’

  ‘They had a nice one on Degas.’

  ‘I could look downstairs in the basement; see if they have any unusual ones.’

  ‘Thanks, but it’s not books that I’m really looking for. I need a life model.’

  ‘A life model?’

  ‘I’m still looking for the right person.’

  ‘And are live models so difficult to find?’

  ‘Yes,’ she laughs. ‘You see, I’m not really sure yet what I’m after.’

  He watches as she returns across the floor with his coffee, holding a small tray on the palm of one hand. ‘Edward? You don’t mind me calling you that, do you?’

  He shakes his head, ‘No, of course not.’

  She places the coffee carefully on the table in front of him. ‘I want to ask you something. But please don’t take offence …’

  ‘Ange!’ A waiter from across the room calls her. She grimaces, ‘Sorry, I’ll be back in a minute.’

  He catches sight of her working the tables at the other side of the room. She has a great fluidity of movement, her body seeming to move from the waist; her hips swaying from side to side. It is a very natural movement. Undulation, he thinks.

  Yes. She undulates.

  Please don’t take offence. He keeps recalling the words. What can she want?

  She smiles at him apologetically from across the room and shrugs her shoulders. He is putting his coat on when she eventually returns.

  ‘Sorry about that.’

  ‘What is it you wanted to ask me?’

  ‘Oh. It wasn’t important. I forgot to ask you how your mother is. Will you tell her I’ll have her picture soon? I’ll give her a ring about bringing it round.’

  He picks up his stick. ‘Tell me,’ he hesitates, ‘What did you really want to ask me?’

  She laughs, tilting her head away from him like a nervous animal. ‘Really it wasn’t important.’

  He observes again the vein that runs like a shadow-line down her cheek. ‘You can’t say, ‘I want to ask you something but please don’t take offence‘, and then just walk away.’

  She bites her bottom lip, looks directly into his eyes. ‘I was wondering …’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘If you’d consider it.’

  ‘What?’

  She laughs nervously, ‘Have you ever considered being an artist’s model?’

  He hears his voice squeak in astonishment. ‘Me?’

  She nods.

  ‘What? Your life model?’

  ‘That’s what I had in mind.’

  ‘Well,’ He gulps. ‘Why me?’

  Her boss calls out from the kitchen, ‘Ange!’

  He catches her arm. Her skin is covered in a fine down. She looks down at his hand on her arm. He lets go. ‘Tell me, I need to know. I mean, I’m hardly something out of a Degas painting, am I?’

  ‘I saw you earlier while you were waiting to cross the road, and, well, I just knew.’

  Edward shakes his head, frowning. ‘I don’t understand. What do you mean?’

  Her boss is beckoning her. She starts to back away. ‘Sorry, I really have to go.’

  Dazed, he sits back down on his chair. The inside of his head feels like cotton wool. She hesitates, ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘You didn’t answer my question. Why me?’

  ‘If I knew, I’d tell you.’

  He stands up, and she halts a moment,

  ‘Can you come back on Thursday? I’ll see if I can think of with a better explanation.’

  He nods, and watches as she walks away.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The mid-afternoon sun is moving round to the back of the house, a last sliver just catching the front step. Stretched full length along it is a huge ginger tom, soaking up the warmth from the stone.

  Angela looks at her watch. Three o’clock? She undoes the drawstring of her rucksack and gets out her diary. Yes, she was right. 3 o’clock, Wednesday.

  She sits down next to the cat and watches as it stretches all four legs out straight, opening and closing its claws as it does so. Angela studies the intricacy of shade and marking. Ribbons of exquisitely defined stripes encompass its body from head to tail. A proper marmalade cat, she thinks. It lifts its head and meows at her, showing the ridged pink roof of its mouth. She turns away and, stretching her arms above her head, glances again at her watch. The cat stands and arches its body upwards, rubs itself against her, purring loudly as it looks for a lap to climb on to. Angela hunches herself forward and grasps her knees, elbowing the cat,

  ‘Bugger off!’

  ‘Don’t you like my cat?’

  Angela shades her eyes and looks up. Rachel is standing at the bottom of the steps.

  ‘I didn’t hear you come in the gate.’

  ‘That’s because you left it open, young lady.’

  The cat jumps down the steps and rubs its body around Rachel’s stockinged legs. Angela ignores her remark about the gate,

  ‘You look very nice. Have you been out to lunch?’

  Rachel picks up the cat and it nuzzles the top of its head into her chin,

  ‘Yes. I’m sorry I’m late. I was enjoying the sun so much I forgot about the time.’

  Angela stands up, yanking her rucksack onto her bac
k, ‘I’ve brought the portrait.’

  ‘I hope it’s not in there.’ Rachel says, nodding towards the rucksack.

  Angela points towards the door, ‘I’ve propped it up over there.’

  Rachel puts down the cat and, opening the clasp on her bag, gets out her key, ‘Would you believe this will be the first time I’ve clapped eyes on it?’ She opens the door. ‘Come in,’ she says, ‘and bring the portrait, will you?’

  Rachel leads her past the kitchen and into a sunlit room that overlooks the garden at the back of the house. Angela can smell the aroma of freshly baked cake. While Rachel goes to make the tea, Angela surveys the room. At mid-height along two sides runs a bookcase, tightly packed with books. On another wall, standing alone, is a taller bookcase filled with over-sized books. She moves nearer, art books, a good selection.

  Rachel carries a wooden tray through from the kitchen, ‘Can you lift the flap please?’ She nods at an oak table placed against the wall opposite the French windows. Angela lifts the flap and pulls out a barley-twist leg, smoothes her hand across the top of the oak table and smiles at Rachel, ‘You’ve got some lovely things. Your house reminds me of Claudette’s.’

  Rachel smiles, pleased by the comparison, ‘Thank you. I shall take that as a compliment, though I’m not sure it’s fully deserved. My house doesn’t reflect my life the way Claudette’s did. Though I suppose that’s not strictly true either, maybe it does. My life has been rather dull.’

  ‘How can you say that? What about all your books?’ Angela gestures to the bookcase in the corner.

  ‘You know, the strange thing is, I only started collecting them after my husband died. Not sure why, I don’t think he’d have said anything. Maybe that’s why,’ she tails off.

  ‘I wish I had half as many books,’ Angela laughs, ‘Though I have, haven’t I? I’ve inherited all Claudette’s.’

  ‘How well did you know her?’

  ‘She was my Guardian. Well, sort of. If anything had happened to my grandparents she promised my gran she would look after me.’

  Angela remembers guiltily the rows she had with her gran, mostly about spending all her time drawing instead of getting on with her homework, and how she’d wished she could go and live with Claudette,

  ‘She was always really good to me. At Christmas and birthdays she used to buy me a book on art, or some paints. One year she bought me a set of badger-hair paintbrushes. Gran was very cross, said she shouldn’t go spending her money. When I was about ten she called at our house, the only time she ever did, and said she’d come to take me to an art exhibition in the centre of Manchester. I think it was already arranged with my gran but she’d never mentioned it to me, probably hoping Claudette wouldn’t turn up. I remember being blown away by the colours. I’d never seen colours like that before.’

  ‘Who was the artist?’ Rachel asks.

  ‘Van Gogh, fancy, I had completely forgotten that.’

  ‘So, you’re studying art here in Sheffield?’

  ‘Yes. I was offered a place in London, but my grandparents were upset about me going so far away.’

  Rachel glances over to the art books in the corner, ‘At least you got to go somewhere. It was always my dream to study art.’

  Angela tilts her head sideways and studies Rachel’s face, ‘Have you ever thought of being an artist’s model? You’ve got the bone structure.’

  There is a glimmer, a slight hesitation, ‘No, no, I haven’t.’ Rachel lifts a willow pattern cup from the tray and pours milk from a jug and then the tea from the pot.

  Angela picks up her cup. ‘I love willow pattern. My gran used to have it. I used to make up stories about the figures on the bridge.’

  ‘What happened to them, did they get broken?’

  ‘She threw them out, got something more modern. I think the world of my gran, but neither my granddad nor I could ever understand why she always wanted new things. I like having old familiar things around, but she gets bored with them.’

  Rachel slices into a square block of ginger cake, ‘So you were brought up by your grandparents?’

  She puts two pieces on a plate for Angela. The tea is strong and milky, just the way Angela likes it. She takes a bite out of the cake and nods. Rachel replaces the knife quietly on the plate, ‘What happened to your parents?’

  Angela takes a sip of her tea and asks, ‘Aren’t you going to look at the portrait?’

  She sees a brief smile pass across Rachel’s face, ‘Would you unwrap it for me?’ she asks.

  Angela gets up, ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘No. Finish your tea first.’

  Angela nods over towards the book case, her mouth full, ‘I see you’ve got an Egon Schiele book. I really like his stuff.’

  ‘I don’t.’ Rachel gets up and pulls the book from the shelf. ‘In fact, I’d better remember to take it back. Edward lent it to me.’

  ‘Why don’t you like him?’

  ‘Oh, well,’ Rachel opens a page, ‘Look at how grotesque he makes the figures. Why can’t he draw beautiful people?’

  Angela touches the open page. ‘But these are real people.’

  Rachel takes another book from the bookcase. ‘Do you know the artist Degas?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes, I love his strutting ballerinas, but I think they’re a bit superficial.’ She pauses, ‘like people moulded to be beautiful, somehow.’

  ‘I don’t agree.’ Rachel shakes her head. ‘Why do you young people prefer ugliness? Do you find beauty so superficial? I don’t think ballet is artificial. If it were it wouldn’t awake such strong emotions in me.’

  ‘Well, there you have the advantage over me. I’ve never been to a ballet.’

  ‘Never?’

  Angela shakes her head.

  ‘Would you like to?’ Rachel enquires, looking into the girl’s face.

  ‘I’d love to. It’s just, well, I never went as a child. My gran would never take me. I think she found it all too posh. And since coming to college…’ she shrugs. ‘I never seem to get round to it.’

  ‘Would you like to come with me? Let me take you, as a thank you for bringing me the portrait.’

  Angela puts her head to one side, ‘Are you sure? I’d love to.’

  Rachel cuts more cake, ‘It would be a treat for me to go with someone else and,’ she smiles, ‘It would give me a chance to show you what sensuality really is.’

  ‘Can I ask a question? Why did Edward bring you the Schiele book if he knew you didn’t like that kind of art?’

  ‘I sometimes think he does it just to annoy me. He can be a bit funny like that.’

  Angela nods, a smile touching the corners of her mouth. Edward hadn’t come back to the restaurant the following Thursday. It had been a whole week before she’d caught sight of him hovering by the door.

  After they clear the tea things, Angela puts the portrait on the table and carefully peels back the layers of brown paper and bubble wrap. She watches for Rachel’s reaction and sees she is quite overcome.

  ‘Who was he?’ Angela asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

  ‘My father.’

  ‘Yes I can see that, you have his eyes.’

  ‘He is very young here, you know? This must have been painted before he was married, and yet…’ Rachel looks down at the date next to the signature, ‘It says 1939, how puzzling.’

  Angela examines the signature, ‘I think it was painted by Claudette’s lover. Maybe he did it from a photograph.’

  ‘Claudette had a lover?’

  ‘When she lived in France, before the war. My gran told me.’

  ‘Oh, I see! I think you’re right,’ Rachel muses, ‘We did have a photo like this.’

  ‘Talking of photos, I sort of, by mistake,’ Angela grins, ‘Took a photo album as well. I’m sure there are some photos of him,’ she nods at the portrait. ‘I’ll bring it round if you’d like to see it.’

  ‘I’d be fascinated. You know,’ Rachel picks up the portrait and holds it at arms lengt
h. ‘I think I’m going to enjoy having him around.’

  ‘I do wish I could remember where I’ve seen you before,’ Angela says again, looking at the old woman. This time, Rachel’s features remain totally impassive. Angela glimpses again the artistic potential of her face. Maybe she could be persuaded to model if Edward wouldn’t agree.

  Rachel shakes her head and smiles. The cat tries to jump up onto Angela’s lap. She shoos it away.

  ‘She likes you.’ says Rachel, ‘Strange that, how cats always like people who don’t like them.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  Edward surveys the sunlit studio. It is devoid of furniture except for a small knitting-chair like his mother once had. The chair is upholstered in a worn, orange-flecked fabric. At the back of the room is another chair, an orange plastic one with black metal legs. The floor is covered in cheap, petrol-blue carpet. He sits back in the knitting chair and closes his eyes. After his second visit to the restaurant, it had taken him a week to pluck up enough courage to go back again. He’d been in two minds whether to return at all, but her request had intrigued him.

  She’d intrigued him.

  He can hear her now, setting up her drawing equipment. The sun from the skylight has warmed the fabric of the chair and the warmth is soaking into his body. He feels as if he is part of a surreal dream in which this girl has come into his life and spirited him here to this studio.

  ‘Just come along to the studio, let me make a few sketches, see how you feel,’ was how she’d phrased it. She’d taken a ten-minute break, bringing two coffees to the table. He’d watched as she’d warmed her cheek with her cup.

  ‘I came to the library to see if I could find you last week.’

  Euphoric was how he felt. There was something about this girl, something in her manner that gave him a sense of release and, for the first time in years, he’d wanted to sing. He had completely forgotten to ask her why she wanted to draw him.