The China Bird

by Bryony Doran

  He pauses, his hand on the aluminium door handle. She turns again, smiles,

  ‘You still here?’

  ‘I’ve got something for you.’ He hesitates, ‘I wasn’t going to give it to you, it’s a bit silly really. Sort of, bought it on impulse.’

  Angela, who is kneeling on her haunches, stands up slowly, curious, ‘What do you mean?’ She looks down at the white paper bag with rope handles he is clutching. He places it on the chair between them and backs away towards the door.

  ‘Hang on. Don’t go. I don’t understand. What’s wrong?’

  He reddens, ‘I just bought you a present and now … and now I’m embarrassed at my silliness. So I’m going before you open it.’

  ‘Please don’t. Just think how much more embarrassed you will be next week if you go now.’

  He watches. As if in slow motion, she puts her hand inside the bag and pulls out the buff coloured box tied with a pink ribbon. She pulls at the ribbon and in one motion it ripples to the floor. She lifts the lid, tugs at the tissue paper, lifts out a crimson bra. She gasps, letting the box rattle to the floor. He sees, as he backs towards the door, her face and neck blotch with red. He hears the door click shut behind him. His own footsteps as he makes his way down the corridor.

  Edward wakes. It is the middle of the night. Something is wrong with his body. Oh God! He thinks of his father and the silent heart attack that had killed him in the night. But there is no pain in his chest. It is his groin. There is something wrong with his groin. He fumbles for the bedside light switch and throws back the sheets, blinking. Has he wet himself? He undoes his pyjama cord. His penis, erect and at right angles to his body, nods out. Edward gasps, reaches down and takes it in his hand. He gasps again, but this time with the pleasure of skin on smooth skin. His stretched penis is silky soft and has its own weight, like Angela’s breasts. He stands up, letting his pyjamas drop to the floor. Stepping out of them he drags his chair across to the dresser. He clambers onto the chair and stands looking in amazement at his erection in the mirror. It looks so very strange. He presses it down but it bobs back up again. He must have been fifteen the last time he had an erection. He climbs cautiously down and as he does so the end of his penis touches the edge of the chair. He lets out a little squeal of pleasure. Slowly, he starts to rub his hand along his penis, delighting at how the skin slides up and down. He hears the landing light go on and Mrs Ingram shuffling along the corridor to the bathroom. She stops outside his door. He thinks she is going to knock and ask, ‘Is everything is all right, Mr Anderson?’, but she passes.

  He looks down at his penis.

  It is a crumpled shell in his hand.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  For how long had he tried to forget that day in the barn? Snuggled there among the straw, bale upon bale, balanced almost to the rafters? His mother had told him not to go up there. She’d said there were rats, so when he clambered up the bales he always dragged with him his favourite farm cat, black and soft and kind natured, not like the other cats that ran wild. Mouser, they called her. Uncle said she was the best.

  He had lain there stroking Mouser, looking up at the rafters, watching the swallows dive in and out, for what seemed an age. He heard someone come into the barn. It was Uncle Jack. He was mending a piece of machinery at his bench, using that grease gun that looked like a squashed metal teapot. He was humming to himself and Edward was just about to call out to him, proud to be king of the castle, when he saw his mother silhouetted against the door. She was wearing a floral summer dress, belted at the waist, that she had made herself the week before they had travelled down. It was yellow with big red poppies. Edward had thought she looked beautiful in it.

  His uncle stopped what he was doing and wiped his hands on an old rag and then, to Edward’s surprise, he put his arms around his mother’s waist. She’d laughed and tried to pull away, but he’d held her, all the time trying to unbuckle his belt. He undid his fly and fumbled inside. Turning her around with one hand, he bent her over the bench. He lifted the hem of her dress, showing her bare white legs, and Edward saw that she wasn’t wearing any underwear. And then he was doing something to her, pushing and thrusting into her. She was groaning out loud, head flung back, teeth bared like a horse.

  Edward wanted to shout out – Stop it! Stop hurting her! – but it was as if he was frozen in time. He tried to turn away but he couldn’t. His mother had her elbows on the bench, her hands around the vice and the thought flashed through his mind that he hoped she wasn’t getting oil on her new dress. Suddenly and without warning she screamed out, followed shortly by a loud cry from his uncle. And then silence, except for the faint sound of their breathing as it quietened to nothing. His uncle pulled away from her and Edward saw his penis, pink and slimy. His mother picked up the oily rag from the bench, wiped between her legs and then without another word, turned and walked out of the barn, her yellow dress catching the light as she walked across the yard.

  Edward lay there in the straw all afternoon gazing up at the rafters, or watching his uncle working away as if nothing had happened. Had he dreamed it? He clutched his head in his hands and tried to erase image but he couldn’t. Later, he heard his mother calling him from the farmhouse. He watched his uncle wipe his hands on the same rag his mother had used, and leave. He waited a few minutes, then followed.

  After that he saw his mother and uncle through different eyes. He noticed new things about them, even in the way they laughed. He looked at his aunt, but she was unchanged, unseeing.

  A few days later his uncle called in the vet. He said Meg the mare needed seeing to. The vet brought with him a stamping white stallion in a horsebox. Edward swung on the gate and watched. He saw the stallion mount poor Meg and bite viciously into her mane. His eyes were pulled back and wild and he was foaming at the mouth, his lip curled back revealing brown teeth.

  His uncle came to stand beside him, ‘You shouldn’t be watching this, lad. You’ll get me in to trouble with your mother.’

  ‘What are they doing? Why are you letting that horrible horse hurt Meg? Why don’t you stop it?’

  His uncle laughed, ‘You city boys. He’s servicing her.’

  Edward frowned, uncomprehending.

  ‘Giving her a baby,’ his uncle continued, ‘unless a boy and a girl horse do that, they can’t have babies.’

  ‘Do other animals do it?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Do humans?’

  His uncle ruffled his hair. ‘How do you think you got here?’

  ‘Does my mother want another baby?’

  His uncle frowned. ‘How on earth should I know that, lad? That’s between your mother and father.’ He shook his head and walked away.

  That week Edward watched his mother closely. He noticed that on the day they were leaving she again sought out her uncle in the barn. Edward crept close and heard again the same animal-like noises.

  On the train home Edward sat in the opposite corner to his mother, pretending to read. He hated her. When they arrived at their destination his father was there to meet them and his mother was all smiles. Edward busied himself with the suitcases. He didn’t know how he was ever going to look his father in the eye again.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Edward pushes the brass bar that slants across the glass door of Henry’s Restaurant. It opens without effort.

  ‘Up there, I think.’ Rachel says, pointing to a raised area to their right. Edward pulls out a chair for his mother and then walks around the table to take his seat, while at the same time hanging his stick over the railings. He looks down into the bar area and watches the waitresses receiving their instructions for the lunchtime shift. No sign of Angela. He breathes a sigh of relief.

  In the area where he and his mother are seated, a cool darkness pervades. Overgrown ferns on high plinths shade the light from the large windows of old-fashioned glass that mist and distort the street and the people hurrying past. He watches a waitress approach and notice
s how the high ceilings echo the sound of her heels on the plank floor.

  He wonders what people must make of him and his mother. He looks across at her; an old lady, dainty as a child, so expectant, her arm held tightly across her body, grasping the flesh of her other arm, anticipating her lunchtime treat. Himself? He glances at his image distorted by the glass, his deformed back, and yet, he looks again, there is a certain style. Are they two actors on a stage for all the world to see, acting out a farce, their relationship pure theatre?

  ‘Mother?’

  Rachel is scanning the faces of the waitresses. Edward suspects she is looking for Angela, ‘Mother?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The waitress is here. What would you like to drink?’

  Rachel frowns, still scanning the room, ‘The usual.’

  Edward shakes his head. ‘Would you be so kind as to bring us some drinks? A white wine and a coffee?’

  ‘Are you ready to order food?’ the waitress asks, pen ready above her pad, ‘Only we’re quite busy, and if you order now you won’t have to wait so long.’

  Rachel opens the snap on her handbag and takes out a soft beige spectacle case, places the half-lens glasses carefully on the end of her nose.

  Edward smiles apologetically at the waitress, ‘I think I’ll have the char-grilled chicken, please.’

  ‘What shall I have?’ Rachel says, addressing the menu, ‘I think I’ll have the poached salmon.’

  Rachel watches the girl as she moves away. ‘How can someone take so little pride in their appearance? What a plain little thing she is.’

  ‘Maybe she doesn’t see her appearance as being that important.’

  Rachel snorts, ‘That’s obvious.’

  ‘What about Angela then, wouldn’t you put her in the same category? She can be a bit scruffy. Mind you, with her I think it might be lack of finance.’

  ‘She’s a completely different affair, she has a delicacy of feature and that wonderful translucent complexion, and she’s not lumpy like that girl. Maybe it’s down to breeding.’ He sees her smile inwardly, she’s obviously included herself in that category but he can’t deny that class is something his mother has always had.

  ‘I was surprised,’ he leans forward, ‘that you wanted to meet up again so soon after our little contretemps at the Blue Moon.’

  ‘It was you who suggested it,’ she counters.

  No it wasn’t, he thinks. Always she has to twist things, to lie to suit her purpose. Why does he put up with it?

  ‘I was going to suggest next month, on your birthday,’ he says. ‘Thought we could have given this month a rest.’

  ‘I like it here.’ She rubs a fern between her thumb and forefinger.

  He remembers he has something for her, a book, their only common interest. He puts his hand in his jacket pocket and pulls out a brown package, ‘Here.’ It is a second-hand book bound in leather with gold writing on the spine. She flicks through the leaf-thin pages,

  ‘A poetry book. Thank you. Look. Listen to this. My mother used to read me this poem:

  Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir

  Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine,

  With a cargo of ivory,

  And apes and peacocks,

  Sandalwood, cedar wood, and sweet white wine.’

  ‘Quinquireme of Nineveh. Oh my! Doesn’t it have an exotic ring to it?’

  ‘Angela and I were looking through the poems the last time I sat for her.’

  Rachel’s voice is pinched. ‘And what did she think of it?’

  ‘Not sure. She seems to like fairy stories best.’

  ‘What, Beauty and the Beast?’ Rachel snorts and shakes her head in disbelief.

  ‘Mother, have you heard yourself? Snipe, snipe, snipe. Can’t you, just for once in your life, be happy for me?’

  ‘For what?’ She looks at him over her glasses. ‘For making a fool of yourself?’

  He twiddles his teaspoon in the saucer, chinking it against the side of the cup. He looks straight at her, ‘I’m not making a fool of myself. Not that it’s any of your business.’

  The waitress returns up the steps with their food. He watches his mother place her serviette on her lap and sit forward expectantly, her knife delicately splicing the flesh of the salmon, admiring how it separates into gleaming chunks.

  ‘How is it, mother?’ he asks, by way of breaking the silence.

  She nods and pauses, her fork in mid-air, ‘Good. Very good, thank you.’ She looks around, ‘I thought Angela might have been here today.’

  ‘Did you? Is that why you wanted to come?’ He raises his eyebrows, furrowing his forehead.

  ‘Not especially.’

  ‘And what would you have said to her if she had been?’

  She pauses and places her knife and fork on her plate. ‘I would have told her that I had purchased a ballet ticket for her as a thank you for bringing the portrait, but that since she has been exploiting my son …’

  ‘Who is a grown man …’

  ‘.I’m having second thoughts about giving it to her. By the way, did you say something to her about the ballet tickets? Only I got a card from her thanking me.’

  He nods, ‘Yes, I mentioned it.’

  ‘Might take you instead. Not sure I want to see that young lady again.’

  He places his knife along the char line of the chicken and cuts into it, ‘Mother?’

  She looks up.

  ‘Can I ask you a question?’

  She nods.

  ‘Did you feel exploited when you were a model?’

  She gulps down a mouthful. ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Are you sure? All those men ogling you.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid, you know it’s not like that.’

  ‘What did father think about it?’

  ‘He never knew, did he? I never told him.’

  ‘Surely he had a right to know.’

  ‘No. It was none of his business.’

  ‘You always had areas of your life that you kept fenced off, didn’t you?’

  ‘And what is wrong with that?’

  He raises an eyebrow, ‘Depends what was going on.’

  ‘You said in your last letter that your landlady had ruined your scarf. Why do you continue to live there if she irritates you so much?’ she counters.

  ‘I thought you of all people would have known the answer to that, Mother.’

  ‘What an earth do you mean?’

  ‘Well, look at all those years father and I irritated you, yet you never left.’

  She pulls a face, ‘That was different.’

  ‘Was it?’

  ‘You know it was. You still haven’t told me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Why you continue to lodge with Mrs Ingram. Is it so that you can have someone to vent your spleen on? After all, life would be very dull for you without Mrs Ingram to complain about, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘One day I’ll summon up the energy to leave. You’ll see.’

  She nods knowingly, ‘Yes, we’ll see.’

  ‘What did it feel like to sit there naked in front of all those people?’ He retaliates.

  She looks at him boldly, ‘I loved it. I felt like the Queen of Sheba up there. It gave me such a sense of my own power.’

  ‘Yes, I think that’s it exactly. That’s how I feel. It has made such a difference to my life,’ he adds shyly.

  On his way back to the library he pokes his stick between the cracks in the slabs. He wonders if he should be grateful to his mother. Had what he witnessed saved him from years of confusion and heart ache? Had he been so shocked by the experience that he’d closed down, sexually that is, until now? He wishes that he didn’t have to go back to work, that he could go home and be alone.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  She has arranged to meet Dan. He’s late. She’s noticed that about him. He’s always late. The few times they’ve actually arranged a date, that is. Usually they just bump into each other somewh
ere and go on from there. She watches the queue for the popcorn diminish. If he doesn’t turn up soon they’ll be late for the film. It’s then that she sees him circling in the revolving door.

  She closes her eyes against the flickering of the screen. She doesn’t like these self-indulgent French films. She tires of reading the sub-titles. She drifts, thinking of other things. She has on her new bra. The wires are digging into the sides of her breasts. She’s never worn a bra with underwiring before. The effect is magnificent, almost worth the discomfort.

  She’s glad he’d left so abruptly. She wouldn’t have known what to say to him, Thank you, it’s very nice, doesn’t quite do it. Would he expect her to be wearing it at the next sitting? She’s going to feel really awkward if she doesn’t. Why couldn’t he have just bought her a box of chocolates, for God’s sake! And yet she is touched. No man has ever bought her anything so special. And it must have cost loads.

  The way he had held her breasts had been so tender, as if he’d thought he might break them. She remembers the smell of Imperial Leather. It reminded her of her granddad. She’d done it out of a sense of kindness, of gratitude. She’d seen the expression on his face turn to confusion, then horror, when he realised what he’d said. And then how forlorn he’d looked when she’d asked him if he’d ever held a woman’s breasts. He wasn’t like an ordinary man. She didn’t feel threatened by him.

  Dan digs her in the ribs. She opens her eyes. She wants to wait until the credits have finished rolling but he’s already making his way towards the aisle.

  She takes a sip of her beer; wishes she had enough money to get drunk.

  ‘I think it’s better we buy our own,’ he always says. ‘Keeps it tidy, then.’

  She hates meanness, especially as she knows he has money.

  ‘So you enjoyed the film?’ He grins. He has the most perfect set of teeth she’s ever seen. Strange, she thinks, how you can fancy someone and then it not work in bed.