Tirzah grabs her coat and darts out through the front door and around the side of the house to Biddy’s garden gate. Once safe, she sinks on to the wet path and cries, remembering how Biddy tried to stand up for them both, and the way the blank eye of the television stared as if it couldn’t believe all the fuss. Raindrops flick her head and run quickly down her scalp. She blindly rises and follows the path until she’s at the bottom of the garden. The chicken coop door is wedged shut, but she manages to open it and step inside. Immediately the chickens are alert, and shout Whaaat? Whaaat? with scared voices, the sound of flapping and grumbling rising to a crescendo. Tirzah stands amongst the flying dust until finally it is quiet. The simple, sharp smell of feathers and chicken droppings soothes her, and soon she’s only hiccupping gently. She doesn’t want to go home yet, so she makes a bed out of loose straw and settles down to rest.
When she’s comfortable she runs over what happened. I can’t seem to stop doing wrong things. Now I’ve been watching the Devil in the lounge, she thinks, and starts to sneeze. But she can’t help remembering Robinson’s wild mane. Even though it’s a black and white TV, she knows his hair was blond, and his beautiful chest brown. Soon she is back on the island with him, smashing open coconuts for a meal. In the steamy jungle greenly lapping the sand behind them, she can hear tigers roar. His hair, a wheat-coloured halo, and hers, curly and auburn, are wreathed in flames as they sit either side of a blue-tongued fire. The sunset is all the shades of orange that ever were invented. She and Robinson smile at each other in the flickering, coppery light, slurping coconut milk. She can feel the creamy liquid running down her neck. Is that the world, the flesh and the Devil too? she wonders, hardly caring. In the feathery half-light, between sneezes, she hums the programme’s theme tune until she is entirely calm.
Consider the Lilies of the Field, How They Grow
(Matthew 6:28)
On Easter Monday the whole family always gather at Tirzah’s grandparents’ house. This year the get-together falls at the beginning of April. Bampy has a huge garden that runs down the side of the mountain on the furthest outskirts of the village. Many years before, someone had cut large, flat areas for lawns, and made little pathways you could get lost in for hours. Some of the levels are vegetable gardens, some are for fruit. The toilet at her grandparents is outside, up a narrow, winding path behind the house. It has a green, wood-slatted door with a zigzag top edge. Small squares of the South Wales Argus are threaded through with a string and hang on a hook for you to use. Upstairs under the beds are fat china pots for weeing in at night. The girls have always loved having holidays with Gran and Bampy; they come at least twice in the long summer holiday. There are always picnics on the top lawn. Gran and Bamps have a curly-legged iron table and chairs up there, thick with paint. Tirzah remembers the tall dahlia beds that form a hedge all around the lawn by late summer, the flower heads like bursting maroon and amber stars. She thinks about Gran’s soap-smelling wash-house, and Queenie, the conservatory cat, who sleeps in a segment of sunshine on the ironing board when she can; every time of year is lovely there.
Once, when she was little, and she and Biddy were staying for a holiday, Biddy was practising her handstands on the top lawn. Tirzah had flung herself under the table. She remembers looking up through the curly pattern of the table top, noticing how the shining blue sky had separated itself into tiny scraps. The crushed grass smelt damp and peppery. The knotted blossoms studding the hollyhocks seemed to make the stems droop, and sieved by a breeze, sent drifts of fragrance on to her face. Then there was a crash and she felt something strike her head. When she woke, the garden was a different garden, the sky a different, unkind sort of sky. There was Biddy outstretched beside her, and nearby, the upturned table with its stiff legs splayed.
Tirzah thought she could hear a deep, rumbling growl coming from somewhere near. The tall plants bordering the lawn were scorched and smoking, and from their depths something started to rise, thrashing. Tirzah was unable to move. She lay, picturing her bleeding scalp like a sliced open cherry, and watched as up through the ruined foliage the Devil himself rose. Shaking his craggy, smoking head, he turned eyes like filthy puddles in Tirzah’s direction, and she saw his scaly horns were wreathed with dried-up, blackened hollyhock flowers, and realised he was making the sound she had heard. Then, just as he reached for her with a scarlet claw, the growling stopped, Biddy woke and Gran came running. Tirzah clambered to her feet and pulled Biddy upright. Both girls darted across the lawn and crowded into Gran’s arms. Handstands, was it? Come on now, up-a-dando, Gran said, eventually letting them go in order to straighten the tumbled furniture. Into the kitchen with you both. Let’s bathe your cuts and bruises, and then ice cream is the best medicine.
But these days Tirzah isn’t sure any of that Devil stuff really happened. She had been little, when that sort of thing is almost normal. After all, she used to believe her teddy would bite her in the night when she’d been naughty, so who knows? Today is the day of the family get-together, and Tirzah is preparing in her bedroom, only faintly concerned about those old times. She’s picked a new outfit to wear from the black bin bag under the stairs; one of her mother’s friends always gives them a sack of clothes when she visits, and she has daughters two or three years older than Tirzah. That one will be perfectly nice, her mother had said, busy with her own hair when Tirzah held up some things for approval. Stop being such a fusspot and put something tidy on. Tirzah watched her mother twist a thin hank of hair into a neat lump. Pass me those pins, she’d said, the comb between her lips. No one will be looking at you.
So here she is, pulling on a high-necked, thin, sleeveless jumper the colour of hazelnut shells. It’s difficult to see the overall effect in her small mirror, but Tirzah is so amazed at how the fabric moulds itself to her body that a blush rolls up into her hair roots. This looks nice, she tells herself. I’m almost like one of those girls in sixth form. There is a long, narrow skirt with an irregular hem that seems to go with it, so she pulls that on too. The strange way she feels may have to do with the dark clothes they’ve had to wear leading up to Good Friday. It would have been wrong, she knows, to waltz about in gaudy things when the Saviour was going through his torture. For weeks they’d been singing the sad hymn Wounded for Me, Wounded for Me, and Tirzah was sucked into the horror of His pain each time someone started it up.
Now, all that was over for another year. There can’t be anything actually sinful about clothes can there? she asks the wonderful Tirzah in the mirror. The outline of her body is startling. But still, there’s something uncomfortable about this get-up; it’s making her perspire. It’s as if she were telling a story about herself, a not quite true one. She almost decides to take it all off, but the pretty, flouncing portions of herself she catches in the mirror stop her. I can just imagine poor old Mam and Dada having forty fits when they see me, she says out loud. Well, blow them. Suddenly feeling bold and grown-up, she decides to keep out of sight until the very moment it’s time to go, then slip into the car without being seen. She shivers with excitement. Her outfit is to blame, she finally knows, for her beating heart and wet palms.
Her mother is using the rear-view mirror to peer at Tirzah. Why are you trussed up in that thick coat on such a lovely day, you daft girl? she asks. Tirzah looks out of the window. Answer your mother, her father says, busy manoeuvring the big old car out on to the main street. I’m cold, that’s why, she finally manages to tell them, her lips like two slugs that want to go their own way. Are you sickening for something? her mother immediately asks, as Tirzah knew she would. No, Mam, I’m all right. Just a little chilly, she answers. Nesh, that’s what you are, her father says with a smile in his voice. The familiar streets go by, but Tirzah’s eyes are blurred by tears. She wishes now she’d worn some old, loose thing. These clothes were making her deceitful, and her neck is itching, wrapped around by the tall collar of the knitted top.
I need to get out, she gasps. It is a lovely day, as you said, Ma
ma. So I want to walk. Her father slows the car and makes a big show of finding somewhere to park. You’re not going to pander to her, are you, Gwyllim? her mother asks in a sharp voice. Stop the car, start the car. It’s ridiculous. She wraps you round her little finger. Tirzah can’t believe her ears. The idea of her father being wrapped around anything is a joke. Now, now. The exercise will do her good, he says. Off you go, child. Tirzah almost falls from the car door, she is so eager to get outside. They are gone before she composes herself. The spring sunshine hits her heavily. It’s as if someone has brought a heavy book down on her head; she can hardly stand for a moment. The wool coat is smothering her. She takes it off and sinks down on the low wall outside the Co-op. She is torn between the need to get going to her grandparents and the desire to return home and change.
It takes much longer to get there than she remembered it would. All the way she hums the Wounded hymn, even though she doesn’t want to. Primroses cluster frothily in the verges, and across the fields, where the woods begin, she thinks she can just make out the faintest tinges of green, caught like smoke around the trees’ heads. Over the crumbling walls along the lane the catkins shake knobbly inch-long ropes. There are stands of fat pussy willows keeping pace with her, their oval blobs covered with velvety yellow dust. I should be happy, she tells herself, but she has an unshakeable awareness that she will be sorry soon. Her coat is like a sack of coal; she has to shift it from arm to arm. Then, as always, the door appears suddenly in the high garden wall, sooner than you think. There is not even the smallest clue from outside what the garden looks like. Tirzah can hear voices calling, and laughter. The door-knob is stiff, and she has to put her coat down on the road to use both hands. She has difficulty gathering it back up; her arms feel boneless. And then she is inside, looking down the path through the forsythia to where they are all gathered at a long table on the top lawn. Here she is, shouts Biddy, and everyone turns.
The laughter and talk dies, and Tirzah stands transfixed by the pairs of eyes looking at her new clothes. The tightly budded cones of the lilac blossoms are like sickly gas flares behind the double row of seated relatives, and for a moment Tirzah remembers the old Devil she saw amongst the summer hollyhocks. Then a murmur starts, and her grandmother comes rushing towards her like before, but this time with a beaded, half-empty jug of lemonade. Tizzy, my little dwt, she exclaims, smiling. I was getting worried about you. Tirzah’s nerves loosen at last, and she runs to hug her gran. She pretends they are alone. Can I give you a hand? she asks, taking the jug. Together they walk into the house, and Tirzah gratefully breathes in the welcoming smell of stored apples and dried lavender. Gran, what do you think of my get-up? she asks, throwing her coat on a chair. Her grandmother turns from the kitchen table, still holding her buttering knife, a large loaf of bread like a sleeping piglet under her arm. Well, she says, her head to one side. I think you look smashing. You’ve got a lovely little figure on you. But I don’t know what the daft old fellowship will say. Horeb indeed. I’d Horeb the lot of them if I had the chance. They smile at each other. Well, I know what Pastor would say, Tirzah says, and Mam and Dada.
To Tirzah, the kitchen momentarily gets smaller and quieter, almost as if it’s a little spaceship out on the darkest reaches of the universe. That would be perfect, she thinks. Just me and Granny hurtling through space in a kitchen. Never you mind, love, Gran says. Come by here and sit down. You look white as a ghost. I’ll make you a little mouthful of something. Then you’ll feel the ticket. Tirzah sits at the table and watches as her grandmother holds the loaf close, slathers on an even layer of softened butter and deftly saws a thin slice of bread towards her chest with an old bone-handled knife. She then uses the knife’s flat side to transfer the slice to a plate. As she quickly does another, she asks Tirzah what she would like inside. I don’t mind, Tirzah says, distracted by the sandwich making. Just some lettuce and cucumber. Tirzah realises that the space-kitchen would be no good. No Osian, she thinks. No Biddy, no woods and, especially, no wild and windy mountain. When the sandwich is made, Gran cuts it into four squares and hands the plate to Tirzah. Eat up now, she urges, patting Tirzah on the cheek. This is lovely, Tirzah says between mouthfuls. Are these from your garden? The bread is fresh, and the salad things crispy. Not the cuke, Gran says. It’s too early in the year for them. But those lettuces are your bampy’s first ones. Very small, mind, but good and juicy. Folk don’t realise the nourishment a nice lettuce can give. Tirzah finishes her snack. Just time for a cup of tea for us, I think, Gran says. Then we’ll put our coats on and go out to face the music. We’re rushing the season this year, having our party in the garden.
Before they have begun their drinks, Tirzah’s father appears in the doorway. Now, Gwyllim, Gran says, what’s on your mind? It’s only natural she wants to look nice, for goodness’ sake. This is my business, he says, gesturing for Tirzah to get up. We must have a little talk, I think. He pushes her across the kitchen and into the front room. It’s no good you gawping at your grandmother, he goes on, when she cranes her neck to look back. She is an unredeemable heathen. Her gran laughs softly. Still, we love her to bits, and put her on the altar of prayer, he adds, closing the door. He ushers Tirzah to a position in front of the empty fireplace. But there’s nothing to be done about your grandmother, and that’s the way she likes it, he continues. Tirzah is so aware of the spectacled eyes looking at her troublesome clothes from the old family photographs on the mantelpiece that it seems as if they will catch fire and burn away, leaving her naked. Her father settles himself on the sofa, studying his clasped hands for a moment. Enough about your grandmother, he says. Now. What have you got to say for yourself? He pins her to the rug with a look. Your mother and I are at our wits’ end with you. If it’s not the television, it’s something with a boy. And now look. He makes a gesture with his hands towards her clothes that somehow implies disgust and rejection. He leans forward, making her flinch. I fear for your immortal soul, child, I really do.
Tirzah’s lips are stuck together. She stares at the piano behind her father, and tries to read the title of the piece of music on the stand. When she struggles to find words to express her innocence nothing will come out of her mouth but a stupid sound. Consider the lilies, her father starts. This is crucial for you to learn. Do you understand me? Tirzah is confused. What have flowers got to do with anything? she wonders, guessing it must be to do with her unsuitable clothes. Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed as one of those flowers, he adds. Tirzah, the Evil One desires your very soul. You do not need to outwardly adorn yourself. And certainly you do not need to show the world the secrets of your fallen body. Cultivate a beauty of the heart, child. An inner, untouched beauty. He struggles up off the sofa as if he’d doubled in weight, and pats her shoulder. That’s true about the Devil, Tirzah has to admit, still standing on the rug as he leaves. And she recalls Satan’s eyes, dirty yet colourless, utterly devoid of pity, turned on her in the long-ago garden, his claw outstretched. The Devil beckoned me near this very place, she has to admit. Yes, Dada, she calls to the closing door. I will consider more from now on.
So Will the Anger of the Lord Be Kindled Against Thee
(Deuteronomy 7:4)
The morning after her telling off, Tirzah stuffs the sinful skirt and top back into the bag under the stairs, averting her eyes as she does so. On go her old, pure clothes. Then she goes shopping for her mother. Outside the Co-op, an unfamiliar boy is hanging about with a group of much younger children. She is curious. He looks so much bigger and stronger than any boy she knows; even Osian is small beside him. The way he holds himself is emphatic, but at the same time he is restless, looking around constantly, as if he has to be ready for anything. The name’s Brân, he tells her. And these are my Braves. He’s carrying a stick, big as a spear. The boys are scruffy, and they seem to think Brân’s great. As she rummages for sweets, Tirzah drops her string shopping bag and the little boys run around gathering up scattered potatoes, pushing each other out of the wa
y to get them first. Thank you, Braves, Tirzah says, and the boys snigger, shuffling their feet and darting glances at Brân, who stands well back from the action. Who’d like a sweet? Tirzah asks, and the boys start hopping around, hands jerking up as if on wires, shouting, Me! Me! Me! Brân steps forward. You lot, he yells, frowning and banging the end of his spear on the ground, get your arses into line! The boys all run to surround him. I’ll get you hundreds of sweets next time I see you. Now bugger off.
Brân is much taller than Tirzah, and he smells strange, both musky and blackcurrant-sharp. I’m their boss, he says, looking after his gang as they each run for home. Where do you live? Tirzah asks. Who wants to know? he says, shoving his hands in his pockets. Well, I do. Tirzah. That’s me, she answers, offering her bag of sweets. He pulls out a clump of honeycomb and chucks it in his mouth, biting furiously and snapping his head back like a dog. Tirzah realises he’s starving. Do you want to come to tea? she asks him. Fuck off, he shouts, making her blink. Why should I want to come to your ’ouse? You’m one of them religious nuts. Think you’re better than everybody else, don’t you? Tirzah doesn’t have an answer but almost laughs, it is so far from the way she feels. Anyway, I have to scarper, he says, studying her face, calmer now. See you, Tirzah calls as he jogs down the street in his broken shoes, only now wondering what her mother would have said if she had brought him to tea.
Tirzah and the Prince of Crows Page 3