Tirzah and the Prince of Crows

by Deborah Kay Davies

  After the kissing and goodbyes, Tirzah and Biddy walk along the lane carrying their cases, out past the edge of the village. The little trees that waved with catkins not long ago are letting down frondy branches thick with leaves now. Thank flip we are not going on a Christian holiday, Biddy says, over-taking Tirzah. I have quite enough of Jesus as I can take in an ordinary week, thank you very much. That’s why I might not go on the CYC weekend. Tirzah nods, remembering how, at Easter, primroses shone sweetly along the base of the stone wall. In their place, buttercups clump today. How could so much happen in such a short time? Then her mind jumps to the recurring dream she had when she was younger, about the Devil appearing from amongst her bampy’s dahlias, all smoking and scaly. She hasn’t thought about the Devil for ages. Is that a bad thing? Has he lulled her into a false sense of security, as Pastor always warns? Tirzah is about to remind Biddy of their old ideas about the Devil lurking behind every bush, but decides against it. Biddy would think that was so childish.

  Come on, you slug, Biddy shouts over her shoulder. Gran will have a nice little bite waiting for us, and I’m starving. Step on it. Tirzah can’t walk any faster. You go on, she calls. I need a breather. The heat seems to be pulling every shred of strength from her muscles. She sits in the verge, resting against the warm stones of the wall, and looks at the uncountable, glossy green circles of pennywort trailing from the cracks. I love walls like this, with all their strange things growing away, she thinks. There is another sprawling plant that she especially likes, covered with tiny, trumpet-shaped purple flowers and veined, ivy-like leaves. It is wonderful to her that something so pretty and strong can grow with so little encouragement. Up close, the wall is noisy with the buzz and drone of insects. Tirzah lays her ear against the gap between two lichened stones and listens intently to the music inside. Over and through everything, a gently rising and falling hum spreads: it is the breeze from the fields. Tirzah can detect an oily smell of sheep wool and the stringent breath of crushed dandelions. It seems like years ago she used to play the game of flying out from herself and squeezing into some small, secret place. I’m too old for that game now, she realises. Reluctantly she clambers to her feet and picks up the case.

  The garden door appears sooner than she expects it, as usual. She leaves the case in the conservatory and goes to look for Bampy. He is always doing something in his greenhouses, so she takes the narrow, curving path through the blackcurrant bushes and the netted gooseberries, and as she walks she begins to liven up. Bamps! she calls. It’s me! Where are you? She can smell cigarette smoke, and smiles. Is that my other favourite girl? her bampy shouts. I’m in with my toms. Tirzah sees him, curved and thin, his old cardigan with its stuffed pockets stretched down at the front. As always, the last half-a-thumb of a cigarette is stuck in the middle of his lower lip. Come and give me a cwtch, he calls, stretching an arm to catch her. Tirzah runs and wraps her arms around his narrow chest. Oh, Bampy, I’ve missed you, she says against his cardigan. He squeezes her with one arm. In the other he is nursing a hairy stem heavy with green tomatoes. I’m giving these a good talking to, he tells her. They need a bit of love, just like everything else.

  They pull a few tender balls of lettuce and handfuls of thin spring onions. Your gran will be tamping, I’ve been so long, he says, shaking earth off the lettuce roots. In the kitchen, it is so dark that for an instant Tirzah is blinded. She stiffens, suddenly unsure of her footing, and then the sound of Biddy’s laughter lightens the room. Tirzah finds her gran in the tiny back scullery where the sink and cooker are. Nice to see you, love, she says, opening her arms for Tirzah to come to her. The room is rich with the smell of baking pastry and spring onions. Then her gran stands back. Let me get a good look, she says, smiling. Tirzah does a twirl. What do you think? she asks. Her gran inspects her, but then narrows her eyes, her intake of breath a little hiss. What’s wrong with me? Tirzah asks, alarmed. But her gran turns to the oven. You go and sit down next to Biddy, my love, she says, bending to take out a golden, onion-flecked flan. It’s time to eat.

  Tirzah steals looks across the table. When her granny catches her eye she smiles, but to Tirzah the smile looks odd. Eat up, little ones, she urges them, slipping seconds of quiche on to their plates. Bampy is salting his radishes and crunching them into the silence. Biddy keeps on eating long after everyone else has finished. Are you stuffing yourself just to annoy me? Tirzah whispers. Take your time, why don’t you? Biddy pokes her tongue out at Tirzah. Thank you, Gran, she says, getting up. I enjoyed that. Then she disappears with Bampy to the shops. I’ll make us a cup of tea, Gran says. Tirzah rests her head on the wing of one of the fireside chairs, content to do nothing. When the tea is ready, they sit opposite each other. Now, child, her grandmother says, have you got anything you want to tell me? Anything at all you are concerned about? I don’t think so, Tirzah answers, worried again. Why? Her gran is silent for a moment. Have you been sick in the mornings? she asks, leaning to take Tirzah’s hand. Or experienced anything strange lately? Have you missed your visitor? Tirzah feels an extreme reluctance to answer. Her cheeks start to burn, which scares her even more. I have been tired, she says slowly, without looking up. And the other things you mentioned. Uninvited, an image of dark woods and a ferny den flash before her.

  Gran puts her cup down. Now, dear, she says, try not to be upset by what I’m going to say. She takes a deep breath. I might be wrong, but I seldom am about these things. Call it the second sight. Tirzah raises her eyes. I don’t understand, she says. But then, as if the knowledge had been dammed up and has now broken through, she is flooded with a realisation. She stares at her gran, waiting for her to speak. Brace up, my love, she says, enclosing Tirzah’s small hands in hers. The reason you are off colour and not yourself is because you are going to have a baby. Am I right? Could you be with child? Tirzah sees her grandmother’s strong, brown face and tear-filled eyes and knows the words she says are true, but while the brass clock with its face of navy stars ticks on the mantel and the browny-black cat stalks in from the garden she can feel herself backing away. Her heartbeats sound slow and hollow in her ears, and her gran’s seated figure recedes until she is a tiny stick woman at the end of a long corridor.

  For what seems like hours, there is nothing. But then rough, warm hands are patting her cheek. Tirzah is ice-cold, shivering in the chair near the fireplace, and even with a blanket over her knees she can’t get warm. It’s as if she has turned to stone. Scenes, like shreds of torn paper blown in the wind, drift past her face: the stream, the bent saplings in the woods, the knowing old crows and Brân crouching in the firelight, but she cannot hold on to any of them. Under the blanket she rests her hands on her stomach, trying to pull her thoughts together. Gran brings her another hot drink. Here, she coaxes, holding the cup to Tirzah’s chilled lips. I know you won’t believe me, my beauty, but this is not the end of the world, she says. After the rumpus has died down, and your mammy and daddy see things clearly, you will all be right as rain. Tirzah turns her face away and stares into the bunch of dried flowers in the firebasket. Now then, her gran goes on, standing over Tirzah. Everyone will want to know who the young man is. But Tirzah shakes her head and keeps her eyes closed, watching, stricken, as all her certainties fly away like hastily pegged laundry on a windy day.

  In Sin Did My Mother Conceive Me

  (Psalm 51.5)

  Tirzah has been so mute and shivery, Gran helps her upstairs to the double bed the girls always share when they are staying. After tucking her in, Gran kneels down and makes a fire in the little tiled grate;Tirzah cannot warm up, even though she can see the afternoon sun through the window and knows it’s hot outside. Gran looks over her shoulder from where she kneels, holding some pages of the newspaper above the fire to make it draw. I don’t want you to worry about a thing this afternoon, she says. Rest is what you need, and quiet. Your mam and dad will be here shortly. Tirzah stiffens in the bed; her parents are away, so how will they come? Gran knocks the paper back into the
fireplace as it ignites. Who’d have thought it? she goes on, almost to herself. Tirzah can’t imagine seeing her parents. The idea that she has a real, growing baby inside her is so unexpected, so horrible, so impossible she can’t stop sobbing. But deep down, there is another quite calm part of her, she realises. A part that maybe already knew. There, look at you, her grandmother says, manoeuvring into a position where she can pull herself upright using the bedpost. She sits on the bed and pushes Tirzah’s hair away from her forehead. You’re all over the place. Oh, my little dumpling, she croons, gathering Tirzah’s stiff body into her arms, don’t fret. I’m here by you.

  When Gran’s gone downstairs, Tirzah can still feel tears sliding into her hair. Soon the pillow is wet. She burrows under the eiderdown, allowing her body to sink into the mattress. The small fire sounds like a bubbling pot of water. Tirzah looks at the faded photo on the mantelpiece: old-fashioned people stand outside a chapel. The weather is gloomy if the shadows are anything to go by. There is a bride, and the groom looks as if he’s wearing someone else’s clothes. All the other men have round spectacles and shoulders that are out of proportion with their thin, dark-suited frames. The women wear tiny, scone-like hats, except the bride. Her head is swathed in flowers. Tirzah knows this photograph well. But now she gazes at the bride, and wonders if she was happy. Did she marry her true love? She slips down from the high mattress and tiptoes across to pick the photo up and takes it back to bed. Did you have a baby? she asks the smiling, flower-wreathed bride. Was there a secret you kept from everyone? These people are dead now. And everything they cared about, everybody they knew, is gone too. She wipes her drying cheeks.

  The bed Tirzah lies in is so high that when she was little, Bampy made a wooden step to climb on. Its springs made a wheezing sound when you turned over. She moves her legs, and sure enough, the bed sways and sings for a moment. Deliberately, she switches her mind to think about the times she and Biddy have shared this bed. When they stayed over in winter, they always loved to watch the firelight judder across the ceiling. Nothing bad could ever happen. They were safe, even if outside a storm roared. They could look at the door left open just an inch, and as they drifted off to sleep, listen to the grown-ups talking and their bampy playing the piano downstairs. But now Tirzah sees that the small window deeply set in the wall, the multi-coloured rag rug by the bed, the huge, dark chest of drawers with its brass keyholes, will all be gone someday. Strangers will live here and bring their own furniture. Everything will change. It was changing already. Soon this new baby will be in the world, and like it or not, everyone in Horeb and the family will have to budge up to make room for it. Lulled by the old, comfy bed, Tirzah falls asleep.

  When she wakes up, the light has a summer evening look. Tirzah is swamped by heavy waves of fear and starts to panic just as Biddy appears. What are you doing? she asks, taking in Tirzah’s rigid body and the way her hands are clutching and unclutching the bedclothes. Are you cracking up? Tirzah turns to face her and lifts the bedclothes. When Biddy has lain down, they hold hands under the covers. Biddy rests her head on Tirzah’s shoulder. What are you going to do now, Tizzy? she asks in a whisper. Who have you been seeing? Tell me. But Tirzah can’t answer. The enormity of her situation is too much to think about. Her eyes sting again, and soon she and Biddy are both crying. I can’t lie here snivelling, she thinks after a while. I have to get up and face my parents. Come on, she says, gently pushing Biddy. Let’s go downstairs. Anyway, Gran says this is not the end of the world. It’s a rumpus that will die down. Biddy makes a little sound in her throat. Dear Gran doesn’t understand anything about anything, she says. On the landing, Tirzah stops to listen. She can tell by the way the conservatory door has squeaked that people have come into the kitchen. The girls sit on the top stair, leaning into each other’s shoulders, and wait.

  Biddy is restless, picking the fringe of her sun top and sighing. Whatever’s the matter with you? Tirzah asks. I’m the one who should be fussing. Biddy doesn’t respond. She stares into Tirzah’s eyes until Tirzah gives her a jab with her elbow. Stop it, she snaps. What? Biddy takes her hand. Can I ask you a question, Tizzy? she says. Don’t be angry, though, promise? Go on, for goodness’ sake, just say it, Tirzah answers. Honestly. Sometimes you get on my toot. Right, I will go on, Biddy says. She speaks in a quiet voice. Is the father of your baby Osian? Tirzah senses a hedge full of thorns growing up around her. How could she have been so thick? Of course people will blame Osian. This is what everyone will think. Osian won’t be able to bear it. Some people believe he is the Devil’s plaything as it is. She drops her head into her hands. Oh, heck, Biddy says. I’m so sorry. Me and my big cakehole. She puts her arms around Tirzah and rocks her. It’s none of my business anyway, she goes on. Tirzah is struck by a new sense of danger. How will Osian manage when this gets around? She must think of how to convince everyone he is innocent.

  Her mind empties out, but eventually the rise and fall of voices below drags her back to the landing and the top step. She wipes her eyes and straightens her clothes. Even though she strains to distinguish who the voices belong to, it’s impossible to be sure through the closed door. You don’t think it’s the elders, do you? Biddy asks. Tirzah shakes her head. Gradually she distinguishes her father’s voice amongst the others, and when her mother appears at the bottom of the stairs she is almost relieved. Come, her mother calls, beckoning. When Tirzah stands close she can see the stricken look in her eyes. We phoned from our lodgings to tell your granny we’d arrived safely, she hears her mother say, and she said we should come home. She places her hand on Tirzah’s back. Your dada, Uncle Maldwyn and Aunty Ceinwen are going to wait in the kitchen. Oh, cariad, her mother whispers, shaking her head. What have you done? Tirzah goes before her into the front room. Everything is the same but not the same. The piano, the fruit bowl, the lumpy sofa: they all look shabby now, diminished in some way connected with what has happened. She sits on the edge of the sofa, ashamed to look again into her mother’s injured eyes.

  Tirzah tries to understand, but the words come to her as if spoken underwater. She stares at her mother’s mouth and sees it moving. Her mother’s hands wring a hankie, and her neck is mottled. I’m sorry, Mama, she says. I can’t hear you. Again, her heart is thumping slowly and loudly. She detects dishes clinking in the kitchen and the normal sound of a kettle boiling, but they don’t apply to her. Her mother comes across to sit beside her on the sofa. I don’t want to see Dada and Aunty and Uncle, Tirzah says. But will you tell them Osian is not the father? Her mother nods. What will happen to me now? Will you send me away, Mama? She hears her mother say her name. We will look after you, child, she whispers. What did you think? Then she grabs Tirzah fiercely to her. Oh, cariad, she says again, rocking Tirzah, this isn’t what I wanted for you. When did it happen? Who with? Tirzah cannot say; her throat has closed on the words. She looks into her mother’s eyes. Are you and Dada angry with me? she manages to ask.

  Her mother shrugs. You leave your dada to me, she says. His bark is much worse than his bite. And we of all people are in no position to be angry. How could we be angry, when I was in the same boat as you seventeen years ago? Well, almost the same boat. Dada was my steady boyfriend, of course. Whereas nobody knows who on earth the father of this little waif is. What? Tirzah asks, trying to take this in. Were you expecting a baby without being married? She is without the strength to sit up any more, and nestles her head into her mother’s lap to listen to what she has to say. Her head is fizzing with the knowledge that she herself was that baby. When her mother has finished telling her how she and Dada loved each other and wanted her so much, even though they were young, Tirzah thinks again of the faded people in the old photo upstairs, and how they are unknowable to her; she can never hope to understand long-ago strangers when even the here-and-now people she thought she knew are full of secrets. She pictures her parents, both so young, and the cloud of disapproval that swirled around them years ago. Everything has changed again. The image of her p
arents grows sharper. They are no longer the fuzzy, chapel-bound figures she thought they were. They are bigger, more colourful, nigh-on wonderful to her now.

  Wash Me and I Shall Be Whiter Than Snow

  (Psalm 51:7)

  It is decided that Tirzah and Biddy will stay and have their summer holiday as usual. We don’t need to tell the whole valley our business yet, her mother had said, unsmilingly, when she kissed Tirzah goodbye. They will know soon enough. And we will go back to the conference. She set her mouth into a quivering smile. It’s important to keep up a show of normality, at least. Tirzah stays in the front room, waiting for them to leave. The thought of seeing her father, or her aunt and uncle, is unbearable. As soon as they’re gone, her heart lifts, light as a bubble. Every day when she and Biddy wake up, the sun is lying in a golden block on the bedclothes and the sky through the little square window is a fresh, wind-blown blue. The girls chase each other downstairs in their nighties and eat breakfast with Gran and Bampy. Bacon and egg today, Gran announces one morning. Then I want you both to pack a bag. I hope you brought your swimming cossies? The girls nod; they love to sunbathe on the top lawn here. It’s so private, like a flowery outdoor room, and only the birds can see them sprawled on their blanket. Although for the past few years Tirzah has sunbathed in the shade. Once she burnt to a crimson crisp, and still remembers the pain as the skin lifted off her shoulders like tissue paper.

  Gran goes on breaking eggs into the frying pan. Where are we going? Biddy asks. Can’t you give us a clue? Oh, sorry, Gran says, squinting at the spitting eggs. Didn’t I say? We are going on an outing. Tirzah and Biddy look at each other across the white tablecloth. Do you know about this, Bamps? Tirzah asks. But he lifts his hands and laughs. Don’t ask me, he says. I never get told anything. Tirzah is lost in a dream of being a little girl again. Nothing can shake her from it. Gran puts before her a familiar, thick, cream-coloured plate. Around its border, under the glaze, is a cunning little trailing garland of fruit and flowers. Tirzah looks at her plump egg, the yolk like an orange eyeball gazing at her, and the still-sizzling rashers of bacon, and is hit with nausea. Off to the bathroom with you quick, her granny says, picking the plate up to put in the oven.