Tirzah and the Prince of Crows

by Deborah Kay Davies

  Tirzah retches, but can only produce a scummy yellow fluid. Is this all that’s inside me? she thinks. Am I full of nothing but sour water? She waits until the heaving stops, trying not to think about the baby lying like a grub in an apple somewhere beneath her heart, and then washes her face and cleans her teeth. In the mirror, she can see her wet eyes and wild hair. Who am I fooling? she wonders. I am not a child any more, even if I am living like one. I am almost grown up. I am going to be a mother soon. But it’s too improbable for Tirzah to hold on to. She decides that for a couple of weeks she will go on being Tirzah the girl who is staying at her grandmother’s, and nothing else. She will not make any decisions or worry about anyone. I will play in the garden with Biddy, she thinks, and cook and read and help Bampy with his greenhouses. Later, I will think things through. Not now. Quickly she gathers her hair into a loose ponytail and runs back to the kitchen. Bampy is standing up, finishing his toast. I’m frying you a fresh egg, her grandmother says. Then we will have to be organised.

  The three of them, each carrying a bag, walk across the broad common, strewn with sheep currants and dandelions, towards the loop in the road where the buses turn. Swallows throw themselves elegantly around the sky, and the houses they pass have gardens hectic with flowers. Step on it, girls, Gran says, panting. We mustn’t be late. Tirzah can see faces looking their way from the windows of a bus. But where are we going? Biddy asks again. The seaside, Gran announces. The girls stand still and look at her. We’re going to the sea, she repeats, smiling at their response. Tirzah is so excited she can only stare at Biddy. I managed to get us seats on the Hope Baptist Women’s Guild outing, Gran says as she pushes them up the steps of the bus. And it wasn’t easy, I can tell you.

  Biddy and Tirzah sit at the back, Tirzah next to the window. You can have the window on the way home, she tells Biddy. It’s only fair. But Biddy doesn’t mind. When they have been travelling for about an hour, Gran lurches up the aisle and gives them each a Thermos cup of cocoa and a square of gingerbread. The girls talk about the seaside as they nibble their cake. Biddy stayed at a bed-and-breakfast place once in Barry Island with her parents. She tells Tirzah how, when they were eating their evening meal, the landlady would trip past the window in high heels, hair tied in a chiffon head square and her lips painted red, on her way to the bingo hall. Tirzah tries to imagine that. No one she knows wears lipstick, except Mrs Rowland. No one even knows how to play bingo. And guess what? Biddy adds. Our landlady’s hair was dyed yellow. What did your parents say? Tirzah asks. My dad got worked up, Biddy answers. Every time she went past, he would start on about how disgusting it was, wasting honest people’s hard-earned money on gambling and strong drink. Might as well throw it straight down the drain, he said. Then Mam would start about how a landlady should be able to spend her own hard-earned money any way she chose, and that there was no evidence of anyone being a drinker. Their landlady kept a very tidy house, and the bathroom was exemplary, and so on. It was unbelievably boring listening to the pair of them go on and on and on, Biddy says, finishing her cake. Tirzah can just imagine Aunty Ceinwen and Uncle Mal, and poor Biddy stuck in the middle.

  There are a few small children on the bus, and every now and again one of them needs attention. Ladies mill around the child, handing each other things, while thin wails rise. Soon the air is warm and acrid with the smell of bodies and snacks and vomit. Tirzah is surprised she hasn’t felt ill yet; usually on a bus she is nauseous almost immediately and has to stand by the driver, who opens the door for her. She recalls the way she used to grab the pole, nearly swooning while she dragged great lungfuls of cold air in. She remembers the many times she wasn’t quick enough, and the wonderful relief of retching. She remembers the sight of her spoilt shoes. Poor Mama, she thinks. Having to put up with me all these years. It was a well-known fact that Tirzah was a very sick-prone child. Today, anyway, she is well, and enjoys the gingerbread and cocoa without the slightest problem.

  Soon someone shouts. The sea is visible for the first time. But it’s always ages before you actually get there, Biddy says. Tirzah looks out of the window at the bungalows on the beach road. They are painted ice-cream colours, utterly unlike the red-brick terraces at home. Nobody has much growing in the front garden here, just yuccas and battered-looking palms. Gulls hang in the air like sea spirits. She looks hard but there is not one crow to be seen. The side of the road is studded with shops selling buckets and spades, chips and ice cream. Tirzah is restless. She longs to throw her tight clothes off, run across the wide, corrugated sands and feel the sea breeze raking her hair. Even when the bus finally stops, it’s a lifetime before they can get off. Stop pushing me, you big bully, Biddy says, shoving Tirzah. I can’t go anywhere yet. The Women’s Guild seem to be crawling out of the bus. It’s enough to make Tirzah scream. She forces herself to wait, resting her head on a plush seatback.

  When they are all on the pavement, the chief Women’s Guild lady makes some announcements. She has a head square tied tightly under her chin, and a little shiny sausage curl in the middle of her forehead. Tirzah is amazed by the way her bosom pushes the front of her cotton dress out in a sort of ridge. She cannot imagine ever looking like that. The lady holds up a green flag on a tall pole. This will be stuck in the sand so everyone knows how to find us, she announces. They are all going to get deckchairs and sit in a circle on the beach. That way the children will be safe and can play where they can be kept an eye on. She gives Tirzah and Biddy a look. Their grandmother says, Don’t worry about this pair. They are very sensible. The woman locks eyes with Gran for a moment. Well, it’s up to you, of course, Bronwen, she says, and Gran says, Yes, it is, Brenda. Biddy smiles, trying to look sensible, but Tirzah is gazing out to the distant hint of sea.

  The air at the seaside gets inside Tirzah’s lungs, clearing them out. It’s like drinking a cup of the most crystalline water in the world. Come on, girls, Gran says. Let’s get our bags and deckchairs in position. Then you can go off and explore. Soon everything is sorted out. Gran settles in a deckchair with a cardigan around her shoulders and her sandals off. This is the life, she says, putting on sunglasses with big winglike shapes at the outer edges. Off you go now. Tirzah slips her panties down under her skirt and feels the sea breeze floating up her naked legs. She pulls the costume to her waist, wriggles her arms inside her T-shirt and undoes her bra. Then she pulls the costume over her breasts, treads out of her skirt and flings her top away. Put this old thing of mine on over your costume, love, her grandmother says, handing her a faded shirt. Just in case. Tirzah doesn’t want to wear the shirt. I’m still almost flat as a pancake, she says, kicking sand into little heaps. We don’t want to upset the Hope ladies, lovey, Gran says quietly. They have eyes like hawks and can sniff out a secret in a trice. Tirzah blushes as she puts on the soft shirt and does it up, all the time keeping her eyes trained on the sea. Then she takes off over the soft sand, not waiting for anyone.

  When she gets to the sea she doesn’t stop, even though the cold water forces a scream from her mouth. In she strides, eager to dive under the waves. It’s a long way to the breakers, but she keeps going, loving the way that the sea encroaches with cold hands towards her waist, and then over her breasts. Everything is shimmering and slapping, salty and pure. There is a tall, frothy-topped wave rolling in, and at the perfect moment she fearlessly dives into its green wall, unaware of any danger. A roar fills her head and pebbles bounce off her skin. Down she goes, with her eyes closed, sea-green legs paddling, her hair a wet flame streaking out above her. She rolls around on the seabed, never wanting to come up. But too soon her lungs empty and she rises. As she breaks through the surface, lifted by the power of the water, she is a new, better version of herself.

  Here on the vast beach she has changed from being just a child, a girl of the misty, tree-crowded valleys and the whinberry-topped mountains, to a creature of the sea and the lively air and towering clouds. I belong to the whole world, she thinks, a feeling of bliss rising from he
r throat. Inside, the tiny bud of a baby sleeps, folding in on itself as it grows and changes too. Then, as she wades into the shallows and shields her eyes, she picks out, amongst all the other people on the beach, the ring of deckchairs with its green flag flapping. Little children are milling around it. No, wait, she thinks. I’m just stupid me. I am only Tirzah, and very ordinary. She starts to shiver violently, her soaking hair like a hank of weed down her back, and her grandmother’s shirt gripping wetly. Suddenly, she longs to be kneeling in the dry sand at her gran’s feet, wrapped in a rough towel, waiting with Biddy for a stick of celery stuffed along its juicy groove with cream cheese. She can see Biddy’s tiny figure standing at the edge of the group, shielding her eyes, searching the sea for her. After our picnic, she thinks, it would be nice to go with Biddy and search out those red-armed anemones that wave in the rock pools. She’s only ever seen them in a book. But for now Tirzah is too exhausted even to run up the beach.

  He That Is Without Sin Among You, Let Him First Cast a Stone

  (John 8:7)

  The holiday is over too quickly. Tirzah is now a lightly baked biscuit colour, her hair coppery at the ends, and her freckles have multiplied. She can detect her belly expanding almost by the hour. The girls walk back home through the lanes on a day so hot the tarmac is molten in patches and exhausted leaves droop like sleeping bats on the branches. Silence lies over the village, only broken at intervals by the hollow rrooh-rrooh of unseen pigeons. Tirzah is wishing she was anywhere but here, going anywhere but home. Biddy is scuffing her sandals, blowing fragile, misshapen bubbles with her chewing gum. This case weighs a blimmin’ ton, she gasps, pausing to sit in the shade of the hawthorn trees not far from the Co-op. Tirzah drops down beside her and looks at the branches above. Already there are sprays of berries forming. Surely it was only days ago the tree was weighed down with May blossom thick as rice pudding?

  Wait there, she says, and gets up. In the Co-op, the electric fly-catcher crackles, and the cheese counter gives off a sharp smell. Tirzah walks past the bacon and ham displays and makes straight for the freezer. A gust of icy air shoots up her nose when she slides open the cover to get at the things inside. She picks out two strawberry-flavoured milk lollies. In the queue waiting to pay she can feel them softening in their paper packets. Someone in front is having luncheon meat sliced and chats to the assistant who slices it. The steely hiss of the blade makes Tirzah shrink inside. When she is finally served, the assistant nods towards the lollies. Change those for two frozen ones, lovey, she says. They won’t be worth a lick by the time you get them home. Thank you, Mrs Ellis-Jones, Tirzah says.

  Biddy is dozing when Tirzah gets back. She lays the icy lolly on her bare neck. Ouch, says Biddy. Ooh, yummy. They sit and bite into the creamy pink ice cream. Tirzah thinks for the first time about the village, and how everyone will behave once they know her news. How will people like nice Mrs Ellis-Jones react? It’s a lonely thought. Soon her lolly is finished, and she reads the joke on the wooden stick, but it’s not funny. So what do you think your dada is going to say? Biddy asks, sucking a dropped blob of ice cream from her arm. How do I know? Tirzah answers, frowning. I can’t read minds. Back in the village, it suddenly seems to Tirzah that all her troubles have flown home to roost like noisy birds. Pardon me for breathing, Biddy says, licking her fingers clean. I’m sorry, Bid. Tirzah tucks her arm through Biddy’s. It’s just that I’m so scared. The girls sit in silence, watching the comings and goings at the Co-op. I wonder where that Brân is, Biddy says after a while. You know, the scruffy boy who used to hang around here all the time with those little kids. Tirzah’s palms prickle. I used to think he was quite dishy, she adds. I fancied him. Do you know what I mean? No, I do not, Tirzah answers, getting up. Come on, we might as well get going.

  At home, the hall is so dark Tirzah blinks to clear her eyes. Her parents’ cases are piled at the foot of the stairs. Sounds are coming from the kitchen, so she puts her case down and calls. There is no answer, but the sounds stop. Mama? she calls again as she opens the kitchen door. Is that you? Her parents are sitting opposite each other at the table. Tirzah is not sure what to do. Her father does not look at her; he is staring at his clasped hands. Come in, don’t hover, child, her mother says quietly. Sit down by here. Tirzah forces herself to walk to the table and sit. Her head is buzzing and there is a sharp lump like a dry crust in her throat. No one speaks. Because she can’t stand another moment waiting, Tirzah decides to say something. Even as she is opening her mouth, she has no idea what will come out. Both her parents are listening, neither looking at the other. I think I should go away from the valley, Tirzah hears herself saying. Right away, to somewhere no one knows me, or you. I think that’s what I should do.

  There is another silence. Tirzah’s eyes rest on the plates and jugs on the dresser, and the kettle sitting on the hob. She looks at the two easy chairs either side of the empty fireplace, with their old flat cushions and antimacassars, then back to her parents. Dada? she says. Will you ever forgive me? Her father rests his elbow on the table and covers his eyes with one hand. He is swallowing, unable to speak. Gwyllim, Tirzah’s mother says, answer her, please. His shoulders move, and he makes a noise in his throat. Tirzah feels as if someone has slapped her face; the sight of her father weeping is too much to bear. I’m so sorry, Dada dear, she says. Truly, truly, I am. She is crying without a sound, her nose running unchecked. You have shamed yourself, he says at last. And our hearts are broken in pieces for you. And even now, you won’t come clean. Tirzah’s mother struggles to stand. I’ll put the kettle on, she says, wiping her eyes. We will have tea and try to sort something out. Gwyllim, you get the cups and saucers.

  Tirzah watches her parents preparing tea. Neatly they step around each other, each exactly knowing what the other will do. Her father’s face is so strange, she is afraid for him. There is a stooped look to his shoulders and an empty look to his eyes. Poor Dada, she thinks, her chest burning. Her mother stirs the tea in the pot and then pours it. They all sit together and drink. When her father finishes, he sets his cup down and clears his throat. Many nights have I wrestled with the Lord in prayer, he tells them. Many dark nights. And this I will say: no one is going from this house. No one is running away from this village. Tirzah’s mother reaches across the table to hold his hand. Now then, her father continues, his voice more normal. This is going to be a difficult time. We will be burnt in the fires, and no mistake. Tirzah wonders what he means. You, he says, nodding at her. You have shown yourself to be a wicked, loose girl. You have been a silly, wayward girl all your life. But this really takes the cake. Never did I think you would do such a secretive, wicked thing as this. Never in all my born days. He raises a finger, just getting going. Her mother starts to talk, but he raises his hand. Excuse me, Mair, he says. Know your place.

  Tirzah’s mother bangs the table with her palm. Remember all the things we discussed when we were away, and don’t give me all this preachifying, Gwyllim, she says. I’ve heard it too many times. Know my place? I know many things, thank you very much. You may be the head of this house, but you are also a man, and a fallen man, just as I am a fallen woman. Tirzah looks from one to the other. Yes, Tirzah has been weak and foolish and deceitful, her mother goes on. Yes, we are ashamed. But – and now she raises her finger in the air – we have nothing to write home about on that score. Mair! Dada shouts. Don’t Mair me, either, Tirzah’s mother says, cutting him off. Let us be honest, as we are commanded to be. What’s done is done. You, Tirzah, will stop talking about going away. I have never heard such nonsense. Where, pray, would you go for a start? And you, Gwyllim, will come down from your holy mountain top and start behaving like a human being. There is another silence. I think that’s all for now, she adds, her voice flat. But we have questions for you, Tirzah. And we will require answers. For now, off you go.

  Tirzah cannot stay in the stuffy house. Relief that her first meeting with her father is over makes her both calmer and more jittery. And there’s so
much to sort out, I don’t know what to do first, she thinks, not noticing where she is walking. Should I go and see Osian? Should I go and speak to Pastor? What about sixth form? When will my O-level results be through? She shakes her head to free herself from all the questions flying around. Soon the walk takes her to the fields and towards the woods. I need to find Brân, she thinks, suddenly sure. I should try and talk to him. Across the fields, the late afternoon sun is coating each blade of grass with orange stripes, illuminating the tiny gnats that rise in puffs before her. She tries to work out what to say, but cannot imagine telling Brân he is going to be a father. It would be like telling a boulder or a hillside, somehow. I will just go looking for him and see what happens, she decides.

  Suddenly fuzzy with exhaustion, her legs are unsure on the tussocky ground. Stepping into the summer woods is like walking into a huge, verdant room. The smell of ripe vegetation is a delirious mixture of lemon and vanilla, cinnamon and something almost chocolatey. Nothing moves. The trees breathe out and out, giving up their healing perfumes. Tirzah is dazzled by the countless greens. Even the light is leafy, softly focused and dappling. Further in she walks, swishing through the undergrowth, warding off thin branches. Then she hears the sound of someone walking boldly up ahead, swiftly coming her way, and freezes. Her ears are tuned for any clue; her eyes strain to see in the half-light. Gradually a figure breaks through.