Tirzah tries to walk past Osian, but he blocks her path. She sees Biddy waving from the promenade, her long hair racing out to one side in the sea breeze, and can just make out their two cases on the pavement. She waves back. I’m going home, she tells Osian, as he grabs her arm. Let go of me. She shakes his hand off and is about to walk away when she becomes aware he is trying to speak. Wait, he mumbles. I need to tell you something. He is grey under his tan, his mouth leached of colour. Tirzah frowns; she wants to help him but doesn’t know how. I love you, she tells him. You know it was wrong, making me believe I would be welcome here, don’t you? I don’t understand why you did it. He doesn’t respond. Come on, say something, she goes on, her voice breaking. I hope we will always be friends, she says. The times we kissed, the times I kissed you, I shouldn’t have. That was my mistake, and I’m sorry if it made you hope for something more. She can’t think of another word to say, but he is inexpressibly dear to her, standing there, struggling to find words. He is shaking his head, as if to clear it. Then he starts to talk, and it gushes out like rainwater from a pipe. Slow down, Osian, she says. I can’t understand you. And I can’t hang around here in these wet clothes for much longer.
The rain has cleared and people are starting to appear on the beach after their evening meals in the hotels and bed and breakfast places along the front. I will state it plain then, Osian says, mastering his jagged voice. I think we should get married. There. That’s what I’m trying to say. Tirzah stares. I am declaring God’s truth, he goes on quickly. I’ve prayed a lot about what the Lord requires of me. And I am willing to submit. This way I can put myself right with the Almighty. And you can too. Tirzah starts to walk away, stumbling in her water-logged sandals. Who will look after you and the baby? Osian says more boldly, following her. You need someone like me to sort you out. Have you lost your marbles? she asks, walking as swiftly as she can. By her side, Osian keeps up easily. It’s the Lord’s will, Tirzah, he says, grabbing her arm again. There’s no point in arguing.
By now, Tirzah has arrived at the bottom of the promenade steps. Biddy is waiting above. She climbs a few steps and turns. Leave me alone, she tells Osian. I don’t want to marry you, or anybody, thank you. I want to be Tirzah. Just me. Not part of a pair. Is that plain enough for you? And I couldn’t care less what the Lord has told you. She can’t help laughing. And why do you think He hasn’t mentioned His plan to me? I call that a bit rude, she adds, before running up the last few steps to meet Biddy. She’s out of breath. Let’s go, she says, trying to contain her wet hair. Biddy glances at Osian and then shows her a dress and some other things she has in a carrier bag. We can go to the public conveniences for you to change, she says. Tirzah looks back at Osian standing in the sand. Honestly, love, she calls, you mean well, but I think you’re nuts. Then she and Biddy walk away, towards town.
They make for the bus station. Tirzah is so exhausted she has to lean on Biddy. After she has changed out of her wet clothes, they empty their purses on to a bench and count up. Where did you get all this dosh from? Tirzah asks. Never you mind, Biddy answers. I was looking forward to a fine old time at the fair, so I’ve been saving, if you must know. It’s expensive, the fair. I’m sorry, Bid, Tirzah says. I’ve spoilt your holiday. Don’t matter, Biddy says, rummaging in her bag. Who cares about the blimmin’ CYC? I’m in the doghouse for nearly scalping that mouthy piece. Tirzah suddenly remembers Biddy running over to the girl who shouted at her. Anyway, look what I’ve got, Biddy says, waving two shocking-pink sticks of rock. They unwrap the cellophane and start to suck. I could do with a bag of chips, Tirzah says. With lots of salt and vinegar. Biddy looks at her watch. We’ve got plenty of time before the bus, she says. I’ll go and find us some. She gets up and sucks her rock. We’re rolling in money, she goes on, jingling the coins in her purse. Even after the bus fare we still have enough for a minced beef pie between us.
After Biddy leaves, Tirzah thinks about Osian. She recalls his eyes earlier, and how their whites glittered like faulty bulbs from out of the darkness of his face. Has he actually been driven mad? She remembers his trembling lips and the way he’d flinched from his father’s shouted accusations at the meeting, and how she’d tried to call to him. At that very moment, he was changing, right before her eyes; in those breathless, punchy moments when everyone looked at the stained sheet as it billowed across the floor, Osian was disappearing from her. Now, in the bus station, a breeze blows an empty can around musically. Tirzah watches a thin dog pull a soiled wrapper from a broken rubbish bin. The way the dog steadies the dirty scrap with one paw before stooping to lick it clean presses on her heart. Here you are, she calls, waving the stick of rock. The dog slinks near as she smashes the rock on the floor. I know this isn’t good for you, she tells it. But beggars can’t expect a pork chop. The dog snatches up white and pink fragments, crunching energetically. Something about the way the hungry dog eats reminds her of Brân. Suddenly she brims with a searing sadness. Her mind can’t get any further than that, so she waits for Biddy with the dog warming her side.
By the time Biddy returns, she is scared by the bruised feeling of her bump; the skin is tightly pulled and tender. You have that, Bid, she says, looking at the collapsed pie. I’ll just have a few chips. They take it in turns to sip from a can of Fanta. The hot, clumped-together chips are soft, and Tirzah is soon oily-lipped and full. She shares some with the dog. Nothing like a nice bag of chips, she says, when they finish. They wait in the darkening station for the bus to come, and when it does, Tirzah struggles up the steps, lugging her case. The dog stands and watches, his plumy tail beating. You poor thing, she says, with no one to love you. The dog has followed them to the bus steps and sits looking up at her. Goodbye, doggy, she calls as the door shuts.
They sit at the back, and Tirzah tries to catch a last glimpse of the dog before the bus drives out of the station. It seems like the saddest thing: an old, famished dog who lives in the terminus. I wish I’d brought that poor little feller in the bus with me, she says. I could have looked after him. I always wanted a pet. Don’t be daft, Tiz, Biddy answers, busying herself with their stuff. He’s bound to have fleas and scabs and things. Your mother would have a fit. You lie down across the seats and rest now, she goes on, tucking her cardigan around Tirzah. I will wake you. Tirzah closes her eyes. Thank goodness for Biddy, she realises. She always knows what to do. I don’t deserve her. But soon her thoughts skim away; behind her lids she is playing through the time since her father drove off. Each scene is garish and far-fetched. Osian’s blank brown eyes whizz past and merge with the eyes of the lost dog she has left behind. The scenes slip by, faster and faster, until at last they blur into a ribbon of clashing shades she cannot separate.
For These Things I Weep … Mine Eye Runneth
(Lamentations 1:16)
Tirzah’s father gets slowly to his feet when she comes into the kitchen, dragging her case. After a brief silence in which he rubs his forehead with the side of his hand and glances back to his wife, he tells Tirzah to get out of his sight. But, Dada, why? Tirzah begins, feeling as if someone has thrown a cup of icy water over her head. Why aren’t you at the blessed weekend you nagged us to let you go on? Your poor mother and I haven’t had a minute’s peace for I don’t know how many months, he goes on. And just when we are about to have a breather, something else happens. He gives her a hard look. Lo and behold, here you are, bouncing back again like a bad penny. Tirzah looks at the scene; her parents were about to settle down with the radio before going to bed. The teapot wears its knitted cosy half on, half off, and a plate of chocolate biscuits waits. Confused, she glances from her father to the silent figure of her mother behind him.
But, Mama, she says, trying again, taking a step nearer and putting her case down quietly. I couldn’t stay with the CYC. Honest, I couldn’t. Her mother lies just where she is, head resting back on the embroidered chair-back, her unslippered feet on a stool, and looks at Tirzah coolly. I was just dying to come home to you and Dada, T
irzah says, heat crawling up from her neck to her cheeks. I was homesick. Her excuse sounds so obviously untruthful, she tries again. Well, anyway. Something terrible happened. The words die on her tongue: they don’t seem to care. Her mother indicates the biscuits with the merest nod. Take some of these, she says, and get yourself a cup. Then do as your father tells you. Tirzah flinches as if she has been slapped. I can see I’m not wanted here, she shouts. And I don’t want your stupid tea. It would choke me. She fumbles for the handle and slams the door behind her.
Fully clothed, Tirzah climbs carefully on to her bed and arranges herself as comfortably as she can. Her joints ache unfamiliarly, and she wishes her pregnant stomach was detachable. With an arm over her eyes she wonders about everything. Never before have her parents behaved this way. Am I a bad penny? she wonders, remembering her father’s words and her mother’s stillness. Probably she was. But what else has happened to make her mother so silent? She still can’t believe the way things have turned out. Her ears buzz as she reruns how her mother hadn’t even lifted her head from the chair when she appeared at the door. Tirzah recalls the way her mother’s half-curled fingers rested on her flowered skirt, and how her delicate crossed ankles looked. Mama usually has such busy hands and feet, she thinks, suddenly crying fiercely and longing for her mother to come and cwtch her. But later, when she is cold and hungry, the only sounds are footsteps going in and out of the bathroom and the click of a bedroom door.
Tirzah wakes some time in the early morning. No one has come and put a blanket over her in the night, and her limbs are chilled and stiff. When she takes off her clothes she discovers dry sand in her bra, and for a sweet moment cannot understand why it should be there. Under the pillow is a clean nightdress, and dropping it over her head, she hears the soft slither as it falls around her ankles. In the mean, pearly light she looks at all the familiar things on the desk and shelves, but they do not help. She must work out something difficult and doesn’t know how. Wrapped in the blanket, she gets back on the bed and tries to think. It’s a new idea: that she is not welcome in her own home. Is it really true? Reluctantly, she relives the last months, leaving nothing out. But this time she thinks about her parents, all the times she has disappeared. All the times she has reappeared, bleeding and silent. All the unanswered, tearful questions. Then the meetings with Pastor and the elders on her behalf. All the worry and shame. It’s as if a covering has been yanked away to reveal an ugly mess, full of sadness. And she has been the cause of most of it.
She gazes around the bedroom; the wardrobe door is open, and inside, her too-small clothes wait patiently for someone who can wear them. Her empty school bag gapes from the back of the chair. These are the belongings of the girl she used to be. That simple life has vanished as quickly and silently as mist descends to hide the mountains when rain is coming. Her thoughts are so electrifying she can’t keep still and creeps downstairs with the trailing blanket still wrapped around her shoulders. In the kitchen, the sight of two cups and saucers and the empty biscuit plate waiting to be washed makes her sniff again. But there is no use grizzling, she sees that now. Grizzling never changed a thing. No one is going to come and say, There, there, to her. And why should they? Something new is growing inside. Something hardier. She fills the kettle and puts it on the flame. Then, shedding the warm cover, makes up a tray and cuts bread for toast. The clock on the dresser is wanting five minutes to seven o’clock. When the slices under the flaring grill are a perfect golden brown she grabs them and spreads butter. Snatching the kettle up the second it starts to sing, she makes tea.
Soon everything is ready, and she surveys the tray before climbing the stairs. This is the first time she has ever made her parents breakfast in bed. Quickly she wipes her eyes again. Climbing the stairs, she is just in time to hear the alarm clock shrilling in their room. Without making a sound, she takes their tray in. Good morning, both, she says to the two mounds under the covers, and lays the tray on an area of the bed that is flat. The room smells of pent-up air and warm bodies. On the dressing table her mother’s open Bible lies amidst some bottles of scent and face cream. On the floor, by her father’s side of the bed, there are some balled-up tissues. Tirzah turns without saying another word and dashes out, shutting the door quietly.
She waits in her room until they are both washed and dressed and downstairs, then runs herself a bath. Into the water she throws one of the old, cut-off stocking feet her mother fills with oats and ties with ribbon, watching as clouds of oaty fluid escape from it. Soon the water is milky. She trims her toenails and shapes them with the rusty nail file kept in the cabinet. The tangled nest of her hair is crispy and caked with sand. Pulling it away from her face, she tries to imagine what she would look like with it short. That is something I will never do to my mama, she thinks, shaking it out to feel the ends brush the tops of her buttocks. She loves my hair. In the bath, she lies full length. Even now, she is not too long for the bath. Creamy water laps her belly, covering her legs and arms, soothing all the small cuts and bruises she has acquired in the past few days. With one hand she palms water and drips it into her belly button. A skein of sand travels down the smooth, curved skin.
Poor old Osian, she thinks. Did he really believe she would marry him? How much praying and fasting had he done to come up with that? She was to be the sacrifice he would make to appease the Lord. Well, stuff that. And what his parents would have made of the idea is no mystery. Tirzah is the whore of Babylon to his father, at least, she’s sure. Love him, though, for wanting to save her. What he doesn’t know is that I don’t need saving, she thinks, looking at her feet emerging from the cloudy water. I can save myself eventually. It’s as if she is crawling forward; each time something happens, she is a little nearer her goal. Even though she doesn’t know what her goal is yet. She thinks about last night in the kitchen. The next thing to do is talk to Mama and Dada. She can’t imagine they would have been overjoyed if she had decided to marry Osian, even if it did make her respectable. She will tell them about her new resolution to be a grown-up. She will truly apologise for all the things that have hurt them and ask their forgiveness. Quickly she dresses and goes downstairs.
In the empty kitchen, her breakfast is laid out. She sits and picks up the glass of orange juice. There is a folded note on her plate. Tirzah feels her heart beginning to drum. The orange juice in her mouth tastes acidic, burning her throat as it goes down. Quickly she unfolds the paper, and reads. The writing is her mother’s. They have been called to a special meeting at chapel this morning. She is not to worry. They don’t know when they will be back. At the end, her mother says Tirzah’s midday snack is in the pantry. Sure enough, there on the slate shelf is a neat greaseproof paper packet. Tirzah lets out a squeaky sob. Oh, Mama, she thinks. What’s happening now? Why a meeting on a Saturday morning, of all things? The thought of Mam carefully preparing her dinner before she and Dada went to the meeting is too much. Past crying, she sits back at the table to wait, rests her head on folded arms and forces herself to breathe slowly.
Who Hath Woe? … Who Hath Contentions?
(Proverbs 23:29)
Tirzah decides to do some housework; the morning is sliding forward so excruciatingly, and she must do something other than blub and wipe her nose on her sleeve. Pulling out the vacuum cleaner’s wilful tentacle, she knocks her ankle on the understairs cupboard door. Bloody, bloody, bloody, she mutters, bending to have a look. The graze has minute red dots all along its length. She wets her finger and brushes them off, then watches as they spring out of the injured skin again. The bloom of pain gives her an odd hum of satisfaction. She clatters around, vigorously swishing the brush head, wrestling with rugs and yanking the heavy body of the cleaner so that it bangs the skirting boards and furniture legs. When that’s finished and the horrible contraption has been put away, she gets out the Mansion polish and sets to work on the sideboard in the front room. As she rushes around picking up her mother’s ornaments and sweeping the cloth under them, she is t
rying to outdistance her anxieties about the emergency meeting. There are moments when she forgets, but with a vicious squeeze, the meeting always drops back into her mind, and her nerves quiver like one of those hundred-armed sea anemones she and Biddy saw in a rock pool on that summer outing with the Women’s Guild.
All her energy evaporates, and she leaves the polishing rag and Mansion tin on the coffee table. What do people do when they are waiting? she wonders, and decides to make a drink. Back in the kitchen, she gets her snack from the pantry and opens it on to a plate. She makes herself some squash and perches at the table to eat. Her sandwiches are ham and tomato. Biting into one, her tongue touches the juice-sodden bread and recoils. I can’t eat tomato-soaked bread, she thinks, slapping the neat little square down. What was Mama thinking? She gets up to find a biscuit. Crunching a custard cream, she stops mid-chew. There I go again, she thinks. Behaving like a spoilt child. It’s going to be a long job, this one. You can’t just will yourself to be more mature. Maybe it creeps up on you when you aren’t looking, like time. She eats all the squashy sandwiches quickly. She is grubby from the earlier housework, so she goes up to the bathroom. After washing her face and hands in cool water, she uses her mother’s talc, lifting her smock to dust her small white bump and the hot places under her breasts. After gathering her hair in a ribbon, she decides to go to Biddy’s.
At Biddy’s back door she hesitates. Aunty Ceinwen wasn’t that friendly last time. She tiptoes along the path to have a look through the living-room window. There is Biddy, lying on the sofa, eating an apple. Tirzah gently taps the window and watches as Biddy sits up and smiles, gesturing for her to come in. Hiya, ducky, Biddy says, opening the kitchen door. Mam and Dad are at the dreaded meeting. Tirzah steps in and Biddy tosses her an apple from the bowl on the table. What’s the matter? she asks. Are you worried about the fellowship and what’s going on? Of course I am, you stupid thing, Tirzah answers. Biddy raises her eyebrows. Touchy, aren’t we? she says. Well, it’s blimmin’ obvious, isn’t it? Tirzah answers. They sit on the sofa, crunching their apples. After a few minutes, Tirzah waggles Biddy’s foot. I’m sorry, she says. I am so nasty, and you are always so nice to me. Biddy drops her bottom lip and pushes it forward. Don’t worry, she answers in a drippy, guttural voice. I am a stupid thing sometimes. Mam and Da are always going on to me about it. Well, I think you are lovely, Tirzah tells her. And that’s an end to it. So stop making that horrible face.
Tirzah and the Prince of Crows Page 24