Bird Inside

by Wendy Perriam

  A second, louder firework suddenly exploded from the windows – the artist’s laugh, now sparking like a Catherine wheel, some woman’s shriller giggle spinning round and round with it.

  Jane turned her back, walked on.

  ‘You were very quiet,’ the artist said, as he drove, too fast, along winding country lanes. ‘You hardly said a word. And it wasn’t exactly polite, you know, to disappear like that.’

  ‘I’m surprised you even noticed.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean, Rose?’

  Jane declined to answer, peered out of the window at the rush of blurred black fields. The silence felt uncomfortable, like a bad smell in the car which they were both trying to ignore.

  ‘Tired?’ he asked, at last.

  ‘A bit.’

  ‘Or sulking?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good. I can’t stand girls who sulk.’

  ‘I can’t stand men who …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Yes, it does. What were you going to say?’

  ‘Nothing. I’m just tired.’

  ‘You said you weren’t tired.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘Yes. We’ll be back in a few minutes. You’d better go to bed.’

  ‘I shall.’

  ‘I don’t feel tired at all – wide awake, in fact. I think I’ll do a bit of work before I drive on home.’

  ‘Work – at two in the morning?’

  ‘Mm. I’ve had a rather good idea for the Civic Centre job, and I want to get it down. I’ve had it on my mind all evening.’

  ‘Really? You surprise me.’

  ‘You surprise me, too – the new sarcastic Rose.’

  ‘I’m not sarcastic.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No.’

  They drove in edgy silence until they reached the barn. As soon as they got in, Christopher whipped off his tie, removed his corduroy jacket, then prowled around the studio, pouncing on odd papers, or rearranging shelves, as if he had to have things tidy before he dared disturb his mind with what might be a chaotic new idea. At last, he rolled his shirt-sleeves up, pinned a sheet of paper to the wall, started drawing standing up; crude black shapes in charcoal flowing from his hand.

  ‘Goodnight, then,’ Jane said curtly, feeling totally dispensable as she moved towards the staircase.

  ‘Goodnight.’

  He didn’t even bother to turn round, despite the fact that she lingered on the stairs, then stood stiffly on the balcony watching him still drawing. Was he deliberately rejecting her, or capping sulks with sulks, or so absorbed in his new project that he was blithely unaware he was being rude or thoughtless? She plumped down on the bed, peeled off her jerkin top, paused a moment nervously before unhooking her thin bra. She sat shielding her bare breasts, frightened he could see them; though he was at least twelve feet below her, and had his back turned anyway. She reached out for the jerkin, dragged it on again, over her bare skin. It felt wrong to start undressing with Christopher still there. But how long might he stay? All night, and then all Sunday? Perhaps he wouldn’t drive back home at all, but just continue working there till Monday, ignoring boring things like sleep and meals. Yet she herself felt desperate for sleep – faint from too much wine, smudged around the edges, as if some official with a giant eraser had begun to rub her out.

  She lay back on the bed. She could sleep in all her clothes, just shut her eyes, let go. Why worry over Christopher, when he seemed utterly oblivious of anything beyond his precious project? She wormed beneath the duvet, rearranged the pillows, frowning at the light. She was used to total darkness when she slept, not this distracting mix of glare and shadow intruding from his Anglepoise. She was also used to total silence, which was broken now by the faint insistent rasping of the charcoal, the artist’s shifts or steps, the sudden small explosion of a match. She tried to shut them out – after all, they were only muted noises, not blatant bangs or crashes. Yet their stealthy faintness seemed to make them worse, because she was straining to interpret them, guess what he was doing.

  She turned on her right side, tugging at her skirt, which had tangled around her legs and felt uncomfortably tight. The rasping noise had stopped. Had he finished drawing? She half-sat up, wondering if she would hear him walking out; hear a splutter from his car as he switched on the ignition. No – just the splash of liquid in a glass. So he was tippling again, when he was already over the limit. She flopped back on the bed. Why not simply blank him out, count sheep, or try deep-breathing? Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen. The sheep all had his face, a mane of coarse grey hair instead of soft white wool. She tried lying on her front next, which at least obscured the light; tried imagining a beach scene, a peaceful stretch of sea and sand, to calm her down, relax her. But somebody was lounging on the beach – the artist in his swimming trunks, naked to his navel, and just lighting up a Marlboro. She could hear him coughing from the smoke, a hoarse and hacking smoker’s cough, rising from below.

  She flung the duvet back, cannoned down the stairs. ‘Do you have to cough as loud as that? I’m trying to get to sleep.’

  He turned round in surprise, as if he’d totally forgotten her; fighting the cough, trying to suppress it with a draught of something amber in a glass.

  ‘And why are you still drinking? You were pretty well tanked up when you drove us back, could have killed us both.’ She was appalled by her own words, even as she rapped them out. How had she dared speak to him like that, adopt the tone of a nagging scolding mother, when he was so much older, and accountable to no one?

  He didn’t say a word, just refilled his glass, turned back to his drawing. She stood battling with a confusion of emotions – anger still, resentment; embarrassment and shame, especially when she realised that the bottle he’d just poured contained apple juice, not whisky.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry,’ she murmured, at last breaking the taut silence. ‘I’m tired, that’s all, and …’

  The artist paused, slumped down on a stool, charcoal in his hand still. ‘Yes, Isobel keeps telling me you’re tired, accuses me of working you too hard.’

  ‘That’s crazy – and a lie. I never said a word to her.’

  ‘Didn’t you?’

  She blushed. ‘Well, I did just mention that we started very early in the mornings. But only because she brought the subject up. She was telling me how bad she was first thing, and how she was basically a night-person who liked lying in till noon.’

  ‘And you told her you’re the same?’

  ‘No. I’m not. I didn’t.’

  He suddenly lunged forward, ripped his sheet of paper from the wall, as if her anger were infectious, and he had caught it now himself. He crumpled up the drawing, tossed it in the waste-bin. ‘Rubbish!’ he said tersely, reaching for his cigarettes.

  She wasn’t sure whether the ‘Rubbish!’ was directed at his work, or a contemptuous comment on her last remark; felt more and more uncomfortable as he stood motionless beside her, his cigarette unlit. ‘Look, I … I’d better go to bed.’

  He appeared not to have heard her, kept staring at the floor, his face strained and almost ugly, as if he were tuned in to some private grief impenetrable to her. At last, he spoke, straightening up, fumbling for his matches. ‘You don’t have to work here, Rose, you know. You can always go back home. No – you can’t. You haven’t got a home.’ His mood had changed, cruelly, unaccountably, as he gave a mocking laugh.

  ‘What d’you mean?’ she countered, on her guard immediately.

  ‘The almost little orphan,’ he said sardonically.

  ‘That’s not fair!’ she shouted. ‘Wait till I see Isobel. I’ll kill her! I’ll … She’d no right to tell you anything. She promised on her honour she wouldn’t say a word.’ Suddenly she was crying, noisily and messily; tears sluicing down her face; sniffing, gasping, trying to use her knuckles as a handkerchief. ‘I can’t bear the thought she told you, when I trusted her and everything. Everybody lies. You ju
st can’t …’

  ‘Rose, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Isobel hasn’t said a word to me about your private life – not a single word. All she rattles on about is how she’s worried you’re anaemic and do I feed you properly. I told her you feed me.’ He grinned. ‘Come on – no more tears. Dry your eyes on something, and I’ll take you up to bed.’ He reached for an old paint-rag, wiped her eyes himself. ‘Damn!’ he said. ‘I’m not much good at this. Now you’ve got a green-streaked face.’

  She used her fists to shift the streaks, let herself be led upstairs, feet faltering on the steps, which seemed steeper and more treacherous than usual. He dived ahead, started straightening up the duvet, as if desperate for some order in the chaos. She could see he was embarrassed, trying to do in deeds what he couldn’t say in words; picking up her shoes, removing clothes and papers from the floor. ‘Where are your pyjamas, Rose?’

  She rummaged in the bed, unearthed his own blue silk ones.

  ‘You’re not still wearing those old things? They’re only fit for cleaning rags.’

  ‘I like them.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He paused. ‘Because they’re mine?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The silence seemed to tauten for a moment. Something had been said, some barrier dismantled, in four brief casual words. The artist started talking, to cover up his lapse, talking loudly, swiftly, whilst he fussed with the pyjamas. ‘Well, you’d better put them on then. At least they’ll be more comfortable. Does that thing zip or button? Christ! Women’s clothes are complicated. I don’t know how you manage. That’s it. Tug it. off.’

  They were both sitting on the bed, she naked now above the waist. She didn’t shield her breasts this time, and he didn’t shift his eyes. Endless breathless minutes seemed to pant and lumber by, while she felt his gaze scorching her bare skin.

  At last, he reached to touch the breasts, tentatively, as if expecting a repulse, or frightened they might break, like glass. Jane sat very still. His hands felt rough against her flesh, a labourer’s hands, calloused from his work. He was rubbing one hard thumb across her nipple; then cupping her whole breast, squeezing it and stroking. She was surprised she felt such fear – fear of pleasure, as much as fear of pain; fear of men – all men. ‘No,’ she said uncertainly. He didn’t seem to hear, had suddenly leaned forward to kiss the breast, take it in his mouth. She was startled, apprehensive, yet she liked the new experience of a man’s head on her chest, the strange sensation of his lips around her nipple, pulling very gently; his coarse grey hair prickling on her skin. She touched the hair, held on to it; surprised at how the tingling in her breasts seemed to have set off other feelings she couldn’t quite define. She was alarmed by her own body, which felt more real and solid than it ever had before; not blurred and half-erased now, but insistent and intrigued. It might disgrace her, overwhelm her, if she didn’t keep control. Christopher had talked about control, claimed that sex must snap it, breach barriers and boundaries, but did she want them smashed? She tried to cover up her breasts again, reclaim them for herself.

  ‘What’s the matter, darling? Am I hurting?’

  ‘N … no.’ He’d called her ‘darling’. She was no longer silly child or backward pupil; no longer just employee, or menial assistant. Half a minute’s kissing of her breasts had somehow upped her status. She touched his hand a moment, as if in recognition, and he picked up both their hands, held them to his mouth, started grazing gently with his teeth, nibbling all her fingers, then his own. The teeth were sharp, and dangerous, and again she tensed, instinctively, edged away a little.

  ‘Just relax,’ he whispered. ‘It’s rather like the glass – nothing to be scared of.’

  ‘I am scared.’

  ‘Don’t be. We’ll take it very slowly.’

  He kissed her mouth; his lips so soft and careful she could barely even feel them; then moving to her eyelids, fluttering across them, lapping down her neck, almost to her breasts again, teasingly, frustratingly; then back up to her ears, his tongue exploring all their crevices, flicking round the lobes. She had been kissed before, by Ian, and by another inexperienced boy who’d asked her to a disco once, but those kisses had been brief and rough, just crude mouth clamped on mouth. This was very different. The artist’s tongue was circling her right palm, licking slowly but insistently up towards each fingertip, then down between the fingers. The ripples seemed to spread through her whole body. She lay back on the bed, closed her eyes a moment, didn’t want to see what he was doing. When she opened them again, his upper half was naked, like her own; his tanned and muscly chest grizzled with coarse hair, his nipples pinkish-brown and defined by darker circles. She felt both curious and bashful, frightened and elated. They were equals now, both stripped down to the skin, though he seemed a stranger, almost; not the refined and well-dressed artist armoured in his clothes, but someone much more animal, who had shed his silk and cashmere. Yet this was still the man who had created those red birds, produced a soaring Angel who would trumpet up to heaven for the next few hundred years, defying death, decay.

  She almost wished she could transform him to an angel, change him into Spirit, so she wouldn’t feel so threatened by his hot and heavy body, now pressed against her own. If only she could lose herself; relax, as he had urged her, lie back in all senses, experience that taste of immortality he had mentioned earlier on. But she was still on edge, still jumpy, still unnerved by all the other things he had told her previously – the violence he’d appeared to relish, the morning of the storm. Sex and violence. She tried to block the phrase out, as he kissed her mouth, her throat. One hand was groping down towards her skirt-band, fumbling for the fastening.

  ‘Just move a fraction, darling, and help me with this zip. Hell! The damned thing’s stuck.’

  She pushed his hand away, turned on her left side, so she was lying on the zip. ‘You said we’d take things slowly. Let’s just kiss and …’ She swallowed her last words. Perhaps it was unfair to him to lie there with her skirt on; clammy nylon tights encasing her whole lower half, but she felt better with them on, safer doing things by halves. She seemed split in two all ways – half naked and half clothed; half willing and half wary; half woman and half stupid clueless child.

  ‘Okay – no rush,’ he smiled, though the smile seemed forced, and false, and she could detect a hint of irritation in his voice. He was not a patient man, never did things slowly. Despite his words, he had already pulled her round to face him and climbed on top again; was moving much more wildly, regardless of their clothes; his body grinding into hers, so that the rough cord of his trousers chafed and rubbed her crotch. She felt swamped by him, invaded, and it was difficult to breathe now, with his mouth on hers as well; no longer cautious, teasing, but fretting at her lips, compelling them to open, then inserting his swift tongue. She gagged, half-choked, then jerked her head back sharply.

  ‘Rose, I’ve got to have you.’ He was tugging at his belt, his face intent, contorted; his whole force and concentration directed at her body, as if there were no reality beyond it. She heard a rabbit’s high-pitched scream stun the sleeping fields outside; could suddenly see her mother in bed with Christopher – not Amy, but her real mother, bludgeoned by his body, begging him to stop. That’s how she’d been born – a mistake, a crazy impulse, a one-night stand, with no forethought, no precautions. This man could be her father – literally and tragically, if, eighteen years ago, he had seduced some other helpless girl, pestered and insisted, despite her fears, her lack of all protection. She jack-knifed up and backwards, severed their two bodies, as if she’d slashed them with a scalpel.

  He sank back on his heels, his trousers half-undone, a drool of slow saliva hanging from his lip; hugged his arms across his chest, clearly trying to contain himself, prevent his body or his temper from flaring up, losing all control.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said shakily. ‘It’s just that …’ She could feel herself blushing as she tried
to get the words out. ‘I’m not on the Pill, or anything. I know I should have said before, but I didn’t really think we’d …’

  ‘Look, that’s not a problem, Rose – okay?’ He put his arm around her, seemed ashamed of his impatience now, and aiming to appease her, get back close again.

  ‘What d’you mean?’ The arm felt damp and hot.

  ‘What I say. It’s not a problem. You won’t get pregnant – not with me.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘Can’t we do without the ‘‘buts’’?’ No, she felt like shouting. Probably all men tried to kid you, promise they’d pull out, as Ian had sworn to do, in fact – though they had never got that far, thank God. She dared not take the risk, or believe what could be lies, without probing, checking up. ‘Do you mean you’ve had that … operation?’

  ‘The snip? No thanks.’ He grimaced. ‘I wouldn’t let them near me.’

  ‘Well, what then?’

  He erupted from the bed, stalked on to the balcony, hitching up his trousers, standing with his back to her, shoulders hunched and tense. ‘I can’t have kids – okay?’

  ‘What d’you …?’

  ‘Do I have to spell it out?’ His voice suddenly crescendoed, the words hitting her like stones. ‘I’m sterile, barren – call it what you like.’

  She ducked away, as if dodging further blows; cursed herself for asking. Whatever could she say; how defuse his bitter tone, his air of damaged pride? At last, he spoke himself, back still turned and rigid.

  ‘Forgive me if I shouted, Rose. It’s not a subject I find easy to discuss. For years I blamed my wife, tried to pass the buck. But when I married for the second time, Veronica had children of her own, so I could hardly lay the fault at her door. She’d had three by her first husband, without the slightest problem, but drew a blank with me.’