Bird Inside

by Wendy Perriam

  She slipped her bra and pants off, lay back on the sofa, tried to make things easy for him. She liked him, didn’t she? He was good-natured and amusing, even making wisecracks as he pulled the Durex on. He was much bigger than the artist, bigger everywhere, yet tamer altogether, not hurting her or fighting her, but easing gently in. The trick was not to think, to banish Christopher – and Anne – to wipe out the weekend. It was Friday again, and this was her first time, a normal happy time with a nice boy her own age, who was doing his level best to please her. Odd she felt so little. It must be just the drink, the nagging spoilsport headache. She ought to make an effort, do something in return – move her hips, grind and thrash a bit, toss her hair about.

  ‘Christ, Rose, that’s bloody marvellous! Don’t stop. Oh, God! I’m coming!’ His voice was hoarse; his whole body heaved and jerked. She clung on underneath him, praying that the condom wouldn’t slip or break, trying not to think of babies. At last, he slumped on top of her, out of breath and panting, his sweaty hair tickling on her neck. There was silence for two minutes. She could hear a stealthy clock ticking, one she hadn’t noticed before; the odd car droning past. She was sure the cars were driverless. There seemed to be no other living person in the world.

  Slowly, he rolled off her, did something with the Durex. Again she shut her eyes. ‘Did you come as well?’ he asked, flopping back on the sofa with a sigh of deep contentment.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Fantastic! I’ve been rehearsing this for weeks, you know – ever since I met you at my mother’s. When you said you couldn’t make it to the play, I almost charged up to the studio and dragged you down to Southampton by force. I thought at first you were lying, inventing that sick-girlfriend stuff just to fob me off.’

  ‘No, I …’

  ‘In fact, I’m sure that’s why I got ill. It wasn’t just the wine and all the build-up of the play. I collapsed from deprivation!’ He laughed. ‘Let’s kiss again.’

  Kissing stopped him talking, so she moved her lips to his. Mouths should taste of nicotine, not chilli. Funny how you missed things – the explosion of a match, the lazy curl of smoke drifting to the ceiling.

  He smoothed her hair, coiled it in his hands. ‘It’s quite the longest mane I’ve ever seen. Even Rowan’s wasn’t this length, and sisters don’t count anyway.’

  ‘I bought it in a sale – two yards for the price of one.’ It wasn’t difficult to please him. The odd joke, like his own; the odd remark, to prove that she was listening.

  He squeezed a breast, too hard. ‘Let’s do it again in the morning.’

  ‘It is morning.’

  ‘No, it’s not. It’s time for kip!’ He reached out to switch the lamp off, hauled the blanket back. ‘Do you like the left side or the right?’

  ‘I don’t mind.’

  ‘It’s a good job this old sofa’s such a whopper. There’s almost room for two.’

  Three, she thought, still watching the bright point of the Marlboro glimmer in the darkened room.

  ‘Goodnight, Rose, super-Rose.’

  ‘’Night.’

  ‘I promise I shan’t snore.’

  ‘Same here.’ She lay as still as possible. Snoring was no problem, since she knew she’d never get to sleep at all, but it wasn’t easy not to fidget on such a makeshift bed, and with Hadley’s bulk beside her. She wished she knew exactly where they were – in London certainly, in Fulham probably, but she didn’t have a street-name, or a surname for the enigmatic Sue. It might make her feel less disoriented to fill in a few details, and maybe less alone. She hated it when someone else was sleeping and she was wide awake, especially when her mind was so determined to be cruel, kept dwelling on the horrors: the probing from a tactless Isobel, the suspicion of the artist; the shameful fact that she’d spent two consecutive nights with two quite different men. Which meant she was a slut; had obviously inherited sluttish genes. If she ever met her birth-mother and asked her who her father was, she could imagine the reply: ‘Let’s think now. If I conceived you on the Sunday, then your Dad was old John Smith; if it was Monday, then young Harry, and if Tuesday, well …’

  No. Her mother looked like Anne, faithful Christian Anne, who’d be entwined with Christopher in bed as she was hinged to Hadley. Trapped was more the word, trapped by his left arm, trapped by her involvement. She shut her eyes, could see the scarlet bird panicking and plunging in the now-empty exhibition hall. She wished she could go back there, check through Christopher’s biography and scoop up all those scholarships, commissions; take them back and lay them out like treasures. She had slept with that CV, had felt all those works and windows thrusting, scorching into her, his talent seeding hers. She was glad the artist didn’t wear a condom, disliked the thought of any barrier between them.

  ‘Rose?’

  ‘Mm?’

  ‘Are you awake?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Hadley guffawed, sat up with a jerk. ‘What a waste! I’ve been lying like a corpse trying not to wake you, and we could have been talking all this time. I can’t sleep for sheer excitement. I’ve just got to see you again – next week, I mean, or sooner – and I’m trying to work out how. Term ends this coming Friday, and then I push straight off to Paris.’

  ‘Paris?’

  ‘Yup. A student trip – dirt-cheap. We’re spending Christmas there, and it should be quite a party. I was wondering if there was any chance that you could come as well? The organiser’s a friend of mine, so I could probably wangle you a place. What d’ you think? How are you fixed for Christmas?’

  She didn’t answer, was working out the mileage from Paris to the Côte d’ Azur – Nice, to be exact. Three hundred miles? Four hundred? Both were France, at least.

  ‘It would be great if you could make it. We’d have a ball, I know we would. Do you speak French, by the way?’

  ‘A bit.’

  ‘Terrific! Mine’s only the ‘‘bonjour’’ kind. Listen, Rose, promise me you’ll try to come. What’s wrong? You’ve gone all quiet. Look, if you’re worried about the cash side, I’ll take care of that. It’s not a problem, honestly. If you really want to know, Dad left us quite a stash, and I haven’t liked to touch it yet. It seemed all wrong, just splurging it on nothing. But to have you there at Christmas – I mean, waking up beside you and saying ‘‘Happy Christmas, Rose.’’’

  ‘Happy Christmas,’ she thought dully. Yes, madly wildly happy.

  Chapter Eighteen

  ‘Happy Christmas, Rose!’

  ‘Happy Christmas.’

  ‘A little present for you, dear.’

  ‘Oh, thank you, Mrs Brooking.’ Jane unwrapped lemon hand-cream, Boots’ own, in a gift-box. She already had bath-oil and cologne, soap and matching talc, two sets of lacy handkerchiefs, a woolly scarf, a silk scarf, and a box of Cadbury’s Milk Tray – and those were just the small presents, the extras, as it were.

  Mrs Brooking took the last free chair. Rowan and her boyfriend, Neville, were sprawling on the floor, with Rowan’s married cousin, her boys, aged three and four, a highly nervous whippet, and two men from Neville’s office, who appeared to have neither homes nor parents. Jane hadn’t quite sorted out all the names and faces, and Isobel seemed blithely vague about how many friends and neighbours she had actually invited, though judging by the amount of food she was preparing in the kitchen, it must be half of Sussex. Some were bona fide relatives, others walking wounded. Mrs Brooking, for example, with her two sticks and her hearing-aid, and the other elderly widow who’d brought her heart-pills and her Pekinese, and had passed a dramatic Christmas morning describing the horror and indignity of her hip replacement operation, and how she was lucky to be here at all, when she’d almost died in theatre. Jane wondered what category she herself would fit – lame duck or genuine friend. Has Isobel taken pity on her because she had no other plans for Christmas, shouldn’t spend it in a cold and empty studio?

  ‘Sherry for you, Mrs Brooking? Or would you prefer a G and T?’ A tall man in a green hom
e-knitted cardigan, who seemed to answer to three names – Robert, Bob and Kipper – had been appointed duty barman and was presiding over an impressive range of bottles.

  ‘No, sherry, Robert, please – a sweet one. Gin’s so acid, isn’t it?’

  ‘Rose, do you want a refill?’

  ‘No, thanks.’ Jane put her glass down. Her own sherry had been sweet, and she’d already guzzled glacé fruits and dates; opened the Milk Tray, and picked out half the creams, accepted dampish Smarties from Billy’s grubby hand, and even sampled Isobel’s mince pies. She checked her watch. Still no sign of lunch. Her parents would have finished theirs by now, and would be halfway through the washing up; the table cleared, the coffee brewed, the turkey carcass neatly wrapped in Clingfilm. No, she mustn’t think of home. Not only did it churn her up, but it was unfair to make comparisons. Easy for Amy to have dinner on the table at the dot of one o’ clock, when she’d had only three to cook for all her life.

  She glanced around the crowded room, which seemed to swarm and hum – not just the tribe of guests, all babbling, prattling, laughing, but the ceaseless shift and murmur of the fire, as it devoured itself, kept gobbling up more hissing sparking logs. The strange lop-sided Christmas tree was typical of Isobel. She had taken in a cripple, then tried to make it happy, hung its stunted branches with such a wild assortment of baubles, trinkets, tinsel, toys, it looked in imminent danger of collapse. Many of the Christmas cards were already on their faces, blown down by the draught as people darted in and out, or the two boys played at choo-choo trains and went steaming round the room. Nice to be a child again, to transform yourself to something else – an engine or a tree, so you couldn’t think, or mope. She pushed Byron off her foot, reached out for a coffee cream, though chocolate didn’t seem to fill the strange emptiness inside her. This was the happiest day of the year – or so people tried to kid you – yet she felt she was in mourning.

  Perhaps she should have gone to France with Hadley, after all, instead of inventing all those reasons why she had to stay in England, piling up excuses, most of which were lies. The true reasons were so complicated, included things like vests and condoms, hairless chests, red birds. And there was one overwhelming reason that she was reluctant to admit, even to herself, let alone to Hadley: she was so obsessed with Christopher that any other relationship seemed meaningless and wrong. Yet the artist was away in Nice, padlocked to his wife, caught up with his friends, so busy and involved she’d be just a casual doodle in the margin of his mind.

  She rammed the lid back on the chocolate box, wiped her sticky hands. She ought to make an effort, play her part as guest. It would be far more wretched sitting on her own with a Wall’s pork pie for Christmas dinner, and no Christmas decorations except the odd cobweb in a corner of the studio.

  She edged her chair a little closer to portly Uncle Rory’s, though she hadn’t really gathered yet exactly who he was – Tom’s brother, or Isobel’s, or merely an honorary uncle like ‘Aunties’ Meg and Martha. ‘D’you live locally?’ she asked him, wishing for the umpteenth time that she was a sparkling conversationalist with a bold and witty repertoire – a Felice, for example.

  ‘Oh no, I’m a northerner.’

  She changed the subject quickly – it was dangerous to get so near her parents – tried another tack. ‘Did you have anything exciting for Christmas?’

  ‘Just a Marks and Spencer dressing gown and a rather boring tie. I’m too old for excitement, Rose.’

  She glanced at his red face – red from heat and Scotch. He couldn’t be much older than the artist.

  ‘And what did you get yourself, dear?’

  ‘Oh, loads of things.’ More than any Christmas in her life. Everything was lavish in the unstinting Mackenzie household, and Isobel had showered her with a cornucopia of gifts, then Rowan added more. Uncle Rory was waiting for the details, so she obliged with scarves and sweaters, then tried to describe her most important present – the framed drawing of a bird, which Christopher had given her. She’d been disappointed that it wasn’t his own work, and he in turn had seemed a little piqued that she’d never heard of the artist who had drawn it, a household name apparently, whose work was in demand, snapped up by the dealers. She had clearly failed to realise the value of the drawing, its rarity, its vigour, the trouble it had taken him to hunt it down at all. Once he’d put her right, she had tried to thank him as profusely as she could, but secretly she’d wished the gift had been more personal – a present for a mistress, a heart-shaped locket on a chain, or a ring with her own birthstone in.

  ‘Hey, Billy, don’t! That hurts.’ Billy’s favourite Christmas game was pulling her long hair. He seemed fascinated by it, kept creeping back to tug it, when he thought she wasn’t looking. His mother switched on the television, in the hope it would distract him – a commercial for Courvoisier, which reminded her of Christopher – again: sophisticated brandy-drinkers gathered at some house-party, the men all sleek and soigné, the women dripping jewels. She was glad when brandy changed to cat-food. She had spent too long already peering through the windows of that villa on the Côte d’Azur, seeing Anne and Christopher entwined, watching them trip up to bed, then hearing all the night-sounds – not just birds and pounding waves, but creaking bed-springs, wild impassioned cries.

  Uncle Rory raised his voice to defeat the competition. She could hardly hear him anyway, since Billy’s younger brother had broken his toy gun, and was letting out frustrated wails, which had upset the anguished whippet, now shivering and howling in its turn. Several aunties flurried with hankies, admonitions. Martha spilt her drink.

  ‘I … I’ll get a cloth,’ Jane murmured, seizing the excuse to slip away, though every time she had sneaked out to the kitchen, to escape or lend a hand, Isobel had tried to coax her back.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want any help?’ she offered once again.

  ‘No, absolutely not. I’m only sorry it’s so late. The turkey’s still half-raw inside. I suppose we could start with the goose, and have the turkey later. What d’you think?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jane. ‘Good idea.’

  ‘Except Martha doesn’t eat goose. And Edith’s bound to say it’s too fatty for her heart condition. There is the ham, as well, of course, but I never feel that ham quite counts, do you? I mean, it seems so sort of ordinary – what I’d call a Monday food, when you’ve had a host of weekend guests and can’t rustle up the energy to cook another meal, so you dish out cold damp ham.’

  ‘But your ham’s hot.’

  ‘Yes, ’course it is. And I did that nice brown sugar crust, and apple rings to go with it, but all the same …’ She dabbed a grease-spot off her dress, pushed back a skein of hair. ‘You should have seen the hams we had in Oban. You know, a Scottish Christmas is really something, Rose. In fact, when Tom and I were young, we used to spend the … Oh, drat, the pudding’s boiling dry. Could you be an angel and top it up with water? Tibs, get down from there immediately! D’you know, I’m sure those greedy cats think I’m cooking just for them.’

  ‘Isobel, I wish you’d let me help.’

  ‘You are helping, darling. And if you really want another job, you can whip this cream up, then spread it on the trifle. Gosh! It’s hot in here, isn’t it?’

  ‘Boiling.’ Jane undid the top two buttons of her blouse. The sitting-room had been warm enough, with its huge log fire and the fug from all the guests, but the kitchen was a furnace; the Aga blasting heat, the windows all steamed up, Isobel’s flushed face dripping perspiration as she checked the ovens, basted roast potatoes. Everything seemed galvanised by her own bubbling-over energy; the Christmas pudding shuddering in its pan, a squad of other saucepans singing on the hob, parsnips spluttering in the oven, turkey spitting fat, the air itself panting in hot eddies as it swirled around the room.

  Isobel dived across and took the egg-whisk from her. ‘No, don’t use that. Try this one.’ The cream was stiff in minutes, as the older woman assaulted it with elbow-grease and metal. She wa
s an enthusiastic cook, yet there was still a sense of chaos, nothing quite controlled; clutter spreading everywhere, presents piled on worktops, hats and coats dumped on kitchen chairs.

  Jane thought back to eight o’clock – a very different Isobel kneeling like a statue in the hushed and chilly church, nothing moving this time save her lips. Had she been praying for her child, her abandoned baby Angela, who would now be middle-aged? ‘You never forget the child you’ve given birth to,’ Isobel had told her, ‘and Christmas and birthdays are always rather sad times, when you wonder specially where and how she is.’ The words kept nudging in Jane’s head. Was her own birth-mother praying at this moment, speculating, missing her, trying to build a picture in her mind, or had she forgotten clean about her eighteen years ago?

  ‘Isobel?’ she said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You know Saint Jerome.’

  ‘Well,’ she smiled, ‘not personally.’

  ‘Was he all mixed up – I mean, spiteful and vindictive and always having rows with people, and hating Jews and women and …?’

  ‘Good gracious, no! Whatever gave you that idea? He’s one of the great Doctors of the Church – a tremendous scholar who gave us a new translation of the Bible. And for several years he was a hermit in the desert – I mean, frightfully holy and austere, a man who believed in loving God quite passionately, and renouncing anything and everything which could distract him from that aim, and …’ Isobel paused for breath, retrieved a whoosh of cream which had flown across the table, then continued with the holy man’s achievements.

  Jane chewed a strand of hair. Why was nothing ever simple or clear-cut; no one truth or viewpoint which everyone could hold to? Hadley had remarked that faith was believing what you knew to be untrue. Was he right, or his mother?