Bird Inside

by Wendy Perriam

  She went to fetch some scraps of glass, unrolled a few cartoons; found a long and slender foot belonging to a female saint, which looked suitable to paint. She tied an apron round her waist, stood eager at the table. She was a child of six again, helping Mummy make the pastry, not the steak and kidney pie they would eat for supper, later, but a meagre offcut, soon grubby from her hands. Amy had always humoured her, had bought her a small rolling pin, encouraged her attempts to make pastry leaves and flowers – and Alec had gone further – actually eaten up the greyish leaden lumps which eventually emerged from the oven along with the meat pie.

  She tipped pigment on a glass-palette, began preparing her own paint, glad to have a simple task, while her mind was mired in the complexities of mothers, fathers, home. Trish had pointed out that a ‘real’ mother was the one who did the mothering: played the pastry-making games, read the bedtime stories, got up in the night if you were sick or scared or thirsty, fed and taught and nursed you. Amy had done all those things, and done them lovingly. Trish had also said that maybe her parents hadn’t told her the truth about her adoption because they’d feared she’d be upset about her origins, and had tried to save her pain; or perhaps they’d dreaded losing her affection to the mother who had borne her, which, however wrong, still proved they cared, proved her great importance to them.

  She jabbed the paint with her palette-knife, trying to break up any tiny lumps. If only it were as easy to remove the clots and polyps in her own life – the entanglement with Christopher, the seesaw-lurch of feelings her parents kept provoking: first love, then fear, then fury. The two relationships were linked, in fact. She had changed her mind about going home to Shrepton because she had to see the artist, knew she’d lose him totally if she went back north, became her parents’ child again. And now she’d lost him anyway, lost him in deceit; had upset her parents terribly, caused more pain all round.

  She placed a rectangle of glass above the tapering foot, tried to trace the outline of the toes. Despite the hand-rest she was using, her fingers felt unsteady, and all she managed to produce was a few gungy little blobs, not the precise and sinuous lines the artist had achieved. It was a completely different process from trying to paint on paper. Glass was not absorbent, so she kept using too much paint; dabbed it with her hanky, then forgot what she was doing, so that when she blew her nose she transferred brown streaks to her face. No wonder Christopher had banished her to the far end of the studio, like a stupid messy child. She glanced across to see what he was doing. He seemed tense, on edge, picking up his cigarette as often as the brush, inhaling deeply, coughing; then suddenly rubbing off the paint with a piece of dirty rag, as if he too had made a mess.

  She wished he wouldn’t smoke. She didn’t usually mind, but her nose was blocked and stuffy from her cold, and smoky rooms made it difficult to breathe. And did he have to have that music on? It was so dissonant and screechy – a trumpet and two violins competing with each other to see which could sound the shrillest. It wasn’t just the noise she found depressing, but the fact that she and Christopher were so utterly divided by it – what for him was pleasure and involvement, for her was pain and ignorance. She didn’t know the composer, couldn’t understand the work, couldn’t even begin to grasp how anyone could like it.

  Her eyes strayed to the pinboard, level with her head – sketches, letters, postcards, tacked up in profusion, including a stiff white invitation from the Worshipful Company of Glaziers, its coat of arms in colour at the top. She read their Latin motto: ‘Lucem Tuam Da Nobis Deus‘ – ‘God, give us your light’ – repeated the phrase softly, as if it were a prayer. If only she could find a God like Isobel’s, a kindly God who would bring light to all the mystery – the mystery of her birth, the mystery over Nice.

  ‘Right,’ said Christopher. ‘That’s the face done – and about time too! It took me seven shots to bring it off.’ He laid his brush down, stretched to ease his back. ‘No wonder half my colleagues are into geometric abstracts. It saves them a heck of a lot of time – not only all this painting, but the firing too, and maybe a second bloody painting, and then a second firing and …’

  ‘Don’t you have to fire then, if you haven’t painted the glass?’

  ‘’Course not.’ He grimaced at her ignorance. ‘The only reason for firing is to fix the paint, rather like a pottery-glaze, make it fuse permanently with the surface of the glass. That’s elementary, Rose.’

  She crammed a biscuit in her mouth, feeling rebuked and almost cretinous; sat in silence staring at the hash she’d made – not a graceful female foot, but a mess of blots and splodges. At least the silence was a bonus. The cassette had ended with a final anguished death-throe, and the artist hadn’t resurrected it as yet. He was finishing his coffee, which was now scummy, with a skin on top. He picked out a small biscuit, started crumbling it to pieces, as if its only function was to give his restless hands a task while their owner took a minute’s break, allowed himself to talk.

  ‘Actually, painted glass is very much out of fashion – has been since the fifties. I regret that, in a way. You can add much more depth and detail if you paint it, and a whole range of different textures. But all the Young Turks nowadays are churning out acres of glorified leaded lights, and I suspect they’re sometimes simply tempted by the fact that it’s so much quicker, not to mention cheaper – obviously, since it cuts out two whole processes.’ He removed a moustache of coffee from his lip, swallowed the last mouthful with a frown.

  ‘What’s even worse, in my view, is the way they just design their windows or whatever, then hand them over to be cartooned and cut and finished in some bloody great factory of a studio, instead of doing all the work themselves. There’s this famous place in Germany – infamous, I’d say – which is always touting for new work. I chuck their letters straight into the bin. Why call yourself an artist and a craftsman, if you can’t be bothered with the art and craft, but just delegate to a bunch of Krauts, who’ll make a slavish copy of your sketch, but won’t add those tiny changes which are the life-blood of the thing?’ He gestured with his teaspoon to the workbench. ‘Even now, I’m making alterations – modifying a colour, re-drawing a nostril or an eye – and when I come to do the matting, I’ll be making individual decisions on almost every piece of glass – how much paint to keep or scrape away; how much texture to create; whether to stipple it, or scratch it, or leave it smooth or …’

  ‘You mean, some artists leave all that to someone else?’

  ‘Oh, yes, increasingly – if they bother to paint at all. I suppose it’s a bit like the old Victorian trade-firms, when all the different processes were done by different people. It got so specialised in the largest of the studios that some chaps painted only feet, or only hands, or only flowers or borders. I’m naïve enough to think that any artist worth the name should carry out each stage himself. That way, the finished window ends up alive and personal.’ He pushed his cup away, stubbed out his cigarette. ‘I’m talking far too much. We’ve got work to do.’

  You have, she thought enviously, wishing they could take a longer break, talk not about pernicious German studios, but about themselves – their Christmases, their future. If he hadn’t taken Anne with him to France, perhaps that meant the marriage was a dud, so she’d no longer have to worry about betrayal and deceit, and could sleep with him again. His mind was so much on his work, but hers was on his body – the little she could see of it: the V of flesh closed off by his shirt-buttons, the coarse hairs on his wrists, his tanned and nervy hands. Those hands were so involved, with the paint again, the brush again, and she craved them for herself; longed to feel their warmth against her breasts, the cunning fingers tracing not an angel’s neck, but the slow curve of her hip. He seemed to be almost flirting with the brush, coaxing it, seducing it, giving it his full attention, all his tenderness, devotion. She’d been pushed aside, back in her own corner, so she wouldn’t interrupt that eager twosome. What would happen later, when he was forced to stop his work because
the light had dwindled and dusk about to fall? Would she have his hands herself then, another kiss, perhaps, or would he shun her cold-germs and return to healthy Anne?

  She was almost glad to hear the phone ring, pounced on it immediately. It might distract her from her anxious circling thoughts. ‘It’s for you,’ she said dejectedly, slouching back to Christopher.

  ‘I’m busy.’

  ‘I know. I told her that, but she …’

  ‘‘‘She’’’! Who’s ‘‘she’’? I’ve told you several times before, ask for people’s names.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She didn’t answer, said you’d …’

  ‘Okay, hand it over.’

  She listened to his voice change, the first brief and barked ‘hello’ mellowing to intimacy as he reclined back in his chair, kept nodding, smiling, emitting exclamations. He had told her he was busy, yet here he was, enthralled by some long saga, now on his feet and weaving round the room. Portable phones were made for men like Christopher, who could work off excess energy while chatting to their strings of fancy females. It also meant he could frustrate her curiosity by wandering out of the studio and continuing the conversation in the kitchen or the firing-room, where she couldn’t listen in. He was almost through the door, though he didn’t close it – strangely – so she could still hear his lively voice, his animated laugh. He’d been crotchety with her, hadn’t even deigned to smile, let alone reward her with that delighted husky chuckle. Was this the woman he’d whisked away to France – some famous painter, sculptor, who was also wonderful in bed?

  She skidded to the door, banged it shut herself. She mustn’t be so paranoid, turn every casual caller into Mrs Harville-Shaw the Fourth. It could be a prospective client, someone he was flattering in the hope of an important new commission, or a client’s wife who had to be kept sweet. She sat down at his workbench, admiring the blue face, which he had totally transformed. It was no longer blank and featureless, but had a deep expressive eye, a sensuous mouth, half-open, as if about to sing, or weep. She could recognise herself in it – Rose immortalised. She must concentrate on that, on the fact that he’d employed her as his model, engaged her as his helpmate, still needed her around.

  She bent a little closer, to examine the detail of the brush-strokes, then shrank back anxiously. One of her long hairs had fallen right across the Angel’s eye. She blew on it, to shift it, but it refused to budge at all, appeared to be caught in the fine grains of the paint. Impossible to leave it there. The artist would start cursing, make the atmosphere between them even more inflammable, yet if she tried to pick it up, she might smudge the painted face. She held her breath, used the very tips of her fingers to try to tweeze it up, managed to get hold of it, remove it from the glass. Relief gave place to horror as she realised she had left a tiny scratch – must have nicked the surface with her fingernail, disturbed the fragile paint.

  She whipped up to her feet, and over to the glass-screens, pretended to be busy, deep in concentration. She had heard the artist breezing through the door.

  ‘What are you doing, Rose?’

  ‘J … just taking down some more glass for you to paint.’

  ‘Good girl! That’s what I call initiative. I’d like the chest bit next, please, and the top part of the wing.’ He replaced the phone in its cradle, then went back to his workbench, examining his palette, remoistening the paint. He rinsed his brush, sat waiting, watching Jane impatiently as she dithered by the screens. ‘Get a move on, Rose. I haven’t got all night.’

  ‘Coming,’ she said frantically, trying to detach the fiddly glass-shapes with an oyster-knife, her hands so tense and clumsy she was terrified she’d break a piece, ruin something else.

  ‘What’s wrong with you today?’ he asked, tapping out a descant with his brush. ‘You’re not yourself at all. Why don’t you spend the day in bed? You’ve got a lousy cold, and a bit of rest would probably do you good. Go and put your head down, and I’ll bring you up some hot soup later on.’

  Don’t be kind, she prayed. It’ll only make it worse. ‘No, I … I’d rather stay and help.’

  ‘There’s very little to do. To be perfectly honest, it’s probably almost easier if I … Hell’s teeth! What’s happened here? How in God’s name did that scratch appear? Rose, have you been messing about with this?’

  ‘Well, no – yes – I only …’

  ‘Christ All-bloody-mighty! Can’t I leave you for a second without you bungling something? I had the devil of a job working on that face, and now you’ve mucked the whole thing up.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s no good being sorry. That won’t put it right. You can’t retouch unfired paint – which means I’ll have to wipe it off and do the bloody thing all over again. And we’re pushed for time as it is.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have gone away, then.’

  ‘What did you say?’ He lunged towards her, caught her by the shoulder.

  ‘Nothing.’ Her shoulder twinged and scalded underneath his grip, her whole body hot and feverish, as if her trifling cold had exploded into fever.

  ‘Rose, it’s none of your fucking business whether I go away or not.’

  ‘It is my business. And I hate you swearing at me and … and telling all those lies. Okay, I’ve spoilt your precious Angel’s face, and I’m sorry, really sorry – I can’t apologise enough – but you’ve spoilt things as well, ruined them, in fact. I can’t bear it when you lie to me, so I’ve no idea what’s going on, and everything’s a mystery. It’s always been like that – people pulling the wool over my eyes, imagining I won’t find out, until some stupid sozzled Uncle Peter starts letting out the secrets and …’ She broke off in confusion, hardly aware what she was saying, then jerked out from his grasp and stumbled to the door. ‘I’m leaving anyway. I’m no use here – you told me so yourself – so find another girl to help, that one you took to Nice, for instance. I’m sure she’d be less bungling.’ She spat out his own word, ripped her paint-splashed apron off, then slammed the door behind her.

  Chapter Twenty

  Jane paused a moment on her bike, to mop her nose and eyes. It was madness to be out in such bitter winter weather, with a stinking cold and no coat or scarf or gloves, but her only thought when she’d run out on the artist had been to escape as quickly as she could, put miles and miles between them. She blew on her numb fingers, tried to slap them back to life. She couldn’t simply cycle on for ever, with no goal in sight, no idea where she was going. Her instinct was to hurtle straight to Isobel’s, but Hadley would be there. He’d flown back last night from Paris, and had already phoned, suggesting that they meet. She had tried to sound more stuffed up than she was, added a cough and a sore throat to her other (genuine) symptoms. But no cold would last indefinitely, and eventually she’d need a new excuse, some reason why she couldn’t – wouldn’t – sleep with him.

  She pedalled on wretchedly, eyes watering in the wind; too cut up about the artist to spend more time on Hadley. If only she were back in Shrepton, with all her friends around her – Helen, Sarah, Rita, Sue – girls of her own age and background, whom she could confide in, open up to. Was she crazy to have left them, made herself so solitary, a runaway, a stray? There were so many things she missed about her home, and it had been worse these last two weeks, when she’d felt a refugee, mooching round at Isobel’s because there was nowhere else to go. Yet when her mother had come on the phone, not weeping like her father, but insisting that they drive straight down to fetch her, and could she let them know exactly where she was, some warning-bell had sounded in her head and she’d refused to tell them; said she couldn’t leave her job quite yet, was still confused about coming home and needed far more time to think it out. She had really feared the clash of her two worlds, her parents’ disapproval of the person she’d become.

  She slowed again, glanced behind her, now hoping quite irrationally that Christopher’s sleek car would come purring up to rescue her; that he
’d drive her back to the studio, take her up to bed. She dithered at a signpost, realised if she turned right there, she would be on the road to Adrian’s.

  ‘Lucem Tuam Da Nobis Deus’. The words chimed in her head again. Adrian had a chapel and a God. He was single, unentangled, kindly, a true Christian – and still desperate for a cleaner. He’d told Isobel at the private view that his latest Irish ‘treasure’ had walked off with the fish-knives. She could offer him her services instead, keep quiet about the row, but simply say she hadn’t much to do while Christopher was painting, so it would help them all if he could employ her for a week or two. Suddenly, the bike seemed lighter, the weather not so cruel. At least she had a refuge and a plan.

  She was sweating by the time she reached his house. It was much further than she realised, with more puffing gruelling hills. The heat seemed overwhelming when she entered the front hall: three radiators sweltering, and a real coal fire panting in the majestic marble grate. Nick had let her in – the man who looked like Keats, whom she remembered from her first visit. He also remembered her, flashed her a Keatsian smile, which spread from his full mouth to his spirited dark eyes.

  ‘Adrian’s busy at the moment, with a client. Can you wait?’

  ‘Yes, ‘course.’

  ‘Park yourself on that sofa there. Or if you fancy a quick dip, the pool’s just down the corridor.’ He gave a dramatic stagey shiver. ‘I wouldn’t recommend it. We’re all so busy here, no one’s used it for an age, or even turned the heating on, and it’s probably got ice on top by now.’

  ‘No thanks! I’d like to see the glass, though. D’ you think Adrian would object if I took a quick look round?’

  ‘I’m sure he’d be delighted.’ Nick was juggling with the letters he was holding, then shuffling them, like cards. ‘He’ll be tied up for a good half-hour, so there’s no rush – take your time. I’ll come and fetch you when his client’s left.’