Bird Inside

by Wendy Perriam

  They both swung round as someone hammered on the window-pane behind them. Jane glimpsed an orange sweatshirt, a thatch of gingery hair, shrank back in confusion.

  ‘Can you let me in?’ yelled Hadley. ‘I couldn’t find the bell, and I’ve brought some food and drink and stuff.’

  Christopher rinsed his brush in water, flicked it dry; angry droplets spattering the floor. ‘Will you kindly tell your impetuous young friend that this is my private workplace and not a public restaurant.’

  Jane dashed to the front door, suddenly aware that she must smell of disinfectant, had paint-stains on her jersey, and a crust of mud hemming her old jeans. ‘Hadley, look, we’re working. You can’t …’

  ‘But you told me you were ill – too bad to move at all, you said. Mum was really worried. She’s out herself, visiting some poor old gent in hospital, but she sent me round with this lot.’ He plonked his basket down, a large old-fashioned wicker one, which held two covered Pyrex dishes and a tartan Thermos flask. ‘That’s camomile and whatsit,’ he said, pointing to the flask. ‘She made it for you specially, says it’s marvellous for sore throats.’

  ‘But I haven’t got a …’ Jane bit the words back quickly, had told Hadley just last night that every time she swallowed, it felt like broken glass. ‘That’s … er … very kind. Thank you.’

  Hadley grabbed her hand. ‘You don’t have to sound so formal. I was jolly glad to have the chance to see you. I’ve missed you fearfully, you know, thought about you every single day – and night. You did get all my postcards?’

  ‘Yes.’ She disengaged the hand, praying Christopher wouldn’t join them at the door.

  ‘I wish you’d written back.’

  She glanced nervously behind her. ‘I … I didn’t think a letter would get to you in time. Aren’t the posts a bit fouled-up in France?’

  Hadley shook his head, reached across to touch her hair. ‘Far better than they are in Merry England. After all, you got my six, didn’t you?’ He twined a lock of hair between his fingers. ‘I think I’ll cut this strand off and wear it in my helmet like a plume. Then, when I fight for you in the lists, I’ll win every single tournament, and you’ll reward me with your favours.’ He tried to demonstrate the favours, drew her closer, both hands round her waist.

  She stepped away so swiftly, she banged her elbow on the wall. ‘Ssh! Christopher will hear us.’

  ‘What’s he doing?’

  ‘Working. In fact, I really ought to …’

  ‘Great! I’d love to watch. I’ve heard so much from Mum about this famous studio, I’ve got to see the place in action, so to speak.’

  ‘He can’t stand being watched, especially now. He’s bang in the middle of some really tricky painting.’

  ‘I won’t disturb him, honestly. I’ll only be a jiff. By the way, where d’you want this food put?’ He seized the basket, the two dishes rattling wildly as he swung it. ‘Mum said you had a kitchen here, so if you could point me in the direction of the fridge …’ He was already streaking past her, right into the studio, halted by the workbench where Christopher was painting, peered across his shoulder. ‘Gosh! That’s fascinating. I’ve never seen stained glass close up. It looks completely different, as if it’s been dismembered. Poor Dad! He can’t seem to get away from things in bits. What’s that brownish stuff? Oh, I see, it’s paint. How odd. I always thought the details were somehow engraved on the glass, not painted. And what a funny brush!’

  Christopher laid his ‘funny’ brush down, looked through Hadley as if he wasn’t there. ‘Rose,’ he said, his voice ominously controlled. ‘I wonder if you and your friend could find another venue for your party? It’s impossible to work with these distractions, and we appear to have had more than our fair share today already.’

  Jane shook back her hair, tried to keep her own voice calm and pleasant. ‘It’s all right, Hadley’s going. He … he only came to bring this food from Isobel.’

  ‘The fridge is full of food. I brought back cheese from France, and several different pâtés.’

  ‘No, it’s special food for me.’

  ‘What d’you mean, special food? Does Isobel imagine that I starve you, as well as overwork you, so you need your own supplies, extra rations delivered personally at lunch-time?’

  Hadley laughed, perched on the workbench, swinging his long legs. ‘Actually, that’s quite a good idea. Perhaps I could set up a delivery service, earn some money in the vac – a Cordon Bleu rival to lousy Meals on Wheels. Mind you, this lot’s pretty vile,’ he said, gesturing to the basket. ‘Mum made very mushy things on purpose, ’cause Rose can’t swallow at the moment.’

  ‘Can’t swallow?’ Christopher removed himself from both Hadley and his basket, stood by the window, lighting up another cigarette.

  ‘No,’ said Hadley, following. ‘She’s got this rotten flu and a terrible sore throat. We thought she’d be in bed.’

  ‘Couldn’t Isobel have phoned me first, to check?’

  ‘She didn’t know you were here, told me you were expected back tomorrow. She’ll be popping in herself this afternoon.’

  Christopher closed in on Rose, exhaled a spurt of smoke. ‘I’m not sure what’s been happening here during the last fortnight, but I think you know already, Rose, that I discourage casual visitors. I’m not keen on interruptions when I’m working.’

  ‘Hold on a minute, Christopher,’ Hadley interjected. ‘That’s totally unfair. Mum’s hardly a casual visitor. Perhaps you’ve overlooked the fact that she put up all the cash for this damned window. And anyway, I think it’s pretty decent of her to bother as she does. Rose said she had a temperature last night, so Mum felt she ought to help, maybe call a doctor.’

  Christopher snapped his lighter on, extinguished it again. ‘As far as I’m aware, there’s nothing wrong with Rose, apart from a slight cold. She appeared to have no trouble swallowing half a dozen biscuits, and she’s just been out for a long and bracing bike-ride.’ He was still fiddling with his lighter, the tiny flame twitching on and off with an impatient hissing sound. ‘In fact, why don’t the pair of you get out of my hair, go for another joyride, or eat your mushy picnic somewhere else, and leave me to get on with my ‘‘damned window’’, as you call it.’

  He strode back to his workbench, seized the wicker basket and thrust it into Rose’s arms. ‘I suggest you take your coat this time. I’ll see you in the morning – nine o’ clock sharp – if you’re not too near death’s door, that is.’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  ‘And so I slept with him, you see – a second time, I mean.’

  ‘And you didn’t really want to?’ Trish was sprinkling the cut aubergines with salt, then leaving them to sweat in three large colanders.

  ‘No.’ Jane flexed her aching hand. She had peeled seven pounds of carrots without a break. ‘I know it sounds awful, as if I’m just a slut or something, but I was so mixed up and miserable, and we were in the house alone, and he kept … well – sort of groping me, even during lunch, undoing my top buttons and … I felt so ill by then, Trish, I think I really did have flu, and I couldn’t seem to rustle up the energy to keep saying no, and arguing. And he was so mad-keen and everything, one part of me was rather touched. Or maybe I was just getting back at Christopher. He’d been so cold and distant, you see, and really quite sarcastic, whereas Hadley was all over me.’

  ‘Literally, it seems.’

  Jane laughed, half-ashamed. ‘I’ve shocked you, Trish, I bet.’

  ‘Of course you haven’t. I suppose I’m simply jealous, in a way. You’ve got two men, I’ve got none.’

  ‘Well, I wish you’d take him off me.’

  ‘No fear! I’ve known Hadley Mackenzie since he was a strapping lad of three. We even shared a bath, once. It removes all the romance if you’ve sat cross-legged on the carpet watching Play School together, and fighting over the peanut-butter sandwiches.’

  ‘I wish we’d stuck to that.’ Jane coiled a carrot-peeling round and round her finger.<
br />
  ‘I wish I could get past it,’ Trish rejoined. ‘The last guy I went out with sat me down in the living-room, switched on the TV, then went to make the sandwiches, and we had a lovely cosy evening watching The Big Sleep. The only difference was the sandwiches were ham, not peanut butter.’

  ‘Well, at least he wasn’t vegetarian.’

  ‘No – thank heavens. D’you know, the longer I’ve been working for Green Cuisine, the more I crave good red wicked meat.’

  ‘They’re vegans, aren’t they, this time?’

  Trish nodded. ‘Ninety-seven vegan rebirthers, if you can imagine such a thing – all meeting for some weirdo celebration. In fact, we’d better get a move on. Maeve’s coming to collect the food at five o’ clock sharp, and we’ve hardly done a thing yet.’

  Jane checked her watch, continued with the peeling. ‘Vegetarian cooking’s quite a con. I used to think it was just rabbit-food and stuff, not all these spinach soufflés and aubergine terrines, which take twice as long as something quick and simple like lamb chops and two veg.’

  ‘Well, at least we’re not waitressing tonight.’

  ‘I wish we were. I made fifty pounds on Saturday, including all the tips.’

  ‘Yes, but we weren’t in bed till three.’

  ‘I still think it’s worth it.’

  ‘So do I.’ Trish trickled olive oil into the frying pan, about to fry the aubergines. ‘I’ve saved enough for my holiday already, even upgraded it to Greece, instead of Spain. Why don’t you come with us? Easter in Corfu. I can hardly wait!’

  Jane shook her head. ‘The window’s being dedicated on Easter Sunday.’

  ‘You mean, you’re still expected to go? Won’t it be embarrassing now you’ve walked out on Christopher?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It will.’

  ‘Don’t bother then. Join us in Acharavi. Maeve won’t mind. The more the merrier. Her boyfriend’s probably coming anyway.’

  ‘I’ll see,’ Jane mumbled vaguely. Trish could never really fathom how much the window meant to her, how fiercely she missed working on it. Chopping up the vegetables for leek and carrot soup was not quite in the same league as helping to create a deathless Angel. Food was so ephemeral, vanished in an evening, didn’t have that heady power to transport you to a different realm, one where Spirits bridged the gulf between earth and boggling heaven, but which sounded total gobbledygook if you tried to put it into words, or explain it to someone down-to-earth like Trish. She couldn’t understand now how she had ever scrawled that letter to the artist – an impulsive tetchy letter, saying she thought it would be better if she found some different work, since she didn’t have the expertise he required in an assistant. Perhaps she’d simply burned to show she didn’t need his job – nor Adrian’s, for that matter – was employable elsewhere, not dependent on their charity, or whims.

  She was also worried about money, especially when she realised that if she wanted to run off again, escape from Christopher this time, instead of from her parents – run east or west, or even go abroad – she simply wouldn’t have the fare. Her life with the artist was so uncertain, insecure. Even the way he paid her made her feel a child – just money in her hand – no slips or cheques or vouchers, no lists of hours spent working or official duties done. She had welcomed it at first, since it saved her paying tax, but now it seemed haphazard, as casual as the job itself. She had hardly saved a penny, had no place of her own, no prospects and no future. She jabbed the peeler in her palm. Was there any more future in preparing vegetables? She hadn’t even graduated to making pies or pâtés. Trish did all the fancy cooking, while she scrubbed and peeled and sliced. All the same, she was earning more at Trish’s, slaving long hours in the kitchen, or dressing up in her frilly cap and apron, then topping up her piggy-bank each night.

  She stared out of the window at the dreary treeless street, then back to the small kitchen with its ugly yellow paint, its turquoise-squiggled lino. The bleak and poky bungalow seemed to hem her in, constrain her, after the high roof of the barn, and she missed the blaze and brilliance of the glass-screens; fretted at the thought that the Resurrection Window was taking shape without her; Christopher alone with it, maybe as hurt and peeved as she was. She had been away ten days now, which meant he would have matted it, be involved in all that business with the badger brush, the stippling brush, the scrubs and sticks and needles. She had read about it in the books, but not seen it in reality, and she jibbed at the exclusion, despite the fact she had brought it on herself.

  She hacked a carrot into discs, taking out her anger on the knife. She mustn’t keep returning to the studio, had made a wise decision in deciding to come here. It gave her steady work, and was company for Trish, who was living in the house alone while her mother was in hospital, and had jumped at the idea. She couldn’t stay at Isobel’s with Hadley on vacation, Hadley on the prowl, and it had seemed a merciful escape to live with someone single, quiet and punctual, who was completely unencumbered by relations, sons, lame ducks. Now she was less sure. Trish had been extremely kind, yet she didn’t feel at home, disliked the frumpy furnishings in the cramped and dowdy sitting-room; the roar of passing trains which shook her chilly bedroom; found herself thinking back to Isobel’s, the artistic vibrant house and peaceful jungly garden, even missing all the chaos and the clutter.

  She tipped her carrot-slices into the largest of the bowls, joined Trish at the hob. ‘Shall we invite Isobel for supper here one evening? I’d like to pay her back for all her hospitality. I’ll do the cooking and you can put your feet up.’

  ‘But won’t she bring Hadley? I thought you were trying to avoid him.’

  ‘No,’ she said, then ‘Yes. He buzzed off back to college at least three days ago.’

  Trish was silent for a moment, stirred her sizzling aubergines. ‘I wish you’d told me earlier – about your sleeping with him.’

  Jane flushed. ‘I’m sorry, Trish.’

  ‘I mean, is that the real reason why you came here, just to find a bolt-hole and put thirty miles between you?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Jane’s flush deepened. ‘I was really keen to live with you, get to know you better. I mean, we seemed to hit it off so well, right from our first walk.’

  ‘So why couldn’t you have trusted me?’

  ‘I did – I do.’

  ‘Except about Hadley, it appears. When I asked you on Christmas Day if the artist was the only man you’d slept with, you said yes, emphatically.’

  Jane trailed back to the table, swept her pile of peelings in the bin. ‘I suppose I was ashamed – and … and …’

  ‘And what?’

  ‘Well, the fact you’ve known Isobel so long. I mean, I haven’t breathed a word to her.’

  ‘And you were scared I’d blurt it out, you mean?’

  ‘No.’ Jane paused a moment, wiped her hands. ‘If you really want to know, it did cross my mind that you might have had a … thing with Hadley yourself.’

  ‘No such luck.’

  ‘But I thought you said …’ She stared at Trish, who looked away, sagged down at the table.

  ‘Okay. You’ve caught me out. I suppose I can’t complain that you don’t trust me, if I keep things back from you.’ She pulled roughly at a hangnail on her thumb, her voice tight and slightly bitter. ‘I’ve been mad about Hadley since the age of twelve or so, and he’s never shown the slightest sign of interest in me, treated me like his sister, or the girl next door or something.’

  ‘Isobel married the boy next door, remember.’ Jane forced a laugh, tried to keep things light.

  ‘Lucky Isobel.’

  ‘Oh, Trish, I’m sorry, honestly. I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Don’t say anything. It only makes it worse. I’ve never admitted this before, but I think the reason why I never warm to other men is just that they’re not Hadley – haven’t got his hair or eyes or laugh or …’ She broke off, sat staring at her hands.

  Jane pretended to be busy swabbing down th
e worktops. She had taken Hadley’s hair and eyes for granted, been annoyed by his wild laugh the last time they’d been together. She could see him in her mind again, naked in his bedroom; that shock of hair which Trish admired tickling on her neck, those greenish eyes sparking with excitement as he peeled her pants down, stroked her own dark thatch. He was good-looking, generous, relaxed, amusing, fun, and now she knew the strength of Trish’s feelings for him, she somehow felt uneasy, as if she herself had misjudged him and short-changed him. Wouldn’t it actually be better to have a boyfriend her own age, someone unattached, whom she could be seen with in a restaurant without other people smirking or tut-tutting? And, if she were honest with herself, one sneaky shameful part of her had secretly enjoyed the sex, relishing the fact that Hadley seemed so avid for her. It had been so different from the first time, when she’d slumped on Sue’s old sofa, feeling, doing nothing; just an automaton, a robot. This time, she’d colluded, returned his frantic kisses, responded to his body, despite the turmoil and confusion in her mind. She’d even found herself whooping silently to Christopher while Hadley slammed on top of her: ‘He’s forty-two years younger than you, and nearly six foot tall. Any normal girl would regard you as antique, not to mention bloody difficult. It may surprise you, Christopher, but Hadley thinks I’m wonderful.’

  She blushed as she recalled the words she had used to Trish just now: ‘groping’, ‘pawing’, ‘slobber’, ‘snog’; the way she’d made it obvious that she didn’t really care for him; denied the other side, as if she didn’t dare admit, even to herself, that she had actually come with Hadley – yes, right at the same moment as his own blazing breathless climax, and just as she was yelling at the artist. She had landed up in bed with him mainly because of Christopher – a crazy way of getting her revenge, and also paying out Adrian and Anne – trying desperately to prove she didn’t care a fig about their own affair, and that she herself could be every bit as casual. How unfair to Hadley that seemed now, as cold-blooded as her crass attempt to tell him she didn’t want to see him any more – or at least not until she’d sorted out her future: what to do and where to live. Hadley had immediately offered help: had she considered vocational guidance, or going on to college; would she like to see prospectuses, or talk to this old chap he knew who’d been a careers adviser half his life?