Bird Inside

by Wendy Perriam

  She paced the tiny room, up and down, up and down, from door to wall, and back again. Was Trish asleep, she wondered, or equally upset? How would they ever face each other, heal the broken night, sit down to cheerful morning with tea and Sugar Puffs? Maybe Trish would not appear, just leave a frigid note, telling her to leave. She couldn’t leave, had nowhere else to go. It was only early February – the whole bleak year stretching on indefinitely. She fumbled in the bedside drawer for the stiff-backed diary she’d been given as a Christmas present. She had written almost nothing in it yet, apart from ‘Christopher comes back’ on January 4, and ‘Start work studio’, on January 6. She had lost heart after that, couldn’t be bothered to record the dates and details of Green Cuisine conferences or vegetarian dinner parties. But without those there’d be nothing, just an infinity of empty days, all lacking point and purpose.

  She climbed between the chilly sheets, slumped against the pillow. She’d never sleep, but her body ached and throbbed, and she couldn’t spend the whole night on her feet. She leafed on through the diary, every page a blank. Better to go back – back not just months, but decades. She turned to the front page, crossed out the year printed in the centre, and substituted ‘1974’; then flicked on to mid-April and wrote laboriously in what she’d used to call her joined-up writing: ‘I grew in my Mum’s tummy’. She drew the froglet in the Easter-egg, though it came out like a tadpole in a pond, then kept riffling through the pages until she came to 5 October. ‘When I was born’, she wrote a little smaller, underneath that date, ‘I weighed 6lbs 2oz, which is slightly more than two big bags of flour’. She pencilled in the flour-bags, added two neat labels: ‘Spiller’s Homepride, Plain’. Amy had given her the figure of 6lbs – the only solid fact she had, though it could have been invention, she’d realised since her eighteenth birthday party. She turned the page, picked up a different pen and wrote along the bottom: ‘This is my first Mum. She used to cuddle me’.

  She sat staring at the blank white sheet of paper, empty save for days and dates; ‘Columbus Day (US)’, ‘Full moon’. She tried to fill the face in – the hair, the eyes, the smile – but nothing seemed to come. Anne’s face would no longer do. Her first mother could be young and sad, ill or old with stringy hair, even a chain-smoker who loafed around in pubs all day, but she mustn’t be involved in lies.

  A train rattled past the window, seemed to roar right through her body and out the other side; leave her deafened, hollow. Then silence swathed the room again, stealing over everything like sly concealing snow.

  She glanced back at her diary, with its cosy lulling words – ‘She used to cuddle me’ – ripped the page out violently, screwed it into nothing.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  ‘Thank you, darlings,’ Isobel enthused, hugging Jane and Trish together, then reaching for her coat. ‘That was a really marvellous lunch – and tea. Rose, you’ve become quite a master-chef in the time you’ve been with Trish.’

  ‘Well, I’m certainly a whiz at scrubbing spuds.’

  ‘But you made the pudding, didn’t you? And meringues are really tricky.’

  Jane nodded, passed Isobel her gloves – red wool mittens which shouted at the purple boucle coat. ‘I’ll be taking over from Trish soon. She can retire and draw her pension.’

  ‘Can’t wait!’ grinned Trish, moving down the passage to the door.

  ‘Hold on a minute, girls. Rowan’s coming over for Sunday lunch tomorrow, with Neville and a pal or three. Why don’t you come too?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t leave Mum,’ Trish said, lowering her voice, so that her mother wouldn’t hear. ‘You saw how bad she was today. You go, Jane.’

  Jane winced at the wrong name. Trish had kept up ‘Rose’ all day, until this final lapse. ‘I can’t get there on my own,’ she said. ‘It’s a bit too far to cycle.’

  Isobel rummaged for her car-keys. ‘Well, you could come with me now, and stay the night. I’d love that. And Neville can drive you back on Sunday evening. He lives in this direction.’

  ‘Would you mind, Trish?’

  ‘’Course not. Run and get your night things.’

  Jane sprinted to her bedroom, collected up pyjamas, toothbrush, handbag, sweater, coat; felt a sense of real excitement and release. Mrs Carter’s presence had somehow acted like a straitjacket, and also roused opposing feelings of compassion and revulsion. Illness was so harrowing, especially at close quarters. Trish’s mother and Isobel were exactly the same age, had been in the same class together, yet the latter seemed a good two decades younger, Jane watched her zip along the path, auburn hair bouncing on her shoulder, eager words spewing out in spurts of frosty breath; tried to quash the image of a cruelly contrasting Margarita Carter – shuffling, stumbling, stuttering, from bed to chair to bed.

  She climbed into the passenger-seat, lolled back against the scruffy brown suedette, enjoying the sensation of hurtling through the darkness in their own snug and warm cocoon. It was only five o’clock, yet felt much later – timeless – as they sped between blurred fields and ghostly sky.

  ‘Are you enjoying it at Trish’s?’ Isobel enquired, slowing down a little as she forked right at a junction.

  ‘Mm. In a way. We get on pretty well …’ The sentence faded out, as Jane reeled back from Trish’s flailing fists. She could feel the blows bludgeoning her body, the sense of shock and outrage as they wrestled on the carpet. The image of that savage fight wouldn’t leave her mind. She and Trish had made it up next morning, apologised, blamed the wine, done their desperate best to laugh it off, but even after all these weeks, there was still a certain wariness between them. They laughed and joked and chattered on the surface, but underneath was suspicion and distrust.

  She cleared her throat, knew Isobel was waiting for more details. She tried to fill the silence, switch to less distressing problems. ‘The job’s not all that marvellous. I mean, I’m glad I’ve learnt to cook, and I’m earning a fair bit, but it’s not the sort of work I really want to do. I can’t get wildly passionate about it, or feel I’m being stretched or …’

  ‘Like you did about Christopher’s work, you mean?’

  ‘I wasn’t any good at that,’ she snapped. ‘He told me so himself.’

  ‘Really? So what happened? I never understood why you left in such a rush.’

  Jane mumbled some excuse, as she had done before with Isobel – every time the older woman had tried to probe or question her. She hadn’t meant to sound so sharp, but the whole business made her irritable, including the questioning itself, the kind but snooping phone-calls. She changed the subject quickly, started a long anecdote about their latest Green Cuisine event – a three-day conference for Glaswegian New Age meditators who had complained because the organic wholemeal stoneground bread had been made with dried yeast instead of live. While she talked, she was aware that she was counting miles – only six or seven now until they passed the track which led to Christopher’s barn. She waited five more minutes, then casually remarked: ‘By the way, I left some things in the studio, and I’ve never had a chance to go and get them. Would you mind if we stopped off?’

  ‘Not at all, but how will you get in? It’s Saturday, remember, so Christopher won’t be there.’

  ‘I’ve still got my front-door key.’ It was in her handbag, along with one of the red roses from the Swan, one she’d dried and pressed, kept as a memento of what she called their honeymoon, the first time they’d been to bed together. She was counting days now, instead of miles: fifty-seven since they’d last made love; forty since she’d seen him. Time had never passed so slowly, as if she’d had to start again at the beginning of her life and relive her eighteen years at tortoise pace, crawling from infancy to childhood, through endless wretched teens. Yet she’d been determined not to weaken, unless Christopher himself gave some sign that he wanted to communicate. And she wouldn’t weaken now. She was going to see the Angel, not the artist; had to check the window, see how far he’d got, catch up on the stages that she’d mi
ssed.

  She tried to keep on chatting, but her mouth felt stiff and dry. She couldn’t understand it, when all she planned was a brief glance at some glass-screens in an empty studio. Why that desperate churning in her stomach; that sense of almost danger as the car swung right along the track, bumped and jolted down the stony lane?

  ‘Look, he is there!’ Isobel exclaimed. ‘The lights are on. How nice. We can go and have a drink with him.’

  ‘No!’ Jane almost shouted. ‘He … he hates people dropping in. He must be really busy if he’s working late at the weekend. Quick! Turn back.’

  ‘But what about your things?’

  ‘I’ll … er … phone him sometime. They’re not important anyway.’

  ‘Listen, Rose, I think I ought to have a word with you – about Christopher, I mean. I’ve been intending to for ages, and now we’re …’

  ‘Please drive on. I don’t want him to see us.’

  ‘How can he? It’s pitch-dark out here, and I’ve turned the headlights off. Keep your hair on, darling. You’re sounding quite worked up.’ Isobel reversed the car, stalling twice on the narrow rutted track. ‘You’re missing Christopher, aren’t you?’

  ‘Not especially, no.’

  ‘That’s the trouble – one of them. You just won’t open up. You can trust me, Rose, you know that.’

  Jane said nothing, skewed round in her seat and peered back at the bright lights of the barn. Was the artist really working, and was he on his own? Could Anne be there, or Stanton Martin, come to see his sketches, or was he busy with some voluptuous new assistant?

  ‘Hey, stop!’ she said suddenly. ‘I’ve just remembered, I’ll have to fetch my best red dress. I need it for a do we’re …’ The sentence petered out, didn’t sound convincing. She had already collected her belongings from the studio, a month or more ago, one Sunday morning, when Christopher was out. Trish had taken her, and they’d called at Windy Hollow House for a cup of coffee afterwards.

  Isobel turned round again with a grind and snort of gears. ‘Want me to come in with you?’

  ‘Oh, no. In fact …’ Jane hesitated, reluctant to sound rude. ‘I wondered if you’d mind driving back without me? I’ll come on later. I won’t be very long.’

  ‘But you’ve got no transport.’

  ‘No,’ she said, pondering. Perhaps Christopher would drive her – if she found him on his own. If only she could stay with him, return to her own bed, high up in the gallery, with his paintings looking down on her, and the Angel bright below.

  Isobel switched her headlamps on to full, to give more light in the murky tree-lined lane. ‘Look, give me a ring when you’re ready, and I’ll come and pick you up.’

  ‘Oh, Isobel, you angel! Are you sure it’s not a nuisance?’

  ‘No. I’m on my own this evening, and I won’t even need to cook, after that slap-up lunch you and Trish laid on.’ She stopped the car outside the barn, reached across and squeezed Jane’s hand. ‘Be careful.’

  ‘What d’you mean, ‘‘be careful’’?’ She had made it sound quite menacing, as if the artist were a murderer or rapist.

  ‘I don’t want you to be hurt, Rose.’

  ‘I’m only going to fetch a dress, for heaven’s sake.’

  ‘Well, in that case, let me wait for you. I won’t come in, I promise. I’ll just park here outside.’

  ‘No, please.’

  She watched the car drive off, almost yelled it back again. If her substitute were there, would she really want to stay and watch them operate together? She had never known Christopher work at six o’clock on Saturday, though if Anne had gone abroad again, he might have grabbed the opportunity to show his new assistant round, become more intimately acquainted with her.

  She fumbled for her key, had no wish to disturb them by ringing the bell. The artist would be furious if she slunk in unannounced, but she couldn’t lose this chance of checking up on him. She tiptoed through the door and on into the studio – no one there at all, although the lights had been left on. They must be up in bed – her bed. She fought an urge to scream at them, command them to come down; instead crept up the stairs herself, barely breathing, pausing on each step. If she found him there with someone else, she’d murder both of them. She stopped a moment, afraid of her own anger, hearing in her mind the wild noises of the Swan – heavy panting breathing, sudden whimpering cries. The door was open just a crack. She pushed it with her hand, shut her eyes, as if she couldn’t bear to see their bodies, naked and entwined. She counted up to five, then forced her lids to open.

  The gallery was empty, the bed neatly made, just as she had left it, all those days and days and days ago. Her relief was so enormous, she let out a shuddering sigh; patted the smooth duvet, as if rewarding a good dog. She rattled down the stairs again, realising only now that the glass-screens were no longer in position – no Resurrection Angel exulting to the sky. She glanced around in panic. Had something happened to it, some vandals smashed it up, as had occurred with Saint Jerome? She stood silent by the table, recalling Christopher’s anguished face when he’d finally ferreted out the story of what had happened to his Belthorpe window. A gang of louts, on the boozy rampage after a pop festival near Lincoln, had attacked it with both catapults and shotguns, then fled to the next village and turned their freaked-out rage on something else. He’d been wretched when he heard; all the more demoralised because no one had informed him at the time, nor suggested he replace it, and all he could conclude was that the vicar and the PCC were actually relieved to be rid of what they saw as an embarrassment. If he lost a second window, one not even finished, he might begin to feel a victim.

  She walked slowly to the far end of the studio. Everything was so vulnerable, so fragile – babies and their parents, works of art, relationships. Peaceful easy-going Trish had lashed out with tooth and claw, and she herself had instantly retaliated, two good friends fighting like wild cats. Supposing Trish bore grudges, was still chafing at the slight to her first mother, or still jealous over Hadley? And Hadley was another problem; would be home again on his spring vacation in just a month or so, expecting a decision, and one made in his favour.

  She squeezed past the workbench, her mind circling on itself; suddenly saw two screens propped against the wall, the glass on them intact and safe. They had been taken down, that’s all, left in a corner where she’d almost overlooked them. She subsided on a chair, so she could relish her relief, switch from problems to achievements; remember her success in cutting that blue foot, those strips of emerald field. So much of her was in that stained-glass window – not just her hair and features; but her exhaustion and her tension, her care and concentration, her name, her love, her labour.

  She loped back to the workbench, unrolled the cutline, spread it flat. That now-grubby length of paper contained the history of the cutting of the glass – crossings-out, reworkings, where Christopher had changed a shape or added a new leadline; scribbled memos to himself, instructions jotted down for her, initials representing colours: R, DG, LB. It was also a record of their relationship – their two bloods mingled in several darkish stains, a grease-spot from a cake they’d shared, a heart he’d doodled in her honour, after a rare impulsive mid-work kiss. She placed her finger on the heart, as if she could almost feel it beating; admired Christopher’s bold scrawlings, the energetic writing as assertive as himself. This cutline would be taken to the glazing-shop, used as the master-plan for leading up the window, and she’d no longer be a part of it, would miss that whole last stage; never watch the glaziers positioning the glass-shapes – a giant jigsaw on their bench – tugging lengths of limp lead taut, cutting them to size round each individual piece of glass, then soldering the joints, the hissing silver solder setting fast like sealing-wax.

  She rolled the cutline up again, stowed it in a drawer, couldn’t bear to be reminded of what she’d lost, renounced. As she stooped to close the drawer, she noticed a trail of fine white powder on the floor, which she recognised immediately as pl
aster of Paris. The artist used that powder in the firing-trays, as a smooth base for the glass. He must be firing in the kiln-room, have the rest of the window there, painted but dismantled, waiting its turn in the kiln.

  She nipped out of the side door, and a few steps down the passage, knocked before she entered, stepping into stifling heat from the draughty chill outside. Christopher wheeled round, naked save for a pair of ancient corduroys, sweat shining on his body, trickling down his chest. His hair was tousled, sticking to his forehead, his whole face flushed and damp. She had only seen him look like that when they’d just finished making love. Instinctively, she checked the room, but could see no panting woman – only glass and tools, empty wooden boxes, dusty metal trays, a workbench with a rack above it, holding saws and hammers.

  ‘Rose!’ he said, and took a step towards her, his voice slightly husky, as if he’d been suffering from a cold. She could smell his heat and sweat, felt almost scared of this wild and unkempt Christopher – white dust on his battered shoes, a smear of dirt blazoning one cheek. She began to pour out words, as a barrier and shield against him; to prevent him coming any closer – empty babbling words about her job with Trish, her lunch with Isobel; how she had come to fetch her dress, then seen the lights on, stopped … He made no response at all, simply kept his eyes on her; steel eyes drilling through her eye-sockets and on into her skull. She could feel herself faltering, the phrases petering out, shrivelling up to nothing like scraps of flimsy paper in a fire.