Bird Inside

by Wendy Perriam

  He suddenly let out a curse, whipped back to the kiln. ‘Christ!’ he said, ‘the glass.’ He grabbed a pair of asbestos gloves and a long iron handle-thing, transferred a tray of red-hot glass to a lower part of the kiln. She flinched back from the firing-chamber, glowing hectic-red; nervous of the heavy trays he was shifting up and down. It seemed almost a barbaric process, roasting fragile glass-paint in a furnace. The cool blue Angel must be suffocating, broiling; its wings ablaze, its long hair charred and singed. She could feel the heat in her own body, melting her to liquid, blistering her tongue. She threw off her coat, her cardigan, longed to strip as naked as the artist.

  She hardly recognised him. He had turned into a navvy, heaving loaded trays about; the muscles in his naked back rippling from the effort; an oblong of bare sweaty skin gleaming through a tear in his old cords. Even his fine hands had become rough and hulking paws in their clumsy firing-gloves. He clanged the metal doors shut, then removed one final tray from the bottom of the kiln. ‘Goddammit!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked, unnerved, but unable to see anything, since he was standing in the way.

  ‘The face has flown, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’ ‘Flown’ suggested wings, a small blue face winging through the air, another minor angel.

  ‘Broken right across – ruined, in effect.’

  ‘Oh, no!’ She stared down at the tray – the Angel’s head and hair laid out in its separate pieces on a bed of fine white powder; the blue face cracked in three, which made it look distorted – weeping or grimacing, instead of gazing wide-eyed up to God. She felt angry with him suddenly, as if he, too, were a vandal, destroying his own glass. How could he be so careless, risking something precious, which meant so much to both of them? Yet she had spoilt it first time round, by scratching it with her fingernail. Was it jinxed, this face, or could it be her fault again, for barging in so suddenly?

  ‘That’s the last bloody straw, Rose! I’ve been firing since ten o’clock this morning – which is why it’s so damned hot in here – and everything’s gone wrong. Firstly, I forgot my keys, and had to go back and fetch them, next we had a power-cut for an hour, then I had some breakages on the top part of the wing, and now the face, of all things. It means cutting it again, painting it again, going right back to square one.’ He set the tray down on the bench, sank down himself, exhausted. ‘I could have done with an assistant this last fortnight. Why the hell did you walk out on me like that?’

  She tensed. ‘You made it pretty clear I wasn’t any use.’

  ‘Nonsense, Rose. I never said a word about your skills or lack of them. As far as I remember, you kept hassling and distracting me, asking stupid questions …’

  ‘Which you answered with lies.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Rose, not that again. We’ve been through it all already.’

  ‘No we haven’t. You just clammed up, didn’t care how much it meant to me. Don’t you see, it’s terribly important? If you lie to me on one thing, then I can’t trust you on the rest.’ She fretted to the window, stared out at the darkness. ‘I know Anne didn’t go with you to Nice, so why pretend she did?’

  Christopher pounced up to his feet, made a punching motion through the air. ‘Okay, she bloody didn’t. Does that make you feel better?’

  She shook her head, recoiling from the rancour in his voice.

  ‘All right, let’s spell it out, if it’s going to make you happy. Never mind how miserable I‘ve been.’ He suddenly lurched off at a tangent, as if he’d forgotten Anne entirely. ‘I’d no idea where you were, or why you’d bloody gone. You waltz off with that oaf Hadley for the evening, then stay away six weeks. All I get is one brief note, telling me damn all. You didn’t even leave me your address.’

  ‘You could have got it if you’d tried.’

  ‘I don’t pester people, Rose, if I assume they no longer want my company.’

  ‘Look, you told me to get out – well, not exactly in those words, but you said I was a bungler and …’

  ‘You accused me first.’

  Jane gripped the windowsill. They were sounding like a pair of squabbling brats, each out for the last word. If she wasn’t careful, there’d be another brawl. She tried to calm her voice, behave more like an adult, but without capitulating. ‘Okay, I did – I do. You lied to me, Christopher, and I need you to explain.’

  He fidgeted away from her, picked up a rag to mop his sweaty face. Several minutes passed before he spoke again, his tone chilly and restrained now. ‘Anne and I don’t see eye to eye as far as Christmas is concerned. She likes to stay at home, and take things very quietly. She’s away a lot on business and has a high-powered pressured job, whereas I work mainly on my own, so naturally I prefer a bit of company, a trip abroad, something much more lively. We’ve been away for Christmas five years running, so I admit she’s got a point. The problem was she changed her mind – first she said she would come, then she said she wouldn’t, which made it very awkward for me, since I’d fixed up all the flights, arranged things with my friends. We had quite a dust-up over it, but finally we compromised: this year we’d go abroad, to Nice, so we wouldn’t let our friends down; next year we’d stay at home.’

  He broke off for a moment to remove a tray of glass from the firing-chamber, transfer it to a lower shelf, to cool, first pulling on his asbestos gloves, then manoeuvring it with the handle. ‘Right, I’ll turn the kiln down now, and we’ll take a break before I fire the last batch.’ He lit a cigarette, striking several matches before he could get one to ignite, as if he’d infected them with his own unease in explaining the débâcle over Christmas. ‘Where was I?’ he asked tersely.

  ‘Just setting off for Nice.’

  ‘Ah, yes. We’d even packed, cancelled milk and papers. But the day before we were due to leave, Anne went down with a filthy cold and refused point-blank to go; said the cold was on her chest, so it would be dangerous for her to fly.’

  ‘But why couldn’t you have told me that?’ Jane demanded, feeling both baffled and relieved. ‘I mean, there’s no mystery about a chest-cold. I’d have understood, wouldn’t I, even felt quite sorry for you both?’

  ‘Would you, Rose, or d’you think you might have blamed me for not staying behind with my wife; called me selfish for leaving her alone and jetting off myself?’

  Jane paused before she answered. That was exactly the thought just passing through her mind. ‘So you lied to me because you didn’t want me to think of you as heartless?’

  He nodded. ‘Something on those lines.’

  ‘I’m not sure I believe you. You don’t care what I think – except about your work.’

  ‘It was work which was the problem. My friends in Nice had invited this French architect who particularly wanted to see me. I couldn’t let him down at such short notice. In fact, I’ve got a new commission – two windows for a church in Lyons – which is pretty damned miraculous, since the French always tend to keep things for themselves, don’t hand out work to foreigners.’

  ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘You’re too young to be sarcastic, Rose. It doesn’t suit you.’

  ‘I’m not sarcastic, just upset.’

  Christopher inhaled so deeply he appeared to be sucking down the cigarette itself. ‘You’re making such a meal of it. It’s a trifle, Rose, which you’re blowing up sky-high. Okay, I’m selfish, I like to do things my way, overrule my wife, and I suppose I’d prefer you not to know.’ He put down his cigarette, reached out for a duster, started cleaning up the pieces of glass, removing them from the firing-trays and transferring them to shallow wooden boxes. ‘We all try to hide our baser side, even from ourselves, make out we’re virtuous, and never get involved in sordid little quarrels. I mean, it’s humiliating, isn’t it, wives and husbands fighting tooth and nail over something so damned trivial?’

  She was touched, despite herself. So he valued her opinion, wanted to seem blameless in her eyes, someone reasonable, fair
-minded, who didn’t insist on his own way. But what about Anne’s affair with Adrian? That was not a trifle. He clearly couldn’t know about it, and she’d no intention of upsetting him by blurting out the facts. Perhaps Anne had exaggerated her cold, inflating a slight sniffle to a bronchial infection, so she could cry off at the last moment, well aware that Christopher would have to go himself, and she’d be free to meet her lover. She ought to feel sorry for the artist, married to a woman who lied to him, betrayed him; should treat him with compassion, not keep hectoring and riling him. It was obvious that he’d missed her – though he was far too proud to say so – and felt hurt because she hadn’t left him her address. She leaned across, eased the duster gently from his hand. ‘Look, I’m sorry, Christopher. It’s all been such a muddle. I thought you didn’t want me here.’

  He was still holding a small piece of glass, peering at it closely. ‘Six weeks have never seemed so long,’ he said, almost in a whisper. ‘I caught your cold, you know, and it hung around for ages, as if I couldn’t get you out of my damned system.’

  ‘Well, maybe I caught Anne’s cold,’ she replied. ‘Remember, you and I slept together just before you left for Nice, and you could have been carrying her germs.’

  ‘But you’d have got it sooner then, been snuffling over Christmas.’

  She didn’t answer. Whoever had caught what from whom, there was an obvious intimacy of germs; she and Anne and Christopher passing on their moods, their lies, their colds. She kissed his neck and throat, as if trying to soothe the hoarseness in his voice, which had deepened it an octave. Selfishly, she was glad he’d caught her cold. It seemed a bond between them, something of herself affecting his whole body, taking hold, lingering for weeks.

  He returned the kiss impatiently, his open mouth moving to her lips. ‘So why don’t you come back?’ he murmured. ‘Take off those fancy clothes and help me with the firing.’

  Her hands crept down his naked sweaty back. ‘Do you have to do it now?’

  ‘I’m afraid I do.’ He edged away reluctantly, pulled between her body and the glass. ‘I’m going up to Manchester tomorrow, and will be there for most of the week. I’ve had some pretty hellish problems on my new commission, which is why I’m so behind on this job.’ He gestured to the firing-trays, began continuing his work of dusting off the glass-pieces, packing them in boxes. ‘There’s all the leading still to be done, which will take a good two weeks, and the glaziers are always up to their eyes when it’s getting close to Easter. It’s such an early Easter – that’s the trouble. And I’d like to have the window in at least a fortnight before the actual dedication, in case there are any problems with the fixing.’ He blew powder off a piece of glass, whisked the duster over it, then glanced down at his watch. ‘I should be home already, but it seems stupid not to finish off these last half dozen trays, now the kiln’s at the right temperature, and my assistant’s here to help.’

  Jane smiled and rolled her sleeves up, found another duster, and starting easing into the rhythm of the task. ‘I mustn’t be too long though. Isobel’s expecting me. She told me to ring and she’d come and pick me up.’

  ‘Well, I hope she doesn’t stay and chat.’

  ‘I’ll make sure she doesn’t. I’ll meet her just outside.’

  He met her eyes, exchanged a grin – two conspirators.

  She dusted off a wing-piece, laid it gently in the box. ‘What happens to the glass now?’ she enquired, trying to catch up on the stages she had missed. ‘Is it ready to be leaded yet?’

  ‘Not quite. First it has to go back on the screens. After firing, I always check the whole thing up against the light. Some sections need rematting, or the tracing might have fired away, so I have to do a second painting, which means a second firing, and only after that it is sent off to the glazing-shop, packed in these same boxes, by the way.’

  Jane shook out her duster. The more she saw of Christopher’s work, the more she realised what patience it required – so many different stages, so much that could go wrong. ‘I think I’d scream,’ she grimaced, ‘if I had to keep redoing things. It was bad enough when I burnt the meringues and had to beat another dozen egg-whites.’

  The artist leant towards her, touched her hand. ‘How soon can I lure you back from burnt meringues? Could you start work here on Monday week? I’ll be back myself from Manchester by then.’

  She nodded. A week should be enough to wind up her job with Green Cuisine, and settle things with Trish, who could well be secretly relieved that she was returning to the studio. Their friendship might recover once they no longer lived and worked together; the memory of that shameful fight slowly fade and dwindle. It had been too much of a strain, cooped up in the kitchen every day, then taking turns to mother-sit, whilst the other one waitressed half the night.

  The artist was smoothing out the plaster of Paris on the now empty firing-trays, breaking up any tiny lumps, raking over the surface with a piece of plywood cut to the width of the tray. ‘Actually, there’s not much more for you to do on the Resurrection window, but I’d like you to stay on, Rose, and help me with my new commissions. I’m going to be quite pushed. They want the Lyons windows by next Christmas. I’ve already got some good ideas buzzing about in my head. The architect, Jean-François, is keen to have a maze theme. Last April, his son, Pierre, went on a student pilgrimage to Chartres, with several thousand others – all the kids trudging thirty miles or more, and praying as they footslogged. They arrived in the cathedral on Sunday afternoon, for a dramatic solemn Mass, where everyone was given lighted candles, and processed through the Royal Portal with the organ playing and the congregation singing and a real feeling of communauté. Pierre stayed overnight, returned to the cathedral soon after it opened in the morning, and found this group of English pilgrims walking the labyrinth, which is marked out on the floor of the nave and uncovered only once or twice a year, when they remove the chairs to make room for all the crowds. He joined them and got talking, walked the maze along with them, and witnessed what he called a miracle – some young girl from Ireland suddenly healed in the very centre of the labyrinth.’

  ‘Healed of what?’ asked Jane.

  ‘I’m not too sure. Jean-François talks faster and at greater length than any man I’ve met, and though my French is pretty good, I did miss the odd subordinate clause. I think he said she’d been reborn, though that does sound quite incredible – I mean, reborn without her handicap. She apparently experienced this sense of being in the womb, and travelling out and down from it through the pathway of the maze. That may be Irish blarney, or a case of simple hysteria, but he assured me that his son was a solid down-to-earth type, not given to exaggeration, and he was definitely aware of this tremendous sense of energy, centred on the labyrinth. In fact, he was so bouleversé by the whole experience, he returned home supercharged, spouting mystical geometry and cosmology and gematria, and God alone knows what else. Jean-François was impressed, began reading up on labyrinths himself, and was soon equally agog – I mean, all that heady symbolism about man’s journey through the path of life, with its vicissitudes, meanderings, until he finally reaches the hereafter – so when he heard I’d also walked the Chartres maze as a student of eighteen, he was absolutely fascinated.’

  ‘You never told me, Christopher.’

  The artist stubbed his fag-end out, using a paint-tin as an ashtray. ‘I suppose it was so lost in the mists of time, I’d forgotten all about it. It was my very first visit to the cathedral and I was exactly your own age, and extremely interested in all things mystical. The maze is quite remarkable, one of the very few still left in Europe, and among the biggest Christian mazes ever made. No – I mustn’t call it a maze – it’s strictly speaking a labyrinth.’

  ‘I thought they were the same.’

  ‘No. Though a lot of books use the two words interchangeably, and even the Oxford English Dictionary fails to make the distinction, but simply reflects most people’s ignorance. A maze has false turnings and dead ends, and
is something which ‘‘amazes’’, whereas a labyrinth has just one single pathway – the longest possible route confined to the smallest possible area. The most famous one was the Knossos labyrinth, though some modern scholars insist it was a maze.’ He picked up his piece of wood again, continued smoothing out the plaster, removing one last nodule with his fingers. ‘You see, Theseus was warned that he’d never find his own way out, without the help of Ariadne’s thread, which suggests it must have been more complex than a labyrinth – or does if you insist on sticking to the factual truth, rather than considering poetic truth, which has more muscle in mythology. It’s one of those huge subjects of controversy, with all the pundits citing different arguments, or submitting learned papers to the journals.’

  Jane wished she could contribute to the scholarship herself, but she was floundering, as usual. They seemed to have moved from modern France to ancient Greece before she’d even grasped the basic concepts. Didn’t mazes have hedges, like the yew-hedge maze she’d walked once in a stately home near Durham, when she was still living with her parents? You could hardly plant a yew-hedge in the middle of a cathedral.

  Christopher was working fast, to match his flow of words, now reloading his empty tray, pressing down each glass-piece into the soft white plaster bed, paint-side upwards, ready to be fired. ‘The Chartres labyrinth is actually based on the Knossos one, but the medieval masons extended the arms of the Cross, and so Christianised its symbolism. The basic idea was still the same – a laborious journey, requiring perseverance – a search for one’s true self through the tortuous path of life. But in the Christian case, the end is not just death, but death as the means of entry into heaven, and Ariadne’s thread is interpreted as grace, which helps man fight the ‘‘Minotaur’’ of evil. Poetic truth again, you see, and pretty powerful stuff.’

  He nestled two more pieces into the corner of the tray, fingers deft and cosseting, like a father with his children. Jane watched him half-resentfully. He appeared to have forgotten both their quarrel and their kiss, but that was typical. Once he started on a subject which absorbed him, mere personal relationships shifted into second place. She envied him his knowledge and his travels; longed to go to Chartres herself – not to mention Nice and Knossos – browse through learned journals, take sides in deep controversies with highbrow culture-vultures. Up till just this moment, a maze for her had been nothing more than a trivial diversion, an amusing puzzle to while away an hour or so, not an academic subject, awash with heady symbols.