Bird Inside

by Wendy Perriam

  Jane longed to shout ‘Amen’. Okay, so she didn’t know the great God he was addressing, but he was also praising truth and beauty – Keats’s truth and beauty – making them important, exalting Christopher. Even the small children, who had been yammering and squirming, or wailing to go home, seemed impressed by his tall figure, his intense and solemn voice, the majestic shield-shaped mitre and jewel-encrusted cope. There was total pin-drop silence as he lifted both his arms to give the formal blessing, the gold crozier in his left hand, his right tracing out a dramatic sign of the Cross. Each word was slow and reverent, as if he were forging it anew, chipping it like silver from a mine.

  ‘Holy Spirit of the living God, Who proceedeth from the Father and the Son, we dedicate this window to Thine honour and glory, and we pray that those who look on it may find in it a way to Thy great Truth. May the ignorant find wisdom, the weary find peace, and those in darkness and confusion find the light.’

  Jane did now say ‘Amen’. The last few words seemed directed at her personally, and she was touched by them, inspired. The organ thundered out again, as the servers with their lighted candles led the procession back to the chancel, Isobel now arm in arm with Christopher, Hadley grinning sheepishly, and the fervent congregation hurling a new hymn up to the roofbeams.

  ‘Angel voices ever singing

  Round thy throne of light,

  Angel harps for ever ringing,

  Rest not day or night …’

  Jane turned back to steal a last look at her own Angel. It, too, would never rest, since the Bishop had entrusted it with a pretty weighty mission for the next few hundred years: to bring all those who looked on it to Truth and light and life.

  ‘It’s all a con,’ said Hadley. ‘I mean, in Chaucer’s time people only put up cash for windows so they could save their souls, or escape the frightful fate of being pitchforked into hell. It was just a form of insurance, and jolly egotistical, not spiritual at all. My flat-mate, Duncan, told me. He’s doing English Lit., and said these fourteenth-century Holy Joes sold bits of tatty pillowcase and passed them off as Our Lady’s veil. Roll up! Roll up! Buy your way to heaven with a pig’s bone – the genuine right femur of the Blessed Osbert Pugwash.’

  ‘So you think your mother’s simply trying to save her soul?’ enquired a tow-haired surgeon, gesturing with his fork, then turning his attention to his loaded plate of food.

  ‘Dad’s soul, more likely,’ Hadley muttered sulkily.

  ‘I’m sure, if there’s a heaven, your father’s already there, old chap.’

  Hadley shrugged. ‘We haven’t dealt with heaven yet, in our first-year physics course.’

  Jane tensed. The surgeon looked offended by Hadley’s jeering tone, shifted round to talk to someone else. Hadley still had a small audience, mostly doctors and their wives, his father’s former colleagues. He swigged down more champagne, reached behind him for the bottle, so he could refill his dwindling glass before he returned to the attack.

  ‘And the portraits of the donors in the windows got gradually larger and larger, until they were bigger than the saints themselves. It was a form of self-advertisement. ‘‘Look at me, look at me, kneeling right next to the Blessed Virgin Whatsit in my best doublet and hose. Aren’t I rich and powerful? Aren’t I a big wheel?’’’

  Jane jabbed her fork into a piece of salmon quiche, bit into it angrily. Hadley was quoting not just Duncan, but distorting her own words, rehashing what she’d told him and serving it up with a completely different gloss.

  ‘What are you trying to say, young man?’ asked another, older doctor, who appeared to be having difficulty cutting into a chicken breast with what looked like a cake-fork. ‘That your mother had this window made out of a sense of self-importance, to perpetuate her name, and Tom’s?’

  ‘Well, both their names are plastered there, for all the world to see. You can hardly miss that socking great plaque right underneath the window, which gives them both a plug. I’m not too sure whether it’s intended for God’s eyes, so He’ll save them two front stalls in heaven, or to impress the villagers.’

  Jane stalked into the hall, fuming silently. She had never known Hadley so boorish and sarcastic. He was clearly drunk, but that was no excuse. It was a betrayal of his parents, a betrayal of the artist. Okay, so he felt bitter about his paragon of a father, who had never actually had the time to play the father’s role, but couldn’t he be loyal to him on this one important day, for his mother’s sake, at least? She looked around for Isobel, saw her in the dining-room, garrulous and flushed, her large hat knocked askew, spilling coleslaw from her plate as she reached forward for a spoonful of crab mousse. Jane stood uncertain in the doorway, recoiling from the crush of guests, the loud guffaws, the roar of conversation. Why did parties seem so frightening – people larger, wilder, noisier, than they were in normal life? She could hear the music from her own eighteenth birthday party mocking in her head; the yearning strains of a romantic lovesick foxtrot mixed up with Uncle Peter’s sozzled voice. ‘Who’s my mother, Mummy? Who’s my …?’

  She lurched on to Tom’s old study, the only room not invaded by the guests, shut the door behind her, slumped down at the desk. It was her fault really, wasn’t it, that Hadley was so truculent? He’d discovered that she’d gone to Chartres alone, and been desperately upset; said she’d promised that they’d go together, and he’d already spent a fortune phoning French hotels, to find a really decent one; and had done badly in his course-work because he could think of nothing else but the excitement of the trip. She had made things worse by refusing to discuss it with him, refusing to go out with him. She hadn’t intended to be cruel, had needed all her wits to deal with Christopher; couldn’t get involved in bitter arguments with both men at the same time.

  She checked her watch – two o’clock. She should be helping with the lunch, clearing up the plates, passing puddings round, joining Rowan and her crew of giggly waitresses. She had drunk too much herself, felt tired and slightly dizzy, but she forced herself to walk down to the kitchen.

  ‘Rose! How nice to see you. I’ve been trying to catch up with you since I first came through the door, but somehow we keep missing one another. How are things, my dear?’

  ‘Fine,’ she said mechanically, stopping in the passage to shake the vicar’s hand. Anthony had changed from his elaborate white silk chasuble into a comfy tweedy suit, which made him look like an old-fashioned country vet.

  ‘It’s a marvellous day, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, uncertain if he was referring to the weather, or to the occasion generally.

  ‘And there’s dear Meg – and Alice. Shall we go and say hello?’

  More smiles and bland ‘how-are-yous’. Jane kept repeating ‘Fine’, kept bumping into people she’d met on Christmas Day – Uncle Rory, Aunties Meg and Martha. There were also swarms of strangers, daunting-looking men in formal suits with top-drawer accents and braying laughs which shook the room like shell-bursts. Even the untidy cluttered kitchen was bursting at the seams – an overflow of guests sitting on the table, or perched up on the worktops. Three small children were squashed into the dog-basket, playing dogs themselves, and a baby in a carrycot had been left beside the Aga and was chuntering to itself.

  She suddenly spotted Christopher standing in the corner, talking to a woman – not Anne, a younger girl – a pretty one with tousled hair and a tarty scarlet dress. He was leaning forward, feeding her a celery-stick, slipping it between her lips, but still holding it in his fingers right against her mouth, while she laughed and nibbled, then offered him her own half-bitten pizza-slice. Jane turned on her heel, squeezed her stop-start way into the garden, returning jolly greetings, refusing plates of vol-au-vents, top-ups of champagne.

  She strode across the lawn, lost herself in the thick shrubs at the back. Despite the sun, it was still cold and very windy, so no one else had strayed outside. She leant against a tree-trunk, trying to block out the girl’s provocative mouth, the way her breast
s drew attention to themselves by pushing at the low neck of her dress, as if impatient to burst out and be admired. You couldn’t win with Christopher. She had let him overrule her, accepted all his arguments about the importance of their bond, and why it must be sexual as well as artistic and professional, since one enhanced the other, and high creativity was linked to high libido; and how she could shrivel his ideas and skills if she rejected him in bed. Yet there he was, ogling other women, almost under her nose.

  She closed her eyes, saw him in the studio their first day back at work together, heard his gruff and waspish voice demolishing her own ideas, her need for space and separateness; annoyed with her for voicing them at all. And then his voice had changed, become passionate and pleading, and they were suddenly making violent love, still dressed, and on the floor. She had responded like an animal – physically, instinctively – but resentment had wormed in, resentment on both sides, which had undermined their bodies, as well as just their minds. He couldn’t come, and blamed her. She hadn’t said a word, but she’d been thinking secretly: ‘It’s not my fault. It’s because you’re old and past it.’ Her own anger had alarmed her, but he did seem old, seemed different altogether, less powerful, less distinguished.

  ‘Rose!’ called Isobel. ‘Rose, are you all right?’

  Jane slunk out of the bushes, still confused, still pulled between desire and indignation, longing and distaste. ‘I … I just needed some fresh air.’

  ‘I was getting rather worried. Rowan said she hadn’t seen you for an hour, and then I caught a glimpse of you heading for the cabbage-patch! Gosh! It’s chilly out here, isn’t it?’ Isobel hunched her shoulders, rubbed the gooseflesh on her arms. ‘You’ll catch your death in that flimsy frock of yours.’

  ‘No. I’m boiling.’ Still hot from Christopher – all the other times he’d rammed into her, laid claim to her – almost daily since she’d returned from Chartres, as if trying to repair his injured pride, or prove who gave the orders in the bedroom.

  ‘The shrubbery’s still looking rather battered,’ Isobel remarked, breaking off a laurel leaf and crushing it between her fingers. ‘It never really recovered from the storm. And then we lost our cedar.’ She drifted on a yard or two, bent down to stroke its butchered stump. ‘That’s all that’s left of a wonderful old warrior, sixty-five foot high, which battled with the elements for a hundred years or more, and sheltered half the birds in Sussex.’ She straightened up, still shredding the now mangled leaf. ‘And yet I was talking to old Abner, and he was claiming cheerfully that the storm wasn’t a disaster, despite the fact ten million trees went down. He said destruction is just part of the natural cycle, and always followed by regrowth.’ She tossed her leaf away, started fiddling with her hair instead, one long skein escaping from its pins. ‘He told me that in thirty years we won’t even know it happened, and that in certain ways the woodlands will actually be improved. More sunlight can flood in, you see, through all the gaps and clearings, which means more plants and shrubs will grow, and those encourage birds and insects …’ Isobel broke off, secured two errant hairpins back in place. ‘I felt almost glad there’d been a storm by the time I’d finished chatting to him!’

  Jane subsided on to the tree-stump, drawing up her knees. ‘Oh, Isobel, you’re such a maddening optimist.’

  ‘Of course I am. I must be. In fact, I can never understand why every Christian in the land isn’t hanging out the flags today, or blowing golden trumpets from the rooftops. When you think what Resurrection means – really means …’

  Jane shrugged, picked up a stray hairpin from the ground. ‘We’re not all Christians, are we? I only wish Christopher was happier. He seems so disappointed in the window.’

  ‘Oh, that’s just Christopher. I told you before, when he was so worked up about Adrian’s leisure-centre, how he never does a job without feeling it’s a failure. His standards are too high. He wants to be God, creating perfectly.’

  Jane bent the hairpin’s legs up, balanced it on her palm. ‘I sometimes think God made an awful mess of things.’

  ‘Of course He didn’t, darling. Creation’s quite amazing – a miracle, in my view. And talking of God, I ought to go and say goodbye to John.’

  ‘John?’

  ‘The bishop. He’s leaving at two-thirty, has to attend some other function back at Lewes. We were jolly lucky to get him, on Easter Day of all days. Isn’t he a darling?’

  ‘I haven’t really spoken to him.’

  ‘Oh dear. I’m sorry. I did mean to introduce you, but I’ve been feeling rather …’ Her voice appeared to slide downhill, lose its footing, fall. ‘I suppose all those friends of Tom’s brought back awful memories – of the funeral and … Now, steady on, Isobel, no more tears, you silly girl.’ She slapped her own wrist, hard, like a strict no-nonsense nanny rebuking her young charge. ‘I’ve disgraced myself already, crying in church like that.’

  ‘No, you didn’t,’ Jane said vehemently. ‘I liked the tears. They were right, and very special. They seemed almost part of the service – the dedication bit, I mean – as if you sort of … owed them to the window. I can’t explain. I’m probably sounding stupid.’

  Isobel hugged her for reply. Jane could feel her generous breasts, voluptuous yet motherly; smell her flowery perfume, her lemony shampoo. If only she could be a child, push away all the complications of adult life and love, and cling to one really special person – someone she could trust. Isobel’s arms were almost hurting, the hug was so intense. Jane shut her eyes, allowed herself to sink and merge, lose her boundaries. She was turning into Angela, Isobel’s first child. ‘You never forget the child you’ve given birth to.’ Angela must have been present in the church this morning, unknown to Tom, to all the congregation; a child named for an Angel, then given up, and lost. Where was her own birth-mother on this important Easter Day – sitting down to Sunday lunch with a brood of rival daughters, or rotting in her coffin? Would she ever know the answer, ever feel her arms around her, holding her and holding her?

  Isobel stepped back, at last, smoothed her crumpled blouse. Neither of them spoke, just walked shakily inside.

  They found the bishop finishing off his trifle. His mystique had disappeared with his mitre and his cope. There was a dribble of spilt custard on his formal purple front, and his fruity churchman’s voice was further mellowed by champagne.

  ‘Must rush, Isobel my dear. I’m fearfully late already. Quite fantastic party, though. Congratulations! And who made the sherry trifle? One of the best I’ve ever tasted, and that’s not flattery. In fact, there’s so much sherry in it, I’m probably over the limit. It’s a good thing David’s driving. David! Get your coat – we’re off.’

  Jane shook the bishop’s proffered hand. His huge jewelled ring looked as lethal as a knuckleduster, maybe holy ammunition in fighting the good fight, though he appeared to need a sling to support the weight of his right arm. Was he a man like Adrian, who regarded God as Chairman of the Board, who would promote him and reward him for good service?

  She remained nervous in the hall, while Isobel took David’s arm and saw him to the car, the bishop just behind them, scattering goodbyes like party favours. Jane edged on down the passage, then slipped into the sitting-room, still glancing round her anxiously. There were so many people she was trying to avoid – Christopher and Hadley, Adrian and Anne, not to mention the lame ducks: Edith and her yappy Pekinese, Mrs Brooking and her hearing-aid. There was no sign of the artist. Perhaps he’d found a bed upstairs, and was trying to convince his latest conquest that if they didn’t take advantage of it, she might blight his inspiration, destroy his next commission. Hadley had collapsed, and been propped against the window-seat to prevent him being trodden on. He was still awake, but appeared to have left the party for a region of his own, a darker sadder region. Several other people looked slightly the worse for wear, not drunk, just dishevelled; hats abandoned, hair awry. The house had also suffered – wine-stains on the carpet, cushions on the floor, a china
bowl in pieces, its pot-pourri scattered underfoot.

  ‘Hello, Rose,’ said a quiet unruffled voice. ‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere.’

  Jane swung round, came face to face with Anne’s benevolent smile. She forced a smile herself, switched on her party talk – waffle and inanities, but underneath, her brain was working overtime. Did Anne not mind that her husband had absconded? Had she even noticed? Or was she far too busy awaiting Adrian’s arrival? He’d had to miss the service, been involved with a new client, despite the fact it was Sunday and a holiday, and now it looked as if he’d miss the party too.

  ‘Have you tried this chocolate mousse, Rose? It’s delicious.’

  Jane shook her head; hadn’t had her first course yet, beyond one half-hearted mouthful of cold quiche. She couldn’t concentrate on food, was transfixed at that moment by Anne’s bare throat – bare of any chain. The tiny antique cross was in her own new handbag, now slung across her shoulder and clasped safe beneath one arm. She always took the cross with her, everywhere she went, for fear it might be stolen if she left it in the studio, even hidden in a drawer. She fought a sudden crazy urge to get it out, dangle it in front of Anne, and ask her casually, ‘Hey! Guess where I discovered this.’

  ‘You’re not wearing your cross and chain,’ she said instead, deadpan.

  ‘No,’ Anne concurred, in the same unflustered even tone she’d been using all along.

  Jane watched her face intently, waiting for a flush of guilt, a flurry of confusion. Wouldn’t she say more, give some explanation: she’d lost her cross, or sold it, felt it didn’t suit her dress.

  ‘You know, it beats me really how Isobel finds time to cook at all, with all the other things she does. Or did Rowan make the puddings?’