Owls Do Cry

by Janet Frame

  He didn’t know what he meant so he sighed and closed his eyes, pretending to sleep, but listening to the train saying a tongue twister he had learned as a boy –

  A lump of red leather, a red leather lump

  A lump of red leather, a red leather lump.

  Then it changed to –

  Three tired toads trying to trot to Tilbury Towers

  but somehow the whole sentence would not fit in, so he made the train say

  Tired toads, tired toads, tired toads trying to trot.

  And he felt a heaviness and weariness so that he would have liked to sleep for ever and not wake up because Amy was dead and there was nothing.

  The train stopped suddenly, and Toby and Bob, both dozing, opened their eyes. Toby peered through the window.

  —Not yet, he said. It’s only refreshments. Do you want anything? A cup of tea?

  —Could do, said Bob, not stirring. He felt cold and damp, like a toad.

  So Toby went to the refreshment rooms, fighting his way through the people, and bought two cups of tea and two sugar buns. He sugared the teas, using the teaspoon chained to the counter, and returned to the carriage. He too felt sick and strange, and the tea as he drank it, tasted like waterweed and clay, as if it had been brewed in a world of no people.

  Why, he thought. It doesn’t taste civilised.

  He looked out the window at the throng of people struggling at the counter of the refreshment room, and the triumphant line of them outside, fulfilled and rested and dreamy, leaning upon the wooden bench beside their empty cups and fizz bottles and strewn crusts of sandwiches, and he thought, in his rising fear, It isn’t civilised. They are not people. There are no people. And as he watched them they seemed like the heavy cattle and the doped and scared sheep they had passed, miles away now, in the waste paddocks and swamps. The train was going, in half a minute’s time, the man said through the loudspeaker, but the dazed people seemed to take no notice, they seemed too tired to move, filled with clay and waterweed and red effervescent swamp water. But the train whistle blew, and certainly there were people in the world, hurrying to the carriage doors and crying out shrilly, one to the other, in a code of goodbye.

  The train moved again, and Bob put his cup and saucer on the floor.

  —We could slip this in our bag and no one would notice, he said.

  Toby did not answer. Then he said,

  —It’s the next stop.

  —Why do you have to keep telling me, retorted Bob. Of course it’s the next stop. I didn’t say it wasn’t did I?

  They pulled down the small bag from the rack and sat upright. Bob put on his overcoat, the tweed one Nettie had sent when her husband died. She had written Bob a letter, saying,

  —Come and help me burn everything.

  And Bob had journeyed down to the city and watched Nettie, his sister, the overseer in the coat factory, burn the remains of her dead marriage.

  —Why, bottles and bottles of bath salts she put on the fire, he had said to Amy when he came back.

  And Amy said,

  —What could she have wanted bottles and bottles of bath salts for? And to burn them? The girls would have liked them, Daphne or Chicks. But think, bottles and bottles of bath salts. What kind, Bob?

  —Oh, lavender, with flowers on the outside. And old Easter eggs and boxes of chocolates that had gone stale and smelt like straw and cardboard.

  And Amy had said, wondering,

  —Oh dear.

  And Bob had shown her the overcoat and the patches from the factory, and the other things Nettie had given him. And Amy had said,

  —It’s your size, Bob. Wear it.

  And Bob said,

  —I’ll be dead before I wear this fancy-looking coat.

  And there he was wearing it now and not dead, he did not think.

  43

  They sat afraid and silent on the edge of a long form of leather, with no back rest, so that their backs ached; but continued to sit upright, staring ahead at the hard fire that burned brilliantly and coldly like a coloured glacier. No warmth came from the fireplace, and Toby and his father shivered, gazing past the heavy fire-guard to the flames leaping remotely and ineffectually behind their iron cage.

  Toby spoke.

  —It’s cold, he said.

  The old woman sitting next to him on the couch answered him.

  —It’s warm. There’s that lovely fire, she said, pointing to the blaze.

  She had come to visit her daughter, she said, she came every week and knew the routine and was used to the strangeness. She had beside her a brown paper bag full of cream cakes and a thermos flask filled with tea, made at home. She and Alfreda were going to have a picnic.

  —We have a picnic every time I come, she said to Toby. Alfreda is so fond of these cakes and she likes tea made at home, instead of the hospital tea. You can understand that, can’t you?

  She spoke the last sentence to Bob who sat holding tight to the basket he and Toby had carried between them up the hill, fighting like children to carry it,

  —Let me, no, let me. Why do you want to hold it?

  —Well, why do you want to hold it?

  —It’s something to hold.

  Their basket held a bag of oranges and bananas and a cake of chocolate.

  —Yes, it’s cold, Toby repeated.

  The woman glanced curiously at him. She was going to remind them both, him and the old man with him, who seemed to be shivering yet sat muffled in that smart-looking tweed overcoat, that there was a lovely fire in front of them, and what more could they ask for on a cold day like this with the winter still hanging on?

  —The winter seems to be hanging on, she said.

  Toby said in a loud voice,

  —Yes, the winter is hanging on, its teeth are indrawn like the teeth of an eel and that is why it is hanging on. Whatever it swallows will never escape from the black coil of winter.

  The woman looked uncertain, and thought, It must be in the family. Some of these visitors, I’ve noticed, are queerer than the patients.

  Bob said suddenly,

  —Don’t, Toby. For God’s sake keep quiet. Don’t say things out loud like that! Think of your poor mother!

  The other visitors in the room had stopped talking and were watching Bob and Toby. And then the nurse brought Alfreda, and Alfreda’s mother moved along for her daughter to sit beside her. Alfreda was a dwarf, three feet high.

  —Hello, slut, the dwarf said, in a hoarse voice, and dived for the bag of cream cakes which she swallowed, one after the other, without stopping to talk, while her mother sat watching her. When Alfreda had finished the cakes she held up the thermos flask.

  —What’s this?

  —That’s tea, her mother said. Real home-made tea. We’ll have a cup, shall we?

  —Go to blazes and keep your tea. What else have you brought?

  —There’s a new pair of pants for you, from Aunty Molly.

  —Pants, pants, can’t anyone think of anything else but pants? And when am I going home?

  She leaned to her mother, her eyes intense, her face full of scorn. Her mother smiled,

  —The doctor says quite soon, Alfreda.

  —Oh, go to hell.

  And Alfreda got up, went to the door and called for the nurse.

  —What did you dress me up for visitors when it’s only that old slut, she called. Let’s out of here.

  The nurse, who was never far away, took Alfreda back to her ward. Alfreda’s mother picked up her bag and smiling cheerfully at Toby and Bob, she went, with the remains of her picnic, to the nurse at the door to be let out.

  And Toby and his father sat waiting for the nurse to bring Daphne. Bob Withers, looking about the room at the groups of visitors and patients, each, seemingly, with its separate picnic, thought, Daphne won’t be like them, anyway, she’ll be different. She won’t swear and go on, she’ll be quite different. What shall I say to her? How did she take her mother’s death, I wonder? Should I say something a
bout that? Good Lord, no.

  But what if she doesn’t know me?

  He leaned to Toby.

  —I say, Toby.

  Toby was sitting in a dream, it was a fit coming, he thought, and here of all places, but how could he stop it. He knew that he shouldn’t have come, and then the cattle in the paddocks and on the railway stations, drinking their blue-lined cups of tea; their eyes and faces, and their horns growing like ivory trees, what could he do to stop it; and then the eel that was winter swallowing up the leaves and colour, and if you put your hand or heart down the throat of winter to seize what had been taken, you would have your hand and heart torn to pieces. It was a fit coming on, Toby thought, and he hadn’t had a fit for a long time, not for very long, it was a fit coming on and what about Daphne, and then there was his mother too, taking up so much space. And the things to sell, at the rubbish dump, not this rubbish dump or that rubbish dump but which one; yes, surely it was a fit coming on and who could stop it?

  —I say, Toby.

  But Toby fell forward suddenly upon the floor, his body writhing in the old way, his eyes vanished inwards to nothing and his face like a heavy damson plum, and where was Amy Withers to say,

  —Take your teeth out, Toby. Take your teeth out.

  And lay him on the sofa and put a coat over him to keep him warm, and have a cup of tea for afterwards, and words that said,

  —It will go away, Toby. It won’t be for always, and you will grow out of them and be like other boys.

  His father knelt down beside him, saying,

  —Toby. Toby.

  The bananas had fallen on the floor, with the oranges, and the cake of chocolate lay near the fire that must have been warm and they had not known it, for the chocolate twisted and writhed with a curious liquid life of its own. And the nurse from the door came quickly to Toby and took his teeth out and put them upon the mantelpiece, and taking a wooden stick wrapped in gauze, like a stick of marzipan, she thrust it inside Toby’s mouth, and his mouth chewed violently upon it until the fit was over and he fell into a deep sleep, his face peaceful, still flushed, and his hands clasped around the bag, now empty, that they had carried and quarrelled over because it was something to hold on to.

  The nurse was calm.

  —We see these every day, she said to Bob. Are you waiting for someone?

  —My daughter, Daphne Withers, said Bob.

  The nurse looked surprised.

  —Oh, she said. Oh, I’ll find out.

  She went into the office and Bob could hear her telephoning.

  She returned.

  —Go through the door. The nurse will let you through.

  —But what about Toby?

  —I’m afraid he can’t go, it wouldn’t be advisable, it will be too late when he wakes.

  —But I can’t leave him here.

  Bob Withers was afraid. He had heard of people disappearing inside these hospitals, and then, when they said they were visitors, no one would let them out, and no one believed them. Why, anything could happen in a hospital like this, after all, it was still the dark ages.

  The nurse divined his fears. She saw many visitors panic.

  —You need not worry, she said. Mr Withers will be here when you return. You have to go through there to visit Daphne because she’s a special.

  —A what?

  —A special.

  To Bob Withers a special was some line of food or clothing put cheap in the shops on a Friday, for the people to buy.

  The nurse led him past rows of old women in bed, sleeping, or perhaps dead, with their mouth open and their cheeks hollow, and he thought, So this is where they put the old people.

  And they came to a small room with a barred window and two chairs and a small table with a vase of violets upon it, made of crepe paper, though Bob did not notice at first and stooped to smell them, thinking, They’re in flower early, they must be hothouse.

  The nurse watched him.

  —They’re artificial, she said. Don’t they look real?

  She offered Bob one of the chairs and left the room. Bob sat down. He had nothing to give Daphne. He hadn’t brought the bag of bananas and oranges, and the chocolate had melted. How then, would he begin his conversation? He rehearsed to himself,

  —Well Daphne, so they’re going to make you better tomorrow. And then it will be all over.

  What would be all over? He didn’t quite know. As far as he was concerned everything was over, so what did it matter, and here he was, how strange, sitting in a loony cell with Lou’s overcoat on that still smelt of bath salts.

  He began again

  —Hello Daphne. Or should it be Daffy? And why didn’t they hurry? His heart was beating too quickly, he felt, and his hands were shaking, old age coming on, and he felt tired, very tired with nowhere to go because the home was dead now and the frost had got the early plums, and he remembered that he had hidden the girdle that Amy made pikelets on, away in the shed behind the gramophone and the old kitchen table, and could not bear any more to look upon it.

  44

  If Sister Dulling had not worn her starched uniform and veil flowing and white, though not bridal, she would have looked like a barmaid. She was broad and coarse with her pale red hair and a welter of uncomfortable fat on her body, so that she tried not to eat between meals, but smoked then, to keep her from feeling hungry; and while the nurses picked at sweets and cakes at morning and afternoon tea, Sister Dulling said,

  —No thank you, I prefer not to.

  Except for an occasional biscuit when the doctor came in for a cup of tea, and

  —Is your tea right? Would you like more sugar? A little weaker, perhaps? she would say to the doctor, who sat on the best chair in the office and drank from the best cup, with red string tied around its handle, so as to distinguish from the patients’ cups.

  And while the doctor drank his tea and smiled his glory around the staff room, Sister Dulling would find big words to use, difficult words from the Medical Dictionary or the Shorter Oxford Dictionary that she kept in the desk for reference in writing her daily reports and sounding impressive. Other times she used the words more suited to her as a barmaid in disguise, yet a nurse too, who could talk to and tame the wild people so that they followed and obeyed her and gave her presents – the stalk of a flower, an empty envelope, a shoelace, a picture torn from one of the magazines, of real people living in a real house where the doors and windows open, and you know where the key is, hanging on the nail in the scullery.

  The afternoon that Bob and Toby Withers came to visit Daphne, Sister Dulling herself had dressed her patient, giving her a ward skirt and pullover, new stockings, her Christmas pants, kept ready and marked with white tape, and a hat with a wide brim, the only hat she could find in the clothes room, to cover Daphne’s head in case her relatives felt afraid and startled at the baldness.

  —A nice hat for you, Daphne. Makes you look like a film star.

  Daphne in the dead room looked up at the nice hat, seeing only its brown verandah and straw-lined eaves and feeling the heaviness of snow that had fallen all night for years upon the brown roof. She felt safe under the hat. The rain could not fall and her mother would not have to be standing at the door and crying out,

  —Come in you naughty bird, out of the rain.

  Daphne smiled then, remembering she was a don’t care sparrow, and threw the hat into the corner.

  Sister Dulling clicked her tongue.

  —Your father is waiting for you, she said. You wouldn’t disappoint him would you? He has come in the train.

  Come in the train? If you come in the train you are always disappointed because it never takes you where you would like it to go, it takes you on and on to the waste world of swamp and mai-mai, with all the people crouched inside to break the back of paradise. Trains take you to the end. My father is disappointed whether he sees me or not, because he is sitting in his hut on the swamp, with a licence to die held in his hand and his gun ready to fire at the first sign
of peace. How the snow falls on my head. I think there will be a storm.

  —Come Daphne.

  Sister Dulling replaced the hat on Daphne’s head and led her to the room where Bob Withers sat, afraid and tired, jigging his knee because it was something to do.

  —I’ll be in the next room, if you want me, said Sister, with her greet-the-visitor smile.

  Daphne stood in one corner of the room and looked at the man sitting on the chair. His face was pale and grey as if he had walked through dust for many years so that it clung to the folds of his clothing and covered his shoes and settled in his hair to make it grey. He has been standing up in the sky, she thought. And is covered with cloud. He has been sweeping out a crumbling house of stone. He has no wife to sweep for him and wear an apron for the children to cling to and cry in when they are hurt. I wish, she thought, I wish he would find a brush and make his suit look clean. And polish his shoes. He sits there, dirty and grey and licking his lips and does not seem to speak.

  Who is he? Is he waiting for me to speak?

  Pressing her lips together she sat down on the floor, first removing her hat for the sake of courtesy, as she had been taught when the sun stayed early in the sky; and watched the face of the grey man. When she took off her hat and laid it down like a laced straw well to catch the storm from the cloud, she saw the man’s mouth open and his face wrinkle, as if he would cry, the way her father’s face had changed when he heard that Francie was burned, and came home and saw them all clinging together like the people in the story who stuck under a spell; though not dancing up and down the cobbles of a fairy street; but crying. And the grey man in the chair, at the same time that he changed his face to look like Daphne’s father crying, called out,

  —Don’t. Oh my God, no!

  and looked at where her hair had been. With his eyes popping wide and his face afraid.

  Then he said,

  —Daphne. Everything’s going to be all right.

  But Daphne knew he was talking to himself, telling himself not to worry, that everything would be all right, though it was strange how he had discovered her name, and knew her to look at, that she ought to have had hair. And she should have hair too. Oh yes Daphne thought, I should have long hair to comb like a mermaid. But I have no hair, the woman from the underworld has taken it, so I shall put my hat on to hide that I am bald, like a front lawn or a park in the city or a picnic ground.