The Bird's Child

by Sandra Leigh Price

  Outside, the stars were surrounded by their own aureoles of frost, the moon absent. This time tomorrow, when Tisha B’Av was over, when the fast was done, my uncle would lead the blessings of Rosh Chodesh, consecrating the new moon, which seemed hardly the shadow of a shadow in the sky, a silver peephole partially open. A new start, though the path be dark. A new start, though the light comes slowly. A new start, nonetheless.

  NINE

  Billy

  The clock struck the hour and I turned to the advertisements page. Lily would be home soon, she would not have gone far. Like me, Miss du Maurier was waiting, reading a novel by lamplight, the finished dress by her side on the sofa. The title glittered out, Trilby by George du Maurier. A fine tale. A relation of our dear landlady, perhaps? I didn’t dare ask. In gold foil was the image of Trilby O’Ferrall, cropped hair and military coat, reminding me of Lily in her usherette’s uniform. Mercifully Miss du Maurier was quiet. With the warmth from the fireplace I felt drowsy in an overstuffed armchair like a fat spider in its web, but I would not sleep, I was waiting to see the dress anew upon her limbs, glad of the Jew’s absence.

  After she had left me at the Red Rose I had sat and watched her cocoa steam just as I had watched my father’s opium smoke when I was a boy. Within it coiled secrets I had no skill to read, not like Crisp, who was as cunning as smoke and just as elusive. I scanned the page, always on the lookout for an advertisement, a claxon call for Doctor Cuthbert Crisp’s Apothecary, but thankfully the page was bare. Somewhere out in the street a door opened and closed and my eyes flew to the doorway, my senses alert, awaiting her arrival. Miss du Maurier looked at me but said nothing; her bangles jangled as she turned a page. Patience is a rare plant to cultivate in captivity.

  Patience, a word I have wanted to find in every dictionary and strike out with a black pen. Bugger patience. I am sure I was born early, the taste of impatience incubated with me in the womb. Let me tell you, nothing is more abhorrent to me than a man who sloths about in his misery, like a duck puddling around in the same old shallow pond of muck. If things are miserable, it is in a man’s interest to connive and manipulate, twist and confabulate his way out of his fate: anything is better than the self-indulgent snivel of a man who has accepted circumstances as they are. And I was impatient to spend time with Lily. She was spending a lot of time with the Jew. Nothing had happened between them, she was still as pure as the day I met her – I could tell by the blush that flared up her face like an emergency sign, her eyes always averted. She had not yet had the taste.

  Oh, the lessons I would teach her. She would be the most willing of pupils, I’d see to that. She would be my treasure, my very own. I’d keep a gold band upon my finger for my bride, and a white picket fence around my kingdom and my baby in its cradle, my heir. Was this too much to dream of? She was no passing fancy: my love for her was as permanent and as true as my own heartbeat. She would make me lord of my own dominion. Just like Cuthbert Crisp, who owned everything he touched. Life for him was not something he fingered covetously and then put back down again, knowing he could not afford it. No, Crisp saw something, liked it, and took it, whether it was his to take or not. The thought of him consumed me, the desire for revenge burning hot as acid in my throat.

  Crisp measured everything’s worth in an instant and he seized what he wanted, just as he had decided my fate that first time he had turned to look at me.

  I was caught in the flash and glare of the monocle signalling at me in the light, burning into my own retina, but I was transfixed by it, I could not look away.

  ‘Why are you following me, what do you want?’ His voice was a low command given to a disobedient dog. My mind went blank. There was no plausible answer. I had liked the way he had selected his books, the style with which he had taken them, the fruit he had plucked and sampled. Perhaps it was through his control that I had followed against my will, led by some invisible string.

  ‘I am Billy Little, Esquire, and I want to know how you stole those books. Tell me and I will be on my way. And don’t just tell me by sleight of hand.’

  Cuthbert Crisp’s face flared red, as if it was the first time anyone had dared ask him a question. ‘Stolen? Are you accusing me of being a thief? I’ll have you know, sir, that I was given those books by the librarian of her own free will.’ He turned on his heel.

  ‘But they weren’t the librarian’s to give, were they, Mr Cuthbert Crisp, sir? They belong to the people and, as I am a citizen of this fair city of Sydney, they belong to me.’

  Cuthbert Crisp sniffed dismissively and turned and went deeper into his shop. I followed.

  It took some moments for my eyes to adjust to the gloom, green and milky, as though I was at the bottom of the ocean. The room was strangely airless, an acrid smell filling the air. Soon I realised I was not alone. Cuthbert Crisp was nowhere in sight, but there was a dark-eyed girl behind the counter. There was something nocturnal about her, blinking in the gloaming. At her shoulder were shelves of apothecary jars, polished and shining, with dark fibrous contents that seemed to sprout upward in the dusk.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’ she said, her voice flowing out to me like a lifebuoy on the tide.

  ‘Why is it so infernally dark in here?’ I asked, my voice a surprise to my own ears. I wanted to know where Cuthbert Crisp had gone. I thought about pushing past her, through the door to the side covered with the same bleak curtains that hung in the windows. Would she have tried to stop me if I did? Stare me to death with her huge eyes until I drowned in her pupils?

  ‘To keep the ingredients pure, sir.’

  ‘I see. I see,’ I muttered, stepping closer to the safety of her counter, which looked like the only solid thing in the room. I kept one eye on the side door, the other on the contents of the jars that seemed, in a trick of the light, to writhe.

  ‘Can I help you with anything, sir? Are you looking for anything in particular?’ She said the word particular in a strange way, as if there was a hoot somewhere in the middle of it. Partic-hoo-lar.

  I needed to keep my wits about me. Who knew what sort of dark art this Cuthbert Crisp was pursuing, what foul pestilence he could be burning as a medicinal incense, what opiates he could be grinding down, dust filling the air? She blinked at me, her dark eyes fringed by eyelashes like feathers.

  ‘What line are you in, exactly?’ I asked, not sure if cures or curses were for sale here.

  ‘Oh, all sorts, sir. Ointments for itches, scratches, dry bits, flaky bits, inflammation, irritations, rashes; elixirs for fatigue, sleeplessness, low spirits, youthfulness and vitality. Also Doctor Crisp can provide the laying on of hands – for healing purposes, mind you,’ she added as an afterthought, as if I were somehow going to be misled by what she said. A doctor, my arse. Before I could reply, my words were lost in the drought of my mouth; so dry I was unable to swallow. Doctor Cuthbert Crisp stampeded out from the side door, a gust of heat of noxious heat coming with him.

  ‘Merle, you know better than to talk so loudly with the patients while I am preparing my ingredients, it erodes their essence.’ But when he saw me standing there surveying his kingdom, his face grew crooked with what I later learned was his smile. ‘Still here?’

  ‘Teach me.’

  His tongue ran uneasily over his peeling lips. Perhaps one of his own salves or ointments could have remedied that.

  ‘You?’ he said, scoffing at me. ‘Why you?’

  I stood straighter and felt my fingers flinch into a pugilist’s ready fists. In my mind I chanted, Patience, patience, though it was no virtue of mine.

  ‘Although I suppose,’ he said contemplatively, ‘one is always in need of an acolyte, an apprentice, a mirror to reflect one’s genius. What if I take you on a trial basis to see if that is you, sir?’

  Ordinarily I would have had been all over him like a clump of spitfires on a gum tree, if not with my fists, with my words, telling him in no uncertain terms that William Little was nobody’s acolyte and certainly nobody’s fool. Ye
t perhaps, it occurred to me, I would be granted an opportunity to prove to him I was more than that and dance triumphant all over him.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, nodding my head, my keenness to absorb his knowledge overriding my common sense, for he had opened the mysterious side door and bid me follow.

  My patience was its own reward.

  The vibration as the door slammed behind her sent a thrill through me. On seeing me, Lily paused in the doorway as if her foot were caught in a snare.

  ‘I have finished, my dear,’ Miss du Maurier said, lifting up the gown so that it rose in the air like a spirit. ‘Oh, and there is this,’ she added, holding up a little silken cap. ‘It is in the Pierrette style – what do you think? No, don’t say anything until you have put it on.’

  All I could think was that the cap looked like the one the Jew’s uncle wore. And of how smoothly she would shimmy into that encasement of silk, my beautiful pale grub.

  She took the stairs two by two while Miss du Maurier filled the air with her petty observations, persistent as flies, until Lily returned, transformed.

  The bodice was tight as before, but flared at the hip, a ripple of tulle halting somewhere between her knee and thigh and a large V at her back where she hadn’t been able to reach the buttons on her own. I imagined her twisting in front of the mirror like a dancing swan.

  ‘What do you think, Lily dear?’ Miss du Maurier asked. Lily moved from one foot to the other, the bareness of her legs making her uncomfortable, the cool air licking at her shoulderblades. There was an abrupt tug on the front door bell and it pealed loudly all around us. Lily moved to answer it, her silver shoes clacking like castanets, but Miss du Maurier stood in her way.

  ‘I’ll get it, my dear, you’ll freeze,’ Miss du Maurier interjected as she reached the door handle herself. As she opened it an icy gust pushed past her into the room, and a veil of goose flesh pimpled Lily’s delectable skin as she peeped over Miss du Maurier’s shoulder.

  ‘Is my nephew here?’ the Jew’s uncle asked quietly at the door. I leaned forward in the chair to get a better view.

  ‘Would you like to come in?’ Miss du Maurier said, opening the door wider to let him pass, but he remained rooted where he was.

  ‘Is my Ari here?’ the rabbi repeated, his voice growing louder. He tried to peer down into the hall, but the puff of Lily’s skirt caught his attention, his eyes slowly roving up and down and up again, from her naked legs to the tip of her little cap.

  ‘You are that girl, the one who knocked Ari off his bicycle.’

  She nodded. ‘Lily Del Mar, nice to meet you.’ She extended her hand to shake his, but his arms hung limp at his side.

  ‘Can I help?’ Miss du Maurier added smoothly, the calming oil for rough waters. ‘Rabbi Pearl, do come in. Shall I pop the kettle on?’

  ‘I’ll not be coming into your house, Miss du Maurier. Not until my son comes out to face me like a man. Hiding behind ladies’ skirts is shameful.’

  ‘Hip hip hooray!’ I whispered under my breath. Looking at Miss du Maurier and Lily, a feminine barricade, I couldn’t help but agree with the rabbi. I crossed my legs and admired my freshly polished shoes. I didn’t think anyone had heard me, Lily and Miss du Maurier were too preoccupied with their neighbours’ affairs, but the Jew’s uncle peered over Lily’s shoulder at me.

  The rabbi paused, his mouth open, spittle on his lip. I sat fascinated, waiting for what he would say next.

  ‘You should watch your words,’ the rabbi snarled and I was surprised, he had the hearing of a rabbit.

  ‘He’s not here, Rabbi Pearl. Have you tried the Red Rose? Have you tried the shed?’ said Miss du Maurier. But he didn’t acknowledge her; he was already walking away, her words wasted on his ears.

  ‘Why didn’t he shake my hand, was it my costume?’ Lily asked, closing the door behind him.

  ‘No dear. It is part of their faith not to touch any woman save for their wife. Don’t take any offence at it.’

  The more fool him. What a pity never to taste the fruits when they are in season.

  ‘I hope you are happy with the dress?’ said Miss du Maurier, packing away her threads and needles. A bobbin escaped beneath my seat and I bent to retrieve it, a chance to linger.

  ‘Very much so, thank you so much, Miss du Maurier, although it’ll take some getting used to,’ Lily said, leaning down and giving her legs a little rub for warmth.

  ‘I am glad you like it, dear, it wasn’t serving anyone in a box.’ Miss du Maurier smiled as I placed the thread in her palm. ‘Night then, you two.’ She walked up the stairs and I counted each step until I heard a door close. Here was my chance. I coughed politely in the chair, hand to my lips.

  ‘Lily …’

  Before I could continue, there was another knocking at the door, less frantic than before. She skipped to open it as if she was expecting someone. But it couldn’t be the Pearl boy. He would have slunk through the back door as usual.

  The door swung open and it was not the Jew or his uncle, but a swagman, blinking at her as if he had stared at the sun. He wore a stockman’s hat and an oversized grey woollen coat that seemed to sweep close to the ground. A possum skin draped across his shoulders, the head of the animal near his own, the tail nearly touching the ground. On one shoulder he carried his swag, on the other sat a huge black glossy raven, so dark against the night that I almost didn’t see it until its beak stretched open. I expected it would speak, a blue eye unblinking fixed on my own.

  ‘Is young Pearl here? I have a favour to ask,’ the man said.

  ‘He’s not here at the moment,’ she said. ‘Can I help you with anything?’

  ‘You’ll do,’ he said.

  ‘Do what?’ she asked, confused. She shuddered in the cold. I was ready to stand up and slam the door off its hinges and into his face, to warm her and ward him off. There had been enough strange men cross our threshold, and I had other plans. But then her voice spoke in warm recognition. ‘You are the man who speaks like a bird. Ari told me about you.’ Lily opened the door wider and I thought for a moment she would invite him and the lice-ridden feather-sack inside.

  ‘Beauty here needs a home for a while. I am heading to the mountains, men’s business. She likes it better down here, closer to the coast, not as cold. Thought she may like to have a change of scene with you and the boy. I take it that you are the girl he is working with?’

  Lily shifted uneasily on her feet.

  The raven shifted on the swagman’s shoulder. The swagman reached up and stroked the billowing feathers below the sharp beak. ‘One for sorrow, two for joy, three for a girl, four for a boy. Beauty is no trouble, really she isn’t. She can say a couple of words already and do the odd trick. She’s a loyal bird. Of course she sometimes heads off to the flock – place an egg in the nest I assume, though I’ve never seen her offspring – but she is a good bird, part human if you ask me. It will be spring soon enough, she will moult her wintry coat, but she will be good-humoured still.’

  Lily shivered again, freezing, half-dressed in the gusty doorway.

  ‘I am sure Ari won’t mind,’ she said. The raven let out an eerie gargle, its scaly lid lowered, before it placed its head beneath a big black wing. A bad omen with wings it was. It wanted to snuff out the light that spilled from the hallway.

  ‘Lovely,’ the swagman said and shrugged his shoulder, which seemed to wake the raven up, signalling to it to shuffle down his arm. ‘Would you like something to wrap around your wrist for Beauty to rest upon? I don’t want her to hurt you.’

  I was afraid of the bird’s claws on her delicate arm. Let it try and pierce her skin – I would pluck it like a chicken.

  ‘Beauty and I will be fine, I think.’

  The swagman ran his hand over the glossy dark of the feathers and whispered some things in its ear in a weird language, before the raven stepped over to her arm. The clutch of its claws made Lily wince but in an instant the bird settled, a blue eye watching hers until it lifted up its be
ak and shocked me by snapping it through her hair, close to the scalp. But the bird did not bite. Lily had been preened. The swagman tipped his hat and was gone.

  As Lily walked back into the living room, the raven was already roosting up close to her face, its feathers brushing the skin of her neck, rustling like a turning page. It was truly the witching hour. I blinked, as if the raven were a black spot on my retina that I could blink away.

  ‘Lily,’ I murmured.

  ‘It’s a long story,’ she said, already anticipating questions. She clucked at the bird, which fluffed its breast feathers and sat close to her cheek, giving her its warmth as the reptilian eyelids slid closed.

  ‘It’s not about the bird. I am growing used to strange deliveries of birds around here.’ She was so charmed by it, she could barely look at anything else. ‘It’s … well … Maybe Miss du Maurier’s sight is on the fritz, but …’ I paused and my fringe fell in my eyes as if to protect her modesty.

  ‘Lily, it’s just that when you lift up your arms like that, I can see,’ there was no gentle way to phrase it, ‘your knickers.’

  The look on her face said it all – she didn’t know whether to lower her arms immediately and disturb the bird into a black fury, or to bolt up the stairs herself, a silver streak. She flushed, violently, and with her free hand pulled at the hem of her costume. A clock chimed on the mantelpiece.

  I stood up. It was the gentlemanly thing to do, though the secrets of her knickers were more glorious from below eye level. My hand rose toward the oily dark feathers of the raven, which woke immediately, its sharp beak angled towards my fingers. I pulled them away sharply, biting back an oath. But it would take more than an infernal bird to keep her from my touch.