ABIGAIL

She found the bird lying beneath the beech tree in the garden, making a pitiful sound, high-pitched and tiny. It was lying on its side, one wing bent under its body, the other flapping pathetically in the air before dropping back to the ground, its minute chest thrumming with frantic breaths. She couldn’t see where it had fallen from and carefully knelt down to gently scoop it into her hands. The unfamiliar feeling of bones and feathers almost caused her to drop it again in surprise. Its pulse continued to beat violently as she slowly walked back towards the house, pushing through the French windows backwards, relieved to see the living room deserted.

She hadn’t noticed it at first, had been replaying the previous day in her mind. She had been such dull company, distracted, returning to small talk and then so quiet, answering his questions in monosyllables, the thought of returning to the house too much. Richard was surely used to lively girls, rosy-cheeked women with stories that could make him howl. He was bursting with energy, always on the edge of a joke, wanting to show off the village, point out the details. She loathed herself for having dampened his mood, had left him without a cursory glance back, a muttered thank you.

The bird was hopelessly small, sitting in the palm of her hand, one eye looking out at her with desperation. She cupped her other hand over it as she moved into the hallway towards the stairs. It was silent, her footsteps louder on the wooden floorboards, her eyes adjusting to the sudden darkness.

She had one foot on the bottom step when she heard him.

‘And where are you slinking off to?’

She froze at the words, both hands trapped over the bird, holding it out like a religious offering. She wondered whether her own chest beat quicker, whether the bird would sense her rising panic. She glanced to her right, where the words had come from. He was standing silhouetted in the doorway that led to the kitchen. ‘Nowhere. I…’

It was no use, he had already spotted her awkward pose, moving towards her now, his eyes focused on her hands. ‘What have you got?’ he asked.

‘It’s nothing. It’s…’ She lifted one hand.

‘What?’ His lip curled in disgust as he took in the ruffled downy feathers, the tiny yellow beak.

‘I found it, in the garden. Please, I think I can help it…’ She stopped, embarrassed by the whine in her voice. She should stand taller, look him in the eye. Why was she hunched over herself?

Her answer seemed to amuse him. His face lightened and he stood at her shoulder, close, the smell of burnt toast on his breath as he went to examine the bird. ‘Let me see.’ He wiggled his fingers impatiently.

She tried not to flinch as he reached out, lifting her hand away, his hand closed over hers, lingered, before he removed it. He placed one finger on the bird as if he were baptizing it. There was a circle of skin in the middle of his hair, at the top, where it was thinning.

‘You can have your plaything,’ he said in a low voice, looking up at her. He was so close she could see the individual pores on his nose.

Then with boyish enthusiasm he seemed spurred into action. ‘Wait here,’ he instructed, moving suddenly away from her, down the hallway. She heard him issue instructions to Edith and when he returned he was holding a glass of milk and a freshly sawn slice of bread.

‘Go on.’ He nodded at the stairs and she started to climb, aware of him following her, feeling every movement of her body, clenching her muscles as she went, trying not to draw attention to herself.

They reached the landing outside her bedroom and she hesitated at the doorway. He brushed past her with an impatient huff, opened the door, set the milk and bread on the side and stood there expectantly. It was strange seeing him standing in the middle of her bedroom, she felt embarrassed to see a girdle thrown hastily over the back of a chair, discarded stockings rolled up on the floor. He turned, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together.

‘Come on.’ She hadn’t seen this look before. He seemed impossibly youthful suddenly, the years stripped away as if he were a young boy, his foot tapping restlessly. ‘Where were you going to put him?’

For a second she forgot where she was, and who he was and she said with a smile, ‘Him? I imagined it to be a her.’ She blushed at the end of the sentence, hearing her own voice, cajoling, friendly. She straightened, her mind jumbled, feeling wrong-footed. ‘The hat box.’ With her head she indicated the top of the wardrobe.

He reached to bring it down, the sound of something slipping around inside it. He opened it up on her bed, gingerly removing her best hat and placing it reverentially on the pillow. It looked as if someone was sleeping on it. He rearranged the tissue inside to form a makeshift nest and stood back to watch her lower the little body into it. They stood there side by side, in silence, before he turned to tear off a piece of the bread, dipping it into the milk and returning to place it gently at the beak of the bird.

‘Thank you,’ Abigail said quietly.

‘I’ll leave you now,’ he said, moving towards the door, into the corridor beyond and down the stairs before she could think any more about the encounter.

Looking down into the box, the grey body in a halo of tissue, one orange eye roving, she said a quick prayer for the fragile thing, hoping she might fly again one day.

They spoke about the bird that evening at dinner, Larry enquiring after its health as if it were an elderly relative. Her sister raised one pencilled eyebrow at the conversation. ‘What bird?’ she asked, her snub nose wrinkling a fraction.

‘Abigail rescued it. Sorry…’ He raised a hand, a small smile playing on his lips. ‘Rescued her.’

Abigail shifted slightly in her chair, feeling heat creep up her chest and into her face. ‘She was in the garden,’ she explained to her sister. ‘She’d fallen. I don’t think she’s broken anything.’

‘And you brought her into the house? The thing probably has diseases.’

Abigail couldn’t fail to notice her sister’s hand moving quickly to rest on her stomach as she spoke.

‘Nonsense,’ scoffed Larry, piercing a piece of pork with his fork before lifting it to his mouth.

Connie didn’t respond, looking quickly at her plate instead.

Abigail felt a lurch, as if she had somehow wounded her. Trying to make amends, she said in a light voice, ‘This is delicious.’

‘Edith made it. It’s always too dry.’

There wasn’t much talk after that, the sound of the carriage clock far too loud, Abigail feeling that they must be able to hear her swallow, the meat (it was rather dry) rolling slowly down her throat. She was grateful to be free of the table, to be climbing the stairs back up to her room. As she pushed the door closed she could hear their voices moving through to the living room and hoped they were not talking about her.

Perhaps if she had found the bird lying still on its side, all the breath having left her body, she might have wondered whether the bread had been too much, whether the jostling and the unknown territory had tipped her over the edge. Perhaps, if she had seen her chest drumming quickly, she might have thought it had been a natural turn of events. But she didn’t find her like that, she found her lying in the perfect circle of tissue, on her side, yes, but with her tiny neck broken, head forced back at an odd angle, her frozen eye looking up at nothing.

Abigail reached into the box, gently lifting out a loose feather. It had the softest feel.

‘How is the little thing doing?’ he asked her as she emerged from her bedroom, his arms folded, leaning on the banisters on the landing below.

Abigail felt foolish for wiping at her eyes. ‘She’s dead.’

Larry looked up at her with a steady gaze, not flinching at the news. ‘What a shame,’ he said, his voice flat. ‘Although you don’t want to go getting too attached to things, they might not stick around.’