(John 8:7)
The holiday is over too quickly. Tirzah is now a lightly baked biscuit colour, her hair coppery at the ends, and her freckles have multiplied. She can detect her belly expanding almost by the hour. The girls walk back home through the lanes on a day so hot the tarmac is molten in patches and exhausted leaves droop like sleeping bats on the branches. Silence lies over the village, only broken at intervals by the hollow rrooh-rrooh of unseen pigeons. Tirzah is wishing she was anywhere but here, going anywhere but home. Biddy is scuffing her sandals, blowing fragile, misshapen bubbles with her chewing gum. This case weighs a blimmin’ ton, she gasps, pausing to sit in the shade of the hawthorn trees not far from the Co-op. Tirzah drops down beside her and looks at the branches above. Already there are sprays of berries forming. Surely it was only days ago the tree was weighed down with May blossom thick as rice pudding?
Wait there, she says, and gets up. In the Co-op, the electric fly-catcher crackles, and the cheese counter gives off a sharp smell. Tirzah walks past the bacon and ham displays and makes straight for the freezer. A gust of icy air shoots up her nose when she slides open the cover to get at the things inside. She picks out two strawberry-flavoured milk lollies. In the queue waiting to pay she can feel them softening in their paper packets. Someone in front is having luncheon meat sliced and chats to the assistant who slices it. The steely hiss of the blade makes Tirzah shrink inside. When she is finally served, the assistant nods towards the lollies. Change those for two frozen ones, lovey, she says. They won’t be worth a lick by the time you get them home. Thank you, Mrs Ellis-Jones, Tirzah says.
Biddy is dozing when Tirzah gets back. She lays the icy lolly on her bare neck. Ouch, says Biddy. Ooh, yummy. They sit and bite into the creamy pink ice cream. Tirzah thinks for the first time about the village, and how everyone will behave once they know her news. How will people like nice Mrs Ellis-Jones react? It’s a lonely thought. Soon her lolly is finished, and she reads the joke on the wooden stick, but it’s not funny. So what do you think your dada is going to say? Biddy asks, sucking a dropped blob of ice cream from her arm. How do I know? Tirzah answers, frowning. I can’t read minds. Back in the village, it suddenly seems to Tirzah that all her troubles have flown home to roost like noisy birds. Pardon me for breathing, Biddy says, licking her fingers clean. I’m sorry, Bid. Tirzah tucks her arm through Biddy’s. It’s just that I’m so scared. The girls sit in silence, watching the comings and goings at the Co-op. I wonder where that Brân is, Biddy says after a while. You know, the scruffy boy who used to hang around here all the time with those little kids. Tirzah’s palms prickle. I used to think he was quite dishy, she adds. I fancied him. Do you know what I mean? No, I do not, Tirzah answers, getting up. Come on, we might as well get going.
At home, the hall is so dark Tirzah blinks to clear her eyes. Her parents’ cases are piled at the foot of the stairs. Sounds are coming from the kitchen, so she puts her case down and calls. There is no answer, but the sounds stop. Mama? she calls again as she opens the kitchen door. Is that you? Her parents are sitting opposite each other at the table. Tirzah is not sure what to do. Her father does not look at her; he is staring at his clasped hands. Come in, don’t hover, child, her mother says quietly. Sit down by here. Tirzah forces herself to walk to the table and sit. Her head is buzzing and there is a sharp lump like a dry crust in her throat. No one speaks. Because she can’t stand another moment waiting, Tirzah decides to say something. Even as she is opening her mouth, she has no idea what will come out. Both her parents are listening, neither looking at the other. I think I should go away from the valley, Tirzah hears herself saying. Right away, to somewhere no one knows me, or you. I think that’s what I should do.
There is another silence. Tirzah’s eyes rest on the plates and jugs on the dresser, and the kettle sitting on the hob. She looks at the two easy chairs either side of the empty fireplace, with their old flat cushions and antimacassars, then back to her parents. Dada? she says. Will you ever forgive me? Her father rests his elbow on the table and covers his eyes with one hand. He is swallowing, unable to speak. Gwyllim, Tirzah’s mother says, answer her, please. His shoulders move, and he makes a noise in his throat. Tirzah feels as if someone has slapped her face; the sight of her father weeping is too much to bear. I’m so sorry, Dada dear, she says. Truly, truly, I am. She is crying without a sound, her nose running unchecked. You have shamed yourself, he says at last. And our hearts are broken in pieces for you. And even now, you won’t come clean. Tirzah’s mother struggles to stand. I’ll put the kettle on, she says, wiping her eyes. We will have tea and try to sort something out. Gwyllim, you get the cups and saucers.
Tirzah watches her parents preparing tea. Neatly they step around each other, each exactly knowing what the other will do. Her father’s face is so strange, she is afraid for him. There is a stooped look to his shoulders and an empty look to his eyes. Poor Dada, she thinks, her chest burning. Her mother stirs the tea in the pot and then pours it. They all sit together and drink. When her father finishes, he sets his cup down and clears his throat. Many nights have I wrestled with the Lord in prayer, he tells them. Many dark nights. And this I will say: no one is going from this house. No one is running away from this village. Tirzah’s mother reaches across the table to hold his hand. Now then, her father continues, his voice more normal. This is going to be a difficult time. We will be burnt in the fires, and no mistake. Tirzah wonders what he means. You, he says, nodding at her. You have shown yourself to be a wicked, loose girl. You have been a silly, wayward girl all your life. But this really takes the cake. Never did I think you would do such a secretive, wicked thing as this. Never in all my born days. He raises a finger, just getting going. Her mother starts to talk, but he raises his hand. Excuse me, Mair, he says. Know your place.
Tirzah’s mother bangs the table with her palm. Remember all the things we discussed when we were away, and don’t give me all this preachifying, Gwyllim, she says. I’ve heard it too many times. Know my place? I know many things, thank you very much. You may be the head of this house, but you are also a man, and a fallen man, just as I am a fallen woman. Tirzah looks from one to the other. Yes, Tirzah has been weak and foolish and deceitful, her mother goes on. Yes, we are ashamed. But – and now she raises her finger in the air – we have nothing to write home about on that score. Mair! Dada shouts. Don’t Mair me, either, Tirzah’s mother says, cutting him off. Let us be honest, as we are commanded to be. What’s done is done. You, Tirzah, will stop talking about going away. I have never heard such nonsense. Where, pray, would you go for a start? And you, Gwyllim, will come down from your holy mountain top and start behaving like a human being. There is another silence. I think that’s all for now, she adds, her voice flat. But we have questions for you, Tirzah. And we will require answers. For now, off you go.
Tirzah cannot stay in the stuffy house. Relief that her first meeting with her father is over makes her both calmer and more jittery. And there’s so much to sort out, I don’t know what to do first, she thinks, not noticing where she is walking. Should I go and see Osian? Should I go and speak to Pastor? What about sixth form? When will my O-level results be through? She shakes her head to free herself from all the questions flying around. Soon the walk takes her to the fields and towards the woods. I need to find Brân, she thinks, suddenly sure. I should try and talk to him. Across the fields, the late afternoon sun is coating each blade of grass with orange stripes, illuminating the tiny gnats that rise in puffs before her. She tries to work out what to say, but cannot imagine telling Brân he is going to be a father. It would be like telling a boulder or a hillside, somehow. I will just go looking for him and see what happens, she decides.
Suddenly fuzzy with exhaustion, her legs are unsure on the tussocky ground. Stepping into the summer woods is like walking into a huge, verdant room. The smell of ripe vegetation is a delirious mixture of lemon and vanilla, cinnamon and something almost chocolatey. Nothing moves. The trees breathe out and out, giving up their healing perfumes. Tirzah is dazzled by the countless greens. Even the light is leafy, softly focused and dappling. Further in she walks, swishing through the undergrowth, warding off thin branches. Then she hears the sound of someone walking boldly up ahead, swiftly coming her way, and freezes. Her ears are tuned for any clue; her eyes strain to see in the half-light. Gradually a figure breaks through.
Tirzah is struggling to breathe evenly. Brân, she calls, Brân! He steps into the clearing and looks blindly at her. Columns of sunshine tower around him. His hair is bushy, like a long, ragged mane around his shoulders now. Brân, it’s me, Tirzah, she says again. But Brân is stooping, and when he stands upright again he is holding a stone, big as his fist. He raises it and takes aim. No, Brân, Tirzah calls, holding out her hand. Don’t. Brân is alert, still holding the stone. She sees he is wearing tattered shorts tied with string at the waist, and broken black shoes. His skin is dark brown and his face bony. She licks her dry lips, but before she can say another word, Brân leans his shoulder back and expertly hurls the stone. It hits Tirzah heavily in the middle of the forehead and she drops to the earth, eaten by the dark.