(Zechariah 3:4)
A tiny click from the bedroom door wakes Tirzah. Swinging her legs on to the carpet, she sees a brown envelope propped up on the side table and realises this must be her exam results. It’s odd, she thinks, reading the typewritten address. Usually the only things she gets in the post are birthday cards, and here is her second letter in a week. After holding it in her lap for a while, she opens it, dry-eyed and calm, and reads the long row of A’s. Then she stuffs the letter and envelope under her mattress and gets ready to go out. Tirzah’s mother has decided they will visit the city to buy maternity clothes. On the way to the train station, Tirzah contemplates taking off, running away, showing a neat pair of heels, but she feels too burdened to run these days. It’s hard to believe she was, not long ago, the girl who could sprint all the way to the summit of the mountain without stopping. In the train she looks at the dirty window, pretending to enjoy the view, but imprinted on her burning eyes is the neat row of A’s on their sheet of white paper. Even when she closes her eyelids, the list is there, irrelevant to her now as a dead language on a stone tablet.
She ignores her mother’s suggestion they move to the shaded side of the carriage. Why did we have to come all the way down here to go shopping? Tirzah asks, as they wait to get off. Having sat in full sunshine, her head is now so hot her hair seems to be coiling tightly away from her scalp all by itself. Her mother gives her a squinty look. Well, I’m only asking, Tirzah says, lifting the collar of her dress and flapping it. It just seems a bit over the top to me. The only other time she’s been to the city was on a bus trip with her grandparents and Biddy to see the Christmas panto. She remembers the blood-red velvet theatre and the heart-stopping glow that seemed to surround the baddie every time he appeared. It was dull whenever he was offstage. She realises her mother is standing on the platform with her eyes looking skywards, lips moving as she counts up to ten. Tirzah waits, thinking how in the frosted, twinkly dark of Christmas the city seemed like the panto’s backdrop. Now the city is too noisy and full of rushing people. Boy’s bach! her mother exclaims, grabbing her arm and shaking it. You, madam, are a naughty girl. Ungrateful and cheeky. Tirzah tries not to squirm. If you were a year or two younger I would cheerfully give you a smacked bottom. Do you want to get straight back on the train? For a start, no one knows us here, so I can be less ashamed. Her bottom lip is doing a little jiggle and her eyes are brimming. She is hurting Tirzah. Ouch, Mammy, Tirzah says, fighting the urge to snatch her arm away. I’m sorry. I am naughty and don’t deserve to have anything or go anywhere. Her mother manages a smile, loosening her grip. Let’s forget about this small upset, she says, tucking her arm through Tirzah’s. She takes a deep breath. I thought we could have a gander at the castle if we’ve got time later.
Tirzah trails along, trying not to hate the sight of her mother’s neat behind jostling under her floral skirt. Honestly, she thinks, I would be quite content to wear a sack if I could get away with it. In a department store they buy two maternity smocks, bras and some big pants. Her mother had to manhandle her into the dresses and jerk her into the bras. Shape up, child, she’d said, panting. I know you don’t want maternity clothes, but you’ll need them soon enough, believe me. Tirzah looked at herself in the mirror with one of the dresses flapping around her, and teetered between crying and laughing. It was airless and uncomfortable in the cubicle with her mother prodding her from all angles. Yes, Mama, she’d said, pulling the dress off without waiting for her mother to undo her. Let’s get out of here, quick. By the time they stop for a bite to eat, Tirzah is wispy with heat and the buffetings from crowded pavements. Come on, her mother says finally, let’s have a meal in the market. Tirzah follows her mother to a stall with a few tables on a wooden platform. You guard our places, her mother says, putting her bags on the table. I will go and order. Tirzah sits carefully on a rickety chair. It’s funny, but while most of her is ready to evaporate, her feet and hands are so heavy they weigh her down. The smell of fish and spoiling vegetables from the surrounding stalls forces itself into her throat. She starts dreaming of a glass of clear water clinking with ice cubes.
I ordered us faggots and peas, her mother says, appearing with cutlery. I know you like them. Tirzah tries to smile. Lovely, Mam, she says. The idea of gravy flooded with claggy pea water is daunting. She could maybe nibble a small sandwich without crusts. But when the faggots come, their rich, brown smell suddenly makes her hungry. Tirzah drinks her warm juice while her mother says a prayer. People are staring over at them, she can see. Amen. Now let’s eat up, her mother says, showering her own bowl with vinegar. When Tirzah puts a tiny blob of faggot in her mouth she is relieved to find it delicious. There you are, her mother goes on, pepper in hand. What you need is a nice dinner inside you. They both eat every scrap, even the bread that comes as part of the meal. Now I’d love an ice cream, Tirzah says with her hands on her belly, leaning back. All through the meal, neither of them mentions the brown envelope, and Tirzah is glad.
After they have eaten a bowl of ice cream and her mother has paid, they find the toilets. Around the walls, brass pipework shines. The air is laden with bleach. Squares of carefully ripped cardboard for walking on dot the damp floor. That’s what I like, Tirzah’s mother says, tidying her hair at the mirror over the single sink, a nice, clean lav. She licks her two middle fingertips and shapes her eyebrows into arches. Tirzah remembers her mother’s idea about visiting the castle and decides to say she is too tired. Mam, she whispers, leaning against the toilet door, I want to go home now. Poor little dwt, her mother murmurs, stroking Tirzah’s cheek. So you shall. When they’ve spruced themselves up, they walk slowly back to the station. Do you mind about the castle, Mam? Tirzah asks, feeling a pang of guilt. The castle has been there for hundreds of years, her mother answers, it can wait a bit longer. Soon they are on the train, and this time it is quiet and cool. Have a little snooze, her mother says. Lie down and rest your head in my lap.
When she is settled, Tirzah tells her mother about the O-level results. I’m not a bit surprised, is all her mother says. You are a clever one. Of course, she goes on, looking out of the window, you won’t be going back to school this September. There is no point. And it would be most unseemly. Maybe next year you will be able to pick things up again, if you still want to. Tirzah feels as if all the bones in her body have been extracted, and she slumps further into her mother’s lap, then makes an effort to sit up. Yes, Mama. I do want to go back to school, she answers, if you will look after the baby for me. You do? her mother says, squeezing her hand. Then of course I will. Tirzah returns the squeeze, relaxing a little, and listens to the rhythm of the train on the tracks. Clever one, clever one, you are a clever one, it seems to sing as she falls asleep, head against her mother’s shoulder.
The next morning, Tirzah walks in through Biddy’s open back door. Her aunty nods hello from where she is kneeling in the hallway. It’s too hot to be polishing tiles, Tirzah says. Her aunt goes on rhythmically wiping with a cloth. Someone’s got to do it, she answers, not looking up again. Not everybody can swan around all day sunbathing like some I could mention. Tirzah blushes and stumbles up the stairs to find Biddy. They wait in her bedroom until Biddy’s mother has left for her job at the village butcher’s. As soon as she’s out of the way, the girls lay a tray with three glasses of squash and a plate of digestives. Then they go out to the garden and sit on the loungers, listening to the bumblebees manoeuvring themselves in amongst the roses. Dead on time, Osian knocks the garden door and Biddy lets him in. Tirzah watches as he walks towards her. He has changed, but it is difficult to say in what way. You sit down there, Biddy tells him, indicating the empty lounger. I won’t be a minute. From the bottom of the garden there is a disturbance in the chicken run, and the chickens take a while to settle again. They sense a stranger is here, Tirzah says. But I am not a stranger, Osian answers, looking at her expressionlessly from under his dark fringe. She remembers to ask if he is happy with his exam results. What? he asks, as if she’d said something strange. Your results, she repeats. How did you do? Oh, not bad, he answers. She is squashed by a certainty of the wrongness of everything; her small mound of a belly and fattening waist are mysteries to her. All the words she wanted to say scatter. They wait until Biddy comes back with the tray. I’ll have that, Biddy, Osian says, springing up and taking the tray out of her hands as she walks carefully towards them.
In the garden, Tirzah senses all the plants leaning in to listen, and her unhappiness rises like a cake in a hot oven. Osian is so unlike himself she begins to suspect this grave person sitting upright on the lounger is an impostor. Where is the boy who created a miniature world in his attic and put a girl with a ponytail and a basket in the centre, like a queen? Where is the easy, lanky boy she loved? She studies his mouth. Where is his lopsided smile now? Biddy kneels and hands out the squash. Osian drinks in one go, his throat convulsing with each gulp. Tirzah holds a biscuit in her hot hand. So, Osian, Biddy says, what is it you want to say to Tirzah? His eyes switch back and forth between the girls. Tirzah bites her biscuit, but it has a gritty texture in her mouth. I want Biddy to stay here with me, she tells him. Of course, he says, and clears his throat in a way she does not recognise.
He tells her that he thinks they should both go on the CYC weekend. I know, Tirzah says. You said that in your letter. He ignores her and goes on to explain that his plan is to talk to Deacon Humphries first. Let’s see what he thinks, he says. Tirzah waits for a few seconds, searching his face. You do know I am having a baby, don’t you? she blurts at last, hoping to make him say something about it. Osian nods slightly, not meeting her eye. It will be a chance for us to get away from all this, he continues, making a gesture with his arm, both stunted and impassioned. Then, as if someone had switched him off, he stops talking. Tirzah is defeated. Well, Biddy says, after the seconds have lengthened hopelessly. You do what you just said, Osian. Talk to Mr Humphries and see if he can think of a plan of action. Then we’ll see. She looks at Tirzah for approval, and Tirzah nods again. Osian says goodbye, and for a moment it looks as if he will shake their hands like a minister. Biddy walks with him to the garden door, but Tirzah can’t imagine she will ever move again.