(Jeremiah 6:26)
Biddy brings in a plate. Wrap your laughing gear round this, she announces. Tirzah is lying on a new, prickly sofa in Biddy’s lounge. Thanks, she says, reaching for a handful of Ritz crackers. What’s happened to your posh brown settee, Bid? Mam got fed up with it, Biddy says through a mouthful. And is that what’s happened to your telly? Or did your dad have another change of heart and burn it on a pyre in the garden? Biddy pops a cube of cheese in her mouth. Sort of, she answers. They were convicted of their sin, and off the poor old telly had to go again. Honestly, I wish they’d make up their minds. I miss it, though. The girls munch, thinking. I really, really loved Robinson, Tirzah says. Who didn’t? Biddy asks, her mouth full of Ritz. Tirzah remembers Robinson’s beautiful hair and smooth, gleaming chest. Mostly she’d loved his arms. What would it be like, having those arms embracing you? He had the most gorgeous legs, Biddy says. But shove Robinson, I’ll miss Scooby Doo. They lie either end of the sofa and silently make their way through the goodies Biddy has filched while her mother is out. Tirzah tries several times to frame the question she needs to ask. What’s the matter with you, Tiz? Biddy asks eventually. Have you got a pain?
Tirzah decides just to come out with it. Would you help me do something? Even if you thought it was stupid or wrong? she asks. Yes, Biddy answers. Tirzah explains about the parcel she left in the woods. You know the scruffy boy we saw by the stream that day we were picking bluebells? The one you said you fancied? she asks. Biddy slowly nods. Well, he’s been living in the woods for months. Biddy narrows her eyes. Anyway, Tirzah continues quickly. He’s still there, and it’s getting cold, and his boys have left him. So? Biddy says. So I want to leave him some food and a blanket. It’s going to be winter soon, but I don’t think he wants to leave the woods. Will you help me? I daren’t go on my own now, in case I fall over or something. Biddy shakes her head as if in disbelief. Tizzy, you are nuts, she says at last. But yes, of course I will help you. Shouldn’t we try and talk to his mother first? See what she says about him? Tirzah realises this is a good idea. We could do it now, Biddy suggests, jumping up. I know where she lives. What’s his name, anyway? For a moment, Tirzah struggles with a strange reluctance to tell her.
The girls go into the kitchen and look through the cupboards. Biddy puts the half-full Ritz box in a carrier bag, and the cheese. Let’s make sandwiches for him, she says, and quickly butters four slices of bread, spreading them with Bovril. Tirzah keeps watch at the back door. In the pantry Biddy finds a bottle of dandelion and burdock pop. This’ll do, she says. Come on. Tirzah runs round to her own kitchen and stands, listening. Her mother is upstairs changing the beds, so she dashes to the pantry and takes a handful of Welsh cakes out of the tin, then runs back to where Biddy is waiting. Biddy insists on carrying the bag. Tirzah looks at the shiny tip of her nose and bouncing hair. You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? she asks. Biddy nods. But I’m also sorry for him, she says. The poor dab. She stops and looks as if she is about to ask Tirzah a question. What? Tirzah says. But Biddy shakes her head. Nothing, she says. Let’s go.
They walk through the village to the area where Brân’s mother lives. The alleyways are stony and sharp with the smell of pee, clogged with nettles, holed saucepans and torn wellies. Tirzah realises this is not far from the place she found poor Osian crouching. Biddy leads the way and ignores the groups of children who watch them. This is it, she says, putting the carrier bag down. You wait here, I’ll go and investigate. But Tirzah brushes past and walks to the front door. Up against the mottled glass she can see piles of mail held in a bulging swathe of net curtain. Biddy stands behind her as she knocks. They can hear music blaring in a distant room, and Tirzah bangs again. The door opens a few inches, and a little girl with a sore at the corner of her mouth peers through her fringe. A strong smell of frying fish billows out. Tirzah smiles at the blank-eyed girl. Are you Brân’s sister? she asks. The girl nods, but before Tirzah can get any further a woman with mottled bare legs appears and grabs the girl, thrusting her out of sight. Biddy quickly moves to shield Tirzah from view. The woman surveys them, arms folded and legs planted wide. Whatever you’re selling, we don’t want it, she says, and puffs on the stub of a cigarette. Bugger off afore I sets my dog on you.
Tirzah’s heart is jumping in her chest. Excuse me, she says over Biddy’s shoulder, but we are friends of Brân and wondered if you could tell us where he is? I dunno nobody called Brân, the woman shouts, ash dropping to her cleavage. Now fuck off, the pair of you. And she slams the door on them. The girls hurry down the path, only slowing for Biddy to pick up the bag. When they are safely in the alley again they stop. Well, Biddy says, blowing out her cheeks, she is what my mother would call a slummocky piece, and they laugh weakly, holding on to each other. When they’ve sorted themselves out, they set off for the woods. It’ll be getting dark before we know it, Biddy says. So they walk briskly, the air chilly and overlaid with the smell of rotting moss and dying allotment fires. Biddy helps Tirzah manoeuvre over the stone walls until the woods appear. They decide she will wait while Biddy climbs down the bank and finds a spot to leave the bag. You know where he built his wigwam, don’t you? Tirzah calls. That’s the place. Biddy is already making her way towards the rustling, coppery branches, and soon she has ducked under and disappeared.
A layer of dewy air rises from the grass and plays around Tirzah as she sits. Overhead, two crows swim through the grey sky, making for the woods. A spider with long, hair-thin legs and a tiny body skitters across her folded hands. How can Brân live in the woods with just his birds for company? she wonders, trying to imagine having absolutely no one to talk to. How does he clean his teeth and wash? The next time she comes she will bring toothpaste and a toothbrush, even some soap. Silence nudges her from every direction, and she begins to become uneasy. Just as she’s struggling to her feet, Biddy is back, holding the tablecloth Tirzah packed everything in last time. This was neatly folded on the ground, she says, handing it to her. At the sight of it, Tirzah’s eyes blur; the thought of Brân finding the bundle and rooting through, ravenously eating, turns her heart to a plummeting stone.
Laboriously, they make their way back across the fields, and Tirzah can barely carry the weight of her laden heart, but soon they are amongst the lamplit streets. Curtains are being drawn against the evening as they come down the road. This is a secret, mind, Tirzah whispers when they stand outside Biddy’s house in an oval of yellow light. Promise? Biddy kisses her, and Tirzah watches until she disappears before going in through her own door. Where on earth have you been? her mother asks, stopping to take in her damp, tendrilly hair and red cheeks. I’m all over the place, she adds, not waiting for an answer. We have a visitor, in the front room. Tirzah washes her hands at the kitchen tap and rearranges her hair, fighting the desire to climb the stairs and fall on her bed. In the front room, sitting pressed into a corner of the sofa, is Osian’s mother. Tirzah is so taken aback that for a moment she says nothing. The gas fire is glowing, and Mrs Evans seems fascinated by the tiny blue and orange flames. Hello, Tirzah manages to say. But Mrs Evans does not respond. She is busy twisting her undone black hair into a long rope. Grouped beside her are three stuffed shopping bags.
Tirzah waits for her mother to come in. When she does, the room seems to warm up and grow lighter. Marg, she says, smiling and pulling out a little bent-legged table from the nest of three, what you need is a nice cuppa and a bite to eat. Her mother has made some dainty sandwiches. On another plate are buttered scones. Tirzah offers a plate, but Mrs Evans goes on gazing at the fire, so they busy themselves with cups and pouring. Tirzah’s mother sits and the cushion makes a sighing sound. Now, dear, she says gently, please have a little sip. Go on. She offers the cup and saucer, and Mrs Evans takes them. Then she picks up her own cup and raises it to her lips, over-emphasising her movements, as if teaching Mrs Evans what to do. Good, she says. Now a sandwich. Mrs Evans takes a triangle and nibbles the edge. Soon she has eaten it and drunk half her tea. How are you now? Tirzah’s mother asks, taking Mrs Evans’s limp, empty hand in her own warm hands. Mrs Evans nods. You are missing your lovely boy, I expect, she goes on. And that is natural. But you must look after yourself, for his sake at least. It is good he is at his aunt’s and still getting on with his studies. There is a pause. Would you like me to get some hair clips and a brush? she goes on, her voice coaxing. I could put your hair up nicely for you.
Mrs Evans is listening, Tirzah can tell, even though she is unresponsive. She is still wearing Osian’s T-shirt. The fire makes small popping sounds and the purple evening waits calmly outside. Mrs Evans begins to stir. Rest a while longer, Margiad, Tirzah’s mother says. I will get Gwyllim to walk you home. But Mrs Evans wants to leave. Tirzah watches the two women in the hallway. While her mother fastens her coat, Mrs Evans stands patiently until all the buttons are done up. Dear sister, she can hear her mother say. I will pray for you. Then Mrs Evans is gone. The bags shift by the side of the sofa, and Tirzah sees one of them has a note pinned to it with her name written in red biro. As she sinks to the rug, pieces of Osian’s train set clatter out. Picking up a red carriage and a bundle of signals, she remembers Osian’s onion-scented mouth on hers in the attic, and the way that had all ended. Then she sees something half-hidden under the sofa and snatches it up. It is the tiny girl with the auburn ponytail who waited on the platform for a train that never took her anywhere, still carrying her empty basket.