The Birds of the Air (8 page)

‘Dad’s got a mistress,’ Sam announced at last in perfect English.

Mrs Marsh, passing through the hall, heard him clearly and stood still, her hand suddenly cold on the newel post.

‘She shings,’ added Sam irrelevantly.

‘Well?’ asked Mary.

‘’orrible,’ said Sam. ‘In ’er chest.’

‘A contralto, I should think,’ mused Mary. ‘I’m glad we got that clear.’

Sam was greatly relieved to see how little his aunt cared. She didn’t love anyone enough to mind at all what they did. He thought there was a lot to be said for people devoid of passion, and in Mary passion had dwindled to one desire – that she might see Robin again – and one fear – that she might not. Sam wasn’t to know this, but whatever the reason his aunt’s distant coldness was a relief after the heated curiosity of his mother who anguishedly loved and disapproved of him.

Mrs Marsh peered round the door. She knew perfectly well that she ought to go on upstairs to the lavatory, as she had intended, and say nothing of what she had overheard, but she couldn’t help herself.

‘Are you telling lies, Sam?’ she demanded.

Sam blushed. ‘Nah,’ he said indignantly – like all liars, far more offended than the usually veracious at having one of his few truthful utterances doubted.

Mrs Marsh glared at him with the wholly unfair dislike reserved for the bearers of evil tidings. It would be better, thought Mary, if such people were made to wear distinctive clothing, so that the archers could shoot them down before they reached the barricades to upset the embattled inhabitants. There was seldom anything to be gained from the premature reception of bad news.

Sam, too, was angry. He thought old people shouldn’t listen at doors and was aware again of the hopeless impossibility of reprimanding his seniors. Surrounded by moral turpitude, he yet knew that any word of rebuke from him would be considered impertinent, naughty and asking for trouble. Zing-split, he went in his head, mowing down the incessant ranks of imagined strangers – but it would be better, he suddenly realised, if his grandmother didn’t believe him, for she certainly cared. She smelt of love and worry.

Mrs Marsh had reached the same conclusion. ‘You talk a terrible lot of nonsense,’ she told Sam, running upstairs. ‘Don’t encourage him, Mary.’ She had just noticed an extraordinary family resemblance between aunt and nephew, and fumed briefly at the unfairness of things. After all, there were countless other relations Sam could have taken after . . .

Throughout the afternoon neighbours kept calling with heavily wrapped small offerings of marmalade and bath-salts, which were added to the pile round the tree. They all knew Mary, and many of these things were for her; but Mary lurked in her room and left it to her mother to hand round the decorative boxes of matches and the apple-shaped candles which she had got for her to give in reciprocation. Her mother had had to wrap all these presents herself since Mary was loth to wind any material round anything or put anything in boxes and it hadn’t been necessary to buy a present for Robin. Christmas wasn’t necessary for Mary. She would wait for Easter and that other unanswerable feat of godly legerdemain. Resurrection, after all, was the
pièce de résistance
, deserving only of the roll of drums, the fanfare, the held breath – making the miracle of birth and even death quite commonplace.

Evelyn, as best friend, kept her visit and her gift till last – until the evening, when she saw the lights go on. Then, glowing with the selfless pride of the donor, she crossed the Close to claim her reward of gratitude and a glass of sherry.

‘You can’t really wrap it up and put it under the tree,’ she said, ‘but I thought I’d bring it over tonight so it can settle in before the rush tomorrow.’

‘What is it?’ enquired Mrs Marsh, deeply suspicious. Evelyn was scatter-brained, and anything could be hidden under her cloak. She should have been warned when Evelyn had said that she had ‘just the present’ for Mary. It was bound to be something totally unsuitable.

Evelyn knelt, fumbling under her cloak, and placed her gift on the floor. It staggered about, no more pleased to be given than Mrs Marsh was to receive it. It shrank and spat and sniffled without hope at the bleach-washed floor.

‘Kitty, kitty,’ said Evelyn, crouching lower to address it. ‘I found it on the downs three days ago,’ she explained, ‘all on its lonesome, crying under a bush, and I kept it in the shed so you wouldn’t see it.’

‘It’s wild,’ said Mrs Marsh.

‘No, it isn’t,’ said Evelyn. ‘It
was
when I found it, but it’s got used to me now. It sits on my lap.’

‘House-trained?’ asked Mrs Marsh.

‘Nearly,’ said Evelyn offhandedly, stroking the hostile kitten as it tried to hide under the kitchen cabinet.

Mrs Marsh was very cross. She had a chaotic vision of half-eaten birds, cat mess, hairs and future generations of kittens all over the house and garden.

‘Its mother is probably looking everywhere for it,’ she said spitefully. ‘Parent animals leave their young concealed while they go foraging for food.’

Evelyn grew stubborn. ‘It was lost,’ she said. ‘It was all thin, and its nose was bleeding.’

‘Well, I’d better find it a box,’ said Mrs Marsh resignedly. ‘Come on, puss.’ It was a tiny brindled thing, much too young to be seeking its fortune alone.

‘You have to put its milk on your finger,’ said Evelyn, not looking at her friend, ‘and let it lick it, and then put your finger in its saucer until it starts lapping. And you have to squash a little bit of sardine in milk, and it eats that for its dinner off your finger.’

Mrs Marsh was outraged. Did Evelyn really suppose that she had time to sit around hand-feeding cats?

‘It’s Mary’s cat,’ said Evelyn. ‘She’ll do it.’

Mrs Marsh doubted it, but had discerned Evelyn’s purpose. The kitten was to give Mary an interest, a reason for living. This was a common theme in women’s magazines and the afternoon films on television – except that it was usually a child, physically or mentally afflicted, who was restored to the world by the love of a dumb animal.

‘Is it a boy or a girl?’ she asked. ‘We’ll have to have it seen to.’

‘I think it’s a girl,’ said Evelyn, brightening. ‘It’s very affectionate.’ The kitten backed away from her, its mouth open in silent loathing.

‘I’ve got a ribbon to put round its neck, and a card,’ said Evelyn, ‘so I’ll come round in the morning and put them on.’ She was a little disappointed at Mrs Marsh’s lack of enthusiasm and wondered uneasily whether she would appreciate the painting of the lunatic asylum seen through the branches of a laburnum tree that was to be her own present.

‘Have a sherry,’ said Mrs Marsh at last, taking pity on her friend’s downcast mien.

‘It’ll be good for Mary,’ said Evelyn. ‘It’ll give her something else to think about.’ It was her contention that the bereaved grew ill from grief. ‘Take widows,’ she said. ‘They all either get cancer or take to drink.’

‘I didn’t,’ Mrs Marsh pointed out.

Evelyn looked rather knowing – perhaps thinking it was early days yet. ‘You’re very unusual,’ she said patronisingly.

But Mrs Marsh reluctantly inclined more to Mary’s theory, the arsy-versy of ‘nothing succeeds like success’, that if a person is born with a hare-lip he will undoubtedly go on to develop short sight and flat feet.

She sighed, and turned on the wireless to listen to the news. It was preceded by a talk from an Anglican bishop.

‘What does Christmas mean to
you
, Bishop?’ enquired the wireless.

The bishop began, ‘Oh, a time when families get together, chip each other, pull each other’s leg . . .’

The words drifted through the wall.

‘And of course,’ the bishop went on, ‘it’s a religious time, and it’s when one has a bit of a rest and wonders what life is all about. Life is a strange mixture of sadness and joy, isn’t it?’ he observed, his tone deepening. ‘I went to have a drink with some of the clergy . . .’ He laughed. ‘Har har! And I said morning service in my own chapel with my grandmother present, and then I went to one of the large London prisons, and then to an Intensive Care Unit. Then at an Old Persons’ Home I sat down at the piano and played “I’m Tired and I Want to Go Home”. Har har!’ The bishop’s tone, which had lightened, now deepened again. ‘I am a poorer man today,’ he announced, ‘because there are poor people on the street.
But
– love is stronger than hate even on the streets of Belfast.’

In a pig’s arse, thought Mary.

She and Sam glanced at each other, embarrassed.

‘Dear me,’ she said.

The wireless emitted a final self-satisfied holy giggle and some distant well-trained children began to sing carols.

The snow melted again overnight, leaving everyone with a sense of anti-climax which conflicted awkwardly with their expectations of Christmas Day. It was mild and grey and wet, and no one really enjoyed the early breakfast of mushrooms and bacon. Not even the bottle of champagne they drank as they opened their presents did much to raise their spirits. Nor did their presents.

Sebastian announced that he had left Barbara’s bottle of scent in his rooms and she’d have to wait for it until they got home, and Barbara instantly and irrationally believed he’d given it to the Thrush.

‘He’s teasing you, Mummy,’ Kate said. ‘Daddy, show her what we got.’

‘You show her,’ said Sebastian, settling back in his chair and folding his hands across the green cardigan that covered the beginnings of a paunch. His eyes were invisible behind the steely shine of his spectacles, his skin as fair and smooth as a baby’s. Mrs Marsh felt her mouth twist with distaste.

For Barbara they had got an embroidered ethnic evening bag, hung with tassels and gleaming with bits of mirror. She recognised it at once and wondered remotely whether she would find a slice of turkey in it.

‘We got it in the boutique,’ cried Kate. ‘Oh, Mummy, isn’t it perfectly exquisite?’

‘Yes,’ said Barbara, sense returning as she realised that these things were widely available. Still, she wondered again whether her husband was stupid or cruel, and wished, dully despairing, that he was neither.

Evelyn came across at mid-morning with her ribbon and card and proceeded to drive the kitten – who had spent a pleasant night on an old jumper and was beginning to relax – mad.

‘Do hold it, Kate,’ she implored, as it tried to turn itself inside out.

‘You’ll throttle the damn thing in a minute,’ said Mrs Marsh impatiently. ‘Just give her the kitten and the card separately.’

It wasn’t what Evelyn had planned. Separated, the kitten and the blue satin ribbon weren’t nearly as appealing, but there was nothing else for it.

Mary thanked her formally and patted the kitten before it went to ground under her bed. It emerged later when she was alone again and played for a while in an unpractised fashion. She wished it no harm.

Mrs Marsh listened devotedly to the Queen’s broadcast.

The monarch let it be known that, among other things, it would give her, personally, much pleasure if people would stop killing each other. (Her son had recently made several uninformed and ill-advised comments on church matters, freedom of expression and the management of industry, while her consort frequently exhorted his wife’s subjects to pull out their fingers, cease their bloodymindedness, get off their backsides, and so on, in a simple, sailor-manly fashion.)

It would be better, thought Mary, if they were all to keep their jaws clamped firmly shut on the silver spoons with which they were born for the purpose. Or alternatively they might get the authors of the animal books to write their scripts for them. (The heir already spoke of elephants as ‘heffalumps’.)

In each home in the Close the inhabitants, like Mrs Marsh, would be avidly lapping up these banalities. People who believed in monarchy, reflected Mary, were certifiably mad – madder than people who believed in little fat gurus or addressed their prayers to Elvis Presley. She looked aside as the high gentle voice delivered a final, deplorably limp and unleavened platitude.

‘Well, she can’t be controversial,’ said Mrs Marsh, observing her daughter’s expression. ‘You haven’t been to church for ages,’ she added, taking the offensive. Both her children had been brought up in their father’s faith, but she herself had never converted and Barbara had naturally lapsed when she married Sebastian.

Her mother’s train of thought satisfied Mary that she was right in estimating that the belief in monarchy was religious in character rather than secular and patriotic.

‘I’ll get Father Whatsit to pop in and see you later this week,’ Mrs Marsh said rather threateningly. ‘All right,’ said Mary placidly. She wasn’t an enthusiast. She was resigned to faith rather than a believer, having no doubts – no doubts, that is, as to the existence of God. Of his mood, his intentions, she wasn’t sure. She saw no reason to suppose that he meant her well in the accepted meaning of that term. He didn’t, as her mother did, wish her a nice house, a nice husband, nice children, a well-trained pet, happiness, longevity and a sherry in the evenings. Nor did she want any of these things. She sometimes thought he might have left her Robin, but that wasn’t his way. Her anger stopped short of God and was sustained by her hatred of death and the little demons in whom she saw herself reflected: destructive, gleeful, purple-tongued and bloody-mouthed – eternally mindless and beyond appeal. There was no point in fearing these unpleasant little gods since she knew they were subject to the limits of her consciousness and would never make it across the wilderness. Even Death, the jaunty jester-king, would flag before he reached the end of the wilderness. God was beyond the wilderness, but God without Robin was not enough and Mary, like an abandoned dog, couldn’t decide whether to stay in life, where she had last seen her darling, or to set off in pursuit.

Sebastian, Barbara and Kate went for a walk, surprising everybody with this evidence of family solidarity. Barbara wanted to clear her head before Hunter arrived. She had begun, inevitably, to wonder, as the time approached, whether her dreams were capable of realisation. Would
The Bear
, for instance, be open on Christmas Day? Would Hunter invite her to accompany him to
The Bear
? Did he even know of its existence? Could she suggest that he accompany her? Hardly. She began to construct a new fantasy in which all her family went for a walk – Mary could go to sleep – leaving Hunter time to begin to woo her. That would be enough to start with. The thought of illicit sexual congress in the Close made her nervous. A glance, a touch, would be enough, thought starving Barbara, sweating slightly in her sheepskin in the damp dull day.