Edited by, p.12
Edited By, page 12
Grief fucks people up.
The mourners come in, folding up their umbrellas like wings, dripping rain on the parquet floor.
“Elsa, are any of the neighbour’s coming?”
“God, no. All the one’s you’d know are dead or moved away.”
I don’t know the people here. Some used to work with Dad, apparently, others knew him from Pippa’s day centre or through Elsa. They all greet her like she’s long lost family.
It’s unnerving that they line up to speak to me, something more suited to a wedding than a funeral.
The first is a tall, broad man, dressed in a shiny tight suit and winkle pickers. Spiv’s clothes but he’s gentle, paternal even. He takes my hand and looks right into my eyes, searching for something.
“My name’s Charlie.”
“Thank you for coming.”
“I’m so very pleased to meet you, my dear. You’re as lovely as I thought you’d be. I understand you’re a smart lady, too.” Then as if he’s just recalled why we’re here, “I’m sorry for your loss.”
A pair of elderly ladies are next. They’re twins. Both have the same bob, cut into a bowl shape at the front, hooked noses and dowager’s humps that marks their identically crumbling spines.
“Do you have children?” says the first one, which isn’t the opener I expected.
The second one tuts and pushes her sister along. They’re followed by a couple who call themselves Arthur and Megan. A first I think they’re brother and sister as they’re so alike, but the way he hovers around her suggests their relationship is more than familial. Her arm’s in plaster.
“How did you know Dad?”
“Through my father.” The man waves his hand in a vague gesture that he seems to think explains everything.
Young men, a few years younger than I am, come next. They’re all in designer suits. Each is striking in his own way. They stand close to me as they introduce themselves. One even kisses my hand. The last one interests me the most. He’s not the tallest or best looking but I like his quiet confidence and lively face. There’s a yearning in his voice when he says my name that tugs at me. To smile at him seems weak, so I nod.
“My name is Ash.”
“Ash.” The word coats my tongue with want.
A woman edges him along.
“I’m Rosalie.”
She has the manner of entitlement that only certain hard, beautiful women have. Her fingernails are painted black. The lacquer’s like glass. She looks me up and down as she passes.
I sip my drink as more people introduce themselves, then go off to decimate the buffet and the wine boxes. I try not to look at Ash’s every movement. It’s a lovely agony. I close my eyes, the tannin in the red wine shrinking the inside of my mouth.
“How is Julie settling back in here?” It’s Charlie.
“Well, she’s here for now.” I don’t like Elsa’s tone. She must be drunk too.
I open my eyes. Charlie’s suit can’t settle on a single shade of black.
“I’m sorry Elsa. You must be missing Michael.”
I turn away a fraction, not wanting them to know I’m listening. From the periphery of my vision I see him embrace Elsa.
The young men congregate by the hearth. Rosalie’s berating them for something. I catch her final words: “I don’t see what’s so special about her anyway.”
I know she’s talking about me because Ash looks over and keeps on looking even though he’s caught me eavesdropping. “Don’t you?” he replies with a smirk.
“I’m Stephanie.” A woman gets in the way, just when I think he’s going to walk over and join me. “You’re Julie, yes?”
“Hello.”
There’s a long pause. I sigh inwardly. I’m going to have to try and make conversation with her. She’s in her fifties. She’s only wearing one earring and most of her hair’s escaped from her bun.
“Where are you from?”
“From?” she says.
“Your accent…” Her pronunciation’s off kilter, her phrasing odd.
“I’ve lived in lots of different places.” She glances around the room. “I think Elsa would rather I hadn’t come.”
She reaches out and swipes a sandwich from a plate, gobbling it down in two mouthfuls. “These are delicious.”
The volume of the chattering around us bothers me. I’ve drunk too much on an empty stomach.
“This place hasn’t changed since your mother’s funeral.”
“You met her?”
“Tennis club.”
Tennis. How little I knew about her.
“Such a gracious, joyous woman.” Stephanie twitters on. “Want and need. How they undo us.”
“Pardon?”
Stephanie blinks.
“There are so many crows in Fenby now. They’ve quite pushed out the cuckoos.” She speaks in a comedy whisper, getting louder with each word. “Your mother guessed that they’d double crossed her.”
The chatter’s dying. Everyone’s watching us now.
“You know how it works, don’t you? They laid one of their own in your mother’s nest…”
Charlie comes over and puts an arm around her.
“Stephanie, what are you taking about? Julie doesn’t want to hear this rubbish.” He pulls a face at me. “It’s time for you to go home.”
“You can’t push me around. I have a right to be here. We had a deal.” She breaks away from him and seizes me in a hug.
“I’m sorry. For all of it,” she whispers in my ear. “It’s true. Look under the crow palace.”
I want to ask her how she knows that’s what we call the bird table but Ash comes and takes her arm.
“Aunt Steph, I’ll see you home.”
“I’m not your aunt.”
“No, Ash, you should stay.” Elsa joins us.
“It’s fine.” Ash kisses my cheek. My flesh ignites. “May I come and see you again? Tomorrow?”
“Yes.” It’s as easy at that.
“Until then.” He steers Stephanie towards the door.
The noise starts up again in increments. Ash’s departure has soured my mood.
Pippa can’t settle. As the mourners gathered around Dad’s grave she cringed and started to wail as if finally understanding that he’s gone. Now she’s wandering about, refusing to go to her room but flinching when any of our guests come near her. She stands, shifting her weight from foot to foot, in front of the twins who are perched in her favourite armchair.
“Oh for God’s sake, just sit somewhere will you?” I snap.
Pippa’s chin trembles. The room’s silent again.
Elsa rushes over to her but Pippa shoves her away. Elsa grabs her wrist.
“Look at me, Pippa. It’s just me. Just Elsa.” She persists until Pippa stops, shaking. “Better? See? Let’s go outside for a little walk.”
Pippa’s face is screwed up but she lets Elsa take her out onto the patio.
I lock myself in the bathroom and cry, staying there until everyone leaves. I’ve no idea what I’m crying for.
I wish this humidity would break. It’ sticky, despite yesterday’s rain. I feel hungover. Lack of sleep doesn’t help.
I wave goodbye to Elsa and Pippa as they go out. Elsa’s keen to be helpful. I’ll drop Pippa off, I’ll be going that way to the shops. Why don’t you go and get some fresh air on the lawn? You’ll feel better.
I can’t face sorting out the last of Dad’s clothes. The thought of the hideous green-gold wallpaper in there makes me want to heave. Instead, I take boxes of papers out to a blanket I’ve laid out on the lawn. It’s prevarication. I’m pretending that I’m doing something useful when I should be sorting out our future.
All the ridiculous talk of swapped babies and symbolic eggs seems stupid now that I’m out in the fresh air.
I imagined it would be cut and dried when Dad died. Sell the house. Find somewhere residential for Pippa or pay Elsa to take care of her. Now I hate myself. I have all along, and have taken it out on Pip. She’s the purest soul I know. There’s such sweetness in her. How can I leave her to the mercy of others?
How can I love her so much yet can’t bear to be near her sometimes? I fought everyone who tried to bully her at school. I became a terror, sniffing out weakness and reducing other children to tears. I started doing it just because I could. They hated me and in return and I felt nothing for them, not anger, not contempt. That’s how damaged I am.
I’m afraid that everything people think of me is true, but I’m not afraid enough to change. I am selfish. I like my own silence and space. I hated Dad for saying, “You will look after Pippa won’t you? The world’s a terrible place.”
Need. Nothing scares me more.
Then I look at Pippa, who is far more complete a human being than I am. She’s no trouble, not really. I could work from here and go to London for meetings. All I need to run my business is a phone. It would only need a bit of will to make it work.
I pull papers from the box. It’s an accumulation of crap. Receipts from electrical appliances, their warranties long outdated, bills, invitations and old business diaries.
It’s so quiet. I lie back. There’s not even the slightest breath of a breeze. I shield my eyes as I look up. The trees are full of corvidae.
Birds don’t roost at eleven in the morning, yet the rookeries are full. Sunlight reveals them as oil on water creatures with amethyst green on their foreheads and purple garnets on their cheeks.
Rooks, weather diviners with voices full of grit who sat on Odin’s shoulders whispering of mind and memory in his ears.
How Elsa’s lessons come back to me.
She taught me long ago to distinguish rooks from crows by their diamond shaped tails and the bushy feathers on their legs. I find these the strangest of all corvidae, with their clumsy waddles and the warty, great patch around the base of their beaks. It’s reptilian, Jurassic, even. A reminder that birds are flying dinosaurs, miniaturised and left to feed on insects and carrion.
I turn my head. Crows have gathered too, on the patio furniture, the bird baths, the roof and, of course, the crow palace. The washing line sags under their weight.
I daren’t move for fear of scaring them. Perhaps I’m scared.
Ash walks through their silence. They’re not unsettled by his presence. He’s still wearing the same suit. His stride is long and unhurried.
He doesn’t pay attention to social niceties. He falls to his knees. I lean up, but I’m not sure if it’s in protest or welcome. It’s as if he’s summed me with a single glance when I’m not sure what I want myself. He presses his mouth against mine.
He pushes my hair out of the way so he can kiss the spot beneath my ear and then my throat. The directness of his desire is exhilarating, unlike Chris’ tentative, questioning gestures.
He pulls open my dress. I unbutton his shirt. He pulls down my knickers with an intensity that borders on reverence.
His body on mine feels lighter than I expect, as if he’s hollow boned.
When he’s about to enter me he says, “Yes?”
I nod.
“Say it. I need to hear you say it. You have to agree.”
“Yes, please, yes.”
I’ll die if he stops now. The friction of our flesh is delicious. It’s as necessary as breathing.
When Ash shudders to a climax, he opens his mouth and Caw, caw, caw comes out.
I wake, fully dressed, lying on a heaped up blanket beneath the crow palace. There’s a dampness between my legs. I feel unsteady when I get up. The shadows have crept around to this side of the house. It must be late afternoon.
When I go in, Elsa’s in the kitchen. She’s cleaned up after yesterday.
“I’m sorry. I was going to do that…”
“It’s okay.” She doesn’t turn to greet me.
“Where’s Pippa?”
“Having a nap. We’re all quite done in, aren’t we?”
She turns to wipe down the worktops. She looks so at ease, here in Dad’s kitchen.
“What happened to my mother?”
I have to take the damp cloth from her hand to make her stop and look at me.
“It’s all on record.”
“I want to hear what’s not on record.”
“Then why didn’t you ask Michael while he was still alive?”
I’ve been expecting this but the anger and resentment in Elsa’s voice still surprises me. I take a deep breath. Retaliation won’t help my cause.
“Because he hated taking about her.”
“Then it’s not my place to tell you, is it?”
“Of course it’s your place. You’re the closest thing to a mother that either of us have ever had.” I should’ve said it long ago, without strings. The tendons at Elsa’s neck are taut. She’s trying not to cry. I didn’t just leave Dad and Pip. I left her too.
“You were born in this house. The midwife didn’t come in time. Your father smoked cigarettes in the garden. Men didn’t get involved in those days. I helped bring you both into the world. I love you both so much. Children fly away, it’s expected. I just didn’t realise it would take you so long to come back.”
“I know you loved Dad too. Did he love you back?”
“He never loved me like he loved your mother.” Poor Elsa. Always at hand when he needed her.
“You sacrificed a lot to be with him.” Marriage. A family of her own.
“You’ve no idea.” Her voice is thick with anger. “It’s utterly changed me.”
Then she bows her head. The right thing to do would be to comfort her. To hold her and let her weep on my shoulder. I don’t though. It’s a crucial moment when Elsa’s emotions are wide open.
“The papers said Mum had postnatal depression and psychosis.”
An illness that follows childbirth. A depression so deep that it produces bizarre beliefs.
“They were desperate for children. They would’ve done anything.”
“Anything?”
Fertility treatments weren’t up to much back then.”
“So what happened?”
“Well, you happened. A surprise, they told everyone. I remember holding you in my arms. It was such a precious moment.”
“When did she get ill?”
“When it became clear that Pip wasn’t doing so well. You were a thriving, healthy baby but Pippa was in and out of hospital because she was struggling to feed. She slept all the time. She never cried. You were smiling, then rolling over, then walking and she was falling further and further behind.”
“And Mum couldn’t cope?”
“The doctors became worried as she had all these strange ideas. And you were a real handful.”
“Me?”
“I’m sorry, maybe I shouldn’t say this.”
“Tell me.”
“You were just a little girl, trying to get their attention. You’d bite Pippa, steal her food. When you we big enough, you’d try and tip her from her high chair.”
“And what exactly was it that Mum believed?”
“She insisted she’d been tricked by the birds. They’d helped her to conceive and then they went and swapped one of you for one of their own.”
I wake in the hours when the night turns from black to grey to something pale and cold. My mind’s full. It’s been working while I sleep.
Mum’s insistence that she’d been tricked by birds. That they’d helped her to conceive.
They laid one of their own in your mother’s nest…
Cuckoo tactics. Mimic the host’s eggs and push out one of their own. Equip your chick for warfare. Once hatched, the hooks on its legs will help it to heave its rivals from the nest.
Look under the crow palace.
I pull on jeans and a sweatshirt. Dad kept his tools in his shed. I pull the shovel from the rack, fork and a trowel for more delicate work.
It’s chilly. I leave footprints on the damp lawn. It takes a while because I go slowly. First I take up turf around the crow palace. Then I dig around the base. The post goes deep into the rich, dark soil. My arms ache.
I lean on the post, then pull it back and forth, trying to loosen it. It topples with a crash. I expect the neighbours to come running out but nobody does.
I have to be more careful with the next part of my excavation. I use the trowel, working slowly until I feel it scrape something. Then I use my hands.
I uncover a hard, white dome. Soil’s stuck in the zigzag sutures and packed into the fontanelle. The skull eyes me with black orbits full of dirt that crawl with worms.
I clean off the skeleton, bit by bit. Its arms are folded over the delicate ribcage. Such tiny hands and feet. It’s small. She’s smaller than a newborn, pushed out into the cold far too early.
Mum and Stephanie were right. Here is my real sister, not the creature called Pippa.
Oh my God, you poor baby girl. What did they do to you?
“Are you okay?” Elsa ushers me into the kitchen. It’s eight in the morning. She has her own key.
I can’t bring myself to ask whether Pippa, my crow sister, is awake. How was the exchange made? Was it monstrous Pippa that heaved my real sister from my mother’s womb? Was she strangled with her own umbilical cord? And who buried my blood sister? Was it Mum and Dad? No wonder they were undone.
“What happened to you?”
Elsa opens a cupboard and pulls out a bag of seed mix, rips it open and tips out a handful. When she eats, some of it spills down her front. She doesn’t bother to brush it off. When she offers me some I’m hit by a wave of nausea that sends me across the room on rubbery legs to vomit in the bin.
“You’ve got yourself in a right old state.” Elsa holds back my hair.
I take a deep breath and wipe my nose.
“Elsa, there’s a baby buried in the garden.”
She goes very still.
“You knew about it, didn’t you?” I sit down.
She pulls a chair alongside mine, its legs scraping on the tiles. She grasps my hands.
“I didn’t want you to know about it yet. I wish that cuckoo-brained Stephanie hadn’t come to the funeral. And Arthur and Megan hadn’t interfered with that damn key. You found the eggs, didn’t you?”
