Black Feathers: Dark Avian Tales: An Anthology(101)

That’s what makes me cry. For her. For myself. I’ve abandoned her again and again. As soon as I could walk, I walked away from her. As we grew older, my greatest unkindness towards her was my coldness. As a teenager, I never wanted to be seen with her. After our twenty-third birthday, I never came back.

“Julieee.”

I put my arms around her. I’ve not asked Elsa if Pip was with Dad when he collapsed, if she sat beside him, if she saw the paramedics at work.

The onslaught of my tears and sudden embrace frighten her and I’m the one who feels abandoned when Pip pulls away.


Ten years since my last visit to The Beeches. Ten years since Dad and I argued. I drove home after spending the weekend here for our birthday. Elsa had made a cake, a sugary creation piled up with candles that was more suitable for children.

Dad rang me when I got back to my flat in London.

“I’m disappointed, Julie.”

“What?” I wasn’t used to him speaking to me like that.

“You come down once in a blue moon and spend the whole time on the phone.”

“I have to work.” I was setting up my own recruitment agency. I was angry at Dad for not understanding that. I was angry that he thought I owed him an explanation. “I’m still getting thing off the ground.”

“Yes, I know your work’s more important than we are.”

“It’s how I make a living. You sound like you want me to fail.”

“Don’t be preposterous. All I’m saying that it would be nice for you to be here when you’re actually here.”

“I drove all the way to be there. It’s my birthday too.”

“You act like coming home is a chore. Pippa’s your sister. You have a responsibility towards her.”

“Yes, I’m her sister, not her mother. Aren’t I allowed a life of my own? I thought you’d be happier that you’ve only got one dependent now.”

“Don’t talk about Pip like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re angry at her. It’s not her fault that your mother killed herself.”

“No? Whose was it then? Yours?”

Those were my final words to him. I don’t know why I said them now.


The following morning’s a quiet relief. I wake long before Pippa. The house is familiar. The cups are where they’ve always lived. The spoons in the same drawer, the coffee kept in a red enamel canister as it always had been when I lived here. It’s like returning to another country after years away. Even though I recognise its geography, customs, and language, I’ll never again be intrinsic to its rhythms.

My mobile rings.

“Ju, it’s me.” Christopher.

“Hi.”

I’m never sure what to call him. Boyfriend sounds childish, partner businesslike and lover illicit.

“The new Moroccan place has opened. I wondered if you fancied coming with me tonight.”

Not: Shall we go? There’s him and me with all the freedom between us that I need.

“I can’t. Take Cassie.” There’s no jealousy in that remark. Over the two years I’ve been seeing Chris, seeing other people too has worked well for us. It’s precisely why I picked a man with form. A player won’t want to cage me but Chris keeps coming back to me, just when I expect him to drift off with someone new.

“I stopped seeing her months ago. I told you.”

I don’t care. It makes no difference to me.

“My dad’s dead,” I say, just to try and change the subject.

“Oh God, Julie I’m so sorry. I’d just presumed he was already dead from the way you talked about him. What happened?”

“Heart attack.”

“Where are you? I’ll come and help.”

“No need.”

“I want to.”

“And I don’t want you to,”

“I’m not trying to crowd you, but may I call you? Just to see if you’re okay.”

“Sure. Of course.” He can call. I may not answer.

I hang up.

“Julie.”

Pippa sidles up to me. We’re both still in our pyjamas. It’s an effort but I manage a smile for her.

“Do you want breakfast, Pippa? Cereal?”

I’m not sure what she eats now. It used to be raspberry jam spread thickly on toast. She tugs on my sleeve and pulls me up.

A trio of swallows hang from her bedroom ceiling. It was sent one Christmas, like all my presents to her for the last ten years, chosen for being flat packed and easy to post. Pippa reaches up and sets the birds in motion as she passes.

It’s the bedroom of a child. No, it’s the bedroom of an innocent. It needs repainting. The realisation makes me wonder what I feel. Our future’s a knife.

“Look.” Pippa beams.

Her childhood collection has grown to dominate the room. It’s housed in plastic craft drawers that are stacked on shelves to a height that Pippa can reach. Her models are lined up above the drawers, on higher shelves.

She used to make them in plasticine. They were crude lumps at first. Now she’s graduated to clay. They must fire them at the day centre. Her years of practice are in the suggestive details. A square tail. The shape of the head with a pinched beak.