Black Feathers: Dark Avian Tales: An Anthology(105)

“Hello.”

There’s a long pause. I sigh inwardly. I’m going to have to try to make conversation with her. She’s in her fifties. She’s lost one of her earrings 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’s 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.