“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 favorite 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.
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, miniaturized 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.