The Bird Room (13 page)

When Helen was Clair – when she was about eight years old – her parents took her to a farm. One of those ones open to the public. There were other things there, too; go-carts, trampolines, a gift shop. It probably wasn't a real farm, one that actually produced anything. The animals were farmed to be touched. It was the summer holidays – a sunny day, now bleached sepia-yellow in Helen's memory.

‘Go on,' her mum said.

They were looking at a sheep. The sheep was sniffing the fence or chewing a piece of grass.

Clair felt scared. She felt the sheep might do something weird and violent to her; bite off her face or smack her round the head with its hoof. She didn't really want to, but she walked towards the sheep, to please her mum.

Clair held out her hand. The sheep came over. It licked her hand and she felt the rough scrape of its tongue on her palm.

She felt surprised.

It was good, and she felt silly for feeling scared, and she wondered if there was some way you could be employed to do this; if this could be your job, to just stand there and have your palm licked all day.

Afterwards, she wanted to ask her mum. But even at eight years old she knew it was a silly thing to say out loud.

It's dark when Helen comes out of his house. She steps carefully past the snails and out onto the street. It's raining still. He gave her the money in an envelope, which she hasn't opened yet. There's nothing written on the front of it.

She went back into the bathroom and put on her own clothes.

She had to keep suppressing the urge to talk to him more, to ask him if there was anything she could do, like if he needed anything from the shops or whatever. Of course, she didn't ask. She felt silly. She didn't lock the bathroom door. She kept trying to imagine what he wanted her to look like. She had to stop herself about five times from going back into the bedroom and saying, Let's give it another try.

What the fuck are you doing? she asked herself, rolling her tights up over her legs.

‘You can have these if you like,' he said when she went back into the bedroom.

He handed her a carrier bag; the clothes she'd been wearing.

She didn't know whether she wanted them or not, but she said thanks anyway and smiled at him. He must have sensed she felt weird, because he said, ‘You could give them to a charity shop or something.'

‘Right,' she said.

Then he gave her the envelope. He took it out from the pocket of his jeans.

‘You can't always have been like this,' Helen wanted to say. ‘What happened?'

Instead, she just thanked him again and took it.

He didn't say anything else. He walked her to the door, the ridiculous bulge still there in his trousers, making him hunch a bit and walk funny.

When she waved goodbye, she couldn't tell if he waved back. It was dark in the hall and the door swung closed too quickly.

Even with the lights on, the house is dark. Dark and damp and smelling of wet clothes. Helen's sure this house is what's making her hair go frizzy overnight. She's sure that the house is making her body damp, on the inside. Her heart has drops of condensation on it in the morning. Her lungs have begun to curl like sodden paperbacks.

It's not even fun to live here.

Helen takes her mobile out of her handbag. Two missed calls. Her mum and Duncan. She feels like putting it in the bin.

NO FOOD
– is taped to the TV –
OR TOILET PAPER
.
SORRY. USE THE KITCHEN ROLL
.

Helen isn't hungry or tired.

She goes upstairs and gets into bed anyway, still in her coat. She puts her sleeve in her mouth and sniffs.

Eventually, a dream comes. Helen is in William's house again, wearing the clothes from the carrier bag. She's putting things on the shelves; a vase with flowers, a framed photograph, a glass figurine of a ballet dancer, a 70p porcelain biscuit jar. She goes into the kitchen and arranges Yorkshire Dales placemats on the table. She pulls a big roll of carpet from her jeans pocket and drapes it over the floorboards.

She is climbing the stairs.

She is hanging curtains.

She is opening the bedroom door.

Then she trips on something. Someone is touching her shoulder and rocking her gently awake. It's dark in the room and at first she thinks it must be Corrine. Helen squints at the person. It's not Corrine. It's the sister.

‘What is it?' Helen asks. ‘I was sleeping.'

‘Come here,' the sister says. ‘I want to show you something.'

The sister climbs off the bed and walks over to the wardrobe. She's naked.

‘What?' says Helen, pulling the duvet back up over her damp chilly shoulder.

‘Come here,' the sister says again.

Helen throws off the covers and gets out of bed, still in her coat and boots, her hair starting to frizz and a tiny drop of cold water sliding down her heart. She goes over to the sister. The sister opens the wardrobe and they look in at Helen's clothes. The sister goes through them,
picking out a top, a skirt. She goes over to the dresser, opens a drawer and takes out underwear.

‘Are you watching?' the sister says.

‘Yep,' Helen says.

The sister puts on the clothes, slowly, one by one, almost sarcastically.

‘Okay,' the sister says, once the clothes are on, spinning round on her toes and mimicking a fashion model. ‘Who am I?'

Helen doesn't want to speak. She keeps her mouth glued shut.

‘Come on. Who am I?'

Helen looks at her. There's nothing else to say.

‘You're Helen,' she says.

‘That's right,' says the sister. ‘Good work. A-star. And who does that make you?'

‘I'm Helen, too,' Helen says, knowing how pathetic it sounds.

‘You can't have two Helens,' says the sister.

‘No,' Helen says, slowly, looking down at her hand, at a small white chink developing in the black nail varnish of her left index finger. ‘I suppose not.'

‘So?' says the sister.

‘I'm an actress,' says Helen. ‘I can be whoever I want to be.'

‘You're Clair,' says the sister.

‘I could be Amanda, Angela or Alice if I wanted,' says Helen. ‘Kate, Chloe or Camille.'

‘You're Clair,' the sister says, and Clair nods her head.

‘Okay,' she says. ‘Alright. I'm Clair.'

They sit down on the end of the bed. They have a hug. This is not goodbye. They arrange to keep in touch. ‘Put these on,' the sister says, indicating the clothes in the carrier bag.

Clair takes off her black boots and coat and skirt and top and underwear, and puts on the clothes from the future. She goes over to the long mirror and looks at herself in them.

‘You look good,' says the sister.

‘I do,' says Clair. It's true.

She goes over to the coat. She gets the envelope out and opens it. Inside is five hundred pounds in big red fifty-pound notes. She takes out three hundred, rolls it up and sticks the wad in her hip pocket. She gives the rest to the sister.

‘This is for Corrine,' she says. ‘For rent.'

‘Okay,' says the sister. ‘What will you do?'

It's three-something in the morning. Corrine is still out at the casino. Her shift finishes in about an hour.

‘I'll be alright,' says Clair. ‘I'll be in touch.'

Clair stands outside the house in a borrowed coat of Corrine's, an oversized parka with a furry hood and cuffs. She takes out her mobile, looks at it and doesn't want to call anyone. She puts it back in her pocket.

It would take about half an hour to walk to her mum's house.

It would take about an hour and a half to walk to William's house.

It would take about six days to walk to that farm with the sheep.

Something is tingling in her stomach; a feeling that things will happen, that things will finally happen to her. There's a smell of small, put-out bonfires in the air and the sound of a cat falling off a fence. Things are shining and visible in the sky. She steps out into the street, turns very definitely and starts to walk.

Very special thanks to: Charlene Sawit, Steven Hall,
Francis Bickmore, Jamie Byng and everyone else at
Canongate, my mum and dad, friends, family, and
anyone who read an early draft of this novel.

For an even longer thanks list, and other things, please visit:
www.thebirdroom.org.uk