‘Could I have a word with him?’
‘Course you can. Let’s go and find him.’
They walk up the stairs, Roly leading the way. At the top of the stairs, a moose regards them balefully.
‘All the way from Canada,’ says Roly Pickering. ‘That’s the kind of business my boy’s inheriting.’
Naomi can think of nothing to say. Her legs are weak. She feels sick. She finds herself being led up another flight of narrower, rickety stairs, past two jays and a sparrowhawk in glass cases.
By the door to the workshop there is a peregrine falcon in full flight, about to catch a goldfinch.
‘Look at that,’ says Timothy’s father. ‘See those rocks. I climbed Gormley Crag to take an impression of the cliff face, so that those rocks would be authentic. They say pride’s a sin, but I’m proud of that. Couldn’t bear to let it go. Couldn’t sell it. It wings its way straight to my heart, every time I clap eyes on it.’
Naomi realises that Timothy’s father is incapable of doing anything as ordinary as seeing something. He has to clap eyes on it. She feels guilty about this thought. Timothy has told her that before many years have passed his father will not be able to clap eyes on anything any more. But oh, how she wishes he’d be quiet.
Roly opens the workshop door, which squeaks.
‘Young lass to see you, Timothy my lad,’ he says with dreadful good cheer.
Timothy smiles. It’s the smile of a proud, professional young man interrupted in his work.
His father points to an assembly of three sculptured forms with wire sticking out of them.
‘Going to be three puffins,’ he says. ‘Just waiting for them to come from Iceland.’
Timothy sees the horror on Naomi’s face.
‘They’re pests there,’ he says. ‘They cull them. We don’t use anything that has been killed illegally.’
‘They’re made of brand new stuff,’ says Roly Pickering proudly. ‘Rigid polyurethane foam. Far more flexible and workable than papier mâché.’
Naomi doesn’t want to know. Not now of all days.
But Roly Pickering is unstoppable. Now he is showing her the large board to the right of the tiny window. Here hang the many tools of his trade – wire cutters, bolt cutters, pliers, scissors, and sinister things that she doesn’t recognise. The words ‘Scalpel, nurse’ float inappropriately into her mind.
‘I didn’t realise.’
She can see how elaborate the work is, how clever. It is indeed an art, as Timothy had claimed. Her curlew didn’t feel stiff because of rigor mortis, as she had believed, but because it was solid, a sculpture, the feathers spread over the sculpted form so neatly that she should have been proud of Timothy. But it’s too late. She was wrong when she thought that it is never too late. It’s almost always too late.
His father opens a series of small drawers. They are full of eyes, foxes’ eyes, badgers’ eyes, jays’ eyes, stags’ eyes.
‘All from Germany,’ he says. ‘We get all our eyes from Germany.’
They aren’t frightening. They’re like buttons. And yet…the eyes of her curlew had sparkled with alertness. She appreciates now what a miracle of skill her curlew is, what an illusion it is. It’s not a dead bird, it’s a work of art.
‘I didn’t realise,’ she repeats feebly, and then she pulls herself together. ‘Mr Pickering, can I see Timothy in private?’
Timothy suddenly looks serious. Has he an intimation?
‘Yes, of course. You could use the office. Crowded, but clean.’
Timothy looks at her questioningly, then leads the way down the narrow stairs to the landing.
‘He uses one of the bedrooms. We never have guests,’ says Timothy. ‘Nobody ever comes.’
This door squeaks too. Naomi just wouldn’t be able to stand it. If she lived here, the first thing she’d do would be to invest in a huge supply of WD40. If she lived here. She surprises herself even thinking it.
They enter a small room with a desk piled high with unruly invoices and calendars from zoos. There’s an unwelcoming hard wooden chair of the most basic kind, and a black leather chair which desperately needs a taxidermist’s skill to patch up its bursting insides. A dead badger lies on the wide windowsill, which needs painting.
Naomi chooses the hard chair. It wobbles. The right-hand rear leg is wonky.
‘Sit down, Timothy.’
It’s a command.
He has gone white. He sits down. He knows. He’s not quite such an innocent, after all.
‘I’m really sorry, Timothy.’
His mouth opens but no sound emerges.
‘I can’t marry you.’
‘Naomi!’ He may have known but the confirmation of it destroys him. He cowers. ‘What?’
‘I’m sorry. I don’t love you.’
‘You said you did!’
‘I did, and now I don’t. I’ve…there’s someone else.’
Timothy crumples. He bursts into tears. He is pathetic. Tears stream down his face and he whimpers like a dog. She despises him and sympathises with him and hates herself and loves Steven all at the same time.
‘Don’t be so pathetic.’
She doesn’t mean to be cruel, but she hates the scene, the horrid room, the badger judgemental even in death, her former lover sobbing like a baby. She is repulsed. What a good move she is making in freeing herself from this wretch, and yet…and yet…she still recalls those three nights, especially the second one, and she cannot leave him while he is like this.
She goes over and stands by the chair, holds her hand out, touches his wet cheek. His sobs slowly subside.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘It’s the shock.’
‘I know. Timothy, I’ve got to tell you.’ She swallows. She longs for a pint of cool water. ‘It’s Steven.’
‘Steven! No!’ It’s a scream of fury, and she’s pleased to hear it, after all this whimpering. ‘Not Steven!’
‘I know.’
‘He’s…he’s…he’s not even nice, Naomi.’
‘I know. I know.’
‘Do you love him?’
‘I don’t know.’
