The Continuity Girl (21 page)

“Shall we?” he asked perhaps five minutes later.

“What?”

He took her hand and they stood up. He began to walk toward the aviary, tugging her along behind him.

“Are you sure your brother meant it?” Now
she
was the one whining.

Meredith had never seen anything killed except in the movies, and she had little desire to now. Why was he making her come
with him? If only she could get away and run back to the cottage and find her earplugs and sateen sleeping mask... She tried
to wrench her hand free but his grip only tightened around her wrist. He had put on his falconer’s gauntlet, which made his
grip inescapable.

He opened the door of the pen and stepped inside. When he raised his arm, the owl swooped to meet him, eyes glittering like
topaz in the dark.

“Well now, Waverly.”

Barnaby laid the gun down on the floor of the pen and, grasping the leather leash attached to a bracelet on the bird’s ankle,
wrapped it around his arm twice. Then he stepped out of the pen. The owl was so large that while he was perched on Barnaby’s
arm his head stood higher than Meredith’s.

“You take him,” he said.

“I’m not taking him.”

Barnaby shifted the owl over to his left arm, pulled off his glove and gauntlet with his teeth and handed it to Meredith.
She took the glove and slipped it over her cardigan sleeve. Barnaby instructed her to whistle, and she did, the only way she
knew how: feebly, through the tiny gap between her front teeth. The sound, though thin, seemed enough for Waverly, who with
a great flapping leap transferred himself from Barnaby’s arm to Meredith’s and immediately began picking through her cardigan
pockets for dead mice. Holding the bird, heavy on her arm and yet somehow floating in air at the same time, was like lifting
a person under water.

“Now what?”

“This way.”

Barnaby wrapped the leash around her bird arm, then took her free hand and led her away from the aviary. They stopped in the
middle of the yard. From inside the house Portia gave a warning bark. Barnaby held the oil lamp above his head and stepped
back. The lamp was swinging back and forth, and when the light fell on his face she saw his eyes were blazing. He made a call—a
strange throaty hoot. Waverly took off, shaking himself free of the gauntlet and causing Meredith to stumble backward. The
bird was swallowed by darkness.

“Aren’t you going to call him back?”

“No,” said Barnaby.

For the next quarter-hour Meredith and Barnaby set about freeing the birds. Some, like the peregrines, needed little more
than an open door, while others, like the vultures, had to be coaxed out of captivity. Meredith did not ask about their chances
of survival, or if they would come back. She didn’t want to hear the answer, and she was sure Barnaby didn’t want to talk
about it.

When they were finished, they both returned to the stump and sat down. Meredith looked at Barnaby and noticed he had a small
blob of shit-coated owl down stuck to his left cheek. She licked her thumb and wiped it off.

As soon as she touched him, Barnaby began to kiss her. She was excited, but not by the kissing so much as by the way he took
her in his arms.
Gathering me up,
she thought.

He made a sound of surprise.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“Oh, yes, fine. It’s just that you are so
amazing.
”

Meredith climbed on his lap and they fooled around some more. Meredith, as always, simply wanted the making-out part to go
on and on.

But Barnaby was already looking around for another place. The lights had gone back on in Pear Cottage, which meant that Mish
had returned.

“Come along,” Barnaby said, taking Meredith by the arm. He led her back toward the aviary and, to her surprise, into the one
pen that had been empty from the start: Harriet’s. He set the oil lamp on the floor and the space—you could not call it a
room—became apparent in streaks of light. In the middle of the pen was a piece of wood erected as a perch, and at the top
Meredith noticed a smallish feathered body slung over one of the upper branches. Harriet. Meredith looked at Barnaby, attempting
to conceal her horrified cringe with an expression of curiosity.

“Is that...?”

“It was her favourite perch...” his voice trailed off.

And then, before she could make a comforting noise, he gathered her up again and they resumed kissing. After a while he eased
her down on the hay bale in the corner. When she winced, he told her not to worry, that he had just cleaned the pen that morning.
She didn’t believe him.

She reclined and pretended to be Claudette Colbert in
It Happened One Night.
If sex outdoors was romantic, why not sex in
a birdcage?

Barnaby coughed. He seemed to be having a problem with her stockings, so she helped him along and while she did, he unbuttoned
his pants.

And then, out of nowhere, Meredith was struck.
This isn’t right.
It was the only thing she knew.

“Barnaby, wait. There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

He had taken off his glasses and his eyes looked small and vulnerable.

“Really?” He retrieved his glasses from his jacket pocket and slipped them back on.

“The thing is, I like you very much—I don’t want you to think it’s anything to do with that because it isn’t. But at the same
time, I feel I should tell you that I have another, you might say
parallel,
agenda.”

Barnaby blinked. A sacrificial goat encountering an altar.

“Go on.”

“The thing is, I’m thirty-five.”

“Are you really?”

“Yes.”

“Goodness. I thought you were a good deal younger. More like twenty-eight or twenty-nine. Not that it matters in the least.”

“Thanks,” she said. “Anyway, my age in and of itself is not the point. The point is that I’m at a stage in my life where I
want to have a child.”

“Oh, me too,” he said, beginning to smile. “I adore children.”

“No. I mean
now.
Or as soon as possible, at any rate. And—” She paused.

“And?”

“And, in addition to other things in my life, I’m searching for the right father.”

Barnaby rocked back on the hay bale beside her. He touched his chin and looked up, then touched his chin again.

“But we’ve not even had one night together—and what we’ve had has been rather tumultuous at that,” he started, his brain apparently
steaming with the effort of cutting through the grog. “Don’t you think—I mean, don’t you honestly think that even a discussion
of marriage is a bit premature?”

“I wasn’t discussing marriage.”

“Well...” Barnaby shrugged. “C’mon.”

“C’mon what?”

“I reckon it’s six of one and half a dozen of the other, isn’t it? Having a child together is having a child together, wouldn’t
you agree?”

“Not at all. I was the product of a very unorthodox alliance myself, so I can personally attest to that. What I’m trying to
say to you is that while I’m deeply interested in having a child, I’m not particularly interested in marriage or even a long-term
relationship.”

Barnaby grimaced in confusion. “Are you asking me to be the father of your baby?” he said finally.

“Not exactly.”

“Then why are you telling me all this?”

“Because I thought it only fair that I tell you the whole truth at this point in our...liaison.”

“
Liaison
?” Barnaby returned to kissing her on the neck, this time more aggressively, while he fumbled with his boxer shorts.

She extended her arm to help but he waved her off as though she were a houseguest offering to perform some menial household
chore.

Just when Meredith was getting fed up, he collapsed, but not in the way she’d expected (with a gurgle of pleasure into the
crook of her neck). Instead, he slid off her and down the hay bale onto his knees, where, to Meredith’s bafflement, he began
to weep.

“I—I—It’s no use,” he stammered, the words bottlenecking in his throat.

“You’re...crying?” She was irritated.

Barnaby began to sob, and as he did she sat up and pulled down her dress, brushing the clingy bits of hay off her thighs and
bum. She looked down at him, where he kneeled in front of the oil lamp, choking on his grief. She felt the way she imagined
a cad does when a conquest blubs for her lost virginity. Sorry, but not too sorry.

“Look, Barnaby, I hope you don’t think it’s callous of me to say it, but you can always get another bird.”

“Not if I want to stay here I can’t,” he wailed.

Meredith watched, horrified, as his body began to convulse. It reminded her of the dying Yorkie.

She stroked his back and resolved to check the train schedule before she went to bed.

“I’m just not sure it’s such a good idea.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, darling. Not to mention hypocritical. You’ve always complained that I never take any interest in
your life and then as soon as I do you get all up in arms about it.”

“What are you talking about? I never complain. Not about that anyway.”

“Haven’t you? I was sure you had at some point. At any rate, I don’t usually. Take an interest in your life, that is. And
the point is that now that I am, I think you really ought to be more accommodating. I am your mother.”

“Yes. You certainly are.”

“Oh, come now, my duck, don’t be so difficult.” Irma patted Meredith’s knee and produced a small plate bearing a piece of
toast and two oily sardines plucked from the tin. “See? I made you dinner.”

Meredith took a bite of toast (she loathed canned fish, while her mother lived off it) and swiped the crumbs from her chin.
“Don’t you have any table napkins in this apartment?”

“It’s called a flat, darling. And I already told you, no napkins. Such a useless expense.”

“Well, could I at least have my butter ration for this toast, or did you already use up all your food coupons?”

Irma reached into the fridge, scooped a bit of butter on the end of a spoon and handed it to Meredith. She stood before her
daughter, eyes bright, hands in prayer position, like an expectant child.

“So?”

“So, what?”

“So, may I come visit you on your movie set?”

“I have conditions.”

“Fantastic! I can’t wait. A piece of cinematic history in the making. Imagine. Perhaps I’ll finally get
discovered.
” Irma
patted her own cheek appreciatively and laughed while Meredith stared at her in silence.

“Don’t you want to know my conditions?”

“Yes, of course, darling. I’m absolutely dying to know, can’t you tell?”

“One. No bugging the director. He’s busy and, besides that, he’s my boss. Two. No talking to the actors. At all, whatsoever.
Unless they talk to you first, in which case, keep it brief. Three. You’re not wearing that thing.”

Irma’s hands flew to her throat in panic. She fondled her pendant—a petrified tarantula she’d picked up on a trip to Australia
two decades ago. (She wore it whenever she wanted to attract attention, which meant she took it off only once a week to bathe.)
“But, darling!”

“Absolutely not. Those are my conditions. Take ’em or leave ’em.”

Irma sank down onto the sofa beside Meredith, pouting. Meredith resumed reading her copy of
American Cinematographer.
There
was an interesting article about the innovative lighting techniques used in Godard’s
Contempt.

“All right, I agree,” Irma said after a sullen pause. “But don’t blame me if disaster strikes. It’s my
protective amulet,
you know.”

Meredith opened her mouth to answer, but then reconsidered and closed it again. There really was no point.

* * *

Early the next morning Meredith and Irma took the tube together all the way up to Kewkesbury Park. Meredith had implored her
mother to be silent as she went over her notes for the upcoming day. Irma read the ads and hummed to herself maddeningly the
entire way. Meredith wondered why Irma hadn’t thought ahead and brought a book. For all her mother’s literary accolades, Meredith
had rarely, if ever, seen her concentrate long enough to read anything more than the captions in the social pages of
Tatler.

And speaking of concentration, Meredith had to focus on this script or she was going to be completely behind once the day
started. It promised to be a long one. They had four scenes to get through, one of which was a closed-set love scene between
Swain and her costar, a supple, young, semi-closeted gay actor from New Zealand who played the inspector. She wouldn’t be
surprised if they went into overtime, which could mean being on set for as long as sixteen hours straight. She hoped against
hope her mother wasn’t planning to hang around all day, but didn’t say so. Meredith couldn’t handle an argument this early
in the morning.

On set, it was the usual post-weekend chaos. Grips and sound technicians charged back and forth carrying spools of wire, dollies
and crane weights. Meredith took Irma by the arm and gave her a cursory tour. She was careful to point out every mechanical
obstacle on the floor in case Irma tripped and fell and broke her hip or something (which, Meredith thought darkly, would
be just like her). When they reached the monitor station and the big black folding chair with the word
DIRECTOR
stitched across the back, Irma stopped.

“Is this where you sit, Moo?”

“No, Mother, that’s where the director sits. I would have thought that would be obvious.”

Her mother’s face froze and then fell as if smacked. Meredith felt a familiar hand squeezing her guts.

“Well, it is obvious. I only meant, isn’t this
near
where you sit? Since, isn’t it your job to sit with the director all day?”

“Yes, Mother, sorry. It is near where I sit.” Her irritation softened into a feeling of embarrassed gratitude for Irma’s interest
in her job. How surprising her mother would remember something like that. Especially when she hadn’t remembered Meredith’s
ninth birthday...or her twelfth. Or her twenty-fourth.