Free The Birds of the Air by Alice Thomas Ellis Page B

chip each other, pull each other’s leg . . .’
    The words drifted through the wall.
    ‘And of course,’ the bishop went on, ‘it’s a religious time, and it’s when one has a bit of a rest and wonders what life is all about. Life is a strange mixture of sadness and joy, isn’t it?’ he observed, his tone deepening. ‘I went to have a drink with some of the clergy . . .’ He laughed. ‘Har har! And I said morning service in my own chapel with my grandmother present, and then I went to one of the large London prisons, and then to an Intensive Care Unit. Then at an Old Persons’ Home I sat down at the piano and played “I’m Tired and I Want to Go Home”. Har har!’ The bishop’s tone, which had lightened, now deepened again. ‘I am a poorer man today,’ he announced, ‘because there are poor people on the street.
But
– love is stronger than hate even on the streets of Belfast.’
    In a pig’s arse, thought Mary.
    She and Sam glanced at each other, embarrassed.
    ‘Dear me,’ she said.
    The wireless emitted a final self-satisfied holy giggle and some distant well-trained children began to sing carols.
    The snow melted again overnight, leaving everyone with a sense of anti-climax which conflicted awkwardly with their expectations of Christmas Day. It was mild and grey and wet, and no one really enjoyed the early breakfast of mushrooms and bacon. Not even the bottle of champagne they drank as they opened their presents did much to raise their spirits. Nor did their presents.
    Sebastian announced that he had left Barbara’s bottle of scent in his rooms and she’d have to wait for it until they got home, and Barbara instantly and irrationally believed he’d given it to the Thrush.
    ‘He’s teasing you, Mummy,’ Kate said. ‘Daddy, show her what we got.’
    ‘You show her,’ said Sebastian, settling back in his chair and folding his hands across the green cardigan that covered the beginnings of a paunch. His eyes were invisible behind the steely shine of his spectacles, his skin as fair and smooth as a baby’s. Mrs Marsh felt her mouth twist with distaste.
    For Barbara they had got an embroidered ethnic evening bag, hung with tassels and gleaming with bits of mirror. She recognised it at once and wondered remotely whether she would find a slice of turkey in it.
    ‘We got it in the boutique,’ cried Kate. ‘Oh, Mummy, isn’t it perfectly exquisite?’
    ‘Yes,’ said Barbara, sense returning as she realised that these things were widely available. Still, she wondered again whether her husband was stupid or cruel, and wished, dully despairing, that he was neither.
    Evelyn came across at mid-morning with her ribbon and card and proceeded to drive the kitten – who had spent a pleasant night on an old jumper and was beginning to relax – mad.
    ‘Do hold it, Kate,’ she implored, as it tried to turn itself inside out.
    ‘You’ll throttle the damn thing in a minute,’ said Mrs Marsh impatiently. ‘Just give her the kitten and the card separately.’
    It wasn’t what Evelyn had planned. Separated, the kitten and the blue satin ribbon weren’t nearly as appealing, but there was nothing else for it.
    Mary thanked her formally and patted the kitten before it went to ground under her bed. It emerged later when she was alone again and played for a while in an unpractised fashion. She wished it no harm.
    Mrs Marsh listened devotedly to the Queen’s broadcast.
    The monarch let it be known that, among other things, it would give her, personally, much pleasure if people would stop killing each other. (Her son had recently made several uninformed and ill-advised comments on church matters, freedom of expression and the management of industry, while her consort frequently exhorted his wife’s subjects to pull out their fingers, cease their bloodymindedness, get off their backsides, and so on, in a simple, sailor-manly fashion.)
    It would be better, thought Mary, if they were all to keep their jaws