Obstacles to Young Love

The word ‘fear’ horrifies Naomi. She gasps so loudly that Darren Pont turns to look at her in amazement. The fear of God. It crystallises all her doubts in a second.

They are kneeling before the Bishop now, and he begins to lay his hand upon the head of every one of them, saying, ‘Defend, O Lord…’

She can’t go through with it.

She must. It’s too late.

She can’t. It’s never too late.

She doesn’t.

She stands, turns, runs from the church, flees, flees from the Bishop, from God, from Timothy.

‘…this thy child with Thy heavenly…’ In his astonishment the Bishop hesitates for just a moment, then recovers. ‘…grace, that he may continue thine for ever…’

Timothy sees Naomi go, he wants to follow, he wants to rush out and say, ‘Naomi, my darling, what’s wrong? Don’t cry.’ For he knows that she is crying. ‘I am with you. God is with you.’

But he doesn’t. He has come so far and he wants to be confirmed. He is exalted. The ritual is both exhilarating and comforting. He cannot let down his godparents, dear Uncle Percy Pickering and Auntie May Treadwell, whom he has neglected so shamelessly. He wishes to enter this hallowed world, in which the sons of taxidermists are equal to dukes in the eyes of God.

He will see her afterwards, when he is fully with God and is therefore able to help her better. That makes sense.

He is troubled, but the shared solemnity begins to comfort him, it’s so exciting to share the ritual and be as one not only with God but also with Darren Pont, Lindsay East, Sally Lever and all the other confirmees.

If he had followed her, maybe their lives would have been very different.

She walks slowly past Ascot House, where Miss de Beauvoir (Mrs Smith) is deadheading roses. She tries to smile at Miss de Beauvoir, but her face is stiff with tension. She opens the gate of number ninety-six. It squeaks. Supplies of WD40 have still not been replenished. She passes the notice with its unwelcome message, ‘R. Pickering and Son – Taxidermists’. She walks slowly, fearfully up the gravel drive, past the lawn that is so lank and studded with weeds. Weeds are beginning to force their way through the gravel on the path.

In her anxious state she can’t decide whether to ring the bell or rap the knocker. Juliet, reduced to this. She really does consider running away, writing a letter. It’s her last chance.

She presses the bell. She doesn’t hear it ring. She presses again. Again, she doesn’t hear it ring. Well, it’s their fault if their bell doesn’t ring. Call it a business, R. Pickering and Son? Can’t maintain a lawn or a gravel path, can’t be bothered to make sure the bell rings, what sort of business is this? She would be well within her rights to run away.

But she doesn’t. To tell the truth, she has such happy memories of those three nights in Earls Court, especially the second one, that she doesn’t want to run away.

So she tries the knocker. Sharply. Three times. Rat tat tat.

Roly Pickering comes to the door, shirtsleeves rolled up, hair unwashed, morning gunge still in the corners of his bloodshot eyes.

‘Naomi!’ He smiles a careful welcome. ‘How’s tricks, then, eh, Naomi?’

He casts a very quick look down towards her crotch. He always does this. She doesn’t mind. It’s irrelevant, and sad. His face approaches hers, slowing down, like a train nearing the buffers. He makes gentle contact with her cheek, apologetically, mournfully.

‘Is Timothy in?’

‘He most certainly is. You’ve caught us in mid-squirrel, he really is shaping up, but he’ll be thrilled to see you.’

Wrong.

‘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.’