Max Porter - Grief is the Thing with Feathers

Megalith!

Fourteen months to finish the book for Parenthesis Press: Ted Hughes ’ Crow on the Couch: A Wild Analysis .

I have a scruffy Manchester-based publisher who sends me encouraging notes and says he would understand if it was too much, now, to write a book. We are agreed the book will reflect the subject. It will hop about a bit. Parenthesis hope my book might appeal to everyone sick of Ted & Sylvia archaeology. It’s not about them, we agree. We neglect to discuss what it should be about.

Every time I sit down and look at my notes Crow appears in my office. Sometimes slouched on the floor, resting on one wing (‘Look! I’m the Venus of Corvino!’), sometimes patiently perched on my shoulder advising me (‘Is that fair on Baskin, really?’). Most of the time he is happy to sit curled in the armchair quietly reading, wheezing. He flicks through picture books and poetry collections, tutting and sighing. He has no time for novels. He only picks up history books to label great men fuckwits or curse the church. He enjoys memoirs and was delighted to discover the book about a Scottish woman who adopted a rook.

Once upon a time there was a babysitting bird, let’s call him Crow. He had read too many Russian fairy tales (lazy boy burn, Baba Yaga howl, decent Prince win), but was nevertheless an authorised and accredited caregiver, much admired by London parents, much in demand of a Friday night. On his newsagent advert it was written:

‘Nappy Valley: And Beyond!’

The telly went off and Crow suggested a game. ‘You two boys’, he said, ‘must each build — here on the floor — a model of your Mother. Just as you remember her! And whichever of you builds the best model will win. Not the most realistic, but the best, the truest. The prize is this …’ said the Crow, stroking their shampooed hair … ‘the best model I will bring to life, a living mother to tuck you up in bed.’

And so the boys set to it.

The one son went for drawing, furiously concentrating like a little waist-high fresco painter scrabbling hands and knees on the scaffold. Thirty-seven taped-together sheets of A4 paper and the full rainbow of crayons, pencils and pens, his front teeth biting down on his lower lip. Heavy nasal sighing as he adjusted the eyes, scrapped them, started again, working his way down, happy with the hands, happy with the legs.

The second son went for assemblage, a model of the woman made from cutlery, ribbons, stationery, toys, buttons and books, manically adjusting — leaping up, lying down — like a mechanic in the pits. Clicking and tutting as he worked his way around the mosaic mum, happy with the face, happy with the height. And, ‘Stop!’ said the Crow.

‘They are both extraordinary,’ he said, admiring their work, ‘you’ve got her smile, you’ve captured her posture, her shoulders were hunched to that exact degree!’

And the boys couldn’t wait to find out who had won; ‘Which one?! Which Mum?!’, but Crow started hopping, avoiding their gaze, suppressing a giggle and turning away.

‘Crow, which one of these fake mums has won us a real one?’

And Crow was quiet, laughing no more.

‘Crow, don’t be funny, let’s have our real Mummy.’ And Crow started crying.

And the boys cooked Crow in a very hot oven until he was nothing but cells.

This is Crow’s bad dream.

Yes? she said, before she was dead.

We don’t want baths, our bums are clean!

We both had a bath last night.

Fine, she said. Straight to bed for stories.

Yes? she said, before she was dead.

We don’t want baths, our bums are clean!

We both had a bath last night.

Well, she said, no bath, no stories.

You decide.

We will fill this house with toys and books and wail like playgroup left-behinds.

I refused to lose a wife and gain chores, so I accepted help. My brother was incredible, give me food, let me shout , with the boys, with the bank, with the post office, the school, the doctors and our folks. Her parents were kind, with the service, with the money, with their people, give me space, give me time, give me sense of her, let me apologise, let me find a path outside simple fury . Her friends, our families, with the news and the details, and her stuff, doing her proud, doing it right, teasing out a route and tailoring it to us, and not a cliché in sight.

Not long after, our Gran was dying. We were told we could go up, so we went up. The carpet was deep and soft and we were barefoot. She had an oxygen tank on wheels. We went either side of the bed and each held a hand. The hand I held was crinkled and soft and amazingly warm. She said she had some things to tell us if we were ready to hear them. We said we were ready. Born ready Gran, my brother said, which I thought was inappropriate, but she said ‘Yes, born ready darling’.

She told us that men were rarely truly kind, but they were often funny, which is better. ‘You would do well to prepare yourselves for disappointment’ she said, ‘in your dealings with men. Women are on the whole much stronger, usually cleverer’ she said, ‘but less funny, which is a shame. Have babies, if you can’ she said ‘because you’ll be good at it. Help yourselves to anything you find in this house. I want to give you everything I have because you are the most precious and beautiful boys. You remind me of everything I have ever been interested in’ she said.

‘Do you hate seeing me wheeze?’

No, we said, it’s fine.

‘Help yourself to the cigarettes in the kitchen drawers’ she said, ‘and one day you too will wheeze like me. The daisies on my grave will puff and wheeze, you mark my words.’

We stayed while she slept and a tall woman in a tight white uniform changed her covers.

By the side of the road was a young dead fox, eyes open, stuck frozen to the grass, looking more still-born than road-killed.

I could cycle it to Heptonstall or bring it defrosting to the kitchen and set it down for my sons to see. I am obsessed.

I remember the night I got home and told her I’d finished the book proposal, and she said, ‘God help us all,’ and we drank Prosecco and she said I could have my birthday present early. It was the plastic crow. We made love and I kissed her shoulder blades and reminded her of the story of my parents lying to me about children growing wings and she said, ‘My body is not bird-like.’

We were smack bang in the middle, years from the finish, taking nothing for granted.

I want to be there again. Again, and again. I want to be held, I wanted to hold. It was the plastic crow.

We made love. The wing story. My body is not bird-like.

Again.

The wings.

The love.

Bird-like.

Again. I beg everything again.

We used to play a game called Sonic Boom. We would fly as fast as we could through the pine forest like bullets through a crowd and we would compete to turn at the very last moment before a tree. We would fly as fast as we could through the pine forest and then flip, roll sideways millimetres from the tree, shrieking Sonic BOOM as we reeled off. One day I taunted my brother. I dared him to ricochet off the tree like a bullet glancing off a fleeing shoulder. I went first and I flew hard and true straight towards a tree and Sonic BOOM at the final moment swerved and my wing slapped the trunk, whap, and I barrelled off into the forest (like a bullet glancing off a fleeing shoulder). My brother flew too low and too fast and never turned, whap, a sharpened branch pierced him right through the neck and he hung there crawking ‘sonic. sonic. sonic.’ This is only partially true.