The Birdcage Read online

‘But then I would say that, wouldn’t I?’ she muttered to herself – and smiled at Piers and Alison, who were struggling to make themselves heard above Jake’s roars. She could see Alison’s disapproval – the little frowns directed at Jake, and a kind of proprietorial anxiety for Piers – all very slightly exaggerated for Tilda’s benefit.

  ‘Well, there’s nothing wrong with his lungs!’ she cried with a rather forced jollity above the row.

  ‘Nothing at all,’ shouted Tilda cheerfully. ‘Chip off the old block is Jake. He likes to make his presence felt, especially when he’s hungry. Why don’t you give Alison a drink, Piers, while I sort him out and get some lunch on the go?’

  Piers took the hint at once. ‘Good idea. Come on through to the drawing-room, Alison.’

  They disappeared whilst Tilda, heaving a sigh of relief, sat down beside the kitchen table and began to unbutton her shirt. She put Jake to her breast and instantly his shouts were stopped and a glorious silence filled the room: Tilda settled him tenderly, closed her eyes and began to think about lunch in an effort to distract her mind from the persistent, painful longing for David.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The stone cottage, built into a fold of the hill on the toll road out of Porlock, faced out across the small chequered plain of neat, tidy little fields towards Hurlstone Point. Guy Webster, standing at the window and watching the dazzling golden light on the calm waters of the Channel, was filled with a familiar longing to be out there on the water: to feel a boat’s keel lifting under the tide, a cat’s-paw of wind dimpling the surface skin of the sea and filling the sail . . .

  ‘Did you put the kettle on?’

  His wife’s voice brought him back to the needs of the moment but he did not turn quickly or offer any kind of apology, for that was not his way. He would make her some tea but in his own time and not because she’d made him feel guilty.

  ‘I wish we could afford a place like this,’ he said, still staring out. ‘To see the sea when you wake up each morning . . .’

  Gemma heard the yearning in his voice and rolled her eyes but she did not hurry him, nor did she make some veiled complaint about having to deal with the unpacking while he stood about doing nothing, for that was not her way either.

  ‘I should think that you spent enough time on the wretched stuff without wanting to live by it.’ She went to stand beside him, slipping an arm round his waist. ‘It must be really grim here in the winter when it’s pouring with rain.’

  He shrugged. ‘No worse than Dartmouth.’

  ‘Darling, there’s nothing here – or haven’t you noticed? Oh, I know Porlock’s just down the road . . .’

  He turned from the window almost as if he hadn’t heard her, examining his surroundings, crossing the room into the kitchen, whilst Gemma watched his tall lean shape, bending to peer into the fridge, reaching for mugs from a shelf.

  ‘If you feel like that about the place,’ he said, filling the kettle with water from the tap, ‘why were you so keen for us to come? You know what it’s like here; after all, you were at school just up the coast.’

  ‘You know why.’ She leaned on the wide pine counter, which separated the kitchen from the rest of the room. ‘We came because you found yourself with a free week, Ma said she’d take the twins and the Hamiltons had had a cancellation. Of course Matt offering you some sailing hadn’t anything to do with it.’

  He grinned then, his thin dark face lighting with amusement, and she laughed too.

  ‘I’m looking forward to sailing on this coast,’ he admitted. ‘I suppose you and Sophie have plans?’

  ‘Oh, you needn’t worry about me,’ she said lightly, lighting a cigarette. ‘I always have plans.’

  Their golden retriever, Bertie, wandered in from the garden, where he’d been carrying out an inspection of his new territory, and Gemma bent to stroke his smooth head. Guy glanced at her, perched on a high stool, elegant and pretty, her short fair hair sliced through with tawny, amber colours and cut with a casual cunning. The raspberry pink, scoop-necked cotton vest and her stone-coloured shorts had a stylish flair and there was an air of relaxed expectation about her that had nothing motherly about it. Guy suspected that he should feel excited by the fact that they were alone for a week without the interruptions and distractions of two fifteen-month-old boys: instead he had an odd stabbing longing for his children. It was selfish to feel that he wished that the twins could have come with them, knowing, as he did, that the break would do Gemma good. He was the first to admit that he didn’t find parenthood easy – his short fuse was easily ignited – yet he loved his boys and would have liked to have seen them in this big, light room, set down upon the floor with their toys or hauling themselves up and staggering from chair to chair. At the same time, he knew that he would enjoy sailing with Matt, and wandering down to the pub with Gemma in the evening, and that it would have been unfair to expect her to have all the worry of them.

  Drinking her tea, looking about the room and approving its decoration, Gemma knew exactly what was in his mind. She knew just how hard Guy had to struggle with his character and to remember that times had changed: he could no longer take a can of beer from the fridge and sit down to watch the rugby on the television or get fish and chips from the village if he felt too lazy to cook. The twins demanded his time and energy whilst Gemma – easy-going though she was – had no intention of allowing him to shirk his responsibility. She knew that he loved his two small boys, just as he loved her, but she also knew that when he set off to deliver or collect a boat for one of his clients he was able to shrug away the cares of his family and give himself utterly to the peace and silence of his voyages. She recognized that he needed those moments of solitude and, since she had her own ways of making certain that she was never lonely, had decided that it would be unfair – even dishonest – to attempt to make him feel guilty about it.

  ‘Tilda will be down later,’ she said idly. ‘I suggested that she might have supper with us.’

  He was instantly irritated: he had no great talent for socializing and had already planned that they might stroll down to the pub for supper. In an effort to control his annoyance he put down his mug and went across to the bookshelf. Recognizing the signs, Gemma eyed him thoughtfully as he picked up a book from the shelf and flipped through the pages: she liked the look of his wide shoulders beneath the crisp cotton of his shirt, his long legs in faded jeans, the way his fingers turned the thin paper. She stretched suddenly, deliciously, smiling secretly to herself.

  ‘We might all go to the pub,’ she said casually. ‘But, on second thoughts, she probably won’t want to leave Jake with Piers. Oh, how wonderful not to have to rush back for baby-sitters or get up early in the morning.’ She finished her tea. ‘I thought I might have a shower.’

  He heard the invitation in her voice and felt an answering flicker of desire, although he did not look up from his book.

  ‘Good idea,’ he said casually. ‘I shall take Bertie for a stroll. I think he deserves it after a couple of hours in the car. I’ll have a shower afterwards.’

  ‘Could you sort the wine before you go?’ She slid off her stool. ‘Put the white in the fridge and open the claret. You might bring a couple of glasses up with you when you get back. I’m sure the sun’s over the yard-arm, as my dear old pa would say.’

  He heard her go away up the stairs and, closing the book and putting it back in the bookcase, he went outside to the car with Bertie at his heels. The late afternoon sun lingered in the leafy tops of the trees that grew up the steep sides of the high coombe behind the cottage. The small sheltered garden was warm, the paving stones hot beneath his bare feet. Butterflies hovered over the clumps of pink valerian that flourished in the cracks of the rocky wall, and honey-scented thrift blossomed in cushiony clumps along the path. Guy paused to stare out to sea again, watching a small sail shaped like a curved white wing skimming over the sparkling water. The sight of it filled him with a wild unreasoning pleasure: tomorrow he might be out the
re with the light touch of the wind on his cheek, the feel of warm, smooth wood beneath his hand, listening to the sound of the water as it chuckled under the keel.

  He lifted the case of wine from the boot of the car and carried it into the cottage, wondering if there would be a corkscrew and cursing himself for not packing one.

  ‘Darling?’ Gemma’s voice echoed down the stairs and he went into the tiny hall to look up at her. She wore nothing at all, although she carried a towel, and he shook his head at her casual indifference.

  ‘Lucky for you it was me,’ he observed pleasantly, ‘and not Tilda or Piers.’

  ‘Lucky for you, darling,’ she corrected him saucily – and struck a pose to make him smile. ‘Just to say that there’s a corkscrew in the big bag. Don’t be too long.’

  Bertie waited at the door, watching hopefully, ears cocked. He wasn’t too certain of these new surroundings, though exciting scents beckoned from the grassy slopes beyond the gate, and his tail began to wave expectantly as Guy finished sorting out the wine, pushed his feet into his leather dekkies, and came back outside.

  ‘Ten minutes,’ he said, opening the gate. ‘We’ll have a proper walk later.’

  Bertie hurried eagerly out, lest he should change his mind, and ran up on to the open moorland amongst furze and bracken whilst Guy climbed behind him, turning from time to time to survey the scene: the steep cliffs, patched with tiny fields and scored by deep wooded coombes, leading on to Foreland Point and, beyond them, the sea whose purple horizon was piled with untidy bundles of soft white clouds. He walked quickly, listening to the mournful croak of an unseen raven, hearing the chinking call of a stonechat in the furze, glad of Bertie’s presence. The old boy had been his companion before he’d married Gemma, before the arrival of the twins, yet, despite Bertie’s devotion to his small family, Guy knew that he enjoyed these moments when they were alone together. He walked on, his irritation forgotten, until he glanced at his watch and reluctantly decided they must turn for home.

  Back at the cottage Bertie settled at once at the back of the courtyard, stretching out on the cool paving beneath the rocky wall, and, having filled his drinking bowl with fresh cold water, Guy went inside, found some glasses and poured the wine. In the hall he hesitated, trying to invest himself with some of his wife’s insouciance, but his cautious nature proved too strong and he locked the door before climbing the stairs to the bedroom above.

  As Piers drove Felix home from Michaelgarth on Sunday evening he was conscious of an oddness in his father’s behaviour; a kind of listening quality that lent a slightly detached air to his demeanour. At some point during supper he’d begun to imagine that his father could hear something that he and the others could not. Even Tilda had seemed to be infected by his abstraction, pausing in the middle of cutting herself some cheese to ask, ‘Is that Jake crying?’

  ‘Are you feeling OK, Father?’ Piers asked, as they drove back to Dunster together through the winding lanes. The hedges were enlaced with trailing honeysuckle whose scent drifted in the soft, warm air, and the blossoms of the dog-rose were moony pale in the deepening twilight. Felix turned his gaze from a star, which hung high above the dark shoulder of Dunkery Beacon, and smiled with great affection at his son.

  ‘Of course I am. I can’t tell you how much I look forward to my Sundays at Michaelgarth. What a dear girl Tilda is; she must be a great companion for you.’

  ‘I have to admit that it’s very nice to have her around, although I wish that the circumstances had been otherwise.’

  ‘Well, of course.’ Felix looked distressed. ‘How could we feel anything else? But given those ghastly circumstances I think it’s such a blessing for us to have her near. But then Tilda’s been part of the family for such a long time, hasn’t she? Since she and David were small children at playschool together. Michaelgarth seems her natural home.’

  Piers, struggling with an overwhelming sadness as he thought of his son, felt that his own reply had sounded stiff. He tried to be more open. ‘I hope she feels that too. I still can’t quite believe it even now . . .’

  He spoke with difficulty, unused to exposing his private feelings, and Felix touched his arm lightly as if to indicate that he mustn’t worry, that he understood.

  ‘It was good to meet those two young people and their delightful dog,’ he said. ‘Bertie, wasn’t it? Splendid fellow. Very nice manners. He reminded me of Joker. Have you had any more thoughts about getting a puppy?’

  Piers smiled, grateful for the change of subject. ‘I’m terribly tempted,’ he answered. ‘I was certainly going to after Joker died. With Sue gone the place seemed rather empty. Then David . . .’ He hesitated. ‘Then Tilda and Jake arrived and it got put on the back burner.’

  ‘Everything happened at once,’ agreed Felix gently. ‘And I understand that Alison doesn’t feel that a puppy is necessary now . . .’

  His voice tailed away but Piers heard the question behind the words. Normally he would have found it impossible to discuss his feelings for Alison with his father but there was some peaceful quality in the midsummer evening, an affectionate ease flowing between them, that made it possible to communicate at a more personal level.

  ‘She’s not terribly keen,’ he agreed. ‘Alison’s not an animal person, which complicates life a bit, but I wouldn’t let that stop me if I wanted another dog.’ He was conscious of a wave of approval, of relief, even, and his eyes narrowed in amusement. ‘Don’t worry, Father. Even if I were inclined to let Alison make decisions for me, Tilda wouldn’t stand for it.’

  Felix laughed. ‘I rather gathered that it might be the case,’ he admitted. ‘Poor fellow! Nothing more uncomfortable than being caught between two women.’

  There was a sudden awkward silence that shattered the fragile ease between them. Felix bit his lip, cursing himself, whilst Piers could think of no answer that didn’t add up to ‘Well, you should know’, and so remained silent until he’d parked beneath Felix’s window and climbed out so as to help his father from the car. Felix allowed himself to be hauled into an upright position, took his stick and felt in his pocket for his key.

  ‘Shall I come up with you?’ Piers spoke cheerfully in an effort to show that all was well.

  ‘No, no. I’ll put the light on when I get upstairs as usual.’ He hesitated, head bent, then put his hand on Piers’ shoulder, gripping it for a moment. ‘I’m so sorry, my dear boy.’

  He turned away, opened his front door and disappeared inside. Presently the light flashed on in the first-floor sitting-room and, after a moment, Felix appeared at the window and waved. Piers waved back. The birdcage glinted in the light from the lamp, as it swung there in the window, and Piers stared at it for a moment before he climbed into the car and set off back to Michaelgarth.

  Felix sat down in his chair and closed his eyes. He was very weary yet as he sat, his hands clasped upon his knee, there was an alertness about his posture, as if he might be listening or waiting for something.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Knowing that her father-in-law was a man who liked a quiet start to his day, Tilda made sure that she did not interfere with his routine. As usual, when Jake woke just after six o’clock, she changed and fed him and then went down to the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea, which she took back to her big bedroom on the north-west corner of the west wing. She loved this room with its views over Porlock Bay and delighted in the fact that it was hardly changed since it had belonged to David. From a small boy he’d loved the idea of sleeping alone in this wing, of having this floor of the house to himself: these were his own quarters and the bedroom his private sanctuary. Sue had redecorated it once he’d gone to Sandhurst, covering the scarred, Blu-Tacked walls with a warm cream paint and buying new thick rugs in shades of terracotta to hide the worn, stained carpet. She’d sanded down and re-polished the old mahogany desk, which had belonged to David’s great-grandfather – and after whom he was named – and consigned the war-weary crew of Action Men and their weapons to a w
icker basket at the back of the big cupboard, which doubled as a wardrobe. This was as much as she was allowed to do (‘For God’s sake, Mother, don’t go all girlie on me!’) and Tilda was comforted to see his battered old tuck-box stuck about with labels, and the bookcase holding the familiar titles sharing the shelves with the dog-eared comics that he’d loved so much. Even the double bed had been David’s, for he’d fought against it being changed for a single one when he’d inherited the room at eight years old.

  ‘I like having lots of space,’ he’d pleaded earnestly with his father. ‘I can play really good games in that bed and you never know who I might want to share it with. Mummy doesn’t seem to understand that.’

  Piers had glanced briefly at Sue and then back at the anxious face of his son.

  ‘To be honest, old son, I think that she understands only too well,’ he’d said – but David had kept his bed.

  Now, Tilda carried her tea – and Jake – back to David’s bed. She talked to him and cuddled him, comforted by his small, wriggling body, and presently they both fell asleep, waking again at about eight o’clock. Knowing that Piers would be finishing his breakfast by now, she showered and dressed and carried Jake downstairs.

  Piers, who had already finished eating, smiled at both of them and continued to read the newspaper whilst Tilda put bread in the toaster and fastened Jake into his bouncy chair. A murmur here and a comment there, interspersed with periods of silence, slowly lengthened into a more regular exchange until conversation was flowing along its usual lines.

  ‘Gemma was in good form last evening.’ Piers folded the newspaper. ‘I gather Guy’s got some sailing planned. Is Gemma coming over later?’

  ‘We talked about lunch. She wanted to meet at a pub or in Minehead but it’s not quite that easy with Jake. I expect she’ll phone later on but I shan’t hold my breath. Gemma’s very laid back and likes to play things by ear.’