The Songbird Read online

He gives her one last quick hug and releases himself. She rolls away, tidying herself and talking to Wooster, who has raised his head and is watching them. Tim stands up, zips up his jeans.

  ‘I’ll take him down to the car and give him a drink,’ he says. ‘It’s not very far away.’

  ‘Don’t be long,’ she says, picking up the mugs, emptying his cold chocolate out on to the grass. ‘Then we’ll make a plan as to where to have lunch.’

  He smiles at her, gives her a quick kiss. ‘Thanks,’ he says. He hesitates, as if not knowing what to say to her, and she gives him a little push and kneels down again beside the hamper. She feels languorous, deeply peaceful and very happy.

  He walks quickly – Wooster racing ahead – trying to breathe deeply so as to stop the wildly erratic beating of his heart. Her declaration of love is almost more than he can bear and he simply does not know what to do or to say. He knows that he will have to tell her the truth but the thought of losing that innocence between them is unbearable. Mechanically he unlocks the car, takes Wooster’s bowl from the boot and fills it with water from an old plastic bottle. Wooster laps gratefully, tail slowly wagging against Tim’s legs.

  Tim can see Mattie’s car at the other end of the car park. There are quite a few cars parked and he marvels that nobody came past and saw them. He wonders if he is quite mad, out of his mind, making love in the middle of the morning out on Dartmoor. What did someone say about knowing that they were to be hanged wonderfully concentrated the mind? Perhaps it’s the same principle.

  Even as he tightens the top back on to the bottle he sees Mattie walking off the moorland track, carrying her hamper with the rug under her arm, and his heart lurches with fear. Having quickly encouraged Wooster into the back of the car, he hurries over to her. She smiles at him reassuringly.

  ‘It’s OK,’ she calls. ‘Change of plan. It occurred to me that lukewarm drinks were a bit of an anticlimax, especially with such a good hotel not very far away. I thought we might drive in tandem to the Two Bridges Hotel and then we can chill and have lunch there, too. Is that OK?’

  With a rush of relief he knows that it’s absolutely right. It would be difficult sitting together on the rug making conversation after such an emotional moment. He knows that he should tell her the truth but the moment has passed and a change of scenery is the right decision.

  ‘Sounds great,’ he says. ‘I haven’t been there yet.’

  ‘Good,’ she says, packing the rug and the hamper into the back of her car. ‘Wooster loves it there and you know you can trust his good taste. Follow me.’

  She gives a little flourish with her hand and climbs into the car and he hurries back, gets into his own car and follows her out of the car park and on to the moorland road.

  She drives slowly and he knows that she is savouring the sweep and grandeur of the landscape. He wonders how it looks in the snow. Perhaps he might see it: perhaps he might take the chance and postpone his plan to take his own life before this terrible disease takes it for him. His fear that he might wait too long, that he will become helpless and dependent on strangers, curdles his gut and a sudden muscle spasm in his right leg reminds him of his mortality.

  He realizes that Mattie is signalling, turning left, and he follows her. She drives past the big, granite-stone building into the car park, and he parks beside her car and climbs out. Wooster jumps out eagerly, then hesitates as a flock of geese sweep past, honking and hissing, swaggering down to the river.

  ‘Wow,’ Tim says. ‘Do they live here?’

  ‘They certainly do. Wooster knows he has to mind his p’s and q’s with that lot. It looks tempting down by the river, doesn’t it, but I’m not sure it’s quite warm enough yet. Let’s go and look inside.’

  Despite the sun the breeze is still chill and he’s grateful to go inside and to see two fires burning in great inglenook fireplaces at each end of the bar. Sofas are set at right angles round big, low tables and he grins at Mattie with delight.

  ‘This is just perfect,’ he says. ‘Look at Wooster.’

  Wooster has already claimed his place by the fire at the end of one of the sofas and Mattie laughs.

  ‘Fair enough. Let’s have some coffee and then we’ll look at the menu for later on.’

  As they sit together, a large cafetiére now on the table in front of them, Mattie suddenly turns to Tim.

  ‘Oh, gosh! I wasn’t thinking. Is Charlotte waiting for you to bring Wooster back? She doesn’t know I’m down yet. We’re all forgathering for tea with my parents.’

  ‘No, no. You’re OK. I’m dog-sitting for the weekend. Charlotte thought that with everybody there, plus your parents’ dogs, it would be a bit of a crowd so I offered to have Wooster. There’s no rush.’

  Mattie subsides back, leaning against him, relaxing in the warmth of the fire.

  ‘Good,’ she says. ‘Isn’t it nice to be free?’

  They sit in a companionable silence for a while and then he leans forward to refill their coffee cups.

  ‘I’m really sorry, Matts,’ he says, ‘that you didn’t get the BBC job.’

  She makes a face, and he slips an arm about her and gives her a little consolatory hug.

  ‘I was gutted,’ she admits, ‘but actually I think something even better has come up.’

  She sits back, holding her cup, and he half turns towards her expectantly, eyebrows raised.

  ‘It’s another research post but it’s at Exeter University in the History Department.’

  She glances at him quickly to check his reaction and he is unable to hide the delight at the prospect of having her so near.

  ‘And would you like that?’

  ‘Well, I got my degree in History at Exeter and it would be nearer home. My old tutor might put in a good word for me.’

  He smiles at her, touches a strand of curly hair that falls across her shoulder.

  ‘You really miss this place, don’t you? And I can see why.’

  ‘Well, I do. It’s crazy, but driving down today I could hardly wait to get up on to the moor and breathe that fantastic air and just . . . well, you know, gaze out at all that space.’ She looks at him. ‘You feel like that about it now, don’t you?’

  He nods. ‘It’s everything. The beaches, the moors, the harbours and the little fishing villages. It’s been like a miracle to find a place where I feel I’ve come home. A bit late in the day—’

  He stops abruptly and she jumps in quickly.

  ‘Oh, but why? It’s never too late, Tim. You’re still young. You’ve got your whole life to explore it. I’m so glad you love it as much as I do.’

  Now is the time to tell her, to explain that though he loves her, adores her, it would be unfair to burden her with the problems ahead. But even as he tries to frame the words another couple come in and sit down on the sofa opposite, and once again the opportunity is gone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  LATER, WHEN HE drives back into the courtyard, Tim is struck by the air of silence. There are no cars in the barn, all the doors and windows of the cottages are closed. No sign of Oliver’s buggy, or a book lying on the bench, or mugs on the table. It looks deserted, and so it is.

  Charlotte and Oliver have set out for Tavistock, Kat has driven off to Bristol with Jerry to see a performance by a modern dance company at the Hippodrome, William is singing in a choral concert at Exeter Cathedral and then staying with friends.

  ‘It’s just you and me tonight, mate,’ Tim mutters to Wooster as he unlocks his front door.

  Wooster sniffs around the courtyard as if seeking his little family, but he is quite content to follow Tim inside. His basket is tucked in a corner of the kitchen, just as it is in Charlotte’s, and he clambers into it and settles down. Tim opens the back door and wanders into the small paved garden. William’s garden is the biggest: two gardens made into one when the two cottages were knocked together. He has made raised beds at the end of the patch in which to grow vegetables, and the borders are full of flowers and shrubs. There i
s a bird table and feeders, which William has left fully charged: he loves to see the birds feeding.

  Tim watches them across the fence. Slowly he is beginning to recognize some of them and William is encouraging him. There is a very small greenhouse in one corner and some chairs and a table under a little pergola. It is ordered and tidy, rather like William himself, and Tim glances rather guiltily at his own little patch.

  Charlotte has helped him fill the three wooden tubs with bedding plants but there is very little else. He isn’t very imaginative when it comes to gardens. He said as much to Aunt Kat.

  ‘Me neither, darling,’ she said. ‘Gardeners like to be in control, you see. They like to bring order out of chaos. Give me chaos every time.’

  Remembering, he laughs – and then he sighs. How difficult it will be to leave these people. His day with Mattie is like a glow in his heart: it was utterly magical. Yet he knows he must be truthful with her and still he does not quite know how to frame the words.

  Instinctively he glances past the cottages and up at the big house. Immediately after the barbecue, nearly three weeks ago, Francis had a fall. There is the suspicion that it was another stroke and he’s been in hospital but now he is home again, and soon, so William says, will be ready for visitors.

  Tim thinks about the old man, wonders if he gets lonely up there, although he knows his little team of helpers are regularly in and out. But he wonders how much Francis must miss his wife, and his sons, who rarely visit – so William says – and whom he is now too ill to visit. When William gets back, Tim thinks, he will ask if he can go up to see him. The old man’s perspicacity has made him cautious; anxious that he’ll blurt out the truth to that compassionate gaze. Now, suddenly, he’d like to talk to him.

  He hears the familiar ping of a text arriving and takes out his phone. It’s from Mattie.

  Perfect day. Are you both back at B? All good here xx

  He thinks about all the things he would like to say in reply, but he decides to keep it simple.

  Thank you for making it perfect. W and I are safe home xx

  He goes back inside, glad of Wooster’s company. He thinks of Mattie saying, ‘I love you . . . You’re still young . . . You’ve got your whole life to explore it . . .’ and he sits down at the kitchen table, buries his face in his hands. He feels vulnerable, frightened at the prospect of dying, of non-being . . .

  Wooster heaves himself out of his basket and comes to sit beside him, leaning against his legs. His bulk and warmth are so comforting, so reassuring, that Tim bends down to hug him and draw courage from him. There is none of the familiar sounds: William arriving home from the office, Aunt Kat calling to Charlotte as she takes the washing off the line, Oliver crying. It’s not just the silence, however, it’s the sense of emptiness; of desertion.

  As he gratefully strokes Wooster’s heavy head, Tim thinks again of Francis alone in the house and wonders how he copes with such isolation.

  Tomorrow, he tells himself, tomorrow I’ll go to see him.

  Francis glimpses Tim from his window but before he can catch his attention the boy has gone inside. He moves slowly, pushing the Zimmer frame before him, avoiding the pile of books Maxie has left on the floor. He hates the Zimmer frame but he isn’t taking any chances, old fool that he is. The fall was his own fault, sheer clumsiness, and now he’s even more of a nuisance to those who care for him. He must be more careful. There is still much to do for those whom he loves – and he includes Tim, now, in that small group.

  He’s not sure what he can do for Tim. It’s hubristic to think that he might be able to help him, yet he can’t quite get him out of his mind. Ever since he spoke of Gerard Manley Hopkins’ poetry at the barbecue Francis has been anxious that Tim has far more on his mind than a sabbatical.

  Afterwards he wondered if he’d been imagining things but an instinctive fear keeps him drawn towards the boy. Then he had that stupid fall and was put out of action. It would be terrible if an opportunity was lost through his own stupidity.

  Francis moves slowly across the room, sits down at his desk and opens his drawer. At his lowest ebb someone was vouchsafed to him; a stranger offered him comfort. He sits in silence, listening to the thrush singing in the ash tree, remembering. Nell wrote to him, telling him that she was expecting Bill’s child, and he knew then that he’d lost her, that there would never be a future for them together. He told himself there never had been: that he had forfeited his right to be with her and Maxie when he’d sacrificed them to his career and to his marriage. He stood at his study window staring out, full of guilt and the sense of loss. Liz and the boys were visiting friends and, on a sudden impulse, he drove to Buckfast Abbey to go to a midweek Mass. Afterwards he went into the restaurant for coffee. It was nearly lunchtime, and very busy, but there was a space at a table where one man was sitting alone reading something printed on a sheet of paper. Carrying his tray, Francis gestured hopefully towards the empty seat and the stranger smiled and nodded.

  It was only as he sat down opposite the old fellow that Francis saw he was wearing a clerical collar. Well, that wasn’t very surprising here at the Abbey. He was thin, angular, with a thatch of white hair, dark brown eyes and a singularly sweet smile. It was odd but he seemed familiar, although Francis couldn’t remember seeing him at any of the services.

  ‘Thank you, Father,’ Francis murmured.

  The priest looked at him intently, an unexpected expression of compassion and understanding, as if he knew everything about him.

  Francis said: ‘I think I’ve met you before but I don’t know where. My name is Francis Courtney.’

  The priest smiled his warm, inclusive smile and gave a little shrug. ‘Maybe you have but it doesn’t really matter, does it?’

  Francis sipped his coffee, pondering that odd reply. Suddenly he longed to pour out his problems to this man, to seek some kind of absolution. He glanced at him again and was struck by the knowledge that the priest already knew his troubles, his wickedness, his failures, and had already forgiven him. He wanted to tell him about Nell, and how he’d been unfaithful to Liz; about Maxie and the cowardly need for silence.

  The other man folded the paper, pushed his cup aside and stood up. Francis felt a sense of loss; he wanted to ask him to stay with him. The priest paused beside him and for a brief moment he gripped Francis’ shoulder. ‘My name is Theo,’ he said. As he walked away Francis sat quite still, feeling even now the imprint of his fingers and the pressure of that strong grasp. It was a few moments before he noticed that the priest had left the piece of paper on the table. He picked it up and glanced quickly round but the man had disappeared.

  Francis sat, undecided what he should do, and then unfolded the paper and read the words typed on it.

  Who can free himself from his meanness and limitations,

  if you do not lift him to yourself, my God, in purity of love?

  How will a person

  brought to birth and nurtured in a world of small horizons,

  rise up to you, Lord,

  if you do not raise him by your hand that made him?

  You will not take from me, my God,

  what you once gave me

  in your only son, Jesus Christ,

  in whom you gave me all I desire;

  so I shall rejoice:

  you will not delay, if I do not fail to hope.

  Francis read the prayer twice and gradually a great sense of peace descended upon his heart. The priest was nowhere to be seen. Francis made his way outside, still looking for him, still clutching the paper, and then drove home to Brockscombe.

  Now, Francis takes an envelope from his drawer, draws out the much-creased and folded paper and rereads the words printed on it. The prayer has sustained him and encouraged him all these years. He remembers Father Theo’s smile and the grip of his hand. He feels inadequate to help Tim, being so damaged himself, but he knows he must make the gesture.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  WHEN TIM WAKENS he is
still determined to follow his plan. Just after breakfast, however, there is a knock at the door. Wooster barks and Tim goes to see who is there. A middle-aged woman with a kind, tired face smiles at him.

  ‘I don’t think we’ve met before,’ she says, ‘but my name’s Stella. I look after Francis. He’s feeling better and he’s asked me to invite you up for a cup of coffee if you’re free.’

  Just for a moment Tim is caught off balance. It’s as if Francis has read his mind. Wooster comes out and greets Stella as if she is an old friend.

  ‘Hello, old fellow,’ she says to him. ‘You can stay with me in the kitchen.’

  ‘Right,’ says Tim. ‘That’s good. Really good. So what do I do? Just walk in?’

  ‘Give me chance to get finished upstairs, say half past ten?’

  ‘Great,’ says Tim. ‘Thanks.’

  He goes back inside feeling surprised and pleased, looking forward to seeing Francis, though a small part of him fears it. Will he be able to continue to dissemble, to maintain his fiction with Francis? Perhaps they will simply discuss poetry? Tim begins to look through his collection, wondering how widely read Francis is: how modern. He becomes absorbed and then, glancing at his watch, realizes that he’ll be late if he doesn’t take Wooster for his walk straight away.

  Half an hour later Stella is waiting for him as he opens the gate and crosses the yard to the farmhouse. She leads him along a passage, past the kitchen and into the hall.

  ‘Up you go,’ she says to Tim, putting a restraining hand on Wooster’s collar. ‘Door’s down on the right. He’ll be looking for you.’

  She puts a hand in her apron pocket and produces a biscuit with which she lures Wooster back towards the kitchen and Tim hears the door shut. He hesitates for a moment, looking upwards, and then runs up the stairs. He stops at the top, looking each way along the spacious landing and then he sees the shadow in the doorway and hurries forward.

  ‘Tim,’ says Francis, balancing on a Zimmer frame, holding out his hand. ‘This is kind of you. Stella’s brought the tray up so we shall be left in peace for a while.’