The Birdcage Read online

  ‘We’ll give you a buzz when we’re heading in,’ he told her, trying to keep his irritation out of his voice. ‘Have a good day.’

  She kissed him, conscious of Matt’s envious eyes, and went with them to the gate. Matt’s car was parked behind their own in the parking space and she watched as he turned the car, waving as they sped away down the toll road towards Porlock. She listened until the sound of the engine died away and bent to pat Bertie who waited patiently by her side, rather dejected by Guy’s departure.

  ‘We shall have a lovely time,’ she promised him. ‘Honestly. You shall go for a really good walk in a minute when I’ve made a few calls.’

  She went inside and, taking her mobile from her bag, pressed some buttons.

  ‘Tilda,’ she said warmly into the mouthpiece. ‘It was really great to see you and Piers yesterday. And Jake too. He’s terrific. And did I say thanks for leaving all the stuff in the fridge? Listen, any chance of coffee somewhere? . . . Oh, gosh, poor old Felix. Isn’t he a sweetie? Of course I quite understand . . . Well, no, I can’t do lunch after all. Sophie’s invited me for the day but I hoped we could meet up before I dash off . . . Look, don’t worry about it, we’ve got all week. Shall I give you a call tomorrow? Great – and listen, I hope Felix is OK.’

  Gemma put the telephone down and went to the fridge. Pouring milk onto her cereal she picked up the mobile and pressed more digits.

  ‘Hi.’ Her mouth curled into a smile. ‘Guess where I am!’ She chuckled. ‘Of course I managed it, what did you expect? So where shall I meet you? . . . Sounds good. I have got a dog with me . . . I know, I know, but imagine if I’d had the twins as well . . . Oh, it’ll be an hour at least, I haven’t had my breakfast yet . . . Sounds perfect. Just give me some directions . . .’

  Presently, ready at last, she let Bertie into the back of the car and, throwing her bag onto the passenger’s seat, she climbed in and drove away from Porlock over the toll road towards Lynton.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  It was after twelve o’clock by the time Lizzie arrived in Dunster. Roadworks on the A38 and a congested bottleneck of traffic around Bridgwater had added nearly an hour to her journey. She’d grown increasingly jumpy as the morning wore on, and this combination of excitement and nervousness had given rise to an outward show of high spirits. She’d played some tapes, sung to herself, talked aloud from time to time: ‘Now what do I do here? Where’s the map? Oh, I see, straight on.’ It was very hot and she’d opened both front windows and the sunroof, drinking now and then from a bottle of mineral water.

  As the sun rose higher, she took her khaki-coloured cotton hat from the glove compartment and dropped it onto the thick curling mass of bronze-coloured hair, tilting it forward a little. She realized that she was humming ‘I Whistle a Happy Tune’ from The King and I and grimaced to herself. Why should she feel afraid?

  When she saw the castle, high on the wooded hill, she caught her breath in a tiny shocked gasp: with its towers and battlements, its red sandstone walls all rosy in the sunshine, it was like a vision from a fairytale. Did it look familiar because she’d studied its photograph so often in the past few days – or was it because once, over forty years before, wild with excitement, she’d crowded to the train window with Angel: ‘Look, sweetie, see the castle? Isn’t it wonderful?’

  Apprehensively, Lizzie turned on to the road that led into the village of Dunster, remembering the receptionist’s instructions: ‘The hotel doesn’t have its own parking facilities so if you can’t find a space in the street you’ll have to put it in the big car-park next door to the Visitors’ Centre.’ She saw the car-park, hesitated and, seeing how much traffic was about, decided to park the car and find the hotel on foot. People were climbing down from coaches, taking cameras from cars, wandering up the road towards the village. Negotiating the busy area carefully, she backed into a shady space, switched off the engine and sat for a few moments watching the tourists who thronged about so cheerfully. Quite suddenly, the remains of her courage deserted her and she succumbed to a full-scale panic-attack. What on earth was she doing all alone in this strange town so many miles from the Birdcage? What utter madness had brought her on this journey? Deliberately she drew several very deep breaths, squared her shoulders and practised smiling a little – not that mad grin that seemed to afflict her of late – but a serene expression, which, she hoped, gave an impression of self-confidence.

  ‘After all,’ she reminded herself, ‘you are an actress.’

  Presently, feeling more in control, she bought a car-park ticket, dashed into the ladies’ lavatory and went back to the car. After debating whether or not she should take her case she decided against it, locked up the car and looked around her. At the top of a short flight of steps a broad paved area was flanked by the Exmoor National Park Visitors’ Centre and a large, modern store calling itself the Dunster Wearhouse. Deciding to explore these later, she resettled her hat, slung her long-strapped leather satchel over her shoulder and followed the trickle of visitors up The Steep. There was no pavement here, so keeping close to the side of the road because of the traffic, her pace dictated by the elderly couple plodding along in front of her, she found herself quite suddenly rounding the corner into the High Street.

  Lizzie stopped abruptly, staring at the Yarn Market. With its eight small-paned dormer windows set above the encircling slate roof that overhung the heavy wood-framed apertures, through which one might enter from the street, this strange octagonal building dominated the scene. Here she had danced in the shadows whilst Angel stood on the cobbles in the bright sunshine, watching for Felix. Had he been there? Had he emerged from a shop doorway? Climbed out of a car? Surely she would have remembered meeting Felix: she would have run to meet him, calling his name, and he would have held out his arms to her, smiling at Angel as he always did. Or would he? Perhaps, here, with a wife and child close by, he’d have avoided them, fearing that he might be observed. Instinctively Lizzie looked down the High Street and up into the first-floor windows of the flats above the shops. Somebody bumped into her, apologizing as he hurried past, and Lizzie, putting out a hand to steady herself, realized that she was standing beneath the high walls of the Luttrell Arms Hotel.

  She could not bring herself to go in; not quite yet. Instead she stared about, noting the sunken cobbled pavement with its railing at road level; the stone and timber-framed cottages; the backdrop of dense green trees – and high above this busy, lively scene, the castle.

  Dunster Castle towers above the little village huddled at its gates.

  An upsurge of excitement expunged her fear and, as she crossed the road for a closer inspection of the Yarn Market, Lizzie realized that she was smiling with genuine pleasure and anticipation; at the same moment she discovered that she was very hungry. This, at least, should present no problem. Pausing to look into the shadowy spaces of the Yarn Market, glancing about her with delight, Lizzie set off along the High Street in search of lunch.

  Her room, which bore the name ‘HOOD’ on its door, was on the second floor at the back of the hotel looking over the garden. Now, at nearly half-past four, she lay on the bed nearest the window just waking from a deep, refreshing sleep. After lunch, she’d collected her bag from the car, signed herself into the hotel and, having unpacked a few necessities, had soaked in a long, relaxing bath. It was still very hot and a sudden weariness had overtaken her as she’d pottered about, examining the room and finishing her unpacking. She’d lain down – ‘Just for a moment,’ she’d told herself – stretching comfortably on the cool red and white cotton gingham cover and fallen into instant slumber.

  She is back in her little attic bedroom in the Birdcage on a hot summer evening. The room, high in the roof, is airless and she wakes suddenly, short of breath, with her head aching. Frightened by the strange thumping of her heart, she pushes back the sheet, goes out of the room and down the short flight of stairs. The lights are on but there is no sign of Pidge or Angel and she begins to grizzle as she c
rosses to Angel’s bedroom.

  The sight of Angel and Felix together in the bed startles her, although Angel leans out at once to her, stretching a hand – ‘What is it, sweetie? Couldn’t you sleep?’ – whilst Felix slips hastily but silently away in the semi-darkness. She feels confused, sensing that something is wrong.

  ‘I was hot,’ she says, still in a rather whiny voice lest Angel should scold, ‘and my head aches and I can’t breathe . . . What was Felix doing?’

  ‘I felt just the same, honey.’ Angel’s arms are soft and comforting, and she smells delicious. ‘I was so hot and I ached too, and Felix was soothing me.’

  ‘And do you feel better?’ She snuggles closer, feeling Angel’s chuckle rather than hearing it.

  ‘I was certainly beginning to.’

  Angel is laughing and her laughter is infectious so that Lizzie laughs with her, happy together with her mother in the big bed, her woes forgotten. She falls asleep and wakens when the sun is already high, with Angel still curled beside her . . .

  Lizzie stirred, still smiling as she opened her eyes. The hotel room was cooler now, and she longed for a cup of tea. Rolling off the bed, she looked down into the garden where wooden slatted chairs and tables were shaded by umbrellas. Several people were already having tea and Lizzie began to dress quickly, pulling on a white linen shirt, tucking it into a long twill skirt. Slipping the key into her bag, she went down the stairs, ordered a pot of tea at the reception desk and went out at the back of the hotel and up the steps into the walled garden.

  Choosing a table slightly apart from the other guests, she sat down, kicked off her sandals and stretched out her legs, resting her bare feet on another chair. The garden was at first-floor level and she could see across the jumble of cottage roofs, a mosaic of red tiles and grey slate, to the castle on the hill. The whistle of the old steam train seemed perfectly in keeping with this tranquil scene and Lizzie sighed contentedly. Just at present, the outside world with its griefs and terrors was held at bay. Her tea arrived and, as she poured the pale Darjeeling, she thought of Felix and Angel and began to chuckle: how discreet they’d been, how clever. She guessed now that further ‘soothings’ had taken place in the afternoons when she was safe at school and Pidge was busy at the library. No doubt Felix had slipped away from the office to join Angel in her after-lunch rest; at any rate, there had been no more chances taken during the evening at the Birdcage.

  Leaning back, watching a robin pecking up crumbs on the grass beneath the spreading branches of a beech tree, Lizzie grew slowly aware of the interest she was creating from the middle-aged couple at the table set by the steps that led down into another sheltered garden area. She picked up her cup, wondering if they’d seen her laughing all by herself – ‘Quite potty, poor thing’ – and at that moment the church clock struck five. She glanced at her watch and then frowned. It seemed that the clock was continuing to chime, though not on the same note – and she suddenly realized that it was a carillon, which was playing ‘Drink to Me Only with Thine Eyes’. It sounded as extraordinary yet as utterly appropriate as the steam whistle and Lizzie was enchanted: this is how it might have been forty years ago. Maybe, back then, she and Angel had listened to the carillon; they had certainly travelled on the old steam train.

  The couple, who were now standing up and collecting their belongings, seized the opportunity to share the moment as they passed her table.

  ‘Isn’t it fun?’ The woman beamed at her. ‘It plays a different tune each day.’

  ‘Does it really?’ Lizzie did not want her peace disturbed yet was incapable of cold-shouldering her. ‘Amazing.’

  ‘I knew it.’ She was nodding at her companion with a kind of delighted satisfaction. ‘You’re the lady in the advert, aren’t you? The one with the car and that dog? We were sure it was you.’

  For once Lizzie was reluctant to be drawn in, resenting the shattering of her mood, but she nodded and smiled all the same, and joked about working with children and animals. After they’d gone, she poured another cup of tea and tried to regain that sense of relaxation, willing herself back in time. It simply wouldn’t work. She fidgeted, aware now of other sounds: the hum of traffic on the A39, a child crying. It was the insistent, demanding cry of a very young baby and other memories began to rise to the surface of her mind: grief and loss nudged at her consciousness.

  She stood up at once, denying them, picking up her bag. It would be rather fun to visit the church, she told herself, and to see if she could find the cottage in which she and Angel had stayed all those years ago: it hadn’t been in the High Street, she was quite sure about that. A walk would be very pleasant, now that it was cooler, and, after that, she’d have a drink in the bar before dinner . . .

  These plans carried her through the awkward moment and out into the High Street but that feeling of light-heartedness, of holiday, had deserted her. Whilst she wandered about the narrow paths behind the village, pausing to gaze in awe at the ancient tithe barn and medieval dovecote, anxiety was her companion. Why should she find anything here to ease her grief or answer her questions? It was madness to think that Dunster should hold any answers.

  She felt a little better with a vodka and tonic before her, sitting at a table in the bar. Heavily beamed, with a window looking into a small walled court, this was clearly a room that truly came into its own in the winter when a fire burned cheerfully in the inglenook fireplace, but Lizzie began to relax as she chatted to the barman and an elderly local man with a small, friendly dog. When the middle-aged couple came in she hid herself behind the menu, taking care to be absorbed in her book whilst she ate her dinner in the long dining-room, only smiling at them when she got up to leave.

  It was still early, barely ten o’clock, and Lizzie hesitated in the hall, feeling an oddly pressing need to go outside once more before she went up to bed. The High Street was deserted but the soft midsummer air was warm and the flowers in their hanging baskets gave off a delicate scent. It was not yet dark, and the turrets and battlements of the castle stood clearly defined against the deep blue of the evening sky. As she watched, lights began to spring up; someone drew curtains, a window high in an attic was opened. Just across from the hotel, where she stood in the shadow of the porch, a lamp was switched on in an upstairs room. It lit a painting on a wall, the wing of a chair, but her whole attention was riveted on the object that hung almost in the centre of the illuminated square. The light shimmered on the gilt-wire frame, outlined the shape of the birds clinging to the trapeze: there could be no doubt in her mind. It was the birdcage.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The telephone bell disturbed Piers, bringing him back into the present. The garth was in semi-darkness now; an oblong of light from the kitchen window slanted across the cobbles and here, within the sun-warmed walls, the air was laden with the scent of roses. He stirred, straightening his back, but remained where he was, sitting on the bench under the covered way which, supported by stone pillars, stretched, cloister-like, across the back of the hall. The swallows were settled for the night, roosting in the barn, but bats swooped and dived silently in the dusk and he could hear the screech of an owl down in Tivington woods.

  He could also hear Tilda, who was in the kitchen. Her voice sounded concerned and he abandoned his private meditations and tried to concentrate on what she was saying.

  ‘It’s not a problem, Felix. Honestly, it isn’t. I can fetch them in the morning and drop them into Minehead.’

  Frowning, Piers stood up and went into the house through the scullery. Tilda, standing by the table, telephone to her ear, looked up as he came in and mouthed ‘Felix’ at him.

  ‘Is he OK?’

  She nodded, said, ‘Hang on a minute, Felix, Piers has just come in and I think he’d like a word,’ and passed the telephone to him, murmuring, ‘He’s fine. It’s just a problem with his specs.’

  ‘Father? What’s happened?’

  ‘I was telling Tilda what an old fool I am.’ Felix’s voice sounded
rueful. ‘I’d been dozing in my chair and when I woke up it was quite dark. I sat up to switch on the lamp and my spectacles fell on the floor. The shank has fallen off and I seem to have lost the little screw that holds it in place. D’you know what I mean? I’ve been crawling all over the floor but I’m damned if I can find it. I wouldn’t bother you but, just at the moment, I do rely rather heavily on them for so many things.’ His voice faded a little as if he were turned away from the mouthpiece, concentrating on something else. ‘The shank looks a bit bent. I think my book fell on top of it.’

  ‘Do you think you could manage without them this evening?’ Piers tried not to sound too unwilling to drive into Dunster to search for the little screw but his heart sank at the prospect. ‘I can pick them up in the morning on my way to the office and drop them into the optician. I could have them back to you by the afternoon.’

  ‘That would be fine. I’m so sorry to bother you so late . . .’

  ‘Don’t worry.’ Piers cut short his father’s apologies. ‘It’s really not a problem. I’ll dash in at about twenty past eight. Is that OK? Not too early?’

  ‘Of course not. I’ll be ready for you. Perhaps some coffee . . . ?’

  Piers bit back the urge to say that he’d have already had his breakfast and tried to sound pleased at the prospect.

  ‘Great. See you then. No other problems? . . . Quite sure? Good. Sleep well then, Father.’

  Sensitive to his abstracted mood, wanting to help, Tilda said, ‘I would have been quite happy to do it. I’m meeting Gemma somewhere for coffee or going to the cottage, anyway, so it wouldn’t be a problem to go into Dunster.’

  ‘You went this morning,’ he answered briefly. His hands were in the pockets of his chinos, his head bent, and she watched him curiously.