The Birdcage Page 17

  ‘I’d simply forget all about it, sweetie, if I were you.’

  She stonewalls any further questions, and Pidge is unforth-coming too, but kinder.

  ‘He’s finding it impossible to get away just now. He’d have been thrilled, of course, but we’ll have to wait and see. Now what have you got there?’

  The holiday passes quickly and once she’s back at school, with new experiences and objectives opening out before her, she is side-tracked; her vision already turning to expanding horizons so that she is easily persuaded from pursuing the subject.

  Now, remembering Angel’s stonewalling, she was fairly certain that it had been Felix who’d called a halt but, if that were true, why should he have the birdcage? If there had been a reconciliation she would certainly have heard about it; despite her own career, her life in London, she’d kept in close contact with Pidge and Angel, and even when she was married they’d gone back to Bristol as often as they could to see them. They’d adored Sam.

  The pain was so sharp that she crossed her arms beneath her breast, holding herself upright as the memory assailed her.

  Tall, tough as a tank, unruly black hair, he watches her from a distance, meeting – always, it seems, by chance – at first nights, after-the-show suppers, at parties. Naïvely, she feels that it is odd that their paths should cross so regularly. Increasingly aware of him she tries not to show her interest but it has become almost impossible not to look for his unmistakable figure, always dressed in black – jeans, roll-neck jersey, a jacket flung over his shoulders – nor to prevent that tell-tale colour that stains her skin the moment their eyes met. He is company manager when she joins the production of French Without Tears and later he becomes the artistic director of his own company, Centre Stage. How proud he is of that highly acclaimed little company, which specializes in theatre-in-the-round and has its headquarters in an old factory in Islington. After French Without Tears they never work together again but, by the end of her six-month contract, they are married.

  ‘Sweetie,’ Angel says at the reception, full of goodwill and champagne, ‘this is one production which is just going to run and run.’

  Lizzie mopped her eyes discreetly with her handkerchief and reached for her drink. Swallowing it back with her tears she cursed to herself, suspecting that if she once gave way to her grief she might fall into pieces that might never be put together again. It had come from nowhere, that subversive little memory: recalling how Pidge and Angel had loved him. No use to think about it now. Think about Felix, the birdcage, anything but Sam . . .

  And here, oh welcome diversion, was the friendly couple, just come in for lunch and wanting to tell her about the church with its extraordinary rood screen – dates and dimensions were supplied at this point – and the delightful memorial garden. So peaceful and quiet. Had she seen it? Oh, then she must go and have a look. She was looking a little tired – an inquisitive note here – was she feeling quite well? Oh, a walk to the beach! Goodness, yes, such a long way on this hot morning . . .

  ‘But I’ve been sitting here, resting in the shade with a deliciously cold drink and my lunch,’ Lizzie told them, gathering her belongings, ‘and that little garden sounds exactly the right place to explore. Just behind the church . . . ?’

  They explained, solo and chorus, and she went away with a happy smile and a cheerful wave – ‘After all,’ she told herself, ‘I am an actress’ – through the hotel and out into the High Street. She paused to stare up at the birdcage, in shadow now but still visible, and noticed that the sash-window was open. Trying to remember whether it had been open earlier, she glanced along the line of parked cars looking for the rather battered four-track whilst feeling pretty sure that she probably wouldn’t recognize it again. She’d been too busy looking at – whatever was his name, Felix’s son? – too shocked to notice his car. She wandered along The Ball and into Priory Green, peeping into secret gardens, marvelling at the rich, rough texture of the old stone walls and the vivid patchwork colours of the flowers, until she found herself once more beside the Tithe barn and saw the entrance to the memorial garden. The wooden gate stood open and, bending her head beneath the wooden portal, she passed inside.

  She stood quite still, just for a moment, entranced by the scene before her. Gravelled paths led between beds of tall flowering shrubs and sweetly scented flowers, wooden benches were placed beneath leafy bowers, and here, beside the high stone wall, stood the well on a big round cobbled step. Lizzie walked softly, lest she should disturb the silence; pausing to watch a blackbird in the branches of some ivy, leaning to inhale the heady perfume from a spray of roses, she moved quietly along the paths, feeling a deep-down peacefulness creeping around her heart.

  He was sitting on a seat in the shadow of the wall, his hands clasped on the stick held upright between his knees, contemplating the small sundial. Coming upon him suddenly, imagining herself quite alone, she gave a tiny gasping cry of surprise. He smiled at her and the shock, even as she acknowledged it, was almost immediately absorbed into that sense of peace, which continued to hold her steady. Everything – the return to Bristol, the memories, the postcard – had been leading towards this moment.

  Lizzie breathed in, a deep, deep sigh, and exhaled gently. She went closer, searching for confirmation in his face, and he moved a little so that there might be room for her on the seat.

  ‘I was looking for you,’ she said simply, sitting down beside him. ‘Hello, Felix.’

  He turned to examine her, with that familiar, assessing look, and then, smiling with relief and murmuring ‘Lizzie,’ he sighed too, as if something momentous had been accomplished. They stared at each other with wondering faces, until Felix began to chuckle.

  ‘This is utterly extraordinary,’ he said, ‘and yet I’ve been expecting it. Well, expecting something. I wasn’t sure what it might be. When you get old, Lizzie, you have strange fancies.’

  ‘You don’t have to be old,’ she answered feelingly. ‘I’ve been like a madwoman just lately. Crazy. My God, Felix. It really is you, isn’t it? I’m not hallucinating.’

  ‘My dear Lizzie, if you were hallucinating I should imagine that you could do better than this.’

  His chuckle moved her so deeply and so strangely that she reached out her hand. He took it in his and held it tightly, his lips compressed to hide his emotion.

  ‘Felix, I can still hardly believe that we’re here,’ she glanced about her, ‘in this garden, sitting on a bench dedicated to’ – she screwed her head round to read the inscription – ‘Peter Horatio Shepherd. How did you know it was me?’

  He frowned a little, as if trying to understand it himself. ‘You’ve been in my thoughts so much lately,’ he said at last. ‘You and Angel and Pidge. So many memories. And I’ve just had this premonition that something was about to happen.’ He shook his head impatiently. ‘Sounds foolish, put like that, but it’s the truth. What else can I say? You have a look of your mother about you? Second sight? Haven’t a clue. I could ask you the same question. And please don’t tell me that I looked like this when I was thirty-five or I might hit you with this stick.’

  She began to laugh, the sound escaping in muffled bursts, and he grinned sympathetically.

  ‘It’s the relief,’ she gasped. ‘Felix, I thought you might be dead and there’s so much I need to know.’

  He was silent, still holding her hand, staring out across the sunny garden, and, looking at him closely now, she saw how frail he was. Her hold tightened as anxiety clutched at her heart and he turned his head, his eyes narrowing with amusement as if to dismiss her fear.

  ‘That sounds a rather tall order,’ he said lightly. ‘I warn you that I shall draw the line if you become too inquisitive.’

  She relaxed a little. ‘I don’t know where to begin,’ she admitted. ‘OK, yes, I do. How did you come to have the birdcage? I saw it, you know, last night after dinner. It was . . . so strange. I’d been looking for it in Bristol and wondering what Pidge had done with it. Did s
he give it to you?’

  Felix nodded. ‘After Angel died, she wrote to me, telling me that Angel wanted me to have it . . .’

  ‘As a keepsake?’ prompted Lizzie, as the pause lengthened. ‘But why? After all that time and since she was dead . . . sorry, I just can’t see why.’

  ‘The parting was a painful one,’ said Felix. He looked distressed. ‘It was my fault. There were reasons . . . but I think the birdcage was her way of letting me know that she’d forgiven me at the end.’

  Some people came out of the door from the church and began to move about the garden, talking in lowered voices and gesturing at the flowers. Felix watched them for a moment and then turned to Lizzie.

  ‘Would you come back and have tea with me?’ he asked. ‘I’m taking it for granted that you’re staying somewhere round here? On holiday?’

  ‘I came to find you,’ she answered. ‘I’m staying at the Luttrell Arms. I’d love to have tea with you, Felix, it’s just . . . well, I saw your son this morning, leaving the flat. Does he know about me? Is it OK if he comes in and finds me with you?’

  Felix had risen to his feet and now stood regarding her across the sundial with a kind of shocked surprise.

  ‘You saw Piers this morning?’

  ‘Piers!’ exclaimed Lizzie. ‘That was his name!’

  ‘But how could you possibly know it was him?’

  ‘Oh, Felix,’ she shook her head at him, ‘I came to Dunster to find you. And first I saw the birdcage hanging in the window and then I saw Piers coming out of the flat. Apart from the fact that he looks pretty much like how I remembered you, there wasn’t too much detective work required. Mind you, I put two and two together and made a rather staggering total. I assumed that he lived in the flat. That’s why I said I thought you were dead. I couldn’t see why Piers would have the birdcage otherwise.’

  Felix, his heart sinking, imagined Piers coming back with the mended spectacles, being introduced to Lizzie. Lizzie watched him, guessing his thoughts.

  ‘He doesn’t know, does he?’ she asked soberly.

  ‘He knows that Angel and I were lovers. He has never been able to . . .’ Felix cast about for the right phrase, ‘come to terms with the fact that I was unfaithful to his mother. It might not be a very easy meeting.’ He looked at his wrist-watch and straightened his shoulders, as if coming to a decision. ‘It’s barely three o’clock and Piers won’t be here until after six. Plenty of time for some tea. Come along.’

  He held out his arm to her, sketching a little bow, and they set off together along the gravelled path.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Tilda poured tea into two blue and white mugs, feeling a mix of emotions as she watched her mother cradling Jake in her arms, talking to him.

  ‘He’s smiling at me,’ she said delightedly. ‘See, Tilda? You know, he’s really got a look of David about him.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Tilda after a tiny pause. ‘Yes, he’s a real little Hamilton.’

  Teresa Burton cast a quick questioning look at her daughter. ‘Oh, darling,’ she said remorsefully. ‘I’m sorry. I just wasn’t thinking . . .’

  ‘Oh, don’t!’ cried Tilda, almost crossly. ‘Don’t, Ma. It’s fine. Honestly. Jake does look like David. I want him to.’

  ‘Of course you do,’ murmured Teresa, touching her grandson’s fist, feeling the powerful clutch of the tiny fingers. ‘But it doesn’t help you to get over it, does it? Not with this reminder so constantly with you.’

  ‘I don’t want to get over David,’ said Tilda fiercely. ‘I love him. He was everything to me and I don’t want him to be air-brushed out of my life as if he never existed.’

  Teresa settled Jake, fiddling with his little T-shirt, uncomfortable as she often was in the face of Tilda’s passion. She’d never been as much at ease with her older daughter as she’d been with Julia: but then, Teresa reminded herself, Tilda was her father’s child. Where Julia – so like herself – was biddable, open to advice, Tilda had always been stubborn. Justin had backed her up, undermining her mother’s influence, encouraging Tilda to be headstrong.

  ‘I shall marry David,’ she’d said when she was six – and so she had, despite her mother’s warnings of the problems of being a soldier’s wife. Teresa pursed her lips as she bent over Jake, murmuring to him. It wasn’t that she hadn’t liked David, quite the contrary; in fact, when she’d been a young woman she’d had quite a serious crush on Piers: all the Hamilton men had something special about them. The fact remained, however, that from his birth upward it was clear that David was going to be a handful: if there were anything difficult or dangerous going, then David was up for it. Remembering, Teresa couldn’t help smiling to herself. He’d been irresistible in that indefinable, attractive, sexy Hamilton way – but a worrying prospect as a son-in-law. She’d pointed all this out to Justin but he’d refused to attempt to persuade Tilda to wait a few years; to enjoy her job in London as a PA to the director of an advertising agency; to meet other men. He’d been so proud of David, sure that he had a brilliant career ahead of him in the army. What a tragedy then that, after the tour in Bosnia, he should have been killed in a car accident half a mile from home; what a pointless waste of his life.

  ‘I’m not suggesting that you should forget him.’ Teresa took her mug of tea. ‘Of course not, but—’

  ‘But what?’ Tilda sat down opposite and looked at her challengingly, though she smiled at her mother, remembering her conversation with Gemma earlier.

  Teresa looked back at her daughter’s lovely face, seeking for words that were neither banal nor instructive.

  ‘I just care about you,’ she said at last, defensively.

  ‘Oh, Ma, I know you do.’ Tilda sighed with frustration. ‘Now I’ve got Jake I’m beginning to understand, at last, how you’ve felt about me and Jules all these years. It must be hell watching your children deliberately taking risks or putting themselves into danger. I’d kill anyone who hurt Jake and I can see just how easy it would be to wrap him up in loving, caring, smothering bubble-wrap and never let him out of my sight. Don’t think I don’t know what you want for me.’

  ‘I just want you to be . . . sensible,’ muttered Teresa.

  ‘I know.’ Tilda grinned at her. ‘How d’you spell it?’

  Teresa smiled unwillingly. ‘Hopeless,’ she said. ‘Just like your father . . . Have you heard from him?’

  ‘I had a postcard of the Yorkshire Moors a couple of days ago. You’ll be glad to get the house sold up so that you can join him, won’t you, although I shall miss you. He said that he’s booked out a few days’ holiday for Jake’s baptism in September so you must let me know if you want to stay here with us. We’ll probably be having one or two people overnight. Saul will be staying, of course.’

  ‘Saul.’ Teresa put down her mug and stared at Tilda. She repeated the name brightly, as if this was a whole new idea to her. ‘Now that’s nice. I’m very fond of Saul.’

  ‘So am I,’ agreed Tilda calmly. ‘And of course he was David’s greatest chum, which is why he’s going to be Jake’s godfather. Did I tell you he’s coming down next weekend for the party?’

  ‘Yes, you did say something about it.’ Teresa hesitated, longing to ask a few questions, took one look at Tilda’s warning expression and beamed at her instead. ‘That’ll be fun for you, darling. Piers is a sweetie but it’s good to have people of your own age around and Saul is just the person to . . . well,’ she hesitated beneath the steady gaze, ‘to take you out of yourself. I mean,’ she went on hurriedly, ‘that it’s good to have a change.’

  ‘You’re hopeless, Ma,’ said Tilda good-naturedly. ‘I know just what you mean – in fact Gemma and I were discussing it this morning. It’s a pity she couldn’t come to lunch. I told you that she sent her love, didn’t I?’

  ‘You did,’ said Teresa. ‘I should like to see her again. Such a pretty girl.’ She shook her head. ‘I must admit that I had my doubts about that marriage.’

  ‘She and Guy had kno
wn each other for ever,’ protested Tilda. ‘Just like me and David.’

  ‘I don’t think that it was quite the same. Gemma was always such a naughty girl and, though I don’t know Guy very well, he seems a rather forbidding young man. He makes me feel nervous, quite unlike Saul. You’d never imagine that Saul and Gemma were brother and sister, would you? She’s so blonde and he’s so dark.’

  Tilda remembered Gemma’s remark. ‘Do you think he’s too kind?’

  Teresa looked at her, puzzled. ‘Too kind? Can anyone be too kind?’

  ‘Gemma thinks so. She says that the unknown quality is what women like in men.’

  ‘The unknown quality: how typical of Gemma,’ Teresa snorted scornfully. ‘Oh, we might think we want the challenge of a man with a reputation, we flatter ourselves that we’re the one who will reform him, but when we’re two months into our first pregnancy what we long for is the kind of man who will boost our morale and make us feel good.’ She hesitated. ‘The truth of the matter is that women don’t know what they want and I have to admit,’ said Teresa with the air of one who is trying to be fair, ‘that I’ve always felt that it’s rather unreasonable for women to expect men to know that today it’s the time of the month when we’d like to be dragged upstairs and made passionate love to but tomorrow we’ll want to sit in a corner feeling tearful and needing someone to make us cups of tea.’

  ‘Well,’ said Tilda lightly, rather taken aback by her mother’s unexpected burst of outspokenness, ‘I have to agree with you and, though I can’t say that David was a great hand at making cups of tea when I had PMT, he did have a certain unknown quality.’

  Teresa smiled down at the sleeping baby. ‘He certainly did. So Saul will be staying here and Felix will need a bed for the night, won’t he? Are you sure that it will be OK for me to stay overnight?’

  ‘Of course it will. And what do you think of my plan to get Piers a puppy for his birthday? Don’t you think it’s a great idea? Alison totally disapproves.’