The Birdcage Read online

  ‘But I don’t want to forget your daddy; I love him,’ she told Jake rather desperately. ‘I shall always love him. But how do you learn to live without someone? How does it work?’

  She began to unload the dishwasher, putting the things away, longing for David to come in from the scullery.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ he’d ask. ‘Got a face like a bottom that’s been put in a colander and sat on!’

  She thought: He’ll never say things like that to Jake. Never see him grow and be proud of him. He’ll never play cricket out on the hill with Jake, like Piers did with David, or take him up on Dunkery to watch the sun set, or go sailing out of Porlock Weir.

  She wept silently as she’d learned to lest she should upset Jake, her back turned to him, her face buried in the teacloth. As if he sensed her unhappiness, he began to grizzle too, and she wiped her eyes and went to him, lifting him out of his chair and sitting with him at the table. Settling them both comfortably, she unbuttoned her shirt and began to feed him, smiling down at him as he watched her, his tiny hand patting gently at her breast as he sucked.

  The car came slowly past the window and into the garth; a door slammed and she heard footsteps crossing the cobbles and coming in through the scullery. A tap on the door and Alison appeared.

  ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Not a difficult moment, I hope? Oh.’

  Tilda watched her, outwardly calm, as she lifted the remote control to switch off the television. She knew that the ‘Oh’ – although giving the impression of being taken by surprise – was actually meant to imply that it was rather odd and not quite done to sit at the kitchen table feeding one’s baby whilst watching a chat show on the television. Alison wasn’t a truthful person, Tilda decided; she existed behind a framework of expressions and actions that she would deny should they be challenged. She liked to control without appearing to manipulate: she was self-seeking whilst pretending that her own aims were in the best interest of another person; in this instance, Piers. Almost at once, Alison proved this point.

  ‘I still find it a bit of a shock to see you sitting there when I come in,’ she said with a bright little laugh. ‘Piers must find it quite a sea change. It was always so quiet when I popped by before.’

  ‘But then you wouldn’t have got further than the scullery, would you?’ asked Tilda, also brightly. ‘Not at this time of day if Piers was at the office, I mean.’

  Alison coloured: she disliked the inference that her relationship with Piers wasn’t close enough to have merited her being given a key to the house.

  ‘I’ve brought one of my fatless sponges,’ she said, ignoring the remark, placing the cake tin on the table. ‘I know how Piers loves them.’

  She glanced about her, looking for new evidence of Tilda’s habitation, always anxious lest there should be signs of a more permanent occupation.

  ‘Would you like some coffee?’ Tilda pulled herself together, remembering that this was Piers’ house and Alison was his friend.

  Please, she found herself praying to no-one in particular, please don’t let it be because of Alison that Piers was like he was last night.

  ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’ Alison hurried to the Aga. ‘Do you drink coffee with . . . you know?’

  She nodded towards Jake and Tilda’s bared breast as if none of it was quite nice, and Tilda felt a spasm of mirth ripple through her diaphragm. Jake opened his eyes reproachfully and Tilda beamed down at him.

  ‘Occasionally I do. I’d like one, please,’ she answered. ‘Lots of milk but no sugar, thanks.’

  ‘It’s so hot again.’ Alison fiddled about, enjoying a sense of being at home in Piers’ kitchen. ‘Of course, these big old houses are so cool, not like my little bungalow.’

  ‘It’s a bit different in the winter with a gale blowing,’ said Tilda. ‘Rather like being at sea up in my bedroom on that north-west corner.’

  Alison looked about for some subject that might put Tilda in her place; that would underline the fact that Piers had had a life before she’d turned up with her baby: a life in which Alison had played a major role.

  ‘I wish Piers would get rid of that old bean bag,’ she said. ‘Quite insanitary. He said he was going to the last time I saw him.’

  ‘He’s probably keeping it for the next one,’ said Tilda. ‘Anyway, it’s clean; I’ve washed the cover in the machine.’

  ‘Next one?’ Alison, putting the coffee mugs on the table, was taken off guard. ‘I understood that there were to be no more dogs.’

  Tilda’s eyebrows shot up. ‘You can’t be serious! Piers without a dog? He’s just taken a bit longer to get over Joker than usual, that’s all. There have always been dogs at Michaelgarth.’

  She moved Jake to the other breast, settling him comfortably whilst Alison watched with undisguised distaste. Glancing up, Tilda caught the expression and Alison looked quickly away, sipping her coffee but unable to allow the subject to drop.

  ‘When we talked about it, Piers agreed that the time had come to try life without a dog,’ she said. ‘He agreed that a dog is a most frightful tie and that we – he – could have much more freedom without one.’

  ‘Freedom for what?’ asked Tilda with great interest. ‘After all, dogs never stopped Piers doing what he wanted before. He takes them into the office and in the car with him, and even to the pub. And he has that wonderful Animal Aunt that comes in if he has to go away.’ She shook her head, as if dismissing Alison’s opinion, as if pretending that she must have misunderstood Piers. ‘No, I can’t imagine Piers being without a dog for much longer.’

  ‘I think, for once, you might not know quite as much as you imagine you do.’ Alison couldn’t quite hide her irritation. ‘I promise you that Piers and I have talked it through very carefully.’

  ‘Perhaps you were talking and he was listening,’ suggested Tilda, ‘which is a bit different.’ Stop, she thought. Stop now.

  ‘I think that you should remember that though Piers has given you a temporary home it doesn’t entitle you to interfere with his private life.’ Alison’s face was patchily red, her eyes bright and slightly watery with combined anger and embarrassment. ‘Just because you are suffering bereavement you mustn’t think it gives you some kind of right to batten on to other people’s generosity. Piers has been grieving too, and he needs the space and freedom to move on now.’

  ‘Did he say that too?’ asked Tilda. ‘Along with not wanting a dog, I mean?’

  Alison compressed her lips into a thin line, cross with herself for having been betrayed into saying too much. If she said ‘yes’ then Tilda might confront Piers; if she denied it, Tilda would laugh up her sleeve and see the truth of the situation. She prevaricated.

  ‘Of course not in so many words. Piers is much too unselfish. He wants you and Jake to be happy and to be able to build a new life together . . .’

  . . . somewhere else, added Tilda silently. Suddenly she felt a huge depression; a sense of helplessness.

  ‘Jake needs his sleep,’ she said, carefully easing the drowsy baby from her breast and covering herself with her shirt. Oddly, she felt a sudden need to hide herself from the unfriendly, prying gaze of the woman across the table. The flash of defiance was quenched and the ache for David had returned. Oh, for the sight of his eyes, always so bright, so keen, smiling into hers; to feel his strength flowing into her numbed body. She laid Jake against her shoulder, gently massaging his small back, feeling the warm wetness of milky dribble as it soaked through her thin shirt. Alison swallowed back her coffee and got up. She felt a little concerned at the look on Tilda’s face but had no intention of showing a gentleness that might undermine any of her previous arguments.

  ‘I’ll be away,’ she said. ‘I hope you enjoy the cake.’

  After she’d gone, Tilda went out into the sun-filled hall, murmuring to Jake, standing for a moment in the peace and stillness, before climbing the stairs to her bedroom.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Lizzie was at breakfast when th
e telephone call came through. She set down her orange juice and followed the girl to the reception desk, wondering if Felix were unwell. He’d been very tired last evening – but quite calm, sure that all would be well, although knowing that there must be a further meeting with Piers.

  ‘The worst is over,’ he’d said several times – but not as if he were trying to convince himself, rather as a result of an easing from a huge emotional weight.

  Nevertheless she hurried anxiously to the telephone. Felix, after all, had recently undergone major surgery and he might have suffered a setback in the night.

  ‘Hello,’ she said urgently into the receiver but speaking as quietly as she could, turning away from the receptionist, who busied herself at a distance. ‘Are you OK, Felix? I’ve been worrying that I shouldn’t have come over last night after all the drama but I simply had to know how you were and whether Piers was going to come back with a gun and shoot me.’ She waited for his chuckle, which was not forthcoming, and was seized with another stab of foreboding. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m rabbiting on, I’m still reeling with all this stuff. Are you OK?’

  ‘Well, I’m certainly not coming to shoot you.’ Piers’ voice was amused, if a little cool. ‘But I was wondering whether we might have lunch together.’

  Lizzie’s hand clutched the receiver in a convulsive grip, her eyes closed in horror. ‘Oh, God,’ she murmured. ‘Oh my God! The girl just said Mr Hamilton . . .’ She sighed. ‘OK. Shall we take it from the top or would you like to hang up now?’

  His chuckle was particularly comforting. ‘I’m very happy to take it from the top if that means starting again – on both sides. I certainly didn’t intend to mislead you. I did actually give my full name but the receptionist probably just caught the surname.’

  ‘It’s early in the day and Felix has telephoned me here once or twice so it might be confusing,’ agreed Lizzie, ready to forgive anything, ‘and I should love lunch. That’s very . . .’ she rejected ‘nice’, wondered about ‘kind’ . . . ‘that’s great,’ she finished lamely.

  ‘Good.’ He still sounded faintly amused. ‘There’s a nice pub at Porlock Weir. The Ship. Shall I collect you? Say half-past twelve?’

  ‘Great,’ Lizzie repeated faintly.

  Can’t you think of another word? she asked herself furiously. Aren’t you an actress? Don’t you work with words?

  ‘Could you be outside the hotel?’ he was asking. ‘Parking will probably be impossible and I can simply scoop you up as I go past.’

  ‘That sounds . . . fine.’

  ‘Good. I’ll see you then.’

  The line went dead and Lizzie stood for a second, listening to the buzzing sound, before slowly replacing the receiver. The receptionist smiled questioningly at her as if wondering whether Lizzie might want to make another call.

  ‘Everything OK?’ she asked politely, after a moment.

  ‘Absolutely OK.’ Aware that she was grinning unrestrainedly, Lizzie wiped the inane expression from her face. ‘Just some rather good news,’ she said, hoping that this might account for her odd behaviour. ‘Thank you so much.’

  She went back into the dining-room and sat down again. The remains of her scrambled egg were congealing gently, unappetizingly, but she managed a triangle of toast, without tasting a crumb of it, and finished her orange juice. She could see that she was destined to make a fool of herself in front of Piers and she groaned in spirit before a rising sense of excitement crowded out this self-condemnation. He wanted to have lunch with her and he’d sounded . . . no, not nice, not kind, but definitely fun. That chuckle, so like his father’s . . . How would Felix react? she wondered. Would he be pleased or anxious at this unexpected move on Piers’ part? She hoped that he would approve of her acceptance of the invitation but it would be comforting to talk to him first; check out a few things so as to be prepared. They’d agreed to have coffee together at about eleven and, meanwhile, she’d planned to explore the Dunster Wearhouse. A shopping spree – she must remember to buy some postcards to send to her friends – coffee with Felix and lunch with Piers: Lizzie sighed with pleasurable anticipation, dropped her napkin on the table and rose to leave.

  The friendly couple were waiting, leaning out from the chairs, smiling expectantly. They did hope that it was good news? They’d feared at first that it might be some emergency – to be called away from her breakfast like that – but they could see from her face that it couldn’t be too serious . . . ?

  Lizzie beamed at them, bending a little nearer, lowering her voice: ‘A call from my agent . . . Hollywood . . . I know . . . quite amazing . . . mind you, not a word . . .’

  She passed from the room, still wearing an expression that might cover such an eventuality – exultation blended carefully with just the right amount of dazed disbelief: humility, she decided, was the keynote here – and went upstairs.

  It was just after eleven when she climbed the stairs to the flat, having first deposited her spoils at the hotel.

  ‘I’ve been shopping,’ she called up to him. ‘I was hoping to find something rather special to wear. Oh, Felix, you’ll never guess.’ She hugged him as she reached the landing. ‘Piers telephoned this morning and has invited me to lunch.’

  Too late she saw his warning gesture and, looking beyond him, saw a tall fair girl getting up from the chair by the window.

  ‘This is Tilda,’ Felix said, his voice betraying nothing but pleasure that they should meet. ‘I’m never quite certain of our technical relationship but she’s Piers’ daughter-in-law. Tilda, this is an old friend of mine, Lizzie Blake.’

  ‘Hello.’ Tilda moved forward, holding out her hand. Her eyes widened with surprise. ‘But aren’t you . . . ? Gosh, Felix! You never told me that you knew a famous actress.’

  ‘That’s because he didn’t know he did.’ Lizzie smiled warmly at her. ‘But then he didn’t tell me that he had a positively beautiful granddaughter-in-law either. I think we should take him in hand, don’t you?’

  ‘I just loved the sitcom . . . And that advert . . .’

  ‘How sweet of you.’ Lizzie could do the ‘touched and grateful, tinged with a dash of graciousness’ response with barely any effort at all. ‘Don’t you simply adore the dog? I wanted to keep him but they wouldn’t let me.’

  ‘Have some coffee.’ Felix drew her further into the room, his eyes amused, not in the least taken in by her act. ‘Tilda and I have already started. Would you like a biscuit? And here’s Jake, my great-grandson.’

  Lizzie stared down at the baby lying in a kind of carrying chair. He gurgled contentedly, chubby fists and bare legs kicking furiously, and Tilda smiled rather shyly.

  ‘He’s behaving himself at the moment but I really should be on my way. This was just a quick fix.’ She laughed a little. ‘I come and see Felix when I feel a bit miz. He always cheers me up but I simply must dash off or the car will be over its time.’ She hesitated. ‘It’s really so good to meet you. Are you staying locally?’

  ‘At the Luttrell Arms.’ With difficulty, Lizzie tore her gaze from the baby. ‘Until Friday morning.’

  ‘Friday?’ Felix couldn’t hide his disappointment. ‘I didn’t realize it was to be so short a stay.’

  ‘I was lucky to get four nights at this time of the year – or so I gather.’ Lizzie beamed at them both. ‘I would love to stay a little longer, of course . . .’

  ‘Have you tried the other hotels?’ asked Tilda. ‘Or the second-hand bookshop, perhaps. Cobbles, it’s called. The Corleys have a lovely little self-contained flat. They only started self-catering this summer so they might not be fully booked. You can’t disappear just yet.’

  ‘Well . . .’ Lizzie was a little taken aback by this evident desire for her company. ‘To be honest, I hadn’t thought much further than Friday. I just came down to see Felix, you see.’

  ‘And you haven’t seen Piers yet?’ Tilda’s friendliness was so genuine that it was impossible to feel resentful at this interest in her affairs. ‘Did I hear you
say that you were having lunch with him?’

  ‘They haven’t had time to catch up yet.’ Felix intervened, gently pushing Lizzie down into the wing-chair, putting a cup of coffee on the table beside her. ‘We’ll have to look into the possibility of other accommodation.’

  ‘You could always come to Michaelgarth.’ Tilda grimaced, looking suddenly embarrassed. ‘Sorry. I forget that I don’t have the right to do things without asking Piers. Not that he minds. You could be in the west wing with me and Jake.’ Lizzie looked again at the baby, swinging in his chair, which Tilda was now holding as she might carry a shopping basket. ‘He’s very good,’ she added, lest Lizzie might be put off by this suggestion. ‘Oh, do mention it to Piers! It would be such fun.’

  ‘Good idea.’ Felix stepped in, yet again. ‘Although we must let Lizzie decide for herself.’

  ‘Of course.’ Tilda looked stricken. ‘That’s so typical of me. David used to say, “Do try to engage the brain before clutching in the mouth.” Sorry, Lizzie.’

  ‘It’s very sweet of you to invite me.’ Lizzie imagined – just for one mad moment – accepting the invitation and telling Piers about it over lunch. Wild laughter threatened to choke her. ‘It sounds terrific fun.’ She caught Felix’s warning glance and pulled herself together. ‘Shall we see how it goes? I’m sure we’ll meet again, either way.’

  ‘I hope so.’ Tilda clearly meant it. She kissed Felix, grinned at Lizzie and went out, carrying Jake’s little chair carefully. They heard the street door close.

  ‘That was . . . tricky,’ said Felix.

  ‘I’m getting really good at ad-libbing,’ observed Lizzie. ‘What a perfectly lovely girl. And just wait until you hear about my latest gaffe with Piers.’

  ‘Are you really having lunch together?’ Felix sat down opposite.

  ‘We are. He telephoned the hotel this morning and, naturally, when the receptionist said it was Mr Hamilton I assumed that it was you. I can’t remember exactly what I said to him but he must think that I ought to be certified.’