The Birdcage Page 25

There’s nothing to fear.

  She hadn’t realized that Piers’ birthday was not simply to be a small family affair: apparently she was to be plunged into a full-scale party which, whilst it certainly distracted from her presence at Michaelgarth, filled her with alarm.

  ‘Lots of people will be coming,’ Tilda had told her cheerfully soon after she’d arrived late on Friday afternoon. ‘Piers has masses of friends and he pays back hospitality by giving big parties every now and then. His birthday was too good an opportunity to miss. And just wait until they see you.’ She’d sighed contentedly, looking at Lizzie with undisguised satisfaction, as if she were a collector and Lizzie a much-prized, highly valuable commodity. ‘Oh, how I long to see Alison’s face.’

  ‘Who is Alison?’ she’d asked anxiously but Tilda, saying lightly, ‘Oh, just a rather boring friend’, had refused to be drawn any further. Jake had begun to cry, distracting Tilda, and Lizzie had escaped into the garth, wandering about uneasily as she imagined the ordeal ahead, until she’d heard a car approaching. Presently Piers had appeared, walking into the garth with a firm quick step, smiling with pleasure to see her there.

  She’d raised her hand casually in return, hastily arranging a relaxed, natural expression – ‘Try to remember that you are an actress’ – as if she were quite used to staying with people she’d known a brief two days and he’d looked at her intently as if trying to gauge her mood.

  ‘Has Tilda been looking after you?’ he’d asked – but almost immediately, sensing her tension and guessing that he was sounding rather like an over-efficient host, he’d grimaced self-mockingly. ‘It’s a bit nerve-racking, isn’t it?’ he’d asked sympathetically. ‘Is it time for a drink? Do we feel we rather need one?’

  ‘Yes,’ she’d replied feelingly – and, oddly calmed by his presence, she’d followed him into the house.

  This morning, reflecting on the effect he had on her, puzzled by her feelings for him, Lizzie finished her tour of the room, murmured ‘Help!’ once or twice rather quietly to no-one in particular, and went away to have a shower.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  By the time Tilda arrived in the kitchen Piers had finished his breakfast and disappeared and Saul was standing at the window, staring out towards Dunkery, a mug of coffee in his hand. He turned as she came in, put the mug on the table and with complete naturalness went to take Jake from her, holding him confidently, smiling down at him. Watching him, Tilda’s first reaction of pleasure was swamped by an uprush of misery. Just so had she imagined David holding his child, the strong, cradling arms in heart-touching contrast with the weak helplessness; the bobbing, rolling head supported against the broad shoulder. In that brief moment she both resented Saul and, simultaneously, longed to rest against his strength.

  ‘Piers must have been up early. I see he’s already had his breakfast.’ She poured herself a glass of milk, taking refuge in banalities – ‘Ten minutes on the bleeding obvious,’ as David, intolerant of any kind of pretence, would have remarked – ‘He usually comes down a bit later at the weekends.’

  ‘Too excited to sleep?’ offered Saul, making faces at Jake. ‘Birthday boy and all that? Can’t wait for his pressies?’

  ‘Oh, shut up,’ said Tilda crossly; Saul too, always saw through any kind of subterfuge and once again she experienced mixed emotions: relief at not having to pretend with him and irritation that he refused to co-operate with her evasive tactics.

  ‘Perhaps it’s having a famous actress to stay.’ Saul decided to steer clear of emotional waters and sat down at the table, holding his godson comfortably whilst finishing his coffee. ‘I have to say that I really like her.’

  ‘Oh, so do I.’ Tilda’s confusion was submerged in a wave of enthusiasm. ‘She’s so funny, isn’t she? And so natural. You’d hardly believe that she’s only just met us. I thought she and Piers were old friends but it’s Felix she really knows. Apparently she and Piers haven’t met for years but you wouldn’t really know it, would you?’

  ‘Well, after all,’ remarked Saul thoughtfully, ‘she is an actress – but I know what you mean. Old Piers is the least bit smitten, I thought.’

  Tilda looked across at him sharply. ‘I thought so too.’ A little pause. ‘I wonder what Alison will think?’

  ‘Is she that bossy female that gives you a hard time? I haven’t met her yet.’

  Saul sounded as if he were rather relishing the prospect and Tilda grinned at him challengingly – if affectionately.

  ‘Got your white charger ready, Sir Lancelot?’ she asked brightly – and he coloured a little.

  ‘Oh, I know you can look after yourself,’ he said, ‘but I’ve been looking forward to a run-in with her. Don’t spoil my fun. I’ll just slap her about a bit, nothing much . . .’

  Tilda laughed. ‘You have my permission if she’s horrid to Lizzie,’ she agreed. ‘There’s something oddly vulnerable about her, isn’t there? She’s . . .’ Tilda frowned, trying to put her ideas into words, ‘well, she’s so nicely scatty. Not childish and irritating but . . . sort of genuinely naïve. She can’t cope with Jake at all, you know.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ Saul looked at her, puzzled.

  ‘She’s never had children, you see, and he’s so small that she’s terrified of him. “Aren’t you afraid of breaking him?” she asked. It’s quite a nice change, actually. Women of that age usually want to tell me how I should be dealing with him and what I’m doing wrong. All that “Oh, we didn’t do that in my day” stuff. Well, apart from Alison, of course, who seems to think that a mother and child shouldn’t be allowed out in public.’

  Saul raised his eyebrows at the bitter note in her voice and she grimaced at him.

  ‘I think you’re hoping that Lizzie is going to cause trouble between Piers and Alison,’ he told her, shifting Jake a little.

  They exchanged a conspiratorial glance and as she turned away, beginning to prepare breakfast, he allowed himself the luxury of his natural feelings for her, watching her with longing as she moved about the kitchen. She was so beautiful, so casually elegant, this widow of his closest friend; as unattainable now as she’d been ever since David had introduced them.

  ‘This is Tilda,’ he’d said with all that confident ease with which David had been blessed. ‘I’ve told you all about her,’ and so he had but nothing had prepared Saul for the reality of her: tall and shapely in the soft clinging stuff of her ball-gown, the thick yellow hair slipping from its artfully casual arrangement and lying in long shining stands upon her neck, those extraordinary eyes . . . The sharp jab of David’s elbow had brought him painfully alert.

  ‘This is when you say “hello”,’ he’d advised kindly – and Tilda had smiled warmly at Saul, taking his hand, ignoring his embarrassment.

  ‘David’s such a thug,’ she’d said regretfully. ‘No finer feelings at all. But I expect you know that?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ he’d agreed, so feelingly that they’d all laughed – and a bond had been instantly formed between them. They’d become a foursome with whichever girl Saul was currently dating and he’d been too deeply and sincerely fond of David to allow his feelings for Tilda to betray him.

  ‘Cereal?’ she was asking him now. ‘Toast?’ and turned in surprise when there was no reply.

  ‘Great.’ He looked swiftly down at Jake lest she should see the expression in his eyes. ‘Yes, both, please . . . I long to see the puppy.’

  ‘He’s arriving later.’ Tilda put out bowls and plates, laying a place for Lizzie. ‘He’ll make his entrance during the party. A kind of canine kiss-o-gram. Oh,’ she rolled her eyes in joyful, wicked anticipation, ‘I can’t wait to see Alison’s face.’

  Saul shook his head doubtfully. ‘I’m beginning to wonder whether I’m going to enjoy this party. Poor old Piers. Does he guess what’s in store for him, I wonder.’

  Footsteps could be heard crossing the garth, coming in through the scullery, and Tilda put a warning finger to her lips. By the time Piers arrived in the kitchen, S
aul was peacefully eating cereal, a sleeping Jake in one arm, whilst Tilda waited patiently by the toaster. Piers raised his eyebrows at the unexpected silence and Tilda, smiling at him, marvelled as she often did at the economic expressiveness of Piers’ face: surprise, amusement, a shrewd assessment of the true situation between them were conveyed by the slightest facial movements. Saul turned his head, so as to acknowledge him, and Piers let his hand lie briefly on his shoulder.

  ‘Sleep well?’ he asked.

  ‘Like a brick.’ Saul set down his spoon and turned in his chair. ‘Happy birthday, Piers. Good day for it.’

  ‘It’s hot already.’ Piers’ eyes narrowed affectionately at the sight of his grandson, so contentedly asleep, and – like Tilda earlier – was seized with a spasm of piercing grief at the recollection of all that he had lost. He turned away quickly, as if to examine some letters lying on the dresser, willing down the pain. ‘It’ll be a splendid evening for a barbecue. I’ve begun to set it up, but I’m counting on your help, Saul.’

  ‘No problems.’ Saul attempted to spread butter on his toast, one-handed, and Tilda took Jake from him, laying him gently in his little chair. ‘I’m a real dude when it comes to the barbie.’

  Before Piers could respond, a car passed the window and Tilda, catching a glimpse of it, stiffened, making a warning face at Saul. Piers raised his head, listening, and, after a moment, a door slammed and Alison came through the scullery and entered the kitchen. She balanced a covered plate on one hand and held a carrier bag in the other. Saul got to his feet as Piers put down his letters whilst Tilda, with an attempt at a welcoming smile, took another mouthful of toast.

  ‘Goodness!’ Alison looked round at them with determined cheerfulness. ‘Quite a deputation. I’ve come to wish you a happy birthday, Piers, since the telephone seems permanently on answerphone these last few days. Oh, and to bring my offering for the party. I felt it was rather a lot for you to manage to feed the five thousand without a bit of help.’

  ‘Not quite that many.’ Piers touched his lips to her raised, expectant cheek. ‘And thank you for your good wishes . . . and your contribution. This is Saul, David’s greatest friend and Jake’s godfather. Saul, this is Alison Rowe.’

  He didn’t qualify the second part of the introduction and she bit her lip as she stood the bag on a chair and took Saul’s outstretched hand.

  ‘That looks interesting.’ Tilda spoke lightly, indicating the covered plate. ‘I hope it isn’t a birthday cake or Mrs Coleman will have a fit and Piers will have a serious problem blowing out two lots of candles.’

  ‘It’s a trifle.’ She set it on the table. ‘You can never have too much to eat at these parties, can you? And in the bag there are sausage rolls and a few bits and pieces.’

  ‘It’s very kind of you.’ Piers was careful not to look at Tilda. ‘I’m sure it will be much appreciated.’

  He smiled at her but Alison frowned a little, picking up on Tilda’s comment. ‘What’s Mrs Coleman got to do with it?’

  ‘You must have met Mrs C, Alison.’ Tilda’s voice was brittle; brightly conversational. ‘She’s Piers’ cleaner and she’s always done the catering for his parties. Even I wouldn’t trespass on Mrs C’s preserves.’

  ‘I’m not quite a stranger here, Tilda,’ answered Alison sharply. ‘Of course I know who Mrs Coleman is, although what she has to do with Piers’ birthday . . .’

  Instinctively the two men intervened: as Saul moved to stand beside Tilda, and Piers began to explain Mrs Coleman’s role in the festivities, the door opened and Lizzie came into the kitchen. She’d hesitated for a moment outside the door, hearing Tilda’s remarks, catching the name: Alison. In the moment of her entering she took in the scene – Tilda bright-cheeked and defiant, with Saul protectively at her side; Piers caught between family loyalty and friendship; Alison aggressive – and her thespian instincts rushed to the fore. Angel’s shade seemed to slip inside her skin, informing her performance – ‘I went right over the top,’ she admitted later to Felix – and carrying her into the centre of the stage.

  ‘So sorry to be late, sweetie,’ she cried, bending to kiss Tilda’s flushed cheek, beaming at Saul – who grinned instinctively back at her – and moving at once to Piers. ‘My dear, a whole orchestra woke me at dawn, plus a cockerel with laryngitis and a sheep with a nasty case of bronchitis.’ She shrugged helplessly, palms extended upwards. ‘And they say it’s quiet in the country. When I went back to sleep I slept for hours and the next thing I heard a car and when I saw the time . . .’

  Tilda took one look at Alison’s incredulous face and burst into uncontrollable laughter.

  ‘Sorry,’ she muttered, helplessly. ‘Sorry, it’s just . . .’

  Lizzie turned quickly towards her. ‘Was it you who brought the coffee, Tilda?’ she demanded. ‘Well, it just saved my life when I woke up and saw it there, that’s all’ – and Tilda, who knew very well that Lizzie had been wide awake and in the shower when she’d taken up the coffee, began to laugh again.

  ‘Alison, this is Lizzie Blake.’ Piers, with mixed feelings, took charge. ‘I’m sure you recognize her from her appearances on television . . . Lizzie, this is Alison Rowe.’

  Once again he failed to qualify the relationship between them, and Alison’s smile was glacial.

  ‘I rarely watch the television, I’m afraid. Should I know you?’ She touched Lizzie’s hand briefly. ‘I’m one of those very busy people who don’t need to live vicariously by watching ghastly soaps.’

  Pleased that she’d rather cleverly managed to imply the area of endeavour in which it would be natural to assume that Lizzie worked, she turned to Piers with a proprietorial smile but Lizzie immediately distracted his attention by kissing him warmly, wishing him many happy returns of the day. He leaned instinctively to receive her salute and Alison’s smile faded.

  ‘My husband used to say that television was the last resort of the mentally deficient,’ she said, with a light little laugh that deceived no-one, ‘and I do so agree with him.’

  ‘Well, lucky old you, sweetie.’ Lizzie sat down at the table and took a piece of Tilda’s toast, spreading it lavishly with butter. ‘I utterly depend on it. Especially the dear old soaps. It’s such fun seeing all one’s chums . . .’

  ‘Coffee?’ suggested Saul tactfully. ‘I’m going to have some more. Lizzie? Alison?’

  Jake woke suddenly, grizzling gently, and Tilda, still swallowing down her laughter, pushed back her chair and went to him.

  Alison touched Piers’ arm. ‘Could I have a quiet word?’ She gave a little humorous look that implied that the kitchen was full of lunatics, and led the way out into the garth.

  The other three exchanged glances.

  ‘I’ve heard the term “upstaging” before but I’ve never seen it done quite so professionally,’ said Saul reflectively, making coffee. ‘You ought to get an Oscar for that, Lizzie.’

  ‘Coffee will do nicely,’ she told him grimly. ‘So that’s Alison. You might have warned me.’

  Tilda stared at her anxiously over Jake’s head. ‘I can’t decide whether it’s just me, you see,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t mind her being antagonistic to me and Jake if I could believe she was right for him. But I’m sure she just isn’t and he’s sinking further and further in. I can just imagine what David would say!’

  Lizzie took another piece of toast. ‘Tell me all about her,’ she said. ‘How it started and all that stuff. Hurry up with that coffee, Saul, and then you can stand near the door and warn us when they come back. I think that Alison is someone I need to know about. From the top, Tilda, and don’t leave anything out.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  ‘My dear Piers,’ Alison was saying out in the garth, ‘what an extraordinary woman. You didn’t tell me anyone was staying at Michaelgarth. Is she here for the party?’

  Already it was hot: the warm, still air was fragrant with the scent from the roses, which climbed and tumbled over the high stone walls in clusters of gold and c
ream and pink; tissue-soft, crumpled faces opening towards the sun. Deep in amongst the woody stems velvety buds, tight packed, showed like candle flames hidden amongst paint-bright leaves whilst higher up, on the entwining, thorny branches, full-blown blooms drooped, their faded petals drifting silently down to settle lightly on the ancient cobbles.

  Piers stooped to pluck a just-opening bud, studying it with a deep, grateful pleasure before presenting it to Alison. It stopped her, as nothing else could have done, but even before he saw her face – relaxing from spitefulness into surprised delight – he knew that he’d made a mistake. She would misunderstand the gesture, just as she’d done so often in the past, and even whilst he smiled at her he cursed his own stupidity. Such danger lay hidden in these casual human exchanges: each reading his – or her – own interpretation into words, actions. Some blessed people were naturally, delicately, attuned to the least nuance – others almost wilfully obtuse. Lines of a poem ran in his head:

  Earth’s crammed with heaven,

  And every common bush afire with God;

  And only he who sees, takes off his shoes –

  The rest sit round it and pluck blackberries.

  He knew that in giving Alison the rose he was allowing her to imagine something that was not true. Nevertheless she was momentarily distracted: the rose, in all its fresh beauty, made it impossible for her to continue to be unpleasant. She turned it in her fingers, breathed its perfume, allowing his offering to quieten her restless, grasping soul.

  He thought: In a moment she will put on her shoes again and begin to pluck blackberries – and saw the exact second in which she rejected the gentler powers of generosity and kindness, choosing instead self-importance and conflict.

  Turning to him, the rosebud forgotten, she said, ‘But who is she, Piers, Lizzie whatever-you-called-her? It was as if you expected me to know her.’ She laughed vexedly, as if such an idea were preposterous. ‘You didn’t tell me you had anyone staying, in fact I wasn’t sure what the arrangements for the party were, though I’ve been trying to get hold of you since Wednesday. I expect Tilda forgot to give you my message. So who is this woman?’