The Songbird Read online

  The weight and the warmth of him, the tiny crumpled face, the feathery twist of dark hair, all these things wrenched her heart. She gazed down at him and wanted to weep at the miracle of life.

  ‘He looks like you,’ she managed.

  ‘Have a heart, Mum,’ Andy protested. ‘Poor little sprog’s only two days old. Do us both a favour.’

  ‘He’s beautiful,’ she said.

  She sat holding him, unwilling to let him go, watching him yawn suddenly, widely, like a kitten; flex the minuscule prawn-like fingers. Then he began to cry. Charlotte whisked him away to be fed and suddenly there was a general hubbub of happy, laughing people that included William and Kat, and Mattie and Charlotte’s parents – and, quite suddenly, Fiona saw that she was almost a stranger, an outsider down from London for a few hours to see her grandson. Between one moment and the next everything was different.

  Previously, she’d visited only when Andy was on leave. She made very few attempts to develop a relationship with Charlotte, though she was always welcome at the London flat. In Devon, it suited Fiona to stay at the Cott; to suggest that Andy should pop over whilst Charlotte was working, so as to have a pint and then some lunch, or to invite them both for dinner. This way she could retain her independence. So it’s not easy, now that she wants to come regularly to see Oliver, to ask Charlotte if she can stay in the small boxroom, which in the early days she rejected, and there’s no way she can suddenly ask William and Kat if she can stay with them. Yet with each visit she feels more and more an outsider. She can see that to have a place in Oliver’s life she needs to be properly hands-on, totally familiar with every aspect of his life.

  It’s odd in a way, Fiona thinks now as she finishes her coffee and fishes in her bag for her phone. Odd, because she wasn’t specially maternal with Andy – or not that she can remember. Perhaps that was because he was naturally hers, there were no other contenders, she was certain of her place in his life. Oh, there was William, of course – and he was a very good father – but she came first with Andy. Of course, she can’t expect to come first with Oliver, or even second, but she can still hope to have a special place in his life.

  Fiona pushes away her coffee cup and begins to tap out a text to Charlotte.

  Charlotte and Aunt Kat are still sitting peacefully in the sunshine, finishing their coffee. Charlotte stares at the text, her heart sinking, irritation rising, and then pulls herself together. After all, Fiona is her mother-in-law and Oliver’s grandmother.

  ‘What?’ asks Aunt Kat, watching her curiously. ‘Not bad news? You look quite grim.’

  Charlotte shakes her head. ‘No. Just a bit surprised. Apparently Fiona is down and is asking if she can come to lunch. She doesn’t usually arrive unannounced, does she? She always gives us plenty of warning.’

  ‘It’s odd,’ agrees Aunt Kat. ‘Shall you say yes?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Charlotte feels slightly cross at the prospect of Fiona requiring sustenance at such short notice. ‘I was going to have a bowl of soup, nothing special.’

  She wants to say that she likes to be running on all cylinders for her mother-in-law: the house tidy and clean, Oliver dressed in something Fiona’s bought him, some food specially prepared. It has always been easier when Andy is around to distract Fiona, to make her laugh and entertain her, though things have changed since Oliver was born. She is completely besotted with him and comes to visit even when Andy is away.

  ‘I expect Fiona drinks soup,’ says Aunt Kat. ‘Or you could simply say that you’re out but that she can come to tea.’

  ‘But I’m not out,’ objects Charlotte. ‘Supposing she were just to turn up? She might just drive out, hoping you or William might be here.’

  ‘Well then, we’ll all be out,’ says Aunt Kat cheerfully. ‘You and I and Ollie shall go and have lunch at Riverford or the Staverton Bridge Nursery. We’ll buy something delicious to bring back for tea and Fiona shall join us. How about that?’

  Charlotte begins to laugh. ‘You’re very naughty, Aunt Kat.’

  ‘You mustn’t allow yourself to be intimidated by Fiona. Text her and suggest half past three.’

  ‘Shall I?’

  ‘Of course. Be quick. It’s already a quarter to twelve. She could be here in half an hour and you’ve got to get Ollie ready.’

  Charlotte taps out the message, still feeling slightly guilty, whilst Aunt Kat whisks away the coffee things. Inside the cottage Oliver begins to cry and Charlotte jumps up and hurries inside. Wooster raises his head to glance around, sighs heavily, and flops down again to sleep in the sunshine.

  When Fiona arrives at Brockscombe, parking in the barn alongside Kat’s Smart car, crossing the courtyard to Charlotte’s cottage, she’s disconcerted to find a little party going on in the big kitchen-living-room, which takes up much of the ground floor.

  Oliver is propped on the sofa with Kat, Charlotte is taking cakes from a box, and a slightly built, fair-haired young man is putting plates out on the table. They are talking, laughing at a joke someone has made, at ease and familiar with one another and, all at once, Fiona experiences that same sense of exclusion she has felt before: that she has forfeited her right to be a member of this group. She stares at the young man, wondering if he is the new tenant, surprised by the way that he seems to be fitting in so readily. Already she feels antagonistic toward him; he is in her cottage.

  ‘Hi,’ she says brightly, and everyone turns to look at her.

  ‘How lovely to see you, Fiona,’ says Kat, rising to her feet. ‘This is a nice surprise.’

  Without Kat’s support, Oliver tips gently sideways and begins to cry and Fiona, ignoring Kat, hurries past her and picks him up.

  ‘Ollie,’ she says lovingly. ‘Don’t cry, darling. It’s me. It’s Granny.’

  She holds him, joggling him gently, and he stops crying and stares at her in amazement. He twists his head, as if to reassure himself that familiar faces are still near at hand, and Fiona hugs him, willing him to relax.

  ‘Fiona, this is Tim,’ Charlotte is saying. ‘He’s moved into Number Three,’ and Fiona, still holding the baby, turns to look at the fair-haired stranger. ‘This is Andy’s mother, Fiona,’ Charlotte says to Tim.

  Fiona nods at Tim, smiling at him, not too friendly. ‘Hi.’

  He smiles back at her but his look is slightly unsettling: a searching look, as if he sees past her veneer of social politesse to what lies beneath: her sense of exclusion, her need to be part of Oliver’s world, her new loneliness. Fiona frowns slightly. This slight, fair boy unnerves her, which is crazy, and she holds Oliver more closely as if he is a shield against her unease.

  Tim stands back with his tea and his slice of cake and watches the three women. He was surprised and faintly alarmed on his return to be co-opted to the tea party.

  ‘We need you,’ Aunt Kat said, appearing beside the car as he switched off the engine and opened the door. ‘Fiona’s turned up unexpectedly and Charlotte’s just the least bit edgy. We’ve bought delicious cakes from Riverford so you’ll be well fed.’

  He climbed out, smiling at her. ‘Sounds dramatic. Who’s Fiona?’

  ‘William’s estranged wife and Charlotte’s mother-in-law. None of us knew she was here until late morning. She texted to ask if she could come over, so we invited her to tea, and then William texted while we were having lunch to tell us that she was hoping to rent your cottage so that she could come down for weekends and holidays. Charlotte was rather taken aback by the prospect. That’s putting it mildly. Please, dear Tim, do not imply that you plan to leave any time soon.’

  He couldn’t help laughing. ‘But what’s so wrong with Fiona?’

  ‘There’s nothing actually wrong with Fiona,’ Aunt Kat said, as they crossed the courtyard. ‘Actually she can be very good value. She and William separated about five years ago after she took up a first-rate job in London and we were all rather cast aside – well, except for Andy – but now, all of a sudden, we’re flavour of the month and we can�
��t quite understand why. Well, it’s Oliver, of course.’

  Tim feels slightly sorry for the unknown Fiona. ‘I suppose, as his grandmother . . .’

  ‘She loves him,’ says Aunt Kat. ‘Of course she does. It’s just that it’s a tad tactless to be distant and remote for five years and then suddenly expect to be clasped to the bosom of the family because you want back in. Do you see?’

  ‘Yeah. I get that,’ he answered. ‘So why am I here? Just to be clear.’

  ‘Because your presence will keep things civilized,’ said Aunt Kat. ‘Get a grip, darling. Three women, all feeling the least bit threatened. It’s bound to get tricky. We need the down-to-earth male influence.’

  He laughed. ‘You’re forgetting Oliver.’

  ‘And remember,’ she said, as they went into Charlotte’s cottage, ‘that you’re staying for ever.’

  She held his arm for a moment, smiled at him, and pain raked his heart, obliterating the joy he always experienced in her company, lacerating him.

  ‘I wish,’ he muttered bitterly, following her in.

  And here he is, watching the three women, studying their body language, hearing the things that are not spoken. It’s as if the foreshadowing of his own end heightens his awareness of other people. It happens all the time now but he says nothing. Instead, he watches. He sees that Charlotte is slightly off balance: that she knows that Fiona is besotted with Oliver, that she understands Fiona’s maternal instincts, and is pleased that she loves her grandson. But Charlotte’s expression – a polite little smile that doesn’t quite reach her wary eyes – shows that there is resentment, too, because Fiona is staking her claim without any consideration for the other members of the family. He guesses that Charlotte feels defensive on behalf of William who has been so kind to her and to Oliver, and whom Andy loves. Yet Tim suspects that Charlotte knows she is holding all the cards here and that it will be very difficult to resist showing her power.

  Aunt Kat is slightly detached, fielding Fiona’s more tactless comments about the right way to bring up a baby, almost enjoying the drama. At every point, she involves Charlotte as Oliver’s mother, emphasizing her capability and devotion.

  ‘It’s amazing,’ Aunt Kat says, ‘how Charlotte manages it all on her own with Andy away so much and not able to share the load. Keeping up with her work, designing wonderful websites, looking after Oliver, walking Wooster. She even does William’s ironing.’

  Fiona looks at her coolly. ‘William should do his own ironing.’

  ‘I only do it occasionally,’ says Charlotte, irritably. ‘Look, do put Oliver down so that you can drink your tea, Fiona. He’s fine on the sofa.’

  ‘No, we’re happy, aren’t we, Ollie?’ Fiona joggles Oliver in her arms. ‘We have to make the most of our cuddles, don’t we, sweetie?’

  She takes a quick sip from her cup and puts it back on the table.

  ‘So are you at the Cott, as usual?’ asks Aunt Kat brightly. ‘We didn’t realize that you were down. Did William know?’

  ‘No,’ says Fiona. She looks faintly uncomfortable. ‘No, it was a rather sudden decision.’

  She looks down at Oliver, unwilling to meet either of the two women’s eyes, and Tim knows that she’s deciding whether or not to tell the truth. He almost sees the moment when she decides to throw caution to the wind: the little intake of breath, the straightening of the shoulders, the defiant lifting of the brows.

  ‘Actually,’ she says, almost casually, ‘I wanted to run an idea past William and I wanted to do it face to face. To test his reaction. I met him this morning in Totnes.’

  ‘How exciting,’ says Aunt Kat, almost cosily; all girls together. ‘Whatever could it be?’

  She catches Tim’s eye, sends a little wink, and he cannot quite contain his grin.

  Fiona looks at Charlotte, chin up. ‘I was hoping to rent the other cottage as a bolt hole so as to be able to get down to see you all more often. Holidays and Christmas, that sort of thing. What I didn’t know was that this young man,’ she glances at Tim, ‘had beaten me to it.’

  Her look is almost hostile and the silence that follows is embarrassing. Even Aunt Kat can’t think of an appropriate rejoinder.

  ‘It never occurred to me,’ Fiona adds, ‘that old Cousin Francis would let the cottage to an outsider.’

  ‘Tim’s not an outsider,’ says Charlotte swiftly, almost angrily. ‘He’s Mattie’s friend. They worked together in London.’

  Tim is touched by her quick defence and he sees that Fiona regrets her tactless choice of word.

  ‘Well, you know what I mean,’ she says impatiently. ‘Not one of the family. After all, the cottage has been empty for ages. The tenants are either family or staff. Francis has never had a . . .’ She hesitates, seeking for a word: clearly ‘stranger’ will hardly fit the bill.

  ‘No, he never has,’ Aunt Kat says, understanding her. ‘And he hasn’t now. Tim’s a family friend. We feel very lucky that he’s come to Brockscombe. After all, I doubt it would ever have occurred to any of us that you’d want to come back, Fiona. You’ve never been a particularly regular visitor, have you?’

  This is carrying the war into the enemy’s camp and Tim is impressed, though slightly horrified, at Aunt Kat’s temerity, especially remembering what she said about keeping things civilized.

  ‘I must admit,’ he says smoothly, putting down his plate, moving forward slightly, ‘that I love it here. I’m just so glad Mattie told me about it. I’m sorry, though, that I’ve stolen a march on you.’

  Fiona stares at him, deflected from Aunt Kat’s question, and he sees that she wants to regain ground whilst still feeling angry that he is, in a way, her enemy.

  ‘So have you got a job locally?’ she asks. ‘It’s a bit remote out here, isn’t it? Don’t you miss London?’

  He wants to laugh – or cry – but he answers truthfully, up to a point.

  ‘I’m having a sabbatical,’ he says. ‘I’m preparing for the next stage in my life.’

  He can see that he’s slightly taken her off balance and he recalls Aunt Kat’s words: ‘Remember that you’re staying for ever.’

  ‘To be honest,’ he adds, ‘I simply can’t imagine, now, living anywhere else.’

  He looks at Fiona, knowing that he speaks much more truthfully than she will ever know, willing her to be more conciliatory. She frowns at him, as if he puzzles her, and then turns away.

  ‘Any more cake, anyone?’ asks Aunt Kat.

  Oliver begins to grizzle and Charlotte takes him from Fiona. ‘He needs changing,’ she says. ‘Would you like some more tea, Tim?’

  Fiona relinquishes Oliver reluctantly. ‘Perhaps I could help with the bath?’ she asks hopefully, and Charlotte says, ‘Yes, of course.’

  And suddenly the whole dynamic has changed and Tim lets out a sigh of relief: the difficult moment has passed.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  AS WILLIAM DRIVES to his office in Ashburton next morning his head is full of Fiona. It is a while now since he had such close contact with her and he is unsettled by it. Since Andy and Charlotte moved to Brockscombe there has been a little more interaction between William and Fiona, but not much. Fiona makes it clear that she comes to see Andy and, more recently, Oliver, and on some visits he hasn’t seen her at all.

  Now things have changed. Last evening when he got back from the office she was still at Brockscombe, her car parked in his space in the barn so that he had to leave his own in the yard. Kat was listening to some music that sounded like a cross between modern jazz and medieval madrigals, and reading a manuscript. A friend, Michel Brot, a dancer and choreographer who is writing his memoirs, has asked her to check that he is getting his facts right. He sends her each chapter as he finishes it and she is enjoying the process immensely.

  ‘We’re in Leningrad,’ she said, flourishing a page. ‘In the seventies. La Fille mal gardée. Miche makes it sound so exciting. All I remember is how cold and hungry we always were.’ She looked at William more carefully. �
�Are you OK?’

  ‘Fiona,’ he said briefly. ‘I see she’s still here.’

  ‘Helping with Ollie’s bath, then Charlotte invited her to supper. Just as well you warned us she was here. Charlotte was a bit twitchy about it.’

  ‘She completely threw me,’ he admitted angrily. ‘I mean, can you imagine having her next door? Here for Christmas and Easter? Turning up at weekends?’ Even as he said it he felt guilty. After all, he lives next door to Charlotte and Oliver – and Andy, when he’s home – so why shouldn’t Fiona? ‘Don’t answer that,’ he said, sitting down at the table. ‘Tell me about Leningrad.’

  Now he knows that the root of his anger is buried deep in resentment. He thought that he was over it but the corroding stain of jealousy is seeping up again; those almost forgotten sensations of hurt that Fiona should leave him so easily after more than twenty happy years. It was quite early on that she told him about Sam. She couldn’t help herself: the longing to speak the beloved’s name, to confide, overcame any sense of decency or even kindness. She needed to talk, to tell and tell again, whilst he watched and listened, disbelieving and helpless. It was as if she expected him to understand, even approve her new passion, as if it were natural that he should accept this supporting role in her new exciting life. Dear, boring old William relegated to faithful best friend. It was her right to be happy, to be in love: her feelings must take precedence over his and Andy’s.

  As he crosses the A38 and takes the back lane to Ashburton, William thinks about this. It was ever thus. Perhaps he encouraged it back in those early days when he was in love with her. Fiona was demanding, amusing, driven. Her energy and ambition delighted him. He was so proud of her. That she should be head-hunted by a London practice did not surprise him though the prospect of how it should be managed appalled him. When she saw that he was not prepared to sacrifice his own way of life to this new, untested one, she’d convinced him that weekending would be the answer; that she might be able to do some of the work from home. Neither of them had taken Sam into account. How painful it was when William first suspected: watching her walking around with secrets in her eyes, the fleeting smile on her lips, the surreptitious glances at her phone. Oddly, to begin with, it made her more generous, more loving, towards him. When he challenged her she made a joke about it: there was this guy, one of the directors, who had taken a fancy to her. It was all a bit crazy, a bit mad.