The Birdcage Page 31

  When he goes to America to direct his first film abroad his absence is almost a relief. She is able to make her generous encouragement – ‘Of course you must go. It’s a fantastic opportunity. I shall be fine and I’ll come out as soon as the play finishes’ – a kind of present, a reward for his acceptance of her barrenness. When the usual flirtation edges him for the first time into an affair she finds that she is regarding it in the same light: as a kind of consolation prize, which, for those same reasons of disappointment bravely borne, he deserves. She accepts his explanations with the same forbearance and understanding that she uses to deal with his flirtations and is almost grateful for his approval. He begins to work more and more abroad, whilst her own work keeps her between London and Manchester, so that their time together assumes the quality of a holiday: great fun, not quite real, keeping problems on the back burner.

  Affairs now become the pattern and she needs to remind herself of Angel’s words: There will always be rumours with a man like Sam. Ignore them if you can and don’t play detective; don’t interrogate unless you really can’t put up with it. It’s part of his job as far as he’s concerned and it’s got nothing to do with how he feels about you. Good advice, no doubt, but sometimes very difficult to follow. Hard work saves her from her own private despair, from brooding too much on her childlessness, and in time she is able to accept Sam’s women as being the same kind of occupational hazard as spending long weeks alone or first-night nerves.

  A noise from the kitchen below disturbed her thoughts: the clang of the kettle on the hotplate and the faint murmur of Tilda’s voice talking to Teresa. Lizzie frowned, as though she were trying to hear the words, and quite suddenly, as if coming to some decision, reached for her capacious holdall. She riffled through it, coming upon the postcards that she’d bought earlier in the week to send to her friends, and sat for some moments holding them in her hand, staring down at the picture of the Yarn Market.

  The Yarn Market is octagonal and dates from the fifteenth century . . .

  Lizzie put the postcards beside her on the bed and drew her mobile telephone from the bag; switching it on she began to check for messages. She listened to each of the three messages carefully and then replayed them. Presently she took a pen from the bag and began to write on the back of one of the cards, pausing from time to time to consider her words. When she’d finished writing she took another card from her holdall. She studied it, turning it to read the message, slipped it into an envelope and put both cards into her leather shoulder-bag. She went out on to the long landing, pausing for a moment at the window that looked down into the garth before going downstairs.

  Piers saw her come into the garth, observed that inward-turned expression of preoccupation before it was automatically switched to a kind of detached, amused awareness of the scene as if she had stepped suddenly upon the stage. He was seized by a sense of foreboding so strong that, leaving Alison holding her coffee, he crossed the cobbles to Lizzie and took her by the arm.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked – and she turned that same bright blank smiling gaze upon him as if he were a stranger. He wanted to shake her, to say, ‘Come on, this is me. You don’t have to pretend,’ and then, just as suddenly, he lost his confidence, remembering that they had known each other for less than five days.

  ‘Come and have some coffee,’ he said lightly. ‘Although I warn you that you might have to have a plastic mug. Tilda said that you’d gone upstairs for a moment.’

  He’d realized that he’d simply left Alison standing alone and now he steered Lizzie back to her, and took a mug of coffee from the tray on the table beside them. Before he released her arm he felt her tense, as though preparing for action, readying herself for a performance.

  ‘It was my wretched contact lenses,’ she invented rapidly. ‘Quite agonizing sometimes, you know.’

  She took the coffee and beamed upon Alison, who stared back at her with unconcealed dislike, furious with Piers for simply walking away in the middle of their conversation.

  ‘I have perfect sight,’ she answered coldly. ‘I don’t need spectacles and if I did I certainly wouldn’t feel the need to have all the discomfort of contact lenses. I have excellent long vision.’

  ‘But can you see what’s happening right under your nose?’ asked Lizzie.

  She asked the question so naturally, so intently, as if she were really interested, that Alison actually drew breath to answer it before she saw the true meaning behind Lizzie’s words. For one brief second Piers and Lizzie looked at each other with such mutual accord, with such total amused understanding and recognition, that in that moment there might have been no-one else in the garth with them. It was Lizzie who moved first, turning to put her mug back onto the tray and saying, ‘The party seems to be breaking up and I’d like to say goodnight to some of these nice people,’ before drifting away.

  ‘I must say,’ said Alison angrily, staring after her, ‘that I wonder if she’s quite all there. You read about the artistic temperament and so forth and all I can say is, if that’s it then you can keep it.’

  Piers gave his distinctive facial shrug: the look that he and Lizzie had exchanged had restored his confidence yet he was still ill-at-ease.

  ‘She’s certainly unusual,’ he murmured, watching Lizzie crouch beside his father’s chair, talking to him while she stroked Lion.

  Alison, filled with fresh alarm, sought to distract him.

  ‘She’s clearly not normal,’ she said acidly. ‘I certainly agree with you there, but to go back to what we were saying, Piers, about next week. Knightshayes . . .’

  As if on cue, his father raised his head and looked at him, reminding him of that earlier conversation. He led the Third Crusade, if I remember aright . . . The way out was clear if he had the courage to grasp it: yet it was difficult to take one’s own freedom at the expense of another person. Impossible to explain to Alison that, having met Lizzie, he knew that their own friendship would not develop into anything more; he had no wish to hurt her but how else was it to be done except by plain speaking? He looked down at Alison’s anxious, frowning face and glanced again across the garth at Lizzie, who laid her cheek on Lion’s head and laughed at something Felix was saying to her. He fetched a deep breath and braced himself.

  ‘I don’t think I shall be able to make it,’ he said quietly.

  There was a finality in his voice and in his expression, and anguish twisted her gut. Some faint instinct warned her that the gentler powers of acceptance and good grace would stand her in better stead at this moment than the arid comfort of bitter words but, consumed by humiliation and defeat, she denied the instinct for those same reasons that, earlier on this same spot, had driven her to destroy the rose he had given her.

  ‘I would never have believed that you were the sort of man who would make a fool of himself over a woman like that.’ Her voice trembled with furious misery; her face was plain with disgust. ‘It’s so undignified for a man of your age to behave like a twenty-year-old . . .’

  Tilda was beside them, carrying Lion. She put him into Piers’ arms, smiling at them as if she had no idea that she was interrupting.

  ‘Felix is off to bed,’ she told him, ‘and I think Lion’s ready to be introduced to his new quarters.’ She gave Alison a friendly glance. ‘I think the party’s over,’ she said gently.

  Alison stared at her. There was something symbolic in Tilda’s action, as if she were showing that the battle was won and that she, Alison, was on the outside. Before she could respond, Felix joined the group.

  ‘A wonderful evening,’ he remarked generally. ‘I had no idea it was so late.’ He turned his head so as to smile directly at Alison. ‘I do hope you’ve enjoyed it,’ he said with affable authority, rather as if he had been the host. ‘Goodnight.’

  In the face of such implacable courtesy she could do nothing but mutter ‘Goodnight’ and turn away. Felix laid his hand restrainingly on Piers’ arm.

  ‘Don’t spoil it,’ he murmured. ‘E
ven a friendly remark at this stage will undo all the good you’ve done. It’s kinder in the long run.’

  Piers, who, moved by Alison’s look of defeat, had been on the point of calling after her – ‘Be in touch’ or ‘See you soon’ – looked at his father.

  ‘She’d misunderstand, you see.’ Felix smiled at him. ‘When you’re desperate you can persuade yourself to hear or see what you need.’

  ‘I know you’re right,’ admitted Piers. ‘It’s just that I feel rather a heel.’

  Felix nodded cheerfully. ‘Comes under the heading of “Tough”,’ he said. ‘I expect you’ll survive it.’

  Piers laughed. ‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘Have you enjoyed yourself, Father?’

  ‘Very much indeed.’ He hesitated. ‘I think that Lizzie has done us both a great deal of good.’

  He waited anxiously for Piers’ reply, his thin hand reaching for the puppy’s head, pulling one of the soft ears in a gentle caress.

  ‘A very great deal of good,’ agreed Piers – and saw the relief smooth his father’s face into a peaceful happiness.

  ‘Goodnight, my dear boy,’ he said. ‘I’m for my bed.’

  People were coming in twos and threes to say goodnight to Piers, to thank him, until finally the garth was empty and he went inside to find Tilda putting Joker’s bean bag down on the scullery floor, Teresa and Saul clearing up in the kitchen whilst Lizzie drifted to and fro, generally getting in the way.

  ‘Go to bed,’ Tilda said to her, coming in to collect some old newspaper. ‘We shall all be off soon. The dishwasher is loaded and we can finish anything else in the morning. You too, Ma. Piers ought to have a quiet ten minutes with Lion on his own, to let him adjust.’

  Teresa continued with her task of scraping odds and ends into the bin, whilst Saul collected empty wine bottles together, but Lizzie did as she was told, said goodnight to Teresa and Saul, gave Tilda a hug and crossed to the doorway where Piers stood with the puppy in his arms. They looked at each other carefully, almost warily, and, shifting Lion’s weight, he held her tightly with one arm as she reached to kiss him on the cheek.

  ‘Thanks, Piers,’ she murmured. ‘It’s been really great. I can’t tell you . . .’

  She leaned against him briefly and then went past him, out into the hall and up the stairs.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Piers slept heavily until he was wakened by the closing of a door and the very faint, insistent noise of Lion whining miserably. He rolled onto his back, saw that it was already light and peered at his bedside clock: just after five o’clock. He groaned, knowing that he must go down at about six to let Lion out, feed him and play with him for a while, wondering if Tilda had already been downstairs to see to him. That early period of bonding was a very important one and he didn’t grudge it but, just now, he would have preferred another three hours’ sleep. At least he could have an hour, he told himself, if only he could get off again. The mournful, piteous noise drifting through the open windows moved him to compassion but he knew that Lion must accustom himself to being without his litter brothers and sisters. He’d soon adjust; Piers hardened his heart and turned onto his side, willing himself to sleep. A car passed along the lane below the house and a blackbird was singing on the hill behind the garth. Piers settled himself more comfortably.

  There has been a blackbird singing out on the hill for as long as he can remember. As a small boy he sleeps in the room on the south-east corner facing on to the hill but he always longs for a view of the sea from his bedroom.

  He stands at the window in his parents’ room, staring across the tawny little fields towards the coast where the autumn gales pile the grey seas onto the rocks below Hurlstone Point.

  ‘Couldn’t I sleep in the west wing?’ he pleads yearningly. ‘In Grandfather’s old room. Please.’

  He has another reason: he misses his grandfather very much and to be in his room brings him closer, refreshes his memories. He is relieved that his father hardly changes the study where the old man once sat to listen to the wireless and to read his newspaper: it retains his influence, as if he might be found there, dozing in his chair, waking to cry, ‘What’s up? Where’s the fire?’ His bedroom still has his books on the shelves, his small personal items lying about, and Piers likes to touch them so as to feel the worn imprint of his grandfather’s hand.

  ‘Not yet,’ his mother answers inexorably. ‘You’re too small for such a big room. And anyway, if you were ill or frightened in the night I’d never hear you.’

  He is twelve years old when he is assigned the room on the north-west corner of the house, which in due course becomes David’s room. Sue suffers far fewer qualms about her son’s hardihood and he is allowed to move in at eight years old.

  ‘I have no wish to hear him in the night,’ she says. ‘The further away the better. I need my sleep.’

  David pleads to keep the double bed with the same fervent passion that, later, he has for a motorbike, a sports car – ‘She’s a real bargain, Dad. I can work on her. She’s a beauty’ – and the sailing boat that he keeps down at Porlock Weir. ‘Just a loan, Dad,’ he says. ‘After all, it’s only money. I’ve got to phone the owner today or I’ll lose it. Don’t put that face on, life’s too short.’

  Piers pressed his face into the pillow. Oh, to see that wheedling grin again, the complicit droop of the eyelid; to lay his hand proudly on his son’s broad shoulder and feel the warmth and comfort of those strong, young arms giving him a hug. He stifled the sobs that wrenched his throat and burned his eyes, whilst Lion continued to whine miserably, and presently he flung back the sheet, pulled on his dressing-gown and went quietly downstairs, crossed the hall and passed through the kitchen to the scullery.

  Lion ran to meet him, tail waving furiously, and Piers picked him up and held him close whilst Lion dabbed at his cheek with excited licks.

  ‘You’ll wake the household if you carry on like that,’ he murmured. ‘Good boy, then. Good fellow. Out we go.’

  He opened the scullery door, set the puppy down on the cobbles and bent to clear up the newspaper. Lion pottered about inquisitively, tail waving cautiously; he sniffed at an empty glass, left standing half-hidden beside the trestle table, and sat down quickly, ears flattened, as the swallows swooped low over the garth. Having disposed of the newspaper, Piers stood at the door watching him, his grief dissipating. After a moment he went away to pour himself a glass of water and when he returned he brought one of Joker’s toys: a bright red rubber ball. He rolled it towards Lion, who galloped towards it joyfully, scrabbling with it, trying to pick it up in his mouth, nudging it with his nose. Each time it came to rest, Piers would set it rolling again whilst Lion gambolled to and fro, ears flapping, clearly enjoying the game.

  After a while, Piers fetched one of the more comfortable, reclining garden chairs and sat down, suddenly possessed of an enormous weariness. Lion came to look at him, whining a little, standing on his hind legs with his paws on the side of the chair.

  ‘Had enough, old chap?’ Piers ran his hand over the soft, fluffy coat, imagining how much David would have approved of him, able to think of his son now with a little less pain.

  Joker’s descendant whined again, wagging his tail hopefully, and Piers scooped him up, settled him comfortably, and presently both of them were fast asleep.

  Tilda found them there several hours later and took Lion off for his breakfast, suggesting that Piers should go upstairs to shower and dress.

  ‘Coffee?’ she offered as he hovered in the kitchen doorway, yawning, but he shook his head.

  ‘I’ll have some more water.’ He filled a glass and drank thirstily, watching Lion pottering about, exploring his new home. ‘Did you come down earlier, Tilda?’

  Instead of placing Jake’s little chair on one of the kitchen chairs as she usually did, she was setting it on the floor so that he could see the puppy. When Lion encountered the kicking legs, so near to his inquisitive nose, he sat down abruptly, staring in amazement. Tilda
laughed, crouching beside them, speaking encouragingly. ‘Look, Jake, this is Lion. Isn’t he nice? Say hello.’ She glanced up at Piers’ question.

  ‘No,’ she answered, ‘I thought you ought to be the one he saw first. You said that you’d like to have that time to yourself with him so I left him to you. I heard him though, last night and this morning. The thing is, with it being so hot, you have to have all the windows open so you can’t help but hear him. He settled down quite quickly, actually.’

  ‘Let’s hope he didn’t keep the others awake.’ Piers leaned against the sink, ankles crossed, watching Lion sniffing cautiously at Jake’s toes. ‘Lizzie’s room is right above the scullery.’

  ‘I did warn her that he might be noisy on his first night away from his brothers and sisters.’ Tilda stood up and began to assemble her breakfast things. ‘She told me that she’d once slept through her host’s garden shed burning down, which included the entire family racing round the house and a visit from the fire brigade, and that she’d never found sleep a problem. Waking up, she said, was something else. In fact she made me promise to take her up some coffee if she hadn’t surfaced by nine o’clock. I told her that she could sleep until lunchtime if she wanted to but I don’t think she feels she knows us quite well enough for that yet. We compromised on ten o’clock.’

  ‘Fine. Well, I’ll see if the bathroom’s free and be down as soon as I can.’ Piers finished his water and refilled the glass. ‘I want to find David’s old playpen. It came in very useful for Joker and I’m sure we shall need it again now. It’s a wonderful way to restrain puppies as well as babies but, meanwhile, if you have a problem just shut Lion in the scullery.’

  ‘Stop fussing and go and have your shower. I can manage a baby and a puppy, you know.’ She put two slices of bread into the toaster. ‘I hope his arrival in the middle of your party wasn’t too . . . embarrassing for you.’