The Birdcage Read online

  ‘I saw that woman today in Dunster,’ says Marina. ‘That actress. She’s your mistress, isn’t she? She had a child with her. I suppose she isn’t yours, by any chance?’

  His heart thumps in his side as he stares at her disbelievingly. Angel and Lizzie in Dunster? It can’t be true – yet, deep down he knows that it is: that Angel has made some daring, crazy move that threatens them all. Even as he prepares to answer her he sees the shadow beyond the half-open door and, with a vexed exclamation, he puts down his tumbler and moves swiftly across the room. He hears the footsteps running across the hall, out through the kitchen but by the time he reaches the scullery both Piers and Monty have disappeared.

  He turns back into the kitchen, knowing it is no use to look for them, and finds Marina waiting for him. She is wearing a full-skirted summer frock with a square-cut neckline and big patch pockets, its waist clipped in with a wide, white belt; the light blue cotton is splashed with a pattern of cornflowers and it is pretty and fresh and cool-looking. Her hooded stare and crossed arms, however, are at variance with such a garment, and he is suddenly washed through with despair.

  ‘Piers was outside the door,’ he explains. ‘I hope he didn’t hear.’

  Marina raises her eyebrows. ‘Isn’t it a bit late to worry about that?’

  ‘I don’t want to upset him,’ he says – and she laughs.

  ‘I’m afraid that you should have thought of that before moving your mistress and her child into the village.’

  ‘I haven’t done anything of the sort. If Angel and Lizzie are in Dunster then it’s because they are on holiday somewhere nearby. It’s not against the law to take a holiday on Exmoor, you know, but I promise you that I had nothing to do with it. I had no idea that they were anywhere near here.’

  She watches him disdainfully, chin high. ‘But you don’t deny that she is your mistress?’

  ‘No,’ he admits, after a moment, ‘I don’t deny it. I see her when I go to Bristol.’

  He doesn’t include Pidge or Lizzie in this statement: Marina would never understand how closely knit the lives of all four of them have become. Let her believe what she imagines to be the truth: that this is about lust and personal gratification. We are as big or small as the objects of our love – the phrase slips into his mind, though he can’t remember its source, and all he can think at this moment is how small Marina’s requirement to possess seems beside Angel’s generosity.

  ‘And the child isn’t yours?’

  ‘Of course not,’ he cries impatiently. ‘For God’s sake, she’s nearly the same age as Piers.’

  She is prepared to accept this but her eyes narrow thoughtfully.

  ‘So you don’t know where she’s staying?’ He shakes his head. ‘A pity,’ she muses. ‘It would have been an excellent opportunity for you to go and see her.’ She lifts her eyebrows at his surprise. ‘In order to tell her that it’s all over.’ Felix remains silent. ‘Because if it isn’t, Felix, I shall take steps to divorce you,’ she explains. ‘And since this is my house, I should have to ask you to leave it at once. I should also make quite certain that you wouldn’t be able to see Piers. I think you’d find it difficult to prove yourself a good example to a small boy once all the facts come to light.’ She straightens her shoulders and uncrosses her arms, plunging her hands into the deep pockets of her frock. ‘So which is it to be?’

  He feels diminished and humiliated: he wants to shout at her – or walk out – but there is Piers.

  ‘I can’t leave Piers,’ he says.

  Her contemptuous smile indicates that she believes that he is a coward – that he is using his son as a front so as to maintain his position at Michaelgarth and his status locally – but she nods, satisfied.

  ‘You’ll let me know once you’ve told her, won’t you?’ she asks.

  ‘I have no intention of scouring Dunster in the hope of finding her, if that’s what you mean,’ he retorts angrily. ‘She might be staying anywhere. I shall wait until after the weekend and then I’ll telephone to see if she’s back in Bristol.’

  She shrugs. ‘Just let me know,’ she reminds him, and goes out of the kitchen and upstairs, leaving him alone.

  He stands quite still, thinking about Angel and Lizzie, wondering where they are, consumed with a longing to see them. He is furious with Angel, yet frustrated by the knowledge that she is near at hand but utterly out of his reach. For a brief moment he contemplates giving it all up – leaving Michaelgarth and his family and going to Bristol – but, even as he considers it, he is distracted by a noise: the frantic beating of a butterfly’s wings against the window-pane as it struggles to gain the freedom of the open air. As he goes to its aid, opening the kitchen window wide and watching the butterfly soar out into the sunshine, he thinks for some reason of his father-in-law. He remembers the old man’s goodness, his wisdom and generosity, and the love he had for Piers, and it seems as if David Frayn is standing beside him, his arm laid along his shoulder, instilling courage.

  Felix sighs a deep, deep breath and goes out, crossing the garth, up on to the hill, to look for his son.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  He stirred as if waking from a dream, stretching his legs and his shoulders, and finally got to his feet with an effort. Yet his memories accompanied him into the kitchen so that, as he spooned coffee into the mug and waited for the kettle to boil, his thoughts ran on, unreeling steadily from scene to scene. He carried his coffee back to his seat beside the window, sipping slowly, holding the card again and rereading the message; remembering his meeting with Angel at the Birdcage.

  ‘Why?’ he asks, holding her by the shoulders, giving her a little shake. ‘Didn’t it occur to you that it might ruin everything?’

  She abandons her instinctive approach – the penitent but mischievous look that has got her out of so many scrapes – and stares up at him.

  ‘I just needed to do something,’ she says soberly. ‘When you wrote saying that you couldn’t come I simply had this feeling that it was over anyway.’

  ‘But why should you think that? I haven’t changed.’ His hands drop away. ‘Have you?’

  ‘Of course not,’ she answers impatiently. ‘Would I have come down to Dunster if I’d changed? It’s simply that time is running out, Felix. My contract here is finished although I hope to come back for another season in a year or so. I suppose I thought it might force us into some kind of action.’

  ‘It certainly did that,’ he says drily. ‘Marina has given me an ultimatum. No, Angel,’ he shakes his head at her hopeful expression, ‘I can’t leave Piers. That’s the ultimatum. You or Piers. He’s only a year older than Lizzie, and Marina knows very well that once our relationship comes out in the open I wouldn’t have a hope in hell of getting custody. They might not even let me see him. I simply can’t risk it, Angel.’

  ‘But what shall we do?’ It’s as if, even now, she hasn’t really thought it through or envisaged the destruction her action has brought about. ‘We can’t not see each other, sweetie.’

  He stares at her despairingly. ‘It would be almost impossible anyway,’ he says at last, ‘with you in Manchester.’

  ‘But I shall get home,’ she says quickly. ‘Lizzie is staying here with Pidge and I shall get back as often as I can.’ She watches him, suddenly afraid. ‘You’ll still come to see them, won’t you? You can’t abandon Lizzie, Felix. She needs you.’

  ‘I’ve given my word to Marina—’ he begins, clenching his fists in frustration – but she cuts in quickly.

  ‘But not about Lizzie or Pidge. She wouldn’t have thought about them, would she? Or did you tell her about the way we are?’

  ‘No, of course I didn’t tell her. Christ, Angel . . . !’

  ‘So you could come to see them on Sunday evenings just as you always have,’ she pleads. ‘I shan’t be here so what difference does it make? Please, Felix. It means so much to Lizzie. And to Pidge. You belong to all of us, not just me.’

  It is clear that she is beginning to
understand the extent of the damage and her distress is so genuine that Felix holds out his arms to her.

  ‘Oh God,’ she mutters, holding him tightly, ‘I think we both need some soothing, sweetie,’ and even at this moment, with the months ahead without her stretching empty and bleak, he can’t help but smile. He promises that he will continue to visit Lizzie and Pidge at the Birdcage and deep down, though unacknowledged, is the hope that sometimes Angel will be there too, for holidays, between contracts: he knows, guiltily, that it is not quite over.

  Now, finishing his coffee, glancing out of his window across to the Luttrell Arms, Felix suddenly remembered his errand. He looked at his watch, wondering how long he had been daydreaming, imagining Piers waiting impatiently for his telephone call, and got up quickly. He threaded the postcard between the bars of the birdcage, so that he could glance at it from time to time, feeling that it belonged there, and picked up his stick. Feeling unsteady, rather dizzy, he went downstairs carefully, let himself out into the sunshine and crossed the street.

  The receptionist was friendly and prepared to be helpful but explained that the hotel’s policy forbade any such information being given. It wasn’t until he was unlocking his door again that Felix was seized by the obvious solution to the problem: the answer that had been under his nose since he’d arrived home earlier that morning but he’d been too caught up with the past to see it.

  ‘Fool,’ he muttered. ‘Damned fool.’

  As he closed the door behind him the telephone began to ring and he hurried up the stairs, trying to ignore the aching, which was beginning to numb his left leg, making him awkward and slow. At the top of the stairs he was obliged to pause, breathing heavily, his leg almost useless now, and he just managed to grasp the receiver, knocking it from its rest, before he collapsed face downwards on the carpet.

  Hearing Piers shouting her name, Tilda came running to the top of the stairs, staring anxiously down at him.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she cried.

  ‘It’s Father,’ he said, his face drawn and frowning with concern. ‘I telephoned him just now but although the receiver was lifted there was a crash, as if he’d knocked something over or fallen, and then nothing. I’m going straight into Dunster.’

  ‘Oh, my God!’ She put her hand to her mouth. ‘Shall I come with you?’

  He shook his head. ‘No point. Stay here with Jake and Lion. I’ll keep in touch.’

  ‘Have you got your mobile?’ she shouted after him and heard his faint response as he hurried out.

  She paused, listening, wondering if Jake had been disturbed and whether she should go back to her ironing, which she did in the nursery, or check that Lion was still safe inside the playpen. There was no sound from the nursery so she went downstairs, checking her mobile for messages for the third time since Saul had left Michaelgarth. Earlier she’d imagined she’d heard an engine and, convinced that he’d returned, had hurried out into the garth to meet him. She’d been surprised by the depth of her disappointment, conscious of Piers’ raised eyebrows when she came back looking irritable and rather foolish.

  ‘Thought I heard a car,’ she muttered – and Piers, who had remained diplomatically silent on the subject of Saul’s sudden departure, had given that facial shrug she knew so well.

  Now, as she watched Lion playing with Joker’s ball in the safety of the playpen, she tried to analyse her sense of loss. Of course, she told herself, she’d known Saul for years: he’d been around, part of her army life, like one of the family, and she’d come to rely on him heavily since David’s death . . .

  With a little shock she realized that she was now much more concerned with Saul’s leaving than she was with David’s dalliance with Gemma. Standing in the sunshine, gazing down at Lion, it was difficult to re-create that feeling of betrayal, of something being ruined, in the face of this more recent loss. The past, at this moment, had moved to some distant point, no longer of immediate concern and therefore less painful. Putting things right with Saul had become much more important.

  She wondered now how she’d been able to tell him to go: why his living presence had seemed of no importance in the light of this new evidence of David’s behaviour. When she’d said that Marianne had spoiled her life she’d meant it – it had seemed, at that moment, as if remembering David would never be the same again – but Saul’s unexpected reaction had jolted it into proportion. What he’d said had been reasonable enough and, although she still felt a sick misery at the thought of David with Gemma, the knowledge of it refused to be invested with quite the same sense of drama she’d experienced earlier.

  She could imagine David’s retort: ‘Past history, love. Done and dusted. Don’t lose your sense of proportion, life’s too short.’

  Her mobile beeped and she wrenched it from the pocket of her jeans. It was Piers.

  ‘I think he’s had a stroke,’ he said rapidly. ‘He’s breathing but unconscious and there’s a nasty gash on his head where he caught it on the corner of the chair when he went down. The ambulance is on its way. Look, I’ll phone you from the hospital.’

  ‘Oh, Piers,’ she gasped. ‘Oh God, will he be OK?’

  ‘I hope so,’ he said grimly.

  Tilda put her mobile back into her pocket, thinking about Felix, feeling frightened for him and suddenly lonely: if only she hadn’t reacted so dramatically earlier Saul would still be with her now. Supposing Felix were to die . . . ? She lifted the puppy from the playpen, holding him against her cheek whilst he licked her face enthusiastically, taking comfort from his warm, wriggling body and trying not to think of the fragility of human life. Supposing Saul were to have an accident on his way back . . . ? She forced back her fears, feeling confused and miserable, taking refuge in immediate action.

  ‘Lunch-time,’ she told Lion. ‘You first, then Jake. Come on,’ and she carried him into the scullery.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  On her way back to Bristol Lizzie spent most of the journey castigating herself for her behaviour during the previous week.

  ‘A week!’ she exclaimed, reverting to the habit of talking aloud: her old trick of feeling less alone and holding anxieties at bay. ‘Can you believe it? A week ago you hadn’t met any of them. Well, except for Felix, of course. It’s crazy to have become so involved with them in so short a time. But then you are crazy. Potty. Nuts. Doolally. I mean, why did you have to behave like that?’

  She groaned in dismay at the memories: practically picking Piers up in the bar; confusing him with Felix on the telephone; doing an ‘Angel’ when she’d met Alison. It seemed that she was never able to act normally. As soon as another person came within her orbit it was as if the curtain swished up, the spotlight flashed on and she was thrust out into its glare and straight into her routine.

  ‘Shuffle hop step tap ball change. Shuffle hop step tap ball change. Shuffle hop step shuffle step shuffle step shuffle ball change.’

  She hummed the rhythm aloud, hearing the tap mistress’s voice shouting the steps above the clatter of tap shoes on the painted cement floor. From that tender age she’d been taught that once the curtain went up you had to smile; even in the backest of back rows with no-one looking at you, still you must continue to dance and mime. Animation was essential and you learned to continue to sing for your supper even after the show was over.

  ‘The trouble was,’ she told herself, ‘that you’d begun to practise the part of the brave but abandoned woman and then, suddenly, everything spiralled out of control and you were stuck with it. Not that you ever actually said that Sam had died; not in so many words.’

  It was an attempt to justify herself – but even as she spoke the words aloud she knew that she was being specious.

  ‘I lost my husband three months ago,’ she’d said to the travel agent and now she could remember the shock of the words; how they’d seemed to jump from her mouth, to lie there on the counter in front of her. The woman had accepted them at face value and behaved accordingly, with deference and pity fo
r the newly bereaved, and she, Lizzie, had made no attempt to explain but instead had been seized with a fit of hysterical laughter: teetering on that fine line between bitter tears and mad laughter, which she’d walked so precariously since the telephone call from the States.

  Lizzie shook her head, replaying the scene, hearing the words clearly in her head: ‘No, no,’ she should have said to the woman. ‘Not lost him as in “dead”. No, I’ve lost him to another woman; to an actress who is much younger than I am and who is expecting his child. I couldn’t do that, you see,’ she might have said to the woman across the counter. ‘I couldn’t give him a child and, now that someone else has, he’s in this terrible state. He wants her and the child but he doesn’t quite want to let me go. Oh, he feels very badly about it,’ she would have been almost shouting at the travel agent now, ‘because I’ve tried not to make a fuss about his little flings, and after all I wanted a child just as much as he did and I’ve felt so terribly guilty, but this was one bloody fling too far.’

  Lizzie pulled the car abruptly over to the side of the road into a lay-by, switched off the engine and rummaged for a tissue. Tears streamed from her eyes as she seemed to hear Sam’s voice in her head, explaining it all during the phone call.

  Immediately she answers the telephone she knows that it’s happened again – that there’s another woman who has fallen for him – but this time it’s different.

  ‘She’s pregnant,’ he says, and his voice is an unbearable mixture of embarrassment and pride; shame and excitement. ‘She’s says it’s mine.’ A long pause: she is too clenched with shock and fear to speak. ‘I think it probably is,’ he mumbles. ‘Look, it’s terrible to bounce this on you but I wanted you to hear it from me. You know how these rumours get about . . .’

  ‘Do you love her?’

  Her voice, cool and almost impersonal – rather as though they are discussing someone else’s problem – cuts through these unbearable apologies and explanations. He is silenced for a moment.