The Birdcage Page 36

  ‘Am I right in thinking,’ he began carefully, ‘that there was some problem this morning? I understand that Marianne turned up and then Saul left in a bit of a rush. I don’t want to interfere but I can see that something happened to upset you.’

  Tilda drew her heels up onto the chair seat, wrapped her arms round her knees and decided that she should tell him the truth.

  ‘It’s really about David,’ she began anxiously, rather as if she were warning him.

  ‘Yes,’ answered David’s father drily. ‘I had a feeling it might be.’

  ‘It’s probably silly of me,’ she began rapidly, ‘and I know I got a bit OTT about it but Marianne came over with a story about Gemma and then let slip that she’d had a bit of a fling with David. Gemma, that is, not Marianne.’ She was rushing on, almost gabbling, needing him to have the facts quickly. ‘It was before we were engaged but, even so, I felt really horrid about it. It was when he was staying with Saul on leave and I felt that Saul should have told me about it. I can see now that it was unreasonable but I was shocked and hurt, and Saul and I had a row about it. I asked him to go and he said that he wasn’t going to be David’s scapegoat and that it was time that I saw him, Saul, as a person in his own right.’

  ‘That sounds perfectly reasonable,’ said Piers, when it seemed that Tilda had finished. ‘Saul’s a young man with his own life ahead and he’s getting tired of waiting to know how you feel about him. After all, it’s very clear how he feels about you.’

  Tilda stared at him. ‘But I don’t know how I feel about him,’ she said rather tremulously. ‘I missed him terribly after he’d stormed off and I suddenly saw how much I’d miss him if he weren’t around. But I don’t know if that’s just because I’ve sort of got used to him being there.’ She swallowed, pressing her lips together. ‘It’s not that I don’t love David . . .’

  ‘My dear girl.’ Piers stretched a hand across the table and gripped her arm. ‘There’s no question in anyone’s mind about how much you love David, let’s get that straight, but no-one expects you to make a career out of widowhood. I certainly don’t. Sudden death numbs us, the shock cripples us, and it takes time for the life to flow back. I’ve never imagined that you and Jake would stay here for the rest of your lives. Michaelgarth is your home for whenever you need it, and it’s Jake’s inheritance, but you must look upon it as a base not as a commitment.’

  ‘I miss my friends and army life,’ she admitted, staring straight ahead, her chin on her knees. ‘But each time I’ve been back, I’ve felt like a kind of intruder. They all feel badly about David and it’s like I told you before, being a young widow is bad news. It’s like they feel it’s a contagion they might catch and, let’s face it, their lives are chancy enough without that kind of superstitious fear each time they see me.’

  ‘Then break the Gordian knot. Next time you go up for some party or a ladies’ night or whatever, I suggest that, instead of staying with one of these married friends, you let Saul put you up in a hotel. Go and see him and stay with him and see how you feel then. As soon as Jake is old enough, leave him here with me and Jenny Coleman and give yourself the chance to be with Saul – not as David’s widow or Jake’s mum but as you, Tilda.’

  ‘It’s not that I don’t love it here too,’ she said quickly. ‘You know I adore it here with you at Michaelgarth. I feel that we belong here too, me and Jake. Oh God, I feel so confused!’

  ‘My poor Tilda.’ Piers shook his head. ‘This doesn’t have to be some kind of contest for your affection: Saul or David. Michaelgarth or Aldershot. Love is not a finite commodity, there’s enough for everyone. Stop fretting and move on. I know what David would say. “Go for it, love,” he’d say. “Life’s too short.”’

  She turned to look at him, then, her eyes shining. ‘I’ve been telling myself that,’ she admitted. ‘Oh, Piers, it’s just that it’s difficult to know my own feelings. Lizzie’s idea about the little craft centre in the barn was such a good one.’

  ‘It will still be a good one in five years’ time, or ten. Give yourself some space, Tilda. Michaelgarth’s not going anywhere and neither am I.’

  She uncurled herself and stood up. ‘Thanks, Piers. You’ve been great.’ She grinned at him. ‘We’ll have some supper soon, say, half an hour, but first I need to make a phone call.’

  He watched her go, smiling to himself, and then took the postcard from his back pocket and studied it.

  Darling Pidge,

  So here we are and the cottage is sweet.

  Lovely weather but it’s rather a trek to the beach for poor little Lizzie’s legs. Dunster is the most gorgeous village but – you’ll be relieved to know! – not a sign of F. I haven’t given up hope, though!

  Love from us both. Angel xx

  He turned it in his hand, remembering the scene in Parhams, hearing other voices.

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

  He realized that, like Tilda, he no longer needed to feel that there was a contest for his affections: he did not have to choose between his mother’s possessive love or his father’s generosity of spirit but could accept them both. He was free at last. He scooped up Lion, who was lying at his feet on the cobbles busily chewing at the laces on his dekkies, and submitted to having his face licked.

  ‘You’d better come with me,’ he murmured. ‘You can explore the study and get acquainted with the shades of your ancestors. I have a letter to write.’

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  After several false starts and screwed-up sheets of writing paper, Piers managed to compose a letter with which he was fairly satisfied. Because he didn’t want Lizzie to feel embarrassed he began by offering all kinds of reasons for her sudden departure, excuses for her hurrying away without leaving any means of communication, but this began to be so complicated that it finished up by reading as a veiled condemnation. In the end he decided to play it straight.

  Dear Lizzie,

  We were all so sorry that you had to dash away early on Sunday morning. It was such fun having you here and I’m sure you must have realized exactly how much you’ve done for my father and me. When he and I talked at the party I knew for certain that your coming to Dunster had made it possible for us to break down the barriers of misunderstanding built up over the years and start a whole new relationship. How can we thank you for all that?

  The sad thing is that later that morning, once he’d gone back to the flat, my father had a slight stroke and a nasty fall and is now in hospital. I’m assured that he’ll make a good recovery in time but you can imagine that the shock of it put an end to the party mood. He looks very frail, poor old boy, and I’m hoping that when he’s ready to leave hospital he’ll agree to come back to Michaelgarth until he’s strong again. As far as I’m concerned I should be very happy for him to make his home here, and now – as a result of your visit – it might just be possible that he’ll consider it.

  I hate to break this news to you out of the blue like this but I feel that you’d probably like to see him, and anyway I think you have the right to know. In your rush you forgot to leave us an address or a telephone number but I found an old postcard with your address on it in Father’s flat, stuck between the bars of the birdcage, and it seemed to be a kind of message as if you’d left us a means of contacting you, so I hope I haven’t breached any etiquette in writing to you.

  I hope the filming goes well and I’m also hoping that you’ll be back in Bristol soon so as to pick this up. It would mean such a lot to me to visit you at the Birdcage and fit in the last pieces of the jigsaw puzzle. I couldn’t be away long at the moment, for obvious reasons, but if you feel that you could put up with me for an hour or two I would be very grateful. You could drop me a line to the address above or ring on my mobile or on the house telephone, both numbers at the head of the letter.

  Yours ever,

  Piers

  He rea
d it through critically but, before any more misgivings could persuade him to destroy it and begin yet again, Tilda put her head round the door.

  ‘Supper’s ready,’ she said. ‘Or is it a bad moment?’

  He smiled at her, folding the sheet of paper in half and pushing it into the envelope.

  ‘A very good moment,’ he answered and looked at her again, more closely. She blushed rosily, failing utterly in her attempt to look casual, and his eyebrows rose in that familiar facial shrug. ‘Looks like you’ve had rather a good moment yourself.’

  She grinned. ‘I’ve just been talking to Saul,’ she said airily, shrugging a little. ‘Making a few plans. You know?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ he said feelingly. ‘I know.’

  ‘Look at Lion,’ she said, still feeling shy, trying to distract him. ‘He’s recycling your waste paper.’

  Lion lay on the hearthrug, surrounded by tiny shreds of the rejected letters and thoroughly enjoying himself, whilst Piers watched him, thinking of other dogs, hearing his grandfather’s voice: What’s up? Where’s the fire?

  Tilda slipped an arm through his, touched by the expression on his face, feeling a huge affection for him.

  ‘Supper,’ she reminded him – and he nodded and they went out together, with Lion trailing them, across the hall and into the kitchen.

  Lizzie picked up her letters from the small table in the lower hall and climbed the stairs wearily, sorting through the envelopes as she went. Nothing from Sam, but she was hardly expecting a letter from him. He’d left a text message earlier in the week: ‘I’m sure you’re right. I shall miss you like hell.’ Now it was all down to the lawyers. She puzzled over the envelope with the unfamiliar handwriting and peered at the postmark – Dunster!

  Slamming the front door behind her, dropping her case, she went into the big room, ripping open the envelope. Her eyes raced across the written lines, her hand clenched unconsciously against her heart; relief and gratitude showed themselves on her face – and then it reflected the sudden shock.

  ‘Oh, no!’ she murmured. ‘Oh God! Poor Felix.’

  Lizzie sat down at the table, staring at nothing, small scenes playing before her inner eye. Even now she wasn’t quite certain what impulse had driven her to leave the postcard with Felix, thrusting it through his letterbox on her flight to Bristol. She’d taken it with her to Dunster as a kind of talisman and now it seemed, after all, that there had been a further part for it to play in this odd drama. Lizzie read the letter again, hearing Piers’ voice through the words, wishing that she could be there with them at Michaelgarth.

  She knew that before she could see any of them again, however, they needed to know the truth. Although she stared at the carefully printed telephone numbers for several moments she simply couldn’t bring herself to ring him: how would she begin? What would she say? Much easier – if more cowardly – to write to him, explaining her own situation. Once he knew the truth he could decide if she would still be welcome. Thinking anxiously about Felix, frightened lest she should lose her nerve, she went to Pidge’s bureau and found some writing paper. Back at the table she sat down, thinking furiously. Presently she began to scribble.

  My dear Piers,

  Thank you so much for writing to me. I can’t tell you what a shock it was to read about Felix! I am so sorry. I hope that he is getting better. I wanted to telephone but then I lost my nerve. The trouble is, Piers, I ran out on Sunday morning because I was feeling guilty. I did have to go to Manchester, that was true, but the thing is that I’d let you all imagine that I was a widow and things got out of hand.

  The truth is that my husband is having an affair, one of a long series over the whole of my marriage, and the girl is pregnant and he wants her to have the child. You might remember that I told you that I couldn’t have children and somehow this was just so unbearable, so terribly painful. I felt that I’d really lost him this time, and those were the words I used to Felix. He assumed I meant that Sam was dead and I let him go on thinking it.

  That evening when I sat watching you at the party I suddenly felt that I was a fraud; that I’d come among you all under false impressions and I felt very ashamed. You’d all been recently bereaved and here was I playing a part and deceiving you all. It was especially awful since Tilda had been so sweet to me, thinking that we were both in the same boat. When I went upstairs I saw the message from my agent reminding me about the filming on Monday but also saying that Sam was on his way to Bristol, and I panicked.

  It has meant so much, Piers, to see Felix after all these years and to meet you too. I used to think about you so much when I was little. Felix was there when I really needed the comfort of a father and I shall never forget his kindness and the love he showed me. But it was obvious from the way he talked about you that you were so special to him and I always longed to meet you. It’s been a little miracle, this Dunster week, much more successful than poor Angel’s was back in the fifties! I can’t get over you finding the postcard like that. It was coming across that card in a book that set the whole thing in motion for me and I’m so glad that I decided to leave it for Felix.

  Of course I should love to see him, of course I would, but only after you’ve told him and Tilda the truth about me. Sam was here at the Birdcage when I got back on Sunday morning and I somehow had the strength to say that it was all over between us. He’s gone back to the States now. If you feel that you can all still trust me I should very much like to see you, Piers, any time over the weekend, although I shall be dashing back to Manchester again on Monday.

  I’ve put both telephone numbers; the mobile should get me almost anywhere.

  Love to you all,

  Lizzie

  She copied his address on to the envelope, went back to the bureau to find a stamp and, seizing her bag, she went hurrying downstairs, out of the front door and round the corner to the postbox.

  She had a telephone call from him early next evening: short and to the point but his voice was warm and she knew at once that she’d been forgiven.

  ‘He’s regained consciousness and we’ve been able to talk, though not for long,’ he reassured her at once. ‘I’m just going to see him. If it’s OK I could be with you late on Sunday morning, just for an hour or so.’

  ‘For lunch?’ she asked quickly. ‘You’ll stay for lunch?’

  She could hear the smile in his voice. ‘Lunch sounds good,’ he answered. ‘Everybody sends their love and we’re all looking forward to seeing you again.’

  ‘I’m looking forward to that too,’ she said, truly meaning it, and then didn’t quite know what to say next.

  ‘I must dash away to the hospital,’ he said, as if understanding her dilemma. ‘I’ll give Felix your love, shall I?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ she said. ‘Thanks, Piers. See you on Sunday.’

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  When Lizzie went down to open the door to him on Sunday morning she saw that he was carrying the birdcage. Seeing her face change and grow pale Piers hastened to reassure her, guessing her sudden fear.

  ‘Don’t worry, he’s much better,’ he told her. ‘It’s simply that he’s going to be with us at Michaelgarth for some time and he decided that this should be back where it belonged. He said that I should tell you that he thought that it had done all the good Angel intended and it was time that it went home.’

  She smiled but her lips trembled. ‘Darling Felix,’ she muttered. ‘How odd it’s all been. Oh, Piers, it’s good to see you. Come upstairs. Pidge’s flat is let now, so I can’t show it to you, but I want you to feel at home here.’

  He saw that she’d left the doors open, as if there were an invitation to go where he pleased, but he followed her into the big room, setting the birdcage down at the end of the long table and looking about him. So this is where his father had been so happy with Angel and Pidge; this is where Lizzie had grown up. On the piano stood a publicity photograph of Angel and he went to look at it, remembering the woman he’d seen in Parhams: this was the w
oman his father had loved.

  Lizzie was watching him and he smiled at her. ‘She looks nice,’ he said. ‘Where’s Pidge?’

  She indicated a smaller photograph: a smart, attractive dark woman with an intelligent face in army uniform standing beside a big staff car. He examined it, rather as if he were fitting together the pieces of a jigsaw, and then looked about the room again, trying to imagine how it had been all those years before.

  ‘I know you can’t be away too long,’ she said, ‘so lunch is more or less ready. Have a potter while I put it on the table.’

  He wandered out and she saw him glancing into the bedroom, staring up the small staircase which led to the attic, and presently heard him go up the stairs to the little room. She’d felt it important that he grew familiar with this house where Felix had spent such short but vital periods of his life; meanwhile she’d prepared exactly the same lunch which she’d made as a puja for Angel and Pidge before her journey to Dunster: smoked salmon with chunks of lemon, rings of tomato in a vinaigrette with herbs, thin slices of cucumber in mayonnaise, and new brown bread. She’d chosen the same dishes: round, white bone-china for the salmon; oval, blue earthenware for the tomatoes; a yellow bowl for the cucumber. Lizzie knew that Pidge and Angel would have approved: they would have liked to see Piers here in the Birdcage, having lunch at this table where they’d sat so often with his father.

  ‘It’s lovely here.’ He was back again. ‘All bright and airy but friendly too. I like your Birdcage, Lizzie.’

  ‘Come and sit down,’ she said, pleased. ‘Tell me everything. How Felix is, first, and then all about Tilda and Jake and Lion.’

  They talked together about Felix, about Sam, learning each other; Lizzie put cheese on the table and made coffee but still they continued to talk. At last the afternoon shadows edged silently across the sunny room and Piers sighed, knowing that he must leave.