The Songbird Read online

  Singing energizes William, makes him feel alive. Even seeing someone coming out of the door of the house where he and Fiona and Andy lived for twenty years cannot quench his high spirits. He is able to remember the good times now without bitterness, and this evening, after such jubilation, he can even think about Fiona’s proposal to rent Tim’s cottage with equanimity.

  He guesses that Sam has made it clear that there is no future for her with him and that Fiona is realizing how much substance she has jettisoned for the shadow. Fiona has always been intense, living in the moment, unaware of the emotions of the people around her. She sees each situation only from her own point of view and is incapable of imagining how differently it might affect someone else, yet she could always make him laugh.

  Her sense of humour and vitality energized him in the same way his singing has this evening. He felt twice as alive with her; it was as if she coloured his naturally drab grey camouflage into bright colours. Often her strongly held convictions made him uncomfortable – everything was black and white, simple – and after a while he ceased to argue with her, to put a different point of view. Fiona was impatient with the weak or the slow. There were no excuses for failure: to be a runner-up was to be the first of the losers.

  William digs into his pocket for his car keys, wondering what she will do next. There will be another plan of campaign, he is sure of that. It half occurs to him that she might want to come back to him and anxiety grips him suddenly. He wonders whether he could withstand such a campaign and whether he would want to. He snorts at the foolishness of the thought: why on earth would she want such a thing? Is it conceivable that she could cast her spell on him again?

  He knows that Kat is considering taking up Miche’s offer. What if Kat moves to London and Fiona decides that he has plenty of room for her to stay at weekends, at Christmas? He suspects that once Kat is back amongst her old friends and associates she will spend very little time at Brockscombe. It has been a time of healing for her, of rest and renewal, but she has always remained in training as if she knows that one day the call will come and she will return to her work.

  William climbs into his car. Deliberately he calms himself, takes a few deep breaths and relives the joy of the singing, the comradeship of the group. He starts the engine, drives out of the car park, and as he goes he begins to sing.

  When he arrives home Kat is sitting at the kitchen table, her elbows propped on the table, Miche’s chapters spread around her. She glances round as he comes in and he sees that there is a little glow, a brightness that lights her from within. He knows the signs and he experiences the usual twinge of envy at Kat’s ability to embark on a new flirtation, to fall in and out of love, leaving very little distress or despair in her wake.

  ‘These spring evenings are so beautiful and so melancholy,’ she says. ‘Can you hear the thrush? Heartbreaking, isn’t it? In a good way, though.’

  He dumps his case on a chair and laughs at her. ‘How can heartbreak ever be a good thing?’

  ‘I think it can,’ she answers seriously. ‘Sometimes it’s necessary to break, so as to make space and give room to grow. It enlarges the possibility of emotions and reactions.’

  ‘Very philosophical,’ he says. ‘So who is he?’

  She laughs too, beaming at him with affection. ‘Darling William. I shall miss you if I go to London.’

  The fear returns and he fetches a glass, then sits down and reaches for the bottle of wine that stands open on the table.

  ‘And will you go?’ He is surprised at the realization of how much he will miss her.

  She considers his question, shuffling the papers, and he is struck by the gracefulness of her hands even in such a simple gesture.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ she says at last. ‘Francis thinks I will. He thinks I should.’

  William wants to feel irritated by Francis’ interference – what does he know? – but he doesn’t underestimate his wisdom.

  ‘Miche has unsettled you,’ he says. ‘But even if you were to go you’d come back from time to time, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ answers Kat candidly. ‘I’d want to. I’d think I would but then again I know how easy it is to get caught up in things.’ She looks at him rather sadly. ‘You know how selfish and unreliable I am, darling.’

  He smiles at her. ‘None better. But aren’t we all? I was thinking, driving home, that if you went then Fiona might want to move in with me.’

  Kat sends him a shrewd glance. ‘And?’

  ‘And nothing.’ He fills his glass and raises it to her. ‘So I say again. Who is he?’

  ‘A rather nice man that I saw in Thrive this morning. Very sexy.’

  ‘And what else?’

  ‘His girlfriend called him Jeremy.’

  He raises his eyebrows. Kat doesn’t usually trespass. ‘Girlfriend?’

  She makes a face. ‘Putative girlfriend. Working at it. All bright and sweet and wriggling about like a puppy.’ She sips her own wine and sighs. ‘Such a pity if he falls for it. She’s deeply ordinary.’

  ‘So what next, then?’

  Kat shrugs. ‘Who can say? I’ll probably see him around. Apparently he’s just moved to Totnes so our paths are bound to cross sooner or later.’

  ‘Meanwhile you enjoyed ruffling the water. Making a few waves.’

  ‘Something like that.’

  She stacks the sheets together, smiling to herself, and he watches her. Perhaps this Jeremy might be the reason she’ll need to stay; perhaps things might go on just the way they are now: he and Kat, Charlotte and Ollie, Tim. Silently he raises his glass to this private dream, takes a sip then sets the glass down.

  ‘I’ll just pop in on Francis,’ he tells her, ‘to see that he’s OK and have a chat. Shan’t be long and then we’ll have supper.’

  Next door, Charlotte checks on Ollie and goes downstairs to make some supper. One of the dreary things of living alone is that eating becomes a chore. It feels unnatural to sit down in lonely splendour to a properly cooked and served meal; chewing solemnly, resisting the urge to read, or watch the television. How much easier it is to snack. At least now she has Ollie she has someone to share breakfast and lunchtime, but supper is still a solitary affair. Sometimes Tim comes in and they share a curry or a pizza. And she has Wooster – his tail wagging now as she comes into the kitchen – and the comfort of his big, solid presence.

  She hears William’s car, wishes it was Andy coming home, opening the front door and calling out to her. And she would call back, ‘Shush. I’ve just got Ollie off,’ and he’d give her a hug and they’d talk about how the day had been. Andy is like his father: easy-going, cheerful, competent – and she misses him dreadfully.

  ‘I might get a foreign posting next,’ he told her. ‘How d’you fancy Washington?’

  She stands at the window looking out at the gardens at the back of the cottages, not knowing how she’d fancy it.

  ‘What would we do with Wooster?’ she asked, parrying the question. ‘We couldn’t leave him behind.’

  And Wooster got to his feet as if he knew what they were talking about and came over, pushing his head against their legs.

  ‘Oh, we’d get him there somehow, wouldn’t we, Wooster, old fellow?’ Andy said easily, bending to pull his ears. ‘There would be quarantine, of course . . .’

  Charlotte knows that she would miss her family, and it’s good here, with William and Aunt Kat next door, and Tim. What she’d really like is for Andy to get a shore job in the dockyard, a ship in refit, so that he could come home each night, except when he was duty officer, and they could just be a little family all together. They’ve had so little time together since Ollie was born and it would be good to find out what it was like to be a family, to get used to it, before they set out on such an adventure.

  These long light evenings unsettle her. She heats soup, cuts some bread, feeling restless, melancholy, so that when her phone buzzes she reaches for it with relief. It’s Mattie sending a cheerf
ul message and a photo of her with another girl having supper together. Charlotte sends a reply. She’s hoping that Mattie will be offered the job at the BBC in Bristol. It would be good to have her closer – and maybe there might be something developing between Mattie and Tim, though they behave as if they’re just good mates – but if Andy is posted to Washington it won’t make much difference. She types: When are you coming down again?

  Mattie replies: Soon. I’ll let you know when I get a date for the interview.

  Feeling more cheerful, Charlotte finishes her supper, settles down at the end of the kitchen table with Wooster at her feet and opens her laptop. As so often during these long evenings, her work is her refuge.

  CHAPTER NINE

  AT THIS TIME of the year, Tim thinks, the countryside looks like a half-finished watercolour. Patches of paint-bright gold, tissue-delicate pink, milky-white green, all washing along ditches, through hedgerows and over bare branches. Through farm gates he catches glimpses of the distant moors rough-sketched against a pale sky; sheep like white stones dotted randomly around an emerald-green field.

  Driving with Aunt Kat to Totnes, he is still taken aback by the beauty of it all. He enjoys being driven; it gives him the opportunity to gaze without any anxiety of being distracted or causing an accident.

  ‘It must be wonderful,’ he says, ‘to be able to paint.’

  Aunt Kat, who is negotiating the narrow bridge across the River Dart at Staverton doesn’t answer immediately. She waves to the driver waiting to let her through, who responds cheerfully, and then accelerates up the hill, climbing out of the valley.

  ‘I could take a photograph, of course,’ he carries on, ‘but it wouldn’t be the same. But why not? The photograph would record the scene exactly as it is at this moment so what’s the difference?’

  He glances at Aunt Kat who, he can see, is thinking about it. She frowns, shakes her head.

  ‘Perhaps the photograph leaves no room for imagination,’ she suggests at last. ‘The camera never lies and all that. Though these days that’s not quite true, of course. Is there more scope for the imagination in a painting? It’s the artist’s own view; his unique take on it.’

  ‘You mean he can add things or subtract what he doesn’t like?’

  Kat smiles. ‘Something like that. It reminds me of a story about F. J. Widgery, the landscape artist, who was painting a moorland scene somewhere on Dartmoor. A hiker paused to look at the work in progress, then he studied the view and looked again at the river in the painting. “But Mr Widgery,” he said, puzzled, “there’s no water down there.” “No,” replied the great man, “but there should be.”’

  Tim laughs. ‘Perhaps that’s it. The artist is in control. I’m a control freak.’

  He falls silent, remembering that he is no longer in charge; that he has been taken over by something beyond his control. He tries to accept each day as a gift but it is hard, on days like these, to know that you might never see another spring. Just now he is glad to be with Aunt Kat. Her warmth and vitality give him courage. She accepts him without questioning or curiosity about his past. He is Mattie’s friend.

  As they drive into the town, head towards the car park, he thinks about Mattie. He doesn’t know what to do. He’s fallen in love with her, simply and naturally, as if their earlier friendship in London had always been leading up to this. He loves her but can’t tell her, and now it is clear that she is wondering how their friendship might go forward. She isn’t nagging – Mattie’s not like that – but she feels, understandably, that their relationship has changed since that weekend at Brockscombe.

  ‘Coffee first?’ Aunt Kat suggests. ‘I think it’s warm enough to sit outside, don’t you?’

  She goes inside The Brioche to order and comes back smiling at some exchange she’s had with Nat or Jai, looking about. She is watchful, excited. Tim studies her with interest, wondering what’s on her mind. He is getting used to the friendliness of the West Country: the way strangers smile, say ‘Good morning’. Few people avoid eye contact, conversations arise out of mere nothings; he is able to watch little children with amusement without fearing that their parents will suspect him of anything worse than being charmed by their antics.

  Tim sits in the sun and pretends that he is not under a death sentence. He watches the market traders across the road in the square, the awnings and stalls giving it a medieval air, and sips his coffee. A boy and girl, teenagers, walk past linked closely together: her hand is tucked in the back pocket of his jeans and he cups her face, turning it towards him for a kiss. Tim’s heart is pierced with envy at such simplicity. He is distracted by a little commotion at the other table. A man stands there moving the empty coffee cups around, shifting plates. He looks distressed.

  ‘My phone’s gone,’ he says to them. ‘I must have left it here on the table when I went just now. Did you see who took it?’ He glances up and down the street, as if he might see the thief sprinting away. ‘Did someone sit here after I’d gone?’

  ‘Wait,’ says Aunt Kat. ‘Have you checked to ask if it’s been handed in?’

  He stares at her frowning, as if he can’t understand her meaning.

  ‘Handed in?’

  ‘Mmm.’ She nods at him, slightly amused at his incredulity. ‘It’s possible. Why don’t you check?’

  Still frowning he goes into the café. Tim is fascinated by the little by-play. He glances at Aunt Kat, who raises her eyebrows, gives a little shrug. The man reappears, his face radiant. He is so happy that he actually seizes Aunt Kat’s arm and gives it a little squeeze.

  ‘You were right,’ he cries. ‘Someone handed it in. It’s amazing. My God! I love this place. Thank you.’

  He dashes away to join his companions and Aunt Kat laughs and then straightens up a little, her eyes fixed on someone beyond Tim’s shoulder. He waits until the person Aunt Kat is watching is beside him and then turns his head and glances up at the man, who is smiling at Aunt Kat.

  ‘Hello,’ she says lightly, almost challengingly. She seems amused.

  Tim is aware of the newcomer’s caution. He looks down at Tim and murmurs something about the beauty of the morning. He’s wearing a knapsack and carrying a newspaper. Aunt Kat makes no suggestion that he should bring another chair and join them, she simply watches him with the same amused expression, and he hesitates, then nods awkwardly and goes into the café.

  ‘Do you know him?’ Tim asks, puzzled by the encounter.

  ‘Not yet,’ answers Aunt Kat serenely, ‘but I intend to.’

  Tim bursts out laughing. ‘You were making him nervous.’

  ‘Was I?’ She glances through the windows to the interior of the café. ‘Excellent.’

  He continues to chuckle as he drinks his coffee in the sun and then, quite suddenly, the terror swoops to engulf him and he wants most terribly to live; to be able to contemplate the years ahead with a reasonable hope of survival: to sit in the sun, drinking coffee and laughing with Aunt Kat.

  ‘“For who plans suicide sitting in the sun?”’ he murmurs.

  Aunt Kat is watching him curiously. Her previous amusement has died from her face.

  ‘I was just thinking aloud,’ he says quickly, casually. ‘A fragment of poetry just came into my mind. Are you a reader, Aunt Kat, or is music more your thing? I often think with poetry, if you see what I mean. Not mine, sadly. Other people’s. Does this kind of scene evoke dance, movement? Do you want to create something new out of it?’

  And so he distracts her until she is smiling again and he feels that his secret is still safe.

  Whilst Tim goes off to the bookshop and for a look around the market, Kat remains at her table. She’s refused his offer of more coffee and sits watching the passers-by, the delivery men, the market traders. A youth on a skateboard jumps and jitters down the middle of the street, weaving around the shoppers, swooping out of the path of a car, and she watches his grace and agility with delight. Patterns form themselves in her head, a sequence of movements – and then
Jeremy is standing beside her, smiling down at her with that same half-cautious look in his eyes.

  ‘Hi,’ she says, filing away the skateboarder for further use and gesturing at Tim’s empty chair. ‘Have you had some coffee?’

  ‘Yes,’ he says, hesitating with his hand on the chair. ‘Yes, but . . . would you . . .?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ she says at once. ‘Thank you. I’d love another Americano.’

  He puts his rucksack on the chair and goes back inside to order. Kat waits, surprised at how pleased she is to see him, recognizing that tiny quickening of the pulse.

  ‘Jeremy,’ she says, when he returns. ‘That’s right, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’ He looks surprised, pausing for a moment before, putting his rucksack on the pavement and sitting down. ‘But how did you . . .?’

  And then she sees him remember; a twinge of embarrassment makes him awkward.

  ‘Actually, I prefer Jerry,’ he says almost confidentially, as if he is somehow excluding the woman in the café that other day from any kind of intimacy.

  Kat beams at him. ‘Jerry,’ she repeats. ‘Hello, Jerry. I am Irina Bulova.’

  He gazes at her. Her deliberate phrasing is not lost on him and, after a moment, recognition dawns in his eyes.

  ‘You’re the dancer. The choreographer,’ he says, in awe. ‘I had a feeling I’d seen you before. Goodness! I saw that programme on the television . . . Wow!’

  Kat laughs at his expression. Channel 4 had made the programme when Gyorgy died. It was surprisingly successful, giving them both a kind of iconic pop-star status within the world of dance.

  ‘But actually,’ she says, mimicking him, ‘I prefer Kat.’

  ‘Cat?

  ‘My name is Katerina,’ she tells him. ‘My father was a Polish fighter pilot. He was injured when his plane crashed, and my mother was the nurse who looked after him. Irina Bulova is a useful name for a dancer. But to my family and friends I am Kat.’