Bird Inside

by Wendy Perriam

  ‘Let’s forget it, shall we? I think I’ve said enough.’ Isobel collapsed into the wicker chair, nursing a pink cushion.

  ‘You haven’t said a thing – just hints and innuendoes. I don’t know what you’re getting at, and it’s not your business, anyway.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Rose, I don’t want to interfere, but I suppose I feel responsible. I mean, your own parents aren’t around to help, so someone ought to talk to you …’

  ‘But you’re not talking. You keep going round in circles, saying how concerned you are, and how Veronica got hurt, and how it’s only fair to warn me, and all the rest of it, and I’m still completely in the dark. If you’ve got something to tell me, why not just come out with it?’

  ‘It’s not an issue now – if you’re tied up with someone else. I didn’t know that, did I, so I imagined you and Christopher might …’

  ‘Look, I’m working with Christopher, going back to live there for eighteen months or more. Of course I’m involved with him, in one sense, and if you think I shouldn’t be, then I ought to know the reason.’

  Isobel winced as the cat sprang on her lap, its sharp claws digging into her thighs. ‘Working there’s no problem. I was just a little worried about … a more personal involvement. You see, Christopher believes in …’ She paused, released Orlando’s claws from the thin fabric of her skirt. ‘What’s the word when you have affairs quite openly, despite the fact you’re married – sort of write them into the contract? Perhaps there isn’t any word, but Christopher does it anyway.’ She shook her head, as if to express her deep regret. ‘I’m not breaking any confidences – he makes no secret of the fact. There was even an article about it at the time of his divorce, when he said quite openly to a good half-million readers – including my two children, by the way – that fidelity was outmoded, and marriage had to change, and that loving someone meant allowing them complete fulfilment, which included sex with other partners.’ Isobel started tugging at her wedding ring, trying to force it past her knuckle, twist it round and round. ‘The trouble is, the more partners you have, the more risk there is of AIDS and things, so you can see why I was anxious, Rose. And, anyway, the whole concept seems so wrong – a contradiction in terms. The marriage vows say ‘‘forsaking all other’’.’

  Jane clamped her hands together, to try to stop them shaking. Strange how small the room seemed now, all its former space and colour contracting to a claustrophobic grey; Isobel too loud for it, her voice destroying everything. She unlocked her trembling fingers, groped for the small bump beneath the fabric of her pyjama top – Anne’s cross and chain, binding her in wedlock. ‘Did … did Christopher get married in a church?’

  ‘Yes, when he married Veronica, but not the other times. It was especially hard for her because when they first met up, his views were very different, but he expected her to change along with him; tried to talk her into taking lovers, so he could justify his own affairs.’ Isobel’s hand moved from ring to cat, ruffling the soft fur, then smoothing it down flat again. ‘I felt torn between the two of them at first. I’ve always been extremely fond of Christopher, but Veronica was suffering such a lot, and it was affecting her three children.’

  ‘And … and what about Anne? Did she agree to the arrangement?’

  ‘I’m not too sure. We’ve never been that close. She was one of Christopher’s ‘‘entanglements’’ while he was still married to Veronica, so it was really rather awkward for me to accept her with open arms once she became the official wife. I’ve nothing against her personally, but it was a question of basic loyalties, you see.’

  ‘So Anne broke up the marriage?’

  ‘No. I wouldn’t go as far as that. Christopher had other girls besides her, and he’s never found it easy to stick at a relationship, or lose himself in someone else, or build a sense of loyalty and trust.’ Isobel ran slow and lulling fingers from head to furry tail, then flicked back to the ginger ears, tweaking them and fondling. ‘It’s not totally his fault, you know. He was starved of all affection in his childhood, and that always makes it difficult to love. Veronica claimed he couldn’t love, he simply wasn’t capable; said the only love he understood was free love, and that every time he used the word, he actually meant lust. But, you see, you have to learn to love, and Christopher never had the chance, Rose, nor anyone’s example; no doting mother, or devoted father, not even a religious faith, with a loving God, to compensate.’

  ‘Isobel, I … I need the loo.’

  ‘Just a minute, darling. Let me finish. I feel worried that I’ve said too much, given you the wrong …’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I’m bursting.’ Jane cannoned from the room., locked the bathroom door, turned the shower to fierce, stripped off her pyjamas, and stood beneath the jet of scalding water. She had to wash the lies off – the lies of an ex-wife who was jealous and vindictive, out for her revenge; the lies of that crass journalist who’d reported Christopher’s remarks, distorted them to make his paper sell, raked up dirt to libel him; dirt which everyone had read, including Hadley, who must have been a schoolboy then, young, idealistic and probably deeply scandalised. You couldn’t trust the gutter press – everyone knew that – and you couldn’t trust ex-wives. She had disliked Veronica the moment she’d set eyes on her at the RIBA affair – all those dangerous spiky rings and that condescending voice. Of course Christopher could love. He’d just told her that he loved her, with a vehemence which proved it wasn’t fake. She heard the words again beneath the thunder of the shower, felt her back grazed against the rough stone wall as he ejaculated into her. ‘Every time he used the word, he actually meant lust.’

  It had been lust, hadn’t it – his body craving hers – hurting hers, in fact; slamming wildly into her to relieve his own frustration. Perhaps Anne had been abroad again, and his other various ‘entanglements’ all busy or away, so he’d been desperate for some sex. She snatched the soap, lathered it all over her, trying to sluice the germs off – not just cold germs, Anne’s germs, but all those casual women he’d slept with in his trendy open marriages; all those wives he’d wheedled with his spiel about fidelity being boring and outmoded; all those different partners he needed for fulfilment. Anne had never had a cold – that was obvious now. Their Christmas was simply part of an old pattern: Anne would stay behind and sleep with Adrian; he would go to Nice and sleep with … who? The other guests’ obliging wives and girlfriends, Jean-François’ svelte blonde mistress, the girls in the confiserie where he’d bought her fancy chocolates, the giggly plump French maids who cleaned the villa. Those germs were really dangerous – Isobel was right. Except Isobel had probably lied as well, and was certainly a hypocrite, trotting off to church to say her prayers, then slandering a man behind his back, a friend she’d known for over thirty years, and one she claimed to …

  ‘Rose! Quick! There’s someone on the phone for you.’

  Jane turned the shower down, grimacing at the banging on the door. Isobel again. Couldn’t she be left in peace even for five minutes? ‘I can’t come down. I’m in the shower.’

  ‘Well, take it in my bedroom.’

  ‘But I’m all wet and soapy.’

  ‘Never mind, just pop out with a towel.’

  ‘Who is it, though?’ Her voice was hoarse from shouting through the door. ‘Can’t I ring them back?’

  ‘No – and hurry. It’s long-distance.’

  Long-distance. That meant Christopher. He’d said he’d phone from Manchester if he could find a minute free. Well, she’d refuse to speak to him – not just now, but ever in her life again. She was nothing to him, nothing – some odd bod he picked up when no one else was free. Maybe he and Anne discussed her, compared her with the other girls he’d had last year, last week, and then began on Adrian – was he worse or better than Anne’s previous one-off lover? She stepped back into the shower again, grabbed the scratchy loofah and rasped it right between her thighs, trying to scour him off. She dropped the slippery soap, banged her elbow on the bath as sh
e groped to pick it up. Her hair was streaming wet, heavy on her shoulders, clammy down her back, her cheeks smarting from the pressure of the shower. She fumbled for the knob, turned the water to a trickle. Would it really hurt to talk to him? Supposing he was phoning to tell her that he loved her? She ought to hear the words again, and hear them when he wasn’t making love to her; give him one last chance, prove they could mean more than simply lust. She flurried out of the bath, clutched a towel around her, ran into the bedroom, picked up the extension.

  ‘Guess who?’ whooped a male voice.

  ‘Who?’ she faltered. There was a buzzing on the line, so it was hard to make its owner out.

  ‘What a stroke of luck, Rose! I only rang to have a word with Mum, never imagined you’d be there. She says you’re staying the whole day. Hell! I wish I’d known. I’d have come charging up like Sir Lancelot on his steed. Except my damn steed’s broken down – the big end’s gone on my Capri.’ He laughed delightedly, as if thrilled to have his car a wreck. ‘I was going to write to you anyway, to ask if you’d … worked things out, decided what to do, and also find out if you’d any plans for Easter. I don’t mean Easter Sunday – that’s sacrosanct, of course. Mum would never forgive me if I wasn’t there for the dedication of her precious stained-glass window, but I’m home the week before that, and I wondered if you’d like to …? Hey, Rose, are you still there?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I am.’

  ‘You okay? You sound a bit faint and far away.’

  ‘No, I’m … fine.’

  ‘Great! So am I. You know, it’s amazing the effect you have. I was feeling rather down this morning, but now I’m on the rooftops. And talking of rooftops, how d’you fancy Paris in the spring? It was wonderful at Christmas-time – well, I told you that already – but what I didn’t say was that I sussed out a few hotels, just in case I went again, or could persuade you to come with me. There’s one on the Left Bank, which is frightfully cheap, but rather quaint and definitely romantic. And right next door is this really brilliant restaurant – three courses for a hundred francs, and wine thrown in as well. How are you placed for Easter, Rose, or rather the last week in March? Are you free?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I think so.’

  ‘Well, how d’you feel? Would you like to come?’

  She paused a moment, hearing not Hadley’s voice, but Isobel’s again. Veronica got badly hurt, so I feel it’s only fair to warn you. ‘Okay,’ she shrugged. ‘Why not?’

  ‘You don’t sound very keen.’

  ‘I … I’ve just got out of the bath and I’m dripping on the carpet.’

  ‘Gosh, I’m sorry. How exciting, though! I’m driving up – this minute. If my car won’t work, I’ll nick one, or grab myself a pair of wings. I’ve got to see you naked.’

  ‘Ssh.’

  ‘Why ‘‘ssh’’? My mother isn’t listening, is she? She told me you were taking this upstairs.’

  ‘I am, but …’

  ‘Oh, Rose, I’ve missed you terribly. You just don’t understand. I’ve even …’

  ‘Hadley?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How far is Paris from Chartres?’

  ‘Chartres? Let me think. It can’t be far because two of our party went there on a train and got back the same day – in fact, they were back about teatime, and only left at twelve. Why? D’ you want to go there?’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘You mean, instead of Paris?’

  ‘I really meant as well as. But instead of might be better still. Someone told me you could spend a whole week in the cathedral and still not have time to soak it up.’

  ‘I’d rather spend my week soaking up your body.’ He blew her noisy kisses down the phone. ‘But we’ll stay wherever you like. You can choose everything, fantastic darling Rose. D’ you want to fly, or go by …?’

  ‘Rose!’ called Rowan. ‘Where are you hiding?’ There was a sudden frantic barking from outside on the landing, the sound of eager footsteps thudding up the stairs. ‘Mark insists on coming up to see you.’

  Jane pounced on Isobel’s dressing gown, scrambled swiftly into it, then swathed the towel around her dripping hair. ‘I’m in your mother’s bedroom, but …’

  ‘What’s going on, for heaven’s sake?’ Hadley bellowed down the phone.

  Jane tied the belt firmly round her middle, then returned the receiver to her ear. ‘Your sister’s just arrived, and about half a hundred others, judging by the noise outside.’

  ‘Great! I’ll have a word with her. Goodbye, darling Rose. And you won’t forget your promise?’

  ‘No,’ she said, and shook her head, kept shaking it and shaking it, as she tried to change her face for Rowan and her retinue; restore happy sunny normal jolly Sunday.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Jane stared up at the two towers of the cathedral, one taller than the other and a different style completely; the shorter one almost lost in scaffolding; the stone stained and dingy-grey. So this was Chartres, the most visited cathedral in the world, the most miraculously preserved example of Gothic architecture, a sacred place of healing for eleven centuries – and some said since the Druids. She tried to stifle a twinge of disappointment. It was not quite what she’d expected, not as overwhelming, not as special. Perhaps she’d read too many books – complicated books she’d found difficult to follow, which explained how nothing in the building was irrelevant or accidental, but all the proportions and the measurements had deep significance, and were steeped in mystic symbolism.

  She scanned the towers again. So why didn’t they match, if the proportions were so perfect? And why did this so-called Royal Portal look so dirty and neglected – the stone pitted, streaked with lichen, even worn away in parts? She dropped a woolly glove, stooped to retrieve it, angry with herself. She was niggling like her mother, criticising something before she’d given it a chance. She could hardly judge, in any case, standing at a distance, and with both eyes watering in the wind. She clutched her coat around her, struggled on, head down, towards the doors, wishing she’d packed fur-lined boots and thermal underwear. Chartres’ bitter February made England’s seem benign.

  She still felt frazzled from the journey – two hours seesawing the Channel, then another half-millennium trying to quiet her stomach on a queasy throbbing coach. She’d been car-sick as a child, assumed she had outgrown it. It had been a relief to take the train at Paris, chunter down to Chartres on a tame suburban line. She had arrived at almost midnight, booked into the first hotel she found – a shabby run-down pension off the station, with cardboard walls, and neighbours who played poker half the night. The breakfast coffee hadn’t been quite strong enough to undo the effects of only three hours’ sleep.

  She picked her way round two old tramps, sprawled sozzled on the ground, one coughing half his lungs up, the other dead to the world; pushed the heavy inner door, which seemed to fight her entry, so that she was forced to slam her way into the church. She could hardly see at first, stood blinking at the darkness, as if she had passed from day to night, then took a few uncertain steps, until she was standing in the main body of the nave. She stopped in shock, staggered by its almost threatening scale. She was a twentieth-century pilgrim, used to skyscrapers and tower-blocks, yet those seemed paltry Lego-land compared with this immensity, this teeming swooping space. She craned her neck to peer up at the vaulting, kept looking up and up, aware that she was soaring like the building, leaving cold and doubt behind; dazzled and electrified by the whoop and shout of glass. She had never seen such glass. It was nothing like the pictures in the books, which, however faithful or exact the reproduction, still looked dead and flat compared with the reality – the mysterious dusky glow of blues and purples, the gash of red, like wounds, the glitter of bright haloes or gold crowns. Different windows kindled as she watched them – flaming into scarlet or blazing sapphire-blue; the greens quieter but insistent, the yellows trilling out.

  She walked slowly up the nave, trying to ta
ke in everything at once – the sense of movement and yet stillness: the columns leaping up beyond her to the dark and shadowy roof; the glass alive, vibrating, bursting through the gloom; the tongues of lighted candles licking the cold stone; the solemn weighty silence, which seemed made of stone itself. She didn’t have the words for what she felt. All the terms that Christopher had used – numinousness, transcendence, élévation spirituelle – were just strings of letters, too cramped for this great height. He’d been closer when he’d mentioned eating glass. She could eat these windows, gorge on them, like the richest sort of food, nibble their small details, roll them round her mouth. She was already picking out the plums – a sumptuous-looking king, settling down to sleep, still wearing all his gear in bed, including his gold crown; a supercilious camel in an unlikely shade of mauve; a small but sturdy cow with twisty horns. But she was doing things all wrong. The guidebook had instructed her to ‘read’ the windows as if they were a book, take out her binoculars and study them page by page, in the right and proper order, not goggle indiscriminately, ignoring plot and story.

  She fumbled in her shoulder-bag, then zipped it up again. Stuff the guidebook! Medieval peasants would not have had binoculars, and anyway she was far too restless and excited to stand still in one place; felt more like hurtling round the aisles, shouting greetings to all that brilliant company of angels, prophets, martyrs, virgins, saints. Apart from them, the church was almost empty – hers to relish on her own. She had expected far more tourists, but perhaps they didn’t arrive till spring, or only at weekends, and it was still early in the morning and a bleak and wintry weekday. There were no guides or flashing cameras, no strident voices, intrusive tramp of feet. She was glad she was alone, didn’t want Christopher confounding her with facts, or Hadley trying to flirt with her, asking when they could sneak back to the bedroom. She shared the huge cathedral with just a few old crones, huddled in the pews like sacks, or praying on their knees.