The Songbird

by Marcia Willett

  They are happy here together, although there is always the uncertainty of the future: what happens to them all when Francis dies?

  ‘I don’t trust Francis’ boys,’ William would say.

  ‘But surely they can’t just throw us out,’ Kat would answer.

  William would snort. ‘We’re on six-month shorthold tenancies here. Nothing is certain.’

  She’d jolly him along, as she always did, and they’d talk about having options, of looking for another house, though neither of them wants to break up this little family group. But now, as she makes the coffee, disquiet nibbles at the edges of her happiness. Could it really be possible that one day – even quite soon – they might all have to leave Brockscombe?

  She thrusts the thought away, pours the coffee into a big pot and carries the tray outside to the courtyard, where Charlotte is waiting in the sunshine.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THERE ARE FLOWERS there again today. The little stone statue of a child, just a few feet high, is almost hidden at the edge of the woodland. Once there was a clearing here, but the bushes have grown tall and moss has covered the paved area around the plinth, so that Tim first came upon the statue quite by chance. He guesses that it is Pan: small stone fingers curl around his pipes, an arm upraised, one chubby knee lifted as though the little figure longs to dance.

  Tim is touched by the way daffodils have been carefully threaded into those curled fingers; a spray of laurel, plucked from the nearby bush, is tucked into the crook of the elbow. He wonders who might have done it: who it is that loves the little statue enough to honour it with flowers.

  The first time Tim chanced upon it there were snowdrops wilting in Pan’s stony grasp and a garland of ivy looped around his neck. Today the daffodils are freshly picked and Tim glances around to see if there is anyone nearby. Occasionally, as he walks in the grounds and woodland that lie to the west of Brockscombe, he has the sensation that he is being watched. He stands still, looking around him, but the only movement is made by the dashing away of a rabbit, kicking up the fallen leaves, and the sudden flight of a jay. There is a stile in the hedge just here. He climbed over it once, into the field beyond. The sheep raised their heads and watched him curiously for a few minutes before continuing to graze but there seemed no obvious footpath, no finger posts, so he climbed back again and went on his way through the wood.

  Today, as he stands listening to the birdsong, he sees a silvery glint amongst the dank, dead leaves and crunchy beech mast. He bends down and picks up a small toy car, a model of a Jaguar. It reminds him of the toys he had when he was a child and, as he runs it to and fro on the palm of his hand, the wood seems to dislimn and vanish away and he is once again a child, lying on the carpet in the warm sitting-room. Toys are scattered about him and his father kneels beside him. How tall his father is, how strong. Today he is happy. Though he is not yet four, Tim knows that his father is not always happy. Sometimes he is very quiet. ‘Don’t bother me,’ he’ll snap if Tim grasps his arm, asks him to play. He’ll jerk his arm free, unbalancing Tim and sometimes knocking him over – though he has learned not to cry. That makes things worse and his mother will come hurrying in and then they’ll argue in a terrible, quiet sort of way, with low angry voices that are more frightening than if they shouted.

  Mummy sometimes shouts: ‘Don’t touch that, it’s hot.’ ‘Don’t climb on the chair, you might fall.’

  He understands this kind of shouting. In an odd way it makes him feel safe. But this fierce, whispered shouting gives him a horrid, knotted-up feeling inside and he wants to do something, anything, that will make them stop. Once he threw one of his little cars and broke a cup and his father cried out so loudly, smashing his fist down on the table, that his mother picked Tim up and ran out of the room. It was a little silvery car: the model of a Jaguar.

  Now, as he smooths away the traces of damp mud from the shiny metal, it occurs to Tim that it might be a child from the local hamlet across the field who comes to put the flowers in Pan’s hand: perhaps he has dropped the toy. Tim glances around again, wondering if the child might be hiding behind the trees, watching him to see what he will do, frightened to show himself. Afraid that he is trespassing.

  Gently he places the car on the plinth beside Pan’s small foot. He touches the rough, pitted toes and then turns to leave. As he walks away he wonders if he might ask the others if they know about the flowers: yet some instinct inclines him to secrecy. Aunt Kat occasionally walks in the grounds but he’s never seen her on these overgrown paths; Charlotte is confined to the lane where it’s easier to push Oliver in the buggy and Wooster doesn’t get too muddy; William doesn’t walk at all. He sings with a local group and works in his garden. Francis is rarely seen outside though he occasionally appears in the courtyard, leaning on his stick and ready for a chat, but he leaves the grounds and the woods to the care of Rob, the gardener.

  So who is it that visits Pan and garlands him with flowers?

  William turns into Church Close, passing along by the churchyard, just as the clock begins to strike eleven. He is nearly late for his meeting with Fiona – nearly, but not quite. He is experiencing the familiar mix of anxiety and resentment that, since their separation, is implicit in his relationship with his estranged wife. It is she who has asked to meet him this morning, rather than coming as she usually does to Brockscombe to see Charlotte and Oliver, and he is curious – and nervous. It is nearly five years since Fiona was head-hunted by a London practice of architects following her brilliant designs for the conversion of some waterside flats in Salcombe. Ambitious, longing for change, missing Andy, who had left Dartmouth Naval College and was away at sea, she was unable to understand why William should be so set against the move to London.

  ‘I’m a countryman,’ he told her. ‘You know that, Fi. I’d hate to live in London. Anyway, my work is here. I know my accountancy firm looks small beer beside a big shiny London architects’ practice but it’s mine. I have a loyal, hard-working staff and faithful clients. I don’t want to leave them all and go to London.’

  So she started with a weekly commute, but the relationship soon began to deteriorate. Her new colleagues, new life, challenging projects, all engulfed her and she made very little effort to conceal her growing impatience with his parochiality. Through her eyes William could see how small his world and their house in Ashburton now appeared to her, and how empty life was for her without Andy around, bringing home his friends. William felt unable to measure up, to compete. He felt guilty that he couldn’t face sacrificing his life for hers, resentful that she should so readily cast away all they had built together, and in the end they decided to make the break. Not a divorce – for Andy and economy’s sakes – but an amicable separation. The house was sold, the proceeds split between them, and William moved to Brockscombe. Andy spent part of his leaves in London, part in Devon, until he got married.

  Fiona liked her daughter-in-law but William knew that she was disappointed that her son had chosen a local girl who would keep him even more firmly rooted in Devon. Andy, based in Devonport, often at sea, had less time to spend on leave in Fiona’s small spare room in London, though he and Charlotte visited her as often as they could – and then Oliver was born.

  Fiona’s focus changed with the birth of her grandson. She adored Oliver and tried to make her smart little flat more child friendly.

  ‘Though it’s quite impossible,’ Charlotte told William. ‘We can’t squash the three of us into her tiny spare bedroom and she only has a shower-room; no bath.’

  Once Andy and Charlotte moved to Brockscombe, Fiona began to visit more often, staying at the Cott Inn at Dartington, driving to Brockscombe to spend time with her grandson.

  On this occasion, however, William didn’t know she was here: her text asking him to meet her arrived unexpectedly just after he got in to his office in Ashburton. He replied that he was seeing a client in Totnes and suggested coffee before his meeting.

  Now, William hesitates in th
e shadows at the end of Church Close, looking at the café across the High Street, seeing Fiona before she sees him. She’s chosen one of the tables in the window and she is peering up and down the street, looking for him.

  It’s an odd sensation, watching her through the plate-glass window as if she were a stranger, as if he is spying on her. Her collar-bone-length shiny dark hair, held back with silver clips, those quick decisive movements of her head – everything about her is so familiar. They remind him of times past, and they still have the power to move him. As he crosses the road she sees him approach and she waves. She looks animated, really pleased to see him, and he is even more unsettled.

  ‘Hi, Wills,’ she says, half rising, leaning forward to kiss him. ‘Thanks for coming out at such short notice.’

  ‘That’s OK.’ He stands awkwardly, ill at ease. ‘Why didn’t you say you were coming down?’

  ‘Well, sit down,’ she says, smiling a little as though she has guessed his unease and is amused by it. ‘Don’t tower over me. I’ve ordered an Americano for you.’

  William’s irritation rises. To begin with, at five foot seven he never towers over anyone and, secondly, he feels faintly nettled that she feels so confident in her knowledge of him that she can order his coffee. He has an urge to be childish, to say that he doesn’t drink coffee any more, but he sits down and looks at her, raising his eyebrows.

  ‘So why the secrecy and silence?’ he asks.

  Fiona frowns a little and bites her lips; then she laughs, a little self-deprecating snort.

  ‘It’s tricky to start,’ she admits, ‘but I’ll just come straight out with it. I wanted to see you on your own without the others knowing yet. I want you to ask your cousin if I can rent the cottage at Brockscombe.’

  He stares at her, his mind jumping between scenarios that fit this extraordinary suggestion, just managing not to say: ‘What on earth for?’

  His expression makes her laugh again, but her amusement is forced, embarrassed.

  ‘I know, I know,’ she says, raising her hands as if to ward off his unspoken question. ‘Sounds a bit crazy. I get that. But the thing is,’ she pauses, looks away from him out of the window. ‘I’m re-evaluating my life, Wills.’

  He watches her, calm now and very wary, and waits for her to go on. She looks at him again until his silence forces her to speak.

  ‘I’m getting older, I suppose, and it changes your perspective, doesn’t it?’

  William continues to wait, eyebrows raised, as if he is assuming she has more to say.

  ‘Well, you know how it is. It’s to do with values, with what really matters.’ Fiona pauses – his silence is clearly unnerving her – and she bends towards him confidentially. ‘OK, I miss my family. I’d like to see more of little Ollie and Andy. And Charlotte, of course. And you, too, Wills, actually.’

  To his relief the coffee arrives and Fiona leans back, flushing a little. This gives Will a moment to recover, to marshall his thoughts, and then he looks at Fiona.

  ‘You must forgive me if this comes as a bit of a shock,’ he says lightly.

  Fiona’s relief that he taking it calmly is patent. She takes a breath, chuckles. ‘To me, too,’ she admits. ‘It’s just . . . well, I think it’s worth trying. Rent the cottage, come down for weekends and holidays. My flat doesn’t really work for a baby, and I hardly see Andy any more.’

  ‘The thing is,’ he says calmly, picking up his cup, taking a sip, ‘the cottage is let.’

  She stares at him. ‘Let?’ She sounds shocked, indignant. ‘How d’you mean? You didn’t tell me.’

  He pulls his mouth down at the corners: gives a little shrug. ‘It didn’t occur to me that you’d be interested. A friend of Mattie’s taken it on a six-month shorthold tenancy. I’ve no idea how long he plans to stay.’

  She looks so dismayed that he almost feels sorry for her: almost, but not quite.

  ‘Have you mentioned this plan to Andy?’ he asks.

  ‘No, of course not,’ she answers: she still hasn’t recovered from the shock. ‘You know very well he’s at sea. I just get texts from time to time.’ She shakes her head disbelievingly. ‘That cottage has been empty for months.’

  ‘Mmm,’ agrees Will, mentally blessing Tim, ‘but that’s how it goes. But I must admit I’m a bit surprised, Fi. I mean, Brockscombe? You always say it’s the back of beyond.’

  ‘I know, I know. I told you, things have changed. I want to reconnect with my family. Is that so difficult to take on board?’

  She looks out of the window, her happiness spoiled, her excitement doused. William watches her.

  You walked away from us for pastures new, he thinks. Now you want to stroll back in like nothing has changed.

  He wonders how Andy would react to Fiona’s plan; and Charlotte and Kat. He was touched when Charlotte asked if they could rent the cottage, delighted that she and Andy wanted to be so close by, but he isn’t so sure how Fiona would fit into the small community at Brockscombe. For himself, he knows he would hate it – to have her so close again when he’s learned so painfully to live without her – but would he have the right to block such a move?

  His relief that at the moment it isn’t in question is very great.

  ‘Perhaps you could find a place to rent here or in Ashburton,’ he suggests.

  ‘In dear old Ashbucket?’ It’s odd to hear Fiona still calling Ashburton by the affectionate name that the locals use for their town. ‘Too expensive for a bolt hole. Anyway, it’s not the point. I want to be on the spot. I want to see more of Oliver and to be part of his life. Part of the family rather than someone who just drops in occasionally. Surely you can understand that, Wills?’

  Of course he can understand it. It’s a huge joy and privilege to have his little family nearby, though he makes sure that they have plenty of privacy: he and Kat take nothing for granted.

  ‘And anyway,’ he says, ‘Andy might be posted somewhere else. Abroad even. It would be foolish to count on them staying at Brockscombe.’

  She stares at him, all her earlier jollity dissipated.

  ‘But they’d still have their base at Brockscombe, wouldn’t they?’

  He shrugs. ‘Who can say? After all, when Francis dies we shall all have to be moving on. We must just make the most of it while we can.’

  ‘Easy for you to say,’ she says sharply.

  He finishes his coffee. ‘Yes, it is. I’m sorry, Fi. Nothing I can do.’

  ‘You can let me know if this new tenant moves on.’

  ‘Yes, I can do that. Look, I must get back to the office.’ He hesitates. ‘Are you down for long or is this a flying visit?’

  ‘I’ve booked two nights. I was hoping to come over today and look at the cottage.’ She pauses. ‘I suppose your old cousin wouldn’t let me rent a few rooms in that great empty house of his?’

  William laughs and gets up. ‘No chance. So will you be out to see us later on?’

  She nods. ‘I’ll text Charlotte and see if she’s around.’

  He nods, bends to kiss her and goes out into the bright spring sunshine.

  CHAPTER THREE

  FIONA WATCHES HIM go and then orders more coffee. She’s been so sure, so confident, that her plan will work that she doesn’t quite know what to do next. It never occurred to her that Cousin Francis would let the cottages to anyone who wasn’t family. Andy’s cottage was empty for more than a year after the aged retainers moved out, and now the other cottage . . .

  Fiona sighs, a short sharp breath of frustration. It’s such a good plan that she cannot bear to relinquish it. Just lately, each time she returns to London she carries with her the remembrance of the little world at Brockscombe: the laughter, the closeness – the sense of family that she forfeited five years ago when she put her career first.

  Perhaps it had been unreasonable to say that, whilst William could be an accountant anywhere, this was a unique offer that she simply couldn’t refuse. After all, he’d been part of his practice for twenty years, j
oining straight from university, working hard until he was made a partner. Even so . . .

  Fiona props her elbows on the table, coffee cup cradled in her hands and stares out into the street. Back then, the lure of London, a top architect’s practice – and Sam, of course – had been irresistible. Sam Deller, the top man, whose cousin had bought one of the Salcombe flats and mentioned Fiona to Sam, had been the biggest draw of all. He was funny, clever, determined, successful. Sam always got what he wanted, and he wanted Fiona. She was unable to resist his charm, his compliments, and – most of all – the fact that he was falling in love with her. How potent it all was: how special, brilliant and desirable he made her feel. Hadn’t there been a song about it once: ‘Falling in Love with Love’?

  Fiona sips her coffee reflectively. How ordinary poor old Wills looked beside Sam’s glamour; how pedestrian his objectives. On her weekends at home in Ashburton nothing measured up any more: those glorious long walks over the moor that they loved; the fun of a delicious cup of coffee gossiping with Dave and Steve in the Studio Teashop; happy evenings in the wine bar with their friends. These pleasures had faded beside all that London – and Sam – showed her.

  When his wife divorced Sam, two years later, Fiona really thought they’d be together, until she realized that there were other women whom Sam made feel special, brilliant, desirable – new women who were much younger than she was. Oddly, it was almost a relief: as if some spell had been broken. Even so, it was only recently that she became aware of something important missing in her life.

  Fiona puts down her cup and digs her fingers into her temples, pushing back her hair. She knows the exact moment that she felt this change: it was when Andy put Oliver into her arms and said, ‘There you are, Grandmama. Say hello to Oliver.’