The Songbird

by Marcia Willett

  When, wonders William now, did Sam stop being a joke and become a threat? From being slightly hyper, Fiona grew sullen; William’s suspicions, his questions, began to irritate her. When she saw that he was not content simply to be prepared to sit and watch her being happy, to listen to her London stories and how Sam pursued her, she became distant. Now it became clear that their life together in Ashburton simply wasn’t enough and when finally he confronted her she chose London.

  Sometimes he wonders if she saw the whole thing as a game – after all, she didn’t want a divorce – and perhaps she always suspected that once the game was played out she might come back.

  William shakes his head: it’s too far-fetched, too complicated a concept. Nevertheless, he feels threatened – and helpless.

  Kat is practising. Each day, using the Rayburn’s rail as a barre, she works through her routine: pliés, battements, développés, port de bras. She likes to keep fit, stretched, supple. Miche’s autobiography has unsettled her, reminded her of times past, awoken a hunger within her.

  ‘Do you remember Jazz Calendar?’ Miche has written in a card accompanying the latest chapter. ‘The first time we partnered each other in “Friday’s Child”?’

  Of course she remembers. Kat rises on her toes, turns; right hand on the barre, left outstretched, she begins her pliés ‘on the other side’. When she was just eighteen she’d danced the narcissistic ‘Monday’s Child’: androgynous, stylish, her hands flat against her thighs, she’d flaunted before an imaginary mirror. Later, when she joined Miche’s dance company, they’d danced the raunchy ‘Friday’s Child’ ‘loving and giving’ pas de deux – ‘sex through classicism’, as someone said – to Richard Rodney Bennett’s jazz score. What fun they’d had back then: what tears and tantrums and joy. When she discovered her own talent as a choreographer – the exciting prework in some small out-of-the-way studio, sculpting on the young dancers, allowing Gyorgy’s music to inspire the steps – Miche had encouraged and supported her.

  ‘Come back to us,’ he says from time to time. ‘Come home, Irina. There’s still work to be done. You’ve mourned Gyorgy long enough.’

  In the autumn he will be auditioning dancers for a new musical scheduled for the West End and he wants her to work with him on the choreography. The temptation is very strong. Yet she is fearful; fearful that her talent died with Gyorgy, that she is too old . . .

  ‘Too old?’ roars Miche contemptuously, when she says this. ‘Rubbish, darling. Look at Gillian Lynne.’

  He always says this – and indeed, Gillian Lynne is her icon.

  ‘I’m thinking about it,’ she says to Miche. ‘Honestly. Give me time.’

  ‘There isn’t any time,’ he says brutally. ‘I want you on board for this production, Irina.’

  Yet it is hard to consider leaving Brockscombe, which has been her first real home since her childhood. Here is security, peace, family. All those years of squalid digs and dreary rented rooms, draughty church halls and stuffy studios, trains and planes and luggage . . .

  A knock on the door, a voice calling, ‘Hello, anybody in?’ disturbs her reverie and she flings open the kitchen door to see Cousin Francis standing on the step, leaning on his stick. The mere sight of his tall, angular shape, his brown eyes which are already crinkling into that familiar smile, warms her heart.

  ‘Francis,’ she says. ‘Darling Francis. However are you?’

  He follows her slowly into the kitchen, unfazed by her leggings and oversize sweatshirt and soft ballet shoes: he’s seen Kat practising many times.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he answers. ‘I decided I needed a little outing so I whizzed down on the stairlift and here I am.’

  She gives him a little hug, feeling the bony cage of his ribs, aware of his frailty. ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Oh, yes, please. So what’s going on?’

  She turns with the coffee pot in one hand. ‘Going on?’

  Francis shrugs. ‘I just feel that something might be.’

  ‘Well.’ Kat busies herself with making coffee whilst she decides how much to tell him and settles on the truth. ‘We had an unexpected visit from Fiona. She wants to get a bolt hole close at hand so as to be more involved with Ollie. Actually, she was hoping for the other cottage.’

  He raises his eyebrows and she bursts out laughing. ‘Well, you can imagine. A cat among the pigeons, Francis darling. Thank goodness we’ve got Tim in situ. She wasn’t best pleased, our Fi. Tim was brilliant.’

  She puts the coffee pot and mugs on the table and sits down opposite.

  ‘What do you think of Tim?’ she adds idly.

  His eyes drift away from hers, looking in the distance, as if he is able to see deep into Tim’s mind and heart. Francis has a habit of doing this, which always gives Kat an odd sense of being in the presence of someone who has an extra dimension: who can see and hear things unknown to her. It’s as if he is consulting a wisdom much greater than his own and she watches him, almost holding her breath.

  ‘I like Tim,’ Francis says, ‘but I sense a mystery. I can’t decide whether he is running away from something or towards something.’

  ‘Maybe,’ she suggests, ‘he’s just taking time out. You know. Between one thing and the next?’

  Francis’ eyes drift back again and he smiles at her reassuringly. ‘Very likely. Has Mattie been down to see him?’

  Kat frowns at the question. ‘No. Why?’

  Francis shrugs. ‘Just wondered. And what about you?’

  ‘Me?’ She pours coffee, slightly distracted, wondering if he is able to read her thoughts. ‘What about me?’

  ‘Are you still taking time out?’

  Kat heaves a deep breath. ‘Why do you ask that?’

  He indicates the untidy pile at the end of the table: the manuscript with its heading, A Dancer’s Life for Me: the photos of dancers and stage sets that are splayed out beside it; a CD by a modern jazz composer.

  ‘But Brockscombe is home,’ she says, as if she is answering his question.

  ‘Is it?’

  She stares at him, shocked. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Home is where you live and work and have your being. Refuge is a place where you hide to lick your wounds and recover from pain.’

  ‘So you think Brockscombe is my refuge?’

  ‘How long is it now?’

  She thinks about it. ‘Two years, nearly three. I still miss him.’

  His glance lingers on her practice clothes. ‘You’ll always miss him. So what? You shouldn’t let it disable you.’

  Kat begins to laugh. ‘Thank you for your sympathy, dear Francis.’

  ‘Sympathy.’ Francis snorts derisively. ‘So undermining.’ He leans towards her. ‘Why would you want sympathy? You’ve got all this . . .’ he hesitates and then taps his head, ‘. . . this stuff going to waste.’ He nods towards the CD. ‘Go on. Let’s hear it.’

  She hesitates, then gets up and puts it into the CD player on the shelf. The kitchen is filled with the sound of a Spanish guitar, drums, percussion, and Kat stands still whilst movement and colour and shapes fill her vision. Francis watches her, finishes his coffee.

  ‘I’ve always wished I could dance,’ he says wistfully. ‘Always had two left feet.’

  She blinks at him as if he is out of focus, and then crosses the floor to bend over him and kiss his thin cheek.

  ‘You are a blessing,’ she says.

  ‘Does that mean I get more coffee?’

  ‘Yes,’ she says, ‘it does.’

  ‘And then, dear Kat, you should get back to your practising.’

  ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Yes, do you know, I really think I should.’

  Francis pauses in the sunshine, grateful for its warmth. Slowly, carefully, he makes his way around to the front of the house and stands looking out across the carriage drive, beyond the sunken ha-ha to the woods. Here, out of the shelter of the courtyard, it is much colder: the easterly March wind scours and polishes the clear empty sky to an icy blue. Francis
huddles himself more deeply into his coat. He is thinking of Kat’s question and what it is about Tim that connects with his, Francis’, own experience. There is something he recognizes in the younger man: something held back. Tim, he suspects, is a man with a secret – and Francis knows all about secrets.

  As he looks at the airy clouds of spring blossom, listens to the clamour of birdsong, he reminds himself not to be hubristic. It is not in his gift to protect all these people who have gathered by chance here at Brockscombe. Nevertheless, he cares about them – his little surrogate family – and even Tim, who is a stranger to them, has awakened his paternal instincts.

  It is odd for such a young man to require a sabbatical, to give up a good job and come to live amongst strangers. It seems that he has no family, though Mattie has known him for a while and is clearly fond of him. No friends visit him. Perhaps it is true that Tim is looking for a new direction in his life but Brockscombe seems an unlikely place to choose: so remote and out of the world.

  ‘Mind your own business,’ Francis tells himself, but he offers up a prayer for wisdom, lest help should suddenly become necessary, and feeling comforted he goes back to his quarters on the top floor.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  IN APRIL THE cold, sweet, fragile spring is blown away by wild gales that stream in from the south-west. Rotten branches crash down from flailing trees, scattering twigs and dead leaves, blocking the lanes: storm-driven, white-tipped rollers shoulder powerfully along the cliffs, wrenching up boulders, stones, rocks, and dumping them all anyhow along the littoral. Chimneys tumble, slates smash. Delicate blossoms lie crushed and torn, strewn confetti-like in gutters and ditches. Sheep huddle with their gawky, shivering lambs beneath protecting thorn hedges whilst, overhead, gulls are tossed like flakes of paper against the dark, stormy sky.

  Tim stands aghast before this display of elemental destruction. Never before has he witnessed such brutal force: never realized with such clarity that puny man is not in control of his universe. Nothing in his quiet city life and hot sunshiny holidays abroad has prepared him for this experience. Oh, he has seen terrible images on television, witnessed the drama and grief at second-hand, but never has he felt the wind’s hands tearing at his clothes, battering his face, buffeting him along. He is horrified and exhilarated all at once. As he drives in the lanes at the edge of the moor, peering upwards through the streaming rain at lashing branches and scurrying clouds, he wonders why he is not afraid. But then why should he be afraid? He has nothing to lose.

  This knowledge emphasizes his vulnerability, his aloneness. On an impulse he pulls into a trampled muddy gateway and fumbles in his pocket for his iPhone. He scrolls down, presses the key and puts the phone to his ear.

  She answers immediately. ‘Hi.’

  He relaxes, slumping a little in his seat. ‘Hi, Mattie. Listen, I’m in a little, narrow lane driving through this massive gale. I’ve never seen anything like it.’

  She laughs. ‘Crazy man. Why would you do that? It can be dangerous. You might get a tree across your car.’

  ‘I know.’ He laughs with her, feels a sudden glorious upwelling of joy. It’s always been easy to laugh with Mattie. ‘When are you coming down?’

  A surprised little silence, then: ‘Oh, well, I’m not sure. I usually wait for an invite from Charlotte.’

  ‘You could come here. I mean you could stay with me.’

  Mattie begins to laugh again. ‘Well, I could. I mean, why not?’

  ‘Yeah, why not?’

  ‘OK.’ She sounds amused, intrigued. ‘So, this weekend then?’

  ‘I know it’s short notice. Is that possible?’

  ‘Mmm, just about. I’ll drive down after work tomorrow. You’ll have to explain to Charlotte, though she’ll be relieved not to have the trouble of the camp bed in the sitting-room.’

  ‘Why should she mind? After all, if I were living somewhere else you’d come and stay with me, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Would I? Yes, I suppose I would. If you asked me.’

  ‘Well, then. That’s great.’

  ‘Tomorrow evening, then. I shall be late, probably not much before ten.’

  As he drives home the exhilaration remains with him: the degenerative disease that is eating its way into him might disappear; the prognosis might be wrong. Just for today, for this moment, all things are possible.

  His optimism buoys him up, carries him through the shopping, the search for bed linen and towels, the dusting and hoovering, so that when she comes driving into the yard, runs skittering across the wet flagstones, he has the door open ready for her and he pulls her inside out of the rain, hugging her, gazing down at her sweet face. He feels strong and confident, full of hope and courage.

  Mattie is here with him at Brockscombe: all will be well.

  It carries him into the evening, through the supper he has made for her, on to the sofa together before the log-burner, where she gazes at the flames and falls into a doze against his shoulder. She is warm and heavy and he is full of protective love for her, and a longing desperate lust, so that when she wakens, and looks around puzzled for a moment and then smiles at him, he pulls her close, kisses her, and they make love. The relief, the bliss of it – this intimate, passionate act that he’d thought never to perform again – swamps him with such gratitude that he weeps silently, violently, for a moment, crushing her against him so that she can’t see him or feel him shaking.

  They stumble together up the narrow staircase, perform the necessary acts in the small bathroom, and then fall together into his bed, holding each other closely. The night is full of love.

  Saturday is full of family: of meetings with Aunt Kat and William, of Mattie playing with Ollie, a walk in the lane with Wooster, and all of them sharing supper in Charlotte’s cottage.

  And on Sunday, after lunch, she is gone, with a toot of the horn, a flourish of a hand from the window. Everyone is there to see her off – it’s accepted that she has been to Brockscombe to see them all – and Tim’s time with her alone has been brief but incredibly special.

  He slips quietly away, walking off into the grounds, where hellebores and vincas flourish beside the overgrown paths that wind through the wood. He’s still thinking about Mattie, not really noticing his surroundings, so that the cleared area takes him by surprise. He sees small headstones all amongst the overgrown grass and stands still with shock: it is a graveyard. Just for a moment he thinks that these must be the graves of children until he moves closer, bending to read the inscriptions, and sees that these are dogs: Mitzi, Benny, Jimbo . . . each name has an image roughly carved into the stone. There are spaniels, terriers and Labradors here, and on the newest grave – of a cairn terrier called Brack – is a small posy of primroses.

  Tim crouches before the grave in the long wet grass. The carving brings to life the small dog and he can imagine the pricked ears, the bright eyes, the rough warm coat. Long ago he knew just such a little dog: running with him in the sunshine, cuddling with him on the sofa. His name was Ban.

  Still crouching before the grave, Tim bends his head, closing his eyes as if to ward off the familiar grief and guilt. It’s as if he can feel again the gate-latch, cold and smooth and stiff beneath his small fingers; he can remember how he cried out a greeting to his mother on the opposite pavement, about to cross the road towards him. She was carrying the shopping bag in one hand, waving to him with the other. To his surprise the latch clicked free, the gate swung open – he’d never managed that before – and quick as a flash Ban slipped out, dashing into the road, with Tim behind him.

  He can remember his mother’s scream as she ran forward, the squeal of brakes, the thump of flesh on metal. He could just see her legs, bent at an odd angle beneath the wheels of the car, shopping rolled everywhere, and then his father came hurrying out, pushing Tim aside, and someone lifted and carried him away.

  Afterwards, his father wanted Ban rehomed, he couldn’t stand the sight of him. It seemed that he couldn’t stand the sight of any
one, family or friends. He took a job abroad and Tim went to live with his grandmother, and with Ban. Ban became the recipient of his tears and guilt, his confusion, his fear. The little dog was his friend, his comfort, his connection with all that he had known and loved for nearly four years.

  Tim stands up, wondering to whom Brack belonged: old Cousin Francis, perhaps? But surely it’s not Francis who picks wild flowers in this small damp wood to honour Pan or the grave of a little dog?

  He wishes now he’d brought Mattie to see Pan, and, as he thinks of her, the courage and hope that have carried him through the weekend drain away from him, leaving him lonely and afraid. That elemental moment, during the storm, breached his defences and allowed his love to betray him into believing that he might have a future with Mattie. He has been so careful to allow nobody to come close to him since Rachel left him. Not that it was a particularly serious relationship. He has no regrets about that. His only real regret is that when he first met Mattie she had a boyfriend and then, when they broke up, he and Rachel had already begun their relationship.

  Standing in the dogs’ graveyard, gazing around him, Tim tries to convince himself that it was all for the best: that Mattie, like Rachel, having heard the diagnosis, might have left him just as abruptly. At least Mattie doesn’t pity him, feel sorry for him. Their lovemaking was genuine, glorious: he felt viable, alive. He hugs the memory of it to him, warming himself in its residual glow.

  As he turns he just glimpses a movement in the trees, a tall shadowy figure slipping away out of sight. Tim pauses, peering into the woodland, wondering if it is Rob, but there is no one there. He hurries back, suddenly in need of companionship, of warmth.