The Songbird

by Marcia Willett

  Her instinctive awareness of his feelings both touched and amused him. That was when he knew he was already in too far: he was way out of his depth but he was hooked.

  And so here he is, driving into the courtyard and parking his car behind Fiona’s Fiat, and here is Kat, detaching herself from a group of people and coming to meet him. He gets out, still feeling nervous, and she leans to kiss him lightly on both cheeks and murmurs: ‘You made it! Congratulations. You win a cookie.’

  He laughs. ‘I prefer bacon and croissants,’ he replies.

  Kat hooks her hand lightly into the crook of his arm. ‘Later, perhaps. First you must suffer William’s “burnt-offerings”. Come and meet him.’

  As he goes with her to meet them all, he’s feeling exhilarated again: deep in, way over his head, and loving every minute of it.

  Francis, sitting between Tim and Charlotte, observes Jerry’s approach. He sees Kat’s greeting, the little private joke that relaxes Jerry and makes him laugh, so that he moves now with more ease and confidence. Kat is always elegant, always graceful. Her long skirt flares out around her ankles as she walks and as she turns her head to smile at Jerry her eyes are almost on the same level as his. His Anglo-Saxon fairness and chunky frame are a perfect foil for the dark hair and eyes of her Middle-European ancestors.

  Francis watches them with pleasure. There is a symmetry, a physical ease between them, which makes him believe that they are lovers and he silently applauds Jerry’s bravery for coming amongst them all. On either side of him Tim and Charlotte sit, alert and interested. Wooster struggles up from his recumbent position, near William and the barbecue, and goes to greet Jerry, who bends to stroke him, to renew their acquaintance. Tim stands up when Kat brings Jerry to be introduced but Francis exercises an old man’s privilege and remains seated. Jerry takes his hand in a firm grip: another good mark. Francis still believes that a strong handshake denotes a strong personality. As Tim hurries away to fetch a glass of wine, Jerry sits down and leans forward to smile at Charlotte.

  ‘Where’s Oliver?’ he asks. ‘Don’t tell me he’s not coming to the party?’

  She smiles at his little joke. ‘Fiona’s bathing him and getting him ready for bed. I left them to it. I thought it might be nice for her to have a break from me breathing down her neck and telling her how to do it.’

  Francis smiles appreciatively at this self-honest observation.

  ‘After all, it’s not as if she’s never bathed and put a baby to bed before,’ he observes gently.

  ‘Mmm,’ agrees Charlotte briefly, rather reluctantly.

  ‘But not your baby?’ suggests Jerry sympathetically. ‘It’s rather different, isn’t it? That’s what my girls used to say when their babies were very small.’

  She glances at him, surprised by his partisanship, and makes a little face and shrugs.

  ‘Silly, though, isn’t it?’

  ‘But understandable.’

  Tim brings him a drink and Jerry stands up to take it, smiles at them, and wanders off towards William and Kat.

  Charlotte stirs restlessly. ‘I think I’ll just go and check that they’re OK and she’s remembered to give him his bottle.’

  She goes into her cottage and Tim sits down again. Francis raises his eyebrows.

  ‘Not drinking?’

  Tim shakes his head. ‘I don’t much these days, what with one thing and another.’

  Francis is silent; he sips his gin and tonic thoughtfully.

  ‘I like the Gerard Manley Hopkins,’ Tim says suddenly. ‘It’s very . . . relevant.’

  One or two things fall into place and a terrible suspicion creeps into Francis’ mind.

  ‘I wish you’d come and see me,’ he says. ‘Will you? I’d like it so much.’

  ‘Yes. Thank you.’ It sounds as if Tim has suddenly made up his mind, put aside any reservations he’s had about revealing himself to Francis. ‘I’d like to.’

  ‘Good.’ Francis searches for a change of subject. ‘Isn’t it a pity that Mattie and Andy aren’t here to make up the family?’

  ‘Yes, it is. Of course, I’ve never met Andy.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll get on very well when you do.’

  It sounds rather like an order and he sees Tim give a little smile. He glances at Francis almost challengingly.

  ‘If I’m still here,’ he says lightly.

  And Francis knows now that his guess is right and he feels his gut lurch with fear and horror.

  ‘You will be,’ he says. He drops his hand briefly on Tim’s fist, clenched between them on the bench. ‘Come and see me.’

  Then Fiona appears, flushed and exuberant from bathing Oliver, and drops down beside Francis.

  ‘I’d forgotten how exhausting babies are,’ she says. ‘Be an angel, Tim, and get me a drink. Wine, please. Red. Bless you,’ and as Tim gets up she smiles at Francis and settles herself comfortably. ‘I haven’t see you for years and years,’ she says. ‘You’re looking great.’

  He laughs, quite ready to enjoy her flattery, and to let bygones be bygones if that’s what William wants.

  ‘You’re looking pretty good yourself,’ he answers. ‘For a granny.’

  They both laugh and when Tim returns with her glass she raises it to Francis.

  ‘I’ll drink to that,’ she says.

  ‘Glad you could come,’ William says to Jerry. ‘I’m sorry I missed you yesterday afternoon. It sounds as if you had a good time.’

  ‘I certainly did. We met Fiona in the pub and she invited me here to meet her grandson. It was very sweet of her.’

  William nods. ‘She’s very proud of Oliver. Well, we all are, of course, but she doesn’t see him quite so much as we do.’

  As he turns the pieces of steak and checks out the sausages he wonders just how much Kat might have told Jerry about his and Fiona’s situation. Fiona is being so amenable, such good value, that – rather foolishly – he hopes that Kat hasn’t explained everything to Jerry. It’s crazy but he’s enjoying the old familiarity, which has unexpectedly resurrected itself, and – just for this weekend at least – it’s great to joke and laugh as if the last five years never happened.

  William takes another pull at his ale. He’s drinking a bit too much this weekend but he feels more relaxed than he’s been for ages. It’s good to have everyone here together, no squabbling and back-biting, enjoying themselves and being happy. And he likes Jerry. Kat sent him a text the night before: Staying over. C u a m, with a smiley emoticon, and he was feeling so relaxed and jolly after the supper party that he simply replied: Enjoy. When she arrived home he could see that she was in good spirits and so he suggested that Jerry should be invited to this impromptu barbecue.

  William hesitates to mention anything of a personal nature but he approves of anyone who might keep Kat here at Brockscombe.

  ‘It’s just a shame,’ he says to Jerry, who has taken to himself the responsibility of buttering some rolls piled next to the barbecue, ‘that Andy can’t be here. He loves this kind of thrash. I’d like you to meet him.’

  ‘You must miss him,’ says Jerry sympathetically. ‘Charlotte’s doing a great job with Oliver, isn’t she? She must miss him, too. She’s lucky to have you so near at hand with Andy away for so long and a new baby to look after.’

  William beams at him. Yes, he definitely likes this Jerry Whatshisname. He slips Wooster a small gobbet of steak.

  ‘Have another drink,’ he says, but Jerry shakes his head.

  ‘I wish I could but I’m driving,’ he says, ‘so I’m taking it slowly.’

  ‘Why don’t you stay the night?’ offers William, feeling full of hospitality. ‘We’ve got a perfectly good spare bedroom.’

  Just for a moment he sees in his mind’s eye the spare bed loaded with Kat’s belongings but he shrugs it away.

  ‘That’s very kind,’ Jerry is saying, ‘but I couldn’t possibly impose on you at such short notice. Anyway, I haven’t any things with me.’

  William is about to
protest that he could lend anything required but the image of the spare room recurs more forcefully and he decides to accept the situation gracefully.

  ‘Next time,’ he promises Jerry. ‘Next time you must stay with us.’

  Jerry agrees, and so the goodwill between them increases.

  ‘Look at them,’ says Fiona, sitting with Kat on the bench. ‘Sweet, isn’t it? All that male bonding over the sausages.’

  ‘What is it with men and barbecues?’ wonders Kat.

  ‘Atavistic, sweetie. The hunter-gatherer thing. All that chasing prey and building campfires and cooking bits of raw meat on the ends of their spears and being matey.’

  ‘And what about the women?’

  ‘Ah, well, we’d be back at the cave gathering berries and nuts and stuff, and looking after the babies and growing nourishing things.’

  Kat shakes her head. ‘Not me, darling. Not a nurturer, me.’

  Fiona laughs, sips her wine. ‘Did you never think of marriage, Kat? Not even with Gyorgy? You loved that man.’

  ‘Mmm, but not in a having and holding and forsaking all others kind of way, and I certainly didn’t want to have his babies. It was to do with what he was, how he thought, and the music he composed that simply translated itself into movement.’ She shakes her head. ‘I can’t explain it. Did you feel like that with William? All possessive and maternal?’

  Fiona studies him affectionately. ‘I suppose I did in a way. William never tried to smother me. He always gave me space. But I did want a baby. I adored Andy. Still do.’

  ‘And now Ollie.’

  ‘Yes. And now Ollie.’ Fiona shifts sideways and turns to look at Kat. ‘We missed you at supper last night.’

  ‘Did you?’ Kat is grinning. ‘Sweet of you.’

  ‘Mm-hm. Charlotte was worried that you weren’t back when the party broke up. I made up some fiction about you going to a film. What did she say when you showed up this morning?’

  ‘Nobody saw me. And before you ask, it’s none of your business.’

  They begin to laugh just as Tim and Charlotte come out carrying bowls of salad and William calls that supper is ready.

  ‘The baked meats await us. Oh joy. Scorched on the outside, raw in the middle, packed with E. coli,’ murmurs Fiona. ‘Can’t wait.’

  ‘Wooster is at hand,’ replies Kat. ‘Make sure he’s near our end of the table.’

  ‘And bring the bottle,’ says Fiona.

  ‘Aren’t you driving?’

  ‘Jerry can drop me off on his way home. And I invite you all to lunch at the Cott tomorrow and then I can come back with you and fetch my car afterwards. Don’t be a party-pooper, Kat. I’ve never had such a good weekend at Brockscombe and I don’t want it to stop yet.’

  The thrush is still singing in the ash tree when Francis slips away just as they all gather around the barbecue to collect their plates, with Wooster in close attendance. He pauses with his hand on the gate to watch as Kat puts an arm around Jerry’s waist and gives him a brief hug, and he notes Jerry’s quick response. William is choosing a special piece of steak for Fiona and she is clearly teasing him about his cooking skills, which makes him protest and pretend to look hurt so that she leans forward and gives him a quick conciliatory kiss. Tim is helping Charlotte to salad, talking to her and making a gesture to reassure her that Oliver will sleep through the noise.

  It seems, in this moment, that they are all his beloved children, his family. Francis gives one last look and then passes through the gate into the shadows.

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  SHE CAN HEAR the lark somewhere high above her but though she shades her eyes she cannot see him against the blue dazzle of the skies. Just here, sheltered by an outcrop of granite and tall banks of golden-flowering gorse, it is hot. Mattie smooths out her thick plaid rug, kneels down and opens her small wicker hamper. She loves picnics. When she and Charlotte were very small a picnic was their favourite treat: helping their mother to pack up the car with rugs, the hamper, the toys of the moment and whichever dog was presently in their lives. The moor was their back garden. They knew where the first bluebells would bloom, played on the shingly little riverside beaches that the tourists never found. They loved the cloudy shapes of the hawthorn blossom and the bell heather washing in a purple tide around the side of a tor.

  Even now, Mattie never travels without her rug and her hamper containing a Thermos flask, sachets of fruit tea, some biscuits and the makings of a sandwich. Driving down from London she’s had just this place in mind, imagining it: up behind Ashburton at the edge of the moor, tucked out of the wind with its view across the valley to the high stony tors, watching the cloud shadows drifting across the hills, with the scent of the gorse all around her.

  She sits cross-legged, holding her mug of tea, leaning back against the warm rough rock. How peaceful it is: no sound except for the lark’s song and the distant rushing of the river-water deep in the steep-sided coombe below. Just for this moment nothing seems to matter very much. Anxieties, disappointments, weariness, all fall away from her as she breathes deeply and turns her face to the sun.

  It’s still early. She left London at six o’clock and it’s now just after ten. There’s plenty of time to decide how the day should be spent before she arrives for her mother’s birthday celebrations in Tavistock. Mattie has a few hours in hand and she wonders where she might spend them, and with whom. Nobody is expecting her quite this early and she’s kept her options open.

  Before she can make up her mind she hears the rhythmical pounding of paws on the hard ground, the rustle of dry bracken, and the dog appears. It hesitates, tail wagging, and Mattie gives a little cry of recognition. She sets down her mug and scrambles up, and Wooster greets her ecstatically, swiping her cheek with his tongue, panting with excitement.

  Mattie begins to laugh – her cover is fully blown – and she goes out to meet Charlotte, and comes face to face with Tim.

  ‘Oh, my God!’ she cries, and he stares at her in amazement, and with relief.

  ‘He got ahead of me,’ he says. ‘He just suddenly galloped off and I couldn’t keep up. I wondered who he’d met. But what are you doing here?’

  She sees that his shock is passing and he cannot contain his delight at seeing her.

  ‘Tim,’ she says, stretching out her arm to him, still holding Wooster with her other hand, ‘come and see my little cave. What on earth are you doing with Wooster?’ She stops suddenly. ‘Is Charlotte here?’

  ‘No, no. I’ve started to take Wooster for walks. It gives her a break and I’m rather enjoying it. Like a kind of “rent-a-dog”.’

  Mattie laughs. ‘But how amazing that you should be here.’

  ‘Charlotte brought me here a couple of times. It’s one of her favourite walks, she says, and now it’s mine. And Wooster’s, of course.’

  ‘We came here as children for picnics.’ Mattie hesitates, wondering how to explain. ‘I got away really early and just decided to come here before I made a plan.’

  ‘And was I going to be part of that plan?’

  She looks at him, sees his hopeful, tender expression, and looks away again. ‘You might have been. See how well I’m organized? Don’t you think it might have been fun to live in a cave? Come and have a tea or some hot chocolate. I always have a spare mug for a visitor.’

  ‘Do you?’ He sits beside her on the rug and Wooster flops at his feet. ‘Isn’t that rather a dangerous practice in the wilds like this? I’ll have a hot choc, as you’ve got one.’

  ‘Coming up.’ She tears the sachet and empties the powder into the mug. ‘It’s not quite like the real thing, but hey! Who cares on a day like this?’

  She hands it to him and sees that odd now-familiar look on his face: wistfulness, bitterness, determination. She wishes that he would tell her his secret: why he’s taking this sabbatical and how he really feels about her. She passes him a biscuit and breaks off a piece for Wooster.

  ‘Do you think he needs a drin
k?’

  They both look at Wooster who stretches out, nose on paws, gazing over the moor.

  ‘I know he had a good go-down at the leat,’ says Tim doubtfully. ‘I think he’s OK for a minute. I’ve got some water and his bowl in the car.’

  Mattie grins at him. ‘You’ll be getting your own dog next. What breed would you go for?’

  ‘Cairn,’ answers Tim. ‘I had one when I was a child.’

  He breaks off abruptly and looks away to the high moors as if he wishes he hadn’t told her. She watches him thoughtfully, drinks her tea.

  ‘Tim,’ she says – and he turns to look at her and she sees tears in his eyes – ‘can you hear the lark?’

  He listens to the liquid, bubbling song and she sees him smile.

  ‘This place is magical,’ he says. He looks at her. ‘I have you to thank for this, Matts. Bringing me to this place. To Brockscombe. To Devon.’

  She reaches a hand to him, and he seizes and kisses it, and she puts her empty cup down and kneels close to him. Reaching blindly behind him, he puts his own mug, half-full, out of harm’s way, and kneels up to hold her closely.

  ‘I love you,’ she says, almost conversationally. ‘I might just as well say it. You don’t have to say anything back. It’s OK, but I just need you to know it.’

  He holds her so tightly she can barely breathe and presses his face into her throat. ‘I do love you,’ he cries, his voice muffled, almost as if he is in some kind of anguish. ‘I do, but it’s just . . . it’s not that simple . . .’

  She turns her face, seeking for his lips, and they subside gently down on to the sun-warmed rug whilst Wooster sleeps, still and solid as a stone lion, guarding their privacy.

  She’s never experienced quite such urgent lovemaking, almost as if he feels he might die before he can finish, and afterwards he presses her close to him, breathing quickly. Instinctively she feels that it’s best to be prosaic and she moves her head just a little so that her lips are against his ear.

  ‘I don’t know about you,’ she murmurs, ‘but after that I think more tea is in order.’