The Songbird

by Marcia Willett

  ‘Well, she’ll definitely want to see him,’ Charlotte agreed, ‘though, if you don’t mind I’d rather it was the last weekend than the first. The first is always a bit strange, getting used to each other again, and I’d want some privacy with Andy and Oliver. But the last weekend is emotional, knowing he’s going and all of that, so having people around can be quite good.’

  William understood that. ‘If you’re certain,’ he said. ‘You and Andy and Oliver are the important ones here.’

  ‘I’ll leave you to arrange it with her,’ Charlotte said, ‘but stay firm about the second weekend.’

  He promised he would and later he mentioned it to Kat.

  ‘Much nicer for Fiona to be here than at the pub,’ Kat said at once. ‘It’s always difficult to know when you can turn up when you’re not on the spot and it’s nice to have your own space to disappear into when you feel like it. Of course she’ll want to see Andy – we all do – but Charlotte and Ollie come first. It’ll be bad enough for them to have us around at all, I should think. We need to be very tactful. I can see Charlotte’s point about it being the last weekend for Fiona. I’m sure she’ll understand that.’

  ‘You seemed to be getting on better with her last time she was here,’ he ventured.

  ‘I know.’ Kat looked puzzled, thinking it out. ‘I think we very slightly demonized her after she left. We cast her in the role of the wicked witch, didn’t we? I’m not making excuses for her or anything but I think the more we did it the more she reacted to it, so that it became a self-fulfilling prophecy. That last time, when I met her at the pub when I was with Jerry, I saw her as the old Fiona, the one we used to know and love, and everything slipped back into focus.’

  William wasn’t sure how to respond. He still felt bitter and hurt when he thought about Sam, and how Fiona had behaved, but what Kat said was true: his anger had eroded any love and kindness between them until only dislike was left. It had been so hard at those family events to present a jolly, smiling exterior, to pretend that he and Fiona were still good friends, but it was necessary for Andy’s sake.

  Then, this last time, it was as if something that had been painfully out of joint suddenly slipped back into place. He was able to be friendly to her and, in turn, she was able to respond so that a small miracle occurred. It was so good, so important to him, that he was unable to broach the subject of his invitation to her to stay during Andy’s leave whilst she sat here in the kitchen. He was afraid that she might question him: ‘Why now? What’s changed?’ And how would he answer?

  He knows it’s foolish but he didn’t want to risk this new entente cordiale, but now he regrets his pathetic timidity. As soon as he is alone with her again, he tells himself, he will ask her if she would like to stay for a night or two during the special occasion of Andy’s leave – and beyond that he refuses to think.

  ‘Did William tell you his plan?’ Charlotte is asking Fiona as they watch Oliver lying on his rug, kicking his legs.

  She sees by Fiona’s blank expression that she’s jumped the gun, but, after all, it doesn’t really matter which of them invites Fiona and she’s been so much nicer just lately; less prickly and sarcastic.

  ‘Andy’s got a week’s leave next month and we were wondering if you’d like to come down for the last weekend of it,’ she says. ‘William thought you might like to stay with him and Aunt Kat so as to get in a bit more quality time rather than dashing between here and the pub.’

  Fiona’s face first shows surprise, and then such delight that Charlotte almost feels embarrassed.

  ‘Just a night or two,’ she mumbles, ‘but not the first weekend, if you don’t mind.’

  Fiona shakes her head quickly. ‘No, of course not. I quite see that you want to be on your own, the three of you. I’d love to, of course I would.’

  ‘William was going to ask you. It was his idea. Better pretend I haven’t put my foot in it. He’s planning a barbecue for Saturday night for everyone.’

  Fiona laughs. ‘Perhaps he’s changed his mind about asking me. I wouldn’t blame him. But I’ll come anyway, if I may, and stay at the pub as usual. Thanks, Charlotte. I really appreciate you inviting me. It’s such a short time and you haven’t seen Andy for ages.’

  ‘Well, neither have you.’

  They sit together for a moment in silence, staring down at Oliver, who is trying to roll himself over. Charlotte realizes that being a mother has very slightly changed her attitude towards Fiona. She feels less defensive of her position as Andy’s wife. This new relaxation within her appears to have struck a chord with Fiona, who seems less determined to fight her corner. Charlotte is almost tempted to tell Fiona how lonely she gets; how difficult, sometimes, it is becoming to remember Andy properly, and that she actually feels quite nervous about seeing him again. It is impossible, however, to frame the words and a part of her shrinks from discussing their intimate and private life with his mother.

  ‘He’ll be crawling soon,’ observes Fiona, leaning to tickle Oliver with one of his soft toys. ‘Then you’ll really have to watch out. He’ll be into everything and you won’t have a moment’s peace. Have you got a playpen?’

  Charlotte shakes her head. ‘Not yet. But I think you’re right. Even now, when he’s on his front, he can inch his way along like a little seal.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ says Fiona tentatively, ‘I could buy you one for him. I’d like to do that. We could go off after lunch and have a look for one.’

  Charlotte is about to say that she’d probably buy one online when she realizes that Fiona would enjoy a little expedition with them both, choosing Oliver’s playpen.

  ‘Thanks,’ she says. ‘That would be fun.’

  To her surprise she even believes it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  FRANCIS WAITS AND watches. He watches Will and Fiona at the Friday night barbecue; he sees Kat sitting on the bench listening to Charlotte, though her expression shows that mentally she is elsewhere, and Charlotte’s face as she looks at them all with a trepidation that indicates her anxiety at the prospect of leaving them. Most of all he watches Tim.

  He notices how, when Tim has received his blessing at the Mass, he sits down and relaxes; his forearms resting on his thighs, wrists loose between his knees, his eyes closed. He looks totally at peace; he breathes deeply. Francis is more and more convinced that Tim’s preoccupation is not simply to do with a tragedy that happened more than a quarter of a century ago and he wonders what it is that hounds him.

  He remembers how they exchanged secrets but he guesses that Tim, too, withheld something. Francis is waiting for the right moment to offer his own last secret as a gesture to free Tim from the load he carries. He suspects how it might be done but still he waits.

  His opportunity comes after a morning at Buckfast when they arrive home at Brockscombe and Tim is preparing to help him back to his quarters. Francis pauses to stand in the sunshine, watching the house martins swooping in to feed their young in the nests beneath the eaves, and to inhale the heady scent of the sweet williams in the wooden tubs. Nobody is around.

  ‘Do you know,’ he says, putting a hand on Tim’s arm as he takes the wheelchair from the back of the car, ‘I have such a longing to see Pan one more time. I can’t walk that far but how do you feel about attempting it with the wheelchair? It’s rough going but I think we might make it.’

  Tim looks pleased at the idea.

  ‘It’ll shake you around a bit,’ he warns, ‘but if you’re up for it I certainly am.’

  ‘Good man,’ says Francis contentedly. He casts his stick aside and settles himself in the chair.

  He wants to be away and out of sight before either Kat or Charlotte comes driving in and offers to accompany them. William is at the office so he has no fear of his arriving. Francis clasps his hands tightly together, praying for guidance and wisdom, and, crucially, that his instincts are reliable. Soon, however, he is overcome by the glory of the day and the splendour of the woods around him. He sees the blue f
lash of a jay and hears his harsh call; rabbits lollop in and out of the undergrowth, pausing to sit and stare before dashing off with a kick of their hind legs and a scatter of earth. Rhododendrons tall as trees are in flower, pink and white and purple, and, deep in the shadows, the delicate silver birch trees are pale and elegant as ghosts.

  Tim wheels the chair carefully over the mossy paths and stops beside the little statue. Honeysuckle is draped around Pan’s neck and wild roses are thrust between his fingers. On the plinth, beside his small stone toes, a wrapped sweet is lying. Francis stares at it, his heart beating faster, memories jostling and moving him almost to tears. Tim steps forward and picks up the sweet. He examines it, turns it over, passes it to Francis and then wheels him to the wooden seat.

  ‘So who is it,’ he asks, ‘who garlands Pan and leaves him chocolates?’

  He sits down on the bench and looks at Francis, who sits at an angle beside him so that Tim can see his face. Francis holds the sweet in his fingers and looks back at him.

  ‘It is my son,’ he answers.

  Clearly this is not an answer Tim is expecting and he gives a little start of shock. His brows come together in a frown of disbelief. Francis can almost see him doing the sums in his head.

  ‘Your son? But your sons are grown up. They live abroad. Or is there . . .?’

  ‘I have another son. I told you I had an illegitimate child.’

  ‘But you said that that was in the early days of your marriage.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Francis. ‘It was. Maxie is in his late fifties but he has never progressed beyond the mental age of a six- or seven-year-old. Now that his mother is dead he lives at a special home in Exeter and one weekend each month he stays with the couple who look after me. He loves these woods.’

  Tim stares at him. Instinctively he reaches out his hand and Francis takes it gratefully. It feels strong and warm in his thin, cold one.

  ‘I am so sorry.’ Tim shakes his head as if knowing no words will be adequate, and tightens his grip. ‘I brought him a toy car and left it on the arm of the seat.’

  Francis smiles. ‘He showed it to me. He was so happy. He said he’d made a smiley face out of stones and cones, and that you’d changed it. He thought it was so funny. He drew it on a piece of paper for me so that I could see.’

  Tim bites his lips. ‘It was gone the next time I came back but he left me a sweet like this one as if to thank me for the car.’

  Francis can see the tears in Tim’s eyes and prays silently that this is the moment; that now Tim will speak.

  ‘It was very kind of you,’ he says gently. ‘Maxie is a loving person. It gave him great pleasure. He might not live much longer . . .’

  Tim’s clutch tightens in a kind of spasm and he looks anguished.

  ‘Very few people know about Maxie,’ Francis goes on steadily, ‘but I want you to know. I want there to be no secrets between us. You have become very dear to me, Tim.’

  ‘I have this disease.’ Tim speaks quickly as though he is afraid he might lose courage. ‘It’s like MND. It attacks the muscles and then at the end you can’t breathe. I don’t want anyone to know because then people change towards you. Nothing’s normal any more once they know. You get this terrible pity . . .’

  So this is it: this is the terror with which Tim lives. His grasp is so tight that Francis feels his bones are being crushed but he makes no move.

  ‘Is that why you came to Brockscombe?’

  ‘Yes. It had been diagnosed but it’s a very rare strain and they couldn’t quite say how long I might have to live a normal independent life. My grandmother died last year and left me her house in Fulham so I sold it and invested the money and decided to go somewhere where nobody knew me.’

  ‘Mattie knows you.’

  Tim takes a breath and his grip loosens. ‘Mattie brought me here, yes, but it was far away enough from all my friends for me to feel free.’

  ‘She doesn’t know?’

  Tim shakes his head impatiently. ‘Can’t you see? It would ruin everything. I love her. And she loves me, but we can’t . . . I mean, how could we? And don’t tell me that medical research is always finding cures. They’ve asked me to be a guinea pig in some new drug trials but it’s so risky. Nobody knows about the side effects and all that stuff. I’m thinking about it.’

  ‘So what is your plan?’

  Tim is silent for a moment. ‘I told you I related to those poems of Gerard Manley Hopkins, didn’t I? I can relate to his despair. I’ve made up my mind to end it before it ends me. It’s easy enough to do. Not here, of course. I have a plan . . . it’s just a case of when.’

  Francis is filled with horror but he keeps very calm, still holding Tim’s hand. Birdsong echoes above them in the canopy; leaves rustle and stir in a current of warm air.

  ‘If you’ve read his poetry then you might remember these lines of his.’ Francis pauses, recalling them accurately before he speaks.

  I’ll . . .

  Not untwist . . . these last strands of man

  In me or, most weary, cry I can no more. I can;

  Can something, hope, wish day come, not choose not to be.

  ‘“Not choose not to be.”’ Tim smiles bleakly at him. ‘But imagine the waiting all alone for it to come and get you and destroy you and crush you to death.’

  ‘You’re not alone. You should tell Mattie and give her the choice.’

  Tim stares at him, shakes his head. ‘No, no. You’re wrong. I couldn’t bear it, you see. To see her face change. All that love turning to pity and then fear. What could she say? You won’t tell her, will you?’

  ‘Of course not. I shall tell no one.’

  ‘And I won’t tell anyone about Maxie. Thank you, Francis. I thought it was a child, you see. The child I used to be once. All very fanciful. Did your wife know about him?’

  ‘Oh, no. Liz knew nothing about Nell or Maxie. When Liz died Nell was already a widow and she came to see me, to bring Maxie. We’d lost touch, you see, after Nell married. I arranged a trust for Maxie and then it seemed easier, best for everyone, to stay out of her life with Bill and their new baby.’ He pauses, as if deciding whether to say something else, but then goes on: ‘I had no idea about Maxie’s lack of progression. It was a terrible shock. I felt, still feel, unbearably guilty. Nell’s husband had been so good with Maxie, so understanding, but Maxie should have been my responsibility. He was so happy here. Brack was alive then and he loved playing with him. We agreed, Nell and I, that the secret should still be kept and that I was to be her cousin Francis. We had just a few years together and then Nell died. Rob and Stella agreed to have Maxie to stay on his weekends out. Sometimes he has temper tantrums and I’m too feeble, now, to deal with him. Maxie’s very fond of them and Rob’s wonderful with him. Maxie’s a loving person. A happy person. I try to comfort myself with the fact that, given the choice, he would “not choose not to be.”’

  ‘I can see why he’s so happy here. So am I.’

  ‘And will you really go one day, Tim? Just disappear? Without telling us?’

  ‘What else can I do?’ Tim looks bleak. ‘What would you do? Wait until you were helpless and dependent with no family to support you? How can I possibly put such a responsibility on to Mattie?’

  Francis sits in silence. He can’t promise to be there for Tim: his life is nearly at its end. He lifts the moment up in prayer so that it might be taken out of his hands and limited wisdom.

  ‘Take me back, Tim,’ he says. ‘It’s been so good to come here again. Forgive me for intruding on your privacy. We old men think we know everything whilst in truth we know nothing. Thank you for being honest with me.’

  Tim stands up and turns the chair and they go back along the paths together in silence.

  Tim pushes the chair carefully, trying to avoid stones and ruts, but it is impossible not to jolt Francis, who steels himself against the rocky ride. It has in one sense been a huge relief to speak out, to tell the truth to someone whom he knows he can
trust. At the same time he feels weakened, as if he has allowed himself to give in to something that might now overpower him. Yet, as he looks down at the elderly man in the chair in front him, he thinks of Maxie and his heart is riven with compassion for Francis.

  I can;

  Can something, hope, wish day come, not choose not to be.

  He thinks of Hopkins’ words and a longing seizes him to make them his own. Yet for what can he hope? A few months with Mattie, tied to him by loyalty and pity?

  It’s a relief when they reach the courtyard to find that Charlotte has arrived home and is getting Oliver out of the car. Wooster comes to greet them, tail waving.

  ‘I saw Francis’ stick lying on the ground,’ she says, ‘and wondered what might have happened.’

  ‘Tim’s given me a little ride in the woods,’ Francis answers, leaning to pat Wooster.

  His voice is quite cheerful, and Tim is relieved. If everyone can be normal for a few moments it will help him to regroup. Charlotte is telling them about her lunch with naval friends and their children.

  ‘It’s always good to be with people who are going through the same thing,’ she says. ‘People try to understand but you’ve got to be doing it to know what it’s really like. I don’t just mean people in my situation but anything: being bereaved, being terminally ill, having no money.’

  Tim can think of nothing to say and it is Francis who comes to his rescue.

  ‘I wonder if I can be even more of a nuisance, Tim, and ask for a drink of water? It’s so hot today, isn’t it? Thank you,’ he adds as Tim gratefully hurries away to let himself into his cottage. ‘So where did you have lunch?’ he hears Francis asking Charlotte, and he stands for a moment to gather himself while they talk.

  He feels confused. A part of him dreads the thought of being alone, whilst another part feels quite incapable of holding a conversation with Charlotte, who might notice his distraction and question him. To his immense relief he hears a car engine and, peering through the window, he sees that Aunt Kat is arriving home. He knows what will happen now. This random meeting will morph into a courtyard jolly: tea will be made and brought out into the sunshine and everyone will indulge in an hour of fellowship.