The Songbird

by Marcia Willett

  Seb and I have the opportunity of a great investment, Dad. I know this sounds a bit pushy but how would you feel if we were to ask if we could raise a loan against Brockscombe? We’d be talking $400,000 to complete the deal. We could sort out all the nitty-gritty. I’m sending you a link so that you can see what it is we want to get hold of. I think you’ll agree it’s pretty spectacular. Let me know what you think.

  Francis leans from the window and wonders how he will answer his son. Both boys have no doubt that they will inherit Brockscombe, that it will be divided equally between them, and they will certainly have a pretty sound knowledge of its value. He noticed that when Seb was here in February he walked around the grounds, studied the house and the cottages; Francis could almost see him taking notes.

  ‘What about the tenants?’ Seb asked. ‘Shorthold tenancies? Good. That’s good.’

  There is no doubt in Francis’ mind that once he is dead and buried Brockscombe will be up for sale and the tenants given notice to quit. Yet these people, William and Kat, Charlotte and her baby, Tim, are almost as dear to him as his own family. And then there is Maxie . . .

  ‘I can’t believe you’ve still got all those toys and books in the playroom, Dad,’ Seb said on that last visit. ‘I didn’t take you for a sentimentalist. Once Mum died I thought all that would be gone.’

  ‘I have great-grandchildren,’ Francis answered gently. ‘I might see them again one of these days.’

  Seb flushed. ‘The young are all so busy,’ he said briefly. ‘We rarely see them ourselves and it’s a long haul to the UK with smalls. Though some of those toys have a rarity value, I shouldn’t wonder. But, honestly, Dad, I know you love it here, and all that, but don’t you think it’s time to be a bit more responsible and move into a smaller, modern place where you can be looked after properly?’

  ‘I’m looked after very well here,’ he answered, and smiled to himself. He could imagine Seb saying to Roger: ‘He’s just as pig-headed as he ever was. No chance of our getting our hands on Brockscombe just yet.’

  He could imagine – and sympathize with – their impatience. They were neither of them young men any more: they wanted to retire and enjoy themselves, have a bit of extra money and their ageing father tidied away safely and comfortably. It would be a shock when they realized that there wasn’t quite as much money as they’d calculated. Maxie must be cared for; his trust topped up.

  Standing at the window, Francis thinks about Nell and those last few years they shared.

  ‘I shall look after him,’ he promised. ‘You know I will. He is my son. My first-born.’

  They stood here at the window, whilst Maxie sat on the floor with some engines and railway track. Her eyes were full of tears.

  ‘I’m glad we kept the toys,’ he said. ‘Liz would never throw anything away and the grandchildren loved them. Now Maxie will enjoy them, too.’

  He held her whilst she wept, kissed her, not knowing what to say. Maxie looked up at them curiously. He clambered up awkwardly and came to them, putting his arms about both of them.

  ‘Mummy,’ he said. He stroked her head and smiled at her.

  ‘Yes, darling,’ she said. ‘And this is Cousin Francis. Do you remember?’

  Names had to be repeated several times to help him to grasp them.

  ‘Francis,’ he said slowly, as if trying it out. ‘Francis,’ and then struck his own breast with his hand. ‘Maxie.’

  Francis smiled at him and touched his hair lightly. ‘Maxie.’

  He had Nell’s blue eyes, and her sweet smile, and he was nearly as tall as Francis. They had three happy years together.

  The eerie midsummer twilight is deepening into dusk and the moon hangs like a lamp above the bleached fields. Still Francis cannot bear to leave his vigil at the window. He is tired but will not sleep just yet. Pulling the chair a little closer to the open casement, he sinks into it. He can hear the owls hunting over the fields, and the drifting scent of the honeysuckle is all about him. Presently his head slips sideways and he begins to dream.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  IT’S THE HOTTEST June since records began. Too hot for Kat to do her practice holding the ‘barre’ of the Rayburn so she does her exercises out on the patio instead, using the back of a garden chair. As she works she reruns in her head the meeting she had yesterday with Sandra in Totnes. Sitting, relaxing with her coffee, her mind elsewhere, she was suddenly aware of Sandra approaching. She was smiling, very confident, and without asking sat down in the chair opposite.

  Kat was seized with a very childish anger, an indignation that this woman should invade her personal space without asking. It was a moment or two before she could smile back at her, though it was a questioning smile that required a reason for this interruption.

  ‘It’s such a treat, isn’t it,’ Sandra began, ‘to sit in the sun and do nothing? Though I’m not much of a sun person, myself. My skin is so fair and delicate. Anyway, I rarely have the chance, I’m so very busy, but this weather is unusual, isn’t it?’

  Kat, considering the question too banal to require an answer, continued to look at her interrogatively.

  ‘Let’s hope it lasts till the holidays,’ Sandra continued. ‘It makes such a difference when you’re looking after little ones. Though I don’t believe you have that problem, do you? We had such fun when Jerry’s family were down. I don’t know if he told you?’

  Kat was only just able to hide her little shock of surprise. She knew that his family had visited but had no idea that they’d met Sandra. She waited.

  ‘Well, it’s so difficult for him in that little flat so we agreed to give a party at my house. It was rather a success. They’re lovely children and his girls are delightful. I don’t know if you’ve met them? I think it’s a relief for him to know that there’s somewhere he can invite them in future.’

  Kat was only just managing to keep her composure. As Sandra intended, she was angry and hurt that Jerry had mentioned nothing about this party but, to be fair to him, she never encouraged him to talk about his family. She stared at Sandra with dislike, determined to remain cool and say nothing.

  ‘Of course, I know how hard it is to be left on your own. I’m lucky that my family live locally so I have a lot of support but it must be hard for poor Jeremy to lose his wife and to have his family a long way off. I’m so glad I shall be able to help him out.’

  This time Kat can’t resist, though she knows she’ll regret it.

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t do domestic,’ she said. ‘Jerry and I have rather different interests to occupy us. But don’t let me keep you sitting in the sun and burning your delicate, fair skin.’

  She stood up and walked away, still seething, regretting her rather childish remark, and somehow feeling that Sandra was the victor in that little encounter.

  Now, as she towels herself down after her exercise, she still feels unreasonably hurt that Jerry never mentioned that he’d taken his family to Sandra’s, nor suggested that Kat should meet them. But more importantly, Sandra’s gesture puzzles her. This flinging down of the gauntlet indicates that Sandra is very serious about her relationship with Jerry. She’s risking Kat telling him about it, being upset, even forcing him to take sides.

  Kat throws down the towel and wanders inside. Her mobile begins to ring and she picks it up and looks at it: Miche.

  ‘How are you, darling?’ he asks. ‘And more importantly, when are you coming home?’

  Home. Odd how the word wrenches her heart. She remembers Francis’ words: ‘Home is where you live and work and have your being.’

  ‘Home?’ she asks, trying to laugh.

  ‘Yes, Irina, darling. Home to me and your friends and your work. Don’t be foolish. So when? I shall need you very soon.’

  ‘I am thinking about it, Miche. Honestly, I am.’

  ‘Don’t take too long.’

  He switches off and she stands for a long moment with the phone in her hand and then goes upstairs to shower and change.

/>   When Fiona arrives in the bar just before half past seven she sees that William is already here, with a pint on the bar in front of him, talking to Anton. It’s a slight shock to see him so much at home. She feels the Cott is her territory and that meeting him here gives her a slight advantage. She forgets that this is William’s local and he is better known here than she is. It also irritates her that he’s ordered a pint without waiting to consult her as to what they would like to eat. It establishes further his confidence: his comfortableness.

  ‘It’ll be heaving later on,’ William says, kissing her cheek, ‘and it’s so hot. Would you like to eat outside?’

  She thinks about it quickly. It occurs to her that what she has to say to William might be better said outside at a quiet table rather than here in the busy bar amongst local people who know him and Brockscombe.

  ‘That’s a good idea. Let’s decide what we’re going to eat and then we can take our drinks outside. I see you’re already organized. In that case I’ll have my usual, Anton, please.’

  William smiles at her unrepentantly and hands her a menu. Presently they go out into the warm evening and climb the steps to the decking where it’s cooler. There are several people here and she chooses a table at the far end and sits down. William sits opposite, looking around him and Fiona wonders whether it might be embarrassing for him if his friends should see them having dinner together after all the years apart. She decides she must stop feeling prickly and get him on side.

  ‘This is nice,’ she says, and grins at him. ‘So the others couldn’t come?’

  His eyes wrinkle with reluctant amusement. ‘It was just as you foretold,’ he says lightly.

  ‘You mean Charlotte didn’t have a baby-sitter and Kat has a date?’

  ‘Something like that. What a master of psychology you are, Fi. So, what’s this new exciting plan?’

  She is silent for a moment, assembling her thoughts, wondering how best to begin.

  ‘It’s about Brockscombe,’ she says, and sees his eyebrows shoot up. This is clearly not what he is expecting. She leans across the table. ‘Look, Wills,’ she says. ‘It’s time to think of the future. You remember what you were saying last time about your cousin Francis not going to last much longer and then what would happen to you? You told me that his boys wouldn’t hesitate to sell up round you so I’ve been thinking about it. Why not do it in your own time with plenty of opportunity to plan?’

  William stares at her. ‘I could leave Brockscombe any time I choose,’ he says coolly. ‘I don’t quite see your point.’

  ‘But you won’t go, will you? Not until Kat goes, or Charlotte goes, or Francis dies. But supposing he had an offer that allowed him to sell with no immediate pressure to move until he’d found exactly the right place? That would be the same for all of you. Time to look around rather than staying there like sitting ducks waiting for those boys to give you notice to quit?’

  William watches her, puzzled. ‘We all know the score,’ he says. ‘We could all leave at any time. None of us benefits from the sale of Brockscombe.’

  She frowns. ‘But surely it would be better for Francis? I can see that the thought of putting the house on the market is horrific for him. At the same time, if he has another stroke he might have to go into some kind of care. Supposing something happened to that woman who looks after him? He’s too dependent, Wills. Surely you can see that? He doesn’t do anything because he doesn’t know what to do and he’s too old and weak to take chances. Supposing he were to be given a cash offer with plenty of time to get himself organized, wouldn’t that be a good thing?’

  Their food arrives at the table and they both sit back. Fiona isn’t very hungry but she smiles and says how good it looks and picks up her napkin.

  ‘Can’t you see, Wills,’ she says, when they are alone again, ‘that you’ll be the one losing out here? Andy will almost certainly take the Washington posting and Kat will go back to London, with or without lover-boy.’

  William picks up his knife and fork. ‘And Tim?’

  ‘Oh, Tim,’ says Fiona impatiently, dismissively. ‘Tim will go as quickly and easily as he came. I’ve no idea what his plans are but come the winter and the rain, and the long dreary dark evenings, Tim will be out of there before you know it. And that just leaves you.’

  ‘But it wasn’t so long ago that you wanted to rent his cottage yourself.’

  ‘That’s because I didn’t know about Andy’s posting or Kat’s opportunity of a West End show.’

  ‘So who is this philanthropic entrepreneur who wants to buy Brockscombe on such attractive terms and what do you get out of it? Or is this all hypothesis?’

  Fiona chooses her words carefully. ‘It’s a friend of a client of mine. He’s just sold an internet holiday business for a small fortune and would like to buy a property in Devon. His wife’s a local girl and wants to come back to her roots, and he’s looking for a little bit of a project. Their children are at various boarding schools so the property needs to have easy access to the M5 and a railway station.’

  ‘So you described Brockscombe to them?’

  She can feel herself colouring up. ‘I said that it might, in the not-too-distant future, be coming on the market and they asked me where it was. They were driving down to see her family and did an outside recce.’

  ‘You mean they came and had a nosy round?’

  ‘They simply drove past. Probably stopped in the lane and looked over the gate. You can see the house from all sorts of places if you drive in those lanes. They absolutely loved it and are prepared to make an offer assuming that inside is as good as out.’

  William eats a few forkfuls of his supper and then looks at her. ‘And what do you get out of it?’

  Fiona puts down her fork and picks up her glass. ‘They’ve asked me if I’d be prepared to do any of the design work that might come up.’

  ‘And you said yes.’

  ‘Of course I said yes,’ she says impatiently. ‘What do you think? Can’t you really see what an opportunity this is, Wills? Oh, yes, for me. But for Francis, too. And for you. If you knew that he was going to be somewhere safe, somewhere of his own choice that he liked, where you could still visit him, wouldn’t that be better than everything being taken out of his hands because he’s too ill to take decisions for himself?’

  William is silent, and she can see that she’s made her point; that he’s actually considering it. It’s a bit of a shock that he has no expectations from Cousin Francis; he’s always been so attentive to the old man, popping over to see him from Ashburton, though he never encouraged her to go. Even so, she wants Wills out of there and somewhere she can visit him, and stay with him, once he’s on his own again. She asked Kat what her plans were, whether she planned to return to London.

  ‘I don’t think I can resist it,’ Kat answered. ‘It’s such an amazing offer. It’s a bit like resurrection, like being born again. I thought I was past it, that my career was over, but Miche has made me believe I can do it.’

  ‘And Jerry?’

  Kat looked anguished. ‘I want to keep Jerry, too. I’m hoping we can continue it all with some weekending and more prolonged visiting. I think I can make it work.’

  Now, Fiona watches William thoughtfully. Once Kat is gone and he is alone maybe they can find some new ground to build on. Like Kat, she thinks she can make it work this time round, keeping her job in London whilst having a base with William in Ashburton: an insurance against a lonely retirement.

  Having my cake and eating it, she thinks, and she can’t resist a secret chuckle.

  William looks up at her as he pushes his plate aside.

  ‘So,’ he says, ‘you want me to speak to Francis.’

  She shrugs. ‘I think he should make up his own mind. Naturally a valuation would have to be made but this fellow has got a pretty good idea of market prices and he’s got cash. That’s pretty rare, and Francis should be given the option. What has he got to lose? Why do you have a problem with it, Wills?�
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  He sits still, staring at his empty glass, thinking about it.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he says at last. ‘Because it would be the end of an era, I suppose. It’s his home, and we’ve all been very happy there.’

  She leans forward. ‘I know all that but it’s going to happen. Surely it’s better to be in control? Better to jump than be pushed? Can you imagine what would happen if Francis dies? Estate Agents. People crashing in and out, coming round viewing. Strangers goggling all over it and those sons of his giving you notice and breathing down your neck. Tenants are bad news when you’re wanting to sell. This man is a very decent guy. He’d give you space and respect. I think you owe it to Francis to tell him what’s on the table.’

  William sighs. ‘I’m sure you’re right. Very well, I’ll tell him.’

  She sinks back, weak with relief. ‘Fantastic. Thanks, Wills.’

  He smiles at her. ‘What for? I’m delighted to know that you have Francis’ and my welfare so much at heart.’

  She decides to ignore his irony and smiles back at him. ‘So what about another drink? Or a pudding? My treat, remember.’

  ‘I won’t, thanks. I’ll be getting off. Thanks for my supper and I’ll let you know Francis’ reaction. Charlotte tells me she’s invited us all to lunch tomorrow so I’ll see you then. Thanks for supper. ’Night, Fi.’

  He goes out, across the decking and down the steps into the car park. Presently a car engine starts up and she hears him drive away. Just for a moment, as she stares after him, her victory seems to be a defeat.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  AFTER SUNDAY LUNCH is over, Tim leaves them all and goes back to his cottage. He still on occasions feels very slightly an outsider and considers it only right that he should give the others some family time without him around.

  He puts Jamie Cullum’s Interlude on his CD player, stretches out on the sofa and thinks about his lunch yesterday with Mattie: how they’d sat in the sunshine laughing at the geese. She is so easy to be with, so undemanding.