The Songbird

by Marcia Willett

  ‘I’d suggest we go off afterwards and find a picnic spot,’ she said, ‘but a Saturday on Dartmoor in the middle of June would defeat even me, I think. The place is heaving.’

  So they stayed on after lunch, drinking tea, talking about her new job, whilst the minutes flew past. It seemed odd to know that she was now only an hour away and yet still be separated from her. He half wondered if she might suggest coming back to Brockscombe but she told him that she had an end-of-term departmental party later and that the next day she’d been invited to lunch by a colleague.

  ‘Text me,’ he said in the end, rather lamely. ‘Let me know when we can meet up or if you’re coming down.’

  He kissed her when they parted, and held her tightly, but all the while his secret lay between them and still he was unable to tell her the truth. He’s promised himself that there will be a right moment, as there was with Francis, but each time they meet it becomes more difficult.

  He lies on the sofa, with the door open so that he can hear the birds, and is seized with frustration at his cowardice. Abruptly he swings his legs off the seat and stands up, slips out of the front door and sets off for the woods. As usual he feels calmer here, less hopeless, and he begins to form a plan where he might tell Mattie the truth. The place and timing is so important: the words he must say to her.

  As he approaches Pan, wondering if there will be flowers, he sees that William is there before him. He seems to be searching for something amongst the dead leaves and woodland detritus and, as Tim comes closer, he sees William pick up a small shiny object.

  ‘Hello,’ he says, just behind him, and as William gives a little gasp of surprise Tim sees that the object is Maxie’s toy car. Just for a moment he doesn’t know what to say. William makes as if to conceal the car, then gives a little shrug, as if it doesn’t matter that Tim sees, and Tim guesses that William knows that he has been told about Maxie.

  William drops down on to the seat and Tim sits beside him. He hesitates, wondering if he should pretend ignorance, but the way that William turns the car, brushing the mud away with one finger, leads Tim almost to suspect that he’d rather be open about it.

  And, after all, he tells himself, because I know about Maxie’s existence doesn’t mean that I know anything more.

  ‘I recognize it,’ he says, smiling. ‘I left it here as a present, though I didn’t know then who was garlanding Pan with flowers or leaving pictures on the seat here.’

  ‘He loves it,’ William says, not looking at Tim. ‘He was on his way home when he discovered that he’d lost it. I said I’d come and look for it.’

  Tim smiles. ‘You know Maxie well, then?’

  There is a little silence. William gives a sigh.

  ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I know him well. Maxie is my brother.’

  Tim twists on the bench to look at him. ‘But I thought . . . Your brother? Then Francis—’

  ‘No, no,’ says William quickly. ‘I should have said my half-brother. Same mother, different fathers. Francis says that he’s told you his part so you might as well know the whole truth. My mother and Francis had an affair just after Francis was first married. She became pregnant with Maxie and went with her mother to stay with a relative in Tavistock. A few years later she met my father and they got married. I was born. It was some while before they realized that Maxie wasn’t developing as he should. He was eight or nine and I was three years younger, and we’d just got back from a foreign station and started new schools. My father was in the navy and not long after I was born he was posted to Singapore. We all went with him and that is when it was decided that any connection with Francis should be cut. He set up a trust for Maxie and didn’t see him again until his wife and my father had died. That’s when my mother told me. She insisted that nobody should ever know that Francis was Maxie’s father and she made me promise not to tell. Kat knows, though. Her mother and my father were brother and sister and we spent a lot of our childhood holidays together. When she came back from America I knew that it would be difficult to explain why I’d moved here and why Maxie spends so much time with Francis, now that our mother is dead, so I told her the truth. Not even Andy or Charlotte knows. I was surprised that Francis told you but he said he had his reasons.’

  There is a silence.

  ‘I was very touched by his confidence,’ Tim says at last. ‘It was an exchange, you might say.’

  ‘Well, there it is,’ says William. He sounds tired, defeated. ‘You’ve been kind to Maxie. Thank you for that.’

  ‘When I saw the flowers, and the faces made out of stones and cones on the arm of the seat, I thought it was a child. I’d been remembering my own childhood. Through a stupid act on my part, when I was four, my mother died and I’ve never really got over it. Being here has helped me. I don’t talk about it generally but I did tell Francis.’

  He knows that he is cheating; that it is not the whole truth that he’s told Francis. Yet some instinct tells him that before he tells anyone else that final truth he must tell Mattie.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ William is saying. ‘So very sorry. I’m glad that you’ve found some kind of solace here.’ He hesitates, as if he is about to ask a question, and then seems to think better of it. ‘Thank you for telling me.’

  An awkwardness falls between them, which Tim does not know how to smooth over.

  ‘I found the dogs’ graveyard,’ he says. ‘There’s a grave there, Brack’s grave, which caught my attention. I had a dog just like Brack when I was a child.’

  William smiles reminiscently. ‘Maxie loved that little dog. It was so good for him to come here and play in the woods. He was really free for the first time. Rob keeps an eye on him and Stella is lovely with him. Neither of them knows the truth, only that he and I and my mother are Francis’ close relations. It will be very sad . . .’

  He stops, looking around him, and once again Tim senses defeat and sorrow.

  ‘Very sad . . .?’

  William gives a little shrug. ‘When Francis dies. Maxie will miss him. He doesn’t have a very long life expectancy and any change will be hard for him.’

  ‘I suppose, if Francis were to die, then Brockscombe would be sold?’ Tim hasn’t thought about this before, absorbed as he has been with his own problems. He feels oddly frightened. He’s assumed that he is safe here until he chooses to make his move, and suddenly he feels very vulnerable.

  ‘Yes, it would be sold. Neither of his sons will want it.’ William glances at Tim, frowning, as if he is concerned for the younger man, and then asks the question. ‘What would you do, Tim, if that happened?’

  Tim shakes his head. ‘Strange though it might seem, I haven’t thought about it. I’ve just felt so secure, so much at peace here, that I hadn’t considered living anywhere else.’

  This at least is true. His plan has always been that he should pick his moment to leave and then make an end to it all.

  ‘I think we’ve all felt that,’ William is saying, ‘but I wonder if we should begin to consider alternatives. Just to be on the safe side.’

  It sounds like a warning and, remembering how frail Francis is, Tim thinks a very sensible one. William stands up, pocketing the car, and smiles down at him reassuringly.

  ‘No need to start packing yet,’ he says. ‘Just give it some thought. Nobody will be going anywhere until after Andy’s leave.’

  He turns and walks away, leaving Tim sitting on the seat.

  William walks through the grounds and the garden, lets himself into the house and runs up the stairs. He calls out, to give Francis warning, and when he opens the study door the old man is sitting at his desk and smiling at him.

  ‘Come in, William,’ he says cheerfully. ‘Have you found it?’

  William takes the car from his pocket, places it on his desk and wanders over to the window.

  ‘Well done,’ Francis says. ‘He’ll be so pleased. Rob’s taking him back but I’ll text him so that Maxie knows. Is there anything wrong, my boy? I thought you seemed a
little distrait this morning when you popped in.’

  William digs his hands into his pockets and stares out across the carriage drive, across the lawn and the ha-ha, to the fields and the woods. He feels sad and cross and impotent. He hadn’t meant to talk to Tim about Francis’ death and what would happen afterwards but it had been such a relief to speak out about Maxie and his relationship with him that he’d been slightly weakened by it. It was so important to his mother that the secret was kept for her own and Francis’ sake. It was a shock when she told him: he’d always believed that Maxie was his brother, his father’s son. Then, when his father died, his mother told him the truth, explained why it would be good for both Maxie and Francis to have some kind of relationship at last, but that there must be absolute secrecy. His sons, she said, must never know. William saw that it was important for her too and agreed to it for her sake. Francis’ wife was already dead and for a few years there was a kind of family life between them. To begin with he was angry with Francis that he’d allowed her to bear the pregnancy and Maxie’s birth alone, but gradually he grew fond of the old man. Francis was able to do a great deal for Maxie and it was clear that he suffered, and continued to suffer, great guilt about his behaviour.

  Gradually a pattern emerged. It was easier not to talk too much about Maxie so as to keep up the fiction that he and Maxie were closely related to Francis. Sometimes he wished he didn’t know the truth and wondered why his mother had found it necessary to tell him. It was as if, at the end, she needed to share her burden and tell the truth, as well as making certain that some kind of relationship between Maxie and Francis could continue after her death.

  ‘William?’ Francis’ voice is concerned. ‘What is it, William?’

  He takes a deep breath and, still staring out of the window, begins to tell Francis about Fiona’s plan. When he’s finished there is a long silence and he turns round to look at the old man. Francis sits quite still, staring before him, and William has a sudden terror that he might have another stroke. As he starts forward, Francis smiles at him.

  ‘What a redoubtable woman Fiona is,’ he says, amused. ‘No wonder she’s made such a success. She’s a senior partner now, didn’t you tell me?’ He takes a deep breath. ‘Well, I’d be a fool not to consider it, wouldn’t I?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ says William unhappily, ‘but I couldn’t not tell you.’

  ‘Of course you couldn’t. And it obviously has great merit. To be able to wind everything up in a calm and civilized way; to make plans. What would you do, William, if I were to sell Brockscombe?’

  William sits down in one of the chairs and looks at Francis. Since his conversation with Fiona he’s been giving it a great deal of thought.

  ‘I’d look for a house in or near Ashburton. Somewhere I could have Maxie to visit on his weekends out. He’s happy with Rob and Stella, and it seemed silly to disrupt that routine when I moved to Brockscombe when I could see him so easily by coming over here, but I should like to have a home for Maxie to come to. And you, too, Francis. It isn’t impossible to buy a place with an annexe where you could have your own quarters, with facilities for a wheelchair.’

  He stops, feeling foolish, wondering whether Francis would consider such an option, but he can see that the old fellow is touched by the offer.

  ‘That is amazingly generous of you, William,’ Francis says. ‘Much more than I would have ever dared to suggest or hope for.’

  My mother loved you, William wants to say, and Maxie loves you. We’d be a kind of family . . . But he says nothing.

  ‘May I think about it?’ Francis asks. ‘It would be such a wrench to leave Brockscombe that I can hardly imagine it.’

  ‘Of course,’ mumbles William. ‘Just throwing a few ideas about. So what shall I say to Fiona?’

  Francis smiles. ‘Tell her that I’m grateful for her interest and her care and that I’m certainly considering the offer.’

  William feels rather like a traitor, as if he is somehow forcing Francis out of Brockscombe.

  ‘I couldn’t not tell you,’ he repeats wretchedly.

  Francis shakes his head. ‘I think that this might be an answer to several problems. Please don’t feel badly, William, because you’ve been the one to deliver the message. Do you think that you could make us some tea?’

  William gets up feeling grateful to have something to do, to have a moment to pull himself together, and when he returns with the tray Francis is standing by the window. He turns and walks carefully, with the aid of his stick, to the armchair.

  ‘What a blessing you’ve been to me, William,’ he says. ‘I can’t imagine managing without you, now.’

  William is silent. He feels embarrassed. Francis has always been like this: unafraid of showing emotion, of being slightly dramatic. Perhaps, he thinks, it’s to do with being a politician – or a Roman Catholic.

  He pours the tea, passes Francis his cup and saucer. He doesn’t want Francis to become maudlin, to talk about the past, so he casts about for a safe subject.

  ‘We’ve been invited to sing at Dartington at the Summer School Music Festival,’ he says. ‘With other choirs, of course, and an orchestra. It’s a very exciting prospect. It’s difficult for us because we sing unaccompanied but we’re prepared to give it a go.’

  Francis asks some questions about his singing group and William answers them, feeling relieved: the awkward moment has passed.

  After William has gone, having first removed the tray and washed the tea things, Francis continues to sit alone, thinking about Fiona’s bombshell. It is impossible to imagine leaving Brockscombe but he is deeply touched by William’s offer. Unwillingly he imagines how it might be if he were unable to manage as he does now; if something were to happen that prevented Stella and Moira being at hand to look after him so that he was obliged to be moved out of his home and into the care of strangers. Suddenly he perfectly understands Tim’s need to remain in control of his life – and of his death – and he feels ashamed at the way he tried to influence him.

  All my life, thinks Francis, has been spent in trying to manipulate people, governments, policies; all my life I’ve believed that I’ve known best. Sitting up here trying to play God to the people around me, imagining that I know what is right for them. And now, having been presented with this offer, I still don’t know what to do. Would William really want to live with an old cripple like me or is he just being loyal to his mother? And how would Maxie cope without these occasional weekends of perfect freedom, his visits to Pan and to Brack? And what of Tim?

  Francis stands up, picks up his stick and walks slowly to the window. How terrible never to see this view again; never to look out on these familiar and beloved views. He wants to rail and weep but the cool hand of common sense touches his brain and he tries to thinks rationally. He remembers a phrase William used, quoting Fiona: ‘It’s better to jump than to be pushed.’

  He straightens himself, putting aside sentimentality, reviewing the facts. It seems certain that Kat will return to London, to her work and her friends, and that Andy will be posted to Washington with Charlotte and Oliver to begin a new phase of their lives, and this is how it should be. And once they are gone, and if he, Francis, were to die suddenly or be taken into care, it would be better for William to be back amongst his friends in Ashburton than left alone whilst Brockscombe is sold up around him. Which leaves Tim.

  Francis can see no way forward for Tim but he knows what to do. All through his life he has practised mindfulness: a focusing on something that is deeper and bigger than he is. He takes his breviary from his desk, settles himself and begins to read the office of compline.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  ON THE DAY of Andy’s homecoming Charlotte wakens early. For several days she has been preparing for him: the house is clean, special food is cooked, she’s had her hair cut. She thinks about what she might wear but keeps changing her mind. It’s hot enough for a pretty cotton frock but she’s more comfortable in her jeans and it’s
important that she feels relaxed.

  She sorts out some little denim dungarees for Oliver, a T-shirt, and his favourite sunhat, then has another look through her own wardrobe. She knows it’s crazy – Andy won’t mind what she’s wearing – but she can’t seem to help herself.

  Confiding at last in Aunt Kat doesn’t help either.

  ‘I want to look nice for him,’ she says, ‘but casual, too, if you see what I mean.’

  ‘Oh, darling, it won’t matter a bit,’ says Aunt Kat, true to form. ‘What ever you’re wearing he’ll simply be looking forward to taking it off as soon as he can.’

  Charlotte can’t help laughing, though, if she’s honest, this is one of the things she’s worried about. It seems so long, well, five months, since they were together and she feels very nervous of any kind of intimacy. Perhaps if they’d been married for years it might be different but it’s still all rather new and she doesn’t know quite how to handle it. The other wives have talked about it. Some say that the children help to normalize things very quickly; others say that it’s a good idea to have a bottle of wine open and ready. They all joke about it but Charlotte knows that, in the end, you’re on your own.

  It would be easier, she thinks, if the ship were actually coming back: all the families down at the dockyard to welcome them home; the sense of achievement and celebration. It’s rather different, this flying home just for a week’s leave, arriving at Heathrow at ten o’clock, and catching the train that will get him into Totnes just after lunch.

  She guesses that everyone will be embarrassingly tactful, keeping out of the way, giving them privacy, and she’s beginning to dread the whole thing. Oliver remains delightfully normal, happy and placid, as she dresses him in his dungarees. He looks so sweet, so cute, that she picks him up and hugs him tightly, and has to resist the desire to burst into tears.

  Andy sends a text to say that the train has left Exeter and Charlotte puts on her favourite dress – then takes it off again and pulls on her jeans and a shirt. At least this way she feels normal, calm, in charge of things. She picks Oliver up and carries him out to the car. Wooster follows, though she’s been in two minds about leaving him at home because it’s so hot. Now she decides that she will take him. He’ll help to break the ice.