The Songbird

by Marcia Willett

  She locks up, climbs into the driving seat and drives slowly out of the courtyard and through the narrow lanes to the station. As she drives she talks to Oliver, and to Wooster, who sits staring out of the back window with his ears pricked as if he guesses something special is happening.

  ‘Daddy’s coming home,’ she says to Oliver, glancing at him in her driving mirror. ‘We’re going to meet Daddy. We’ll go for walks, won’t we, Wooster? It’s going to be fun.’

  With a thumping heart she parks the car in the station car park. She’s early but this gives her time to prepare. She puts Oliver in his buggy, leaves the windows down a bit for Wooster but then, on second thoughts, she lets him out and puts him on his lead. His large comforting presence gives her courage.

  Wheeling the buggy, Wooster beside her, she walks slowly through the gate and out on to the station. The voice on the Tannoy is announcing the arrival of the London train and now her heart is beating fit to suffocate her, her legs are trembling, and she holds on to the buggy so as to keep herself upright.

  The train snakes round the bend and slows down; doors are flung open and the voice on the Tannoy is still speaking. People are stepping off the train, greeting friends and relatives, hurrying for taxis, and she stands back by the fence watching, looking for Andy amongst the crowds.

  And suddenly he is here, coming towards her. He’s beaming at them, at her and at Oliver, and at dear old Wooster, with delight and love and absolute confidence. His grin, his stride, his patent love for them, are all so dear and familiar that suddenly her terrors vanish like mist in the sun. He greets her first, hauling her into his arms, saying, ‘God, it’s great to see you, babe,’ kissing her, and then he’s crouching by the buggy, gazing at Oliver, one hand stretched to Wooster, who can barely contain his joy.

  As Charlotte watches them the pieces of their life together fall back into place and her anxieties retreat into the shadows. She wonders how she could have feared the future with him, wherever it might take them.

  ‘I’m sure he recognizes me,’ Andy’s saying, and she bursts out laughing.

  ‘Of course he does,’ she says. ‘Wooster certainly does.’

  He puts an arm about her and they go slowly along the platform on their way out to the car and home to Brockscombe.

  ‘I can’t go back yet, darling,’ Kat is saying, after lunch in Jerry’s flat. ‘Andy will only just have arrived and they need a little time to reacquaint with one another. It’s tricky to know quite how to play it and poor Charlotte is very nervous. They haven’t seen each other for months. “Home is the sailor, home from the sea,” and all that stuff. Luckily, Oliver likes a nice long nap in the afternoon. The timing will be perfect.’

  She’s keeping it all rather light and bright today. After her run-in with Sandra she doesn’t know quite how to play things, and the sight of that cushion, left like a gauge of war flung down upon the sofa, has unsettled her.

  ‘I suppose it could be quite odd, having your father and your aunt living next door,’ Jerry is saying thoughtfully, ‘but it won’t be for long, will it? Didn’t you say that he’s being posted abroad?’

  ‘To Washington in the autumn.’

  Kat would like to leave the table and go to sit on the sofa with him but the cushion is like a warning signal. ‘Keep Off’ it says, and she feels unable to ignore it.

  ‘And you’ll be going to London?’

  This direct question from him unnerves her further. She’s skated round it, laughed about it, discussed the pros and cons, but now the moment has come and she can longer procrastinate.

  ‘I think I shall,’ she says casually. ‘It’s an offer I can’t really refuse but I shall come back quite often. And you’ll come up, won’t you? We could have a lot of fun.’

  He smiles at her. ‘I’d like that.’

  He stands up to make coffee and she watches him. He’s such a nice shape, such a sexy elegance in his old jeans and faded blue cotton shirt, and she feels suddenly terribly sad.

  ‘So how will William feel about it all?’ he asks. ‘You gone. His little family gone. Will he stay there?’

  Kat is silent for a moment. William has told her all about Fiona’s offer, and how Francis has responded, and this is also contributing to her sense of unease and sadness.

  ‘What William would really like,’ she says, ‘is a flat or a small town house in Ashburton, so that he can walk to the office, walk to the pub and walk to his choir group. He’d have his chums in for supper. He’s a very sociable chap, William. I don’t think he should stay at Brockscombe – even if he could.’

  ‘What d’you mean, “even if he could”?’ Jerry puts the coffee pot on the table and sits down. ‘What would stop him?’

  ‘If Francis dies it will all be sold. It’s simply a question of time.’

  Melancholy overwhelms her: she is unable to keep up her cheerful façade. Jerry watches her compassionately. He stretches out his hand and holds her wrist but he doesn’t speak. She knows, then, that he never will. He won’t be the one to deal the blow. When the time comes he will simply let the inevitable happen; he will take the easiest and least painful course. But not now, she thinks. Not yet.

  She stares at his hand; at the long fingers curled around her wrist.

  ‘You know I don’t feel much like coffee,’ she says, ‘and the sofa looks unfriendly. Shall we go to bed?’

  She’ll miss that look of his: that look of gratified, surprised pleasure. She’ll miss his tenderness and strength and the fun of it all. He stands up, still holding her wrist, and she smiles at him.

  ‘But remember,’ she says, ‘no rushing. We’ve got to give Charlotte and Andy plenty of time.’

  In the middle of the week of Andy’s leave, Fiona throws caution to the wind and travels down a few days earlier than planned. She can’t wait to see Andy.

  After all, she tells herself, William and Kat are there, right next door. Why shouldn’t I be around?

  But she doesn’t tell anyone she’s coming and she won’t ask to stay with William. She books herself in at the Cott, then texts William once she’s settled in.

  Having a drink in the bar. Come and join me on your way home.

  He texts back saying he’ll be half an hour and she beams with pleasure. Everything is going her way. First of all, Francis has agreed to consider an offer – though nothing must be mentioned to anyone until after Andy’s leave – and secondly, the buyer’s wife’s mother knew Liz and remembers Brockscombe and is fulsome in her praise of it.

  Fiona sips her little special cocktail and broods on the future. She can imagine William alone again, in a comfortable, accessible town house, where she can stay whilst she begins her work on Brockscombe. It will be just like old times. She knows that it’s all come as a bit of a shock to William but she’s certain that when he’s got over it he’ll be as excited as she is. This summer, the barbecues, these occasional visits, have been more fun than she’s had for a long time and, though she’ll miss Andy and Charlotte and Ollie, they’ll be back again after two years with Andy probably based in Devonport and all of them living quite close. Meanwhile, she and William could fly out to visit them in Washington. She feels almost drunk with the prospect of it.

  Yet when William arrives she can see that he isn’t in the same happy mood. He orders a beer, carries it to the table and sits down, looking at her unsmilingly.

  ‘I thought you weren’t due until the weekend,’ he says.

  ‘I know,’ she says, smiling winningly at him, ‘but I simply couldn’t resist. I’m longing to see Andy. Be fair, Wills. You’re all here having a great time together, why shouldn’t I?’

  ‘Because it’s not quite like that,’ he answers. ‘We agreed we’d give them this week to themselves. I’m out all day at work and Kat is spending a lot of time with her friends. What will you be doing?’

  She stares at him, her smile fading. He looks unfriendly, unwelcoming, and her heart sinks a little but she’s determined to win him round.

/>   ‘I don’t plan to be a nuisance,’ she says, trying to look slightly hurt. ‘Anyway, I wanted to see you as much as Andy.’

  He raises his eyebrows. ‘Really? What about?’

  She frowns. ‘Whatever is the matter with you, Wills? I wanted to ask how things are going. What plans Francis is making, for instance, and what you intend to do now that he’s taking the offer so seriously.’

  ‘Ah, the offer,’ says William. ‘Well, yes, I think he’ll go through with it if the price is right.’

  ‘And what about you?’ She makes certain that she looks concerned for him, caring. ‘What will you do, Wills?’

  He takes a pull at his pint, purses his lips as if he is struggling with some terrible dilemma, and for a moment she feels a flash of irritation with him, but she continues to watch him affectionately and he gives a little shrug.

  ‘Well, I plan to buy a town house in Ashburton,’ he says.

  She gives a silent sigh of relief. ‘That’s a good idea,’ she says brightly. ‘I’m glad. I never thought you should have left the dear old Ashbucket. And will there be room for me to stay? While I’m working at Brockscombe?’

  His look baffles her. If she didn’t know him better she’d say it was a mix of contempt and pity with a dash of amusement.

  ‘I expect we’ll probably be able to fit you in,’ he says affably. ‘We’ll have to see.’

  ‘We?’ she repeats quickly. ‘Who’s we?’

  He looks at her quizzically, as if she’s missed a trick.

  ‘Why, me and Francis, of course,’ he says. ‘He’s got to go somewhere, poor old fellow, and I wouldn’t want him to be alone. We’ll have to get something sorted out for his wheelchair and all that, of course. But perhaps you might be able to draw up the plans for that as well.’

  She ignores this little dig whilst she assembles the facts. This is a blow, but of course Francis won’t last long and he’ll be very generous . . .

  ‘And then there’s Maxie,’ William is saying.

  ‘Maxie?’ She frowns, puzzled. ‘Who on earth is Maxie?’

  ‘You remember, surely? My elder brother, Maxie?’

  She stares at him. ‘But I thought he was just a half or a step, wasn’t he? And wasn’t he disabled or something and lived in a home? You never encouraged me to visit him with you. I assumed he was dead.’

  ‘No, no. Not dead. Maxie still lives in a special needs home near Exeter. He has the mental age of six or seven but he’s a lovely guy. Francis invites him to Brockscombe for his weekends out but now he’ll have to come to me.’

  She stares at him, her plans slowly crumbling around her. ‘But why would you do that, Wills? Why make life so difficult for yourself when you could be enjoying yourself?’

  He laughs at her. ‘Why indeed? But why should you think I won’t be enjoying myself? I enjoy being with Francis and with Maxie. I enjoy singing and going to the pub with my friends.’

  ‘You know very well what I mean,’ she answers bitterly. ‘Don’t try to be clever. It doesn’t suit you.’

  ‘No, I know that. You’ve always made it clear, Fi, that you are the clever one. And yes, I very nearly did fall for it again but you’ve done me a favour. It is better to jump than to be pushed, and thanks to you I’m sorting out my future. And now,’ he glances at his watch, ‘I must be dashing. I’m babysitting Ollie whilst Charlotte and Andy go out to dinner.’ He swallows the last of his pint and stands up. ‘I’ll leave it to you to let them know you’re down. Meanwhile you’re still welcome to stay at the weekend.’

  ‘I’ll make my own arrangements, thanks,’ she answers angrily.

  ‘Suit yourself. See you around.’

  He goes out and she continues to sit, consumed with rage and humiliation. She tries to see where it all went wrong but it’s beyond her. William is impossible; he always was. She wants to scream and break things. Instead, however, she orders another drink and prepares for a long evening alone.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  TIM DRIVES SLOWLY up on to the moor, remembering how he drove through that wild spring storm, stopping to phone Mattie to describe it to her. Now they text each other arranging odd, impromptu meetings, relishing these unplanned moments together. Today he is meeting her at the cave but this time he hasn’t brought Wooster. Andy and Charlotte have taken Ollie to the beach and Wooster has gone with them.

  ‘He loves a swim,’ says Andy, ‘and so do I. I pretend to drown and he tries to rescue me.’

  Tim likes Andy. It’s good to have another bloke around of his own age. They’ve had a few little chats together and Tim is impressed by Andy’s sense of responsibility for his little family, his anxiety lest something should happen to him whilst he is at sea, leaving them alone.

  ‘But in the end, if you think like that, you’d never do anything, would you?’ he said. ‘I could fall under a bus. You have to take risks sometimes.’

  As he spoke, Tim remembered his mother, the squeal of brakes, and wondered whether, if she’d known, she would never have had him. Now, he parks the car, takes out his rucksack and walks the narrow track over the moor. Sheep huddle for shade under dry-stone walls and small thorn trees, and as he hears the lark winging up and up he thinks of Meredith’s poem.

  She is waiting for him at the mouth of the cave, sitting with her legs drawn up, arms hugging her knees. The sight of her causes his heart to give that now-familiar flutter and he drops down beside her, putting his rucksack against the rock.

  ‘Can you hear the lark?’ she asks, and he puts his arms around her and kisses her.

  ‘I love it here,’ he says. ‘It’s special, isn’t it?’

  She holds him a little way away from her, looking at him so searchingly, so anxiously, that he knows, at last, that this is when he must tell her. The moment has come: it is now.

  His head is filled with the words that he must say to her but before he can speak she says: ‘I’ve got something to tell you. Something really important.’

  He is taken completely off balance and he can only gaze at her in surprise. She kneels up so that they are face to face and she holds him by his shoulders.

  ‘I’m pregnant, Tim,’ she says. ‘I’m expecting our baby.’

  He is so shocked he can’t speak. She still holds him, watching him.

  ‘I’m not sorry,’ she says. ‘I can’t be. But I’m sorry if you are.’

  ‘No,’ he cries. ‘No. I’m not sorry. I love you, Mattie. It’s just . . .’

  ‘Just what?’ she asks, shaking him, gripping him. ‘Just what, Tim? Please tell me . . .’

  And then he does tell her. He explains to her the nature of the disease, that it is a rare strain, and that nobody knows how long it might take to cripple him; to kill him. And all the while she grips his shoulders, staring into his eyes, listening intently. When he’s finished she gives a huge sigh.

  ‘And is that it?’ she asks.

  He looks at her and then begins, incredibly, to laugh. ‘Isn’t that enough?’

  She shakes her head quickly. ‘I’m sorry. Sorry, Tim. I didn’t mean it like that. Yes, it’s awful. Awful.’ For a moment she looks stricken but she rallies and reaches out for his hand. ‘It’s just I thought you didn’t love me.’

  He doesn’t know what to say. ‘I couldn’t ask you to . . . How could I?’

  ‘But I want to be with you,’ she says. ‘And there’s the baby. Our baby. You say you don’t know how long you might have – well, it might be years. He’ll need you. So will I.’

  ‘But that’s the point,’ he cries. ‘Don’t you see? I can’t say how long it will be before I begin to be . . . useless. Helpless,’ he adds savagely.

  ‘But we can be together for however long it is,’ she says.

  ‘But you have no idea,’ he cries angrily, ‘no idea what it might involve.’

  ‘Neither have you,’ she says reasonably. ‘I just know I want to have our baby and be with you. Can we start there?’

  He stares at her and he hears Francis’ v
oice uttering Hopkins’ words:

  I can;

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

  Still kneeling up, face to face, she pulls him into her arms and rests her head against his shoulder.

  ‘Yes,’ he says, and at last he is filled with peace. ‘We can. We’ll start there.’

  As she drives back to Exeter Mattie is in a state of exaltation. Ever since she knew about the baby she’s been in such a muddle of emotions: shock, wonder, fear. She can hardly believe it and yet, at some very deep level, she’s not surprised. After that first unexpected, unprepared meeting in her cave it was a possibility, but it was as if she was in denial, keeping the thought of it at bay. She still doesn’t know whether it was because subconsciously she wanted Tim’s child or whether the prospect was too frightening to consider.

  And now she has so much to think about. Never will she forget his face when she told him: shock, awe and a kind of odd hopefulness. Once he’d explained his own problem she could guess why he looked like that. He’d considered his life was slowly counting down, running out, and suddenly he was offered an arrow into the future: new life, his own child, something to live for.

  All she’d thought about, as he was telling her, was that she wanted to give him this chance. She wanted to be with him, support him. Only now does anxiety kick in; fear of the responsibility of it all. Back then they held each other tightly and after a few moments, knowing that they must now move forward, she leaned back and looked up at him.

  ‘We need tea,’ she said firmly. ‘Come on. The hamper’s all primed. I’ve got some biscuits. We’ll have our own private little celebration.’

  To her surprise he was quite ready to join in with her mood. They’d toasted each other and the baby with camomile tea and a brownie, sitting close together on the rug in the sunshine whilst the lark sang and sang. Tim recited Meredith’s poem to her.