‘Tell you what,’ he says thoughtfully. ‘How would it be if I took over the nature book for a bit? You could advise, of course, on what we decide to put in; read it over, keep me up to scratch and so on. But it would save you some time, wouldn’t it, without breaking the flow?’
Piers’ face is alight with joy and his grandfather smiles back at him, touched that the nature book is so important to his grandson, unaware that he has passed a crucial test. The book is important but not so important as discovering that his grandfather, by putting work before pleasure, has shown that he really cares about him. The sensation of relief cannot be suppressed, it must be allowed a physical expression, and Piers crawls along his grandfather’s outstretched legs and cuddles into his arms just as he does with his own father.
Holding the child, watching the firelight leap on the dark-panelled walls, David reflects sadly on how rarely he held Peter in his arms once he’d grown out of babyhood. It simply wasn’t done – even if Eleanor had allowed it – and he’d been afraid of showing his emotional side to the boy. This might have been more acceptable with his daughter but Marina had never encouraged physical displays of affection. Peter had been a true male Frayn, cheerful, good-humoured, warm – and he’d been loved by everyone who knew him – but it had taken Felix, who had come amongst them and broken the taboos of the past, to show that the comfort of a cuddle, the warmth of a hug, releases tension and dissipates anger or fear.
‘How about a bite of supper?’ suggests David, feeling that the boy deserves a little reward.
‘What is it?’ asks Piers, sitting upright, distracted by the thought of food. ‘Has Mummy left you something nice?’
‘Baked potato.’ David edges himself off the chair. ‘Bit of chicken. Might be some of that trifle left.’
Piers is filled with pleasurable anticipation as the three of them leave the study and cross the hall to the kitchen.
‘I like lots of butter on the potato,’ he mentions hopefully. ‘But I don’t like the outside skin. He chuckles aloud, thinking of another of Grandfather’s odd sayings: ‘Only potatoes wear jackets; gentlemen wear coats’, and his grandfather winks at him.
‘That’s Monty’s treat,’ he says. ‘Plenty for all. Foraging party to the fore. Quick march.’
CHAPTER TEN
Watching Felix across the polished surface of the dining-table, Marina is aware that she is changed: different from the girl who fell in love nearly ten years before. She does not analyse this difference, she merely acknowledges it; almost relieved that the uncontrollable flutterings and wild desperations are rarely felt nowadays. In truth those tenderer, gentler powers have hardened into a sense of possession, a need to control, and the passion between them, once given an edge by her need to assuage her guilt, has become dulled. Without this edge physical love is an unnecessary embarrassment, building to a loss of that necessary control so that, afterwards, she feels humiliated.
She looks with faint resentment at Felix who is talking to Helen Cartwright, smiling at some story she is telling him. Marina notices the intimate way Helen sits half turned, so that she leans a little against him, whilst Felix, head bent on one side, turns and turns his glass, his other hand jammed into the pocket of his black jacket. He looks relaxed, comfortable with himself, and yet not totally absorbed. Marina dislikes Helen Cartwright, still fearing that she has the power to make Felix behave foolishly, wishing that she could annihilate whatever it is within him that attracts women. Her physical need for him might be growing less but she still has all the rights of ownership. Anyway, there is something degrading in this silly flirtation between people of their ages.
Marina glances at the other women around the table. Her sixth sense insists that Felix is playing a double game yet she still can’t quite decide with whom he might be involved. Her suspicion alights first on one acquaintance and, when no proof is forthcoming, on another; yet, despite his apparent innocence, some instinct warns her that he is betraying her. She looks at him again and, at that same moment, he raises his eyes and stares at her. His eyes narrow into a smile, tentative, almost questioning, and she realizes with a tiny shock that she almost dislikes him; that she wants to punish him for being attractive, generous, warm-hearted. She turns her head away without responding, addressing some random remark to her neighbour, James Cartwright, who hastens to make himself agreeable.
Felix, wondering if sharp-eyed Helen has seen the exchange, straightens in his seat and counts the days that must pass before he can be in the Birdcage again. Those few days each month are so precious that he wonders how he ever managed without them. It is another world, there in the narrow house in Bristol; a world in which he can be himself. He arrives as early as he can on Sunday evening, feeling the tension drop away from him as he enters that big room where the three of them are waiting for him: Angel stretched out along the sofa; Pidge pottering in the kitchen area behind the piano; Lizzie kneeling at the table, colouring a picture.
‘Hello, my birds,’ he says. ‘How’s life in the cage?’ and it is as if this is how they always are and always will be: waiting for him. In summer the warm breeze trembles through the branches of the plane tree beyond the window; in winter the curtains are drawn and the lamps lit. On the following Monday he very occasionally manages to get away so as to take Angel out to lunch but, even if he can’t, those few hours in the afternoon are kept sacrosanct. ‘Soothing time,’ Angel calls it – and he needs soothing just as much as she does. Oh, the comfort of Angel! – releasing the pent-up tensions and humiliations, restoring him to confidence. He hurries away before Lizzie comes in from school, back to the office, but much later he returns to the Birdcage so as to spend the evening with Pidge and Lizzie before going down to King Street to meet Angel from the theatre so that they can have supper together.
As he looks at Marina across the table, he is continually amazed that she hasn’t suspected that there is someone in Bristol; especially after Angel’s appearance at Molly’s cocktail party.
‘I’m sorry, sweetie,’ she said at once, when she saw him again. ‘It was just such a long time not to see you that I simply couldn’t bear it. I know it was crazy. Pidge is furious with me.’
It had been a shock to see her there, with Marina standing so watchfully beside him, but even in his horror he’d been aware of undercurrents of shame. Angel had every right to be at the party and he’d felt hypocritical as he’d stood with his wife whilst his mistress pretended that they hardly knew each other.
‘I hoped that Marina wouldn’t want to come to the party,’ he began to explain but Angel simply shook her head.
‘Forget it, sweetie. All over now.’
Watching Marina across the table Felix realizes that Angel never demands excuses, she simply requires his love. He takes a deep breath of gratitude and smiles at Helen Cartwright.
‘A penny for your thoughts?’ she asks archly – but he shakes his head.
‘They’re far too expensive,’ he answers lightly, ‘even for you.’
‘She never gives up, does she?’ asks Marina on the way home in the car.
A light mizzle of rain mists the windscreen and the narrow road, winding ahead between coppery beech hedges, gleams black and shiny in the headlights’ beam. Felix tenses himself.
‘She?’ He answers her question with a question, although he knows the answer.
‘Helen Cartwright.’ Marina’s voice is contemptuous. ‘Still flirting and wriggling about as if she were sixteen instead of nearly forty. It’s so undignified.’
Felix knows that if he is to have a comfortable journey back to Michaelgarth and a peaceful night then he must agree with her: he must condemn Helen. But Felix dislikes belittling his friends; he refuses to heap contumely upon people simply because they are fun-loving, friendly or kind. He doesn’t care to compromise his own standards for the doubtful benefits of a quiet life.
‘Old Helen’s all right,’ he says lightly. ‘No harm in her really, you know. I didn’t get chance of a word wi
th James. How is he?’
‘I hardly spoke to him,’ she answers coolly. ‘He was too busy talking to Mary Yates. His manners are nearly as bad as Helen’s.’
Suppressing a sigh Felix drives on towards Michaelgarth, wishing that he were able to get to Bristol more often, and, as if she guesses his thoughts, Marina speaks the words he has grown to dread.
‘I’m thinking of coming to Bristol with you next weekend. I want to get some Christmas presents. It’s rather early but the weather at the end of November is usually so miserable.’
He changes gear noisily, apologizes and brakes suddenly as a dark shape streaks across the lane. He instinctively thrusts out his arm to prevent Marina from being thrown forward and feels the soft warm fur of her coat.
‘Sorry,’ he says again. ‘Fox, I think. Too quick for a badger,’ but the little shock has cleared his brain. ‘Yes, Bristol. Well, why not? Piers could come too. It’s his half-term that week, isn’t it? I can’t get out of it, I’m afraid, but at least I shall be back for Bonfire Night.’
This is a very special occasion. The village school traditionally celebrates Guy Fawkes on the hill behind Michaelgarth and Piers feels a special responsibility as host.
‘Damn,’ says Marina irritably. ‘I’d forgotten that. It’s rather too much to ask Father to look after him for two days and he’ll be rather under my feet in that tiny flat. There isn’t even a second bedroom. Well, that’s that, then.’
She sounds ill-used and Felix refrains from making encouraging suggestions, although he feels very guilty. There is a long silence, which lasts until they drive through the arch into the garth. Felix puts the car away and follows Marina across the wet, slippery cobbles and into the house. The kitchen is unusually tidy and Marina looks about her with narrowed, calculating eyes: Monty’s tail beats a cautious welcome as he watches them from his bed beneath the window.
‘Well,’ says Felix, rather puzzled both by the spotlessness of the kitchen and his wife’s expression. ‘Old David’s done his bit by the look of it.’
‘He never washes up after himself,’ replies Marina tartly, ‘unless Piers has been down and there are extra plates and so on which have been used. He washes it all up, so as to cover himself, and he imagines that I don’t notice.’
‘Does it matter?’ asks Felix wearily. ‘Perhaps the poor little chap had a nightmare. I think it’s rather nice of David to share his supper with him. Fun for both of them.’
She turns to look at him. ‘You have no idea about discipline, do you, Felix?’ she asks icily. ‘Either self-discipline or any other kind?’
He stares at her. ‘No,’ he says at last. ‘No, I’m a profligate bastard with a set of unprincipled friends. Look, I’m not particularly tired so I’ll spend the night in my dressing-room. I wouldn’t want to keep you awake by having the light on. Goodnight, Marina.’
Upstairs, in the room next to Piers’ bedroom, he stands for a moment staring at nothing, his fists bunched in the pockets of his dinner jacket. He hears Marina pass his door, on her way to the big bedroom on the north-west corner, and waits without moving until he hears the lavatory flush and the bathroom door close, followed by the click of her bedroom door. With a sigh of frustration he begins to drag off his jacket and he’s already untying his tie and kicking off his shoes when he hears the movement next door. As he lets himself out silently onto the landing he sees a light flash up under Piers’ door.
Felix turns the handle and goes in, switching on the lamp.
‘Hello, old chap,’ he says. ‘Can’t sleep?’
‘Oh, Daddy,’ cries Piers with relief, ‘I wondered if it was a burglar.’
He switches off his torch – he’s not allowed a bedside lamp in case it encourages him to read when he should be asleep – and beams at his father.
‘We’re just home,’ Felix tells him, ‘and I couldn’t sleep either. So I’m staying in my dressing-room so as not to disturb Mummy. I might read for a bit and she can’t get off if the light’s on.’
‘I wish I could read when I can’t sleep,’ says Piers enviously. ‘I just have to tell myself stories instead.’
‘Well, what about a story now?’ asks Felix, picking up the newest book, an abridged version of Treasure Island with exciting colour plates. ‘It might make us both sleepy.’
If he really cared about you he’d make you work instead of reading you silly stories.
Even as his father picks up the book, Piers sees his way to his next sounding; coming so soon after his success with his grandfather he feels hopeful that he might be lucky a second time.
‘I’ve been thinking, Daddy,’ he says, hauling himself higher on the pillow, his heart beginning to thump in anticipation. ‘I was thinking that perhaps we ought to practise my tables each evening instead of reading stories.’
His look is so anxious, so intense, that Felix is startled. He sits on the edge of the bed, putting an arm about his son, but Piers wriggles free. He is frightened now, terrified that his father will prove his mother right. If be really cared about you . . . He kneels upright so as to make his point.
‘I’m very weak at maths,’ he says urgently, ‘and we mustn’t forget that I have to take the entrance exam in the spring.’
These are his mother’s words and Felix, still angry at Marina, feels a terrible compassion as he stares down at his son’s white, frightened face, misreading the reason behind that fearful, oddly expectant expression.
He is too young to be threatened and bullied, thinks Felix, and he will learn quicker if he is happy and more confident.
‘You’re doing very well,’ he says gently. ‘A bedtime story won’t make any difference, I’m sure. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.’
He opens the book but Piers stares at his father almost with a kind of dread.
‘I don’t think I will, if you don’t mind,’ he says politely. ‘I think I can sleep now.’
He gets down quickly under the blankets, pulling the sheet over his head so that Felix can only bend to kiss him and go quietly out. Back in his dressing-room he wonders if Treasure Island with blind Pew delivering the black spot is rather frightening – if fascinating – for a small boy: perhaps he is too young for it. Suddenly tired, Felix flings off his clothes and climbs into bed.
Next door, his face buried in his pillow, Piers sobs himself to sleep.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Early on Sunday evening, up in her attic room, Lizzie arranges the various items that she intends to show Felix when he arrives later. She sets them out on the patchwork quilt, singing to herself, imagining his pleasure when he sees these good things. There are several pictures, some crayoned in a picture book, but there is also a rather ambitious painting executed with a certain amount of dash. She is especially pleased with this because it is Felix who has given her the blue enamelled paintbox with its dear little square cakes of paint and a separate channel for the brushes. She can hardly bear to use it to begin with, it is so pretty and the brushes are so soft against her cheek – just like the end of her thick, silky plait – but soon she longs to dip the brush into water and swirl it over the reds and blues and yellows. She makes several attempts, none quite to her satisfaction, but at last she achieves a very creditable creation and Pidge has helped her to back it onto some stiff card so that it looks most professional.
As well as the painting she has a page of writing, adorned with a highly cherished gold star, which she has been allowed to bring home from school. ‘Very good, Lizzie’ is written in the margin and she peers with pride at this accolade. She places it carefully on the quilt so that the white ruled paper shows to advantage against a square of ruby velvet and stands back to view the effect. A sharp nod of approval and away she goes to the white chest to transport a plasticine family over to the bed: first there is Angel, yellow hair pressed down onto a pink head, then Pidge wearing a rather exotic hat – no black plasticine for Pidge’s hair – and then, on a smaller scale, Lizzie herself modelled with a bright red plait
. Lastly there is Felix, long-legged, with a lump of hair that looks like a doormat. Try as she might she cannot improve it and she hopes that he will understand how difficult it is for small fingers to mould the stiff clay-like material.
She carries them carefully, lest a leg or an arm might separate from its parent body, and sets them in a little group. They don’t look quite so impressive against the multicoloured background and briefly she considers leaving them on the white chest; but no, she shakes her head, rejecting the idea, her display will be diminished without the central group and she rearranges them, standing back to survey her efforts.
A pair of new plaid slippers finish the display, the red and blue felt showing up splendidly on a square of pale, sprigged cotton, and she drags forward the basket chair so that Felix will be able to sit at ease while he inspects the painstaking efforts produced during the four long weeks of his absence.
She hears the doorbell and in the time it takes for one long, last critical look at her display, and the careful climb down the short, steep flight of stairs, Felix is already here. He holds out a bottle of wine to Pidge, kisses Angel and braces himself as Lizzie hurtles through the door.
‘Hello, my bird,’ he says, swinging her up, and she wraps her legs about his waist and hugs him tightly, snuffing up the Felix-smell of his tweed jacket: tobacco, dog, rain, coffee.
He sits down next to Angel on the sofa with Lizzie in his lap and she cuddles into the crook of his arm, content to wait, to share this moment with Pidge and Angel, before she shows him the delightful surprises upstairs. She draws his arm around her, holding his hand in both of hers, revelling in the sense of safety, rubbing her cheek against the soft material of his shirt. He slips his other arm about Angel’s shoulders, drawing her close, so that the three of them are grouped together just like a proper family. Lizzie feels excitement rise inside her as she contemplates the treat in store for him – and there is something else.
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