The Birdcage

by Marcia Willett

  She tenses, hardly able to contain herself, and Felix, aware of the sudden contraction, smiles down at her.

  ‘And how are you, little Lizzie?’ he asks.

  The loving welcome, the warmth, are doing their work. He lets himself relax: sinking down into the comfort of the sofa, liking the weight of Lizzie across his thighs, breathing up Angel’s familiar scent. Pidge brings him a drink, grinning at the sight of him almost submerged by Lizzie and Angel, and he winks back at her, wishing that he could do more for them. He feels that he must only spend on them the money that formerly he would have spent on himself and so he goes without small luxuries so that he can bring presents to the Birdcage.

  ‘I’ve got a surprise for you,’ Lizzie announces a little later.

  Felix looks interested. ‘For me?’ he asks – and she hugs herself with secret pleasure.

  ‘It’s upstairs,’ she tells him. ‘Come and see.’

  The two women smile at him as he puts down his glass and allows Lizzie to haul him from the chair and away to the attic.

  ‘Close your eyes,’ she instructs him as he enters the room and he obeys at once, letting her lead him to the wicker chair. He feels for its arms and lowers himself carefully.

  ‘Now,’ she cries, almost bursting with excited anticipation. ‘Open your eyes, Felix.’

  He does so at once, staring at the delights spread before him, and she stands at his knee, ready to begin the inspection. First are the plaid slippers which, though delightful, are not of her creation and therefore the least important in her eyes. She shows them carefully and they agree upon the cosiness of the lining and the brightness of the plaid. Then, at his request, she puts them on and dances a few steps for him and, keeping them on, she next selects the page of writing. Felix is suitably impressed.

  ‘Did you do this yourself?’ he asks. ‘With no help? And what does it say here? “Very good, Lizzie.” Well, that’s absolutely first class . . .’

  She allows herself several minutes of his heart-warming praise before turning to the plasticine family.

  ‘Only you must be very careful with them,’ she warns as he reaches to pick up one of the figures. ‘It’s very difficult to make them stick together, you know.’

  ‘I’m sure it is,’ he murmurs, looking at the little family intently.

  ‘It’s us,’ she says, lest he hasn’t realized. ‘This is Angel. See, she has yellow hair but Pidge is wearing a hat. And this one’s you . . .’

  He turns the little figures carefully and she sees that his face is serious: perhaps he doesn’t like them.

  ‘Your hair isn’t quite right,’ she says anxiously, not wishing him to be hurt.

  ‘It’s very good,’ he says quickly. ‘It’s jolly hard to make plasticine soft enough to work it properly.’

  ‘Yes,’ she agrees with relief. ‘It is, isn’t it? But I wanted to do the four of us together.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ he says, after a moment. ‘The four of us together.’

  The colouring book comes next and then, last of all, the painting. As she lifts it up, Lizzie is grateful to Pidge for pasting it on to the card so that it isn’t limp any more. She holds it so that he can see it properly and he smiles as he recognizes that this is her first effort with the paintbox.

  ‘It’s wonderful,’ he says sincerely. ‘What a dear little house.’

  ‘It’s our cottage in the country,’ she tells him. She doesn’t quite know what that is except that Angel sometimes says, ‘Oh, sweetie, just wait till we get our cottage in the country,’ and Pidge always answers, ‘You’d die of boredom in a week.’ Lizzie has seen pictures of cottages in her nursery rhyme books so she knows that it should have a thatched roof and roses round the door. ‘And this is Angel outside the door and this is me. Pidge is inside cooking lunch so we can’t see her but this is my daddy coming in at the gate.’

  She leans over his arm, pointing, her plait hanging over his shoulder, and so she cannot see the expression on his face. Presently she looks up at him, to see how he is liking it, and prepares to explain her most precious offering.

  ‘My daddy’s dead, actually.’ A deep breath. ‘You can be my daddy, if you like.’

  Young though she is, Lizzie instinctively knows that the long silence that follows her suggestion is not one of gratified delight. She looks back at the picture so Felix doesn’t see the disappointment on her face. Perhaps her work isn’t good enough yet for him to be able to consider the idea.

  ‘I expect I shall get better if I practise hard,’ she offers hopefully.

  ‘Oh, darling,’ he says, and his voice is so full of love – and something else she can’t quite place – that she looks at him again, wondering if he is going to agree after all. ‘It’s nothing to do with the painting. It’s beautiful and you’re a very clever girl. The thing is,’ he pauses, biting his lip, frowning, and then looks at her, holding her between his knees. ‘The thing is, Lizzie, that I’m a daddy already. I have a little boy.’

  She is so surprised that her disappointment is temporarily displaced by curiosity.

  ‘A little boy?’ she repeats wonderingly. ‘How little? Is he as big as me?’

  ‘Bigger,’ answers Felix. ‘He’s a year older than you are. He lives a long way away, in the country near the sea, which is why I can’t get to see you very often. I need to be with him just like Angel needs to be with you.’

  To his relief she doesn’t ask the obvious question; she is too busy imagining this little boy.

  ‘What’s his name?’ she asks, trying to picture him.

  ‘His name is Piers,’ he says – and she laughs.

  ‘That’s a funny name. Peers.’ She has a mental vision of a little boy peering over walls and round corners.

  ‘It’s a different form of the name Peter,’ Felix explains. ‘He was named after his uncle Peter who was killed in the war.’

  Lizzie looks sombre, feeling a sense of kinship with this little boy who has also lost someone dear to him in the war.

  ‘Do you love him very much?’ she asks wistfully.

  ‘I love you both very much,’ he tells her firmly, ‘almost as if you were brother and sister. I know it’s difficult to understand, Lizzie, but you are very special to me.’

  Pidge calls up the stairs to tell them that supper is ready and they go down together, hand in hand. Lizzie tells Angel that Felix has a little boy called Piers and Angel says, ‘Yes, I know, sweetie, isn’t that nice?’ and is so calm that Lizzie accepts it too. She is beginning to adapt to the idea, to pretend that this boy with the odd name is a kind of brother and that Felix is father to them both. She absorbs the information and sees that there is no threat to her; no need for her to be anxious. Nothing has changed, after all.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ‘I thought he looked the least bit muted,’ mentions Pidge later. ‘What did Lizzie say to him?’

  ‘She asked if he’d like to be her daddy.’ Angel grimaces. ‘He told her the truth but he was afraid that she might be upset about it.’

  ‘Knowing Felix, I expect that he was the one who was upset,’ says Pidge. ‘I suppose it was bound to happen sooner or later.’ She hesitates. ‘I suppose there’s no chance that he might leave her?’

  Angel shakes her head. ‘He’s devoted to his little boy. He’s always been quite open about it – that he’d never leave her, I mean – but I have to admit that I never quite give up hope. Oh, Pidge, it’s such a bloody mess, isn’t it? He never talks about her but you can see that he’s not happy. The really infuriating thing is that I’m quite convinced that it’s his visits to us that keep him going. Crazy, isn’t it? Two days a month; not much of a ration, is it?’

  ‘Not much,’ agrees Pidge.

  Driving back to Michaelgarth on Tuesday afternoon, Felix is still suffering from the shock of having his two worlds collide. It happened once before, when he saw Angel at Molly’s party, and now, as then, he feels ashamed and frustrated.

  Lizzie’s face superimposes itself o
n the road beyond the windscreen, and he sees again that expression of hope and expectation, the longing for something that he cannot provide. It reminds him of Piers asking if they should practise his tables instead of having a story and, although that was quite different, Felix has a sinking feeling that he has in some way failed both of them. So far, it has been possible to hold the two worlds apart; to imagine that neither world need impose on the other. Now he sees how much damage might be done.

  Caught in the wake of a Royal Blue coach, chugging on its stately way towards Torquay, Felix changes down a gear and lights a cigarette. Well-worn arguments begin to rehearse themselves inside his head: might Marina actually be happier without him? Can he actually see himself living in the Birdcage with all three women? If not, would it be fair to break up their happy little group? The whole question hinges on Piers and he knows that Marina will never let Piers go; he probably would not even be allowed to see his father if Felix were to abandon his family to live with an actress and her illegitimate child.

  Felix smokes steadily, pulling out from time to time, watching for an opportunity to overtake. He feels a huge dissatisfaction with himself; a wearying disgust. He sees himself as a pathetic figure, living in his father-in-law’s house, only able to preserve his marriage by monthly visits to his mistress in Bristol. In a fit of frustration he flings the cigarette butt out of the window, puts his hand on the horn and, changing gear noisily, roars past the coach.

  As he drives along the familiar road it is now Piers’ face he sees, wearing an expression that Felix has noticed lately: a kind of puzzled, searching look, as if he is examining his father; waiting – longing – for something to show itself. But what? He has become more remote, resigning himself to a hug rather than sharing it, holding back rather than running to greet Felix, accepting his offerings – whether it is a stick of chocolate or the suggestion of a game of draughts – with reserve or even, oddly, with disappointment, as if he suspects some hidden meaning. His gut churns as he imagines Piers discovering the truth about Angel, explained brutally to him by Marina.

  For a bleak moment, Felix imagines his life without the comfort of the Birdcage; without that distant promise of warmth and laughter. He shakes his head in despair. Soon Angel’s contract will be up and she will go to one of the other classical reps for a year or two. That is when the moment of truth will come, he tells himself: he need not face it yet.

  It is late spring before Marina makes another trip to Bristol. This time, Felix determines to take no chances but reckons without Molly and Tom, who have extra tickets for Much Ado About Nothing and have invited them for cocktails before the performance. Marina is quite pleased at the prospect and Felix is comforted by the thought that at least he will see Angel, if only at a distance, but he makes his own plans. He books a table for dinner at a little restaurant in Clifton, arranging to be collected by taxi as soon as the curtain falls, so that there can be no time to go backstage afterwards or join the cast for drinks at the Llandoger Trow or the Duke.

  Perhaps it is because he feels that he has taken every precaution that he allows himself to relax as the curtain rises. Angel is an enchanting Beatrice and he watches her with delight tinged with pride and mixed with a frustrated sadness that they cannot be together. When she says ‘. . . there was a star danced, and under that was I born . . .’ he murmurs assentingly beneath his breath, smiling with such tenderness, his hands gripping so tightly together, that Marina glances at him curiously. He is too rapt, too intent on Angel’s exit, to notice and Marina looks back at the stage, curiosity hardening into wariness.

  During the intervals she exchanges pleasantries with Tom but spends much of the time examining her programme and especially Angel’s photograph and short biography. She is quiet during dinner, asking a few questions about how often he gets to the theatre, which make him cautious. He racks his brains on how he might distract her – the invitation for her to replace her father who wishes to retire from his position as JP on the local magistrates’ bench is a good subject – and they walk back through the quiet streets in a fairly amicable silence.

  When they let themselves into the flat the telephone is ringing and Felix seizes the receiver whilst Marina stares fearfully, still clutching her wrap. He speaks quickly, keeps it short.

  ‘It was Mrs Penn,’ he says at last, going to her, taking her hands. ‘She’s been trying to get hold of us all evening. Your father is ill. We must get back at once.’

  Their last afternoon together is one that Piers will never forget. They take Grandfather’s old Morris and drive to Stoke Pero to see the little church set deep in its encircling hollow. Grandfather tells him how, in Edward the Confessor’s time, the church was held by the beautiful Queen Editha, passing to William de Mohun after the Conquest and later owned by Sir Gilbert Piro, from whom it took the second part of its name. Piers listens carefully, feeling this new responsibility to learn as much as he can, but distracted by the glory of the hot May afternoon. As they chug along the East Water Valley below Dunkery he can hear a cuckoo calling in the woods. Here the coombe falls so steeply away from the narrow road that he is staring into the topmost branches of trees sixty feet tall. The dense green leaves form a shaking, shadowy canopy above the valley floor and, when the car stops and he scrambles out to stare dizzily down, Piers can hear the music of the East Water, tumbling and rushing along its invisible bed. In the rocky wall that rears up behind him, cushiony mosses and tiny, frondy ferns grow, brilliant emerald green, and miniature waterfalls cascade over the uneven stone-face, pouring down from Robin How high up on Dunkery. The air is full of birdsong, echoing with the sound of water, and Monty runs along the road, uttering wild, excited barks that send a jay swooping skyward with a flash of blue feathers. He splashes through the ford and up onto the old bridge with Piers close behind him whilst his grandfather waits beside the car, leaning against the bonnet, lighting his pipe.

  Later, inside the church it is hot and silent. Piers gazes up at the arched wooden ceiling whilst Grandfather reads aloud how Zulu the donkey carried the timber all the way from Porlock – two loads a day – and he examines the harmonium, wishing that he had the courage to strike a chord. Presently he joins the old man in his pew as he sits resting, his eyes closed, and he too says a silent prayer, asking God to make his father really care about him. Grandfather is a solid, comfortable bulk beside him and he slips his hand into the crook of the tweedy arm.

  ‘What’s up? Where’s the fire?’ It seems that Grandfather has nodded off to sleep and Piers beams at him, showing that he doesn’t mind, that it’s quite all right to have forty winks in this peaceful place.

  ‘Home for tea,’ says Grandfather, swaying slightly as he stands up, grabbing at the pew for support. ‘Come along, young feller-me-lad.’

  Out they go together, hand in hand, past the yew tree and the leaning gravestones, back to the car where Monty waits impatiently, his head sticking out of the half-open window; home along the familiar lanes that wind through Luccombe and Huntscott, their cottage gardens awash with red and white blossom, and on to Michaelgarth. Piers feels the usual upthrust of joy as they pass into the garth beneath the arch, and he and Monty play on the cobbles, running and jumping, as Grandfather fumbles for the key and unlocks the scullery door. He leans heavily on his stick, staggering a little, and Piers looks up at him anxiously as he opens the door.

  ‘Are you tired, Grandfather?’ he asks. ‘Shall I make you a cup of tea? We don’t need to wait for Mrs Penn. I make tea for Mummy sometimes when she’s tired.’

  The old man shakes his head, murmurs that he’ll sit down for a moment and stumbles through the kitchen into the hall. Piers, feeling rather grown-up, though concerned, begins to make the tea just as his mother has shown him, dragging a chair across to the dresser so as to reach the tea caddy, only just managing the heavy kettle on the range. He carries the cup and saucer carefully, walking slowly lest it should slop over, and is surprised to see that Grandfather has made it no further th
an the hall where he is slumped in one of the big carved chairs. Piers sees now that he must have been very tired for he has fallen asleep, his head on one side, his hands lying loosely on his knees. Piers stands the tea on the flagged floor and kneels down beside him, taking one of the hands in his own. There is no answering pressure, no reassuring squeeze, so he knows that his grandfather is truly asleep. Puzzled, Monty lies down too, nose on paws, and Piers settles himself more comfortably, resting his head against the old man’s knee. He stares up at the high, arched windows where a butterfly with sulphur-yellow wings beats against the glass. He knows that it is a brimstone and he reminds himself that it must be recorded in the nature book along with the jay and the cuckoo. He glances up to see if Grandfather is stirring yet but his head seems to have sunk even lower on his shoulder and Piers turns back again to watch the butterfly. It has left the window now and soars higher and higher, up into the airy sunny spaces of the hall, and he watches it in delight, washed through with peace, whilst the tea grows cold and his grandfather’s hand stiffens within his own small, warm one.

  It is here that Mrs Penn finds them when she arrives nearly an hour later.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ‘He is too young to attend the funeral,’ says Marina coldly – and Felix is silent, unable to express his feeling that Piers should be able to make his own farewell. So far he has been very quiet about it all, though clearly he is missing his grandfather.

  ‘There won’t be anyone to do the nature book,’ he says, ‘not now I have to do my tables.’

  Felix glares warningly at Marina, who is about to observe that the nature book is the least of her problems, and suggests, diffidently, that he might take it on if Piers will help him.