The Birdcage

by Marcia Willett

  ‘It must be horrid,’ she said thoughtfully.

  ‘What must be?’

  ‘To be getting old and having to ask people to do favours all the time.’

  ‘I do try not to make him feel that he’s a burden,’ Piers said, after a moment.

  ‘Oh, I know that,’ she said quickly. ‘It wasn’t a criticism. I could just feel his . . . humiliation coming down the line, if you see what I mean.’

  ‘Well at least the boot’s on the other foot for a change.’ He spoke without thinking and then saw Tilda’s face, her surprise at the bitterness in his voice. ‘Sorry. Take no notice . . . Goodness, sitting out there in the garth I hadn’t realized it was this late.’

  She took the hint at once, kissing him lightly, picking up her book.

  ‘See you in the morning.’

  ‘Yes, of course. And thanks for offering, Tilda, but it’s much simpler for me to deal with it.’

  She disappeared and, with a bitten-off curse, he sat down at the table, resting his head in his hands. Her remark had been badly timed, coming so quickly after his period of reflection in the garth, touching a raw nerve. The memory had surfaced unexpectedly, prompted by an earlier remark made by Tilda.

  ‘Young widows are rather bad news, aren’t they?’ she’d observed. ‘Nobody wants to be reminded of their mortality. After all, if David had been killed out in Bos., driving his Land Rover to and fro on that logging trail between Travnik and GV, it might have made a bit more sense. Crashing his car after a mess dinner half a mile from home doesn’t have the same ring about it, does it? Nobody really wants me going back for Families Day – and I can see why. But what about Jake? The army was David’s life and part of me thinks that Jake is entitled to a bit of that, but I can’t quite see how it can be achieved. I can’t live on the edge of it, taking him to school and parties and that stuff, and having to say the same thing over and over, explaining about David . . .’

  Perhaps it was the usual frustration of being unable to ease her grief that had triggered off the memory. How often he’d felt that same inability to help his mother out of her bitter silences, his sense of failure shadowing his small world and dulling his natural abilities. It was ironic that it was precisely her own character that inhibited him in his attempts to fulfil her expectations of him: her demands and hopes – and clearly shown disappointment if he was not first, top, best – began to paralyse him. Fearful of her displeasure, aware that he was failing her, he grew cautious, learning not to expose himself to the possibility of ridicule and shame.

  As he’d sat in the garth, thinking of Tilda, reflecting on his mother’s character, he’d recalled a little scene played out at his prep school one Sunday afternoon.

  There has been a cricket match followed by tea. Piers is Captain of the Second XI and his team has scored a great victory over the visitors.

  ‘Well done, Piers,’ someone’s mother says. She smiles at Marina. ‘You must be very proud of him. Isn’t Felix here to see it? What a shame. Oh, yes, of course, I’ve just remembered, he goes up to Bristol regularly, doesn’t he? Susan Banks said she saw him at the cinema with a rather pretty girl. A friend of yours, I expect? Do give him my love. You must come over . . .’

  Looking between the two of them, his cheerful grin fades, his sense of triumph is corroded by anxiety. His mother’s lifted chin, her bright, hard smile do not disguise the sudden wash of colour in her cheeks nor the way her lips tighten with mortification. At eleven he is already beginning to understand certain aspects of his parents’ relationship and his mother is becoming less discreet; letting slip little hints about his father’s behaviour. Piers is furious with him for exposing her to such remarks, for spoiling a rare and happy moment. And underneath, lurking, ready to pounce, that other memory: his mother speaking in a contemptuous, disgusted voice which continues to have the power to make him feel sick and frightened.

  We saw that woman today . . . She’s your mistress, isn’t she? She had a child with her. I suppose she isn’t yours, by any chance?

  It would have been so much easier if only he could have ceased to love his father but there is something about Felix – he cannot define it – an unusual combination of generosity of spirit, humility, compassion, that draws Piers and demands some kind of instinctive reaction that looks beyond weakness and human failing.

  It was a demand to which, even now, he had never yet fully responded. Marina’s shade continued to stand between them, still requiring his loyalty.

  Piers stood up, went to the dresser and poured himself a night-cap: a small slug of brandy and a squirt of soda. He began to prepare for bed, thinking ahead: he must set his alarm a little earlier than usual, so as to be in Dunster in time to have some coffee, otherwise he would be late at the office . . . And he’d promised to have lunch with Alison. As he crossed the hall, he hesitated for a few seconds, thinking of his grandfather, and then went to sit on the old carved chair set against the wall. This part of the house – the old priory chapel – seemed to resist any kind of domestication. Attempts by preceding generations to use it as a sitting-room or study or playroom had been thwarted by its atmosphere. There was a deep-down peace, a sense of astringent single-mindedness, that defied the day-to-day hurly-burly. Only on very formal occasions was the front door used, and the hall was simply a passage between the two wings. The simplicity of the stone walls and its lofty height was emphasized by the long oak table, placed centrally on a faded but still beautiful silky Persian rug, and the two heavily scrolled chairs placed at either end.

  Piers sat in silence, allowing the peace to enfold him; remembering how, as a small child, running a toy car over the flagstones or bouncing a ball, he’d pause to look up, way up, to the soaring rafters high above his head, or he’d lie quite still, listening to the silence. Even when he’d tried to pray, voicing his childish fears and hopes in cautious whispers, his prayers had been lifted from his heart almost as he’d begun to utter them and he’d been rapt in an intense wordless joy. Later, he’d lost the knack of it but sometimes, even now, he was touched by that same piercing sweetness. He’d read somewhere that intercession meant simply standing in the presence of God on behalf of another: not talking, not asking, just being. Piers closed his eyes, allowing his awareness to centre on Tilda and her child, so that His love might flow between them all.

  For a greater part of the night Lizzie sat at the window in one of the armchairs, staring out into the warm darkness. Seeing the birdcage had shocked her even more than finding the card from Angel in Pidge’s book. Although she’d come to Dunster with some wild hope of finding Felix, it hadn’t occurred to her that he might have the birdcage. Had Angel given it to him? Or Pidge, after Angel had died? Puzzled, Lizzie shook her head. She’d been with Sam by then, of course; busy with her own career, preoccupied with her own problems. How easy it was to be so self-absorbed that, by the time you realized that there were questions to ask, it was too late; there was no-one left to answer them. Grief and loss had been the catalysts that set her off on this trail that led here, to Dunster, and – unexpectedly – to the birdcage. She was certain, now, that she had found Felix.

  She’d spent the latter half of the long night watches planning how she might approach him. There were several courses of action open to her: she could look him up in the local directory and, should his name be listed, try a cautious telephone call; or she might ask around to see if anyone knew him and so discover whether he lived alone; or she might hover about, hoping to see him emerge. However, by the time the short June night was beginning to warm into daylight, with the silvery monochrome shapes in the garden gently greening into flowery bushes and the eastern sky glowing into a pale radiance, Lizzie was battling with a simple longing to cross the street and ring the doorbell.

  Rising from the chair, stiff with fatigue, she set the kettle to boil and went to have a shower. She stood for some minutes at the bathroom window, staring out over the picturesque huddle of roof-lines and chimneys to the castle, insubstantia
l and unearthly in this early, luminous wash of light. Trembling a little – ‘Exhaustion,’ she told herself firmly, ‘you’re too old to stay awake half the night!’ – she showered, wrapped herself in the thick bath-robe, and padded back into the bedroom.

  The hot, strong coffee was wonderfully reviving. Carrying it over to the bed, she propped herself about with pillows and sipped luxuriously, thinking of Angel. At what stage had the pre-theatre mug of black coffee been replaced by a shot of whisky – ‘Just a tiny one, sweetie!’ – which she referred to as her Dutch courage? How old was she when she became unreliable? Life with Angel had been charted by her roles: ‘Wasn’t that the year we did the Northern tour? Sheridan, wasn’t it? I was playing Lydia Languish and Maria alternate weeks . . .’ or ‘No, I remember that autumn quite clearly, we were rehearsing Private Lives in some God-awful church hall in Manchester.’ Then there were the Old Vic years at the Theatre Royal in Bristol: the long, settled time at the Birdcage.

  By the time the cup was empty, Lizzie felt calmer – and braver. She settled herself – just five minutes with her eyes closed – and woke to find the sun well up and the birds shouting cheerfully outside the window. It was ten past eight. As she brushed her hair, twisting it into a loose knot and plunging in the pins, she decided that she’d just have one quick look at the birdcage before breakfast. She was beginning to wonder whether she’d imagined it; perhaps her pottiness was beginning to take the form of hallucinations. Joking herself along, swallowing down her nerves, she went down the two flights of stairs, hesitated by the restaurant door and then passed by into the porch.

  The man was just coming out of the door directly beneath the window where the birdcage hung: he was frowning a little, feeling for his car-keys in the pocket of his trousers. The set of his head, that quick glance, was so suddenly familiar to her that she nearly cried his name. Sanity drove her back into the shelter of the porch as he got into his car, reversed out of the space and drove quickly away. Lizzie watched him go, fingers pressed against her lips, trying to control her confused emotions: the rush of joy quickly giving way to crushing disappointment. Not Felix, of course: this must be his son – that boy with the strange name – who lived in the flat.

  Lizzie stared up at the birdcage, glinting brightly, clearly visible in the sunshine. How could she possibly present herself now? ‘Hello, I’m Lizzie Blake. You don’t know me, of course, but my mother was your father’s mistress.’

  Felix had probably been dead for years, along with Angel and Pidge. And now Sam was gone too, and she was alone. A tremendous sense of loss possessed her, paralysing her ability to plot or plan, and, presently, she went back inside to have her breakfast.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Bertie sat beside the small bouncy chair, ears cocked, staring at its occupant who gurgled and waved its starfish hands. The small bare feet kicked energetically and Bertie took an experimental lick at the tiny curling toes, retreating swiftly as the feet thrashed even more wildly. Tilda smiled at his reaction.

  ‘I miss having dogs around,’ she said to Gemma, as they sat in the sunshine together outside the cottage door. ‘David and I had decided that we were going to get one as soon as Jake was born. We were hoping to buy a little house in Marlborough . . .’

  She paused, biting her lip, and Gemma, her quick sympathy aroused, put her hand briefly on Tilda’s.

  ‘It’s just so wretched for you,’ she said. ‘Everything blown apart, having to leave all your chums.’

  Tilda glanced at her, surprised. ‘Not many people understand that. They can’t see that it’s just not the same to hang around on the edge of your old life, pretending that you’re still a part of it, especially when that life was the army. You simply don’t belong any more. Oh, people are kind, they make an effort to begin with, but it’s quite frightening how quickly you begin to feel like some ghastly dependant who’s being invited to parties and dinners on sufferance. And being a widow – especially a young one – has a kind of dampening effect on things. I was telling Piers last night that nobody likes to be reminded of their mortality and I began to dread that change of expression, that wariness, that friends would adopt as soon as they saw me. They’d nudge one another so that nobody would say anything tactless but then conversation would become terribly forced and it was clear that most of our friends were frightened to talk about David.’

  ‘I can understand it,’ said Gemma thoughtfully. ‘It’s not easy to find the line between an apparent indifference and that kind of awful sympathy. You know? When people put on special hushed voices and their faces lengthen and go all dejected but underneath there’s a horrid prurient nosiness.’

  She made the sort of face she’d described and, despite her misery, Tilda burst out laughing.

  ‘That’s exactly it. You’ve got it perfectly . . . but why can’t people simply be natural about it?’

  Gemma took her cigarettes from the table and shook one from the packet, frowning consideringly. ‘I think it’s because they have this superstitious fear about death,’ she said at last. ‘You know how people like to brag about knowing someone rich or famous, as if simply knowing them – or even something remote like seeing them in a shop – bestows some magic on their own lives? Well, I think death has the opposite effect. There might be something unlucky about the person whose life has been touched by it. That kind of thing.’

  She lit her cigarette, elbow cocked on the table, turning her head sideways to blow the smoke away from Tilda and Jake.

  ‘But you don’t feel like that?’ asked Tilda.

  Gemma shook her head. ‘Not at all. Someone like David would be impossible to forget. He was so much larger than life, wasn’t he? You’d still feel he was around and he’s still a part of your life. Yours and Jake’s. Jake is going to want to know about his father and, anyway, Tilda, you couldn’t just pretend that your marriage was a brief interlude, something that happened between growing up and the rest of your life. You and David go back to babyhood, like me and Guy. It must be impossible for you to take it in, especially now that you’re back at Michaelgarth. I expect you think he’s simply going to stroll in with one of those devastating remarks of his. God, he used to make me laugh.’

  ‘I do feel like that about him,’ agreed Tilda, struck by Gemma’s ability to understand. ‘I miss him so terribly but here at Michaelgarth I feel that he’s close to us. Oh, I can see that you can’t live in a time warp and make your life some kind of shrine to the past but I hate this “Now you must put it all behind you and make a new start” stuff.’

  ‘I can’t imagine Piers being like that,’ Gemma tapped the ash from her cigarette, ‘nor your mother, come to that.’

  ‘Piers isn’t,’ agreed Tilda. ‘Piers is simply brilliant and I think he feels just like I do about David. I can’t tell you how lucky we are, Jake and me, to be here. Mum’s a bit more like it.’ She glanced almost slyly at Gemma. ‘I think she’d like to see me getting together with Saul.’

  At the mention of her brother, Gemma’s eyebrows arched disbelievingly: she stared at Tilda with an amused, speculative gaze.

  ‘Seriously? With dear Saul?’ She took a deep breath, pursing her lips. ‘Well, I’m probably not a good judge, being his little sister and all that, but I can’t quite see Saul in David’s league.’

  ‘I’m very fond of him,’ Tilda felt a need to defend David’s closest friend, ‘and he’s been terrific—’

  ‘Oh, I can believe that,’ interrupted Gemma impatiently. ‘Saul’s a kind person . . .’ She hesitated. ‘But that’s the trouble really, isn’t it? David was all sorts of things but “kind” isn’t the adjective which leaps at once to mind.’

  Tilda was taken aback. ‘Well, he’s . . . he wasn’t kind in the way Saul is, I suppose.’

  ‘Come off it.’ Gemma grinned at her. ‘Who needs kind? The unknown quality, that’s what we want and that’s what David had.’ She drew on her cigarette reflectively. ‘I’ve always liked your mum,’ she said. ‘She’s fun. I expec
t she just wants to see you and Jake looked after, that’s all. Didn’t you say that she was coming for lunch?’

  ‘I did.’ Tilda glanced at her watch. ‘I must get back. Are you sure you won’t come and join us. She’d love to see you again.’

  ‘I simply can’t.’ Gemma stubbed out her cigarette. ‘Sophie’s coming over. We’ve got so much catching up to do since her wedding . . . but give your mum my love.’

  Tilda looked about for her bag whilst Gemma went to crouch by the little chair, studying the sleeping Jake.

  ‘He’s going to be just like David,’ she said. ‘He’s beautiful, Tilda. David would have been very proud of you both.’

  She stood up and put her arms about the older girl and Tilda felt a moment of enormous comfort in the warm embrace.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘For the coffee and everything. You know where we are if you need us but you’ll come for supper on Friday when Saul’s at Michaelgarth, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course we will. I’m only sorry that we shall miss Piers’ birthday.’

  ‘So am I,’ said Tilda sadly, picking up Jake’s chair. ‘It would have been such fun to have you both with us but the next lot of people will be coming into the cottage on Saturday afternoon and, what with Saul and Felix and Mum all staying overnight, we’ve got a full house at Michaelgarth.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter a bit. This week’s been such a bonus that I’m certainly not complaining. We’ll look forward to Friday but I expect I’ll pop in before then.’

  Gemma went with her to the car, helped her to settle Jake and blew her a kiss as she drove away.

  Bertie wagged his tail, looking eagerly down the road, hoping for a walk, but Gemma shook her head.

  ‘Later,’ she told him. ‘Honestly. We’ll have a lovely walk over the moor just like yesterday – but not quite yet.’

  She went into the cottage, grimacing a little to herself, wondering if she’d gone too far with Tilda: speaking as she had about David and Saul. She’d always rather admired Tilda, and until recently been rather in awe of her. At school she’d been two years ahead: head of house, with a very direct way of dealing with her peers and the younger girls. Her extreme good looks, combined with a willingness to listen, had saved her from being either resented or despised and she’d been popular amongst the older girls and admired by the little ones. It was later, once Saul and David became good friends, that Gemma had come to know Tilda better.