The Birdcage

by Marcia Willett

  ‘But not as well as I knew David,’ she murmured to the attendant Bertie. ‘That was a bit of a close one, my boy.’

  She took her mobile from her bag whilst Bertie watched, tail drooping. He wondered if this meant another day sitting patiently in the back of the car, in some shady and deserted spot, waiting for that moment of freedom.

  Gemma bent to fondle his ears. ‘Good job you can’t talk,’ she murmured as she punched in some digits. ‘Hello? Did it go OK? Was Marianne back before you? . . . What a relief. No, no problems here. So where shall we meet today?’

  Bertie lay down, resigned, nose on paws, and closed his eyes.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Alison was waiting for Piers, neat as a pin, smiling with pleasure. There was the usual little flurry of greeting, which lay somewhere between the easy embrace of lovers and the more formal brief touching of cheeks: a kind of prolonged hug with a kiss that always left Piers feeling faintly guilty. He suspected that she was waiting for some gesture on his part that would move the relationship forward but he was incapable of supplying it. Fond though he was of her, he could not make a deeper commitment: not yet. Although he’d worked with Philip for years, it wasn’t until after he’d died that Piers had become friendly with Alison. She’d decided to sell the house in Minehead and he’d assisted as far as he was able with the process of buying the small, modern bungalow at Timberscombe and moving her into it.

  They’d been struck by the coincidences within their private lives: Alison had lost her husband just as her daughter started at university and her son took up a job in Edinburgh and it was as if, in a few short weeks, her whole world had diminished; her family gone. Philip’s heart attack had been so shockingly unexpected in a man who ate sensibly and sparingly, drank very little and kept himself fit. ‘He’s the last person . . .’ Alison would repeat at intervals; dazed and uncomprehending at her loss. During the six months after David’s death she and Piers had spent a great deal of time together sorting out the bungalow, organizing the move. The similarity in their situations, being able to share mutual grief and loneliness, pushed the relationship rather quickly into an intimacy that Piers had quite soon begun to question although Tilda’s arrival had put a natural brake on things.

  Now, as he glanced about him, made slightly uncomfortable as usual by the almost antiseptic orderliness, she smiled as though she guessed his thoughts.

  ‘I hope you agree now that I was quite right to move,’ she said. ‘I know you told me I should wait but this place is so wonderfully convenient after that big house in Minehead. Of course, Philip loved it, and it was very nice to have all the space while the children were growing up, but I simply shouldn’t have known what to do with myself, rattling about on my own.’

  Piers followed her into the small, shining kitchen. ‘As long as you feel the same when Sara and Mark want to bring the grandchildren to see you,’ he said cheerfully. ‘You’ll be a bit cramped.’

  Alison shrugged. ‘I shan’t hold my breath,’ she said shortly. ‘Mark never seems to find the time to telephone, let alone come home, since he moved to Edinburgh and Sara only makes it during the holidays for a few days here and there. She’s changed so much since she went to university.’

  Tilda would have recognized Piers’ expression – the mental shrug that hid so much more than it implied. He knew that Alison felt bitter about her children’s defection so soon after the death of their father and he hesitated to trot out the usual platitudes. He was very aware of how much she missed them and how empty the days were, despite her efforts to fill the hours with charity work.

  ‘I think it’s fairly standard behaviour,’ he said with a cautious attempt at the positive approach. ‘They’re making new friends and they have their own commitments but they still like to know we’re there.’

  ‘Go through and sit down,’ she said. ‘Everything’s on the table, I’m just bringing the soup.’

  Piers went into the long, bright room where the dining table and chairs were set formally at one end, with a sofa and armchairs grouped round the television at the other. In this room he always felt larger than life, fearful that he might knock against one of the small, spindly tables that held ornaments or spoil the immaculate effect by putting his briefcase or newspaper in the wrong place. The large plate-glass sliding window was open into the pretty, tidy little garden and he stood in the sunshine, hands in pockets, staring out. She came behind him and he turned, smiling at her as she set the crock on the table and began to ladle the home-made soup into his bowl.

  ‘This is very sweet of you,’ he said. ‘Jolly nice for me not to have to think about lunch on a busy day like this.’

  ‘It’s very nice for me too.’ She sounded abstracted, a polite response to his compliment, and he could see that she was still thinking of his earlier remark. ‘It’s lovely to have some company – but to go back to what we were saying, Piers; yes, I know that they like to know we’re here but don’t you find that the young’s particular brand of dependency gets a bit wearing?’

  Piers shook out his napkin, accepted a bread roll and crumbled it thoughtfully. This type of conversation generally led into the same groove, which finally resulted in her giving advice on how he should deal with Tilda and Jake.

  ‘I think it’s a wearing time of life.’ He tried to make it sound a bit of a joke. ‘Between elderly parents and grown-up children it can be . . . interesting.’

  Alison snorted derisively. ‘That’s one way of describing it. As far as I can see it, my children want the privilege of worrying me to death with their problems whilst denying me any right to intervene in their lives – apart from sending them money, of course.’

  Piers smiled rather wistfully. ‘That sums it up perfectly,’ he agreed. ‘This soup is absolutely delicious. I have to say that I quite enjoy cooking for myself but I haven’t got round to attempting soup yet. You must give me the recipe.’

  She glanced at him, quick to pick up the deliberate change of subject, guessing that he was thinking about David. Sometimes, in her anxiety to put him straight about his dealings with Tilda, she quite forgot that David was dead. She took his cue, feeling that she’d been insensitive.

  ‘I’m glad you like it, I was rather worried that it might be too hot for soup. I hope this weather lasts for your holiday. Have you made any plans yet?’

  ‘Not too many.’ He tried not to let a certain wariness creep into his voice. ‘Two weeks of freedom! I intend to lie about in the sun and catch up on some reading.’

  She removed the soup bowls, putting them through the hatch into the kitchen. ‘If Jake lets you.’

  ‘Oh, he’s too young to be a problem,’ replied Piers cheerfully. ‘The garden’s looking delightful, isn’t it? Wonderful colours.’

  ‘I’ve been working very hard.’ Distracted yet again, Alison looked with satisfaction on her handiwork. ‘Although I’m having to water it every evening . . .’

  Piers watched her as she talked on about bedding plants and her new rockery; her brown hair, bobbed with a fringe, was neat and shining, and her face, animated now, and free from discontent, was small and pretty. She was stockily built though well-shaped, not very tall, but, all things considered, an attractive woman . . .

  She turned suddenly, saw his intent, assessing look and blushed suddenly. Piers, feeling extraordinarily uncomfortable, cut some cheese so as to give himself something to do.

  ‘I was wondering,’ she sat down again and leaned forward, encouraged by that unguarded look, ‘well, hoping, actually, that we might have an outing or two while you’re on holiday. We talked of it before, didn’t we? I was saying that I’d like to go to Knightshayes. I’ve never been there.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ he said, some kind of guilt lending enthusiasm to his voice. It was as if that calculating look had betrayed him into an intimacy he’d not intended – yet he couldn’t refuse her.

  And why should I want to? he asked himself, confused. Dammit, I’m very fond of her.

&n
bsp; ‘I thought we might have coffee in the garden,’ she was saying, ‘if you’ve got the time?’

  He glanced at his watch. ‘Plenty of time,’ he said, still with that same feeling that he must make some kind of amends – and followed her outside.

  After he’d gone, Alison cleared the table and began to wash up. Her movements were neat and methodical, no action was wasted and, as she worked, she thought about Piers. In those early days, after Philip’s death and with the children gone, she’d been shocked at how quickly Piers had become important to her. He’d been more than someone willing to help with the unexpected small problems; more than a friend with whom she could talk through the pros and cons of moving. She’d found herself excited by the prospect of seeing him, taking care that she was looking her best, and, after he’d gone, she’d remember things he’d said and the electrifying sensation of the brief clasp of his hand.

  She’d been confused, almost horrified by her disloyalty to Philip, wondering if it might be some strange manifestation of shock, but during the long dark emptiness that stretched between bed-time and breakfast she’d brought her common sense to bear upon these reactions. Lying awake, eyes dry and aching from lack of sleep, she’d examined her feelings. There was no question that, though she’d loved Philip and been very loyal to him, the early magic had faded once the children had come along. He’d always been a man who put his work first: pragmatic, sensible – nothing of the romantic about him – but he’d been a good father and husband. The simple explanation was that she’d loved him but hadn’t been in love with him.

  To begin with, this realization in itself had been a problem for her: to love someone as she’d loved Philip – and as, no doubt, he had loved her – suggested all the good, solid, admirable aspects of the word. To be in love had always, in her book, implied a rather different state: a febrile instability that majored with feckless irresponsibility on the physical aspect. It was a condition that had more to do with the Latin temperament and with film stars than with your sensible, reliable, durable relationships. Now, though, as she thought about Piers in those endless night watches, Alison had strange fantasies that seemed incongruous in company with the noniron striped polycotton sheets and her cosy winceyette nightdress.

  For the first time in her life, the woman who’d been buried deeply, willingly, inside the roles of wife and mother began to cast off these constricting images. Emerging with new, fresh eyes, Alison realized something else very important: Piers was sexy – and Philip never had been. This startling knowledge required further rearranging of her ideas. Philip had been a good-looking man: very tall, clean-cut features, slim. Everything about him suggested that he should be attractive, in the real sense of the word; drawing people to him, especially women. Yet this had never been the case. He’d been rather a dull stick – she caught her breath rather sharply when she acknowledged this to herself – just a touch boring, though kind; very kind.

  But now, the new Alison, lying all restless and yearning in her sensible sheets, wondered whether ‘kind’ was as valuable a quality as her mother had first led her to believe.

  ‘He’s a kind man, Alison,’ she’d said, after the second or third meeting, ‘he’ll never let you down’ – and this was true: bills paid on time (not too early, no sense in losing the interest) – the house re-decorated every two years (must protect one’s investment) – impulse buying not encouraged – (‘but do you really need another handbag, dear?’). She’d learned to expect that the rubbish – sensibly wrapped – would always be put out, the grass mown within an inch of its life, the car MOT’d on the right day, and, during the whole of their twenty-five years together, she’d never suffered a moment’s disquiet about his behaviour (unless she counted that little twinge when she’d feared he might be boring his fellow guest at a dinner party) nor a second’s jealousy when he was in the company of a charming woman.

  Yet Piers was kind too: he’d helped her through those miserable winter months, advised on the selling of the house in Minehead, surveyed the bungalow and helped her with the move. Why then this ceaseless agony of wondering whom he was meeting, what he was doing? Her latent jealousy, banked well down and undisturbed by Philip, now flared into a bonfire of anguished possessiveness. Her newly opened eyes saw that Piers was not only kind but he had that indefinable attraction that drew people – especially women – to him: it was something about his eyes, the way he was so at ease with his body, his deep chuckle. She’d been so upset when he’d told her – so happily, clearly expecting her full approval – that Tilda and Jake were coming back to Michaelgarth that she’d had a migraine for three days. Not that she was jealous, not in that way, of his relationship with Tilda – it was quite clear that Piers looked upon her as a deeply beloved daughter – no, it was the thought of the time they would spend together that made her so furious: time in which she would not be included: time that would be deducted from her share of him.

  She’d tried to hint gently to Tilda that she was being rather thoughtless in assuming that she could simply walk in, as though she owned the place, as though Piers had no life of his own which might suffer by this invasion, but Tilda simply looked back at her with those remarkable cornflower eyes as if she saw right down to what lay beneath Alison’s nice drip-dry shirt, which had been such an absolute bargain from the charity shop in Minehead.

  Alison swiped the cloth around the twin stainless-steel bowls, wrung it out and went outside to peg it on the line. She remembered the way Piers had looked at her earlier nothing casual about that look – and her gut churned. She was pretty certain that he’d felt about Sue the same way she’d been with Philip: he’d loved her but he hadn’t been in love with her. The phrase, which she’d once dismissed so disdainfully, now obsessed her: she was certain that she was in love with Piers. And he?

  Alison bit her lip in frustration, fetched the secateurs and went to dead-head the roses.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  After breakfast, her plans dashed to pieces, Lizzie decided to walk down to the beach. All keyed up and ready for action, she found the ground had been sliced from before her feet and she was left feeling disorientated and rather shaky. Some kind of physical exercise was essential and she set out for Dunster beach, hoping that the walk would refresh her memory, even, perhaps, summon Angel’s shade. Instead she found that she was utterly at a loss. She recognized nothing: not the underpass beneath the A39, nor the sign ‘To the beach’, which led her along Sea Lane, nor the small, neat bungalows of Haven Close and Bridges Mead: none of these struck a chord. Once she’d finally reached the beach she thought that she did remember the wooden chalets with their corrugated asbestos roofs, but if she’d once played on those flat stretches of sandy beach with its grey rocky outcrops, or paddled in that far distant sea, then she had no recollection of it. Tired, disillusioned and very hot, she made her way back to the hotel, ready for a long cold drink. No wonder Angel had written all those years ago, ‘but it’s rather a trek to the beach for poor little Lizzie’s legs’. She rather suspected, given that long weary walk, that Angel hadn’t spent too much time on the beach; she’d hung about the village hoping to see Felix.

  Lizzie sighed as she sat in the cool garden, sipping an icy St Clement’s: it seemed that she was to be defeated in her hopes just as Angel had been forty years before. After all, what could she possibly say to Felix’s son? She could think of no way to introduce herself or explain the reason for her visit to Dunster; yet neither could she bear to go away again, leaving the birdcage behind, without knowing how it came to be hanging in that room across the street. As she ate a sandwich beneath the shady umbrella listening to the carillon – today the tune was ‘Home Sweet Home’ – she tried to plan a path ahead, inventing scenarios that might answer these questions.

  He’d looked nice, Felix’s son – what was his name? – with that easy gait and the swift turn of the head. His glance – though he could have hardly seen her in the shadow of the porch – had that intent quality that reminde
d her of his father: just so had Felix looked as he came in on a Sunday evening, with a smile for Pidge, the wink for Angel, yet in that brief moment assessing the general atmosphere or any new addition to the room.

  ‘Hello, my birds . . .’ He’d managed to be inclusive whilst making each of them feel special and, more importantly, showing his admiration for their unity. There was never any inclination to vie for his attention; no attempts for one to outdo the other, despite the fact that they’d all loved him so much.

  Lizzie kicked off her shoes and rested her heels on the second chair, wondering why the relationship had finished, cudgelling her memory. How long had the Felix years lasted? At eleven she’d been sent away to school – oh, the excitement of it! The preparations and expectation! – but, by the time she’d returned home for the Christmas holidays, Felix had disappeared from the scene.

  ‘When is Felix coming to see us?’ she asks, planning to tell him her news, show him the small trophies of the term’s successes.

  ‘He could never get away at Christmas,’ answers Angel rather sharply. ‘You know that.’

  Lizzie slowly realizes that beneath the warm welcome of her homecoming there are other, darker, layers of emotion: Angel is absent-minded, and occasionally impatient, whilst Pidge is watchful.

  ‘I’ve made a card for him,’ she says – they’ve always exchanged presents with Felix after Christmas during their own little ceremony. ‘When shall I give it to him?’ but Angel is offhand, as if the question irritates her.