The Birdcage

by Marcia Willett

  He tried to decide which aspect of her wounded pride he should first address. He knew that he’d upset her by refusing to introduce her as an old friend – or as someone even closer to him – but was still at a loss as how to describe their relationship. He was fond of her but his sympathy for her bereavement, especially coinciding as it did with his own, had misled her, and he knew that he’d allowed it do so without taking steps to prevent it: because of his pity, because her problems and her needs had been a comforting antidote to his own grief for David – whatever the reasons, he’d been a party to the deception. Lizzie’s arrival had jolted him out of his apathy but, in truth, he could not say that he believed that he’d been acting fairly towards Alison. He’d known he was not committed, not in love with her, was aware of her expectations, but had gone along with it; it was only now that he was unable to continue to deceive her. He opted for the truth.

  ‘She’s my father’s friend,’ he began. ‘I met her once briefly when we were children but my father knew her mother very well. He hasn’t seen her for quite a while and then she turned up in Dunster rather unexpectedly. I understand that she lost her husband recently and I think that she’s in that rather terrible state of loss and rootlessness. Well, we know that one, don’t we?’

  Alison, raw with jealousy and shock at seeing an attractive woman so much at ease in the kitchen at Michaelgarth, was unwilling even to allow Lizzie the benison of grief.

  ‘She didn’t seem too bereft,’ she said, with that same vexed, half-mocking laugh. Even in the grip of this weighted, miserable uncertainty, she would not show herself to be openly, honestly vulnerable. Instead she must attempt to discredit Lizzie in Piers’ eyes. ‘Personally, I can’t stand that type of showing off,’ a shrug, ‘although I suppose it takes some people in.’

  Piers was silent: in her fear and anger Alison rolled the rosebud to and fro between her fingers, shredding and peeling the soft petals into tiny yellow velvet balls.

  ‘Of course I can imagine that Tilda is delighted,’ she went on contemptuously. ‘Anyone who is remotely well known would appeal to her. She’s always watching the television, isn’t she? I could hardly believe my eyes when I saw that portable TV in the kitchen . . .’

  Piers, watching her bitter mouth, the little sneer, the look of fear in her eyes, was reminded of his mother. He wondered if Alison’s jealousy were rooted in a need to possess, to control, or whether it sprang from a lack of confidence and low self-esteem. He feared that it might be the former and was gripped with distress: either way, he did not want it to be his problem, yet his compassion for her could not be quite so easily withheld.

  ‘Tilda’s good for me.’ He spoke lightly, trying to lead her into a calmer frame of mind. ‘She and Jake give me so much.’

  ‘Give you so much?’ Her eyebrows arched in disbelief. ‘I should say that the shoe is quite on the other foot.’

  ‘You mustn’t forget that you still have your children,’ he reminded her gently. ‘They might not come home to you quite so often these days but they are there, alive somewhere in the world. At any moment one of them might telephone you or text you. There might be a card amongst your letters or a parcel on your birthday, from either your son or your daughter, or they could even appear, wandering in, taking refuge, coming home to recharge their batteries, gather courage or even simply to borrow money. All those privileges are denied me now.’

  She was wise enough not to snort as she usually did, to say derisively, ‘You call those privileges?’ but remained silent, frustrated by his painful simplicity.

  ‘It’s not just her company,’ Piers was saying. ‘I have no problem with being alone. It’s simply that she and Jake are part of David and whilst they are around I can feel that he is too. Oh, it hurts like hell, sometimes, but even pain can have its uses. I’m sure you feel like that about Philip from time to time?’

  Impossible to answer that she hardly ever thought about Philip, except when a household problem arose: that her desire for Piers blotted out almost every other sensation.

  She thought: This is like having some terrible fever. I am in love with him. It was never like this with Philip.

  Even without looking at him she was aware of his proximity: the brushing of his shirt-sleeve against her bare arm, the movement of his hands, his quick intent glance. In her mind’s eye she saw again the woman in the kitchen, remembering how she’d moved so easily to give that kiss to Piers and how naturally he’d bent his head to receive it. Fear seized her: tall, slender, the thick hair so loosely gathered back, she’d looked quite young as she’d made her entrance, drawing all the attention to herself, making them laugh. Alison had felt clumsy in comparison, heavy and humourless, only too aware that anguish was painting cruel lines upon her face and rooting her flat-footed to the floor whilst the other woman’s body was fluid with unconscious elegance and grace.

  Perhaps she could be like that; perhaps, even now, she could accept his gesture and let him lead her away from the dark, sterile, boggy land of possessiveness towards the higher, warmer, fruitful ground of generosity. Even as she contemplated it, a burst of laughter from the kitchen assaulted her ears, stiffening her spine; glancing down she saw that the rosebud was destroyed and she dropped its remains upon the cobbles, wiping her finger on her handkerchief.

  ‘I have a present for you in the car,’ she said, ‘but I was hoping to have a moment alone with you . . .’

  Her voice trailed into nothing and she looked away from him, resentment dulling her face. Piers, knowing that he had failed, resisted the usual urge to over-compensate by extravagant words and gestures.

  ‘That’s very kind,’ he said cheerfully – but making no attempt to suggest a solution that would appeal to her. ‘And thank you for the goodies. They look delicious. Mrs Coleman will be here later and Saul’s going to help me gather together all the garden furniture. I’m afraid that it’s going to be one of those days. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to get my present and come back inside to have some coffee while I open it?’

  He glanced over his shoulder as Tilda came out into the garth carrying Jake, singing to him.

  ‘No,’ Alison said sharply. ‘No, not now.’ Despair gripped her. ‘But I shall see you later?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said warmly. ‘Don’t be silly. Come early and have a drink.’ He smiled at her, unable to let her go away unhappy. ‘We’ll have the present-giving then, shall we? About six thirty?’

  Her face lit with hope at this promise and she half wondered whether she should simply get his present and do as he suggested but, even as she heard Lizzie’s voice joined with Saul’s and Tilda’s, the impulse died.

  ‘I’ll see you later, then,’ she said. ‘No, don’t bother to see me off. I’ll see you at half-past six,’ and she hurried out of the garth, climbed into her car and drove away.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Between the cottage door and the gate, ostentatiously placed lest he might somehow be forgotten, Bertie sat watching the packing-up process. All week he’d felt unsettled, unused to his surroundings, puzzled by long, solitary hours in the car. His tail thumped gently each time a suitcase or bag was carried out; ears pricked, he waited patiently for the summons that would mean that, at last, they were going home.

  ‘I’ll take him for a walk in a minute,’ said Guy, who had tripped over him twice, cursed him elaborately and was now feeling guilty. ‘I might as well do it now, before it gets too hot, and then he’ll settle down and go to sleep in the car. Do you want to come?’

  Gemma shook her head. ‘I’ll finish the packing,’ she said. ‘There’s not much more to go in and I’d rather get it done. When you get back we’ll have some coffee to set us on our way.’

  Guy put on his shoes and went outside. ‘OK,’ she heard him say, ‘your moment has come. No, no, not in the car, you daft animal; we’re going for a walk.’

  She watched them pass the front window on their way up the hill and then began to make a thorough check of the house. So
meone called Mrs Coleman would be over shortly to change the sheets and clean the cottage. Meanwhile Gemma wanted to make certain that nothing was left behind and the place was tidy and clean and in good order. Piers had refused to take any payment for their week’s holiday and the least she could do was to keep the changeover work to a minimum.

  The wardrobes and chest of drawers were empty; no book had been kicked under the bed, no bathrobe left hanging behind the door. She moved from room to room, possessed with the sense of restlessness that had been with her since early morning, ready to go home: the fun was over and she felt uneasy. The brief sense of belonging was gone, their short tenancy was finished, and she felt a stranger here. She put her head round the door of the sitting-room. They’d never used this room with its open hearth and comfortable armchairs, preferring to live in the big family room across the narrow hall, but she hesitated at the door for a moment, aware of an ambience of continuity: of centuries of day-to-day living. The room, in fact the whole cottage, had an atmosphere of permanence: there was none of the impersonal uniformity of the holiday cottage about it.

  Here Piers had lived, first alone and then with his family, before moving back to Michaelgarth and Gemma imagined that she was able to detect his wife’s influence at work amongst the bright, pretty hangings and loose covers.

  ‘Sue was brilliant,’ Tilda had told her that morning when she’d come for coffee. ‘She did everything so well. When the last tenants left, Sue persuaded Piers to let the cottage to holiday-makers. She said it would bring in more money. Piers agreed to try it but he’s happier letting it on a long-term basis to a local person, and he’s saying that at the end of this summer it will go back to being a shorthold tenancy. I think he’s been waiting to see whether I might have preferred to be here rather than at Michaelgarth.’

  ‘And wouldn’t you?’ Gemma had asked curiously. ‘Wouldn’t you welcome a bit more privacy?’

  She’d longed to ask whether Tilda missed her freedom, longed for some fun, but something in Tilda’s clear, tranquil gaze forbade it.

  ‘Not really.’ Tilda had considered the question seriously.

  ‘Piers gives me plenty of space, you know. The two wings divide the house quite naturally, and he has his study and we’ve converted the dining-room to a comfortable place for me and Jake. I find that it’s rather nice to have someone around in the evening and we kind of comfort each other without getting too emotional, if you see what I mean. It’s Piers I feel sorry for, actually. I’m probably rotting up his private life without realizing it but he gives no sign of feeling trapped. I sometimes wonder what I’d do if he met someone else and it got serious. I doubt another woman would want me and Jake in the west wing. I expect we’d move down here then but, selfishly, I hope it doesn’t happen. I feel so much at home at Michaelgarth and I want Jake to grow up there if possible. It’s where David was happiest and I want Jake to feel part of that.’ She’d looked affectionately at the cottage as they’d sat outside its open door. ‘Of course he lived here too, when he was very small.’ She’d laughed, shaking her head. ‘I just can’t get away from him.’

  Remembering, Gemma shut the sitting-room door sharply and crossed the hall. Her bag, bulging with various items she might need for the journey, sat on the breakfast bar beside the mugs put ready for coffee. She checked the fridge, taking out a bottle of water along with the last of the cheese and some grapes. There was a drop of milk for the coffee and a few other odds and ends, which she collected and dropped into the waste-bin. Taking Guy’s sweater from the back of a chair, picking up the map from the table at the window, Gemma gathered together the last things to be put into the car and made a pile of them on the bar.

  She filled the kettle, switched it on and took the cheese and grapes out to the car. The small hamper was crammed between the twins’ little chairs and she leaned in, stretching across the nearest seat, so as to lift its wicker lid and put the remains of the food inside. As she closed it she was aware of something being missing; some object that was usually kept here on the back seat. Frowning in puzzlement she went back into the cottage, trying to remember what she’d forgotten. Bertie’s bed was already in the back of the estate car, along with his water bowl, and Guy had packed boots and jackets into the well behind the driver’s seat.

  Gemma took another look around the room, trying to picture the usual contents of the back seat and wondering whether she was thinking of something that hadn’t been necessary for this holiday: the padded bag containing the twins’ travelling requirements, for instance, had been left at home along with the duffel bag full of soft toys with which she entertained them on long journeys. She shrugged, fishing for her mobile in her crammed bag, checking for messages. It was in the second between thinking about Simon and deciding not to risk a last call to him that she remembered the missing item: her rug. She nearly dropped the mobile, clapping a hand to her mouth in horror, visualizing their last meeting.

  ‘Do we really need two rugs?’ he’d asked teasingly. ‘Perhaps I should try to get hold of a feather mattress.’

  ‘It’s a bit late now, isn’t it?’ she’d retorted, spreading her rug across his own. ‘But perhaps you should consider it for next time.’

  ‘Is there going to be a next time?’ he’d asked, pulling her down beside him, and she’d shaken her head as she smiled at him. Afterwards they’d stood talking together, drinking coffee from a flask, collecting the remains of the picnic. He’d bent to pick up the rugs, bundling them together over his arm, talking about Marianne, recounting her reaction when she’d heard Gemma’s message on the answerphone. She’d perched on the edge of the passenger seat of her car as she listened to him, combing her hair and peering into the small mirror inside the glove compartment. What had happened after that?

  Gemma screwed her eyes shut, desperately trying to recreate the scene. Had he put both rugs in his own vehicle? Putting her mobile on the top of her bag she ran out to the car; hastily she moved the cases that Guy had stacked earlier, lifted Bertie’s bed, peered into the wells behind the front seats. The rug was always kept folded on top of the small hamper between the twins’ chairs, ready to be wrapped round them if they were chilly or to be spread for them to crawl on during a picnic. It was nowhere to be seen. She tried to steady herself. After all, Guy would probably never notice it was missing and it could be easily replaced. There was nothing particularly special about it: it was the rug she’d taken to school to use on her bed in winter, a cheerful tartan with her nametape sewed to one edge . . . She caught her breath and her heartbeat thudded in her side: she could see that nametape very clearly: ‘G WIVENHOE’ in blue on a white background.

  In a single moment she imagined Marianne putting something into the Discovery – a coat? her walking boots? – noticing the bundled rug and dragging it out to fold it properly.

  ‘What’s this?’ she’d ask Simon, quite natural to begin with, puzzled by the second rug rolled into their own. ‘Where did this come from?’

  She’d hold it out to him, not suspecting anything until, alerted by his silence, she’d look at him properly.

  Gemma swallowed in a dry throat. How would he react after that first shock? Would he bluff it out – ‘Haven’t a clue, darling. Can’t remember when we last used the rug, can you?’ – and try to hurry her into the car? Would Marianne, still puzzled, insist on examining the rug and see that wretched nametape? She glanced at her watch. It was clear that Simon hadn’t noticed it yet or he would have phoned her. There was still time to warn him. Supposing she were to text him: leave a message?

  ‘Best not to phone tomorrow,’ he’d said. ‘Marianne and I will almost certainly be together. We generally shop on a Saturday morning and it would be a bit chancy.’

  If she sent a text, would his mobile ring and give him away? She had a sudden horrid vision of Marianne arriving at the cottage, flourishing the rug and demanding an explanation: she saw Guy returning to such a scene, surprise and distaste turning to suspicion and finally to anger.
She whirled about and ran into the cottage, seized the mugs and thrust them back into the cupboard, emptied the milk into the sink and threw the carton into the waste-bin. Grabbing their belongings, she raced back outside, looking along the road, willing Guy to appear with Bertie at his heels. There was no sign of them. Back indoors, scrabbling in her bag, she found the cottage keys, which she’d been told to leave on the breakfast bar – ‘Mrs Coleman has her own set of keys,’ Tilda had said – and dropped them on the pine counter. She felt sick and frightened and, hearing Guy at last, she hurried out, trying to school her face into a smile.

  He was closing the gate behind Bertie, who clearly wanted to get into the car, and looked surprised to see her coming out, hitching her bag over her shoulder. Her small, pretty features were sharpened, pinched, and he frowned a little.

  ‘Are you OK? I thought we were going to have some coffee?’

  ‘Oh, darling,’ her voice sounded uneven and she cleared her throat, ‘I had a sudden longing to get on. Do you mind? I know it sounds silly but I simply can’t wait to see the babes, can you? It’s been a lovely break but I just want to get home.’

  He shrugged. ‘That’s fine with me but I need a leak before we go. You haven’t locked up, have you?’

  He disappeared into the cottage whilst she opened the tailgate to let Bertie in and then went to stand by the open door of the car, biting her lips, willing Guy to hurry. Her knees shook and she looked down the road, convinced that she heard an engine. He came at last, slamming the door behind him, and climbed into the car. Waiting in anguish whilst he dug in the pocket of his jeans for his key, took a last glance over his shoulder towards the sea, she realized in those endless moments exactly what she had risked and how much she stood to lose.