The Birdcage

by Marcia Willett

  ‘I feel so bloody helpless.’ He still spoke savagely, yet he continued to hold the child tenderly. ‘I feel as if I’m being disloyal to David but I loved you from the first minute and I just have to say it out loud.’

  She slid her arm about him, her cheek against his shoulder, remembering Gemma’s words: I can’t quite see Saul in David’s league.

  How could she describe her great affection for him? ‘You’re very special, Saul,’ she began, ‘it’s just . . .’

  ‘I know.’ He tried to smile, not wanting to distress her by forcing explanations from her so as to ease his suffering. ‘Just don’t tell me that I’m like a brother to you, that’s all.’

  She was silent for so long that he turned to look down at her, fear and a faint flickering of hope wrestling together in his breast.

  ‘I can’t describe exactly what I feel,’ she answered at last. ‘David was so . . . all-encompassing. He’s such a difficult act to follow – and I can’t imagine even thinking about that yet, if ever. But I love you too, only it’s cheating to say so when I can’t offer anything. I know I’d hate it if you weren’t around and I need you to keep me grounded, if you see what I mean.’

  ‘I think so.’ He knew he must be content with this much, at least for the time being, but that tiny flame of hope continued to glow within him and his spirits lifted. ‘Let’s get this fellow sorted and then I must go down and help Piers get the lights up in the garth.’ He bent and touched his lips lightly to her hair. ‘Don’t worry about it, Tilda. I shall be around for as long as you need me.’

  She grinned at him gratefully, giving him a hug. ‘We both need you,’ she told him, and followed him into the nursery.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  As she dressed for her rendezvous with Piers at six thirty, Alison cast anxious yet hopeful glances in the dressing-table glass as she passed to and fro before it: as though these short glimpses, taken on the wing, might reveal some unknown side of her, presenting some aspect of which she was rarely aware. The quick, darting figure, wrestling with a zip, dragging a T-shirt over its head, showed a different Alison to the one who sat upon the upholstered stool, staring critically and with dissatisfaction into the triple mirror. Was this how Piers saw her: in motion, flexible? Or was it the other woman, who had tiny lines carved between her brows and a discontented mouth, of whom he thought?

  The presence of Lizzie Blake at Michaelgarth had undermined her confidence with far more success than Tilda had ever been able to achieve, and Alison had already tried on and rejected three separate outfits: the first too casual, the second too smart and the third simply boring. The bedroom, which looked into the narrow side garden, was warm and stuffy, the high leylandii hedges preventing any cool current of air. No draughts prevailed in this comfortable little dwelling; it was as sensible and neat as Alison herself, and just as predictable. Labour-saving, economical to run, surrounded by its small well-planned garden, it was exactly the house Philip would have chosen for her present circumstances. A photograph of him smiled condescending approval from the dressing-table.

  He would have been surprised, she thought now, if he could have seen her in this present dilemma with discarded garments cast anyhow on the bed rather than hung back tidily in the fitted cupboard. Until Philip’s death, clothes had been regarded as necessary items that lent respectability and kept you warm – and the cheaper they were the better he liked them. He could see the sense of paying a little extra for quality that would last for ever – for a tweed skirt, say, or a sensible overcoat – but to buy clothes for the fun of it was beyond him. Fashion was a word that did not enter his vocabulary and if you could find the skirt – or overcoat – at a charity shop, for a quarter of the price when new, then why quibble if the colour didn’t quite match the rest of your clothes or the length was three inches shorter than was flattering?

  As she tried a shirt with a seventies collar and an unusually vivid magenta stripe, Alison began to have a glimmering of the reason why Philip and his daughter had come to blows so often. Once Alison might have worn the shirt without a thought for it, beyond the need for it to be clean and properly pressed, but now the image of Lizzie in her soft apple-green linen overshirt slithered between her and the glass. She’d looked slender and cool, yet the narrow-cut capris had added a youthful, rather sexy touch to the outfit. Alison, staring at herself in the outdated shirt with the full-skirted frumpy denim skirt, for the first time briefly grasped the agony behind Sara’s wails: ‘I can’t wear that old thing. It’s no good letting down the hem. It’s the wrong shape, can’t you see . . . ?’

  Perhaps a Lizzie-figure, blessed with style and grace, had hovered between Sara and her latest crush so that Philip’s portentous humour and ill-timed homilies on the dangers of extravagance in the pursuit of vanity must have been hard to bear. Alison, more concerned with exam results than her daughter’s social success – and, anyway, much more attuned to Mark’s needs – had experienced an almost perverse pleasure in supporting Philip. After all, why should she cut corners to save pennies whilst Sara wasted them on frivolities?

  Now, frowning in puzzled frustration at her reflection, she experienced a brush of remorse: she dimly saw that an opportunity had been wasted, a chance for her to draw near to her daughter, to share, had been missed. The fruit of those self-righteous homilies and heavy-handed jokes at Sara’s expense had been a bitter resentment on their daughter’s part: perhaps a lighter touch, the occasional generosity . . . ? Instinctively Alison rejected what seemed to be a quite unnecessary requirement to review Philip or her own standards. Sara had always been an ungrateful, sullen child, and, as she’d grown older, secretive and critical. Mark was uncomplicated, less touchy, and she’d always found his demands much more acceptable – not that he came home, these days, any more often than Sara . . .

  Alison resolutely put her children from her mind and began to unzip the skirt. Surely she must have something that would give her both the confidence to meet Lizzie Blake again and to hold Piers’ attention. She was looking forward to the fortnight ahead, to having him to herself. She’d already drawn up a little programme of outings: nothing too demanding but which would give them plenty of time together away from Michaelgarth. She would need to be – she rejected the words ‘cunning’ and ‘resourceful’, which smacked unflatteringly of a lack of willingness on Piers’ part – tactful, was more the word, in her determination to see that Piers was taken out of himself. At Michaelgarth, especially with Tilda and the baby in residence, the shades of David and Sue prevented him from making a new life. Moving from the house in Minehead had been a very sensible step away from her past: it was time that Piers was encouraged forward.

  Alison removed the unfortunate shirt, put it with the denim skirt and began a new assault upon her meagre wardrobe.

  Lizzie, sitting with Felix on the seat under the covered way outside the hall, saw her enter the garth and felt an instant surge of unworthy glee. The skirt was fractionally too tight and an unfortunate length, given Alison’s short sturdy legs; the blouse was too fussy for a barbecue – in fact it would be difficult, decided Lizzie, to think of an occasion when the shirt could possibly be appropriate – and the sandals, clearly worn for comfort, were heavy and unflattering.

  Everything just wrong, poor thing, she thought contentedly, and moved a fraction nearer to Felix as Alison approached. She carried an oblong parcel under one arm and her expression of wariness and aggression was not lightened by the sight of Lizzie and Felix sitting so companionably together.

  ‘Hello,’ cried Lizzie gaily, feeling Angel’s influence creeping up on her again. ‘You’re the very first to arrive. Isn’t that nice?’

  She felt Felix’s silent chuckle reverberate up her arm and suppressed her own desire to burst into fits of laughter. Alison stared at them stonily as she approached but, even as Felix began to rise to his feet, Piers appeared in the doorway of the scullery and called a greeting to her.

  ‘We’ll be out in a moment,’ he sai
d to the two on the bench and drew Alison into the kitchen.

  ‘Why don’t you like her?’ enquired Felix, still smiling to himself.

  ‘She makes me want to behave badly,’ said Lizzie honestly. ‘The minute I set eyes on her this morning I just felt it come all over me. Why is that, d’you suppose?’

  ‘There could be lots of reasons. Alison is, I’m afraid, the sort of person who puts one’s back up. It’s not simply because there’s an absence of that indefinable quality which we call charm; there’s a more positive aura of prickliness, combined with a kind of smug sense of her own virtues which is almost offensive.’

  Lizzie gave a whistle. ‘That’s about one of the best put-downs I’ve ever heard,’ she said admiringly. ‘Did you have to practise it beforehand or did you just ad-lib your way through it?’

  Felix looked shame-faced. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘It was just such a relief to be able to say it aloud. I know it’s none of my business but the Rowes were never particular favourites of mine and I feel very anxious that Piers is getting quite so involved with Alison.’

  ‘Oh, please don’t apologize,’ said Lizzie at once. ‘I thoroughly enjoy a good character assassination. Piers does seem to like her, although I gather Tilda doesn’t approve.’ A silence. ‘I had a very odd feeling this morning, Felix. When I first met her it was rather as if the past had begun to replay itself . . .’

  She hesitated again, uncertain how to proceed, and Felix turned his head to look at her.

  ‘With Alison in Marina’s role and you in Angel’s?’ he enquired.

  She stared at him anxiously. ‘It sounds a bit offensive spoken out loud,’ she said. ‘I don’t mean to be. And anyway, it’s not really the same. She’s not Piers’ wife – and he and I aren’t lovers – but there’s something sanctimonious about her, as if she owns Piers and I’m some sort of predatory intruder.’

  ‘That is probably precisely how she sees it,’ he said. ‘You represent a threat and her reaction is fairly natural: hackles up, claws out. As I said, Alison is not the kind of person to whom one naturally feels drawn and, in your case, I imagine she’s even less disposed to be pleasant.’

  ‘She was pretty rude when we were introduced,’ admitted Lizzie, ‘but I have to admit that Piers didn’t go out of his way to indicate that she had any special claim on him. On the other hand, I don’t want to make waves.’

  ‘Don’t you?’ asked Felix drily.

  She grinned, unoffended by his perspicacity. ‘I was pleased that we were sitting here together when she arrived,’ she admitted. ‘I felt that I was the one who belonged and that she was the visitor . . . What are you laughing at?’

  ‘I thought you made that very clear in your welcome,’ he said. ‘Very gracious.’

  They were still chuckling, leaning together like a pair of naughty children, when Piers and Alison came out into the garth.

  ‘Look at this lovely painting of Dunkery that Alison found for me,’ he said with a faintly forced cheerfulness.

  He held up a heavily framed oil painting for inspection, whilst Alison stood rather smugly beside him. Lizzie and Felix came to attention, staring at the scene with polite attentiveness.

  ‘Isn’t that the hill I can see from my bedroom window?’ asked Lizzie brightly, determined to be friendly. ‘How amazing that I recognize it! It’s very good, isn’t it, Felix?’

  ‘Delightful,’ he agreed. ‘Wonderful effect of light and shade.’

  Piers lowered the painting, took another admiring look at it so as to show himself sufficiently grateful and pleased, and suggested that it was time for a drink.

  ‘Good idea,’ agreed Lizzie rather too readily. ‘Can I do things?’

  She could see Alison tense, as if ready to spring into defensive action if she were actually to rise from the bench, and decided instead to surrender any rights she might be assumed to have.

  ‘Not that I’ve got a clue where anything is.’ She turned to Felix. ‘Mrs Coleman has made the most wonderful food,’ she told him. ‘I liked her so much. I wish I knew someone like that who would come to my rescue when I give a party.’

  Alison frowned. ‘Personally I think she’s very over-rated as a cook,’ she said.

  Her tone was resentful and there was a tiny, awkward silence. Tilda and Saul came out from the scullery, carrying a tray of glasses and a bottle, joking together, and Piers turned to greet them with obvious relief. Felix stood up, asking Alison a question about her garden, and Tilda poured some wine into a glass and passed it to Lizzie. Tilda was looking nervous and she made a little face, taking care to keep her back to the others.

  ‘Don’t leave me,’ she murmured, taking a gulp of orange juice from her own glass. ‘The puppy will be here any time now and I shall need your moral support. I’m beginning to feel that I’ve made a terrible mistake. Don’t disappear, Lizzie. I’m relying on you to carry us through by causing a dramatic diversion.’

  A car could be heard approaching; engine cut, doors slammed. Tilda stood quite immobile with expectation but at the sight of the couple who appeared through the archway, shouting greetings and bearing gifts, she let out her breath in a gasp of relief. Piers and Felix went to meet them, Alison following behind, whilst Saul hurried away to check the barbecue. More people could be heard arriving out on the drive and Lizzie straightened her shoulders, breathing deeply so as to control her nerves, whilst Tilda glanced at her, eyes alight with anticipation.

  ‘Here we go,’ she said, looking Lizzie over rather critically, as if she were a favourite child about to perform in public for the first time. ‘Overture and beginners, please, and all that stuff. Are you ready to meet your public?’

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Felix watched Lizzie circulating with a certain amount of amusement and an odd kind of pride. The guests, friends of the whole family not just Piers’ particular intimates, were thrilled to have a well-known and popular actress in their midst. They jostled to be introduced, each wanting to tell her their impression of the sitcom or the advertisement – often both – and she received each warm greeting with great charm: a clever mix of humility, gratitude and delight that was irresistible. Almost he could hear Alison gnashing her teeth.

  From his position in a comfortably padded chair he observed them all exactly as if they were characters in a play enacted on this midsummer night in this ancient garth, especially for his delectation. Saul was working hard behind the barbecue, wrapped in a long blue butcher’s apron, turning sizzling pieces of steak and sausages, whilst exchanging quips with some young people who had been David’s friends and were glad to have Tilda back amongst their ranks. She would appear at regular intervals to pat him encouragingly, popping a tasty morsel into his mouth, joking with those friends who, guessing the depth of her pain, were careful to keep the conversation light. Her butter-coloured hair fell about her square, brown shoulders, a skimpy soft cotton vest was held in place by narrow straps, her long legs half covered by a filmy sarong in peacock blue.

  Felix felt a pang of pity for Saul, who smiled and smiled, dashing his hair back from his hot face with an impatient swipe of his forearm, accepting Tilda’s spasmodic offerings with an over-exaggerated miming of surprised gratitude, which made his friends laugh and which touched Felix’s heart. Saul’s love was there for all to see – though the boy was certain that he was hiding it beneath his play-acting – and Felix shook his head. He wondered if Saul could fill the space that had been left empty by David’s passing. His grandson had been blessed with a quality that drew people like a magnet and held them close: kind, yes, up to a point; aware of the needs of those nearest to him; yet David had added into this mix a ruthlessness that so many women found attractive. The combination had been extraordinary, lending an energizing vitality to anyone who drifted within his orbit, and his early death merely added to the mystique and lent a further unfair advantage: age would not wither David, nor the years condemn.

  That deep affection existed between Tilda and Saul was evident, yet w
as it the kind of love that would capture Tilda’s imagination, ignite passion? Once you’d met with the real thing could anything else ever measure up? Felix wondered whether it would be fair on Saul for it even to be tried; yet there might be more to Saul than any of them suspected. At Michaelgarth, until now, he’d always had to play second fiddle to David’s brilliant virtuoso performance. Perhaps, now, after David . . .

  Felix stretched out his legs, crossing them at the ankle, cradling his glass carefully. Life after Angel – oh! how bleak the future looked after that last meeting with her in the Birdcage; how heavy his heart. His only future salvation lay in making Marina as happy as he was able, otherwise all was wasted and the finishing of his affair a barren gesture. He was grateful that in the final years there had been that brief late flowering of affection between them: a reconciliation born out of Marina’s suffering and nurtured by his compassion for her.

  The long June evening was fading, sunset colours – scarlet and flame – dying down in the western sky to be quenched in the purple waters of the Channel. Dusky blue light was filling the garth and the little lamps, which were fixed at intervals along the high walls, cast tiny pools of golden light amongst the stretched, knobby boughs of the apple and mulberry trees, touching tender green leaves to bronze. Lizzie edged into Felix’s line of vision, conferring now with Tilda, and his heart moved so suddenly in his breast that he became short of breath and grasped at the arm of his chair. Lizzie’s head tilted just so, half in shadow, the bundle of hair, pale in this light, the amused, almost wicked expression reminded him so much of Angel: he could almost hear her voice murmuring some shocking gossip, remembering those funny, bitchy comments breathed into his ear: ‘. . . so she was droning on, sweetie, about this dreary straying husband of hers, whining about the other woman and saying for the twentieth time, “And she knows he’s a married man,” so I leaned across the table and said, “But, darling, so does he . . .”’