The Birdcage

by Marcia Willett

  Felix winced with the pain of memory and loss and, at that same moment, Tilda threw back her head, shouting with laughter whilst Lizzie grinned. Alison suddenly appeared between them with an expression of self-righteous disapproval, indicating something or some person neglected so that Tilda made a tiny guilty face and hurried away, leaving Lizzie and Alison locked briefly into a social necessity for communication.

  He couldn’t hear Lizzie’s voice and could only imagine the words that accompanied the expansive gesture and smiling look of pleasure which indicated that the party was going well and the guests were enjoying themselves. Alison’s expression was more complicated: common courtesy demanded a civil response but, even at this distance, he could see that she grudged making it. The unwillingness to meet Lizzie’s eyes, the slightly curling lip, which was intended to show that Lizzie was an outsider, suggested that Alison was telling her that this annual event was always a success and this year was no different. It was clearly important for Alison to put herself firmly within the family group, to show superior knowledge, thus distancing herself from this unwelcome intruder.

  Felix watched, shocked by the power that the past continued to hold. During these later years of his life he’d punished himself, wondering how he could have betrayed his wife and child, condemning his own actions. Now, as he looked between Lizzie and Alison, he knew exactly why; he remembered the icy silences, the bitter comments on one side, and saw the loving generosity on the other. Marina’s jealousy had revealed itself in the early years of their marriage and his love for Angel – or, rather, hers for him – had been food and warmth after years of deprivation. Weak? He shook his head: let others try living in a freezer of condemnation and suspicion before judging. Of course, his affair with Angel had merely confirmed Marina’s view of him but, by then, what did it matter any more? His only defence was that he’d never before taken comfort from any other woman, never looked aside; only Angel had been able to fuse tenderness, humour, passion into one irresistible whole – and only the threat of being separated from Piers had had the power to persuade him to turn his back on that magic; only his son’s security and confidence had made the sacrifice worth the candle.

  Watching Lizzie and Alison he prayed fervently that Piers would not find himself in a similar situation. In Alison’s proprietorial glances, her attempted, persistent presence by Piers’ side as he moved amongst his guests, the apparently casual little touches on his arm, he saw the sticky, binding tendrils of expectation, which, if not torn off, would twine and embrace closer and ever more strongly until there was no escaping their weighty burden. Lizzie had a light touch: she approached with a smile, might even thrust an arm within the other person’s with a friendly warmth, before turning away as swiftly and easily as she’d arrived: there was nothing burdensome about Lizzie.

  He saw that Piers had joined them, holding a drink, relaxed and at ease. Once or twice he’d seen him wearing a different expression and known that Piers was thinking of David: the first Christmas without him, the first birthday, all these were painful moments to be lived through, learning all the while of the inevitability and terrible, icy finality of death. Felix was glad to see him smiling, saw Lizzie murmur something in his ear and the natural way he leaned a little – only a little, for Lizzie was tall – to hear it, whilst Alison strained, watchful and alert, ready to bring Piers’ attention back. It looked like an accident that, in the slight movement towards Lizzie, Piers spilled some of his wine over her hand and wrist so that she gave a little jump, a squeak. He hastened to bring out a handkerchief, mopping at her outstretched hand, laughing with her, and neither saw Alison’s angry, vexed face.

  It was precisely at this moment that the puppy arrived. He was brought in – amongst cries of apology for the delay – perched in a wicker basket lined with a soft blanket. All floppy ears and huge paws, he watched with no little alarm as he was borne through the delighted group and heard the ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ of sentimental guests. Piers glanced up from his drying operation, puzzled, whilst Tilda slipped between the watching figures to stand between Lizzie and her mother. The little procession now halted before Piers, the puppy held aloft in his basket, whilst the breeder and her husband burst into the first line of ‘Happy birthday to you’. The tune was taken up willingly by the other guests, their shouts ringing round the garth, echoing in the quiet night, and culminating in a chorus of ‘For he’s a jolly good fellow’.

  Felix found that his eyes were full of tears as he watched surprise, gratification and tenderness dawning in his son’s face as he stared at the puppy and heard the voices of his friends. They crowded near to pat him on the shoulder, to shake his hand, until finally he was able to reach out to receive the basket that held the golden Labrador puppy: Joker’s great-great-nephew. Tilda and Teresa stood together, arms entwined, Tilda’s face wet with tears. She turned her head briefly, hiding it in her mother’s neck, and Teresa laid her cheek upon the bright hair, holding the girl close in an attempt to comfort and to shield. Then Piers was looking for her, acknowledging that it was she who had planned this surprise, and Tilda was smiling again, albeit shakily, embracing Piers and the puppy together, whilst Lizzie smiled mistily and Alison bit her lips with mortification.

  The guests closed round them again and Felix could see no more. He got to his feet with difficulty and, picking up his stick, went quietly into the house.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  As soon as Piers turned to search for Tilda, Lizzie moved away. For the first time since the party had begun she felt herself a stranger. All these people shared common memories: a history that locked them into a pattern of school, work, love, in which she had no part. She looked instinctively for Felix, saw that his chair was empty and felt even more alone. A few steps backwards took her into the angle of the west wing and the high garth wall and, lowering herself on to the small bench seat in the shadows, she drew a cloak of silence and immobility about her, hoping she would not be missed.

  Everyone wanted to see the puppy, to touch him and exclaim over him: everyone except Alison. Even in this moment of isolation, Lizzie couldn’t resist the rueful smile that involuntarily touched her lips. Alison stood to one side, torn between openly showing her fury or pretending that she’d been in on the secret. Studying her, Lizzie felt that ‘fury’ was not too strong a word for Alison’s expression. It was evident that Piers’ reaction to – and acceptance of – Tilda’s gift showed that not only was Alison’s opinion unimportant to him but that he was ready to say so publicly. Lizzie guessed that Alison saw this as a victory for Tilda and Felix as well as any other guests to whom she’d made known her feelings about Piers having another puppy.

  What was even more interesting was that Piers was showing no sense of embarrassment or awkwardness. He was too intelligent to imagine that Alison would be indifferent yet he had no hesitation in demonstrating his delight. He held the puppy in his arms, stroking the soft head, examining him eagerly, and Lizzie caught the name ‘Joker’ several times as the breeder pointed out a resemblance and recounted the shared ancestry. Tilda’s face was bright with tenderness as she leaned to kiss the puppy on the nose and touch his floppy ears and, when Teresa joined the little group closest to Piers, she grinned at her mother, who smiled back with an expression of triumphant complicity.

  For the moment Lizzie was forgotten: the puppy held the centre stage. She made herself more comfortable, wishing she’d brought her drink with her, glad to be in this quiet corner and out of the limelight. She never had a problem with making a fool of herself if it helped things along, broke the ice or made someone feel better, but she was always content to be an onlooker. She liked to observe body language, gestures, expressions: to the actor the equivalent of the writer’s copy. For instance, Tilda was now fluid and supple with relief; she embraced Saul as – his chefs duties abrogated – he came to see the puppy, her arm lightly about his shoulder as she leaned happily against him. Saul admired the puppy with a particular, grateful pleasure, since
it had indirectly brought him this warm, loving gesture, and, as Piers stooped to share a joking remark with him, he looked up with a charming, smiling humility that touched Lizzie’s heart. She saw that Teresa also watched the younger couple, her rather sharply pretty face softened by a kind of hopeful anxiety. When she looked at Piers, however, Teresa’s expression grew more calculating and, seeing through her eyes, Lizzie recognized the attraction that drew women to him: that ease with his own body, the quick, narrow, assessing glance, the humorous twist of his mouth.

  It would be easy, Lizzie decided, to be tempted to make the mistake of feeling sorry for Piers. His difficult childhood aside, it was always a natural reaction to feel sympathy for someone who had been deserted. The empowering must always go with the one who leaves: the abandoned one, stranded flat-footed and humiliated amongst the wreck of the relationship, watches the still-beloved one starting a new exciting journey, whilst the unloved one faces into each grey, featureless day and cold, endless night with all the pain of betrayal and despair. Was this how Piers had really reacted to Sue’s departure: how much did he suffer? There were none of those tell-tale signs that marked out the lonely ones: nothing subdued or empty-eyed about him: no lack of inner confidence. She suspected that the grief he could not always hide sprang from the death of his son: of course, death was terrible too, but at least you were allowed to cling to the love you’d shared and could relive the tenderness; you could mentally flip through your happy memories, tiny scenes of intimacy neither spoiled by bitterness nor denied by those who need to trash the past so as to justify a new shiny future with someone else.

  Lizzie wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her shirt. Crazy, she decided, potty, doolally: sitting on her own in a corner, watching people she’d known at the longest for four days and the shortest for three hours, crying into her drink – except that she’d left it on the table . . . She took several deep breaths, concentrating on that trick of taking stock of her surroundings in an attempt to control herself. Several tables, each with a selection of chairs, were set at intervals about the garth, their wooden legs slightly unsteady on the cobbles, but most of the guests were still standing in groups or choosing some delicacy from the two long trestle tables, which flanked the barbecue. White damask cloths covered these unsightly boards and one table was weighted down with bottles, glasses and plates and silver. On the other, the plates of rolls and tiny sandwiches, vol-au-vents and quiche, had been severely depleted and, before too long, Tilda would carry out the delicious puddings that Jenny Coleman had made earlier.

  She saw that Alison stood a little apart with a fair, florid woman: Margaret Hooper. ‘Margaret and Geoffrey, Alison’s brother, moved down fairly recently,’ Tilda had told her. ‘Geoffrey has been having an affair and Margaret decided to be drastic. I’m not too sure that Alison is utterly thrilled to have them quite so near . . .’ They’d been introduced with a whole flurry of other guests and Lizzie had hardly taken in their names but now, as the two women drew slightly closer together, Lizzie guessed that Alison was sharing her irritation with her sister-in-law. The fair woman pulled in her chin, shrugging her solid shoulders slightly, and Lizzie, hidden in her shadowy corner, saw Alison’s face set into sullen lines. A tall man moved just behind them, putting his hand on the fair woman’s shoulder, and she glanced back at him with a little jerk of the chin and a grimace that invited him to share in their displeasure at the spectacle.

  Lizzie wondered how Margaret Hooper had managed to subsume her husband’s infidelity into her daily life; how it had been contained and beaten down so that it could be ignored – or forgiven. ‘He did time,’ Tilda had said. ‘Presents, holidays, crawling . . .’ Looking at that fair, high-coloured face, Lizzie could believe that Margaret Hooper had taken her pound of flesh and now, she suspected, her husband was grappled to her with bands of steel: bands forged by complicity, of lying and subservience on his part and a series of demands and whims on hers. Was it possible for a relationship to retain its dignity, its wholeness, once lying and cheating clouded its trust? How had Marina behaved once Felix had broken with Angel? Had she punished him in the same way?

  Staring at the Hoopers Lizzie realized that, however illogical it was, she couldn’t put Felix in the same category. She closed her eyes, frowning, as if debating with herself: it was almost impossible to judge other people’s relationships. Things looked so different when you were on the inside.

  ‘How can you put up with it?’ friends would ask when the newspapers or magazines carried photographs of Sam at the latest BAFTA awards with a starlet clinging to his arm.

  ‘It’s not important,’ she’d answered – and that had been the truth.

  ‘The utter boredom of the young, darling,’ he’d say, rolling his eyes with weary impatience. ‘They take themselves so seriously. But it’s coming . . .’ and his face would change, his eyes drifting past her towards the vision he had of each new production. Yet, as the years passed, there seemed to be something missing: the excitement, the passion.

  ‘You shouldn’t have left the theatre,’ she’d tell him. ‘Remember Centre Stage?’ and he’d look at her properly, with a kind of painful regret, and reach out to hold her closely. She could smell him now, nicotine and coffee and his own, particular Sam-smell . . .

  Tilda sat down beside her and slipped an arm about her.

  ‘Isn’t it awful?’ she said, almost conversationally. ‘This terrible weeping comes with no warning, doesn’t it? I’ve felt it several times this evening; missing David, I mean, and then bursting into tears. I know I can say it to you because you can understand what it’s like never to see the person you loved more than the whole world ever again in your life. Come on inside and help me with the puddings. It’s quiet in the kitchen and it’ll give us a moment to get a grip.’

  Wiping her cheeks, trying to smile, Lizzie nodded and followed Tilda across the garth but her heart was heavy and full of guilt.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Left to himself for a brief moment, Piers saw them go. The arrival of the puppy had brought the party to a climax and now his friends surged and eddied about him, chatting, eating, drinking, and he was able to enjoy a sense of solitude whilst ringed about with conviviality. He looked down upon the soft golden head, felt the weight of the fat, warm body in his arms, and glanced about for a place to sit. A chair beside a small card-table invited him to rest for a moment and he sat down gratefully, the puppy now almost asleep, half-lying up his chest. His friends smiled at him, touched his shoulder, someone brought him a drink but had the sense to leave him alone to catch his breath and take in the scene.

  His father was sitting in his padded chair, a glass balanced on its arm, talking to a few old cronies. There was a thin, fine look about him; his white hair sleeked back, his face lively, elegant ankles crossed nonchalantly. Their eye-line crossed and he gave a little approving nod towards the dog, sent a tiny wink, so that Piers, absurdly touched, raised his glass in return. How good it was to sit here in the garth on a midsummer evening, surrounded by family and friends: how good to feel the load of responsibility, of loyalty to the dead, slipping away at last. It was no longer required of him to judge his father or to pronounce upon his actions: he could let it go. If he felt his mother’s shade reproaching him, he need not respond to it. His father’s explanations, his own experiences, allowed him to understand and to forgive the hurt: his own fear was done away with at last. It was impossible to forgive someone on behalf of another, his mother’s pain remained unresolved, but he was not prepared to allow her past suffering to spoil the present. He found himself thinking affectionately of his grandfather, and of Monty, remembering how, when Monty had died at last, it had been Felix who’d bought Piers his first puppy.

  With a pang of dismay he realized that Alison was beside him, with Margaret Hooper at her shoulder, and he ruefully indicated his inability to rise. Neither of them was particularly amused at the sight of the puppy, lying peacefully asleep on his back now, his fat tummy exposed, h
uge paws limp.

  ‘So Tilda got her way,’ said Alison with a small mirthless laugh. ‘I thought she would. It really is rather too bad of her, isn’t it? Poor Piers, she takes advantage of your good nature.’

  He smiled politely, reflecting on how much he disliked being referred to as ‘poor Piers’.

  ‘You know I was thinking of getting another dog,’ he reminded her gently – and saw her colour rise. It would be impossible to pursue this line in front of her sister-in-law without demonstrating her lack of power, and Piers wondered exactly how Alison had represented their relationship to the Hoopers. He’d resented being obliged to ask them to his birthday party – they were acquaintances, not friends – but she’d suggested it, tying up the invitation rather cleverly with the dinner party they’d given and to which he’d escorted her, making him feel, rather guiltily, that a return of hospitality was in order. Left to himself he would have suggested dinner at a pub for the four of them but, with the party happening now, it had been difficult to refuse her.

  Stroking the puppy, trying to think of something to say to Alison, he cursed himself for letting their friendship drift so far towards some kind of public commitment. It had become so natural for them to be bracketed together in this small social community and, through a kind of apathy born of grief, he’d allowed it to happen. Lizzie’s arrival at Michaelgarth was forcing a slight rift between him and Alison, his ready acceptance of Tilda’s present was widening it, and he knew that he must not let this opportunity slip.

  ‘I thought we’d decided that you needed some freedom,’ Alison was saying with an unnatural jocularity. ‘What with Tilda and Jake so firmly ensconced . . .’

  That ‘we’ jolted him out of his attempted affability, dispensed with his unwillingness to hurt, and a ruthless sense of self-preservation asserted itself.