The Birdcage

by Marcia Willett

  ‘But I don’t want to be free of my family,’ he told her firmly. ‘I’ve told you how much it means to me to have Tilda and Jake at Michaelgarth. As for the puppy, well, he’s for all of us. We’ve always shared our dogs, you know.’

  If he’d over-emphasized this other ‘we’, reminding her that she knew very little about him or his past, he had no regrets. Margaret Hooper was watching him, her lips curling almost into a sneer, and he thought: these are the kind of women to whom men are always the enemy. There can be nothing but conflict here.

  Saul appeared beside them, holding two plates, smiling an apology for the interruption but making it impossible for further private conversation with Alison or Margaret.

  ‘Felix says you haven’t had anything to eat yet,’ he said cheerfully. ‘It’s always the same at your own thrash, isn’t it? Anyway, I haven’t had a chance either, so I thought we’d grab an opportunity together. I brought things you can manage with one hand since you’re a bit handicapped. What a splendid little chap he is. Have you thought of a name for him yet?’

  He rattled on, beaming at the two women but monopolizing Piers, until they moved slightly away and were joined by Geoffrey, who shepherded them towards the drinks. Piers raised an eyebrow at Saul.

  ‘Relief of Mafeking?’ he suggested – and Saul laughed.

  ‘Something like that,’ he agreed. ‘Felix thought that the odds were a bit high. You know, two against one, and, anyway, you needed something to eat. Will you be OK now if I go and clear up a bit ready for the puddings?’

  ‘I think I’m pretty safe at the moment,’ Piers assured him. ‘Thanks, Saul.’

  He looked towards his father, who watched with amusement, and Piers wished suddenly, with all his heart, that this moment of truth had come much earlier in their lives. So much time had been wasted: resentment on his own side and guilt on his father’s had marred the instinctive affection that had always existed between them. Now he saw more clearly how bleak his father’s life must have been once he’d finished with Angel for ever. Marina had never looked upon forgiveness as an option but her bitterness and disgust had slowly softened into a permanently watchful expectation: whims must be immediately indulged, moods cheerfully endured, needs instantly satisfied. Felix’s attention must be centred upon her at all times as proof of his repentance, and never had he been offered the least indication that his sin had been forgiven: rather, there was an almost tangible atmosphere of suspicious vigilance. This had been his punishment: he was never again to be trusted.

  His mother’s crippling jealousy had shaped his own life until he’d seized the opportunity to get away. After he’d left the Royal Agriculture College he’d been able to move into the cottage at Porlock and, though he missed Michaelgarth, the sense of freedom – of crawling from beneath that crushing weight of watchfulness and criticism of his friends – had been worth it. She’d kept a watching brief, though, subjecting him to sudden visits at odd hours, inquisitions, until Sue had blown into his life like an invigorating, good-natured hurricane, sweeping away his guilt and whirling him beyond his mother’s jealous reach. They’d had good times together, no great passion but a good deal of laughter, and then she’d moved on again, rushing away to new horizons and leaving him free again, to be himself.

  He bent over the puppy, hiding his expression of horror at the thought of how nearly he’d walked into another readymade prison of jealous watchfulness and constricting, stifling affection. He saw how cunningly he would be detached, step by step, from those whom he loved and the sense of preservation grew stronger within him. He thought of Lizzie: of her funny ways, ready humour, and the way he felt when that flame of recognition leaped between them. What happened when that flame burned too late: once you were committed to another person? Lizzie or Alison: Marina or Angel? He remembered his father’s words: Marina told me . . . that I wouldn’t be able to see you and so, in the end, there was no contest.

  He swallowed the last of his drink and, hefting the puppy up into his arms, got to his feet and crossed the garth to Felix. He went down on one knee beside him so that his father might see the puppy, saw the fine, thin hand laid upon its head with a strange constriction in his throat.

  ‘I was thinking of Grandfather and Monty,’ he said. ‘How long ago it seems. Remember Spider? How old was I when you brought him home for me? Ten? Eleven? And then Snoopy? David chose that name, of course. Peanuts was all the rage and we couldn’t talk him out of it. So what shall we call this one?’

  Felix smoothed the soft yellow coat and was rewarded with a sleepy lick.

  ‘What about Lionheart?’ he suggested – and smiled at Piers’ puzzled, questioning look. ‘He led the Third Crusade, if I remember aright,’ he murmured. ‘It seems rather apt, under the circumstances. Third time lucky, perhaps?’

  Piers, startled, gave a shout of laughter at Felix’s insinuation. It was true that he’d been rescued from his mother’s influence by Sue and now from Alison’s by the puppy. Perhaps he’d require no liberating from Lizzie: third time lucky?

  ‘Lionheart it is,’ he said. ‘He’s the right colour for it and we’ll call him Lion for short. Shall we drink to his health, Father?’

  ‘We’ll drink to the three of us,’ corrected Felix but, even as he lifted his glass, some friends, overhearing, came crowding round to toast Piers’ health again and to exclaim over the newly named puppy.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  After the puddings had been carried out into the garth, Tilda remained on her own in the kitchen. Lizzie went away upstairs on some pretext or other and Tilda made no attempt to stop her, understanding that the occasion must be rather overwhelming to a virtual stranger. It was odd though, reflected Tilda, that Lizzie wasn’t in the least like a stranger as far as she was concerned, but seemed more like some relative returned after a long break away from home. Perhaps it was all that moving around – continually adapting to new productions, new casts, new digs – that kept her flexible, reminding Tilda of the women she knew who’d been brought up in military families. They, like Lizzie, tended to be at ease in any company, ready to adjust to unexpected circumstances.

  Tilda began to prepare an assortment of cups and mugs for coffee, one ear cocked automatically for Jake-noises, remembering other celebrations here at Michaelgarth: David’s twenty-first birthday, their engagement party, Piers’ annual midsummer bash. Seeing Piers with the puppy had reminded her of Joker’s arrival fifteen years before, when she and David were respectively eleven and twelve years old. She had a photograph of David holding the puppy and laughing, whilst she stood beside him beaming into the camera. Blinking away her tears, imagining David beside her, saying, ‘Turn off the taps, love. Life’s too short,’ she began to spoon coffee into the cups on a second tray.

  Those tiny darts of fear that Alison planted with such painful precision had been drawn out and neutralized by Piers himself. Tilda knew that she’d overstepped the line with Alison earlier, but it had been made clear by his public acceptance of the puppy that Alison’s feelings were not his paramount consideration. Her insinuations that Piers was hoping that she and Jake might be ready to begin new lives together away from Michaelgarth had undermined Tilda’s security, but it was the conversation at tea-time that had truly restored her confidence.

  She and Piers had often discussed her plans for the future, but nothing had suggested itself that tied her so completely to Michaelgarth as Lizzie’s plans for a small craft centre. She’d been thrilled by the idea and deeply relieved to see that Piers had shown no hesitation in going along with it. Just before the party had really begun he’d paused beside her, touching his glass to hers. ‘Here’s to our new project,’ he’d said – and she’d felt an overwhelming relief and gratitude. Then the puppy had arrived and, watching him holding it, she’d remembered David and the whole way of life that she’d lost along with him and she’d been obliged to shed a few tears on Lizzie’s shoulder. It was odd how quickly she’d bonded with Lizzie, and suspected that it was
something to do with their both being recently made widows. Just now, for instance, when she’d spotted Lizzie sitting in the dark corner of the garth, wiping away her tears, she’d guessed that Lizzie was experiencing that terrible isolation of someone who’d lost not only their partner but their best friend.

  Oh, the pain of it. Tilda bit her lip as she waited for the kettle to boil. ‘Get a grip,’ David would have advised – he’d never been particularly sympathetic in emotional crises – and she smiled waveringly to herself as she attempted to follow his advice. Footsteps could be heard passing through the scullery and instinctively she straightened her shoulders, her back to the door, practising a brighter smile.

  ‘Well, what a success.’ Her mother put an arm about her. ‘You must be thrilled to bits. Dear old Piers certainly rose to the occasion, didn’t he?’

  Tilda returned the hug. ‘Wasn’t it fantastic? And isn’t the puppy gorgeous?’

  ‘Perfect.’ Teresa perched on the edge of the table. ‘Piers is going to call him Lionheart. Lion for short. Isn’t that nice? Where’s Miss Blake disappeared to? I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw her. You might have warned me, Tilda. I understand she’s an old friend of the family?’

  ‘I wanted it to be a surprise.’ Tilda lifted the heavy kettle from the hotplate. ‘She’s so nice, isn’t she? I think she’s more Felix’s friend, actually, or at least her mother was. She was the actress Angelica Blake but she’s dead now, and Lizzie’s just lost her husband, so she and I have a sort of sympathy for one another.’

  ‘I had no idea.’ Teresa was swift to understand. ‘Oh, poor woman, and she’s been so much fun all evening. And it can’t have been easy for you either, darling. Here, let me help you with that kettle. It’s much too heavy for you.’

  Tilda replaced the heavy kettle and stood aside, watching her mother pour the boiling water onto the instant coffee in the cups and mugs.

  ‘That’s round one,’ she said, observing the two trays. ‘You and I might have to manage with plastic picnic mugs. Let’s take these out for starters.’

  She followed Teresa through the scullery and out into the garth. Piers was talking to a group of friends, eating a helping of one of Jenny’s delicious puddings, whilst Felix sat peacefully, the puppy curled on his knees. The Hoopers and Alison stood a little apart, wearing wary and discontented expressions, but there was no sign of Lizzie.

  Alison, flanked by the Hoopers, watched Piers with helpless frustration. Quite early on in the evening she’d begun to realize that the presence of her brother and sister-in-law might not be the advantage she’d first imagined; but now she was frankly resenting them. When she’d finally accepted the fact that Piers was not going to ask her to co-host the party with him she’d nevertheless expected to be given some kind of special role. As the days passed and no such suggestion had been forthcoming she’d been both hurt and angry, and her insistence that the Hoopers should be invited as a return in kind for their hospitality had been, as much as anything, a testing of her own power. However hard she pretended or wished it were otherwise, they were not part of Piers’ inner circle and she’d felt a sense of triumph when he’d agreed – although with obvious reluctance – to invite them. She’d silenced an inner murmuring that she’d been over-pushy by reminding herself that it was the least he could do; Margaret, after all, was her sister-in-law, and she and Geoffrey had been very ready to welcome Piers to both family and social events during the last six months. The fact that he’d accepted only one of these invitations was neither here nor there and she was determined that he should be seen to repay their kindness.

  Now, feeling irritated by their close attendance, she saw that, without them, she might have had much more opportunity to remain near Piers. She could have insinuated herself into his company, shown herself publicly to be important to him simply by refusing to be detached from his side. As it was, it had been natural for Piers to behave as if she were part of the Hoopers’ little family group rather than his special friend, and their watchful ubiquity, which she had at first encouraged, had made it possible for her to be shunted off into their care without it looking odd or rude. In fact it might easily appear to Piers’ friends that she had been invited out of a misplaced kindness, with the Hoopers tacked on so as to keep her company.

  Alison seethed with impotent fury. Her skirt, finally chosen as the most flattering of her summer garments, was slightly too small, and its polyester content ensured that during the early part of the evening it was unpleasantly sweaty whilst now, in the cool evening breeze, it was clinging clammily at each contact point. She moved restlessly, trying to ease it away from her skin, and Margaret glanced at her with a kind of pitying affection.

  ‘Time to go?’ she asked. ‘It’s getting rather late.’

  Alison squirmed with mortification. It seemed impossible that she’d once imagined that Margaret’s partisanship might be an advantage in her struggle with Tilda for first place in Piers’ affections. She saw now how foolish she’d been to imagine them as a foursome – she and Piers, Geoffrey and Margaret – at the centre of the party. She’d assumed that his invitation to bring her present for him so that it could be opened privately, just the two of them together, meant that she would be at his side when the guests arrived; instead the wretched actress and Piers’ senile old father had moved into action and stolen the show, Felix introducing whatever-she-was-called Blake to newcomers as though she were someone truly famous whilst she, Alison, stood by, completely ignored.

  To be fair it had been a relief then to see Margaret and Geoffrey; to stand looking on, agreeing with them that it was all rather silly – although it had been necessary for Margaret to be firm with Geoffrey when he’d suddenly recognized Miss Blake from some advertisement and wanted to be introduced to her. She’d made no attempt to monopolize Piers, chatting to his friends as if she’d known them all her life, but it was clear that she’d been told about the puppy.

  Alison stared angrily at the offending object, curled up on Felix’s knees. Its unexpected arrival had been a huge shock, a direct challenge as far as she was concerned, as though Tilda had flung down the gauntlet as publicly as was possible. Even worse was Piers’ reaction: not one shocked glance in her direction, no embarrassment or awkwardness. Those earlier conversations about whether he should have another dog, her own expressed wishes on the subject, might not have existed and when she’d finally spoken to him, with Margaret firmly by her side, he’d given her a polite put-down. She’d had no opportunity to appeal to his chivalry or his sense of guilt – which she might have done if Margaret hadn’t been there, so solid and self-righteous – and then Geoffrey had shepherded them off as if they were a couple of sheep and she’d had no chance to speak to him since. Worse, Margaret had heard that put-down and was now behaving with a nauseous kind of knowing pity.

  Alison watched Piers, at ease, chatting with a friend, and felt the now-familiar, desperate need, the longing for him, which made it impossible to back down and slip quietly away.

  ‘You go on home,’ she said to Margaret. ‘Honestly, I shall be fine.’

  ‘If you’re certain. I’ll phone you tomorrow.’ Margaret turned to look for her husband.

  Alison didn’t bother to answer: there was no sign of Miss Blake but Tilda and Teresa had just emerged from the house carrying trays of cups and mugs. If she were careful and lucky she might manage to corner Piers while they were busy with the coffee. Watching for her chance she slipped between the little groups of guests, dodging tables, across the garth to Piers.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Lizzie went into her bedroom and sat down on the edge of her bed. She stared out of the open window, watching the moon’s glow casting its pale radiance across the high bare slopes of Dunkery Hill: the midnight-blue sky was so thickly sown with stars that it seemed that curtain upon golden curtain opened upon an unfathomable infinity of light whilst far below, down in the valley, steep coombes sliced dark wedges of shadow along the edges of the pale, silvered
fields. The sheer immensity of the scene, the deep silence, added to the confusion and sadness that had come upon her earlier as she’d sat on the bench in the garth.

  Tilda’s warm affection and her sympathy had made it quite impossible to stay with her in the kitchen. Here, at Michaelgarth, her ability to hum and dance herself away from reality was beginning to break down and these mood swings between jollity and despair were becoming difficult to handle. Lizzie stirred: this had happened before, this attempt to disguise frustration with optimism, to hide a gradually growing fear behind a wild cheerfulness.

  In those early years of marriage with Sam she never imagines that she’ll be unable to have children – why should she? – but soon she begins to feel envious of her pregnant girlfriends, to dread the way the hopeful look on Sam’s face dies into disappointment when she admits that her period has started after all. It is important to restore his good humour and so she dances and sings him back to high spirits and confidence, waiting until she is alone again before she gives way to her own private despair.

  How she longs for a child – Sam’s child. She plays the scene in her head so many times; imagining his pride and tenderness, the way he’d hold his baby, believing that it would root him more securely and satisfy that deep restlessness that drives him on to experiment, to reach for higher goals. As for his women, those pretty actresses with whom his name is linked – does she hope that a child might replace them too? At some point her own confidence, her trust in him and their marriage, is undermined by this failure. Her own longing to cuddle her baby, the hungry need to feel that warm weighty little body in her arms, is continually denied in her anxiety to make it up to Sam in some way.

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ he says, after the results of some tests showed that she is infertile. ‘At least not in that way,’ and there is a new, terrible, absent-minded kindness about his affection, which fills her with terror.