The Birdcage (18 page)

‘Too much information, Ma,' she'd said, embarrassed – and, truth to tell, very slightly frightened. Had she suspected something? Gemma shrugged. Even if she had, Ma would never speak about it to anyone else.

The door opened and Guy came in carrying a mug of coffee. She pretended to stretch sleepily and felt his light touch on her shoulder: hidden beneath the sheet Gemma's mouth curled into a smile.

‘Coffee,' he said. ‘It's a fantastic morning though we could do with a bit more wind. There's hardly a breath at the moment.'

Still hidden from sight, Gemma's eyes opened warily.

‘Does that mean you won't be able to sail?' Her voice was lazily concerned, merely faintly anxious that he should miss a day at sea, nothing more.

‘Oh, we'll go.' He sounded confident. ‘We've got an engine, of course, but no-one wants to use an engine if they can sail. We'll probably pick up a bit of breeze once we're out in the Channel.'

‘I expect so.' She sat up, the sheet sliding away from her, reaching for the mug. ‘Anyway, you'll be able to keep in touch. I shan't worry about you if you just let me know you're OK and when you're getting in so that I can meet you. Or will Matt drop you off?'

‘Probably. I don't know yet. We might go into the Ship for a pint and some supper. You could come down and join us. Just remember to keep your mobile switched on, that's all.'

‘I do generally.' He didn't see her swift, private grin. ‘I think it's more likely that I'm out of signal or something when you can't get hold of me. Pass me my cigarettes, darling, would you? Thanks.'

She inhaled luxuriously, smiling at him, eyes narrowed against the smoke, her unclothed body posed comfortably but slightly suggestively against the pillows. Guy turned away wishing, as he sometimes did, that she was less obvious: more modest. Just occasionally he would have preferred her to be interestingly unavailable – not quite so predictably up for it – yet even as he thought it he cursed at himself for being an ungrateful fool.

‘Matt should be here soon if we're to catch the tide,' he said casually. ‘I'd better get my stuff together and have some breakfast. Will you be down or do you want to have a lazy morning in bed?'

‘Oh, I'll be down,' she told him. ‘Perhaps I'll come and see you off.'

She knew before he spoke what his answer would be.

‘No, don't bother,' he said. ‘It's simply not worth it. By the way, don't forget that Bertie will need a walk. I've given him a little run down the road but it'll do him good to stretch his legs.'

He smiled at her before he went downstairs, reminding himself how lucky he was – that it was very touching that she liked to know where he was and that he was OK.

Gemma watched him go, smoking her cigarette reflectively. She knew that he hated any kind of public demonstrations of affectionate farewells but she'd made the offer: now she could think about the rest of the day ahead. As she pushed back the sheet she chuckled to herself: thank goodness for the mobile telephone. Matt arrived as she was pulling a T-shirt over her head and she quickly fastened her shorts and went downstairs.

They were laughing together, easy and relaxed, Guy towering over the shorter, stockier and much older man who turned as Gemma came into the room.

Guy saw that Matt was clearly rather pleased if surprised by her kiss and felt the usual mix of irritation and resignation. He'd hated that easy familiarity with which she greeted virtual strangers – kissing them as though they were old friends, touching them lightly – and it had taken several years and a great measure of self-control to learn to accept it as part of her character. Although he knew that it meant no more – probably less – than the caress with which she now greeted Bertie, he could not quite control that twinge of fastidiousness that reacted against such gratuitous displays of affection. Matt was watching her with admiration and Guy frowned slightly as he picked up his sail-bag.

‘We'll give you a buzz when we're heading in,' he told her, trying to keep his irritation out of his voice. ‘Have a good day.'

She kissed him, conscious of Matt's envious eyes, and went with them to the gate. Matt's car was parked behind their own in the parking space and she watched as he turned the car, waving as they sped away down the toll road towards Porlock. She listened until the sound of the engine died away and bent to pat Bertie who waited patiently by her side, rather dejected by Guy's departure.

‘We shall have a lovely time,' she promised him. ‘Honestly. You shall go for a really good walk in a minute when I've made a few calls.'

She went inside and, taking her mobile from her bag, pressed some buttons.

‘Tilda,' she said warmly into the mouthpiece. ‘It was really great to see you and Piers yesterday. And Jake too. He's terrific. And did I say thanks for leaving all the stuff in the fridge? Listen, any chance of coffee somewhere? . . . Oh, gosh, poor old Felix. Isn't he a sweetie? Of course I quite understand . . . Well, no, I can't do lunch after all. Sophie's invited me for the day but I hoped we could meet up before I dash off . . . Look, don't worry about it, we've got all week. Shall I give you a call tomorrow? Great – and listen, I hope Felix is OK.'

Gemma put the telephone down and went to the fridge. Pouring milk onto her cereal she picked up the mobile and pressed more digits.

‘Hi.' Her mouth curled into a smile. ‘Guess where I am!' She chuckled. ‘Of course I managed it, what did you expect? So where shall I meet you? . . . Sounds good. I
have
got a dog with me . . . I know, I know, but imagine if I'd had the twins as well . . . Oh, it'll be an hour at least, I haven't had my breakfast yet . . . Sounds perfect. Just give me some directions . . .'

Presently, ready at last, she let Bertie into the back of the car and, throwing her bag onto the passenger's seat, she climbed in and drove away from Porlock over the toll road towards Lynton.

CHAPTER TWENTY

It was after twelve o'clock by the time Lizzie arrived in Dunster. Roadworks on the A38 and a congested bottleneck of traffic around Bridgwater had added nearly an hour to her journey. She'd grown increasingly jumpy as the morning wore on, and this combination of excitement and nervousness had given rise to an outward show of high spirits. She'd played some tapes, sung to herself, talked aloud from time to time: ‘Now what do I do here? Where's the map? Oh, I see, straight on.' It was very hot and she'd opened both front windows and the sunroof, drinking now and then from a bottle of mineral water.

As the sun rose higher, she took her khaki-coloured cotton hat from the glove compartment and dropped it onto the thick curling mass of bronze-coloured hair, tilting it forward a little. She realized that she was humming ‘I Whistle a Happy Tune' from
The King and I
and grimaced to herself. Why should she feel afraid?

When she saw the castle, high on the wooded hill, she caught her breath in a tiny shocked gasp: with its towers and battlements, its red sandstone walls all rosy in the sunshine, it was like a vision from a fairytale. Did it look familiar because she'd studied its photograph so often in the past few days – or was it because once, over forty years before, wild with excitement, she'd crowded to the train window with Angel: ‘Look, sweetie, see the castle? Isn't it wonderful?'

Apprehensively, Lizzie turned on to the road that led into the village of Dunster, remembering the receptionist's instructions: ‘The hotel doesn't have its own parking facilities so if you can't find a space in the street you'll have to put it in the big car-park next door to the Visitors' Centre.' She saw the car-park, hesitated and, seeing how much traffic was about, decided to park the car and find the hotel on foot. People were climbing down from coaches, taking cameras from cars, wandering up the road towards the village. Negotiating the busy area carefully, she backed into a shady space, switched off the engine and sat for a few moments watching the tourists who thronged about so cheerfully. Quite suddenly, the remains of her courage deserted her and she succumbed to a full-scale panic-attack. What on earth was she doing all alone in this strange town so many miles from the Birdcage? What utter madness had brought her on this journey? Deliberately she drew several very deep breaths, squared her shoulders and practised smiling a little – not that mad grin that seemed to afflict her of late – but a serene expression, which, she hoped, gave an impression of self-confidence.

‘After all,' she reminded herself, ‘you
are
an actress.'

Presently, feeling more in control, she bought a car-park ticket, dashed into the ladies' lavatory and went back to the car. After debating whether or not she should take her case she decided against it, locked up the car and looked around her. At the top of a short flight of steps a broad paved area was flanked by the Exmoor National Park Visitors' Centre and a large, modern store calling itself the Dunster Wearhouse. Deciding to explore these later, she resettled her hat, slung her long-strapped leather satchel over her shoulder and followed the trickle of visitors up The Steep. There was no pavement here, so keeping close to the side of the road because of the traffic, her pace dictated by the elderly couple plodding along in front of her, she found herself quite suddenly rounding the corner into the High Street.

Lizzie stopped abruptly, staring at the Yarn Market. With its eight small-paned dormer windows set above the encircling slate roof that overhung the heavy wood-framed apertures, through which one might enter from the street, this strange octagonal building dominated the scene. Here she had danced in the shadows whilst Angel stood on the cobbles in the bright sunshine, watching for Felix. Had he been there? Had he emerged from a shop doorway? Climbed out of a car? Surely she would have remembered meeting Felix: she would have run to meet him, calling his name, and he would have held out his arms to her, smiling at Angel as he always did. Or would he? Perhaps, here, with a wife and child close by, he'd have avoided them, fearing that he might be observed. Instinctively Lizzie looked down the High Street and up into the first-floor windows of the flats above the shops. Somebody bumped into her, apologizing as he hurried past, and Lizzie, putting out a hand to steady herself, realized that she was standing beneath the high walls of the Luttrell Arms Hotel.

She could not bring herself to go in; not quite yet. Instead she stared about, noting the sunken cobbled pavement with its railing at road level; the stone and timber-framed cottages; the backdrop of dense green trees – and high above this busy, lively scene, the castle.

An upsurge of excitement expunged her fear and, as she crossed the road for a closer inspection of the Yarn Market, Lizzie realized that she was smiling with genuine pleasure and anticipation; at the same moment she discovered that she was very hungry. This, at least, should present no problem. Pausing to look into the shadowy spaces of the Yarn Market, glancing about her with delight, Lizzie set off along the High Street in search of lunch.

Her room, which bore the name ‘HOOD' on its door, was on the second floor at the back of the hotel looking over the garden. Now, at nearly half-past four, she lay on the bed nearest the window just waking from a deep, refreshing sleep. After lunch, she'd collected her bag from the car, signed herself into the hotel and, having unpacked a few necessities, had soaked in a long, relaxing bath. It was still very hot and a sudden weariness had overtaken her as she'd pottered about, examining the room and finishing her unpacking. She'd lain down – ‘Just for a moment,' she'd told herself – stretching comfortably on the cool red and white cotton gingham cover and fallen into instant slumber.

She is back in her little attic bedroom in the Birdcage on a hot summer evening. The room, high in the roof, is airless and she wakes suddenly, short of breath, with her head aching. Frightened by the strange thumping of her heart, she pushes back the sheet, goes out of the room and down the short flight of stairs. The lights are on but there is no sign of Pidge or Angel and she begins to grizzle as she crosses to Angel's bedroom.

The sight of Angel and Felix together in the bed startles her, although Angel leans out at once to her, stretching a hand – ‘What is it, sweetie? Couldn't you sleep?' – whilst Felix slips hastily but silently away in the semi-darkness. She feels confused, sensing that something is wrong.

‘I was hot,' she says, still in a rather whiny voice lest Angel should scold, ‘and my head aches and I can't breathe . . . What was Felix doing?'

‘I felt
just
the same, honey.' Angel's arms are soft and comforting, and she smells delicious. ‘I was
so
hot and I ached too, and Felix was soothing me.'

‘And do you feel better?' She snuggles closer, feeling Angel's chuckle rather than hearing it.

‘I was certainly beginning to.'

Angel is laughing and her laughter is infectious so that Lizzie laughs with her, happy together with her mother in the big bed, her woes forgotten. She falls asleep and wakens when the sun is already high, with Angel still curled beside her . . .

Lizzie stirred, still smiling as she opened her eyes. The hotel room was cooler now, and she longed for a cup of tea. Rolling off the bed, she looked down into the garden where wooden slatted chairs and tables were shaded by umbrellas. Several people were already having tea and Lizzie began to dress quickly, pulling on a white linen shirt, tucking it into a long twill skirt. Slipping the key into her bag, she went down the stairs, ordered a pot of tea at the reception desk and went out at the back of the hotel and up the steps into the walled garden.