The Birdcage (19 page)

Choosing a table slightly apart from the other guests, she sat down, kicked off her sandals and stretched out her legs, resting her bare feet on another chair. The garden was at first-floor level and she could see across the jumble of cottage roofs, a mosaic of red tiles and grey slate, to the castle on the hill. The whistle of the old steam train seemed perfectly in keeping with this tranquil scene and Lizzie sighed contentedly. Just at present, the outside world with its griefs and terrors was held at bay. Her tea arrived and, as she poured the pale Darjeeling, she thought of Felix and Angel and began to chuckle: how discreet they'd been, how clever. She guessed now that further ‘soothings' had taken place in the afternoons when she was safe at school and Pidge was busy at the library. No doubt Felix had slipped away from the office to join Angel in her after-lunch rest; at any rate, there had been no more chances taken during the evening at the Birdcage.

Leaning back, watching a robin pecking up crumbs on the grass beneath the spreading branches of a beech tree, Lizzie grew slowly aware of the interest she was creating from the middle-aged couple at the table set by the steps that led down into another sheltered garden area. She picked up her cup, wondering if they'd seen her laughing all by herself – ‘Quite potty, poor thing' – and at that moment the church clock struck five. She glanced at her watch and then frowned. It seemed that the clock was continuing to chime, though not on the same note – and she suddenly realized that it was a carillon, which was playing ‘Drink to Me Only with Thine Eyes'. It sounded as extraordinary yet as utterly appropriate as the steam whistle and Lizzie was enchanted: this is how it might have been forty years ago. Maybe, back then, she and Angel had listened to the carillon; they had certainly travelled on the old steam train.

The couple, who were now standing up and collecting their belongings, seized the opportunity to share the moment as they passed her table.

‘Isn't it fun?' The woman beamed at her. ‘It plays a different tune each day.'

‘Does it really?' Lizzie did not want her peace disturbed yet was incapable of cold-shouldering her. ‘Amazing.'

‘I knew it.' She was nodding at her companion with a kind of delighted satisfaction. ‘You're the lady in the advert, aren't you? The one with the car and that dog? We were sure it was you.'

For once Lizzie was reluctant to be drawn in, resenting the shattering of her mood, but she nodded and smiled all the same, and joked about working with children and animals. After they'd gone, she poured another cup of tea and tried to regain that sense of relaxation, willing herself back in time. It simply wouldn't work. She fidgeted, aware now of other sounds: the hum of traffic on the A39, a child crying. It was the insistent, demanding cry of a very young baby and other memories began to rise to the surface of her mind: grief and loss nudged at her consciousness.

She stood up at once, denying them, picking up her bag. It would be rather fun to visit the church, she told herself, and to see if she could find the cottage in which she and Angel had stayed all those years ago: it hadn't been in the High Street, she was quite sure about that. A walk would be very pleasant, now that it was cooler, and, after that, she'd have a drink in the bar before dinner . . .

These plans carried her through the awkward moment and out into the High Street but that feeling of light-heartedness, of holiday, had deserted her. Whilst she wandered about the narrow paths behind the village, pausing to gaze in awe at the ancient tithe barn and medieval dovecote, anxiety was her companion. Why should she find anything here to ease her grief or answer her questions? It was madness to think that Dunster should hold any answers.

She felt a little better with a vodka and tonic before her, sitting at a table in the bar. Heavily beamed, with a window looking into a small walled court, this was clearly a room that truly came into its own in the winter when a fire burned cheerfully in the inglenook fireplace, but Lizzie began to relax as she chatted to the barman and an elderly local man with a small, friendly dog. When the middle-aged couple came in she hid herself behind the menu, taking care to be absorbed in her book whilst she ate her dinner in the long dining-room, only smiling at them when she got up to leave.

It was still early, barely ten o'clock, and Lizzie hesitated in the hall, feeling an oddly pressing need to go outside once more before she went up to bed. The High Street was deserted but the soft midsummer air was warm and the flowers in their hanging baskets gave off a delicate scent. It was not yet dark, and the turrets and battlements of the castle stood clearly defined against the deep blue of the evening sky. As she watched, lights began to spring up; someone drew curtains, a window high in an attic was opened. Just across from the hotel, where she stood in the shadow of the porch, a lamp was switched on in an upstairs room. It lit a painting on a wall, the wing of a chair, but her whole attention was riveted on the object that hung almost in the centre of the illuminated square. The light shimmered on the gilt-wire frame, outlined the shape of the birds clinging to the trapeze: there could be no doubt in her mind. It was the birdcage.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The telephone bell disturbed Piers, bringing him back into the present. The garth was in semi-darkness now; an oblong of light from the kitchen window slanted across the cobbles and here, within the sun-warmed walls, the air was laden with the scent of roses. He stirred, straightening his back, but remained where he was, sitting on the bench under the covered way which, supported by stone pillars, stretched, cloister-like, across the back of the hall. The swallows were settled for the night, roosting in the barn, but bats swooped and dived silently in the dusk and he could hear the screech of an owl down in Tivington woods.

He could also hear Tilda, who was in the kitchen. Her voice sounded concerned and he abandoned his private meditations and tried to concentrate on what she was saying.

‘It's not a problem, Felix. Honestly, it isn't. I can fetch them in the morning and drop them into Minehead.'

Frowning, Piers stood up and went into the house through the scullery. Tilda, standing by the table, telephone to her ear, looked up as he came in and mouthed ‘Felix' at him.

‘Is he OK?'

She nodded, said, ‘Hang on a minute, Felix, Piers has just come in and I think he'd like a word,' and passed the telephone to him, murmuring, ‘He's fine. It's just a problem with his specs.'

‘Father? What's happened?'

‘I was telling Tilda what an old fool I am.' Felix's voice sounded rueful. ‘I'd been dozing in my chair and when I woke up it was quite dark. I sat up to switch on the lamp and my spectacles fell on the floor. The shank has fallen off and I seem to have lost the little screw that holds it in place. D'you know what I mean? I've been crawling all over the floor but I'm damned if I can find it. I wouldn't bother you but, just at the moment, I do rely rather heavily on them for so many things.' His voice faded a little as if he were turned away from the mouthpiece, concentrating on something else. ‘The shank looks a bit bent. I think my book fell on top of it.'

‘Do you think you could manage without them this evening?' Piers tried not to sound too unwilling to drive into Dunster to search for the little screw but his heart sank at the prospect. ‘I can pick them up in the morning on my way to the office and drop them into the optician. I could have them back to you by the afternoon.'

‘That would be fine. I'm so sorry to bother you so late . . .'

‘Don't worry.' Piers cut short his father's apologies. ‘It's really not a problem. I'll dash in at about twenty past eight. Is that OK? Not too early?'

‘Of course not. I'll be ready for you. Perhaps some coffee . . . ?'

Piers bit back the urge to say that he'd have already had his breakfast and tried to sound pleased at the prospect.

‘Great. See you then. No other problems? . . . Quite sure? Good. Sleep well then, Father.'

Sensitive to his abstracted mood, wanting to help, Tilda said, ‘I would have been quite happy to do it. I'm meeting Gemma somewhere for coffee or going to the cottage, anyway, so it wouldn't be a problem to go into Dunster.'

‘You went this morning,' he answered briefly. His hands were in the pockets of his chinos, his head bent, and she watched him curiously.

‘It must be horrid,' she said thoughtfully.

‘What must be?'

‘To be getting old and having to ask people to do favours all the time.'

‘I do
try
not to make him feel that he's a burden,' Piers said, after a moment.

‘Oh, I know that,' she said quickly. ‘It wasn't a criticism. I could just feel his . . . humiliation coming down the line, if you see what I mean.'

‘Well at least the boot's on the other foot for a change.' He spoke without thinking and then saw Tilda's face, her surprise at the bitterness in his voice. ‘Sorry. Take no notice . . . Goodness, sitting out there in the garth I hadn't realized it was this late.'

She took the hint at once, kissing him lightly, picking up her book.

‘See you in the morning.'

‘Yes, of course. And thanks for offering, Tilda, but it's much simpler for me to deal with it.'

She disappeared and, with a bitten-off curse, he sat down at the table, resting his head in his hands. Her remark had been badly timed, coming so quickly after his period of reflection in the garth, touching a raw nerve. The memory had surfaced unexpectedly, prompted by an earlier remark made by Tilda.

‘Young widows are rather bad news, aren't they?' she'd observed. ‘Nobody wants to be reminded of their mortality. After all, if David had been killed out in Bos., driving his Land Rover to and fro on that logging trail between Travnik and GV, it might have made a bit more sense. Crashing his car after a mess dinner half a mile from home doesn't have the same ring about it, does it? Nobody really wants me going back for Families Day – and I can see why. But what about Jake? The army was David's life and part of me thinks that Jake is entitled to a bit of that, but I can't quite see how it can be achieved. I can't live on the edge of it, taking him to school and parties and that stuff, and having to say the same thing over and over, explaining about David . . .'

Perhaps it was the usual frustration of being unable to ease her grief that had triggered off the memory. How often he'd felt that same inability to help his mother out of her bitter silences, his sense of failure shadowing his small world and dulling his natural abilities. It was ironic that it was precisely her own character that inhibited him in his attempts to fulfil her expectations of him: her demands and hopes – and clearly shown disappointment if he was not first, top, best – began to paralyse him. Fearful of her displeasure, aware that he was failing her, he grew cautious, learning not to expose himself to the possibility of ridicule and shame.

As he'd sat in the garth, thinking of Tilda, reflecting on his mother's character, he'd recalled a little scene played out at his prep school one Sunday afternoon.

There has been a cricket match followed by tea. Piers is Captain of the Second XI and his team has scored a great victory over the visitors.

‘Well done, Piers,' someone's mother says. She smiles at Marina. ‘You must be very proud of him. Isn't Felix here to see it? What a shame. Oh, yes, of course, I've just remembered, he goes up to Bristol regularly, doesn't he? Susan Banks said she saw him at the cinema with a rather pretty girl. A friend of yours, I expect? Do give him my love. You must come over . . .'

Looking between the two of them, his cheerful grin fades, his sense of triumph is corroded by anxiety. His mother's lifted chin, her bright, hard smile do not disguise the sudden wash of colour in her cheeks nor the way her lips tighten with mortification. At eleven he is already beginning to understand certain aspects of his parents' relationship and his mother is becoming less discreet; letting slip little hints about his father's behaviour. Piers is furious with him for exposing her to such remarks, for spoiling a rare and happy moment. And underneath, lurking, ready to pounce, that other memory: his mother speaking in a contemptuous, disgusted voice which continues to have the power to make him feel sick and frightened.

It would have been so much easier if only he could have ceased to love his father but there is something about Felix – he cannot define it – an unusual combination of generosity of spirit, humility, compassion, that draws Piers and demands some kind of instinctive reaction that looks beyond weakness and human failing.

It was a demand to which, even now, he had never yet fully responded. Marina's shade continued to stand between them, still requiring his loyalty.

Piers stood up, went to the dresser and poured himself a night-cap: a small slug of brandy and a squirt of soda. He began to prepare for bed, thinking ahead: he must set his alarm a little earlier than usual, so as to be in Dunster in time to have some coffee, otherwise he would be late at the office . . . And he'd promised to have lunch with Alison. As he crossed the hall, he hesitated for a few seconds, thinking of his grandfather, and then went to sit on the old carved chair set against the wall. This part of the house – the old priory chapel – seemed to resist any kind of domestication. Attempts by preceding generations to use it as a sitting-room or study or playroom had been thwarted by its atmosphere. There was a deep-down peace, a sense of astringent single-mindedness, that defied the day-to-day hurly-burly. Only on very formal occasions was the front door used, and the hall was simply a passage between the two wings. The simplicity of the stone walls and its lofty height was emphasized by the long oak table, placed centrally on a faded but still beautiful silky Persian rug, and the two heavily scrolled chairs placed at either end.