The Birdcage (22 page)

Lizzie sighed as she sat in the cool garden, sipping an icy St Clement's: it seemed that she was to be defeated in her hopes just as Angel had been forty years before. After all, what could she possibly say to Felix's son? She could think of no way to introduce herself or explain the reason for her visit to Dunster; yet neither could she bear to go away again, leaving the birdcage behind, without knowing how it came to be hanging in that room across the street. As she ate a sandwich beneath the shady umbrella listening to the carillon – today the tune was ‘Home Sweet Home' – she tried to plan a path ahead, inventing scenarios that might answer these questions.

He'd looked nice, Felix's son –
what
was his name? – with that easy gait and the swift turn of the head. His glance – though he could have hardly seen her in the shadow of the porch – had that intent quality that reminded her of his father: just so had Felix looked as he came in on a Sunday evening, with a smile for Pidge, the wink for Angel, yet in that brief moment assessing the general atmosphere or any new addition to the room.

‘Hello, my birds . . .' He'd managed to be inclusive whilst making each of them feel special and, more importantly, showing his admiration for their unity. There was never any inclination to vie for his attention; no attempts for one to outdo the other, despite the fact that they'd all loved him so much.

Lizzie kicked off her shoes and rested her heels on the second chair, wondering why the relationship had finished, cudgelling her memory. How long had the Felix years lasted? At eleven she'd been sent away to school – oh, the excitement of it! The preparations and expectation! – but, by the time she'd returned home for the Christmas holidays, Felix had disappeared from the scene.

‘When is Felix coming to see us?' she asks, planning to tell him her news, show him the small trophies of the term's successes.

‘He could never get away at Christmas,' answers Angel rather sharply. ‘You know that.'

Lizzie slowly realizes that beneath the warm welcome of her homecoming there are other, darker, layers of emotion: Angel is absent-minded, and occasionally impatient, whilst Pidge is watchful.

‘I've made a card for him,' she says – they've always exchanged presents with Felix after Christmas during their own little ceremony. ‘When shall I give it to him?' but Angel is offhand, as if the question irritates her.

‘I'd simply forget all about it, sweetie, if I were you.'

She stonewalls any further questions, and Pidge is unforth-coming too, but kinder.

‘He's finding it impossible to get away just now. He'd have been thrilled, of course, but we'll have to wait and see. Now what have you got there?'

The holiday passes quickly and once she's back at school, with new experiences and objectives opening out before her, she is side-tracked; her vision already turning to expanding horizons so that she is easily persuaded from pursuing the subject.

Now, remembering Angel's stonewalling, she was fairly certain that it had been Felix who'd called a halt but, if that were true, why should he have the birdcage? If there had been a reconciliation she would certainly have heard about it; despite her own career, her life in London, she'd kept in close contact with Pidge and Angel, and even when she was married they'd gone back to Bristol as often as they could to see them. They'd adored Sam.

The pain was so sharp that she crossed her arms beneath her breast, holding herself upright as the memory assailed her.

Tall, tough as a tank, unruly black hair, he watches her from a distance, meeting – always, it seems, by chance – at first nights, after-the-show suppers, at parties. Naïvely, she feels that it is odd that their paths should cross so regularly. Increasingly aware of him she tries not to show her interest but it has become almost impossible not to look for his unmistakable figure, always dressed in black – jeans, roll-neck jersey, a jacket flung over his shoulders – nor to prevent that tell-tale colour that stains her skin the moment their eyes met. He is company manager when she joins the production of
French Without Tears
and later he becomes the artistic director of his own company, Centre Stage. How proud he is of that highly acclaimed little company, which specializes in theatre-in-the-round and has its headquarters in an old factory in Islington. After
French Without Tears
they never work together again but, by the end of her six-month contract, they are married.

‘Sweetie,' Angel says at the reception, full of goodwill and champagne, ‘this is one production which is just going to run and run.'

Lizzie mopped her eyes discreetly with her handkerchief and reached for her drink. Swallowing it back with her tears she cursed to herself, suspecting that if she once gave way to her grief she might fall into pieces that might never be put together again. It had come from nowhere, that subversive little memory: recalling how Pidge and Angel had loved him. No use to think about it now. Think about Felix, the birdcage, anything but Sam . . .

And here, oh welcome diversion, was the friendly couple, just come in for lunch and wanting to tell her about the church with its extraordinary rood screen – dates and dimensions were supplied at this point – and the delightful memorial garden.
So
peaceful and quiet. Had she seen it? Oh, then she must go and have a look. She was looking a little tired – an inquisitive note here – was she feeling quite well? Oh, a walk to the beach! Goodness, yes,
such
a long way on this hot morning . . .

‘But I've been sitting here, resting in the shade with a deliciously cold drink and my lunch,' Lizzie told them, gathering her belongings, ‘and that little garden sounds exactly the right place to explore. Just behind the church . . . ?'

They explained, solo and chorus, and she went away with a happy smile and a cheerful wave – ‘After all,' she told herself, ‘I
am
an actress' – through the hotel and out into the High Street. She paused to stare up at the birdcage, in shadow now but still visible, and noticed that the sash-window was open. Trying to remember whether it had been open earlier, she glanced along the line of parked cars looking for the rather battered four-track whilst feeling pretty sure that she probably wouldn't recognize it again. She'd been too busy looking at – whatever
was
his name, Felix's son? – too shocked to notice his car. She wandered along The Ball and into Priory Green, peeping into secret gardens, marvelling at the rich, rough texture of the old stone walls and the vivid patchwork colours of the flowers, until she found herself once more beside the Tithe barn and saw the entrance to the memorial garden. The wooden gate stood open and, bending her head beneath the wooden portal, she passed inside.

She stood quite still, just for a moment, entranced by the scene before her. Gravelled paths led between beds of tall flowering shrubs and sweetly scented flowers, wooden benches were placed beneath leafy bowers, and here, beside the high stone wall, stood the well on a big round cobbled step. Lizzie walked softly, lest she should disturb the silence; pausing to watch a blackbird in the branches of some ivy, leaning to inhale the heady perfume from a spray of roses, she moved quietly along the paths, feeling a deep-down peacefulness creeping around her heart.

He was sitting on a seat in the shadow of the wall, his hands clasped on the stick held upright between his knees, contemplating the small sundial. Coming upon him suddenly, imagining herself quite alone, she gave a tiny gasping cry of surprise. He smiled at her and the shock, even as she acknowledged it, was almost immediately absorbed into that sense of peace, which continued to hold her steady. Everything – the return to Bristol, the memories, the postcard – had been leading towards this moment.

Lizzie breathed in, a deep, deep sigh, and exhaled gently. She went closer, searching for confirmation in his face, and he moved a little so that there might be room for her on the seat.

‘I was looking for you,' she said simply, sitting down beside him. ‘Hello, Felix.'

He turned to examine her, with that familiar, assessing look, and then, smiling with relief and murmuring ‘Lizzie,' he sighed too, as if something momentous had been accomplished. They stared at each other with wondering faces, until Felix began to chuckle.

‘This is utterly extraordinary,' he said, ‘and yet I've been expecting it. Well, expecting something. I wasn't sure what it might be. When you get old, Lizzie, you have strange fancies.'

‘You don't have to be old,' she answered feelingly. ‘I've been like a madwoman just lately. Crazy. My God, Felix. It really is you, isn't it? I'm not hallucinating.'

‘My dear Lizzie, if you were hallucinating I should imagine that you could do better than this.'

His chuckle moved her so deeply and so strangely that she reached out her hand. He took it in his and held it tightly, his lips compressed to hide his emotion.

‘Felix, I can still hardly believe that we're here,' she glanced about her, ‘in this garden, sitting on a bench dedicated to' – she screwed her head round to read the inscription – ‘Peter Horatio Shepherd. How did you know it was me?'

He frowned a little, as if trying to understand it himself. ‘You've been in my thoughts so much lately,' he said at last. ‘You and Angel and Pidge. So many memories. And I've just had this premonition that something was about to happen.' He shook his head impatiently. ‘Sounds foolish, put like that, but it's the truth. What else can I say? You have a look of your mother about you? Second sight? Haven't a clue. I could ask you the same question. And please don't tell me that I looked like this when I was thirty-five or I might hit you with this stick.'

She began to laugh, the sound escaping in muffled bursts, and he grinned sympathetically.

‘It's the relief,' she gasped. ‘Felix, I thought you might be dead and there's so much I need to know.'

He was silent, still holding her hand, staring out across the sunny garden, and, looking at him closely now, she saw how frail he was. Her hold tightened as anxiety clutched at her heart and he turned his head, his eyes narrowing with amusement as if to dismiss her fear.

‘That sounds a rather tall order,' he said lightly. ‘I warn you that I shall draw the line if you become too inquisitive.'

She relaxed a little. ‘I don't know where to begin,' she admitted. ‘OK, yes, I do. How did you come to have the birdcage? I saw it, you know, last night after dinner. It was . . . so strange. I'd been looking for it in Bristol and wondering what Pidge had done with it. Did she give it to you?'

Felix nodded. ‘After Angel died, she wrote to me, telling me that Angel wanted me to have it . . .'

‘As a keepsake?' prompted Lizzie, as the pause lengthened. ‘But why? After all that time and since she was dead . . . sorry, I just can't see why.'

‘The parting was a painful one,' said Felix. He looked distressed. ‘It was my fault. There were reasons . . . but I think the birdcage was her way of letting me know that she'd forgiven me at the end.'

Some people came out of the door from the church and began to move about the garden, talking in lowered voices and gesturing at the flowers. Felix watched them for a moment and then turned to Lizzie.

‘Would you come back and have tea with me?' he asked. ‘I'm taking it for granted that you're staying somewhere round here? On holiday?'

‘I came to find you,' she answered. ‘I'm staying at the Luttrell Arms. I'd love to have tea with you, Felix, it's just . . . well, I saw your son this morning, leaving the flat. Does he know about me? Is it OK if he comes in and finds me with you?'

Felix had risen to his feet and now stood regarding her across the sundial with a kind of shocked surprise.

‘You saw Piers this morning?'

‘Piers!' exclaimed Lizzie. ‘
That
was his name!'

‘But how could you possibly know it was him?'

‘Oh, Felix,' she shook her head at him, ‘I came to Dunster to find you. And first I saw the birdcage hanging in the window and then I saw Piers coming out of the flat. Apart from the fact that he looks pretty much like how I remembered you, there wasn't too much detective work required. Mind you, I put two and two together and made a rather staggering total. I assumed that he lived in the flat. That's why I said I thought you were dead. I couldn't see why Piers would have the birdcage otherwise.'

Felix, his heart sinking, imagined Piers coming back with the mended spectacles, being introduced to Lizzie. Lizzie watched him, guessing his thoughts.

‘He doesn't know, does he?' she asked soberly.

‘He knows that Angel and I were lovers. He has never been able to . . .' Felix cast about for the right phrase, ‘come to terms with the fact that I was unfaithful to his mother. It might not be a very easy meeting.' He looked at his wrist-watch and straightened his shoulders, as if coming to a decision. ‘It's barely three o'clock and Piers won't be here until after six. Plenty of time for some tea. Come along.'

He held out his arm to her, sketching a little bow, and they set off together along the gravelled path.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Tilda poured tea into two blue and white mugs, feeling a mix of emotions as she watched her mother cradling Jake in her arms, talking to him.

‘He's smiling at me,' she said delightedly. ‘See, Tilda? You know, he's really got a look of David about him.'

‘Yes,' agreed Tilda after a tiny pause. ‘Yes, he's a real little Hamilton.'

Teresa Burton cast a quick questioning look at her daughter. ‘Oh, darling,' she said remorsefully. ‘I'm sorry. I just wasn't thinking . . .'