The Birdcage (35 page)

Gemma took another look around the room, trying to picture the usual contents of the back seat and wondering whether she was thinking of something that hadn't been necessary for this holiday: the padded bag containing the twins' travelling requirements, for instance, had been left at home along with the duffel bag full of soft toys with which she entertained them on long journeys. She shrugged, fishing for her mobile in her crammed bag, checking for messages. It was in the second between thinking about Simon and deciding not to risk a last call to him that she remembered the missing item: her rug. She nearly dropped the mobile, clapping a hand to her mouth in horror, visualizing their last meeting.

‘Do we really need two rugs?' he'd asked teasingly. ‘Perhaps I should try to get hold of a feather mattress.'

‘It's a bit late now, isn't it?' she'd retorted, spreading her rug across his own. ‘But perhaps you should consider it for next time.'

‘Is there going to be a next time?' he'd asked, pulling her down beside him, and she'd shaken her head as she smiled at him. Afterwards they'd stood talking together, drinking coffee from a flask, collecting the remains of the picnic. He'd bent to pick up the rugs, bundling them together over his arm, talking about Marianne, recounting her reaction when she'd heard Gemma's message on the answerphone. She'd perched on the edge of the passenger seat of her car as she listened to him, combing her hair and peering into the small mirror inside the glove compartment. What had happened after that?

Gemma screwed her eyes shut, desperately trying to recreate the scene. Had he put both rugs in his own vehicle? Putting her mobile on the top of her bag she ran out to the car; hastily she moved the cases that Guy had stacked earlier, lifted Bertie's bed, peered into the wells behind the front seats. The rug was always kept folded on top of the small hamper between the twins' chairs, ready to be wrapped round them if they were chilly or to be spread for them to crawl on during a picnic. It was nowhere to be seen. She tried to steady herself. After all, Guy would probably never notice it was missing and it could be easily replaced. There was nothing particularly special about it: it was the rug she'd taken to school to use on her bed in winter, a cheerful tartan with her nametape sewed to one edge . . . She caught her breath and her heartbeat thudded in her side: she could see that nametape very clearly: ‘G WIVENHOE' in blue on a white background.

In a single moment she imagined Marianne putting something into the Discovery – a coat? her walking boots? – noticing the bundled rug and dragging it out to fold it properly.

‘What's this?' she'd ask Simon, quite natural to begin with, puzzled by the second rug rolled into their own. ‘Where did this come from?'

She'd hold it out to him, not suspecting anything until, alerted by his silence, she'd look at him properly.

Gemma swallowed in a dry throat. How would he react after that first shock? Would he bluff it out – ‘Haven't a clue, darling. Can't remember when we last used the rug, can you?' – and try to hurry her into the car? Would Marianne, still puzzled, insist on examining the rug and see that wretched nametape? She glanced at her watch. It was clear that Simon hadn't noticed it yet or he would have phoned her. There was still time to warn him. Supposing she were to text him: leave a message?

‘Best not to phone tomorrow,' he'd said. ‘Marianne and I will almost certainly be together. We generally shop on a Saturday morning and it would be a bit chancy.'

If she sent a text, would his mobile ring and give him away? She had a sudden horrid vision of Marianne arriving at the cottage, flourishing the rug and demanding an explanation: she saw Guy returning to such a scene, surprise and distaste turning to suspicion and finally to anger. She whirled about and ran into the cottage, seized the mugs and thrust them back into the cupboard, emptied the milk into the sink and threw the carton into the waste-bin. Grabbing their belongings, she raced back outside, looking along the road, willing Guy to appear with Bertie at his heels. There was no sign of them. Back indoors, scrabbling in her bag, she found the cottage keys, which she'd been told to leave on the breakfast bar – ‘Mrs Coleman has her own set of keys,' Tilda had said – and dropped them on the pine counter. She felt sick and frightened and, hearing Guy at last, she hurried out, trying to school her face into a smile.

He was closing the gate behind Bertie, who clearly wanted to get into the car, and looked surprised to see her coming out, hitching her bag over her shoulder. Her small, pretty features were sharpened, pinched, and he frowned a little.

‘Are you OK? I thought we were going to have some coffee?'

‘Oh, darling,' her voice sounded uneven and she cleared her throat, ‘I had a sudden longing to get on. Do you mind? I know it sounds silly but I simply can't wait to see the babes, can you? It's been a lovely break but I just want to get home.'

He shrugged. ‘That's fine with me but I need a leak before we go. You haven't locked up, have you?'

He disappeared into the cottage whilst she opened the tailgate to let Bertie in and then went to stand by the open door of the car, biting her lips, willing Guy to hurry. Her knees shook and she looked down the road, convinced that she heard an engine. He came at last, slamming the door behind him, and climbed into the car. Waiting in anguish whilst he dug in the pocket of his jeans for his key, took a last glance over his shoulder towards the sea, she realized in those endless moments exactly what she had risked and how much she stood to lose.

Guy switched on the engine, fixed his seat belt, and at last they drove away with Gemma, chin on shoulder, watching the empty toll road reel out behind them.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Sitting on the seat in the cloistered way outside the hall, Lizzie watched Saul and Piers. She'd left the kitchen to Mrs Coleman and Tilda, whose murmuring voices could be heard through the open window, and was content to sit in the shade, peacefully entertained by the scene before her. Whilst the swallows darted in and out above his head, Saul kept disappearing into the barn, only to return with yet another wooden seat or some dilapidated deckchair. Each would be dusted off, reviewed, and then tested by Saul who lowered himself gingerly on to rotting slats or fraying canvas with such a comic expression of dismayed caution that Lizzie laughed out loud. One ancient deckchair collapsed beneath him with a gentle explosion of dust and powdery wood and he was rescued just in time by Piers' outstretched hand hauling him up as it disintegrated.

As they stood together – Saul dusting himself down disgustedly, Piers chuckling sympathetically – she wondered how difficult it was for Piers to watch Saul and Tilda together, how painful to see Saul undertaking the small tasks that would have naturally fallen to David. Clearly Tilda and Piers were a great comfort to each other and she felt humbled by their bravery: humbled and ashamed.

She was already regretting her earlier behaviour, despite the evident pleasure it had given Tilda and Saul; whatever their feelings about Alison she'd had no right to interfere or to assume that Piers needed her assistance. It was evident, from Tilda's recital, that Alison neither welcomed the presence of Piers' daughter-in-law and grandson at Michaelgarth, nor was she being terribly intelligent about it; nevertheless it was up to Piers to draw his own conclusions. She'd said as much to Tilda who agreed that, in normal circumstances, Piers would have already realized that Alison wasn't right for him; her anxiety, she explained, was that Alison misunderstood his kindness for something quite different and that he was now entrapped by a sense of guilt.

‘He's good at guilt,' she'd said. ‘My mother says that his mother instilled it in him. Felix had an affair with some woman up-country that lasted quite a long time and Marina took it out on Piers. Made him feel that he had to make it up to her, if you see what I mean.'

It had been rather a shock to hear Tilda refer so casually to a part of her own life – to hear Angel described in such a way – and she'd felt compassion for the young Piers, attempting to comfort his mother whilst trying to understand his father's behaviour. She'd followed Tilda out into the garth, watching Alison go with mixed feelings, unable to detect Piers' reaction and feeling suddenly embarrassed.

She thought: I am like a tourist visiting his life, peering at it and assessing it, without knowing anything about him. What does he truly think and feel? Who am I to think that he needs protecting from his friends?

She'd been quite happy to be alone for a moment when Tilda went away to change Jake and Saul strolled over to the barn to check the barbecue. She'd watched as he'd exchanged a few remarks with Piers who, with a little friendly look towards her as she'd stood in the sunshine finishing her coffee, had gone indoors. She hadn't seen him again until lunchtime: a quick snack of bread and cheese, disturbed by the arrival of Mrs Coleman, laden with bags and boxes. Saul and Tilda had hastened to clear away the remains of the meal, chattering together as they'd filled the dishwasher, whilst Piers introduced Lizzie to Mrs Coleman. Lizzie, who had already imagined her as an elderly apple-cheeked countrywoman, devoted to Piers' family over generations, had been obliged to revise her ideas: she was a spare, rather tired-looking woman in her late thirties with a very sweet smile and an air of quiet confidence. It was clear that Piers was very attached to her and she'd given him a quick kiss as she'd handed him his birthday card.

‘How very sweet of you, Jenny,' he'd said, opening it at once, reading it and then standing it with the other cards on the dresser. ‘Thank you so much.'

‘Many happy returns,' she'd said. ‘Now, if you'll clear out and give me some room I'll get started, unless Tilda would like to lend a helping hand.'

Piers and Saul had immediately wandered out into the garth, taking Lizzie along with them, and now she sat watching as Saul began to make a pile of the rejected seats, fetching a wheelbarrow and taking them away to be disposed of at some later date. Piers came to sit beside her on the bench.

‘I'm disappointed,' she murmured, not looking at him but continuing lazily to watch Saul.

He took in her profile, the half-closed eyes, with an amused glance. ‘I'm sorry to hear that.'

‘I had it all worked out,' she continued in the same low voice, ‘that Mrs Coleman was to be an ancient retainer, jealous of her position here, working her fingers to the bone at Michaelgarth. I'd even pictured her rather like an Irene Handl character. You know the kind of thing? Rather blowsy but clean, very clean, with a spotless overall. Those appley-red withered cheeks and sharp but kind eyes. Oh, and serious shoes.'

‘
Serious
shoes?' he repeated, puzzled.

She looked at him. ‘You must know what I mean,' she insisted. ‘Black lace-ups but distorted by bunions. Heavy and uncomfortable but she always wears them with stockings, even on the hottest day. I'd decided that I might be summed up and found wanting unless I was lucky enough to be approved because of the TV ad but that even then she'd still fear that I was flighty.'

He chuckled, remembering Mrs Penn. ‘Yes, I can see how disappointed you must have been. Jenny Coleman doesn't quite fit that identikit.'

Lizzie sighed. ‘So much for preconceived ideas.'

‘And do you always form mental pictures of people you're about to meet?'

She pursed her lips cautiously. ‘Not always. They have to sound interesting, excite the imagination. Some people do it the other way round, of course. They imagine actors to be the characters they portray, especially in anything that has a long run.'

‘You mean that you are permanently identified as the delightful if scatty mother of two rebellious teenage sons whose charming but dysfunctional father keeps rotting up your life.'

‘Something like that,' she agreed, after a pause.

‘Any similarity?' he asked carefully.

‘About as accurate as my picture of Mrs Coleman,' she answered. ‘I couldn't have children,' she added quickly but with a finality that silenced him.

He gazed up at the swallows, which swooped and wheeled in the hot blue air, vanishing into the dark shadows of the barn to feed their nestlings, arrowing back out into the sunshine: it seemed that anything he might say could only be trivial or inquisitive.

‘You, on the other hand, were just as I'd imagined you.' She assisted him over the awkward moment. ‘But then I had something to work on. My memories of Felix helped me there. It'll be odd to see him here, both of you together. Is it time for me to go and fetch him yet?'

He glanced at his watch, taking the hint. ‘Whenever you like. I hope it won't be too much for him but he can have a rest between tea and supper. It's kind of you to go.'

‘And will Alison be here for tea?' she asked lightly. ‘Or . . . anyone else?'

‘No.' He answered rather too quickly. ‘No, it's just family and very close friends for birthday tea. That's how it always is at Michaelgarth.'

‘In that case I feel very honoured,' she said, ‘especially as we only met four days ago. Of course you could say we've known each other for forty-odd years . . .'

‘You're special,' he said unguardedly – and she turned to look at him, surprised and pleased.

‘I wish I'd bought you a present now,' she told him. ‘Damn.'

His eyes narrowed with amusement. ‘You presented me with some wine, if I remember correctly.'

‘Yes, but that wasn't a birthday present. That was an early thank-you-for-having-me present.' She shook her head. ‘I didn't think that I knew you well enough to choose anything. Now I feel bad.' She hesitated. ‘Piers, I want to apologize for this morning. Oh, don't look puzzled: you know very well what I mean. All that showing off in the kitchen in front of Alison. I just felt a bit shy, I suppose . . .'