The Birdcage (36 page)

He gave a shout of laughter. ‘Shy?' he said disbelievingly, teasingly – and she laughed with him, comfortable and happy again, her embarrassment suddenly dissipated. They looked at each other, that strange sense of recognition leaping between them until, genuinely shy now, Lizzie made a show of checking the time by her own watch, saying that she must get ready to fetch Felix.

Upstairs in the bathroom she stared at her reflection in the glass, hearing Sam's voice saying:
Love her? How do I know if I love her? Love's such an overused word. I'm not certain I know what it means any longer.

She turned away from the glass and, going back into the bedroom, sat down on the edge of the bed. Remembering his pile-driver personality crowded out other feelings and she imagined him, as she'd known him best, directing an actor: his hands slicing and shaping the air, his body tensed with the urgent need to convey his precise requirements. She pictured the frustration when those directions were misunderstood, his hands snatching and dragging through his thick wild hair; the excitement when a scene was spot on, one fist punching the air and his face creased with delight. In his company other people faded into insignificance and, in his absence, life was an empty colourless business: one way or another Sam was going to be a difficult act to follow.

Presently she stood up, found her car-keys and went downstairs, the words still echoing in her ears.

CHAPTER FORTY

They had tea in the shade of a huge green umbrella, sitting round a big wooden table in the garth. Tilda and Saul sat together on a bench seat with Jake in his bouncy chair beside them whilst the other three sat in the most comfortable of the garden chairs, selected earlier by Piers and Saul. Jenny Coleman had made delicious buttery cucumber sandwiches, thin and light as wafers, and a coffee and walnut cake. They sat in the dappled sunlight idly discussing how Tilda might start up some kind of small business, perhaps working from Michaelgarth, without having to leave Jake.

‘So many people work from home these days,' she said. ‘There must be something I can do. I certainly can't imagine going back to an office routine although I'm good at organization.'

The conversation continued at a desultory level, with various suggestions bandied to and fro, until it was time to cut the cake.

‘My favourite,' declared Piers with great satisfaction whilst Tilda poured more tea. ‘How about a slice, Lizzie?'

‘Oh, yes please.' She spoke rather dreamily, staring towards the barns. She'd been wondering how Alison might have reacted to this exchange of ideas and noticing that Saul was having very little to say. ‘You know this would be a terrific place for people to give workshops.' She accepted her piece of cake. ‘I was having a look inside the barns earlier. There's masses of space and you wouldn't have a parking problem. You were talking about running a little tea-room, Tilda, but why not make it into a kind of craft workshop where people come to give classes?'

‘What kind of classes?' Felix looked interested, taking his tea from Tilda. ‘You don't mean that Tilda should give the classes?'

‘No, no.' Lizzie was amused by Tilda's squawk of horror. ‘I was thinking of some of the craft workshops I've seen in action. The expert in whatever craft it is – it might be, oh, let me see. Water-colours? Silk-painting? Pottery? Writing? – would hire your barn for a course of lessons, which he or she would advertise. People always need places to hold courses – they call it a venue, such a horrid word – and a place like this, so old and set around this beautiful garth, would attract any creative person like a magnet.'

‘So we let the barn,' began Tilda rather diffidently and with a sideways glance at Piers, ‘but only on a temporary basis and to lots of different people?'

‘I suppose you'd have to see what demand there was,' observed Piers thoughtfully. ‘You might have someone who wanted it for the same few weeks each year or regularly once a month.'

‘It might be a bit of a headache fitting each class in and keeping a diary of it all,' admitted Lizzie, ‘but Tilda did say she likes organizing. I don't think that theatre workshops would work without some kind of stage but you could do mime and dance, I suppose.'

‘And would the punters stay overnight?' asked Felix, clearly fascinated by the concept.

‘It depends how long the course is and how far they travel,' answered Lizzie, rather pleased by the reception of her idea. ‘But the place is stiff with B. & B.s and small hotels. It shouldn't be a problem. The area is such an attraction in itself, isn't it, especially for artists?'

‘And I could provide lunch.' Tilda sat up straight, her cake forgotten. ‘Home-made soup and rolls, with a rather delicious pudding . . .'

‘For which they pay extra,' chipped in Lizzie, grinning at her.

‘Would it cost much to put the barn in order?' asked Saul. This was his first contribution.

‘We'd need to install a lavatory,' said Piers; he was clearly taking it seriously, ‘and fit out a small area so that they could make coffee and so on. And put in some kind of heating.'

‘I suppose you could check with the library to see what courses are being given locally,' suggested Felix, ‘and then approach the teachers?'

‘Brilliant,' said Tilda, ‘and the Tourist Board too. It's the best idea we've had yet,' she hesitated a little. ‘Isn't it, Piers?'

‘It's good,' he answered positively. ‘Really good.'

Tilda gave a huge sigh, sat back to finish her cake and smiled at Saul, sensing that he was not as wholeheartedly enthusiastic as the others.

‘Come and help me bath Jake,' she said to him. ‘I want to try to get him settled a bit earlier this evening.' She glanced at Lizzie, remembering how Teresa always begged to bath Jake, feeling rather awkward. Lizzie – though she smiled upon the baby and showed none of Alison's tiny resentments when he was fed or if he cried – nevertheless made no advances towards him. ‘Unless you might like to help me, Lizzie . . . ?' she began cautiously.

‘Good grief!' Lizzie looked so terrified that everyone laughed. ‘You cannot be serious! I'd drop him or drown him. No, no.' She shook her head. ‘He's so fragile he frightens me to death.'

‘Come on, Saul. You're not afraid of him, are you?' Tilda stood up, taking Jake's chair, and the three of them went into the house.

‘He's so small.' Lizzie felt her reaction needed further explanation. ‘Oh, the responsibility of such a tiny person.'

She frowned suddenly, biting her lip, and Felix, watching her, leaned forward, pushing his plate a little to one side.

‘That's a very good idea of yours, Lizzie, about the barn, I mean. What do you say, Piers?'

‘It
is
a good idea.' Piers crossed his legs, leaning back in his chair. ‘It probably wouldn't cost much to convert the barn but I shall need to look into the planning regulations. Tilda needs something to get her teeth into and this could be a perfect solution.'

Upstairs, Saul leaned against the door-jamb, watching his godson being lowered into his small bath. His legs kicked excitedly as they touched the warm water and he laughed with pleasure at the freedom and his new-felt power. Tilda, kneeling, a towel wrapped about her waist, laughed with him, turning her head from the splashing, the ends of her hair wet. Suddenly she lifted him high up, so that the water streamed down her strong, brown arms whilst Jake gurgled with joy.

Saul was pierced with tenderness: he'd found it difficult to sit silently by, listening to plans that would commit Tilda to Michaelgarth, yet he had no sensible alternatives to offer. From his own point of view he'd have preferred her to be somewhere other than David's family home, where his presence was stamped so strongly, but Michaelgarth was Jake's inheritance and Tilda was safe here. After all, it was almost as much her home as it had been David's, and he knew that, however much she missed her army friends and the social life, this part of Exmoor was where she belonged.

Last evening, with Gemma and Guy joining them for supper, she'd been so much mistress of the occasion, so naturally right as she'd moved about the kitchen and in the drawing-room afterwards. There was a strength and grace about her that had contrasted sharply with his sister's tinsel, doll-like prettiness and, though no-one could be more charming than Gemma when she was in good form, Tilda had some special quality that transcended charm. He'd felt the usual uncomfortable twinge as he watched them together, wishing that he needn't have been burdened with this knowledge, which had made him ashamed of his sister and angry with David. In her innocence, Tilda had been warmly friendly with Gemma, straightforward and low-key with Guy – who disliked anyone fussing over him – and Saul wondered, not for the first time, how she would react if she discovered the truth.

‘Forget it, mate,' David would have said. ‘It was just one of those things. Life's too short . . .'

Saul experienced a sinking of the stomach as he imagined how those eyes might look at him if Tilda ever found out what had happened between David and Gemma: what might she think of his silence? Would she accuse him of helping to deceive her or understand that he'd merely been trying to protect her? He ached with his love and need for her, wishing that he could take care of them both, and instinctively he went to them, taking the towel from her and holding it so that he could wrap Jake in its soft warm folds. They sat together, the three of them, on the edge of the bath and she leaned against him, her hair dripping on his cotton shirt.

‘I love you,' he said angrily. ‘That's the trouble. You know it really, don't you, Tilda?'

‘Yes,' she said, after a moment. ‘Yes, I do know, Saul.'

‘I feel so bloody helpless.' He still spoke savagely, yet he continued to hold the child tenderly. ‘I feel as if I'm being disloyal to David but I loved you from the first minute and I just have to say it out loud.'

She slid her arm about him, her cheek against his shoulder, remembering Gemma's words:
I can't quite see Saul in David's league.

How could she describe her great affection for him? ‘You're very special, Saul,' she began, ‘it's just . . .'

‘I know.' He tried to smile, not wanting to distress her by forcing explanations from her so as to ease his suffering. ‘Just don't tell me that I'm like a brother to you, that's all.'

She was silent for so long that he turned to look down at her, fear and a faint flickering of hope wrestling together in his breast.

‘I can't describe exactly what I feel,' she answered at last. ‘David was so . . . all-encompassing. He's such a difficult act to follow – and I can't imagine even thinking about that yet, if ever. But I love you too, only it's cheating to say so when I can't offer anything. I know I'd hate it if you weren't around and I need you to keep me grounded, if you see what I mean.'

‘I think so.' He knew he must be content with this much, at least for the time being, but that tiny flame of hope continued to glow within him and his spirits lifted. ‘Let's get this fellow sorted and then I must go down and help Piers get the lights up in the garth.' He bent and touched his lips lightly to her hair. ‘Don't worry about it, Tilda. I shall be around for as long as you need me.'

She grinned at him gratefully, giving him a hug. ‘We both need you,' she told him, and followed him into the nursery.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

As she dressed for her rendezvous with Piers at six thirty, Alison cast anxious yet hopeful glances in the dressing-table glass as she passed to and fro before it: as though these short glimpses, taken on the wing, might reveal some unknown side of her, presenting some aspect of which she was rarely aware. The quick, darting figure, wrestling with a zip, dragging a T-shirt over its head, showed a different Alison to the one who sat upon the upholstered stool, staring critically and with dissatisfaction into the triple mirror. Was this how Piers saw her: in motion, flexible? Or was it the other woman, who had tiny lines carved between her brows and a discontented mouth, of whom he thought?

The presence of Lizzie Blake at Michaelgarth had undermined her confidence with far more success than Tilda had ever been able to achieve, and Alison had already tried on and rejected three separate outfits: the first too casual, the second too smart and the third simply boring. The bedroom, which looked into the narrow side garden, was warm and stuffy, the high leylandii hedges preventing any cool current of air. No draughts prevailed in this comfortable little dwelling; it was as sensible and neat as Alison herself, and just as predictable. Labour-saving, economical to run, surrounded by its small well-planned garden, it was exactly the house Philip would have chosen for her present circumstances. A photograph of him smiled condescending approval from the dressing-table.

He would have been surprised, she thought now, if he could have seen her in this present dilemma with discarded garments cast anyhow on the bed rather than hung back tidily in the fitted cupboard. Until Philip's death, clothes had been regarded as necessary items that lent respectability and kept you warm – and the cheaper they were the better he liked them. He could see the sense of paying a little extra for quality that would last for ever – for a tweed skirt, say, or a sensible overcoat – but to buy clothes for the fun of it was beyond him. Fashion was a word that did not enter his vocabulary and if you could find the skirt – or overcoat – at a charity shop, for a quarter of the price when new, then why quibble if the colour didn't quite match the rest of your clothes or the length was three inches shorter than was flattering?