The Birdcage (39 page)

Wiping her cheeks, trying to smile, Lizzie nodded and followed Tilda across the garth but her heart was heavy and full of guilt.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Left to himself for a brief moment, Piers saw them go. The arrival of the puppy had brought the party to a climax and now his friends surged and eddied about him, chatting, eating, drinking, and he was able to enjoy a sense of solitude whilst ringed about with conviviality. He looked down upon the soft golden head, felt the weight of the fat, warm body in his arms, and glanced about for a place to sit. A chair beside a small card-table invited him to rest for a moment and he sat down gratefully, the puppy now almost asleep, half-lying up his chest. His friends smiled at him, touched his shoulder, someone brought him a drink but had the sense to leave him alone to catch his breath and take in the scene.

His father was sitting in his padded chair, a glass balanced on its arm, talking to a few old cronies. There was a thin, fine look about him; his white hair sleeked back, his face lively, elegant ankles crossed nonchalantly. Their eye-line crossed and he gave a little approving nod towards the dog, sent a tiny wink, so that Piers, absurdly touched, raised his glass in return. How good it was to sit here in the garth on a midsummer evening, surrounded by family and friends: how good to feel the load of responsibility, of loyalty to the dead, slipping away at last. It was no longer required of him to judge his father or to pronounce upon his actions: he could let it go. If he felt his mother's shade reproaching him, he need not respond to it. His father's explanations, his own experiences, allowed him to understand and to forgive the hurt: his own fear was done away with at last. It was impossible to forgive someone on behalf of another, his mother's pain remained unresolved, but he was not prepared to allow her past suffering to spoil the present. He found himself thinking affectionately of his grandfather, and of Monty, remembering how, when Monty had died at last, it had been Felix who'd bought Piers his first puppy.

With a pang of dismay he realized that Alison was beside him, with Margaret Hooper at her shoulder, and he ruefully indicated his inability to rise. Neither of them was particularly amused at the sight of the puppy, lying peacefully asleep on his back now, his fat tummy exposed, huge paws limp.

‘So Tilda got her way,' said Alison with a small mirthless laugh. ‘I thought she would. It really is rather too bad of her, isn't it? Poor Piers, she takes advantage of your good nature.'

He smiled politely, reflecting on how much he disliked being referred to as ‘poor Piers'.

‘You know I was thinking of getting another dog,' he reminded her gently – and saw her colour rise. It would be impossible to pursue this line in front of her sister-in-law without demonstrating her lack of power, and Piers wondered exactly how Alison had represented their relationship to the Hoopers. He'd resented being obliged to ask them to his birthday party – they were acquaintances, not friends – but she'd suggested it, tying up the invitation rather cleverly with the dinner party they'd given and to which he'd escorted her, making him feel, rather guiltily, that a return of hospitality was in order. Left to himself he would have suggested dinner at a pub for the four of them but, with the party happening now, it had been difficult to refuse her.

Stroking the puppy, trying to think of something to say to Alison, he cursed himself for letting their friendship drift so far towards some kind of public commitment. It had become so natural for them to be bracketed together in this small social community and, through a kind of apathy born of grief, he'd allowed it to happen. Lizzie's arrival at Michaelgarth was forcing a slight rift between him and Alison, his ready acceptance of Tilda's present was widening it, and he knew that he must not let this opportunity slip.

‘I thought we'd decided that you needed some freedom,' Alison was saying with an unnatural jocularity. ‘What with Tilda and Jake so firmly ensconced . . .'

That ‘we' jolted him out of his attempted affability, dispensed with his unwillingness to hurt, and a ruthless sense of self-preservation asserted itself.

‘But I don't want to be free of my family,' he told her firmly. ‘I've told you how much it means to me to have Tilda and Jake at Michaelgarth. As for the puppy, well, he's for all of us. We've always shared our dogs, you know.'

If he'd over-emphasized this other ‘we', reminding her that she knew very little about him or his past, he had no regrets. Margaret Hooper was watching him, her lips curling almost into a sneer, and he thought: these are the kind of women to whom men are always the enemy. There can be nothing but conflict here.

Saul appeared beside them, holding two plates, smiling an apology for the interruption but making it impossible for further private conversation with Alison or Margaret.

‘Felix says you haven't had anything to eat yet,' he said cheerfully. ‘It's always the same at your own thrash, isn't it? Anyway, I haven't had a chance either, so I thought we'd grab an opportunity together. I brought things you can manage with one hand since you're a bit handicapped. What a splendid little chap he is. Have you thought of a name for him yet?'

He rattled on, beaming at the two women but monopolizing Piers, until they moved slightly away and were joined by Geoffrey, who shepherded them towards the drinks. Piers raised an eyebrow at Saul.

‘Relief of Mafeking?' he suggested – and Saul laughed.

‘Something like that,' he agreed. ‘Felix thought that the odds were a bit high. You know, two against one, and, anyway, you needed something to eat. Will you be OK now if I go and clear up a bit ready for the puddings?'

‘I think I'm pretty safe at the moment,' Piers assured him. ‘Thanks, Saul.'

He looked towards his father, who watched with amusement, and Piers wished suddenly, with all his heart, that this moment of truth had come much earlier in their lives. So much time had been wasted: resentment on his own side and guilt on his father's had marred the instinctive affection that had always existed between them. Now he saw more clearly how bleak his father's life must have been once he'd finished with Angel for ever. Marina had never looked upon forgiveness as an option but her bitterness and disgust had slowly softened into a permanently watchful expectation: whims must be immediately indulged, moods cheerfully endured, needs instantly satisfied. Felix's attention must be centred upon her at all times as proof of his repentance, and never had he been offered the least indication that his sin had been forgiven: rather, there was an almost tangible atmosphere of suspicious vigilance. This had been his punishment: he was never again to be trusted.

His mother's crippling jealousy had shaped his own life until he'd seized the opportunity to get away. After he'd left the Royal Agriculture College he'd been able to move into the cottage at Porlock and, though he missed Michaelgarth, the sense of freedom – of crawling from beneath that crushing weight of watchfulness and criticism of his friends – had been worth it. She'd kept a watching brief, though, subjecting him to sudden visits at odd hours, inquisitions, until Sue had blown into his life like an invigorating, good-natured hurricane, sweeping away his guilt and whirling him beyond his mother's jealous reach. They'd had good times together, no great passion but a good deal of laughter, and then she'd moved on again, rushing away to new horizons and leaving him free again, to be himself.

He bent over the puppy, hiding his expression of horror at the thought of how nearly he'd walked into another readymade prison of jealous watchfulness and constricting, stifling affection. He saw how cunningly he would be detached, step by step, from those whom he loved and the sense of preservation grew stronger within him. He thought of Lizzie: of her funny ways, ready humour, and the way he felt when that flame of recognition leaped between them. What happened when that flame burned too late: once you were committed to another person? Lizzie or Alison: Marina or Angel? He remembered his father's words:
Marina told me . . . that I wouldn't be able to see you and so, in the end, there was no contest.

He swallowed the last of his drink and, hefting the puppy up into his arms, got to his feet and crossed the garth to Felix. He went down on one knee beside him so that his father might see the puppy, saw the fine, thin hand laid upon its head with a strange constriction in his throat.

‘I was thinking of Grandfather and Monty,' he said. ‘How long ago it seems. Remember Spider? How old was I when you brought him home for me? Ten? Eleven? And then Snoopy? David chose that name, of course.
Peanuts
was all the rage and we couldn't talk him out of it. So what shall we call this one?'

Felix smoothed the soft yellow coat and was rewarded with a sleepy lick.

‘What about Lionheart?' he suggested – and smiled at Piers' puzzled, questioning look. ‘He led the Third Crusade, if I remember aright,' he murmured. ‘It seems rather apt, under the circumstances. Third time lucky, perhaps?'

Piers, startled, gave a shout of laughter at Felix's insinuation. It was true that he'd been rescued from his mother's influence by Sue and now from Alison's by the puppy. Perhaps he'd require no liberating from Lizzie: third time lucky?

‘Lionheart it is,' he said. ‘He's the right colour for it and we'll call him Lion for short. Shall we drink to his health, Father?'

‘We'll drink to the three of us,' corrected Felix but, even as he lifted his glass, some friends, overhearing, came crowding round to toast Piers' health again and to exclaim over the newly named puppy.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

After the puddings had been carried out into the garth, Tilda remained on her own in the kitchen. Lizzie went away upstairs on some pretext or other and Tilda made no attempt to stop her, understanding that the occasion must be rather overwhelming to a virtual stranger. It was odd though, reflected Tilda, that Lizzie wasn't in the least like a stranger as far as she was concerned, but seemed more like some relative returned after a long break away from home. Perhaps it was all that moving around – continually adapting to new productions, new casts, new digs – that kept her flexible, reminding Tilda of the women she knew who'd been brought up in military families. They, like Lizzie, tended to be at ease in any company, ready to adjust to unexpected circumstances.

Tilda began to prepare an assortment of cups and mugs for coffee, one ear cocked automatically for Jake-noises, remembering other celebrations here at Michaelgarth: David's twenty-first birthday, their engagement party, Piers' annual midsummer bash. Seeing Piers with the puppy had reminded her of Joker's arrival fifteen years before, when she and David were respectively eleven and twelve years old. She had a photograph of David holding the puppy and laughing, whilst she stood beside him beaming into the camera. Blinking away her tears, imagining David beside her, saying, ‘Turn off the taps, love. Life's too short,' she began to spoon coffee into the cups on a second tray.

Those tiny darts of fear that Alison planted with such painful precision had been drawn out and neutralized by Piers himself. Tilda knew that she'd overstepped the line with Alison earlier, but it had been made clear by his public acceptance of the puppy that Alison's feelings were not his paramount consideration. Her insinuations that Piers was hoping that she and Jake might be ready to begin new lives together away from Michaelgarth had undermined Tilda's security, but it was the conversation at tea-time that had truly restored her confidence.

She and Piers had often discussed her plans for the future, but nothing had suggested itself that tied her so completely to Michaelgarth as Lizzie's plans for a small craft centre. She'd been thrilled by the idea and deeply relieved to see that Piers had shown no hesitation in going along with it. Just before the party had really begun he'd paused beside her, touching his glass to hers. ‘Here's to our new project,' he'd said – and she'd felt an overwhelming relief and gratitude. Then the puppy had arrived and, watching him holding it, she'd remembered David and the whole way of life that she'd lost along with him and she'd been obliged to shed a few tears on Lizzie's shoulder. It was odd how quickly she'd bonded with Lizzie, and suspected that it was something to do with their both being recently made widows. Just now, for instance, when she'd spotted Lizzie sitting in the dark corner of the garth, wiping away her tears, she'd guessed that Lizzie was experiencing that terrible isolation of someone who'd lost not only their partner but their best friend.

Oh, the pain of it. Tilda bit her lip as she waited for the kettle to boil. ‘Get a grip,' David would have advised – he'd never been particularly sympathetic in emotional crises – and she smiled waveringly to herself as she attempted to follow his advice. Footsteps could be heard passing through the scullery and instinctively she straightened her shoulders, her back to the door, practising a brighter smile.

‘Well,
what
a success.' Her mother put an arm about her. ‘You must be thrilled to bits. Dear old Piers certainly rose to the occasion, didn't he?'

Tilda returned the hug. ‘Wasn't it fantastic? And isn't the puppy gorgeous?'

‘Perfect.' Teresa perched on the edge of the table. ‘Piers is going to call him Lionheart. Lion for short. Isn't that nice? Where's Miss Blake disappeared to? I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw her. You might have warned me, Tilda. I understand she's an old friend of the family?'

‘I wanted it to be a surprise.' Tilda lifted the heavy kettle from the hotplate. ‘She's so nice, isn't she? I think she's more Felix's friend, actually, or at least her mother was. She was the actress Angelica Blake but she's dead now, and Lizzie's just lost her husband, so she and I have a sort of sympathy for one another.'