The Birdcage (43 page)

He remembered Pidge's last words to him:
Remember the way we were
.

‘I think,' he said carefully, ‘that for a short period in Lizzie's life I was important to her and, in her grief, that particular time came back to her. I know it sounds odd but I never went deeply into the question of why. You didn't ask her?'

‘Yes, I did,' he answered. ‘She talked about trigger points; that when something grim happens you re-evaluate your life. She didn't actually talk about her husband, if I remember correctly, she simply said that with Angel and Pidge dead she decided to find you in the hope that you'd fill in some of the gaps for her.' He shook his head frustratedly. ‘At times like that you're not really thinking straight enough to cross the t's and dot the i's, are you?' He gave a short laugh. ‘Well,
I
wasn't.'

‘You'd had a shock,' began Felix cautiously – but Piers smiled at him.

‘Don't worry,' he said. ‘No more recriminations. I just don't want to lose her now, that's all.'

At that moment, Tilda and Teresa came out into the garth, followed by Saul carrying Felix's overnight case, and Felix could do no more than grip Piers' hand in gratitude and relief.

‘Give me a buzz later,' Piers murmured, ‘when you've had a rest.'

They went out in a group to Teresa's car; there was a flurry of kissing and farewell and then the car moved off, everyone waving.

‘I'm going upstairs to find the playpen.' Piers scooped up the now-recumbent puppy from the cobbles and settled him on the bean bag in the scullery. ‘Bed,' he said firmly.

Lion opened a sleepy eye and stretched comfortably.

‘He and Jake will be able to go into the playpen together,' observed Tilda. ‘That should be fun.'

Piers went away upstairs but, as Tilda and Saul reached the kitchen, a car passed the window; the engine was switched off and a door slammed. Tilda hurried to the scullery door, with Saul close behind her, both wondering if Lizzie might possibly have returned. To their surprise they saw Marianne crossing the garth. Her face was grim and over her arm she was carrying what appeared to be a rug.

‘Hello, Tilda,' she said, ignoring Saul. ‘Is Gemma here, by any chance?'

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

They gave way before Marianne, backing into the kitchen, where she stood looking about her as if she suspected that they'd hidden Gemma in a cupboard.

‘What's the problem?' asked Tilda, mystified by Marianne's expression. ‘I've just told you that she's not here. She and Guy went yesterday morning before the new people arrived in the afternoon. Saturday's changeoever day.' She stared at the rug that Marianne held. ‘Did she leave that behind? Did you manage to get together after all?'

‘Yes and no,' said Marianne. She flung the rug on the table as if it were a gauge of war. ‘I mean yes, she left her rug behind, but no we didn't manage to get together.
We
didn't, she and I, but she managed to get together with Simon. She got together very intimately with him, if you see what I mean.'

‘No,' said Tilda after a moment. ‘I don't think I do.'

Saul said nothing: he stared at the rug.

‘I see that Saul has no contribution to make.' Marianne folded her arms but Tilda could see that her hands were shaking. ‘Well, it's a wise man who knows his own sister, isn't it, Saul?'

Saul thought: It's all going to come out now. All of it – but still he did not speak.

‘Gemma left her rug by mistake, you see.' Marianne was talking to Tilda again. ‘After one of their intimate little moments behind the gorse bushes, or wherever, Simon very stupidly wrapped both the rugs together by mistake and put them in his car. I found them just now when we were putting our walking gear into the Discovery. “What's this?” I ask him, all innocent.' She began to re-enact the scene in an almost violent self-parody as if to demonstrate her disgust with her own obtuseness. ‘I said, “Oh,
look
, it seems we've got two rugs. Wherever can this have come from?” and there's a silence, as if he hasn't heard me, so I turn to look at him, holding up the rug.' She seized the rug so as to demonstrate, and Tilda flinched. ‘“No idea,” he says, all indifferent. “Haven't a clue. That picnic with the Corbetts? Does it matter? Let's get on, shall we?” But by this time, you see, I've shaken it out and had a good look at it. “What's
this
?” I cry. “There's a
name
tape! Oh, good, we'll be able to give it back. Now what does it say?” And there it was, large as life in blue and white, “G Wivenhoe”.' She showed them the nametape almost triumphantly, thrusting the rug under their noses, but when she spoke again the furious self-mockery was gone. ‘This time, when I look at Simon, he's got the kind of expression you never want to see on the face of someone you love.' She dropped the rug again, leaning across the table, her weight on her fists, and now her voice was low; savage with rage and misery. ‘Guilt, Tilda. That's what I saw. And fear. And shame. I felt frightened too, and sick in my stomach. So I asked him, “Want to try again?” and when he tried to bluster his way out of it I said that I was going straight down to the cottage to ask Gemma. So then he told me the truth and I went straight to the cottage but there's no-one around and so I came up here.'

Tilda was almost afraid to move. With her sharp white face and taut body, Marianne looked as if she might shatter: every piece of her was bone and sinew and stretched muscle. Any response would sound futile after such an outburst, and Tilda looked at Saul for assistance.

‘Gemma's not here, Marianne,' he said quite calmly. His face was expressionless. ‘We didn't know anything about this.'

‘But you're not surprised, are you?' She gave a little mirthless snort. ‘Of course you aren't. Why should you be? Knowing Gemma, I don't know why I should be surprised either. I just thought she might draw the line at her friends.' Marianne glanced almost speculatively at Tilda, who'd stretched her hand towards her, and Saul instinctively clenched his stomach muscles as if preparing for a blow. ‘Although I don't know why I should think that,' she added, shrugging. ‘After all, she didn't draw the line at David, did she?'

Tilda dropped her hand and grew still: she watched Marianne warily as if she were dangerous; as if she were weighing up what she might do or say next.

‘Is there any point to this?' asked Saul desperately. ‘For God's sake, Marianne . . .'

‘What's the matter, Saul?' Marianne was beyond sense or compassion. ‘We all know your sister's a tart—'

‘Wait,' said Tilda. ‘Please wait. What did you mean about drawing the line at David, Marianne?'

‘Did he never tell you about the steamy fortnight's leave he spent with his dear friend Saul on Dartmoor? I was there too, wasn't I, Saul, staying with Gemma? We made up a very happy little foursome. I think you were beavering away in London, Tilda.'

At the look on Tilda's face, Saul stepped round the table as if to catch her should she fall. She held out her arm as if warding him off, staring at him as if she were having difficulty in placing him, studying his expression, remembering her conversation with Gemma.

‘So it's true?' she questioned him, dazed – and turned away abruptly when he could not deny it.

‘You weren't married then,' he said urgently, ignoring Marianne. ‘You weren't even engaged—'

‘Shut up,' said Tilda abruptly. ‘Go away, Marianne. You've done what you came to do. Saul can give the rug to Gemma next time he sees her. Please just go away.'

‘Oh, no.' Marianne caught up the rug again. ‘No, I shall do that myself. I want to see her face when I give it to her. I want to spoil things for her just as she has for me.'

‘Stop it!' cried Tilda. ‘Just think about what you're saying. Think of Guy and the twins and all the hurt. It won't do you any good, Marianne, and there are the children. If it makes you happy to spoil someone's life then you can congratulate yourself on spoiling mine. Now go away.'

Above their heads, Jake began to cry, a high thin wail. The rage passed from Marianne's face and her shoulders sagged a little. She looked away from Tilda, confused.

‘Sorry,' she muttered. ‘Sorry, Tilda. I thought you knew. Look, it wasn't like that . . .'

‘I'm going upstairs to fetch Jake,' Tilda said. ‘I should like you to go before I get back, Marianne.'

She went out of the kitchen and Marianne hesitated for a moment before dropping the rug on to the table. She and Saul looked at one another, neither could think of anything to say, and finally Marianne turned away. He stood quite still until the sound of the engine had died in the distance, then he folded the rug very small and put it out of sight, on the seat of one of the chairs, just as Tilda came in carrying Jake. Sitting down at the table, holding Jake on her lap as if he were a shield, she stared at Saul accusingly.

‘You knew,' she said, ‘and you never told me.'

Anger began to stir inside him, tightening his muscles. ‘No,' he agreed, ‘I never told you.'

‘I still can't quite take it in,' she said. ‘David and Gemma . . . and all this time I never knew. Even then, down at the cottage when she was saying those things about him, I never guessed. You all knew and I was like some silly kid . . .' A spasm of humiliation passed over her face. ‘I suppose David asked you not to tell me?'

‘Oh, please,' Saul said wearily. ‘Let's not do this. Think about it, Tilda. Would you really have wanted me to tell you that David and Gemma got a bit carried away one summer? At what point do you think I should have broken the news? And how? Remember that I didn't know you then and, even if
you
felt that you were committed to David since playschool,
he
might not have felt quite the same until you were engaged. Perhaps I should have announced it at the engagement party.'

‘But I don't know that, do I?' she asked angrily. ‘I mean how do I know that he didn't play around
after
we were engaged? I can't ask him, can I? I can't see his face or look into his eyes and he can't reassure me. Can't you see how awful this is for me? He can't explain so that we can laugh it off together and then go and make love. He can't tell me that she was nothing to him, that he only loved me. That's what I always believed, you see. We were always so . . . together.'

‘Of course you were,' agreed Saul impatiently. ‘No-one's denying that but, for heaven's sake, Tilda, David wasn't a plaster saint. You know he wasn't. He lived by his own rules, as if there was never going to be enough time for all the things he had to do, and he was likely to simply take off at any moment on some crazy stunt. There was always that unknown quality about David. It's one of the reasons you loved him.'

Tilda hugged Jake more tightly. It was as if Gemma was there beside her, smiling that sideways smile, smoking her cigarette:
The unknown quality . . . that's what David
had
 . . . Jealousy and hurt gripped her and she closed her eyes against the picture of Gemma and David together.
God, he used to make me laugh
 . . . It seemed intolerable that it should have happened and that Saul had known about it all this time. She wondered what had David said to him about it? ‘For Christ's sake don't tell Tilda. After all, it was just a bit of fun but she might not see it in the same light and life's too short for misunderstandings . . .' She could almost hear his voice.

‘I think you ought to go, Saul,' she said with difficulty. ‘I can't . . .' She shook her head. ‘Please just go.'

‘OK,' he said grimly. ‘I'll go. But just listen for a moment, Tilda. It wasn't I who was unfaithful, and I refuse to be David's scapegoat because he isn't here to answer your questions. I can see that I was a fool to remain in David's shadow all this time, waiting while you got over your grief and being around in case you needed a shoulder to cry on or to listen while you talk about David, and I'm coming out of that shadow right now. Either we've got a real relationship ahead of us, which will stand and fall on its own merits, or there's nothing but a card at Christmas and my role as Jake's godfather. You have to look at me, Tilda, and see
me
, Saul, not David's friend who might make a tolerable second best.'

She stared at him, shocked, whilst Jake kicked and gurgled in her arms, and he picked up the rug from the chair and turned away. Even if she'd been able to make any conciliatory offering, the sight of the rug closed up her throat with a rush of conflicting emotions. The shock was too raw for her to be able to deal with the pain and humiliation as well as taking in the things that Saul had said. She had no idea how long she sat in that state of numbed confusion but suddenly she heard voices in the hall – Saul and Piers talking together – and in a moment of panic she stood up, hoisting Jake firmly into her arms, and hurried past the still sleeping puppy and out into the garth. The covered way outside the hall offered a certain protection and she sat on the bench in the shadows watching for Saul to emerge.

She was certain that he would look round for her and see her sitting there, at the back of the garth in the little cloister, and then he would come over to say goodbye. It was a kind of test: if he saw her then she would speak properly to him, try to explain. He and Piers were in the kitchen now, she could hear their voices through the open window and could see Piers moving about. Presently Saul came out through the scullery, carrying his bag, and she tensed expectantly, seized with a sudden longing to call out to him. She remembered how, earlier, she'd longed to rest against his strength whilst resenting him because he wasn't David, but now, as he walked with long strides across the cobbles, she saw him for the first time as his own person, without the shadowy figure of David beside him, and she felt a clutch of terror at the thought of losing him. He'd already slung his bag into the car and had climbed in by the time she called out to him. The sound of the engine drowned out her voice and by the time she'd risen to her feet, the small hatchback had reversed at high speed out of the barn and shot away down the drive.