The Birdcage (11 page)

Suppressing a sigh Felix drives on towards Michaelgarth, wishing that he were able to get to Bristol more often, and, as if she guesses his thoughts, Marina speaks the words he has grown to dread.

‘I'm thinking of coming to Bristol with you next weekend. I want to get some Christmas presents. It's rather early but the weather at the end of November is usually so miserable.'

He changes gear noisily, apologizes and brakes suddenly as a dark shape streaks across the lane. He instinctively thrusts out his arm to prevent Marina from being thrown forward and feels the soft warm fur of her coat.

‘Sorry,' he says again. ‘Fox, I think. Too quick for a badger,' but the little shock has cleared his brain. ‘Yes, Bristol. Well, why not? Piers could come too. It's his half-term that week, isn't it? I can't get out of it, I'm afraid, but at least I shall be back for Bonfire Night.'

This is a very special occasion. The village school traditionally celebrates Guy Fawkes on the hill behind Michaelgarth and Piers feels a special responsibility as host.

‘Damn,' says Marina irritably. ‘I'd forgotten that. It's rather too much to ask Father to look after him for two days and he'll be rather under my feet in that tiny flat. There isn't even a second bedroom. Well, that's that, then.'

She sounds ill-used and Felix refrains from making encouraging suggestions, although he feels very guilty. There is a long silence, which lasts until they drive through the arch into the garth. Felix puts the car away and follows Marina across the wet, slippery cobbles and into the house. The kitchen is unusually tidy and Marina looks about her with narrowed, calculating eyes: Monty's tail beats a cautious welcome as he watches them from his bed beneath the window.

‘Well,' says Felix, rather puzzled both by the spotlessness of the kitchen and his wife's expression. ‘Old David's done his bit by the look of it.'

‘He never washes up after himself,' replies Marina tartly, ‘unless Piers has been down and there are extra plates and so on which have been used. He washes it all up, so as to cover himself, and he imagines that I don't notice.'

‘Does it matter?' asks Felix wearily. ‘Perhaps the poor little chap had a nightmare. I think it's rather nice of David to share his supper with him. Fun for both of them.'

She turns to look at him. ‘You have no idea about discipline, do you, Felix?' she asks icily. ‘Either self-discipline or any other kind?'

He stares at her. ‘No,' he says at last. ‘No, I'm a profligate bastard with a set of unprincipled friends. Look, I'm not particularly tired so I'll spend the night in my dressing-room. I wouldn't want to keep you awake by having the light on. Goodnight, Marina.'

Upstairs, in the room next to Piers' bedroom, he stands for a moment staring at nothing, his fists bunched in the pockets of his dinner jacket. He hears Marina pass his door, on her way to the big bedroom on the north-west corner, and waits without moving until he hears the lavatory flush and the bathroom door close, followed by the click of her bedroom door. With a sigh of frustration he begins to drag off his jacket and he's already untying his tie and kicking off his shoes when he hears the movement next door. As he lets himself out silently onto the landing he sees a light flash up under Piers' door.

Felix turns the handle and goes in, switching on the lamp.

‘Hello, old chap,' he says. ‘Can't sleep?'

‘Oh, Daddy,' cries Piers with relief, ‘I wondered if it was a burglar.'

He switches off his torch – he's not allowed a bedside lamp in case it encourages him to read when he should be asleep – and beams at his father.

‘We're just home,' Felix tells him, ‘and I couldn't sleep either. So I'm staying in my dressing-room so as not to disturb Mummy. I might read for a bit and she can't get off if the light's on.'

‘I wish I could read when I can't sleep,' says Piers enviously. ‘I just have to tell myself stories instead.'

‘Well, what about a story now?' asks Felix, picking up the newest book, an abridged version of
Treasure Island
with exciting colour plates. ‘It might make us both sleepy.'

Even as his father picks up the book, Piers sees his way to his next sounding; coming so soon after his success with his grandfather he feels hopeful that he might be lucky a second time.

‘I've been thinking, Daddy,' he says, hauling himself higher on the pillow, his heart beginning to thump in anticipation. ‘I was thinking that perhaps we ought to practise my tables each evening instead of reading stories.'

His look is so anxious, so intense, that Felix is startled. He sits on the edge of the bed, putting an arm about his son, but Piers wriggles free. He is frightened now, terrified that his father will prove his mother right.
If be really cared about you
 . . . He kneels upright so as to make his point.

‘I'm very weak at maths,' he says urgently, ‘and we mustn't forget that I have to take the entrance exam in the spring.'

These are his mother's words and Felix, still angry at Marina, feels a terrible compassion as he stares down at his son's white, frightened face, misreading the reason behind that fearful, oddly expectant expression.

He is too young to be threatened and bullied, thinks Felix, and he will learn quicker if he is happy and more confident.

‘You're doing very well,' he says gently. ‘A bedtime story won't make any difference, I'm sure. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.'

He opens the book but Piers stares at his father almost with a kind of dread.

‘I don't think I will, if you don't mind,' he says politely. ‘I think I can sleep now.'

He gets down quickly under the blankets, pulling the sheet over his head so that Felix can only bend to kiss him and go quietly out. Back in his dressing-room he wonders if
Treasure Island
with blind Pew delivering the black spot is rather frightening – if fascinating – for a small boy: perhaps he is too young for it. Suddenly tired, Felix flings off his clothes and climbs into bed.

Next door, his face buried in his pillow, Piers sobs himself to sleep.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Early on Sunday evening, up in her attic room, Lizzie arranges the various items that she intends to show Felix when he arrives later. She sets them out on the patchwork quilt, singing to herself, imagining his pleasure when he sees these good things. There are several pictures, some crayoned in a picture book, but there is also a rather ambitious painting executed with a certain amount of dash. She is especially pleased with this because it is Felix who has given her the blue enamelled paintbox with its dear little square cakes of paint and a separate channel for the brushes. She can hardly bear to use it to begin with, it is so pretty and the brushes are so soft against her cheek – just like the end of her thick, silky plait – but soon she longs to dip the brush into water and swirl it over the reds and blues and yellows. She makes several attempts, none quite to her satisfaction, but at last she achieves a very creditable creation and Pidge has helped her to back it onto some stiff card so that it looks most professional.

As well as the painting she has a page of writing, adorned with a highly cherished gold star, which she has been allowed to bring home from school. ‘Very good, Lizzie' is written in the margin and she peers with pride at this accolade. She places it carefully on the quilt so that the white ruled paper shows to advantage against a square of ruby velvet and stands back to view the effect. A sharp nod of approval and away she goes to the white chest to transport a plasticine family over to the bed: first there is Angel, yellow hair pressed down onto a pink head, then Pidge wearing a rather exotic hat – no black plasticine for Pidge's hair – and then, on a smaller scale, Lizzie herself modelled with a bright red plait. Lastly there is Felix, long-legged, with a lump of hair that looks like a doormat. Try as she might she cannot improve it and she hopes that he will understand how difficult it is for small fingers to mould the stiff clay-like material.

She carries them carefully, lest a leg or an arm might separate from its parent body, and sets them in a little group. They don't look quite so impressive against the multicoloured background and briefly she considers leaving them on the white chest; but no, she shakes her head, rejecting the idea, her display will be diminished without the central group and she rearranges them, standing back to survey her efforts.

A pair of new plaid slippers finish the display, the red and blue felt showing up splendidly on a square of pale, sprigged cotton, and she drags forward the basket chair so that Felix will be able to sit at ease while he inspects the painstaking efforts produced during the four long weeks of his absence.

She hears the doorbell and in the time it takes for one long, last critical look at her display, and the careful climb down the short, steep flight of stairs, Felix is already here. He holds out a bottle of wine to Pidge, kisses Angel and braces himself as Lizzie hurtles through the door.

‘Hello, my bird,' he says, swinging her up, and she wraps her legs about his waist and hugs him tightly, snuffing up the Felix-smell of his tweed jacket: tobacco, dog, rain, coffee.

He sits down next to Angel on the sofa with Lizzie in his lap and she cuddles into the crook of his arm, content to wait, to share this moment with Pidge and Angel, before she shows him the delightful surprises upstairs. She draws his arm around her, holding his hand in both of hers, revelling in the sense of safety, rubbing her cheek against the soft material of his shirt. He slips his other arm about Angel's shoulders, drawing her close, so that the three of them are grouped together just like a proper family. Lizzie feels excitement rise inside her as she contemplates the treat in store for him – and there is something else.

She tenses, hardly able to contain herself, and Felix, aware of the sudden contraction, smiles down at her.

‘And how are you, little Lizzie?' he asks.

The loving welcome, the warmth, are doing their work. He lets himself relax: sinking down into the comfort of the sofa, liking the weight of Lizzie across his thighs, breathing up Angel's familiar scent. Pidge brings him a drink, grinning at the sight of him almost submerged by Lizzie and Angel, and he winks back at her, wishing that he could do more for them. He feels that he must only spend on them the money that formerly he would have spent on himself and so he goes without small luxuries so that he can bring presents to the Birdcage.

‘I've got a surprise for you,' Lizzie announces a little later.

Felix looks interested. ‘For me?' he asks – and she hugs herself with secret pleasure.

‘It's upstairs,' she tells him. ‘Come and see.'

The two women smile at him as he puts down his glass and allows Lizzie to haul him from the chair and away to the attic.

‘Close your eyes,' she instructs him as he enters the room and he obeys at once, letting her lead him to the wicker chair. He feels for its arms and lowers himself carefully.

‘Now,' she cries, almost bursting with excited anticipation. ‘Open your eyes, Felix.'

He does so at once, staring at the delights spread before him, and she stands at his knee, ready to begin the inspection. First are the plaid slippers which, though delightful, are not of her creation and therefore the least important in her eyes. She shows them carefully and they agree upon the cosiness of the lining and the brightness of the plaid. Then, at his request, she puts them on and dances a few steps for him and, keeping them on, she next selects the page of writing. Felix is suitably impressed.

‘Did you do this yourself?' he asks. ‘With no help? And what does it say here? “Very good, Lizzie.” Well, that's absolutely first class . . .'

She allows herself several minutes of his heart-warming praise before turning to the plasticine family.

‘Only you must be very careful with them,' she warns as he reaches to pick up one of the figures. ‘It's very difficult to make them stick together, you know.'

‘I'm sure it is,' he murmurs, looking at the little family intently.

‘It's us,' she says, lest he hasn't realized. ‘This is Angel. See, she has yellow hair but Pidge is wearing a hat. And this one's you . . .'

He turns the little figures carefully and she sees that his face is serious: perhaps he doesn't like them.

‘Your hair isn't quite right,' she says anxiously, not wishing him to be hurt.

‘It's very good,' he says quickly. ‘It's jolly hard to make plasticine soft enough to work it properly.'

‘Yes,' she agrees with relief. ‘It is, isn't it? But I wanted to do the four of us together.'

‘That's nice,' he says, after a moment. ‘The four of us together.'

The colouring book comes next and then, last of all, the painting. As she lifts it up, Lizzie is grateful to Pidge for pasting it on to the card so that it isn't limp any more. She holds it so that he can see it properly and he smiles as he recognizes that this is her first effort with the paintbox.

‘It's wonderful,' he says sincerely. ‘What a dear little house.'

‘It's our cottage in the country,' she tells him. She doesn't quite know what that is except that Angel sometimes says, ‘Oh, sweetie, just wait till we get our cottage in the country,' and Pidge always answers, ‘You'd die of boredom in a week.' Lizzie has seen pictures of cottages in her nursery rhyme books so she knows that it should have a thatched roof and roses round the door. ‘And this is Angel outside the door and this is me. Pidge is inside cooking lunch so we can't see her but this is my daddy coming in at the gate.'