The Birdcage (27 page)

Driving back to Michaelgarth, Piers was surprised at his principal reaction to his father's disclosures: the relief was overwhelming. Now he could fit the missing pieces together and make sense of the puzzle, remembering that moment years ago when he'd stood outside the drawing-room door listening to his mother's accusations.

From that moment forward, he fears that somewhere in the world, waiting to appear, is a half-sister: his father's child. His mother's voice is full of distaste, the words clear, although it isn't until much later that he understands them fully. He doesn't know what a mistress is but the words ‘She had a child with her. I suppose she isn't yours, by any chance?' fill him with a nameless anxiety. Hearing his father's exclamation, his footsteps approaching the slightly open door, he flees away but, even as he hides out on the hill with Monty, he thinks about the meeting earlier that day in Parhams: his mother's cold hand gripping his own as she stared at the woman and her child. The mother looked nice – pretty, rather friendly, ready to be faintly amused – and the little girl gazed at him very intently but as if she too might like to be friends.

As he grows up, the awareness of that child's existence hovers at the edge of his consciousness. Once, he attempts to raise the subject with his mother.

‘That woman we saw in Parhams,' he begins diffidently, ‘do you remember, Mother? Do you know her?'

He sees the all-too-familiar expression – contempt, anger – take possession of her face as she stands at the kitchen table, kneading pastry. She looks neat and sensible in her well-cut tweed skirt with a green, thin wool jersey. She's taken off her rings and he picks one up – the diamond that his father has given her on their engagement – and turns it in his fingers, watching the jewel flash.

‘Your father knows her,' she says. ‘She's an actress. I met her once or twice in Bristol.'

‘But why was she here?' he asks.

His mother hesitates, lips compressed. ‘She came here hoping to see your father,' she answers. ‘They are very close friends. He spends time with them when he goes to Bristol. In fact he probably thinks more of them than he does of us.'

‘But why does he?' he asks anxiously.

She shrugs, pounding the pastry with the rolling pin, her hands white with flour; there is something almost violent in her actions.

‘I'm afraid to say that your father is not a particularly loyal person,' she answers at last.

Piers has a feeling that she is
not
afraid to say it; rather, he believes that she has
enjoyed
saying it, that the words have given her some kind of bitter pleasure. He decides after all that he doesn't want to hear any more; he puts down the ring and goes out into the garth, calling to Monty, and as he roams about he wonders if his father truly loves the woman and her child, and why he wants them when he has a family of his own. Perhaps he would rather have a daughter than a son; perhaps that other woman, the actress, smiles more than his mother – from what he can remember of her this might well be the case – and makes him laugh?

For a period of time he lives with two fears: the first that his father might leave them for the actress and her little girl; the second that something should happen to the actress that means that he brings the little girl to live with them. Being away at school helps to keep these fears at bay. However, quite soon after the scene following the cricket match, he is told that the Bristol office had been closed or sold – whatever the reason given it means that there are to be no more visits – and he is able to relax a little. His parents settle into a kind of truce: fewer icy silences on his mother's part but, despite his father's efforts, not much joy either.

One of the things that attracts him to Sue is her cheerfulness, her readiness to laugh, to share. Being in her company has the same effect as coming from a cold, wet night into a bright room with a blazing fire: full of life and warmth. She is irresistible, her energy sweeps him off his feet. His mother doesn't care for her much, but this isn't new. His mother, until then, manages to take the edge off any budding relationship; that curling lip and cool eye – ‘Must she wear her skirts quite so short? So common, apart from being quite disastrous with those legs,' or, ‘Is she capable of original thought, Piers? I suppose she
can
read?' – destroy his confidence and happiness so readily.

His father always stands up for him, which generally makes things worse: ‘I think she's rather a sweetie,' he says, or, ‘When you're eighteen you don't particularly want to take a Nobel prize winner to a party, Marina.'

The cool eyes rake him with contempt. ‘We all know in what direction your tastes lie, Felix. I'm hoping for something better for Piers.'

Once, suddenly angry, his father says: ‘Should you criticize my taste so freely, Marina? After all, I married
you
, didn't I?'

Humiliated, furious with both of them, Piers leaves them on the verge of a row and, until Sue, simply ceases to take his girlfriends home. After the Royal Agricultural College, he moves into the cottage at Porlock, glad to be on his own despite being away from Michaelgarth.

As the years pass his fears recede but his love for the old house increases and when, finally, he moves in with his young family it is one of the happiest moments of his life. Whenever he sees Michaelgarth standing like a landmark on the hill, as he drives through the archway into the garth or sits in silence in the old chapel, he feels an overwhelming sense of safety and belonging. It is his home. He knows it in all the seasons: washed in gold, its windows fiery as it reflects a blazing midsummer sunset; or with its grey stone walls sombre against the backdrop of a snowy hillside. He loves the peace of the square, elegant drawing-room on an autumn night, its heavy brocade curtains drawn against the roar of a north-easterly gale, logs settling in the grate, a sudden burst of flame casting fantastic shadows in the lamplight. This tranquil atmosphere contrasts satisfactorily with the busy untidiness of his study, with its window into the garth: that small crowded room where Joker likes to curl on an ancient, saggy sofa in a patch of sunshine whilst Piers, distracted from his desk, leafs through some long-forgotten book or listens to a recording of Miles Davis. Sometimes on these occasions he wonders what might happen if this half-sister should appear, demanding her share, forcing him to sell, and he is gripped with an icy dread. He tells himself that he has inherited the house from his mother's family, that Michaelgarth is his now, but he cannot quite quench his fear of losing it. Even so, he has never been able to confront his father, never had the courage to ask that one vital question.

Not until today after he'd met Lizzie Blake. As soon as their glances touched it was as if an empathy had flowed between them: they might have been old friends who'd been separated for years. There was a recognition that went far beyond that of having seen her before on the television. Immediately he'd wanted to speak to her, to be in her company: it was as if he'd fallen instantly in love. It was ludicrous that, after all these years, when his fear at last became living reality he'd been almost less concerned that she'd come back to claim his father's love or Michaelgarth than that he'd be unable to try to form some kind of friendship with her. This unexpected release from all these terrors equally swamped him with relief.

Piers slumped a little at the wheel. At last the waiting was over: the confrontation made, the explanations given. Now he wondered why he'd waited so long. What could have held him back except the fear of hearing an unpalatable truth? His father's story had touched him more deeply than he'd shown: despite his loyalty and love for his mother he knew all about the silence and the sense of isolation.

He could quite see the attraction of the Birdcage for his father, although he still wondered how much the knowledge of the affair had affected his mother. The jealousy and coldness had been there from the beginning, this was true, but how much more had his father's betrayal affected her? Piers shrugged the question aside. For the moment there should be no more recriminations. No doubt other questions would arise from time to time, other doubts, but at least, now that the wall of reserve had been broken down between them, he would be able to ask those questions, to fill in the gaps.

This acceptance of the situation allowed his thoughts to drift back to Lizzie: to remember how she'd looked and what she'd said.
I did rather hope that, after all this time, we might be friends.
Of course, he'd made a complete and utter ass of himself, behaved like an oaf and then walked out on her! He groaned a little, wondering what she was thinking, whether his father might explain the situation to her. Deep down he had the feeling that she wouldn't hold his behaviour against him: she'd looked too friendly, too much fun to cling to resentment.

Instinctively he made the connection: no doubt this was how Angel had seemed to his father after the frigid atmosphere of Michaelgarth. Well, he at least had no such constrictions and he fully intended to contact Lizzie as soon as possible. Perhaps she might have lunch with him? Relief continued to flood over him, lifting his spirits, as he drove into the garth, parked the car and went in to supper.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Gemma was the first to waken. Guy lay turned away from her, the sheet thrust down across his legs, and she drew her hand lightly over his brown back. He did not stir and she rolled over, her arms beneath her head, wondering how it was that her adventures with other men never diminished her need for Guy. Perhaps it was because she didn't fall in love with them: she assessed them physically, as one might appraise a partner for a dance or for a game of tennis, and their other qualities or failings were unimportant to her.

She smiled to herself as she reviewed the performance of her most recent partner, remembering how they'd met just before Sophie's marriage to Henry Corbett, whose family had farmed on Exmoor for generations. It had been fun, looking forward to being Sophie's matron of honour, meeting up again with another of their school-friends, Marianne, who was to be a bridesmaid. During school holidays, and even up until the time of Gemma's marriage to Guy, Marianne had regularly spent a few weeks each summer on Dartmoor, sharing her time between Gemma's family and Sophie's. Her boyfriend, Simon, was one of Henry's oldest friends.

‘It'll be great to be living near Marianne,' Sophie had said at the small thrash she'd thrown a month or so before the wedding. ‘And here's Simon who's going to be the best man. This is Gemma, Simon. You'll have to look after her but watch out for her husband, he's a jealous man.'

Simon, eyebrows raised appreciatively, had taken her outstretched hand. ‘And who shall blame him?' he'd asked. ‘Hello, Gemma.'

It was odd, she thought as she lay, warm and relaxed beside Guy, how she'd known straightaway that Simon was an adventurer like herself. They'd exchanged mobile numbers on the pretence of his keeping her in touch with the wedding arrangements and she'd seen him when he'd brought Marianne to a fitting in Exeter for their dresses and taken the three of them – for Sophie had been there too – out to a pub afterwards. All through lunch his glance had crossed hers, sliding away again quickly, and he'd touched her once or twice on the shoulder or the arm when passing her a glass: so exciting, those snatched moments, with Marianne sitting beside her, talking to Sophie about the great day and quite unaware of Simon's preoccupation.

How much more difficult on the day itself, with Guy in attendance, to exchange those tiny signals: much more difficult but even more thrilling because of the danger. Knowing that Guy was not at his best in social situations, that he had no ease of manner, no natural gregariousness, Sophie had paired him with Henry's sister, a straightforward young woman who was the junior partner of a lawyer's practice in Taunton, who'd had no difficulty in keeping him entertained. Gemma, seeing them in earnest conversation – arguing a point, forcefully exchanging ideas – had been pleased that he was so well looked after and had given her attention more fully to Simon.

Towards the end of the day he'd extracted her promise that she'd meet him for lunch: a promise she'd been very willing to make. His family owned a company that supplied agricultural machinery and he travelled all over the South-West, visiting farms and markets, so it had been quite easy to meet in out-of-the-way pubs once or twice, but soon Simon was pressing her to agree to a less public meeting. This trip had been a gift from the gods but, even so, it was very risky. Sophie could no longer be relied upon to cover for her as she'd done so often in the past. Once she'd chuckled at Gemma's escapades, admired and envied her attractive, charming friend, but ever since the birth of Gemma's twins, and especially now that she was a married woman herself, Sophie had suddenly become rather strait-laced and Gemma knew that she wouldn't approve of this little fling with Simon.

Frowning as she stared up at the ceiling, Gemma felt the chill touch of fear icing her skin.

‘Guy's a tad scary,' Sophie had observed. ‘I was crazy about him once, d'you remember, but I'm not sure I'd be able to cope with him when he has sense of humour failure. You have to be on your guard, don't you? I can't imagine how you get away with it, actually. You seem to be on a kind of permanent Tom Tiddler's ground with him.'

‘Oh, Guy's OK,' she'd answered lightly. ‘I know all the no-go zones.'

‘Sounds more like negotiations with a foreign power than a marriage.'

Sophie had laughed it off but Gemma knew exactly what she meant: there was a fastidiousness about Guy, which ruled out certain areas of behaviour. When Guy's puritanical streak was roused his face grew expressionless, his lids drooped almost menacingly over his eyes, and he withdrew behind a barrier of almost unapproachable austerity. As yet she'd always been able to break through that barrier, talk herself out of trouble, and, because her love for him was always in evidence, he'd been prepared to admit that he was over-ready to be judgemental.