The Birdcage (44 page)

CHAPTER FIFTY

As they travelled together into Dunster, Teresa's conversation was mostly about Tilda. Felix listened patiently, perfectly content with contributing very little to what was threatening to become a monologue, thinking about Lizzie. Deep down he feared that there was something more than a pre-arranged rehearsal behind her flight and he felt a very real sense of dread at the thought that he might not see her again. Surely, after this meeting, which had brought so much joy, he simply couldn't lose her again as once, so many years ago, he'd lost Angel? She'd hugged him tightly at the end of the party.

‘Oh, Felix,' she'd said, ‘don't you find all this utterly bizarre?'

He'd known exactly what she'd meant: that she should be here at Michaelgarth as a guest at Piers' birthday party, befriending his family, bringing with her those echoes from the past.

‘Bizarre,' he'd agreed, smiling down at her, ‘and wonderful,' and he'd seen the tears brimming in her brown eyes. ‘And thank God,' he'd added, ‘that Angel bequeathed me the birdcage, otherwise I might never have found you again.'

‘It was so many things all coming together that began it,' she'd sighed, ‘but the birdcage set me searching and then I found the card. Oh, Felix,' she'd looked suddenly distressed, her voice grew urgent, ‘I've been such a fool . . .'

Someone had interrupted at that point, wanting to say goodbye to Felix; Lizzie had drifted away and he hadn't seen her again. He swallowed in a dry throat, his hands clenching on his knees, remembering how he'd walked away from the Birdcage, nearly thirty-five years before, and never seen Angel again . . . To his surprise he realized that Teresa was still talking.

‘The trouble is, Felix, that mourning can become a
habit
, a kind of means to its own end, if you see what I mean. I've noticed that if it goes on too long, some mourners are able to delude themselves that grief lends a nobility to the extent that anything else is almost indecent . . . Well, nearly. Of
course
Tilda misses David – good grief, we all do – but I can't bear the thought of her wasting herself at Michaelgarth . . . Not that I don't think that it's wonderful of Piers to have offered her and Jake a home – it absolutely saved her life, I'm sure of it – but it would be so easy for her to sink back and not
bother
. After all it's nearly a year since David died and she's only twenty-six . . . Oh dear, Felix, I can hear myself sounding utterly heartless and it's not a bit like that, really. I adored David, and I can see that he'll be a difficult act to follow, but she needs to be able to move on . . .'

Concentrating on listening to her, interjecting encouraging noises here and there, he thought about his grandson with the usual pang of sadness and loss mixed with a sense of waste at his early death. From babyhood David had lived at top speed, as if he'd known that a great deal of living must be packed into a very short time. Felix hadn't seen much of him as a child – Sue had been too busy to accompany him on visits to his grandfather and Felix had always been morbidly conscious that he mustn't wear out his welcome at Michaelgarth – and, as a young man, it seemed that he'd never stopped still in the same place for more than five minutes together. He'd drop in at the flat from time to time, staying long enough to drink a cup of coffee or a glass of whisky before he'd be up and away again, calling farewells as he raced back down the stairs, waving up at his grandfather from the street below. Felix was always grateful for these visits, delighted to see the boy and to feel that energy revitalizing his own old bones, but he was careful not to make demands and, given the time David had spent at boarding school and then in the army, they'd never had the chance to become really close.

‘I have to say that I'm very fond of Saul,' Teresa was saying now, as they drove up The Steep, ‘and I think Tilda is too – fonder than she realizes – but one has to be so careful with the young. They tend to snap one's head off at the least thing . . . Now I shall come up with you, Felix. No, I insist. You're looking very tired and I shall feel more comfortable if I see you settled in your chair and resting before I leave you. I can just squeeze in here if you get out first.'

Felix, who had intended to pay a visit to the receptionist at the Luttrell Arms, decided to go along with her plan. He knew that she would question him and he had no intention of telling her that Lizzie had left neither address nor telephone number. Her kindness was rather a nuisance because now he would have to climb the stairs twice – and he felt alarmingly weary and his hip was hurting – but he eased himself out of the car and went to open his front door, waiting for her to lock up and join him.

The envelope was lying on the mat and she picked it up for him before preceding up the stairs. She looked round the sunny room approvingly, put down his case, which he'd forgotten, and suggested that she should make him a cup of coffee before she went on her way.

‘That's very kind of you,' he said firmly, ‘but I shall be fine now' – and then wondered guiltily if he should have offered her some kind of refreshment.

‘I must get on,' she was saying, ‘if you're absolutely certain there's nothing I can do. Get some rest, Felix; you look as if you could do with it. It was a good party, wasn't it? No, don't come out.'

She went down the stairs and, once he'd heard the front door close behind her, he sank back into his chair, grateful to be alone at last, closing his eyes for a moment. He dozed for a few moments and woke suddenly, realizing that he still held the card in his lap. His name was scrawled on the envelope and he opened it without curiosity, guessing it to be from someone in the town: an invitation or news of some forthcoming event.

He drew out the card with its black-and-white picture of the Yarn Market and stared at it for a moment before turning it over to read its message.

Shocked, he reread the words, his dazed brain fumbling towards an explanation. The only reasonable one was that Lizzie had put it through his door earlier that morning. Was this the card Lizzie had spoken of: the starting point for her journey to Dunster? Had she found it in a drawer, or between the pages of a book, and so begun to examine the past more closely? He remembered Piers' question – Why now? – and suspected that the card had been the real catalyst. But why had she left it for him, pushing it through his letterbox on her flight back to Bristol? Examining the black-and-white picture he saw that barrels were stacked inside the Yarn Market whilst a horse with a cart waited patiently beside it, but otherwise the village was remarkably unchanged.
No sign of F
.

Smiling now, touched by the poignancy of the card and its power to re-create the past, he imagined Angel writing it: dashing it off with that blend of wickedness and vulnerable hope that so characterized her. No, no sign of F, and her spirited attempt at adventure had brought the whole flimsy structure that supported their love crashing about their heads. The smile died from his face as, turning the card restlessly between his fingers, staring up at the birdcage, he relived the painful scene that followed.

‘I saw that woman today in Dunster,' says Marina. ‘That actress. She's your mistress, isn't she? She had a child with her. I suppose she isn't yours, by any chance?'

His heart thumps in his side as he stares at her disbelievingly. Angel and Lizzie in Dunster? It can't be true – yet, deep down he knows that it is: that Angel has made some daring, crazy move that threatens them all. Even as he prepares to answer her he sees the shadow beyond the half-open door and, with a vexed exclamation, he puts down his tumbler and moves swiftly across the room. He hears the footsteps running across the hall, out through the kitchen but by the time he reaches the scullery both Piers and Monty have disappeared.

He turns back into the kitchen, knowing it is no use to look for them, and finds Marina waiting for him. She is wearing a full-skirted summer frock with a square-cut neckline and big patch pockets, its waist clipped in with a wide, white belt; the light blue cotton is splashed with a pattern of cornflowers and it is pretty and fresh and cool-looking. Her hooded stare and crossed arms, however, are at variance with such a garment, and he is suddenly washed through with despair.

‘Piers was outside the door,' he explains. ‘I hope he didn't hear.'

Marina raises her eyebrows. ‘Isn't it a bit late to worry about that?'

‘I don't want to upset him,' he says – and she laughs.

‘I'm afraid that you should have thought of that before moving your mistress and her child into the village.'

‘I haven't done anything of the sort. If Angel and Lizzie are in Dunster then it's because they are on holiday somewhere nearby. It's not against the law to take a holiday on Exmoor, you know, but I promise you that I had nothing to do with it. I had no idea that they were anywhere near here.'

She watches him disdainfully, chin high. ‘But you don't deny that she is your mistress?'

‘No,' he admits, after a moment, ‘I don't deny it. I see her when I go to Bristol.'

He doesn't include Pidge or Lizzie in this statement: Marina would never understand how closely knit the lives of all four of them have become. Let her believe what she imagines to be the truth: that this is about lust and personal gratification. We are as big or small as the objects of our love – the phrase slips into his mind, though he can't remember its source, and all he can think at this moment is how small Marina's requirement to possess seems beside Angel's generosity.

‘And the child isn't yours?'

‘Of course not,' he cries impatiently. ‘For God's sake, she's nearly the same age as Piers.'

She is prepared to accept this but her eyes narrow thoughtfully.

‘So you don't know where she's staying?' He shakes his head. ‘A pity,' she muses. ‘It would have been an excellent opportunity for you to go and see her.' She lifts her eyebrows at his surprise. ‘In order to tell her that it's all over.' Felix remains silent. ‘Because if it isn't, Felix, I shall take steps to divorce you,' she explains. ‘And since this is my house, I should have to ask you to leave it at once. I should also make quite certain that you wouldn't be able to see Piers. I think you'd find it difficult to prove yourself a good example to a small boy once all the facts come to light.' She straightens her shoulders and uncrosses her arms, plunging her hands into the deep pockets of her frock. ‘So which is it to be?'

He feels diminished and humiliated: he wants to shout at her – or walk out – but there is Piers.

‘I can't leave Piers,' he says.

Her contemptuous smile indicates that she believes that he is a coward – that he is using his son as a front so as to maintain his position at Michaelgarth and his status locally – but she nods, satisfied.

‘You'll let me know once you've told her, won't you?' she asks.

‘I have no intention of scouring Dunster in the hope of finding her, if that's what you mean,' he retorts angrily. ‘She might be staying anywhere. I shall wait until after the weekend and then I'll telephone to see if she's back in Bristol.'

She shrugs. ‘Just let me know,' she reminds him, and goes out of the kitchen and upstairs, leaving him alone.

He stands quite still, thinking about Angel and Lizzie, wondering where they are, consumed with a longing to see them. He is furious with Angel, yet frustrated by the knowledge that she is near at hand but utterly out of his reach. For a brief moment he contemplates giving it all up – leaving Michaelgarth and his family and going to Bristol – but, even as he considers it, he is distracted by a noise: the frantic beating of a butterfly's wings against the window-pane as it struggles to gain the freedom of the open air. As he goes to its aid, opening the kitchen window wide and watching the butterfly soar out into the sunshine, he thinks for some reason of his father-in-law. He remembers the old man's goodness, his wisdom and generosity, and the love he had for Piers, and it seems as if David Frayn is standing beside him, his arm laid along his shoulder, instilling courage.

Felix sighs a deep, deep breath and goes out, crossing the garth, up on to the hill, to look for his son.

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

He stirred as if waking from a dream, stretching his legs and his shoulders, and finally got to his feet with an effort. Yet his memories accompanied him into the kitchen so that, as he spooned coffee into the mug and waited for the kettle to boil, his thoughts ran on, unreeling steadily from scene to scene. He carried his coffee back to his seat beside the window, sipping slowly, holding the card again and rereading the message; remembering his meeting with Angel at the Birdcage.

‘Why?' he asks, holding her by the shoulders, giving her a little shake. ‘Didn't it occur to you that it might ruin everything?'

She abandons her instinctive approach – the penitent but mischievous look that has got her out of so many scrapes – and stares up at him.

‘I just needed to
do
something,' she says soberly. ‘When you wrote saying that you couldn't come I simply had this feeling that it was over anyway.'

‘But why should you think that? I haven't changed.' His hands drop away. ‘Have you?'

‘Of course not,' she answers impatiently. ‘Would I have come down to Dunster if I'd changed? It's simply that time is running out, Felix. My contract here is finished although I hope to come back for another season in a year or so. I suppose I thought it might force us into some kind of action.'