The Birdcage (47 page)

‘He'll come here, of course.' Tilda rolled the ball for Lion and sat down beside Piers. ‘He won't be able to manage in the flat, will he?'

She looked away from the trestle tables and the barbecue, still standing witness to last night's party. So much had happened since Saul had stood there, cooking sausages, laughing with their friends, and she was still shocked and oddly disorientated. She'd received a text message from him earlier which read: ‘Back safely, thanks for the weekend' – and she was wondering how she should respond to it.

‘No, he won't be going back to the flat.' Piers set down the glass. ‘That will be a difficult one for him, I'm afraid, but I hope he'll see how impossible it would be. He'll need looking after for a while.'

‘I was thinking about it,' said Tilda. ‘I've had plenty of time today for thinking. I know that we've made the dining-room a place for me and Jake but we don't use it all that often. It would make a good bedroom for Felix, until he can cope with the stairs again, and the cloakroom is just across the passage. And if you took those cupboards out of the scullery there would be room for a shower unit.'

He smiled at her, grateful that she was not seeing Felix's impending arrival as a nuisance.

‘That's a very good idea. I'd been trying to work it through, trying to decide where he'd be happiest. Of course, if he recovers quickly, he'll be able to use the stairs and I know that he'd prefer that. I don't want him to feel that he's a burden. I hope he'll think that he can make his home here but we must wait and see.' He gave a little chuckle. ‘Four generations of Hamiltons at Michaelgarth; it's rather a nice thought. At the same time I don't want you becoming a kind of nurse – after all, you've got Jake to look after – so I've decided to ask Jenny Coleman to come in on a regular basis, if you're happy with that idea?'

‘I think that's sensible. I'm very happy to muck in, you know I'll do whatever I can, but I was thinking . . .' She hesitated. ‘I'm wondering if the time's come for me to get about a bit more.'

He glanced at her, took another sip of whisky, and wrenched his mind away from his father's needs.

‘Well, that sounds pretty good to me. How do you define “getting about” exactly?'

She sat back in her chair, winding her hair up with her hands, twisting it into a rope and letting it fall again, seeking some kind of explanation that would not necessarily involve David. He saw her almost begin to speak, and then reject the words, and was seized with compassion for her.

‘Am I right in thinking,' he began carefully, ‘that there was some problem this morning? I understand that Marianne turned up and then Saul left in a bit of a rush. I don't want to interfere but I can see that something happened to upset you.'

Tilda drew her heels up onto the chair seat, wrapped her arms round her knees and decided that she should tell him the truth.

‘It's really about David,' she began anxiously, rather as if she were warning him.

‘Yes,' answered David's father drily. ‘I had a feeling it might be.'

‘It's probably silly of me,' she began rapidly, ‘and I know I got a bit OTT about it but Marianne came over with a story about Gemma and then let slip that she'd had a bit of a fling with David. Gemma, that is, not Marianne.' She was rushing on, almost gabbling, needing him to have the facts quickly. ‘It was before we were engaged but, even so, I felt really horrid about it. It was when he was staying with Saul on leave and I felt that Saul should have told me about it. I can see now that it was unreasonable but I was shocked and hurt, and Saul and I had a row about it. I asked him to go and he said that he wasn't going to be David's scapegoat and that it was time that I saw him, Saul, as a person in his own right.'

‘That sounds perfectly reasonable,' said Piers, when it seemed that Tilda had finished. ‘Saul's a young man with his own life ahead and he's getting tired of waiting to know how you feel about him. After all, it's very clear how he feels about
you.'

Tilda stared at him. ‘But I don't
know
how I feel about him,' she said rather tremulously. ‘I missed him terribly after he'd stormed off and I suddenly saw how much I'd miss him if he weren't around. But I don't know if that's just because I've sort of got used to him being there.' She swallowed, pressing her lips together. ‘It's not that I don't love David . . .'

‘My dear girl.' Piers stretched a hand across the table and gripped her arm. ‘There's no question in anyone's mind about how much you love David, let's get that straight, but no-one expects you to make a career out of widowhood.
I
certainly don't. Sudden death numbs us, the shock cripples us, and it takes time for the life to flow back. I've never imagined that you and Jake would stay here for the rest of your lives. Michaelgarth is your home for whenever you need it, and it's Jake's inheritance, but you must look upon it as a base not as a commitment.'

‘I miss my friends and army life,' she admitted, staring straight ahead, her chin on her knees. ‘But each time I've been back, I've felt like a kind of intruder. They all feel badly about David and it's like I told you before, being a young widow is bad news. It's like they feel it's a contagion they might catch and, let's face it, their lives are chancy enough without that kind of superstitious fear each time they see me.'

‘Then break the Gordian knot. Next time you go up for some party or a ladies' night or whatever, I suggest that, instead of staying with one of these married friends, you let Saul put you up in a hotel. Go and see
him
and stay with
him
and see how you feel then. As soon as Jake is old enough, leave him here with me and Jenny Coleman and give yourself the chance to be with Saul – not as David's widow or Jake's mum but as you, Tilda.'

‘It's not that I don't love it here too,' she said quickly. ‘You know I adore it here with you at Michaelgarth. I feel that we belong here too, me and Jake. Oh God, I feel so confused!'

‘My poor Tilda.' Piers shook his head. ‘This doesn't have to be some kind of contest for your affection: Saul or David. Michaelgarth or Aldershot. Love is not a finite commodity, there's enough for everyone. Stop fretting and move on. I know what David would say. “Go for it, love,” he'd say. “Life's too short.”'

She turned to look at him, then, her eyes shining. ‘I've been telling myself that,' she admitted. ‘Oh, Piers, it's just that it's difficult to know my own feelings. Lizzie's idea about the little craft centre in the barn was such a good one.'

‘It will still be a good one in five years' time, or ten. Give yourself some space, Tilda. Michaelgarth's not going anywhere and neither am I.'

She uncurled herself and stood up. ‘Thanks, Piers. You've been great.' She grinned at him. ‘We'll have some supper soon, say, half an hour, but first I need to make a phone call.'

He watched her go, smiling to himself, and then took the postcard from his back pocket and studied it.

He turned it in his hand, remembering the scene in Parhams, hearing other voices.

He realized that, like Tilda, he no longer needed to feel that there was a contest for his affections: he did not have to choose between his mother's possessive love or his father's generosity of spirit but could accept them both. He was free at last. He scooped up Lion, who was lying at his feet on the cobbles busily chewing at the laces on his dekkies, and submitted to having his face licked.

‘You'd better come with me,' he murmured. ‘You can explore the study and get acquainted with the shades of your ancestors. I have a letter to write.'

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

After several false starts and screwed-up sheets of writing paper, Piers managed to compose a letter with which he was fairly satisfied. Because he didn't want Lizzie to feel embarrassed he began by offering all kinds of reasons for her sudden departure, excuses for her hurrying away without leaving any means of communication, but this began to be so complicated that it finished up by reading as a veiled condemnation. In the end he decided to play it straight.

He read it through critically but, before any more misgivings could persuade him to destroy it and begin yet again, Tilda put her head round the door.

‘Supper's ready,' she said. ‘Or is it a bad moment?'

He smiled at her, folding the sheet of paper in half and pushing it into the envelope.

‘A very good moment,' he answered and looked at her again, more closely. She blushed rosily, failing utterly in her attempt to look casual, and his eyebrows rose in that familiar facial shrug. ‘Looks like you've had rather a good moment yourself.'

She grinned. ‘I've just been talking to Saul,' she said airily, shrugging a little. ‘Making a few plans. You know?'

‘Oh, yes,' he said feelingly. ‘I know.'

‘Look at Lion,' she said, still feeling shy, trying to distract him. ‘He's recycling your waste paper.'

Lion lay on the hearthrug, surrounded by tiny shreds of the rejected letters and thoroughly enjoying himself, whilst Piers watched him, thinking of other dogs, hearing his grandfather's voice:
What's up? Where's the fire?

Tilda slipped an arm through his, touched by the expression on his face, feeling a huge affection for him.

‘Supper,' she reminded him – and he nodded and they went out together, with Lion trailing them, across the hall and into the kitchen.

Lizzie picked up her letters from the small table in the lower hall and climbed the stairs wearily, sorting through the envelopes as she went. Nothing from Sam, but she was hardly expecting a letter from him. He'd left a text message earlier in the week: ‘I'm sure you're right. I shall miss you like hell.' Now it was all down to the lawyers. She puzzled over the envelope with the unfamiliar handwriting and peered at the postmark – Dunster!

Slamming the front door behind her, dropping her case, she went into the big room, ripping open the envelope. Her eyes raced across the written lines, her hand clenched unconsciously against her heart; relief and gratitude showed themselves on her face – and then it reflected the sudden shock.

‘Oh, no!' she murmured. ‘Oh God! Poor Felix.'

Lizzie sat down at the table, staring at nothing, small scenes playing before her inner eye. Even now she wasn't quite certain what impulse had driven her to leave the postcard with Felix, thrusting it through his letterbox on her flight to Bristol. She'd taken it with her to Dunster as a kind of talisman and now it seemed, after all, that there had been a further part for it to play in this odd drama. Lizzie read the letter again, hearing Piers' voice through the words, wishing that she could be there with them at Michaelgarth.

She knew that before she could see any of them again, however, they needed to know the truth. Although she stared at the carefully printed telephone numbers for several moments she simply couldn't bring herself to ring him: how would she begin? What would she say? Much easier – if more cowardly – to write to him, explaining her own situation. Once he knew the truth he could decide if she would still be welcome. Thinking anxiously about Felix, frightened lest she should lose her nerve, she went to Pidge's bureau and found some writing paper. Back at the table she sat down, thinking furiously. Presently she began to scribble.