The Birdcage (5 page)

‘Although, to be honest,' says Marina later, as they sit beside the fire and she pours the tea, ‘she's getting too old to do anything thoroughly. I wonder if we should get someone younger, though I shall be able to do so much more myself now.'

Sitting on the leather pouffe, managing his plate with difficulty, Piers licks the crumbs anxiously from his fingers. He is distracted from the pleasurable feel of Monty's heavy head on his feet and the way he raises it occasionally to lick Piers' knee. Mrs P would be very hurt if she knew that she was too old to do her work properly.

‘Can't get rid of Mrs P,' says Grandfather, drinking his tea. ‘She's been coming up to Michaelgarth since I can't remember when. Hurt her feelings, poor old duck.'

‘She might be relieved,' suggests Marina. ‘Perhaps she'd like the chance to take it easy.'

‘No-one likes to be told that they're too old. Mind you, she must be getting on a bit.'

‘She's as old as her tongue and a little older than her teeth,' offers Piers.

Marina looks at him with exasperation; his face is smeared with icing but he smiles at her contentedly: the chocolate cake is excellent. She melts with love for him but doesn't let him see it; he mustn't be spoiled.

‘Do you have a handkerchief?' she asks, hardening her heart as she watches his smile fade into anxiety as he rootles in the pocket of his shorts.

‘Here it is,' he cries, pulling it out triumphantly, but even as he flourishes it the chocolate stick falls to the carpet and he gives a little gasp, his teeth sinking into his lower lip, his cheeks bright as poppies.

‘What is it?' She stretches across to pick up the chocolate, frowning. ‘Who gave you this?'

‘Nobody. I bought it,' says Piers, his heart bumping in his side.

‘Nonsense,' replies Marina. Her face is cold, disdainful at what she perceives to be a lie. She remembers that he dawdled behind her at the post office whilst she was talking to a friend outside on the pavement. Can he have taken it? ‘Tell me the truth at once, Piers,' she insists.

‘Good gracious!' exclaims her father, who has seen the chocolate just too late. ‘What's all the fuss about?
I
gave it to him.'

All three of them know that this is a lie and there is an uncomfortable silence: the happy tea-time atmosphere is dissipating and David Frayn heaves himself forward on to the edge of his chair.

‘That was very good cake,' he says cheerfully, as if nothing has happened. ‘And now, young man, it's time you got your revenge on the snakes and ladders board. Since you've got that nice handkerchief, why don't you use it? Come on, let me help you . . .'

They go away together, followed closely by Monty, into David's study next to the drawing-room, and Marina is left alone on the long sofa before the fire. The windows face north and west and the room is washed with a golden light, which glances off the silver teapot and shows the crumbs scattered on Piers' plate. She feels frustrated by her father's action and disapproves of the way he sprang to Piers' defence. It is the sort of thing that sets a bad example, but she can guess the truth of it. Felix has been irresponsible: giving Piers money without her knowing. She sits in the firelight as the sunset glow fades, thinking of Felix, waiting for him to come home.

CHAPTER THREE

He is slightly later than usual, suspecting that there is to be a scene about Helen Cartwright, taking his time on the journey from Minehead. It feels odd, turning off at Headon Cross rather than driving on towards Porlock to the cottage on the old toll road where he and Marina have lived since they were first married. It is Marina's idea, backed strongly by her mother, that they should start their married life in the cottage, which is part of the Michaelgarth estate. Even when they are engaged, Marina will never go to his small flat in Dunster.

‘Mummy would have a fit,' she tells him. ‘After all, it's so public, isn't it?'

‘Does it matter?' he asks. ‘We're getting married in a few months' time. Who cares if people talk? I'm only suggesting that we have a cup of tea together.'

She is so set against it that he wonders if she thinks she will find evidence of former entanglements: she wants no part in anything that has had a role in his bachelor state. He is sometimes hurt – and occasionally irritated – by her refusal to share his former life but he tells himself that she is unconfident and that she needs time.

She is such a pretty girl, with delicate features and fine dark hair, rather self-effacing and painfully shy. Despite this shyness, however, there is no question of her wanting him: from the beginning, when her father introduces them, she quietly but determinedly annexes him away from other girls. He finds it flattering, rather amusing, and is intrigued by her silent intensity. Having discovered that she is in love with him he begins to love her, encouraging her confidence in him to grow, gently drawing her out. As the months pass, he feels certain that, once they are married, she'll relax into an easiness with him and later, taken by surprise – and gratified – by her physical passion, he waits for other expressions of her affection. He longs for loving warmth, an unexpected hug from her, or to hear her say ‘I love you' but, seven years on, accusations and jealous silences have been the only evidence of how much she needs him: cold comfort for a warm-hearted man.

He parks his car beside his father-in-law's Morris and stands for a moment on the cobbles wishing that he was climbing the stairs to his little flat in Dunster: no stress in that first-floor room overlooking the High Street; no anxiety that an unconsidered word might shiver the atmosphere to ice. As he looks up at the tall windows of the hall, light shines out from the landing of the east wing, casting long shadows across the garth. Piers will be going to bed, hoping for a story, and David will be waiting to offer him a drink. His spirits rise and, pausing to pluck a late-flowering rose from its stem against the wall, he goes inside.

Leaving his briefcase and the rosebud on the kitchen table, he goes into the hall and climbs the staircase at the eastern end. He can hear voices from the bathroom and there, through the open door, is Piers in his pyjamas, his toes curling away from the cold lino, his damp hair standing on end. All he can see of Marina is her hands, now buttoning his jacket, now brushing his hair whilst Piers winces away, his face puckered.

‘That's too hard,' he complains. ‘I won't have any hair left if you go on, Mummy. I'll look just like Mrs P.'

‘I won't tell you again, Piers.' Marina's voice is edgy. ‘It's very disrespectful for a little boy of your age—'

Felix pushes the door wider, cutting her short, and Piers cries out, ‘It's Daddy.'

‘Hello, darling.' He leans to touch Marina's forehead with his lips before lifting Piers high up, swinging him round, whilst he screams with delight. ‘Come on, old son. It's time for our story. Bet you can't remember where we'd got to.'

He bears him off along the landing whilst Piers protests that he
can
remember, of
course
he can, and Marina gets to her feet and folds the bath-towel, retrieves the celluloid duck and the clockwork steamer, and lets the water run away. By the time she arrives in the bedroom Piers is half in bed, half cuddled up to Felix, listening to Chapter Three of
The Wind in the Willows.
Felix's ability to be naturally affectionate embarrasses her and she shows by a little frowning glance that she disapproves of this abandonment. Piers should be sitting properly in bed, with Felix beside him on the chair, and she pulls at the blankets in an attempt to dislodge Piers, to tidy him into the bed and Felix on to the chair. Piers frowns at her and clings tighter to Felix, who hugs him, gives him a kiss, and she shrugs, says ‘Goodnight' to Piers and goes downstairs.

Piers is glad to see her go. He still feels uncomfortable about the chocolate and Grandfather telling a lie but doesn't know how to begin to explain. He becomes engrossed in the story and presently forgets all about the chocolate; soon he drifts into sleep and Felix lays him gently down, covering him warmly.

Felix goes quietly downstairs, hesitates in the hall but decides that he mustn't take refuge with his father-in-law: not just yet. He can hear noises in the kitchen and goes to find Marina.

‘He's asleep,' he says. ‘Dear old chap. Ready for a drink?'

‘That means that you are,' she answers, putting potatoes into a dish and slipping them into the oven. ‘You're so late that I assumed that you'd stopped off to have one on the way home.'

‘Am I late?' He makes his voice casually surprised. ‘I don't think so. Look, isn't that pretty?'

He offers her the rose and she takes it, rather nonplussed but jolted for a moment out of her grievance with him. She'd planned it differently: she was going to be welcoming and make some light remark about Helen Cartwright, but in that half an hour of waiting she'd already imagined him in a pub somewhere, joking with friends, flirting with the barmaid. She thinks of him standing with Helen Cartwright, laughing in the sunshine. Now, as she looks at the tightly furled bud, smoothing it with her finger, he watches her anxiously, willing her away from suspicion towards trust.

‘I've been thinking,' he says, ‘that you might come to Bristol with me this weekend.'

She hates his monthly visits to the Bristol office and, during those early years before Piers was born, he persuaded her to accompany him to Bristol, staying with him in the flat owned by the company above the office in Clifton. He hoped that, by introducing her to his colleagues and their wives, by showing her that these two days are not passed in riotous living and parties, she would be reassured. Once Piers was born, however, these visits tailed off and a new resentment – that motherhood is a ploy that she has been tricked into – began to develop.

‘I suppose you have to go?' She raises the bud to her lips, inhaling its faint scent. ‘After all, we've only just moved in here and there's so much to do.'

‘You know I have to go to the partners' meetings,' he says gently. ‘Come with me, Marina. You used to enjoy it, didn't you? Piers will be perfectly safe with your father for two nights and he's at school for most of the day. Perhaps Mrs Penn would stay over. We could go to the Old Vic or to the Hippodrome. I wish you would.'

He watches her smooth the velvet petals, wanting to accept yet unable to give in, and sees the exact moment when she rejects the gentler powers of loving reason for the destructive need to punish and destroy.

‘I can't possibly go,' she says impatiently, as if he has demanded some enormous sacrifice, fiddling with the bud. ‘There's still a huge amount of unpacking to be done here, even if I could just go off leaving Piers with his grandfather.' She gives a little disdainful smile as if to imply that only he would make such a selfish suggestion. ‘If you want company perhaps you should ask Helen Cartwright. I'm sure she'd be only too pleased to go with you and from the way you were all over her earlier, I'm sure you'd like it too.'

He stares at her for a moment, swallowing down furious words, and then goes away to find David in his study. Marina stands quite still, biting her lips, shredding and rolling the rosebud to and fro between her thumb and fingers until finally she throws it away in disgust and turns on the tap to wash her hands.

It is David who makes peace possible between them and helps Felix to persuade Marina to go to Bristol. As soon as he comes into the study, David Frayn sees the angry set of Felix's mouth, the distraction in his eyes, and guesses that there is trouble. Knowing Marina, remembering his conversation with Piers, he suspects that it will be to do with Helen Cartwright. Pouring Felix a whisky he feels a bond of sympathy: he knows what it is like to live on a knife-edge, to crave for normal loving companionship.

These poor women, he thinks, trapped into bitterness and misery, unable to seize a lifeline. But I mustn't interfere . . .

He talks to Felix about his day, about his own morning in court – he is a JP and sits on the local magistrates' bench each week – they discuss the local farmers, land that is for sale, property that is being developed, and all the while his kindly eyes note the signs of relaxation: the unforced smile, the easing of his shoulders as Felix stretches his legs towards the fire. It's a comfortably untidy room, the oak shelves holding not only leather-backed books but also the clutter of the old man's shooting paraphernalia; on a sagging sofa, covered by a faded rug, Monty curls, dry and warm, his eyes glinting in the firelight.

David sighs contentedly as he fills his pipe; if Marina's mother were still alive he'd now be hauled off to remove his disreputable old tweed and told to tidy himself up. It's been years since he's changed into black tie for dinner at Michaelgarth – the war put a stop to all that sort of thing – but Eleanor insisted on maintaining standards. He wonders if Marina shares her mother's liking for formality but a glance at his son-in-law's firm chin and the set of his lips makes him suspect that Felix can only be pushed so far. He wonders if Marina has mentioned the matter of the chocolate. Perhaps that is what the trouble is all about.

‘Good little fellow, that chap of yours,' he begins carefully. ‘Thoughtful. Brought me home some chocolate this afternoon. His mother couldn't think where he got it.'

Felix seems unmoved; he even smiles. ‘I should have thought he'd have had the sense not to have shown her,' he says. ‘He's only allowed sweets at the weekend but I found a few pennies in my pocket and gave them to him as a half-term treat. Perhaps it was wrong of me. Marina will think I'm undermining her authority.'