The Birdcage

All through that summer Marina too is aware of a change in Felix. Her naturally suspicious temperament suggests the obvious reason for it but she is unable to find any proof. He is rarely late home, he makes no excuses so as to stay away, there is no evidence that she can find – and she looks, hating herself but unable to resist; searching in his pockets, smelling his clothes and examining them for traces of lipstick – and even when they go out together she cannot really fault his behaviour except in the usual way: that he is too friendly with other women. It is as if he has, in some indefinable way, moved beyond her reach and yet he still makes every effort to show that he cares for her. He is not indifferent to her moods but now it’s as if he feels compassion for her, as if – she flinches away from the idea – as if he pities her.

It is no longer in her power to flick him on the raw with stinging comments regarding his flirtatious friendliness; he no longer jumps to defend himself or turns angrily away. It is impossible to wound or shame him into acts of penitence; he seems unmoved by the icy silences. Once he would have cajoled her back to warmth with little offerings: a cup of tea, the removal of Piers so as to give her some peace, a little posy of flowers beside her plate. She’s never considered the ready hugs or kisses to be a sign of love: these are merely evidence of his weak, licentious nature. Yet, because he no longer reacts to her jealousy, she is no longer able to reach those heights of remorse that once drove her into his arms in acts of almost violent reparation. Now, love-making must either be the result of those very hugs and kisses that she despises as weakness – or she must initiate the act herself without the necessary overture of guilt that has hitherto smothered the embarrassment and humiliation of showing that she wants him.

She stands at her bedroom window staring into soft dense cloud through which thick fingers of gold stab and probe the land below. The sea-borne mist parts for a moment to reveal a patch of sky, the colour of blue cotton, and the curve of a rainbow which trembles and flashes above Bossington Hill. On the drive, which winds up from the lane, two figures are climbing towards the house hand in hand: her father uses his walking stick to help him onwards and even Piers looks weary, not hopping and skipping as he usually does. Only Monty races ahead, fresh and excited as when they all set out, darting away from the path, dashing back, his tail wagging madly with anticipation. They pause: her father’s arm shoots out to indicate something in the furze. It might be a stone-chat or a rabbit – Marina shrugs, amused – whatever it is Piers will be full of it later, passionate about this corner of Exmoor just as her brother, Peter, was in those idyllic years before the war. How Piers loves these explorations with his grandfather: walks over the heathery slopes of Dunkery or down in Horner Wood; the sighting of a tiny dappled fawn curled in a nest of rusty bracken or a dipper bobbing on a smooth grey boulder down on Horner Water. Her father has taught him to keep a nature book and he carefully labours at making a record of the year’s passing, starting with the early snowdrops in the woods near Cutcombe and finishing with a sprig of bell-heather still blooming on Porlock Common in December.

The figures resume their climb, looking forward no doubt to some tea, and Marina turns away from the window, picks up a cardigan and goes downstairs. It is too damp to have tea in the garth and, even though it is July, the sitting-room feels cold and chill. Marina is persuaded to have tea in the kitchen, which is always warm because of the solid-fuel range, and as she pours Piers’ milk she listens to their duet describing the walk. Monty stretches himself comfortably on his old rug beneath the window, which looks south into the garth, one eye fixed hopefully on the floor beneath Piers’ chair. Sometimes there are accidents – once, half of a scone dropped face downwards on the flags – and he holds himself ready for a quick dash.

He wonders if he sounds rather too enthusiastic and takes a sip of his tea. David Frayn is on the horns of a dilemma: he is unhappy at the idea of Felix being unfaithful to Marina yet there is an even tenor these days in their relationship – not quite contented tranquillity, nor yet detached indifference – that creates a better atmosphere than Marina’s icy silences and ill-concealed criticism countered by repressed irritation and long-suffering on Felix’s side. Part of David is unwilling to upset the status quo; part fears what might happen if Marina discovers an affair. He is convinced that, if his son-in-law is having an affair, then it is happening in Bristol and he believes that Marina’s regular presence on those monthly visits would quite naturally put an end to it. At least the idea is hers, this time; he has not persuaded her into it. Why then does he feel so full of fear?

Felix is shocked at how much he minds losing his few precious hours at the Birdcage with Angel and the others. To his surprise Marina has never questioned his departure after tea on Sunday afternoons, never asked why he can’t leave later in the evening or even – in the summer months – very early on Monday morning. She accepts his casual murmurings of arriving in time for a chat over a drink with Tom in order to catch up with things and to discuss the partners’ meeting on the following Monday morning. Marina thinks – he allows her to think – that these chats take place at Tom and Molly’s house in Caledonia Place, not far from the offices in Portland Street, and her antennae, usually so keen, have completely let her down in this respect. The chats do take place – but are kept fairly short and are generally conducted at the end of a telephone.

He’s been planning to drop in for a short while, drink Molly’s health and then quietly disappear; now he hopes that Marina will be dissuaded from her trip. She is ill at ease socially and has never been able to achieve the easy comradeship with her own sex that might have brought comfort and relief, but Molly’s natural sweetness of character and down-to-earth warmth have made her one of the few women with whom Marina has any kind of rapport.

‘Well, I expect we’ll manage,’ she says now, to his surprise and frustration. ‘It might be quite fun although their friends are all very Bohemian, aren’t they? They’ve always read the newest books and seen the latest films, and I always feel like a country mouse, but I suppose we needn’t stay too long.’

Only David, coming out of his study, sees his expression as he pauses for a moment in the hall, realizing that he won’t see Angel now until the end of September. He stands with his hands in his pockets, head lowered, biting his lip, before he crosses the hall and runs lightly up the stairs. David moves out of the shadows and stares after him, his sense of anxiety increasing.