The Birdcage

After the puddings had been carried out into the garth, Tilda remained on her own in the kitchen. Lizzie went away upstairs on some pretext or other and Tilda made no attempt to stop her, understanding that the occasion must be rather overwhelming to a virtual stranger. It was odd though, reflected Tilda, that Lizzie wasn’t in the least like a stranger as far as she was concerned, but seemed more like some relative returned after a long break away from home. Perhaps it was all that moving around – continually adapting to new productions, new casts, new digs – that kept her flexible, reminding Tilda of the women she knew who’d been brought up in military families. They, like Lizzie, tended to be at ease in any company, ready to adjust to unexpected circumstances.

Tilda began to prepare an assortment of cups and mugs for coffee, one ear cocked automatically for Jake-noises, remembering other celebrations here at Michaelgarth: David’s twenty-first birthday, their engagement party, Piers’ annual midsummer bash. Seeing Piers with the puppy had reminded her of Joker’s arrival fifteen years before, when she and David were respectively eleven and twelve years old. She had a photograph of David holding the puppy and laughing, whilst she stood beside him beaming into the camera. Blinking away her tears, imagining David beside her, saying, ‘Turn off the taps, love. Life’s too short,’ she began to spoon coffee into the cups on a second tray.

Those tiny darts of fear that Alison planted with such painful precision had been drawn out and neutralized by Piers himself. Tilda knew that she’d overstepped the line with Alison earlier, but it had been made clear by his public acceptance of the puppy that Alison’s feelings were not his paramount consideration. Her insinuations that Piers was hoping that she and Jake might be ready to begin new lives together away from Michaelgarth had undermined Tilda’s security, but it was the conversation at tea-time that had truly restored her confidence.

She and Piers had often discussed her plans for the future, but nothing had suggested itself that tied her so completely to Michaelgarth as Lizzie’s plans for a small craft centre. She’d been thrilled by the idea and deeply relieved to see that Piers had shown no hesitation in going along with it. Just before the party had really begun he’d paused beside her, touching his glass to hers. ‘Here’s to our new project,’ he’d said – and she’d felt an overwhelming relief and gratitude. Then the puppy had arrived and, watching him holding it, she’d remembered David and the whole way of life that she’d lost along with him and she’d been obliged to shed a few tears on Lizzie’s shoulder. It was odd how quickly she’d bonded with Lizzie, and suspected that it was something to do with their both being recently made widows. Just now, for instance, when she’d spotted Lizzie sitting in the dark corner of the garth, wiping away her tears, she’d guessed that Lizzie was experiencing that terrible isolation of someone who’d lost not only their partner but their best friend.

Oh, the pain of it. Tilda bit her lip as she waited for the kettle to boil. ‘Get a grip,’ David would have advised – he’d never been particularly sympathetic in emotional crises – and she smiled waveringly to herself as she attempted to follow his advice. Footsteps could be heard passing through the scullery and instinctively she straightened her shoulders, her back to the door, practising a brighter smile.

‘Perfect.’ Teresa perched on the edge of the table. ‘Piers is going to call him Lionheart. Lion for short. Isn’t that nice? Where’s Miss Blake disappeared to? I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw her. You might have warned me, Tilda. I understand she’s an old friend of the family?’

‘I wanted it to be a surprise.’ Tilda lifted the heavy kettle from the hotplate. ‘She’s so nice, isn’t she? I think she’s more Felix’s friend, actually, or at least her mother was. She was the actress Angelica Blake but she’s dead now, and Lizzie’s just lost her husband, so she and I have a sort of sympathy for one another.’

She followed Teresa through the scullery and out into the garth. Piers was talking to a group of friends, eating a helping of one of Jenny’s delicious puddings, whilst Felix sat peacefully, the puppy curled on his knees. The Hoopers and Alison stood a little apart, wearing wary and discontented expressions, but there was no sign of Lizzie.

Alison, flanked by the Hoopers, watched Piers with helpless frustration. Quite early on in the evening she’d begun to realize that the presence of her brother and sister-in-law might not be the advantage she’d first imagined; but now she was frankly resenting them. When she’d finally accepted the fact that Piers was not going to ask her to co-host the party with him she’d nevertheless expected to be given some kind of special role. As the days passed and no such suggestion had been forthcoming she’d been both hurt and angry, and her insistence that the Hoopers should be invited as a return in kind for their hospitality had been, as much as anything, a testing of her own power. However hard she pretended or wished it were otherwise, they were not part of Piers’ inner circle and she’d felt a sense of triumph when he’d agreed – although with obvious reluctance – to invite them. She’d silenced an inner murmuring that she’d been over-pushy by reminding herself that it was the least he could do; Margaret, after all, was her sister-in-law, and she and Geoffrey had been very ready to welcome Piers to both family and social events during the last six months. The fact that he’d accepted only one of these invitations was neither here nor there and she was determined that he should be seen to repay their kindness.

Now, feeling irritated by their close attendance, she saw that, without them, she might have had much more opportunity to remain near Piers. She could have insinuated herself into his company, shown herself publicly to be important to him simply by refusing to be detached from his side. As it was, it had been natural for Piers to behave as if she were part of the Hoopers’ little family group rather than his special friend, and their watchful ubiquity, which she had at first encouraged, had made it possible for her to be shunted off into their care without it looking odd or rude. In fact it might easily appear to Piers’ friends that she had been invited out of a misplaced kindness, with the Hoopers tacked on so as to keep her company.

Alison seethed with impotent fury. Her skirt, finally chosen as the most flattering of her summer garments, was slightly too small, and its polyester content ensured that during the early part of the evening it was unpleasantly sweaty whilst now, in the cool evening breeze, it was clinging clammily at each contact point. She moved restlessly, trying to ease it away from her skin, and Margaret glanced at her with a kind of pitying affection.

Alison squirmed with mortification. It seemed impossible that she’d once imagined that Margaret’s partisanship might be an advantage in her struggle with Tilda for first place in Piers’ affections. She saw now how foolish she’d been to imagine them as a foursome – she and Piers, Geoffrey and Margaret – at the centre of the party. She’d assumed that his invitation to bring her present for him so that it could be opened privately, just the two of them together, meant that she would be at his side when the guests arrived; instead the wretched actress and Piers’ senile old father had moved into action and stolen the show, Felix introducing whatever-she-was-called Blake to newcomers as though she were someone truly famous whilst she, Alison, stood by, completely ignored.

To be fair it had been a relief then to see Margaret and Geoffrey; to stand looking on, agreeing with them that it was all rather silly – although it had been necessary for Margaret to be firm with Geoffrey when he’d suddenly recognized Miss Blake from some advertisement and wanted to be introduced to her. She’d made no attempt to monopolize Piers, chatting to his friends as if she’d known them all her life, but it was clear that she’d been told about the puppy.

Alison stared angrily at the offending object, curled up on Felix’s knees. Its unexpected arrival had been a huge shock, a direct challenge as far as she was concerned, as though Tilda had flung down the gauntlet as publicly as was possible. Even worse was Piers’ reaction: not one shocked glance in her direction, no embarrassment or awkwardness. Those earlier conversations about whether he should have another dog, her own expressed wishes on the subject, might not have existed and when she’d finally spoken to him, with Margaret firmly by her side, he’d given her a polite put-down. She’d had no opportunity to appeal to his chivalry or his sense of guilt – which she might have done if Margaret hadn’t been there, so solid and self-righteous – and then Geoffrey had shepherded them off as if they were a couple of sheep and she’d had no chance to speak to him since. Worse, Margaret had heard that put-down and was now behaving with a nauseous kind of knowing pity.

Alison didn’t bother to answer: there was no sign of Miss Blake but Tilda and Teresa had just emerged from the house carrying trays of cups and mugs. If she were careful and lucky she might manage to corner Piers while they were busy with the coffee. Watching for her chance she slipped between the little groups of guests, dodging tables, across the garth to Piers.