Birdcage Read online

  He smiled to himself as he sat now in the sun room, waiting for her to come down for a drink before dinner. Unbidden by him Fabrina had brought in a few minutes before a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket and set it on the low glass-topped table with the other drinks. Whatever had been in the parcel, he realised, had been pleasing enough to put Sarah in an excited, slightly distant mood. It was not hard for him to guess that she was probably preparing some surprise for him. Well, he was a big boy now and not easily surprised. Knowing her mood all day, he had made no mention of the parcel for fear of spoiling her coming pleasure. Champagne, no less. From the day he had first gone away to school at Cranbrook his father had always produced champagne to speed his journey and also to welcome his return to Kenya . . . sitting on the verandah, foals and mares in the paddock, and away to the south across the Masai lands the crest of Kilimanjaro wreathed with clouds . . . his mother’s laughter, clear, bright joyful sounds as the cork went pop! With a sudden tension of his cheek muscles he shut the memory from him before another could fully intrude.

  Fifteen minutes later he heard Sarah coming through the big room towards him. Leaning forward, elbows on his knees, he was reading a book and he kept his position, pretending not to hear her, some instinct telling him that this was a moment she had been preparing all day and he must not spoil it. He heard her stop at the entrance to the sun room and on the air there came to him the slight fragrance of some scent.

  There was a little pause and then she said, “Richard.”

  He turned and rose slowly to his feet. She stood smiling at him, waiting for his reaction. Her short hair was arranged boyishly and she was wearing a long white gown, sleeveless and cut modestly low at the front. He knew that the villa still held many of her mother’s clothes and he guessed that she had spent the afternoon altering the gown for she had told him once that her mother had been taller than she. She looked beautiful and he guessed that she knew full well she did. Pleased with herself she stood now waiting for his pleasure to show. About her waist she wore the belt which her mother had worn when Augustus John had painted the portrait in the hall. Before he could fully move or find ready words he felt his throat contract with sharp emotion. Even with her short hair she was all loveliness, all woman, and there was a brief stir of anger in him to think that she had spent eight years of her fife . . .

  “Sarah!”

  He moved towards her spontaneously, put his hands on her bare arms and, leaning forward, kissed her on the cheek.

  “Do I look nice?” she asked as he stepped back, her blue eyes turning away from his in a moment of rising embarrassment.

  “You look like a queen. Albeit——” he grinned to chase away her shyness, “——a crop-haired one. When that grows I’ll have to shade my eyes to look at you. You look absolutely marvellous—and I’d dot anyone on the nose who disagreed. But what’s it all in aid of——” he nodded towards the champagne bucket. “Come on, I don’t like mysteries.”

  She laughed and came round the table. “Can’t you guess?”

  “No, I can’t and don’t want to. Tell me.”

  “This.” She put her hands on the belt she was wearing. “Not with you yet. But I know it’s the one your mother is wearing in the painting. A bit theatrical, isn’t it?”

  “Theatrical? Oh, Richard! It’s not just a costume accessory, nice but of no real value. This is it!” Her voice rose. “This is what was in the parcel. My mother left it to me—and its genuine and quite old. Look——” She unclasped the belt and held it out towards him. “It’s real gold, real diamonds, sapphires and emeralds. And it’s yours. All yours. Take it, please. Oh, please take it! It was worth thirty thousand pounds when mama was given it years and years ago. It must be worth a fortune now. And I want you to have it.”

  He took the belt in his hands, feeling at once its weight, and knowing his own confusion. She had this bee in her bonnet about repaying him . . . and he had humoured her, driven her to Estoril. But this . . . he ran his thumbs gently over the cupids on either side of the clasp, his eyes on the blonde, streaminghaired Venus walking the foam-tipped waves and he had the odd thought that distantly there was a likeness faintly about the face to Sarah. Virtus Vincit. He had enough Latin still for that. As the belt swung from his hands the evening glow from the setting sun struck fire from the precious stones. Sarah must be mad to think he could take it. All that she owed him was a heartfelt thank you. At the most a copper medal as a life-saving award. Smiling at the thought he handed back the belt.

  Quietly, he said, “Put it on. That’s where it belongs around, if I may say so, your very slim and beautiful waist. Go on—put it on, and don’t give me that stubborn look.”

  With a touch of spirit he had not met in her before, she said, “It’s not a stubborn look. It’s an angry look—and I can tell you, Richard, if you don’t take it I’ll . . . I’ll just go out in a boat and throw it into the sea!”

  He laughed then and reached for the champagne, saying, “What I think we both need is a drink. The champagne was your idea—so you can’t refuse it. And then we’ll sit down and talk this thing over. And, for God’s sake——” his face was set stubbornly for a moment, “——don’t think I’m being over sensitive or stupid about it. There are some things that just aren’t done.”

  For a moment or two he knew that she was on the point of arguing strongly with him. For the first time he realised that in her there had to be a wilfulness and power to force things her way once she had set a course for herself. Then, as he sensed her to be poised to argue and insist, he saw the passion which had stilled her face pass quickly from it.

  She said quietly, “Yes, I think you are right, Richard. We must talk it over very quietly and sensibly. It was silly of me to be so dramatic about it all. But it did seem to be the best way . . . well, a celebrating kind of way to break it to you. Oh, Richard, you’ve got to know that I must be allowed somehow to show you my gratitude.”

  He laughed. “Sure. Of course. And you can begin by sitting down like the beautiful queen you are and enjoying your drink with me before dinner and we’ll both talk like two very sensible people.” He began to work the wire from the champagne cork and gave her a wink. “Agreed?”

  “Agreed—on condition I’m allowed to say one thing first.”

  “Fire ahead.”

  “I think you’re the nicest man I’ve ever met.”

  He shrugged his shoulders, gave her a smile, and then filled their glasses. They drank to one another. Then, as she sat down, she said, “The last time I had champagne was in this house on my mother’s birthday.”

  To avoid the subject of the belt, he said, “Tell me about her. She sounds as though she were a very lively number.”

  Lying in bed later, he went back over the evening. She had talked for a long time about her mother. It was clear that she had loved her, but had come to understand clearly what kind of woman she had been which—put at its kindest—was not entirely admirable so far as her appetites and morals were concerned. She had had a zest for living which had forced her to ignore many conventions. He got the impression of someone completely amoral, full of charm and wit, and incapable of loving or hating other than whole-heartedly. A woman, he saw, much better to have for than against you. Thinking that now, he wondered how much of that character persisted in Sarah. Stubbornness and a will to have her own way certainly; for she had come back to the belt and her absolute need and determination to use it to make her repayment to him. In the end to defer any decision on his part, he had said that he wanted time to think about it, and also that it might be a good idea to get it valued. He knew a Swiss jeweller who had retired to a villa just outside Albufeira. One day he would drive down and get his opinion on it. He had seen at once that this suggestion had given her the feeling that he was coming round to accepting her offer and they had talked no more about the belt. But she had persisted in an oblique way because over dinner she had probed him about his future. What did he want to do? Start another restau
rant? No, thank you. He had had that one. Go to England and farm? He had mentioned that once or twice but knew that he would never do it. Badgered, he had finally dragged up out of the blue an idle memory. I know a big old farmhouse in the Dordogne. I did think once that it might be fun to buy it, do it up and turn it into a country hotel. That had kept her happy, wanting to know all about it to the point where he had been forced to invent details to feed her curiosity and enthusiasm. But the simple truth was—and he just could not say so frankly to her— that there was nothing. He was a day-to-day man. Some time something would turn up and he would know it was for him. Then, going up to bed, as he had stood outside her door to say goodnight, she had said without any hesitation or embarrassment, “I’ve told you about my father and my mother. I know nothing about yours. Are they alive still?”

  For a moment or two he had known that he was just going to say simply that they had both been dead for years and then, finding a sudden and undeniable urge for brutal truth, he had said, “They are both dead. I came back late from Nairobi one night and found them—slaughtered by the Mau-Mau.”

  Hating himself now for his words, he lay, seeing her face, stricken with anguish, and then she had moved to him impulsively and putting her hands on his shoulders had kissed him, saying, “Oh, Richard . . . poor Richard . . .” Then she had turned away and gone quickly into her bedroom.

  He lay now, wishing he had guarded his tongue. Telling her could only have added to her feeling for him, feeding her desire to repay him. He picked up his bedside book. He knew now that it was going to be one of those nights when he would have to read himself into oblivion. Through his open window came the echoing, rapid kutuk-kutuk-kutuk call of a red-necked nightjar. A night-bird had been calling that evening when, walking across the veranda into the living room, he had found them slaughtered on the floor.

  * * * *

  They were polite to one another, a politeness which was like walking on black ice, knowing that any moment a slip could come to upset the near-hostile relationship between them. Bellmaster despised the man—largely he knew because he had found him easy to buy and to use. Also, and he had never been able to rid himself of this, he was jealous of the man, an illogical jealousy rising from the compromise for which he had paid him a handsome settlement. As her legal husband he had known Jean and slept with her. Once a man was in her bed Jean had known no way of being half-hearted. She followed her body’s dictates, joyfully abandoning herself to her senses. Even at those times when through his own direction she had obeyed him and he had profited from her . . . whoring, why burke the word? . . . he had been jealous.

  Colonel Branton sat at his untidy desk, his bushy eyebrows lowered over his frowning, openly hostile eyes. He said, giving a flick of insult-to his crisp words, “You’re here on business, of course. On no other terms would I open my door to you, Bellmaster.”

  Curbing himself Bellmaster said, “I’m quite happy about the terms. There’s no need to state them. We both understand. I want to talk to you about your daughter Sarah.”

  “Your daughter—she’s nothing to do with me now. At least, I presume she’s your daughter. One could never have known with dear Lady Jean.”

  Untouched, Bellmaster shrugged his shoulders. “It’s a possibility I always had in mind, but of no importance now. I had lunch with Geddy today——”

  “That Pooh-bear number. Does he still enjoy living in your pocket?” Branton smiled unexpectedly. “I’m sorry, I’m digressing. But a little touch of venom I find now and then as comforting as a large Scotch. Yes, Sarah and dear Geddy?”

  “He’s had a cable from Mrs Ringel Fanes saying that she is making over the Villa Lobita and all its contents to Sarah.”

  “Lucky Sarah—it must all be worth quite a fortune. That settles her. So where do I come in?”

  “She can’t just live in the villa on nothing.”

  “Why not? She can take holiday guests. Plenty do. She’s got the villa and as far as I’m concerned she’s welcome to the damned place. I could never stand it. Not knowing which man had warmed Jean’s bed the night before you arrived. Sorry, if I reminisce.”

  Unexpectedly Lord Bellmaster laughed pleasantly, and said, “Perhaps I’ve overlooked something in you all these years. Or is it a late development, this sardonic touch?”

  “It’s more likely to be indigestion from the badly cooked food that slut out there serves up for me. I don’t really begin to be at my best until five minutes after six. Sarah—stick to her.” For a moment or two Bellmaster said nothing. Whatever Branton might say, Sarah was his daughter, a Bellmaster. She had made a fool of herself over this nun caper, but she was his flesh and blood. He had to provide for her and the fact that by doing so he would be able to remove any possible existing threat to his future was a felicitous bonus. He said patiently, “I will. She’s got to have money as well as a place to live. I want you to make an allowance to her.”

  Branton laughed. “Oh, of course. What would suit her? Ten thousand a year? I’ll fix it up with my bank. Or would—if they would only let me through the door.”

  “I’m not suggesting you foot the bill. I know full well you can’t. I shall do that. But, for Sarah’s sake, we must keep up appearances, mustn’t we? Even now after all these years.”

  “Oh, yes, of course we must. Keeping up appearances is very important—and damned hard at times when there’s nothing left after you’ve paid something on your bookmaker’s account. But I’m with you, Bellmaster. You’ll put up the money and Geddy, humming gently to himself, will fix it all up so that it looks as though it’s coming from me. Sarah will never know the difference. She’s been eight years in limbo and still thinks I’m a wealthy gentleman farmer, hunting, shooting and fishing.” His voice grew suddenly rasping and bitter. “If I want to hunt these days I have to get a hack from livery. Shooting? I sold my pair of Purdeys six years ago and now use a cheap Spanish job my father would never have allowed in the gun-room. Fishing—you want to hear about that? I fish the Wye still— but it’s hotel water and I get it free in return for giving lessons to bloody Birmingham and Manchester money-bags who take their catch home and sell it to a fishmonger. Sic transit gloria mundi! And once someone told me that if I were a good young officer I’d make major-general. Not told, no. Bloody promised. All right, don’t get me wrong. I’m full of paternal good-will. I’ll send her an allowance in my name. It’s only a small service since the money’s not mine. But I must have a price paid for this service which will soothe my wounded pride. That’s really why you are here, isn’t it?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Exactly. Yes, that’s the precise word.” Branton picked up an ivory paper knife from his desk and beat a little tattoo with it. Then, with an unexpected smile, he went on, “Exactly how much would you consider an appropriate fee for my services in this matter—if I may phrase it in Geddy’s terms?”

  Suddenly stung by the man’s manner, Bellmaster said, “I thought a thousand pounds would be generous.”

  “A year, of course.” Branton smiled and the paper knife ceased its tattooing.

  With a shake of his head, holding down the anger that this man was succeeding in rousing in him, Bellmaster said calmly, “I’m sorry, Branton. I’m talking in terms of a once and for all payment. A thousand pounds seems very generous to me— since you have to do nothing at all. Geddy will arrange everything.”

  “Yes, Geddy’s a great arranger. I wonder what put the idea of making an allowance to Sarah in your head? Interesting. Still, that’s your business. But I certainly won’t do it for a thousand. Why——” Branton smiled, “——I might even be putting myself in an illegal position. You could be going to contravene the currency regulations and——”

  “Don’t be a damn fool!”

  “Exactly—I’ve no intention of being one. I’m afraid you’ve got to make it far more than a thousand.”

  Suddenly anxious to have done with this man and be away, Bellmaster said smoothly, “Well, knowing your posi
tion and for old time’s sake, I’ll make it two thousand.”

  Branton shook his head. “There are no old time’s sakes between us. Just bloody bitter bad times. But you seem to want this arrangement badly, not that I care why, so I’ll be generous and take ten thousand, and let me tell you that five of that will go right away to make the hearts of tradesmen, bookies and a bloody bank manager happy.” He leaned back in his chair, whistling thinly between his teeth. In his clear blue eyes was an icy glint of happiness. For the first time in his life he had Bellmaster over a barrel and was enjoying it.

  In the end they settled for seven thousand, the cheque signed and handed over there in the room.

  As Lord Bellmaster was driven away down the pot-holed drive in his Rolls-Royce he leaned forward and opened the drink cabinet. Nothing but a large brandy could begin to soothe him. For the first time in his life he had found Branton able to rile him, to stir him up to unexpected and impatient anger. And for what? he asked himself bitterly. Probably nothing at all. For all he knew the money for Sarah and Branton was being tipped down the drain just because he was letting a few angry words spat out at him by Jean years ago haunt him. He could see her now in the main bedroom of the villa as she had shouted at him—You turned my life rotten, and there’s nothing I can do about it while I live without destroying myself. But when I’m dead—then I’ll come back . . . come back and destroy you!

  The quick brandy beginning to soothe him, he shook his head wearily. Probably she had meant nothing at all. One of her wild Irish outbursts. But he could risk nothing of his future . . . nothing.

  In his study Colonel Branton leaned back in his chair, holding the cheque in his hands. He was mellow with his good fortune and the clear knowledge that old Bellmaster must be losing his grip to allow himself to be riled so easily. What maggot was eating him, he wondered? Not that he cared. There was a faint tap on the door and his wife came in with a tray.