Birdcage Read online

  “He’s still got a lot to learn, my lord.”

  “Time settles that. I was thinking that if this . . . ah, little ambition of mine becomes a reality you might care to second him to me, and he would be useful to you too. You always like to have someone in at the back door of an embassy.”

  “It’s a thought.” But what lay behind it, he wondered, since Bellmaster knew as well as he did that anyway they would have someone going in through the back door. But the answer was immediately clear. Bellmaster picking up a new creature of his own—just as he had picked up Lady Jean.

  Bluntly, as though he had read Quint’s thoughts, Bellmaster said, “They were good and useful days for all concerned when Lady Jean and I were together. But a woman’s uses are limited to . . . well, let us say to appropriately feminine spheres.” Knowing he could take the liberty—for old times’ sake and favours still to come—Quint asked, “Are you still leading the field in the Washington stakes, sir?”

  Bellmaster laughed. “Dear Quint—you always did know when to pitch the unexpected fast one. My dear chap, there is a protocol about answering that kind of question.”

  “Protocol, yes.” Quint coughed a little as Bellmaster’s cigar smoke reached him. “Well, one can always tell between old comrades when it can be dropped. As you did when you asked if you could have a collar and chain on Kerslake. But, to be blunt in a warm-hearted way, if you don’t answer my question I think protocol would prevent me from making any promises about Kerslake.” He smiled. “After all one has to think very carefully about detaching a promising young man for . . . well, extra-mural duties. He still has a lot to learn.”

  Bellmaster ran a big hand over his ample jaw and gave a grunt and then grinned. “My dear Quint, does knowing six or eight weeks in advance about Washington mean that much?”

  “Knowing anything in advance at Birdcage presumes an advantage. The next Pope, the next Chairman of the Council of Ministers of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. You may never want to use the advantage, but it’s comforting to have it in hand. Anyway, I think we could find you someone better suited than Kerslake. As I said, he has a lot to learn. Take a simple thing like elimination. Some of our brightest hopes have fallen down there. Nobody is wholly ours until that fence has been jumped. Which is an appropriate metaphor to bring us back to the Washington stakes.”

  Bellmaster, enjoying above a small touch of irritation the courteous duelling, said, “For all I know you may not want me there.”

  “Equally, we may very much want you there, but would like to have the advantage of prior knowledge. Time in hand is a valuable commodity. I don’t know—from my lowly position, of course—that this is so. There or not are imponderables dealt with on a higher floor than mine at Birdcage. I’m just a snapper up of unconsidered—no offence is meant—trifles.”

  Bellmaster laughed. “You’re a damned deep wily dog and always have been.”

  “And you’re in very good form, my lord. And I know why, of course.”

  “You’d be a damned fool—no offence meant—if you didn’t. Lady Jean outran or cutlived her usefulness to me and to Birdcage. There could have been a lot of skeletons locked up in some cupboard waiting to come rattling out, I thought. So I wanted to be sure.”

  “And when the cupboard was opened—it was bare, except for a nice piece of jewellery. A happy ending. So that just leaves us with Washington—yes, or no? And Kerslake—yes, or no?”

  Bellmaster finished his port. The early afternoon sun slid a yellow shaft of light over the face of the statesman in the courtyard. Quint fingered a loose bread-roll crumb on the tablecloth.

  Bellmaster quietly said, “Washington, yes. No announcement for another six weeks.”

  Quint sucked his lips gently, savouring privately his triumph, and then said, “Kerslake, yes. In six weeks’ time.”

  Bellmaster chuckled slowly. “You’re a fox. You came prepared to bargain.”

  Quint nodded. “As did you, my lord. I presume we are both happy?”

  “Naturally. So I can presume that Kerslake is now more or less my man? At the end of the stipulated period, that is.”

  “Yes, of course.” But as he spoke Quint knew that the five- or six-week period was one which Bellmaster—if pressed— would ignore. Would, if needs be, persuade or coerce Kerslake into service with him by fair words or foul. Anyway, all that was of little importance. Bellmaster was going to Washington. So he happily thought. But Bellmaster was the last person Birdcage wanted to have in Washington. It was pleasant to have five or six weeks in hand to work with. It was a pity that Lady Jean had not left her daughter an incriminating diary record which would have had Bellmaster eating out of their hand and available always for missions far more suitable to his quite disreputable talents. The irony was, he knew, that Bellmaster had reached the age and style now when he wanted an impeccable position. How could the man be so guileless as to think that his sins could be shrived from him? Had he been content always to acknowledge Birdcage as his one master they would have been behind him for Washington. But—though the hard proof had evaded them (galled them—particularly on the top floor)—the plain inferrable facts were that he had worked for others and must have more than once betrayed Birdcage. For a big man, physically and mentally, he had a light touch and an ally who almost to the end of her life had been besotted and enchanted by him. Had he married Lady Jean there would have never been any danger for him. But he had married American money and the dear lady had conveniently broken her neck hunting in the Cotswolds five years later. There were times when Quint knew himself to be uncharitable enough to wonder whether the noble lord had not somehow arranged that, too. She had given him a lusty, healthy pair of sons to safeguard the Conary pedigree and had left him her millions. All he wanted. Yes . . . he could well have disembarrassed himself of her . . . tidied up a loose end. Dear, dear, he sighed to himself as Bellmaster passed the port decanter, it had to be admitted that—quite uniquely almost in its history—Birdcage had been used by one of its own. That was a thorn in the side which never ceased festering. What a pity about Lady Jean. An indiscreet diary could have put him in their net, docile to being collared and chained and dancing to any tune they decided to call.

  * * * *

  Impatience was building up in Sarah. It was six o’clock and she was in her bedroom, already changed for the evening. For the last three hours she had been waiting to hear the sound of his car coming down the drive. She had told herself many times to be patient. He had probably stopped to have lunch with the Norberts and afterwards . . . well, he had plenty of friends he might have called to see. But patience, she felt now, was a virtue which her convent life had exhausted. It really was too bad of him not to understand that she would be longing to know the value of the girdle . . . longing to start talking in earnest of the things he could do, the new life he could choose. Oh, she wanted so much for him, but above all to see him come out of his happy-go-lucky existence and immerse himself in some venture, some meaningful way of life, for which his character and all his abilities fitted him . . .

  She turned away from the window from which she had been watching the turn of the drive and walked restlessly across the room. Catching sight of herself in a mirror she stopped. Part of her mind noted that her hair had grown now so that it could excite no comment, and the sight of herself in a shortish dress, arms and legs bare and sunbrowned, now gave no faintest goad to her conscience. For a moment or two she allowed herself to acknowledge that she was a woman, more than good-looking. . . allowed herself to give free if quickly passing indulgence to a glimpse of the future . . . marriage, a man to love her and be loved. A blush rose to her cheeks and ashamed her.

  She swung away from the mirror. She must be patient and set her mind on something until Richard came. Find a book and sit calmly down and read. Close her mind to the outside world and the moment of his arrival. Yes, she would read. Be calm. Not act like a schoolgirl without control of her emotions.

  She went to the
wall bookcase and began to look through the titles. They meant nothing to her. Books never had. Her mother, now, had read voraciously . . . all night, she knew, sometimes. Her eye was caught by the blue suede binding of her mother’s diary. That was it. She would sit quietly and controlled and read her mother’s diary until Richard came.

  The diary in hand she went to the window bureau and sat down where she could see and hear the car when it came. She opened the book at random (sometime she really would sit down in a calmer mood and read it through properly) and began to read . . .

  Bo-bo has bought this broken-down place in the ghastly Cotswolds. His family had it once—the side that went into the Church, I think— and Pm surprised the Branton line didn’t become extinct through pneumonia. One thing I’m insisting on is complete re-plumbing. At the moment it is primitive—not exactly a shed at the end of the garden —but you have to pump the handle of each loo as though you were at work on bilges—arid if you turn on a tap the water comes creeping through like old W.S.’s schoolboy unwillingly to school. No central heating, of course. Bo-bo very brisk about this which doesn’t surprise me. Army types are always so bloody brisk and hearty about discomfort and cold. Makes a man of you—which is what I don’t want to be . . .

  I got Alistair Queen up to see what he could do about redecorating the place. Bo-bo insisted on calling him Queenie which didn’t go down well and BB said over his dead body would anything be done to his study. It was papered in his great-grandfather’s time. All pheasant and fur and fish with leprous splotches where pictures have been moved. I shall go back to the villa until it is all done.

  After dinner Bellmaster rang. The verdict was accidental death. I suppose I should feel sorry about Polidor, but I really can’t. He was an odious man. And I’m not sorry that Bellmaster is selling the Lion dc Mer.

  At this moment Sarah heard the sound of the car coming down the drive. Immediately her suppressed excitement and impatience welled up strongly in her and, closing the diary, she jumped up and hurried from the room.

  He came up the front steps as she opened the door to him, the jewel case tucked under his right arm. She moved to him, holding him by the arms and said, “Oh, you have been an age, Richard! I’ve been biting my nails. What did he say? What did he say?”

  Farley put out a hand and held her by one shoulder. “Whoa! Calm it now! Calm it!”

  “But I want to know. I must know now!”

  “You’ll know. But first I want a drink.” He moved her into the hall. “I’m sorry I’m late. But I had lunch with Herman— you remember Herman, don’t you?”

  “Yes, of course I do.”

  “Well, and after that I had to go and see Marsox and clear up some things with him.” He began to lead her across the hall. “And then on the way back I had trouble with the petrol feed to the carburettor.”

  “Oh, I don’t care all about that. You’re here now and I want to know.” She almost pulled him into the sun room. “You sit down and I’ll make your drink while you tell me.”

  “All right. A beer. I’m thirsty.”

  He sat down and put the jewel case on the table before him. Sarah opened a can and poured the beer for him. For a moment her eyes caught his above the glass and there was something in his look, in his whole bearing, which suddenly disturbed her and made her hands tremble. She handed him the glass and sat down opposite him and said spontaneously, “Something’s wrong. You’re not happy, are you?”

  He put the glass down untouched and said, “No, I’m not. But that’s not the point. It’s your happiness that concerns me.” Almost pleadingly he went on quickly, “Sarah, my dear— you’re not going to like this and I hate having to tell you— but the Venus girdle . . . well, it’s only a replica. It’s worth nothing, compared to the value of the real thing . . .”

  She heard him through the shock growing in her, a coldness which slowly possessed her and for a few moments inhibited all thought. She sat down slowly as though any sudden movement would disorganise her body with a clumsiness which would spread to her emotions. She had known fear once and had screamed. Now she knew bitter disappointment and knew she had to school herself to deny it a wild display. She knew now why he had been late coming back. He had dreaded this moment—not because of his own feelings, but for the blow it would give her . . . the shattering of all her dreams of helping him. Now she, too, must school herself to curb any outburst to spare him the sight of her naked despair. She had wanted to do so much for him. Now, denied that joy, she must spare him the sight of her true distress.

  Flatly, she said, “Just tell me, Richard, all that your friend said. It’s all right. You’ve said the worst and I’m not going——”

  she forced a small smile, “——to be emotional.”

  He put out a hand and held the fingers of her right hand briefly. “That’s my girl. I know you wanted to do something for me. And even if I thought it was unnecessary I only wish I’d been able to come back now and give you good news because . . . well, I can’t bear to see you unhappy and——”

  “Richard. Just tell me.”

  “Yes. You’re right. Let’s get it out of the way.”

  She sat and listened to him as he gave her the story of the Venus girdle which he had had from François. Oddly, as she heard him, she found a little ease in a growth of a feeling, not anger, more contempt, for Lord Bellmaster, who so clearly had cheated and deceived her mother. She had known him, not well, but from time to time in this villa. With the later growth of maturity in her she had—though she seldom allowed herself the pain of dwelling on it—realised that her mother had been his mistress and had remained so after her marriage. How could a man of so much wealth have cherished it to the point of deceiving her mother? Free now from any bars to uncharitable thoughts she found herself hoping that the greed in his sin would one day be punished. Sinner herself she might be, and in giving way to her weakness of resolution after so many years she knew that true grace would always be denied her . . . but, at least, in her sin she had harmed no one but herself. . . and had wanted so much . . . so much . . . to show her thankfulness to Richard that she still lived. For a moment she felt the first prick of tears in her eyes, and closed them to deny the sight to Richard. When she knew they had been conquered she opened her eyes as his hand came out and took hers, and saw his square, almost ugly, brown face deep-creased with a wry smile.

  “That’s it, old girl. There’s nothing to be done, and I don’t think we should sit glooming around here brooding on it. There’s a little restaurant in Monchique. On the way back I booked a table there—and that’s where we are going, and we’re going to forget all about the Venus girdle and Lord Bellmaster. And don’t fuss about me.” He stood up and she rose with him. “Something will turn up.”

  “Oh, Richard . . .”

  She moved to him and he put an arm around her shoulders, holding her against him. “Come on, now. Go and get your best bib and tucker on. They do a marvellous lobster flambe with aguardente de medronho. . . .”

  She enjoyed the evening, abandoning herself to it because she wanted to escape all thought of her disappointment, feverishly almost acting out the role of a new personality . . . the happy, contented Sarah she would have been if all had gone well. She took more wine than was her custom and, after the meal, they danced together and—though it had been years since she had done—she found that in a short while her natural sense of rhythm surfaced. After a time she found that, where she had been determined to be gay and show no signs of her setback, there slowly faded from her any need for pretence. Neither of them talked of tomorrow or the future. This evening was enough, time and decisions were smothered. Tomorrow was too distant to throw any shadow over her.

  They drove back with the car radio playing and when they went upstairs to bed they paused at the head of the stairs before she turned to go to her own room. He put his hands on her shoulders and gave her his big, clumsy smile, then bent forward and kissed her cheek.

  “There now. Sleep well
. And don’t worry about all the tomorrows. I never have. Things have a way of sorting themselves out.”

  “Yes, of course.’’ She took his right hand and kissed the back of his fingers briefly. “I shall be all right.”

  She lay in bed with the curtains undrawn, the room grey and shadowed by the starlight, and in a short while, though she fought it, she felt all the euphoria of the evening, all her resolution and spirit, slowly being swamped by the onset of the misery she had been determined to keep deeply contained within herself. The evening, she realised starkly, had been no cure . . . only an anaesthetic, misery-killing and now fast wearing off. She sat up suddenly and, while she despised herself for her weakness, leaning forward, her hands to her face, began to sob, fighting to hold down her emotion, to stifle her childish anguish and disappointment. Her sobbing grew and passed the point where she could neither control her body’s response to her misery nor raise any defence of pride to castigate herself to shame for her weakness and so surmount it. Sobbing aloud, she was flooded with self-pity and distorted thoughts. She had no one, belonged to no world . . . everything she tried to create for herself and others was always doomed. Richard would go and she would sit alone here in this villa like a lost soul . . . better, yes, better if he had never heard her screams.

  At the abject nadir of her emotion she realised that Richard was sitting on the bed at her side, his arm around her shoulders holding her comfortingly, his lips close to her tear-wet cheek and his voice soothing her. She turned and clung to him, the strength and hardness of his body balm to the softness and weakness of her own, the comfort of his caresses waking a new passion in her for the stilling of her unnameable hunger and misery . . .

  When she woke it was morning. Sunlight claimed the room. Outside the sound of quarrelling sparrows came from the drive. Distantly she heard a goat’s bell jingle flatly. She lay without moving, feeling the warmth of his bare arm under her neck. Without turning she knew that he was awake. She had no thought or feeling which she wanted words to mark. Her mind and body were one, translated by a bliss which enwrapped her and was not to be questioned or marred by speech. Slowly he moved and she felt the turn of his arm under her neck as he raised himself a little and looked down at her face, smiling. She smiled back at him and then his lips came down to hers and claimed them gently, and his big hands moved on her, repossessing and waking her flesh again to his. And this time he was all tenderness, gentling and cherishing her, as they both moved to celebrate their passage to true liberation, to a true gifting between them.