The Wildflowers

by Harriet Evans

  ‘It’s quite all right,’ Ben said automatically, feeling sick.

  ‘Strange lot that was, that woman with the scar, the old biddy, him . . . the three of them together, didn’t seem right to me even though there was a war on.’ She jabbed her cigarette at him. ‘Mind you, she was cracked in the head, with her old bits of pottery and her chickens and all sorts. My dad always said he saw her a-stealing one of the candlesticks out of the church but he was a drinker, my dad, didn’t know what was what . . .’

  She stopped and stared at him, refocusing, and Ben understood then that she was drunk.

  ‘Excuse me, I have to go now,’ he said, trying to sound polite. ‘Excuse me . . .’

  ‘Oh, don’t go, come in! You shouldn’t be out, sweetheart.’ She leaned against the low wall of her front garden, putting her hand on the bricks, trying to collect herself. ‘I’ll phone your dad, we’ll get him to come and pick you up . . . Have a bit of a laugh, have a drink. Be fun to see him again, after all this time, me and him, we ain’t caught up for years now . . .’ She was smiling and she leaned forward, and he saw blackheads on her nose, her curious yellow eyes. ‘I’ll give him a call. Your dad!’

  ‘He’s not my dad!’ Ben started running, terrified she would reach out and grab him and that he wouldn’t be able to get away. He could hear her calling after him, and he kept running now, the change jangling in his pocket, his heart thudding in his throat: ‘Oi! Come back, you! Come back!’

  He’d run and run past the houses and at the end of the lane he stopped. There was a thin byway stacked high with early blackberries and coral-orange rambling wild roses. It led to the side entrance of the farmhouse where horrible Farmer Derek lived, Spam’s owner.

  Ben had hesitated, but then as he stopped, heart pounding, he could hear the woman further down the lane, and her voice was getting closer. ‘Come here! I want to tell you something!’

  He’d run even faster, down a tiny, overgrown lane, through the back of the farm, and hidden in the barn.

  It was warm and quiet and he huddled up under some straw, which smelled of piss and sweat; cows, he hoped. But it was safer than being outside, and he stayed very still until his eyes grew heavy.

  When he woke up, there was a terrible sound nearby. Ben realised he’d fallen asleep, and he grabbed his satchel, got up and crept slowly towards the door, feeling his way carefully as it was entirely dark now. He opened the latch as quietly as he could, just a few inches.

  The noise was a screaming sound, though it wasn’t that loud. A whimpering rough bark. As his eyes gradually began to take in shapes and he woke up a little more, Ben could see Farmer Derek, holding a wrench, hitting a dog tied up to a pole in the yard by the farmhouse. It was Spam.

  She was so thin. Bones rippled under her white-pink skin, tail curled around her drooping body as if keeping herself tight from the blows she was being given, and Farmer Derek was bellowing at her, hitting her with so much force Ben didn’t understand how she could still be making all that noise.

  The reason for the starving dog’s beating could be seen on the dirt nearby. A dead chicken lay on the ground, neck torn out.

  ‘You fucking waste of fucking nothing, take that – can’t even keep your own puppies alive, you stupid bitch, that!’

  Though Spam was frail as a feather in the wind the farmer held on to the pole to give himself greater purchase and, with huge force, kicked her in the ribs. That awful, choking, agonised bark came again. Ben cried out, unable to stop himself, yet the man didn’t react: it was as though he were possessed, muttering under his breath as he kicked her again. This time, Spam collapsed on to the floor, and was still.

  Run, Ben’s inner voice was screaming at him. Run and stop him. You can bite him, or kick him.

  But he did nothing, rooted to the spot in terror.

  With one more kick Farmer Derek gave a semi-satisfied grunt and muttered, ‘Get up from that and snaffle one more of my chickens, just you try, you greedy bitch,’ and left the still body of the thin dog as he went inside, slamming the door shut with his foot. Ben waited a moment, sick with guilt and disgust at himself, and crept over the shit and mud in the yard towards Spam.

  He stroked her thin, warm body and whispered in her ear, but she didn’t move, not at all. And he’d realised he couldn’t go home, perhaps not ever, because he was a sissy who watched a dog being beaten instead of trying to stop it. Daddy was right, and he’d deserved it.

  Ben stayed there for a long time, in case he could hear her breathing again. But she was heavy, and perfectly still, and he knew she was dead.

  He thought he’d carry her away somewhere to try and bury her, up on the downs, and so he tried to stand up with her in his arms, but she was still chained to the pole and it made a great clanking sound, the heavy links banging against the metal.

  The door of the farmhouse opened, and Farmer Derek stood in the doorway. He was small, really – Cord had remarked on this when he came to collect Spam. ‘Such a titch,’ she’d said, dismissively. He stared at Ben, there in the dim light – Ben still wasn’t sure if it was dusk or morning.

  ‘Oi, you,’ he said. ‘Who’s that?’ Ben put his head down. He couldn’t recognise him. ‘Come here,’ and he started after Ben. Ben put Spam back down on the ground, as gently as he could, and then ran again, so fast he tripped once or twice. He ran out through the farmyard past the little lane and past the barn and towards the edge of the farm boundary.

  ‘Come back! You little – who’s that, is that that little git – come back you, you come here!’

  Farmer Derek was short but he was fast, gaining on him with every second. Ben, swinging his satchel out of the way, climbed up and on to the fence that ran alongside the open country. The fence was wood and metal, and as he moved one foot from the bottom plank of the fence to swing his leg over the top and jump out, his other foot, carrying his weight, slipped. He jolted, and tumbled forwards, and his hand caught the metal tread that bound the fence together, where the wood had been worn or chewed away. In a split second, freeze-framed, he moved his body away and tumbled to freedom but his hand, moving from the top plank, caught the sharp metal and tore through it.

  He landed with a thud, rolling over, almost pleased with himself – he remembered that bit. He was, he was pleased, he could hear the farmer’s shouts, his white fury, the terror of it. And it wasn’t until he’d run a couple of hundred yards or so, out of sight of the farm buildings, and suddenly fallen into the long, swaying grass that he’d looked down, almost with surprise, and seen his skin sticky with blood and this strange, odd hand, nothing about it right.

  It wasn’t painful. And he looked at it and wondered why.

  Then everything went black, and the pain kicked in, a roaring, gnawing pain, and he tried to keep running, but he couldn’t. He could see the strange woman on the path, the witch with dirty blonde hair, and the farmer, and he could hear Daddy’s voice, dismissive, curt, on the phone, and feel still the sensation of Spam’s rippled ribs under her soft, thin coat, the warmth of her body. Then nothing.

  They found him two days after he’d run away, unconscious, in an old stone barn up on Nine Barrow Down. He didn’t remember how he’d got there; he must have crawled somehow. He was lying on the ground, his copy of Robinson Crusoe as a pillow, and had covered himself with his coat.

  ‘It’s a miracle, really,’ one of the nurses had told Althea and Tony at the Royal Bournemouth Hospital. ‘The infection, the amount of blood he lost – he could have . . . He must have had an angel watching over him.’

  Ben had torn three fingers away from his left hand which was infected; this was why he’d eventually lost consciousness. In a way Ben liked having some sign, a memento that reminded him it was real. He told them about the crazy lady in the bungalow and the horrible farmer, and the police went to talk to him, gave him a telling-off, nothing more. Ben wrote to Blue Peter, trying out writing with his right hand. ‘People should do more to help animals in bad houses,’ he wrote. Mum
ma posted the letter. They sent him a badge, and a special note from the programme’s editor. He wore the badge for weeks. But he never told them the rest of it, about the reason he’d run away in the first place. They had no idea, none of them, and so they never asked.

  The midday sun gave the sand on the beach a blinding glare. Sitting there, knees drawn up under his chin, Ben blinked, pushing the memories away. When his eyes were closed he could see the red of his eyeballs and when he opened them the world was momentarily black, the bodies of his family in the clear blue sea forming slowly into jumbled shapes of yellowish pink and suddenly he got up and ran into the water, the cool slicing across his hot sandy body.

  ‘Oh, hello, darling. I’m going back up now,’ said Mumma, and he reached out and grabbed her arm, suddenly frantic.

  ‘No, don’t, please, Mumma, stay in a bit longer.’

  She turned and saw his pale face. ‘Of course,’ she said, and hugged him in the water, and he let her, let her kiss his wet head. They played sea battles, Mads on Cord’s shoulders, Mumma on Daddy’s, splashing each other in the cool water until one fell over with great shouts of hilarity, and they dived through each other’s legs, and Daddy swam out, so far he said he could see the tank left behind in the Second World War. The day was calm, hot – not as hot as the previous years but almost. After the games were over Ben lay on his back in the water, gazing at the Bosky, perched high above the beach, towels drying on the porch, cool pine trees behind, the flowers tangling themselves around the front of the old wooden house.

  Eventually Mumma and Daddy went up before the children, to wash and get ready for lunch. Cord, Ben and Mads stayed in the water until their fingers were waxy-white and they were shivering. When they got out, slightly sick through excess swallowing of seawater, the sand was almost too hot to walk on.

  ‘Ow,’ said Mads, who had no shoes. ‘This is agony.’

  ‘Even for you, who feels no pain?’ said Cord.

  ‘I know. It must be a hundred degrees today,’ said Mads. She hopped from toe to toe.

  ‘Here,’ said Ben, distressed at her wincing, wet face. He scooped her up in his arms and carried her to one of the beach-hut steps, and deposited her there rather hastily. Cord watched them.

  ‘Oh, thanks, Ben,’ said Madeleine, and she smiled up at him through her hair.

  ‘No problem,’ he said, shrugging.

  ‘Mads, you’re red!’ Cord yelled. ‘Oh, my goodness. You love Ben!’

  Ben was suddenly furious, the heat of the day getting to him at last. ‘Shut up, Cord, just shut up.’

  ‘OK!’ Cord stared at him, then raised her hands.

  Ben stomped on ahead of them, feeling his sister’s gaze on his back as they wound through the scrubby grass back to the house, the crystal clarity of the euphoria he’d felt in the sea utterly washed away. He could hear them laughing, and could see, if he turned slightly to the right, their distorted midday shadows, heads melded together like conjoined twins. Suddenly he was annoyed with Mads, instead. Why did she always have to be there?

  The memory of her warm, thin lips on his last summer – how they had kissed as if drawn together like magnets, then both instantly sprung apart. He shivered, confusion mixing with pleasure at the memory. He thought of her small pale face and her tiny feet hopping across the sand and how Mumma had stood at the window watching her and Cordy running down to the beach and telling him Mads’s bruises were from where her father had pushed her down the stairs when he was drunk. And how the police had warned him about it but they, the Wildes, still had to make sure she was all right. He thought about how lucky he was, and yes, he was, even the secret he carried around with him now, and the running away, all of that wasn’t as bad . . . He saw her sweet, solemn face, the eyes with their heavy lids shut tight, hair rustling as she moved slowly towards him, wanting to kiss him . . .

  The truth was he liked thinking about her, even if it made him feel funny, hot with guilt. Don’t. It’s Mads. Think about something else. Flowers. Or Stones.

  Slowly, head down, he ambled towards the porch steps. But as he threw his shoes down on them a low, lilting voice said, ‘Oh, hello. I’m so glad someone’s here! I was starting to wonder. The radio’s on inside but no one’s answering. This is Anthony Wilde’s house, isn’t it?’

  Ben, blinking in the shade of the porch after the glare of the sun, saw a long skirt, long top, floppy hat, long hair. Ever alert to danger, he peered towards the plumpish figure, suddenly scared of the low voice and thinking it might be a man in disguise – he’d heard that’s how they sometimes operated, dressing up as women – but then he shook himself. That wasn’t a man.

  ‘I’m his – I’m Ben.’ He wondered where Mumma and Daddy were. Hadn’t they gone back ages ago?

  The woman – though really she was more of a girl, not that old – leaned forward. ‘Hello, Ben. It’s lovely to meet you.’

  Ben felt shy, and he wished he knew what to do in this situation. Cord would have had Girl-Woman correctly evaluated and, if she deemed her trustworthy, chatting on the seat on the porch within five minutes.

  ‘Um,’ he said. ‘Come in then?’ He stopped. ‘I mean – sorry. Who are you?’

  ‘I’m Belinda Beauchamp.’ She pulled at one strand of honey-coloured hair. ‘I’m the singer who’s coming to train your daddy for Jane Eyre.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I nearly gave up. I’d been driving round for ages before I found the right place.’ She took the floppy hat off and threw it smartly on to the basket chair, and shook out her long hair, smiling at him. She had a gap between her teeth, like Mumma. ‘I was crying at one point, I was so worried. I mean, it’s Tony Wilde!’ She gave a little laugh.

  ‘Yes,’ said Ben.

  ‘I’m being silly,’ and she shrugged her shoulders with a wide, gleaming smile. The material of her top was strange. He didn’t understand what was going on with it: there were lacey strings on it, up and down and he could see . . . He shuffled on his feet, wishing Cord was here, once again.

  He took Belinda inside and gave her a glass of water, and they came back out on to the porch, and he offered her a seat, and all the time she talked: about her training at the Royal Academy, how she’d met Joan Sutherland once at a schools concert and it was the proudest moment of her life when she’d said, ‘This girl was born to sing.’ How she was a singing teacher, because she’d had problems with her voice so she was training people instead and that was wonderful, very interesting work . . . She kept on talking and Ben watched her and watched the strange top and her breasts jiggling inside it and the gap in her teeth and her slim feet, which were caramel brown, whereas he could see her legs weren’t.

  Then he heard thudding footsteps on the rickety stairs and he looked over to see his parents, Daddy halfway up, Mumma just emerging from the bedroom. ‘Where have you been?’ he demanded.

  ‘Downstairs,’ said Daddy, peering at the guest. ‘We were dressing.’

  ‘We were . . . sorting some things out,’ said Mumma, who had changed into a sundress, and was patting her hair into place. ‘Oh,’ she said, coming forward. ‘I do apologise – darling Ben, you should have told me someone was here.’

  ‘Belinda Beauchamp,’ said Belinda, and she held out her hand to Mumma. ‘I’m awfully late, I should be the one apologising.’

  ‘We thought you were coming this evening,’ said Mumma, and she shook her hand. ‘Oh, dear. Have you been marooned on the porch wondering where we all were?’

  ‘No, no, I had Ben to take care of me,’ she said, and she smiled at Ben. ‘Hello, Mr Wilde. Belinda Beauchamp. I’m so grateful to you both for offering to put me up.’

  Her blue eyes glinted briefly at Mumma, but drifted back towards Daddy and Daddy laughed. ‘My pleasure, my dear,’ he said, and he shook her hand. ‘Kenneth tells me you had a beautiful voice. I’m so sorry about what happened.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Belinda, and she glanced down at the wooden deck. Ben, watching her, felt a bit funny, as t
hough his heart were full, as though he wanted to cry. He pulled surreptitiously at his shorts. No, please not now.

  ‘I’m very lucky you’re here to teach me a thing or two,’ said Daddy, scratching his neck and gesturing to her to sit again. ‘Can we get you a drink? Althea darling, you stay here and chat to Belinda Beauchamp.’ He dropped a kiss on Mumma’s bare shoulder and she closed her eyes, just for a second, and caught his fingers as they lightly gripped the back of her neck.

  Ben guessed what they’d been doing downstairs. He shuddered. His parents were mortifying in that regard. He’d heard them once doing it on the porch, when he’d come back upstairs to get a glass of water late at night. On the porch, when they had a perfectly good bedroom.

  Belinda Beauchamp had tucked her feet up under her and her hair behind her ears and was listening rapt to Mumma when Ben reappeared with a gin Martini for Mumma and a ginger ale – ‘Oh, gosh no, I’m a little inexperienced when it comes to alcohol’ – for Belinda Beauchamp. Daddy passed around the delicious little cheesy biscuits they saved for guests and they stared out at the sea, where the heat of the day seemed to shimmer in front of them, bouncing in wavy lines off the beach-hut roofs.

  ‘The singing lessons, then,’ said Daddy. ‘How do you want to do it?’

  Belinda Beauchamp sat up, untucking her feet. ‘Of course. Well, I have a little guitar with me. I’ll teach you the song and make sure you’re comfortable singing it. Mr Rochester needs to sound authoritative when he’s singing. Not shy. Or tentative. He’s the sort of man who—’

  ‘I know how to play my character, thank you,’ said Daddy drily.

  She coloured a deep raspberry red. ‘I’m – I’m sorry – I only meant with regards to the song . . .’

  ‘I’m teasing you.’ Daddy smiled at her.

  What had happened to her voice? Why was she a teacher? Why was her hair blonde in some places at the front, dark amber in others? Did she have a boyfriend? He stared at her, hungrily, as though she were an exotic animal that might at any time escape, fly out into the afternoon.