The Wildflowers

by Harriet Evans

  And once, when a small, nondescript man in a blue bomber jacket and jeans rubbed himself against her on the bus, she had simply shoved him away, then grabbed his hand and, raising it high above her head, called loudly, ‘Sex pervert on board! Go and do that at home against your door frame, you sad little man.’

  There followed an excruciating twenty seconds when the man stood utterly still before jumping off at the next stop, turning to her and shouting, ‘You pathetic fucking whore.’

  ‘Yes!’ Cord had yelled at him. ‘Yes, I bloody am, and I don’t care!’

  (‘Sex pervert?’ her friend Nalah had said in the ensuing awkward silence.)

  She didn’t care, it was the truth. Somewhere along the way she’d lost the embarrassment trigger. Life was harder with each passing year. Giving in to self-pity would drive you mad.

  But this Saturday, the bell rang after she had ignored it and then, again, for so long and with so much determination that the rasping rattle of the metal sounded as though it might fray and come loose. Putting down her coffee with a sigh and stepping over piles of papers, Cord made her way gingerly to the hallway of her flat and pressed the intercom buzzer.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘H-hello?’ came a small voice.

  ‘Who is this, please?’ she said, flatly.

  ‘Is that Cordelia Wilde?’

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Is that her?’

  ‘Bloody hell!’ Cord said, hackles already firmly risen. ‘Tell me who you are and I’ll tell you if Cordelia Wilde is here. I should warn you already that the answer’s likely to be Probably Not.’

  There was a pause, and the voice said, ‘I’m her niece. Um – I’m Iris Wilde. She hasn’t seen me for years. I’m Ben and—’

  ‘Yes,’ said Cord, leaning her head on the intercom, her throat closing up so suddenly that it hurt. She managed to say, ‘I know who you are. What – what do you want?’

  ‘Dad wanted me to come.’ Her voice grew louder. ‘He says you won’t return his calls. He said I should try. I’ve got something to give you, something from Gramma.’

  ‘Look. I—’

  ‘Please, Aunt Cordy.’

  Aunt Cordy. Over the years of silence and distance the name had stuck. Tears pricked at her eyes: she blinked them away, then drew her small frame up so she was standing straight. She pressed the buzzer. ‘Come up. It’s the third floor. Sorry about the mess.’

  All Cord had ever wanted in the matter of her family was to be forgotten, so that what she knew, what she had seen, might not be known or even suspected by any of them. Waiting for the sound of steps on the stairs, she glanced frantically around her flat, seeing it through a stranger’s eyes for the first time. Seeing not the cosy, sunny, elegant flat she had moved into all those years ago, with so many happy plans for the future. The papered walls were peeling, one pane of glass in the window was cracked, and every surface was crammed with junk: the organised detritus of a hoarder’s sad little life, newspapers stacked high, the music in piles on every surface, music she would never sing. Wildly, she wondered if there was still time to hide. I could just wait in the cupboard until she’s gone.

  They were twins, Iris and Emily, both blonde, one with straight hair and an almost-heart-shaped mole on her cheek, the other with matted, soft curls. But that was twenty-one years ago, when they were eighteen months old, and though for a few years after their mother’s death she had sent them birthday presents and Christmas cards promising vaguely to catch up and had in return had little pictures from them when they were old enough to draw which she had now stashed away in some cupboard or drawers, she hadn’t actually seen them since that last, terrible weekend at the Bosky.

  As her niece appeared, turning the final corner of the staircase, Cord stared at her. This was the one with the mole. Her hair was not blonde now, but jet black and bobbed, her eyes framed with black flicks of eyeliner, her shoes, jeans, layers of T-shirt, vest, jumper all in shades of black, white and grey, the only colour about her the coral-red matt lipstick. She was willowy and, in the direct, puckish way that she leaned forward to shake her aunt’s hand, Cord realised she was exactly like her mother and began to see how hard this would be.

  Five minutes ago I was drinking coffee looking at the travel pages, imagining the places I’ll never go to, staring out of the window wondering if autumn is here yet. I was going to have a long bath and walk down West End Lane and buy steak as a treat. I was going to go to that concert of Hannele’s in Highgate . . .

  ‘Do you want some coffee?’

  The girl nodded. ‘Oh. Thank you.’

  Cord sat down and gestured for her to sit too, sweeping some scores off a frayed old wicker chair. ‘Milk?’

  ‘Do you have almond milk?’

  Cord raised her eyebrows. ‘No, I don’t. You know—’ She bit her tongue, then looked at her niece, properly, and saw she was pale and the hand that touched her lips was shaking, and Cord forgot everything and impulsively touched her shoulder.

  ‘Oh, Iris. It’s lovely to see you. You’re grown up. Of course you are . . . How’s Emily?’

  ‘She’s fine. She’s in LA, studying screenwriting. She wants to be – well, a screenwriter. Obvs.’ She made an awkward, self-mocking grimace.

  ‘Your dad’s there now, isn’t he?’

  ‘He’s just gone back to LA. Lauren’s here. She’s – working on something.’ She said, ‘Do you know Lauren? She’s his wife.’

  ‘I haven’t met her, no.’

  ‘She’s really nice. She redecorated the house last year.’ Iris cleared her throat. ‘She wants to do the Bosky too. Gramma has said she can, before she . . . Gramma loves Lauren.’

  These new family relationships, this extension to her old family. She vaguely remembered her mother as a granny: how surprisingly good she was, patient, fun, goofy. The lovely side of Mumma, her down-to-earth Scots-ness and lack of ego that was so at odds with her great beauty . . . Cord found she was clutching her stomach, the assault of memory actually painful. Was she in much pain? That’s good, that she likes Lauren. I hope Lauren makes Ben happy. All he wants is someone to love . . .

  Heartache, nausea, confusion overwhelmed her. ‘Right.’ Cord stood up. ‘Do you live in the Primrose Hill house, then? With your dad?’

  ‘Yes, I can’t afford a place in London, and Dad wants me to get a job before he’ll help me out. It’s fine, I’m lucky. They’re away loads.’

  Cord remembered Ben’s house in Primrose Hill – a vast, shabby Victorian terrace he’d bought after his first marriage, before Primrose Hill became a place for people who earned lots of money, not people who had interesting jobs. ‘So you’re on your own there.’

  ‘Well, sort of. He sometimes has this friend of his living in the basement. Um, Hamish?’ said Iris. She drank the rest of her coffee. ‘He knows Dad’s from – oh – oh, Aunt Cordy, the cup – you’re dripping coffee everywhere.’

  ‘Oh. How silly of me.’ Cord brushed the liquid off her skirt and on to the mud-coloured carpet – when she moved in, twenty-five years ago, the carpet had been fitted by Harrods, no less, in the days when Harrods did useful things like fit carpets. She stared at it, properly, for the first time in years. It’s filthy, she thought.

  Iris said, curiously, ‘Do you know Hamish?’

  Cord nodded. ‘I used to. Long ago.’

  Iris didn’t notice anything amiss. ‘Emily and I like Hamish. He’s just got divorced and he’s a bit of a loser but he’s nice. When he first moved in all he did was sit around in the basement playing loud French love songs—’

  ‘Charles Trenet,’ Cord said, very quietly.

  ‘You do know him. I thought he said he knew you once. But Daddy was there and . . .’

  ‘It was a long time ago. He’s an actor. He knew my father.’

  ‘Oh. I thought he was an accountant,’ said Iris, puzzled.

  ‘Hamish Lowther?’

  ‘Oh, I dunno his surname,’ said Iris with the vagueness of youth. ‘He’
s an accountant, definitely actually, because he did Gramma’s taxes for her last year and there was some bother about it. Are you all right?’

  Cord put her hands behind her head, stretching herself. ‘I’m fine. It can’t be him, then.’ She took a deep breath. A huge wave of relief that this accountant called Hamish wasn’t another ghost from her past cropping up as well washed over her. ‘Now, Iris darling. This is very nice, but you’re not just here for a cup of coffee, I know that much. Why did you come?’

  ‘Oh.’ Iris’s eyes widened, and she fumbled in the bag at her feet. ‘Dad – Dad said this way was better than ringing because you wouldn’t answer the phone. I’ve got something for you.’ She stopped, hand halfway to the bag. ‘But before that – Gramma’s asking to see you. It’s about the house. She wants to sign it over to you and—’

  ‘I know, and I don’t want it. I’ve told them.’

  ‘Don’t want it?’ Iris looked astonished. ‘How can you not want it? It’s my favourite place in the world.’

  My favourite place in the world. Cord tried to stay calm. ‘I can’t really explain. I have written to her, to tell her I don’t want it.’

  Iris shot her a look. ‘Right. But she’s dying. You . . . know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I – I know.’ She thought of the last time she’d seen her mother, at River Walk, after Daddy died. Staring at herself in the hallway mirror, patting the skin under her chin when she thought no one was looking. Hollows under the eyes, skin porous and doughy, like bread starter left to pucker in sunshine. The downward turn of the curving mouth . . . Already, then, she was beginning a decline. To see her now – to sit across from her and lie about her years of silence . . .

  Cord found she could hardly bear to think about Mumma. That was it, you see, opening it up just made more pain, more trouble. Stick to what you’ve always told yourself. It’s better she hates me. Better the blame is all on me.

  Iris’s young, pale face was full of scorn. She pursed her bright lips together. ‘How can you be like this when – when I know from what Daddy says that you all loved it down there? Daddy says you used to be the happiest little girl in the world.’

  Cord stood up, and went over to the window. She looked through the grimy glass over the rooftops of West Hampstead, down towards the city.

  ‘Iris,’ she said. ‘I can’t really explain it all to you. But I don’t want anything to do with the Bosky. Or the family. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘But you sent us birthday presents.’ Her niece’s face was flushed under her fringe. ‘Dad kept all the tags, and the cards. Why, if you didn’t want anything to do with us?’

  ‘I don’t know. I wanted you to know I was still – still alive.’ She knotted her fingers together. ‘That if things had been different I’d have loved to have—’

  ‘If things had been different you’d have wanted to be in our lives?’ Iris gave a short laugh. ‘But you won’t say why, or any of it—’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Why can’t you?’ Iris demanded. ‘I mean, is it that bad?’

  Cord pressed a finger to the bridge of her nose. ‘We grew up one way, believing they were gods, thinking we had this perfect life, and then he ruined it all. All. There, at the house. That’s why I can’t go back there.’

  ‘But what did he do?’ Iris dropped her voice. ‘Oh God. Did he – was he – did he abuse you?’

  ‘No!’ said Cord. Then she stopped. ‘In a way, yes. But not like that. Nothing like that.’ She came towards Iris. ‘My love, it’s best – honestly, I promise you it’s best – if we leave it. Please, let’s not get caught up in it all because I’ll have to ask you to go, and I don’t want to.’ Her tone was pleading. ‘So – show me what you brought.’

  Iris’s face was even whiter than before. She drew her bag up on to her lap and took out a package, wrapped tightly in a huge swathe of cloth. ‘Here. She wants you to have this. She gave it to Dad last week. They found it while they were valuing the house. Thought they’d better pass it on.’

  Cord took it from her, and unwrapped the cloth, twisting the material around her hand like a shroud, reams of it falling away with a curiously loud thud on to the floor. She took out a small square of terracotta, and stared at the angel that had hung over the door for all those years, her wide staring eyes, the owls on either side of her, the huge feathered wings.

  ‘Hello,’ she said to it. A cold, creeping feeling stole through her. Some memory, trapped within, tapping furiously inside her head, trying to get out. ‘Do you know what this means?’ she asked, eventually. Iris shrugged. ‘Of course you don’t. But your mother knew. She understood.’ Gently, she put the angel back on the table.

  ‘Understood what?’

  ‘That there’s a curse. The angel was supposed to bring us all good luck and she didn’t, she didn’t keep us safe at all.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ Iris said. She thinks I’m crazy, Cord thought.

  ‘I don’t know. I can’t remember.’ She tapped her head with her fingers, lightly. ‘Did I dream it? Did she – it didn’t used to be there, that’s the thing. It wasn’t there when I was little, then it reappeared one day. It was Daddy’s, you see. His great-aunt gave it to him.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Iris politely. ‘I don’t really understand.’

  ‘No, no,’ muttered Cord. ‘You wouldn’t. But your mum knew. It’s what killed her, I think.’

  ‘My mother killed herself,’ said Iris, her voice dull.

  ‘I know,’ said Cord, swallowing. ‘I was there.’ The angel’s face, still half exposed, stared up at her. ‘I loved her very much, you know,’ she began, and then stopped.

  Iris said quietly, ‘Did you?’

  Cord nodded, looking at the floor. ‘You hear it all the time, but she really wasn’t like anyone else. I used to think it was right she had twins, as though she had to have two girls to adequately reproduce all the complexities of her – her . . .’ She trailed off. ‘Sorry, I can’t explain it properly.’

  Iris’s face wore a hungry expression. ‘No, you are already. Explaining, I mean. No one talks about her.’

  ‘Your dad—’

  ‘Yes, but he’s with Lauren and he’s happy now. I don’t know if my mum made him happy.’ Iris pursed her lips. She looked suddenly very young. ‘I just want someone to tell us more about her. Dad won’t and Gramma doesn’t really remember a lot of things now. You’re our only other . . .’ She trailed off, bowing her head.

  ‘She did make your father happy, Iris. I know that.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ Pushing away her misgivings, Cord went on. ‘What else? Well, I can tell you she liked Sting when he was in the Police, not afterwards when he got all serious. Bowie. And Grease. The film, not the country. We all loved it. Your dad had a leather jacket that made him look like Danny Zuko . . .’ She was smiling. ‘Most of all Kate Bush. She absolutely loved her. And marshmallows. She could eat a whole bag of them.’ She smiled. ‘She was smaller than me and Ben and her hair was like a cloak, it was so long and thick and it’d shimmer in the sun. So she was like a fairy, or a sprite, quick and magical. She could read a book faster than anyone I’ve ever known. She was very, very, very clever, did your dad tell you that? Are you both clever?’

  Iris shrugged, her eyes cast down.

  ‘She had a sad upbringing, and her father was awful to her, so she’d stay with us in the holidays instead. She was happy. I know she was, for that time . . .’ Cord tasted bitter, acrid metal in her mouth. She swallowed. ‘No, I can’t. I’m so sorry, I can’t say any more.’

  Her niece’s pale face hardened. ‘I just want to know—’

  Cord cut her off and swallowed again, wondering if she might be sick. ‘I wish I could be what you want. But I can’t.’

  ‘How miserable it must be, being you,’ Iris said, her voice cracking. ‘What a pathetic life, hardly seeing anyone, no career if what Dad says is right. You must be very selfish. Dad said you changed whe
n you became a singer. He said you didn’t used to be like that. Well, fine. Screw you.’

  She actually held up a fist as though she would give Cord the finger, but she waved her arm half-heartedly, her small, pale face creased with sadness and then backed away, out of the room and through the door, slamming it behind her as she went.

  Cord must have sat there in the old familiar spot in the corner for hours, not really doing anything, listening to the sounds of the city float in though the open window, roaring white noise. Just thinking. Then she stood up, turned on the lamp – it was late afternoon by now – and tripped over the reams of material in which the over-eager estate agents had wrapped the angel. There was something else there, in the cloth bundle. Cord lifted it up, letting it unravel, and a piece of cardboard fell out on to the ground, and with it a book. She picked it up.

  The Children’s Book of British Wild Flowers, it said. A children’s book with a picture of some buttercups and ox-eye daisies in a clump on the front, a sort of folder attachment at the back, like it was a work-book, something Mumma would buy from Woolworths the day before they left for the Bosky as a holiday treat, an entertainment to keep the children occupied while it was raining outside . . . She stared at it.

  Someone had added an e after Wild. Wilde Flowers. It was covered in cracked, drying tape.

  Hands shaking, Cord pulled the tape off with ease, and opened the book.

  The Children’s Book of British Wilde Flowers

  Madeleine Fletcher

  It is a SECRET DIARY

  Cord looked from the stone angel to the worn little book. ‘Oh, you two,’ she whispered. ‘You two.’

  She told herself she knew without opening one damp, thin page what the diary would say. Hadn’t they been, until their divergence, so close for so many years that there was nothing she hadn’t known about Mads? She didn’t need to read it, to put herself through it. But the angel . . . what was it, this itchy, sandy taste in her mouth, this strange sensation of a memory, long buried, that fought its way clear? You’re the Wildflowers. Don’t forget it.