‘Oh, Auntie I,’ said Cord. ‘I wish you weren’t going.’
‘Well,’ said Isla, disappearing into the kitchen. ‘Yes.’
Althea, feeling guilty, got up and followed her. Mrs Gage had been quite specific about the pie, though her sight wasn’t as good as it had been and sometimes she got the cooking times and quantities wrong, lacing their coronation chicken last week with so much curry powder it was actually inedible. She gathered up her skirts and peered into the oven.
‘I can’t tell, Isla, what do you think? Done or not?’ She rubbed at the ancient, chipped, enamel-and-glass door.
‘Oh, I’d say it’s as ready as it’ll ever be,’ said Isla. She reached for the oven gloves. ‘I’ll take it out, shall I?’
‘Thanks.’ Althea took the ketchup from the cupboard. There was a short pause. She wished she could think of something to say to her sister, but time seemed only to deepen the furrows between them. ‘So, you’re off in the morning, are you? Sure you won’t stay for lunch?’
‘No.’ Isla opened the oven door and a whoosh of hot air hit them. ‘I’ll be on my way after breakfast. I’ll need a clear run to make it to Lancaster by teatime. I’ll stop off with my sandwiches somewhere, have a nice picnic—’ Althea’s eyes glazed over, and she searched around for something else to do. ‘Some lovely spots near the M5, there’s a National Trust place I want to . . . Althea, is everything all right with Tony? I’m rather worried about him.’
Althea didn’t hear her at first, and then she laughed. ‘Tony? He’s fine. Well, fine as he ever is. Why?’
‘Nothing.’ Her sister smiled at her, the old comforting smile, holding the pie in her hands. ‘I worry about you, too. I’m your sister. And he seems different. There’s something about him there wasn’t before.’
Althea gave a short laugh. ‘Really, Isla, it’s a strange thing to ask.’
‘Is it? Dotty, you know sometimes I think you live in a dream world. There’s Cord, working so hard to get away from you both – she’s almost a grown woman and you treat her like she’s still Cordy who’s eight and likes making lists. And there’s Mads gone, as if she was never here—’
‘That’s her choice, she’s working this summer,’ Althea began. ‘We didn’t kick her out, Isla, she said she wanted to stay in Bristol this summer, and last summer—’
‘That’s as may be, but she needed you, and I think it’s pretty disgraceful. And then there’s Ben barely spoken of, as if he’s dead, and here you are all day mooning around waiting to hear about some script.’ She caught her sister’s hand furiously; Althea pulled away.
‘It’s – I’ll be fine.’
Isla said fiercely, ‘Oh, I know, dear, you’ve always been fine. I don’t worry about you. You’re strong.’
‘You make me sound like a brood mare.’ Althea shook her head. ‘Isla, don’t. I’m Cord’s mother, I know her best. And I miss Ben b-b-but he’ll be back. And Mads – she wasn’t ever ours, you know, we couldn’t force her to come here . . . They’re growing up, that’s all.’
‘I’ll take this out now,’ was all Isla said, and she turned around and left Althea alone in the kitchen.
As suspected, the pie was dry and mealy, tasting too gamey for chicken and under-seasoned, and Althea resolved to Have a Word with Mrs Gage about her cooking and things in general though she had no idea how she’d approach the subject. They sat in silence, all of them, and occasionally she’d steal a glance at Hamish, at the strong jaw working on the pie, at the huge gentle hands, the long eyelashes.
She wondered if it would be so very bad to kiss him. She wanted to, very much, though it disgusted her that she could betray herself in this way, and betray her own daughter.
Tony was talking to Hamish about a new production of Othello at the Old Vic in which Othello was white, and the rest of the cast black.
‘I think it’s very brave, but I’m not entirely sure it works. Besides—’
‘I loved it,’ said Hamish. ‘I thought it was remarkable, not just the idea, but the rest of the cast besides Patrick. To see a range of black actors on stage, not just one or two token performers; I found it exhilarating. The reviewers did too, didn’t they . . .?’ He trailed off, as Tony muttered something disparaging and drained his glass. Hamish met Cord’s adoring glance and returned her smile.
‘Reviews!’ Tony rolled his eyes. ‘The longer I live, Hamish, love, the greater my conviction most reviews are no longer an exercise in critical thinking. They’re for provincial idiots who haven’t the first idea about culture or simpering spinsters who want someone to tell them what to think.’
‘Don’t be so pompous,’ said Althea, pushing back her chair and lighting a cigarette.
Cord laughed, shaking her hair out of her face, her grey eyes sparkling. ‘Yep. What a load of rubbish, Daddy. You don’t say that when they’re calling you the greatest actor of your train compartment, or whatever it is.’
Tony smiled at his daughter. ‘You’ll see what I mean one day, Cordy. You’ll come to realise the review of one idiot journalist one night is worthless. Who cares, as long as you tried, as long as you worked as hard as you could at the role? Unless you become the role.’
‘What do you mean?’ said Hamish, quietly.
Tony leaned forward. ‘You see, it’s you escaping everything when you step on to that stage. On your own up there night after night, utterly believing what your character does, being them completely, on one level of consciousness.’ He stared intently at Hamish, then Cord. ‘It’s you who controls them, who holds them in the palm of your hand. Macbeth’s nothing more than a gangster thug, a low-life murderer. It’s up to you to make them believe he’s a poet, a tortured genius. If you can’t keep their attention and respond to each audience in a different way each night you’re no artist. And the only way is by utterly believing you’re them.’
‘You can’t utterly believe it, Tony, surely not,’ said Althea, pushing her glass towards him for a refill, avoiding Isla’s watchful gaze from the other end of the table. ‘You’d drive yourself mad if you thought you were actually Macbeth every night.’
‘On one level, isn’t that what I said?’ He poured more wine into her glass, then his. ‘Not the whole. There are layers, you see? But yes, on one level one has to become him.’ He looked up at her, and his expression was terrifying, his once-handsome face purple-black in the dark, moonlight throwing it into ghoulish shadow, like a cheap, Grand Guignol monster. ‘Then one has to learn to preserve the rest of one’s soul if one’s to stand a chance of remaining sane.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘Perhaps that’s pompous too. But it happens to be true.’
Isla did the washing-up and then retired promptly that night. Cord, with whom she was sharing a room, disappeared with her to help her pack and take her largest bag to the car, chattering fondly to her aunt as they went down the stairs. Tony went to bed early, saying he was tired, almost cheerfully admitting he’d drunk too much, so Althea put the dishes away alone. She could see Hamish hanging about, smoking on the porch and looking out at the full moon. He had offered to help but she’d refused and yet he stayed nearby, his long, lean body illuminated by moonlight that seemed to cover the whole bay with a phosphorescent silver.
Althea sang gently as she padded around the kitchen, killing time before making her next move. Suddenly she felt calmer.
Five or ten minutes after everything had sounded quiet downstairs she turned off the lights in the kitchen and, moving towards the French doors, paused to look at him again, in the darkness. The promise of youth. The promise of abandonment, of being wicked and feeling something again, after all these years. Was it so bad, to want these things? Lips parted, pulse beating at the base of her throat, Althea opened the door, silently.
He had vanished.
She froze, then saw a movement, and realised he’d gone through the wild flowers and was padding down the dark sandy path towards the beach huts, into the silver, glittering night.
Althea followed him. A few steps
along, she trod on a partially broken pine cone, and the jagged edges tore into the thin skin on the arch of her foot, which was unbelievably painful. She had to pause for a moment or two, biting down on her hand, leaning against the beach hut two along from theirs. She almost called out to him then, but still – something stopped her – what if someone was watching?
So she began walking the final ten yards, or rather limping, trying not to smile now, because it was ridiculous, and wonderful too. Once or twice she thought he seemed aware of her behind him, and when he got to their beach hut, he stopped, so she stopped too.
‘Hello?’ she heard him call, a laughing mischief in his voice. ‘Is that you?’
Heart in her mouth, Althea whispered softly, ‘Yes—’
But he didn’t hear her, and walked up the steps.
‘I’m here,’ he said. ‘Did you wait long?’
Althea was about to answer, and she might have utterly made a fool of herself had not Isla’s words suddenly come back to her.
You live in a dream world.
She stopped, behind the hut next to theirs, peering around the edge to watch him ascend the steps. There, waiting at the top for him, was a figure, silhouetted in black, moonlight shining on one side of her face.
‘I’ve been here for ages,’ said the figure, with a small, soft laugh.
No. Althea clutched the side of the beach hut, utterly still: as though an arctic blast had turned her into ice. Her eyes stung; her bowels lurched.
‘I was waiting for your ma to leave. She took ages. Oh, Cordelia—’ The steps creaked; Hamish’s low voice was urgent. ‘I wanted you all night.’
‘Me too, and you shouldn’t have been touching me like that at supper. I’m sure Mumma suspected something.’
‘She didn’t. I’m starting to wonder if she thinks I fancy her.’
‘Oh, no!’ A gurgle of mirth. ‘Poor Mumma. Though to be fair to her, people used to.’ Cord’s outline swung towards Hamish, who caught her and slung his arms around her waist, kissing her hair, her neck, her hands, and Althea shrank back as far as she could.
‘I don’t want to talk about your mother.’
‘Don’t lie! I’m sure you do too. They’re both actors, remember, I know what you’re all like.’
‘Look at her? When you’re here? No, my beautiful prim angel, I don’t. I don’t. I don’t fancy you, either.’
Althea could hear the catch in her daughter’s voice – it was still, there was nothing else. ‘Oh, dear.’
‘I don’t, because it’s for people playing games. I love you. I’m in love with you. You know I am.’
‘Darling Hamish—’ She heard the door creak open. ‘Don’t talk nonsense. Let’s go inside. It’s cold out here.’
‘I can’t stand the daytime. It’s d-d-driving me completely mad. Waiting to be with you . . .’
His voice was thick, his stutter trying to assert itself. He really does love her, Althea thought, absolutely astonished. She stared at the silhouette of her slim, happy daughter, relaxed and grown up. I don’t know her at all.
‘I thought they’d never go, and when Isla said I should take her bag out and get to the beach hut from the front—’
‘She’s b-been a brick. She really has. I’ll write and thank her. When it’s all out in the open. When can we tell your parents?’
‘Never.’
‘Don’t joke, Cordelia—’
Her tone was light. ‘Hamish, I told you from the start of this. You can trot out all those lines about loving me but really it’s – it’s not that simple, is it?’
‘I don’t know how you can talk like that.’
‘You know how. You’re twenty-five, Hamish, I’m seventeen.’ Cord’s clear voice carried on the night air. ‘I’m starting at the Academy in September, and that has to be everything . . .’
Hamish was asking her something, his gentle voice determined.
‘But oh, Hamish, you really don’t understand. Mumma and Daddy! They’re wonderful but they’re not good at . . . parent-y things. Trust me. Dad will take it as some assault on his masculine good looks and age and have a crisis and order you out of the house, and Mumma will sabotage it somehow. They’re both children, that’s the trouble, they behave like children. Ben worked it out ages ago, it took me longer.’ She sounded so matter-of-fact. ‘And we’re adults now, that’s the thing. I’m an adult and I’ve got into the best place in the world for singing and all I want to do is sing. I’m absolutely not doing what Daddy and Mumma did, mixing everything up, so you’re not sure when you’re on stage and what’s real.’
I should go, Althea told herself. Now, before I hear more . . . Shame burned her cheeks; still she could not move.
‘C-c-come on, Cord, dammit. Can’t I see you in London?’
Say yes, you idiotic girl, Althea wanted to scream.
She couldn’t hear what Cord said, and then there was silence, and then he said, ‘Don’t you want to?’
‘I want to be with you.’
‘That’s not what I meant.’
‘Don’t,’ she said, and there was more low mumbling, and laughter. ‘I – Oh, Hamish, I don’t believe it, I can’t believe it’s real, here, you and me . . .’
Her voice faded away. After a moment’s stillness Althea made a vow. That she would never, ever betray that she had heard any of this. She would from this moment pretend everything was as normal. She would take the role in On the Edge, even if it terrified her to be playing a desperate ageing actress who stood in front of the mirror in her underwear, who got drunk, who kissed a younger man, who got turned down for parts all the time. They must see she could laugh at herself. She must play the role of glamorous, fun-loving, game-for-a-laugh, former dolly bird down on her luck . . . she must wring the last drop out of it no matter what it cost her. And she would give it everything. Tony was wrong, you didn’t become the part, you disappeared into it for a couple of hours so you weren’t yourself for a little while. She would disappear into the part of Janey, and she would forget this evening entirely.
Her foot throbbed now, pain flooding her senses. Althea wrapped her arms around her shivering body. She must never tell anyone what a fool she might have made of herself, how much this hurt, worse almost than anything.
Althea walked away from them down the bay until the beach met the lapping sea, and she was sick then, heaving the dry chicken and wine in a molten mess on to the sand, and she stayed there, bent over, saliva hanging from her mouth in drooling lengths like a dog, for the longest time. Eventually she turned back to the house, where all was still in darkness. She stubbed her toe on the door frame and cursed quietly, then more loudly. It didn’t matter who heard her now, did it?
At the top of the stairs she flicked on the light switch and stared at her face again in the mirror, for what seemed like an age. She could see the curve of her brows, the apples of her cheeks, the deep, disconcerting green eyes. All these small factors that made up her beauty. Every day, hour, second, ageing, changing, so that she was decaying in front of her very eyes . . . She could smell the stale vomit on her breath. Staring at herself, Althea slowly dragged her one sharp nail down her cheek, drawing blood and leaving a fine red stripe, almost exactly straight, on her white skin.
The house was perfectly still. There was a line of gold light under the door of her and Tony’s bedroom. She told herself it would soon be over, summer was coming to an end. And she was glad. Something had shifted; she couldn’t see what it was.
Chapter Fifteen
Eight months later
Spring 1984
Most days, Ben would stave off loneliness by walking around Bristol. He had grown tall like his mother and, though he was an affable young man, ready to make new friends, he didn’t care for team sports. The other chaps in his halls of residence reminded him of his dreaded ex-schoolmates: competing over the amount of beer drunk at rugger matches or arguing about Gower or Gooch. They were mostly Oxbridge rejects, pretending the faux-Gothic Victorian hall of r
esidence was an Oxford college, organising balls and black-tie dinners where blonde girls wore puffball-shaped brightly coloured taffeta dresses and the boys similarly coloured bow ties to mark themselves out as fun, crazy, up for it. Ben noted it – he noticed everything – but from the sidelines. It wasn’t his scene.
He’d wake early, missing home, yearning for the old house by the Thames, and the sound of Cord singing as she got ready for school, or the smell of rush matting rugs and Mumma’s scent. His heart would ache a little in his tiny, dark, stone room and he’d realise he had to get up, walk it off.
So at first light he would set out across the downs, noticing with some embarrassment the mud caked to his trousers – somehow the washing never got done when you had to do it yourself. Up on the wide-open space at the top of the city he’d walk until he reached the spiralling descent that took him through Clifton, past the Avon Gorge, an apocalyptic chasm so at odds with the demure cream and sugar-pink Georgian terraces clinging to the sides of the rock. Ben liked the drama of Bristol, the contrasts within the city that were alive there today. He’d wander and walk, waiting for the builders’ café that served a full English from six every morning to open so he could settle in with his notebook and a mug of sweet tea and start to write. Only he never did.
One part of the Drama and Film Studies course was to finish a screenplay in the first year. Ben had the idea of writing about a boy who runs away and is locked in a barn for three days whilst his family grows ever more frantic, intercutting between the isolation of the barn and the panic of the family home. It was a neat idea, he knew, but he couldn’t seem to write it – his own experience would get in the way, and the scenes he wrote never seemed urgent, terrifying. In his lectures he was regularly told of the importance of placing one’s characters in peril – but the running-away bit wasn’t perilous, it was the family the boy came from which seemed the more dangerous, and the characters wouldn’t behave the way he wanted them to, either. They kept saying things in his father’s voice, or that of Mads or Mrs Gage.
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