The Wildflowers

by Harriet Evans

  ‘She never answered my letters . . .’ Tony felt his heart pounding, hands sweating.

  ‘Funny, she wrote to you at school, and at the Bosky, but she wasn’t ever sure the address of the school was right because you never replied . . .’ He shrugged, and Ant knew Ian had had a part in it, whatever had happened. Maybe he’d given her the wrong address, or torn up the letters . . . ‘She was rather upset, especially when she was so ill . . . I suppose you were off and out to drama school afterwards. We’ve heard all about you down here.’

  ‘I went a year early . . . they let me in because . . .’ Tony rubbed his eyes. ‘I should have let her know where I was . . . I didn’t know why she wouldn’t reply and of course she wasn’t here any more . . .’

  Ian’s frightful sing-song voice carried on. ‘It’s all in the past, isn’t it? She’s awfully glad to be out of Britain. Says it’s a dead country and perhaps she’s right. She got as far away as she could.’

  It’s all in the past, isn’t it?

  Tony nodded, using every ounce of self-possession and acting ability to keep control of his emotions. Althea wandered back over, looking from one to the other.

  A car sounded its horn in the distance, and Ian looked up. ‘I must go. That’s my wife.’ He shook hands with Althea. ‘We’ll have you round, if you come back here,’ he said, almost jovial now. ‘My wife loves to entertain. She’d be pleased to meet you.’ He nodded at Tony, and he saw the twisted pain on his face. ‘G’bye, then, Anthony,’ he said.

  ‘What a curious man,’ Althea said, after he’d gone.

  Tony shook his head. He pushed it all down, as far down as it could go, took a great gulp of his drink. ‘I never knew him that well.’

  ‘But you knew his sister,’ she said, wryly. ‘That much was clear.’

  I abandoned you, Julia. You never wrote back and I never wrote again and I was too busy surviving to carry on. I abandoned you.

  ‘I hope she’s happy,’ he said.

  She looked at him intently for a moment. ‘I hope so too.’

  Push it down, push it all down . . . Tony briefly closed his eyes, and then he opened them, focusing on the seam of Althea’s stockings, the auburn curls on the nape of her neck where her hair was swept up into a chignon. ‘Come inside,’ he said, with difficulty. ‘Forget about him. I want to show you the rest of the house.’

  She smiled over her shoulder at him and he drank in the sight of her. Her knowing smile, her great beauty, her seriousness, her gentle Scottish accent. She was new, and strange, and didn’t know him yet, and he could be himself, or a version of himself that he liked, and didn’t have to edit. She might even take it all away for a while.

  ‘I’m jolly lucky you trusted me to come down here,’ he said, trying to affect a jovial tone, but inside he felt sick, shaking, as they went downstairs towards the bedrooms. He had seduced scores of women, many of them here, this being his preferred line, but this was the first time he’d felt sick. He clutched on to the railing.

  Althea was ahead of him – she said, in her carefree, calm way, ‘I like you. I liked you the moment I saw you. That’s all.’

  She shrugged, as though it was as simple as that, and as she turned to him Tony stumbled on the last step, holding on to the bannister.

  ‘Goodness,’ she said, as he righted himself. ‘You look awfully green. Are you ill? Here.’ She took his arm. ‘Let’s – oh, gosh, the lights are off. Where’s the switch?’

  He could hardly hear her. It was safer to just stay holding on to the bannister, gently swaying, letting darkness and waves of nausea wash over him. ‘Here,’ she said, taking his arm. ‘Perhaps you ate something. Come in. Come and lie down.’

  ‘No.’ He pulled away from her, tears starting in his eyes. ‘No!’

  ‘Here,’ she said, firmly, and she almost tried to push him into the room. ‘You really need to sit down, or lie down, Tony—’

  ‘No.’ Tony actually shoved her, so that she rocked back against the corridor wall. ‘I won’t go in there. Don’t. I won’t go into that room. Please.’ He cleared his throat – this was terrible, all of it, and he’d absolutely ruined everything now, if he could only stop the black wavy lines that ran up and down his vision, and the feeling that he was going to pass out . . . ‘Sorry,’ he said, reaching out and clutching Althea’s hand. ‘I’m so sorry . . .’

  And everything went mercifully black.

  When he woke up, he was lying on the bed in his old room. The nodes of the pink candlewick bedspread rubbed his neck; it was comforting, like fingers. He sat up, shaking his head, and a wave of dizziness overtook him again.

  Althea was at the end of the bed, playing with something. She looked over at him, and swallowed.

  ‘Sorry. I found some marrons glacés in the cupboard upstairs. Delicious. I’m afraid I attacked them. Here. Have one. Do you good.’ She pressed the moist, caramel-coloured sweetmeat between his lips. ‘And here’s some water.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He raised his head and drank, then lay back, watching her.

  ‘What’s that you’ve got there?’

  She passed it over towards him. ‘An old game.’

  ‘Oh.’ Heart thudding, he sat up. ‘Where’d you find it?’

  ‘Under the bed. I’m sorry if I shouldn’t have meddled. It’s beautiful. The tiles, and these metal flowers. What is it?’

  Carefully, Tony put the tiles and the flowers back into the mahogany case and shut it, smoothing his hand over the mother-of-pearl dragon. ‘It’s a mah-jong set. It belonged to my great-aunt. We used to play it while the bombing raids were on.’

  He put it under the bed again and smiled up at her. There was no point in being embarrassed, or acting his usual part. He’d shoved her, he’d cried, and he’d passed out. ‘I’m really sorry about all this. I – I don’t like this room.’

  ‘I guessed as much.’ She ate another chestnut. ‘My father used to get the sweats whenever he got the train back to Glasgow. Right at the train station. Nowhere else. But his father once beat him there, in front of everyone. He’d forgotten all about it till his brother reminded him. Isn’t it strange, what the mind can do?’

  Tony nodded. It was late afternoon; very still. The smell of mothballs and mildew, of old books and comforting wood, wrapped around him. He felt peaceful.

  ‘So what happened in here, or don’t you want to tell me?’

  He screwed up his mouth, and said nothing. Eventually, he shook his head. ‘I was a boy . . . I . . . Sorry.’

  ‘That’s no problem, and it’s none of my business.’ She stood up, brushing down her long blue skirt, and a beam of light caught in her auburn hair. ‘You can be two things, Tony. You can be the boy in the bedroom, for the rest of your life, or you can leave him in there, and come out. Jolly depressing to be the former, though.’

  ‘Yes.’ He stared at her. ‘Yes, it is.’

  She ate another marron glacé, and then shut the box firmly. He watched her, and felt calm for the first time since they’d arrived.

  Somehow, haltingly, he managed to tell her what had happened in that room, about Daphne, about Julia, and of course about Dinah. Later, when it was dark, he brought her back down there, and in the darkness he removed her clothing, her suspenders, her bodice, the silk shirt and the full skirt. She was large-breasted, large-thighed, tall like a goddess – she was magnificent, all of her. He took her there, frenzied, vengeful, and then again, more tenderly. She was impassive at first, as though she understood, and then fiery, passionate, catching his wrists above his head and biting his lip with her sharp white teeth, climbing on top of him so that he could hold her milky-white thighs, see her hair fall about her face, watch her ride him, take her pleasure – it was the first time, since Julia, that he had been with a woman who could with such unalloyed enjoyment, who wanted it as much as he did.

  They stayed that night in Ant’s old room, and then, the next morning, crept into the master bedroom. And for many years neither of them went back into that room unless t
hey had to. For a long while, it stopped mattering. For a long while, they both thought they’d beaten the ghosts back.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  London, 2014

  ‘The house is painted. They did it in a week. It looks great. And I got them to put some furniture in. I just had a coffee, looking out to sea. That view of the bay – man, it’s beautiful here, Ben. I get it, I really do.’

  ‘I can’t wait to see it. Thank you so much, darling.’

  He could hear his wife crossing something off a list. She loved lists. ‘OK. Ben – honey, you still need to tell me what you want to do with the beach hut. It’s just there, rotting into the sand.’

  Ben, used to commanding entire movie sets, to silencing a room with one raised hand, was, in the home, as low-key as ever. He rubbed at the bridge of his nose. ‘Yep. Well, I don’t know.’

  ‘We’d get a good price for it,’ said Lauren, ever practical. ‘I made a few calls. The land is worth more than the building.’

  The first time Ben met Lauren, at a charity dinner in New York years earlier, she had outbid an American baseball player for a signed David Hockney print which she promptly resold to an ageing movie producer she knew who collected Hockneys. He’d watched her long fingers alternately tapping on her BlackBerry to do the deal and tucking her bob behind her ears. She’d donated the extra money back to the charity. The whole thing had been sewn up by the time the green-tea panna cottas were served, and Ben had watched throughout, transfixed by her, this force of energy, quite unlike anyone he’d met before.

  She added, ruthlessly, ‘You want my opinion? We should just tear the thing down.’

  ‘It’s Cord’s. She’s the one who’ll have to decide.’

  ‘Sure.’ He could hear her scribbling something. ‘So, no news?’

  ‘None. She was here again last week, you know. But that was to see the girls. It’s the third time.’

  ‘What do they say about it?’

  ‘They say it’s great. She tells them about Mads when we were little, what they used to get up to together. Funny things.’ He thanked his lucky stars once again that Lauren wasn’t the jealous or awkward kind and he could always mention Mads in front of her. ‘She remembers it all, stuff I’d totally forgotten. And of course she knows about staging so she’s been a great help to Emily with her dissertation. But she won’t ever stay for a meal, or even a glass of wine. Iris thinks she has a melancholy heart.’

  ‘What a sad expression.’

  ‘Well, but it’s true.’

  ‘When can I meet her, Ben? It’s totally crazy I’ve never met her.’

  He shrugged. ‘Listen, I haven’t seen her for ten years and she’s my sister.’

  ‘When was the last time?’

  ‘Would you believe it, I bumped into her on the street, outside an all-night pharmacy in Wigmore Street, do you remember? She had toothache, and I was picking up a prescription for Emily’s eczema. And we chatted, and she was perfectly friendly, but she hurried off the moment I mentioned meeting up. Just said, “I’m so sorry,” and she was off.’

  ‘I don’t get it.’

  Ben gave a deep, shuddering sigh. He still found it upsetting. ‘You know, I think she just didn’t want to be close to us any more. I’ve thought about it a lot. Where’s it written that you have to stick like glue to your family for the rest of your life? She always was a loner.’

  He trailed off, shaking his head, because while that was the version he’d chosen to believe and the one he’d repeated to their mother over and over through the years, and the one he used to explain things away to curious friends and relations, he didn’t actually believe it. As a child, Cord had loved company, loved bringing people together and organising things. He didn’t believe she enjoyed her solitude. He didn’t believe she didn’t want love, and rejected intimacy. I know you, little sister, he thought now. I still know you, I always will, and I know you’re not happy.

  ‘Well, next time, you tell them to tell her I wanna meet her.’

  His phone buzzed with a message and Ben jumped slightly. ‘She won’t stay at the house if she thinks I’m going to be there. She’s told them she needs time to get used to it all. She has some operation coming up on her throat again, too, they’re going to try and repair the damage. Apparently what they can do, how precise they’re able to be, has moved on an awful lot in ten years.’

  ‘That’s incredible. I mean – if it worked – What are the chances?’

  ‘The girls say she thinks it’s pretty even fifty-fifty. So it might be a disaster but it’s a good thing she’s trying. Right? I mean, all of this is good. It’s amazing she’s even in touch with the girls. I wonder what made her change her mind all of a sudden.’

  ‘Honey. I don’t know. Your mother, presumably.’

  ‘Yep – but she’s so stubborn.’ He paused. ‘God, Lauren. I hope we’re doing the right thing. Bringing the Bosky back to life – it’s for her. I hope she doesn’t just – freak out.’

  Lauren said nothing; the crackle of the line whirred between them. ‘I wish I knew what to say to make it better.’

  He laughed. ‘You can’t always make it better, my dear.’

  She said, ‘You want to bet? Now – decide about the beach hut. Tell me what you think we should do.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Ben said, bleakly. There was another silence and he wished he knew her more, this kindly, beautiful woman who was his wife. Who decorated houses in weeks, organised parties at the drop of a hat, made life smoother and more comfortable than it had ever been and yet with whom he still sometimes felt uneasy, like wearing a warm woollen jumper that’s just a little scratchy. A woman who was nothing at all like brave, haunted, indomitable Mads. Nothing at all.

  Then she said, ‘I know you have happy memories of it but you know, honey, it’s the place she killed herself. I think you should—’ She paused; the static silence crackled down the line. ‘Start again.’

  ‘I have.’ Ben rubbed the stump of his fingers against his knee.

  ‘Not really. You need to take practical steps, Ben. If Cordelia is too. It’s time to give it a new lease of life, the whole house, and it seems kinda weird to leave the hut where Madeleine killed herself just standing there.’

  He wanted to say, But I have so many happy memories there too. I remember her letting me kiss her, I remember the feel of her, I remember the three of us, Cord, Mads, and me, sitting on the steps talking or sleeping the night there as a special treat. We were always together.

  The time we lit a fire inside the hut because Cord insisted it’d be OK and we toasted marshmallows and nearly burned the place down. Or when Mads removed the curtains because she said they were dirty and they just fell to pieces in her hands, they were so ancient. Or when we did that play that was a rip-off of Peter Pan on the Bosky steps and made Mumma and Daddy watch it with Mrs Gage, and Daddy fell asleep and his head kept falling on to Mrs Gage’s shoulder and she was horrified . . . The rules for Flowers and Stones, they’re still up there, they’ve been up there since the day Cord pinned them to the wall. These things matter.

  I remember how my wife looked in death. Not peaceful – that’s what they always want you to say. Her arms were above her head, her eyes wide open . . . The hair flooding the bed like a Victorian bride . . .

  ‘Tear it down,’ he said, suddenly. ‘Do it.’ There was a knock at his door.

  ‘Dad?’ came a voice from outside. ‘You in there? The car’s here for you.’

  ‘What did you say? Keep it?’ said Lauren, quickly.

  ‘Absolutely,’ Ben said. ‘Look, I have to go, darling, I’ll call you later—’

  ‘Ben, I just want you to love the place—’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ben, not really listening again. ‘Me too. Bye, darling.’

  He heard, but did not process, the little sigh she gave as he ended the call and swung the phone back into his pocket with his remaining finger and thumb hooked together. He stared at the smooth stump, remembering for a momen
t, until the noise of the waiting car in the driveway recalled him to the present.

  But it wasn’t until he’d put on his jacket and had his hand on the door of the study that Ben remembered to check his phone for the message that had buzzed while he’d been speaking to Lauren.

  OK OK. You are annoying. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. I will come to the Bosky with you. Just once, to see Mumma. Don’t go to any trouble, please. It’ll be lovely to see you, Flash Gordon. Cord x P.S. This is a stupid question but is Hamish living in your basement and is he an accountant?

  Ben smiled, and stared at the photo he always kept on his desk of him and his sister, kneeling on the sand, plump arms flung tightly round each other, grins as wide as their faces. He heard the car outside revving its engine a tiny amount, a respectful reminder and, slinging his phone and wallet into his pocket, he picked up his satchel and left the room. On the way out, he bumped almost straight into Emily, who was leaning against the hallway looking at her phone, her long bronze hair falling about her face.

  ‘Oh, Dad,’ she said, vaguely, staring at the back-lit screen. ‘Hello. Listen, have you got any cash on you?’

  ‘Cord,’ he said, pinching her cheek. ‘Cord’s coming. She’s coming.’

  ‘What on earth do you mean?’

  ‘She’s coming back. She’s coming to see Mumma. Oh, Emily. You and your sister are geniuses. Well done, darling. She’s finally going to come back.’

  Emily didn’t look up. ‘Of course she is. She always would have. You two are both crazy for that place.’ And she carried on tapping at her phone.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Lauren’s enormous Mercedes 4×4, like a giant black truck with its blue-tinted blacked-out windows, collected Cord and Ben from Wareham station. As they bowled along the lane towards Worth Bay Cord sat stiffly upright in the back, as Lauren smilingly made small talk. The blackout glass, viewed from the inside, gave the autumn countryside a strangely dappled, filtered look as if it weren’t quite real. She had to keep telling herself that it was all real. That she was here again, and in a few minutes she would see the house once more, see her mother.