The Wildflowers

by Harriet Evans

  Like so many Americans, Lauren had beautiful manners. She talked politely about the area, asking questions about the Isle of Purbeck, their holidays there, telling Cord she loved her shoes. Cord, glancing at the sturdy old biker boots where the sole was coming away from the base, chose to believe her and, after a while, chatted back. She liked Lauren. She wanted to like her: perhaps that was even more important.

  She felt very calm. That morning, she had put on her deep pink cardigan and black jeans, wrapped her throat in a big floral-patterned scarf, and had looked at herself in the full-length mirror in the hall, pushing a pile of old books out of the way and inadvertently knocking over a half-dead trailing spider plant. She had become flustered, trying to pick up the dry soil with her fingers, the scarf getting in her way. Tears had sprung to her eyes and then she’d stopped, stood up and looked at herself again.

  It can’t be as bad as it’s already been, she told herself. Don’t get upset. Stay calm. The worst has already happened, hasn’t it? And you’re OK these days, aren’t you?

  And her reflection had nodded back at her. I’m OK.

  In her bag was Mads’s book, and the angel. She didn’t know what to do with either of them. She couldn’t tell anyone else about the book – she knew that. She had vowed years ago that she must be the one who carried the burden of knowledge alone. So she couldn’t ever tell her darling nieces what she knew. I’m your sister. And yet she couldn’t bear for them not to know about their mother, because rereading the diaries had made her remember things she had pushed away for so long. How she had loved Mads, how terrible her childhood had been but for the Wildes. It made more sense of what had happened, and it reminded her of something: how happy they were. And she kept coming back to that.

  Those girls were her family, no matter what kind, they were family. And what a difference it made, having people who cared about you. Iris had helped her immeasurably with her upcoming operation; she’d come to the consultant’s meeting with her and asked lots of sensible questions Cord hadn’t thought of. Cord had taken Emily around Covent Garden – a tour arranged by Professor Mazzi. Halfway round, in one of the old dressing rooms she had once used, she had bumped into Jay Washington, older, grizzled around the temples, but the same. His hand had crushed hers as he gripped it and pulled her towards him.

  ‘Man, but I wouldn’t have known you, Cordelia,’ he said, and she felt stung, and smiled, and pretended not to care as he ogled Emily.

  The gap between them – she, a drab, plimsoll-wearing wraith in black dress, black leggings, shrugged-on cardi, poking around the scene of her former glories, and he, sleek with years of success. And yet after that he had been so kind, and treated her as if she were still someone worthy of notice, and Emily was impressed, tapping her shoulder as they moved on.

  ‘Gorgeous, Auntie Cord. Well done.’ And she had texted Iris immediately, informing her of their aunt’s hot ex, and they had teased her mercilessly about him, and she had absolutely loved it.

  They had both been for tea at the flat, and she had shown them photographs of their mother, and Iris had told Cord she should wear patterns more. ‘Florals and prints. They suit you. Not all this grey and black.’

  ‘Oh, well, thank you so much for the feedback.’

  ‘Trust me.’ She’d gone back to her phone. ‘Emily, this is hilarious, come and look at it. It’s this stick insect, and it’s like dancing to Carly Rae Jepsen?’

  There was one more surprise, one more thing she wanted to tell Ben. But how to do it without revealing the existence of the book?

  Now Cord looked around at the fields sloping away towards Brownsea Island, at the barrow that led over towards Bill’s Point and Swanage: in summer harebells nodded in its long grasses and blue butterflies danced, but by now in late autumn it was covered in the blood red and green of the gorse, the wind whistling through the bare, bent trees and one could already see how different it would be in winter. I only know it in summer, she thought. Isn’t that strange.

  And there was the first glimpse of the sea, over the flame-and-peach-coloured treetops, a dark blue line that grew larger, turned into a diamond, then disappeared again.

  They went through the village. ‘It’s exactly the same,’ said Cord, hoping fake gaiety would see her through for she could not remain silent; she thought she might be sick otherwise. ‘Even in winter. Look, there’s the vicarage. There’s Mrs Gage’s house. Oh, here’s the lane.’ She had gripped Ben’s hand and he held it tightly. ‘Oh, my goodness, there’s Beeches. Is Mumma there? I’d love to see inside it.’

  ‘She’ll come over later. She wants to come to the house.’

  ‘My, my,’ said Cord, feeling sick with nerves. She looked from her large black padded coat which kept out the cold brilliantly to Lauren’s elegant, simply cut navy jacket. She flexed her hands, feeling trapped in the people carrier, the weight of the angel and the book on her knee; suddenly she was desperate to get out. ‘Oh, the bumpy lane – it always was like this, I’m so glad it hasn’t changed—’

  ‘I’d love to tarmac it, but even I couldn’t get that through,’ said Lauren. ‘It’s the only change I wasn’t allowed, Cordelia. I hope you can live with it.’

  ‘Change?’ said Cord, smiling politely. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’ She glanced at her brother.

  ‘Well, Cordy . . . Listen, we’ve something to tell you. Lauren’s been down here working on the house,’ said Ben, now releasing his hand from Cord’s grasp and squeezing his wife’s shoulder. ‘She’s had the bathroom done and the wood’s been treated and varnished, and she’s sorted out the damp, redone the storage heaters, put some furniture in, a kettle, that kind of thing. We did it for Mumma, and for you.’ He looked at Cord, as the taxi jolted and then was still. ‘We want it to be habitable again, in case Mumma wants to sleep here for a night or two before – while she can. And we – we wanted you to like being back here, you see.’

  ‘And maybe invite us down some day,’ said Lauren, smiling as the car stopped and the door slid open, as if by an invisible hand. Cord thought she was nervous now. Ben handed his sister down and she stood on the gravelled pathway, looking up at the back of the house.

  ‘Daddy always said the first time he saw it was covered in wild flowers, do you remember? Honeysuckle and brambles and those roses. Yes, look, Ben, they’re still flowering. Isn’t it extraordinary . . .

  They passed around to the front of the house, up the tiny side path, and oh, the exquisite strangeness of the familiarity, the same shrubby sea nettles and messy brambles in the sand, the little stretch of yellow before the beach huts below and, as you climbed the steps to the porch, the view of the sea and the bay below, opening up to you.

  Cord bit her lip.

  A voice behind her spoke.

  ‘Hello, Cordy.’

  Lauren yelped. ‘Oh! My gosh, you gave me a shock, Althea.’

  Cord turned around slowly. There, alone on the porch, sat her mother.

  ‘Mumma, you’re early! I thought they were going to bring you here for lunch,’ said Ben, going over to his mother, who sat on a new wicker sofa covered with bright pastel cushions. He kissed her, and stood back, and Cord stared at her.

  ‘I wanted to be early.’ She looked at her daughter. ‘Cordy darling. Well, here we are.’

  The bags that Althea had under her eyes when Cord had last seen her – on TV, arriving at an actor’s memorial service at Westminster Abbey – now rested somewhere below her cheekbones, like little smiles of paunchy skin. The bottom eyelids drooped so that her eyes watered constantly. Her hands were so thin her gold wedding ring hung loose. But Althea pushed her still-glossy, pale Titian bob out of her face and said again to her silent daughter in that delicious voice, ‘Well? Have you come to apologise, or to shout at me?’

  Cord bent over, and kissed her soft papery cheek. ‘Hello, Mumma.’ She stroked her hair. ‘How – how are you today?’

  ‘I am well. I had a seizure two days ago, and fell down.’ She lifted her lon
g watered grey silk skirt, printed all over with huge blue and cream hydrangeas, to reveal a bandaged knee. ‘They think another one might kill me and they want me to stay quietly in the home but I won’t have it. There’s worse ways to die than a seizure. And it’s best to go before you start wanting to die.’

  ‘Now, Althea, you mustn’t talk like that!’ Lauren said, mock-impatiently.

  ‘Thank you for your concern.’ Althea raised her eyebrows imperiously at her. Cord wanted to smile. ‘Cordelia, would you go and put on the kettle? I have been inside. I must say, Lauren, you’ve done a wonderful job.’

  Cord stepped over the threshold, steeling herself for the old familiarity of the place, for the smell – of pine needles, dust, sea, people – but it never came. The wood panelling that made the place feel so warm and cosy was still on some walls, but on others the damp had meant the panelling had been removed, and replaced with freshly painted plaster, primrose yellow in the kitchen, cream and warm grey in the sitting room. Cord filled the kettle and turned it on, admiring the blinds in the kitchen-diner and the window seat, covered in a Duncan Grant print. The old skirting boards and door knobs and the damp were all gone – everything was clean, fresh and new. Gone were the photos lining the staircase – just a few remained, four or five at most.

  It was the house it had always been, but the weight of memory on the place had vanished. Cord took a deep breath and closed her eyes, as the autumn tide roared outside. She opened the French window, admiring its smooth new action, to thank Lauren, to tell her how wonderful she was, but only her mother was there.

  ‘They’ve gone for a walk on the beach,’ Althea said, and she patted the back of her own head, then ran her fingertips over her pursed, lined mouth. ‘Come and sit down.’

  Cord sank on to the wicker seat next to her mother. She wanted to stare at her ruined face, to ask her if she minded: it was the thing she had always feared most. She wanted to ask her so many things, she didn’t know where to begin.

  Eventually Althea said, ‘First things first. The Bosky is yours after I die, that’s what you need to know. It’s in my will – but briefly, so you hear about it before I’m dead, you will also receive a share of the money we raised from the sale of the Twickenham house, not as much as Ben, to make reparation for your being given the Bosky. But it was your father’s most fervent wish that the house be yours. So there it is. Now, as to the other assets—’

  Cord put her hand on her mother’s arm. ‘Mumma, I don’t care about the assets. Why did he leave it to me? Why not Ben?’

  ‘Ah.’ Althea blinked. ‘Well, Ben had money. You don’t.’

  ‘But – when Daddy died I was doing OK,’ said Cord, after a moment’s thought. ‘I was still performing, my voice hadn’t gone. He wasn’t to know I’d – he didn’t know I’d need the cash more than Ben. That doesn’t make sense.’

  Her mother shrugged. ‘Things don’t always make sense.’

  ‘Anyway,’ Cord said eventually. ‘I don’t need the house. I don’t need anything from you. I just wanted to see you again.’ Her voice sounded very thin. ‘I’m sorry, Mumma.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For – not seeing you, all these years.’ Cord bowed her head; a tear fell into her coat, staining the hatched texture a darker black.

  ‘You had your reasons. And Daddy had his. That’s why he left you the house, you see. He wanted you to remember . . . to remember that you’d been happy here.’

  ‘But—’ Cord opened her mouth to say something, and stopped. ‘Thanks, Mumma. Now, tell me how you are.’

  ‘Boring.’ Althea shook her head. ‘Not me. I want you to understand, my darling. You have to understand why he did it. He knew, you see. He knew it was all his fault. That Ben ran away, and lost his fingers. It was his fault you rejected us, long before the business with him and poor Mads, his fault Mads killed herself – he knew.’

  The clouds on the horizon swelled and retracted; Cord blinked. ‘You knew that?’ Althea nodded. Gently, she pressed her fingers to each side of her head. ‘Mumma, you never said anything.’

  ‘But it was so long ago,’ said Althea, almost impatiently. ‘Moons ago, Cordelia. We were all different then. Golden lads and girls all must, / As chimney sweepers, come to dust. You remember that? You sang that song, darling. He was the golden lad, do you understand? I long ago stopped holding your father to the same standards as other people.’

  ‘Why?’ Cord pressed her hands to her burning cheeks. ‘Didn’t you care?’ She swallowed. ‘You must have known, Mumma. About the affairs. Those younger women. We knew.’

  Althea looked out to sea and shrugged.

  ‘You are funny. And you’re not at all like me, are you. I never realised before. Look at this jacket, for example.’ She fingered the black nylon, and Cord blinked, then found herself laughing.

  ‘Mumma. What on earth are you talking about?’

  ‘I simply mean I’d never embark on a day out wearing a coat like this. One of the ways in which we are entirely different.’

  ‘Thanks ever so much,’ said Cord, laughing again.

  ‘You’ve always been like this, darling. You see it your way – you understand? You can’t conceive of how it could be any other. You consider that you are Right. You only see your father, an adulterer, lying to all of us, responsible for your relationship breaking up, Ben’s accident, Mads’s death, all these other terrible things too. But I see him as the young man he was when I met him. I still see the man I fell in love with.’ She nodded at something imaginary, as if it were in front of her, and then blinked heavily. ‘Gosh.’

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes. It gives me strange sensations, this object growing inside my head. It makes me forget some things and then quite suddenly remember others. And I like sitting by my window, at the home, just up from the Bosky. I like thinking. I see the past quite clearly.’

  She fiddled with her skirt, the too-large wedding ring swinging on her scrawny finger. Cord watched her, then swallowed down the ball of whatever it was at the back of her throat. ‘Do you, Mumma?’

  ‘I do, Cordy. People don’t consider there might be another side to the story, another way of viewing the action, do you understand me?’ Cord nodded. ‘Exactly. The first time we came here, for example. And he found out about Julia’s abortion and her illness. He told me about Daphne. And the war. And his parents.’

  ‘Julia? Mads’s aunt, you mean?’ Cord thought her mother was a little confused. ‘Who’s Daphne, Mumma?’

  Althea blinked again. ‘Did you know, Cordy, Daddy saw his mother die? He was next to her in the cupboard under the stairs when they were hit, and he saw her. One side was completely torn away.’ She was speaking faster and faster, gabbling to let the words out as if she didn’t have enough time. ‘Did you know he was in a hospital in Camden for a month, and no one came to visit him, because his parents were dead and everyone else had either been evacuated or killed or they didn’t know where he was? Did he ever tell you that? Not one person, till his aunt came for him.’ Cord shook her head, mesmerised by the low, musical voice. ‘Did you know the last time he saw his father he said he’d got him a place at Downham Hall, which was his old school. And Daddy had a blazing row with him about how he wasn’t going to go to some stuffy, stuck-up boarding school, especially not in the middle of a war. His father left in a terrible rage. He was killed a few days later. Dinah did everything to get him to that school, she felt she had to. She was wrong, of course, but that’s why Daddy was so keen for Benny to go to school, and why he couldn’t see how stupid it was to force him. People repeat mistakes.

  ‘And did you know he was in love with Julia, they used to meet in the sand dunes and make love – all very innocent, he told me all about her. And she was caught by Ian and her father and she had an abortion. She lost two pints of blood, then she got an infection, and she nearly died. She was in hospital for weeks. She couldn’t ever have children. She wrote to tell him but her father and her school never
posted the letters. They said she was – oh, they told her she was a whore, a slut, a prostitute. He managed to get a letter to her years afterwards, in Australia, but she didn’t really want to know. It was just before our wedding, I remember how upset he was when she wrote back and said they couldn’t be friends, they couldn’t be anything any more. Poor Julia. And he blamed himself, your father did, and it wasn’t his fault, wasn’t at all, just a condom that didn’t work properly. All they were doing was loving each other.

  ‘And his greatest love was maybe Aunt Dinah. I often think she’s the woman he was looking for all his life, and he never found her again. He told me everything. He used to tell me everything, that is.

  ‘Now. Tell me why you think what he did with Madeleine was so wrong.’

  Cord said, quietly, ‘So you knew? About Daddy – and Mads? And you – you don’t mind?’

  ‘I wish he hadn’t been unfaithful. Her too. But I don’t mind. Look, look at what the result was.’

  ‘She killed herself, Mumma.’ Cord lowered her voice, her throat hurting so much now she could hardly speak. ‘Her children are my half-sisters, they’re their father’s half-sisters, for God’s sake. How can you possibly not see it? It’s like a Greek tragedy. It’s – it was abuse. It’s incest, I told him it was. It’s disgusting.’

  ‘You don’t know that.’ Althea pushed her hand over her hair, blinking fast.

  Cord moved away from her. ‘Oh, Mumma. For God’s sake. You sound like him.’

  What had Daddy said to her on that dreadful last day? They’re not his sisters . . . I absolutely promise you. I swear it.

  ‘He had his reasons.’

  ‘That’s absolute bull—’ Cord took a deep breath and stopped, remembering the promise she’d made to herself that morning in the flat. Don’t get upset. Stay calm.

  Althea said, again, ‘You aren’t listening to me, I know. He had his reasons to do what he did. You see, it goes back to what I was saying. You see it your way. I see it from his point of view. Yes, it was wrong in lots of ways, but he gave Mads children. That’s all she wanted. He made her happy before she died.’