‘Good God. Sorry – good grief. How fascinating.’
He smiled. ‘His name was Reverend Goudge. I have the diary and the photographs together, you and your brother must come up some time and look through them. In fact – here. I brought one with me.’ He patted his pockets. ‘A lovely shot of him and his mother, too, I think?’ He pulled out a shiny photograph, a young, unbearably handsome boy, tanned and wearing an old-fashioned costume, with his arm around a woman. Her dark hair was pinned up wildly, falling down around her face, and her mouth was wide open as she laughed, showing her fine cheekbones, her clear eyes, fringed with dark lashes. She had a paisley shawl tied in a careless knot around her neck, and she was gripping him proudly. Both of them were smiling at the camera: he with lowered head, slightly embarrassed, but beaming, she looking at him with a huge grin.
‘That was his aunt,’ said Cord. ‘She’s beautiful – I never realised. She’s young, too—’ She peered at the photograph. ‘She was young. I always thought she was old when she looked after him. Fifties, sixties.’ And something began scratching away at her again, something that troubled her whenever she thought of Dinah, though she couldn’t have isolated it and understood it as such.
‘His aunt. I see. They’re very alike.’
‘Aren’t they?’
‘Yes,’ said this nice vicar. He took the photo and turned it over. ‘Look. He’s written on the back, “The Wildflowers, Ant and Dinah, 1942.” Isn’t that interesting.’
‘Dinah Wilde, that’s her. Actually, she was his great-aunt,’ added Cord, but at the same time she found herself thinking, What does it matter? Family titles, what did they actually mean, as long as one loved and was loved in return?
‘Well, come up soon and have a look.’
‘Yes, please. I plan to come down here for weekends and so on, and my brother and my nieces too. It’s all of ours, really. These days I’m more likely to be away for . . .’ She trailed off. ‘For work,’ she added, and it sounded so strange to say it again.
‘Ah, well, yes,’ he said, rather eagerly. ‘I didn’t want to mention it . . . My wife and I saw you as Dido last month at the Bath Festival. You were quite wonderful.’
‘Oh, gosh—’ she began, still hardwired over the past twenty years to feel a mortification when confronted with someone who’d heard her sing. And then she stopped, and remembered. It worked. It works again. For it wasn’t as romantic or dramatically satisfying as saying she’d Found her Voice, despite the narrative of numerous newspaper articles about her return to performing. It was that a part of her had been fixed, by an operation in which two men in blue scrubs talked to her and cut open her throat and three days afterwards she could sing again and a month later her voice was better than it had been for years. It was scientific. One could fix this problem, but not others.
‘It was sublime,’ the Reverend James was saying. ‘Quite the best version we’ve heard. We came up from Dorset especially for it. I was there at the Proms that night, you see, all those years ago – I’ve often felt rather privileged to have been there at the beginning of your career. Yes, it’s something we’ve often remarked on, Allison and I. A great privilege.’
The tip of his nose was rather pink. He smiled at her, awkwardly.
‘Gosh. Well, thank you. But the operation was only four months ago – I’m still not quite back to where I’d like to be.’
‘My dear, it was a great honour, to hear you sing again,’ Reverend James said. ‘Come up to the vicarage soon.’ Then, touching her arm lightly and, in that abstract way of vicars and the Royal Family, giving a small nod, he moved seamlessly on to another guest.
Cord turned away, to catch the sun just beginning to fade, amber and silvery gold ripples threading through the sky. An elderly guest, one of Althea’s cast mates on Hartman Hall, begged her attention, wanting to ask about her singing too, and so Cord answered her questions politely, settling her into a chair and fetching her a glass of wine.
As she returned with the glass she saw Iris, at the bottom of the porch steps, chatting to someone, an older man. She put her hand on her niece’s shoulder.
‘How are you, Iris dear?’ she asked, tenderly, and her niece smiled at her with a look of familiarity that took Cord’s breath away. ‘This is such a lovely party, isn’t it?’
Iris was looking at her a little strangely. ‘Yes, of course – Aunt Cord, can I introduce you to someone? He’s an old friend of Dad’s – he’s the one who lives in the basement at the moment – I can’t remember if you know him or not. Hamish? Hamish Lowther?’
Oh, come on, Cord thought, as she glanced around for her brother, so she could give him a hard stare. But he was nowhere to be seen and so she shook the proffered hand of the man before her.
‘Hamish Lowther. Well, hello,’ she said.
‘Well. Hello to you too.’
Hamish folded her small hand inside both of his, and looked at her. He was older – of course, the blonde beauty of his youth grizzled to grey, his willowy figure gone, more thickset, his shoulders broad, his face lined. He suited middle age, in fact. His dark grey eyes smiled at her as he carried on holding her hand.
‘Cordelia,’ he said, in his low, tremendous voice. ‘It’s wonderful to see you.’
Her skin prickled, the old instinct kicking in, telling her danger was near. But she ignored it, with great effort. She smiled at him; she found she couldn’t stop smiling. ‘What on earth—’
He interrupted, and leaned towards her. ‘Listen, before you get cross with me – your mother wanted me to be here. Was quite insistent. She gave Ben a list of people, apparently – I wouldn’t have come otherwise, promise—’
Cord was torn between amusement at his obvious fear of her displeasure and sadness. I really did do a great job of pushing him away, didn’t I?
She thought of the men over the years with whom she’d managed to escape becoming too entangled. That was how she’d always thought of it – an enmeshing, becoming trapped in some net from which there was no escape. She looked at him, her fingers still clasping his.
‘But it’s lovely to see you. Mumma loved you. Thank you. I’m glad you’re here.’
‘I’m glad to be here. It’s very strange, being back.’
‘I know. But you get used to it,’ she told him. She looked around. The soft light from the lanterns glowed as the sun slipped behind the molten silver sea. ‘You have a daughter, don’t you? How is she doing?’
‘Amabel’s very well, thanks. She’s training to be an optician.’
‘An optician?’
‘I know,’ said Hamish. ‘An actual job. I’m so proud of her.’
‘Good for her – but Hamish, how old is she? Isn’t she about twelve?’
‘She’s twenty-five, Cordy.’
‘Jesus,’ said Cord, automatically. ‘Sorry. So she didn’t want to be an actor then.’
He was still holding her hand. He shook his head, solemnly. ‘No. I think it’s a pretty stupid occupation, if you ask me. No job security. Sends you mad.’
‘You gave it up, didn’t you? I assume you’re the Charles Trenet-loving accountant who lives in Ben’s basement?’
‘Yes, I am,’ he said, smiling. ‘I’m actually being interviewed on the radio next week. I’m the only actor-turned-accountant alive, apparently. They want to know what’s wrong with me and why you’d give it up.’
‘You were successful, though, that’s why they’re interested.’
‘I didn’t want that life. I was changing.’ His jaw was tight. ‘It’s hard to explain.’
‘I can understand why you’d leave it behind.’ She looked down at their entwined fingers. ‘I really can.’
‘You need to understand something else, too – I’m moving into a flat of my own, next month. I’m not a permanent house guest there. Just – you need to know that.’
She pulled her fingers away from his. ‘OK.’
‘It’s awfully good to see you again, Cord,’ he said, and she gave a soft, br
oken laugh.
‘You too. Oh – oh, dear, you too.’ Already she ached for the warmth of his hands again. Oh, the comfort of him, someone who knew her, who’d known them all for years, who wouldn’t, couldn’t, be shocked by the Wildes and their stories . . . someone who understood her absolutely, knew what she was like – it was lovely. It wasn’t something to be feared. It was immensely comforting. She said, with an effort at hostessing, ‘How’s – how’s Sunita?’
‘I hear she’s fine. We divorced about five years ago. I brought her here once, you know, to visit your parents. Your father was very keen on her.’
‘Well, that applies to many people. Many people here, in fact,’ said Cord, waving her hand across the assembled gathering, and he exhaled, with a shout of laughter.
‘I can believe it. Dear old Tony.’
She smiled at him again, joy bubbling up inside her, and Hamish gave a short, sharp intake of breath.
‘Oh, Cordelia. So, Ben says you’ve seen a bit more of him lately.’
‘Oh, yes. And my nieces. And I’ve been down here more. Spending time with Mumma.’
‘I’m so glad. I know it hurt him.’ He said it without reproach. ‘It must have been awfully hard for you. What changed, do you think?’
She shook her head slowly. ‘It’s a long story. For another time.’
‘I’m sure. Of course.’
There was a silence, comfortable, sad. Cord took a deep breath.
‘Do you think one evening we could go for a drink? Catch up, see – see each other again?’
Hamish stared at her, seriously. ‘Maybe,’ he said, and shrugged his shoulders, though he was smiling. ‘Maybe that’d be a good idea. Are you sure?’
‘I think it’d be a good idea,’ she said and he moved against her, so that he covered her, so that he blocked out the rest of the party, so that they were enclosed in their own space, and she didn’t move.
He said, under his breath, ‘I think it’d be a good idea.’
‘I’m busy, though,’ she said, age-old instinct kicking in, and she ducked out, away from his shadow. ‘I – I’ve got lots of work on. I’m in Italy next week, Turin, Milan, Florence, and then I have to go to Salzburg in August . . . You see, I had this operation, earlier in the year and I – I have to sing now. It’s been years since I could and I’ve got lots of work, Hamish—’
Hamish nodded. ‘I heard. Darling, I heard all about it. Of course I did. Ben tells me everything.’
Darling. The word, on his lips, was like a caress, not like the darlings that cluttered her parents’ conversations. Darling.
He said, slowly, ‘I read the Observer interview. I saw a thing on Facebook that someone put up about your first concert. I saw that review in The Times. I check in with Ben most days about you. I really have very little to do at the moment, you know, out of tax return season, apart from follow you and what you’re up to. In a non-sinister way,’ he added, laconically. ‘Very important you understand that, Cord.’
She gave a small laugh.
‘I know you’ve got lots going on. The thing is, I’ll be here. When you want that drink. Or – anything else.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Oh, I’m sure there’s a plethora of burly baritones in opera houses around the world hopeful for your favours.’ He shook with laughter. ‘But be very clear, I’m in my mid-fifties, I have one dodgy knee, my eyesight’s terrible, but I will track all of them down and fight them for your hand. Whilst wearing a large curly moustache and a cloak.’
She laughed. Out of the corner of her eye she saw her brother appear. ‘How can I say no?’
‘Hi, Ben,’ said Hamish.
‘Hamish,’ said Ben, and they clasped hands. ‘I’ll catch up with you in a bit. Cord—’ He touched her arm, and she turned to her brother, still smiling. Her face froze at his expression. ‘What’s up?’
‘Come with me,’ he said, nodding at Hamish, but almost tugging at her arm. ‘The beach hut. I was in there—’ He drew her away, and they went down the steps together. ‘I was in there just having one last look round before they take it all down and I pulled off the Flowers and Stones rules, and I found – I found something.’
They were alone on the grassy, sandy expanse between the house and the huts. He handed her a well-known piece of paper, the rules so carefully written out by Cord all those years ago for herself and Mads. The letters were faded to brown, the paper cracking with age. ‘Turn it over,’ he said. ‘Turn it over, look.’ He gripped her hands. ‘Don’t you remember her, coming back? Do you remember her giving it to you? Did he ever see it?’ He rubbed his face.
Cord held the rules with the note scrawled on the back, scanning the fine, looping black characters that had faded almost to nothing. ‘Good grief. This—’ Every hair on her neck seemed to prickle. ‘The angel – that’s what Mumma was trying to remember. So she did come back.’ She blinked, trying to think.
‘Do you remember her?’
‘I don’t know . . . She had wide patterned trousers on. Flowers, they were covered in flowers.’ She laid a hand on her brother’s arm. ‘Ben, she told me to sing.’ She was nodding. ‘She said we were the Wildflowers. It was her. Do you remember?’ She winced, the tiny slivers of memory glinting in her mind’s eye – patterned trousers, messy hair, her father’s hands white at the knuckles as he clutched the angel again and . . . and Mads – a small girl who must have been Mads – laughing . . . laughing till she hiccupped as they staggered in and out of the grasses and flowers as the sun moved across the sky, towards the sea. But Ben was there, or was he ill? Or was it another time? For they had played Flowers and Stones so often it was impossible to remember . . . They had played games all summer, every summer, so how to recall one hour among so many golden days?
Cord shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, darling. But I’m glad we found it. It explains something, doesn’t it?’
Ben nodded, and he scratched his chin. ‘Some things. Not everything.’
‘What do we do? Do we leave the angel there?’
The stiff, crackling old paper felt as though it might crumble at any moment, like ancient texts exposed to the air after years sealed in a tomb. She looked down at the childish writing, turned it over.
Ben said, ‘I don’t know. Probably not.’
‘We can’t just leave her there. She’s not ours.’
‘She is ours, in a way.’
‘Ben – if what’s in this letter is true . . . We have to tell someone we have the angel. The British Museum, or something. Oh, gosh, Mumma would like this, though, drama at the wake.’ Cord smiled. ‘And we don’t know. There’s so much we still don’t know.’
‘That’s it. That’s it exactly. We know some of it, not all of it.’ Ben took the letter, and folded it up. ‘Let’s not think about it now, let’s worry about it tomorrow.’
‘We have to give her back, Ben,’ said Cord, firmly.
‘Maybe. Yes.’ He nodded, their eyes meeting. ‘Yes, Cordy. Listen, before I forget – I keep meaning to tell you Mumma wanted Hamish here. She said he had to come, it was the one thing she really insisted on. I hope you don’t mind—’
‘She knew exactly what she was doing,’ said Cord, trying to keep a bubble of joy from making her laugh. ‘I don’t mind. I’m very glad, in fact.’
‘That’s almost a declaration of love, coming from you, Cordy.’
She nudged him affectionately. Ben shut the door on the beach hut and put his arm around his sister, and together they walked back up the winding path to the house, Cord plucking flowers and leaves as she went: poppies, little red knotgrass, lavender, honeysuckle. The Bosky rose up in front of them as they came to the top of the path. The coloured lights hanging from the roof swayed with the gentlest motion in the summer breeze. Behind them, the sea licked the shore. It would do so all night, and in the morning it would still be there, water gently lapping at the land. Nothing would change.
‘It’s your house,’ Ben said in her ear.
‘
It’s ours,’ Cord said, hugging him firmly. She was here, with them all. She looked up at Venus, firmly shining, a pinprick of platinum in the pale blue night sky.
‘Goodbye, my loves,’ she said, quietly, and she scattered the flowers she had picked, letting them fall around her feet, and Ben’s. The scent of them hung for the briefest moment in the air, and then was gone.
II
1972
Miss Cordelia Wilde, six years old, sat gloomily in the window seat staring out at the cloudless sky. Laid neatly next to her on the floor were her shrimping net, her new blue spade with the wooden handle, and a jar with the little crab that she and Daddy had caught the previous day when they’d arrived, hot and sweaty after the long car journey from London. The crab was not moving. It had not moved since she’d brought it back.
‘It’s not fair,’ she said again, for the tenth time. ‘Why can’t I go for a swim yet?’
‘Life isn’t fair,’ said her father, not looking up from his paper. ‘It’s utterly unfair, as you’ll discover. However, as I have said to you now about fifty times, old girl, the moment I’ve finished me coffee and me paper I’ll have a shave and we can go out.’
‘I can go swimming on my own.’
‘You’re six years old,’ said Daddy. ‘You haven’t been in the sea for a year. You can’t go on your own. Even someone as intrepid as you, my sweet girl.’
Cord picked up her square of toast from the cushion, and chewed on it. ‘It’s not fair.’
‘Look,’ said her mother, turning the page of her book. ‘While Ben’s got his temperature he’s staying in bed and you can go to the beach with Daddy. He’s nearly finished his cornflakes, look, darling.’ Tony didn’t move. ‘Haven’t you, darling?’ She shoved her husband’s chair with one slender foot.
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