Luckily Cord and Madeleine arrived back that instant, having got chatting to some other children by the beach huts, and he was able to hang back and let them take over, exclaiming over Belinda Beauchamp’s hair and sandals, her necklace – ‘It’s lovely, did you make it?’ ‘No, my mother brought it back from Marrakech.’
That was the sort of chatter he was hopeless at. It wasn’t until they were downstairs washing their hands for lunch that he said to Cord, ‘She’s nice, isn’t she? I hope she’s nice. I don’t want her ruining our holiday.’
‘She’s nice enough,’ Cord said darkly. ‘But she needs to wear a bra. It’s totally inappropriate to have them hanging out like that, not with a top that see-through. I don’t care what Women’s Lib says. Mumma won’t like it either.’
Chapter Nine
Belinda Beauchamp was only supposed to stay for two nights but a week later she was still there. Uncle Bertie reappeared after two years’ absence, sporting a mysterious black eye he claimed was the result of an argument with a belligerent milkman blocking the road early one morning. Daddy’s old friends Guy and Olivia de Quetteville were there too, for the weekend: they knew Kenneth, Belinda’s godfather – in Mumma and Daddy’s world everyone knew everyone. Ben found it wasn’t like that in the real world.
While the de Quettevilles were staying Ben slept on the sofa and Bertie on the porch hammock, really quite happily, and Madeleine had to go back to her father’s, he said, though Cord said it was jolly mean to make her. But Mumma was firm, saying Madeleine had to make an appearance there once or twice in the holidays, it wasn’t fair to ignore her father completely. Cord said – with reason, Ben thought – well, why did he still bother to go to Worth Bay in the summer anyway when he obviously hated it so much?
Ian Fletcher came to fetch Mads after tea, and Cord stared at him – they never saw him. He was thin, and wiry, with a small bristly moustache, a long face with a tuft of hair at the top. ‘He looks like a toothbrush,’ Cord had said, and Ben had wanted to laugh out of nerves, because Mads’s father barely said a word, didn’t make eye contact, spoke to Mads whilst staring at the floor. Mumma invited him in for a drink, and he said no, and Ben loved her for trying, for being friendly.
‘Thank you, but it’s time to go back,’ he’d said to Mads, and she’d trailed along behind him, head down, waving one listless arm, and Cord had squeezed Ben’s hand. They hated the idea of her staying at Beeches with him now. She didn’t belong to him any more: she belonged to them.
Belinda Beauchamp shared Cord’s room. Cord was funny about Belinda Beauchamp, Ben could tell she was falling for her a bit and he didn’t like it much. Cord was a great one for crushes, on the French mistress and Carolyn who’d starred in the play at school. That summer she was very into poetry, and songs. She was always quoting things Belinda said and had entirely stopped wearing her plaits, although instead of her hair flowing around her shoulders like rippling sunlight-ish water, as Belinda’s did, it sort of stuck out at the edges, brown and dried with sun and sea.
They’d sing together in their room, Ben would hear them. It was lovely. Cord rarely sang in front of her parents. She’d only sing inside the Bosky when Mumma was sunning herself out on the little patch of sand in front that got the sun. This was in the mornings, and Belinda Beauchamp would strum her guitar softly waiting for Daddy to come out on the porch and then they’d rehearse together, he laughing, she gently encouraging. She was a good teacher, Ben could tell, having had ample experience of bad ones. Daddy didn’t have a good singing voice, though his speaking voice was obviously fine. He made a sort of strangulated noise when he had to sing; it was something of a family joke and though when they were younger he’d sung often, and loudly, over the years he’d become self-conscious about it. He’d turned down several parts because they had singing in them. Ben wondered why he hadn’t turned Jane Eyre down, only everyone said it was going to be the next Hartman Hall. They were giving it the big BBC Sunday-night slot on TV, beginning the week after the next series of Hartman Hall came to an end.
Guy de Quetteville had a small part in Jane Eyre too. His wife, Olivia, was a wonderful stage actress. Normally Ben and Cord avoided the theatre – they’d been forced to go as children and their overriding memory was usually of the too-scratchy velvet lining the boxes they were allocated that prevented them going to sleep. But Ben and Cord had actually enjoyed the one thing they’d seen Olivia in, the previous year. Althea had taken them to see Daddy, who was Bottom to her Titania in A Midsummer Night’s Dream at Regent’s Park Open Air Theatre. As the sun set, twinkling fairy lights had come on in the branches. It was completely magical, and the children had both actually laughed at the business with the chink in the wall and the Rude Mechanicals. Daddy was so funny, waving directly at them at the end of the play, calling out their names so everyone turned to look at them, blowing them kisses – Ben had hated it, but Cord had lapped it all up, the whole evening. Olivia as Titania was beautiful and terrifying and silly at the same time, with blue and green make-up and a gold headdress, and wings, her voice sharp, husky with passion. She was nothing like the elegant, rather dry Olivia whose hair was always perfect and who said very little. Afterwards, when they’d all met at the theatre bar for a drink, the children were too shy to talk to Olivia, normal again in her Breton striped top and cropped trousers.
‘Wasn’t she amazing?’ Cord had whispered, in the long cab drive back to Twickenham afterwards. ‘Wasn’t she just like a real queen? Wasn’t it incredible?’
On Olivia and Guy’s last evening they all sat out on the porch after supper – the children were up later than usual, Madeleine having eaten with them as well. A full August moon hung low in the sky; the stars were brighter than ever, the Plough just over the roof north of the house.
It had been another heavy, hot day: no wind, no chill at night. Daddy was downstairs, talking to his agent in America. Mumma and Bertie were flopped out in the chairs and Guy and Olivia were on the sofa. Belinda Beauchamp sat on the footstool, gently plucking at the guitar, just a few random chords here and there. The crickets chirped loudly in the hedgerow behind them; candles burned to ward off the mosquitos. It was perfectly still. The children sat huddled together on the old patterned mattress in the corner, half asleep but not wanting to move in case the grown-ups realised and made them go to bed. And suddenly, Olivia started speaking.
Fear no more the heat o’ the sun
Nor the furious winter’s rages
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages:
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney sweepers, come to dust.
She didn’t say it loudly, or declaim, just spoke gently, and it made the hairs on Ben’s whole body stand up. He knew the verse: Althea had taught it to him and Cord, a little song to sing when they were afraid, having woken from a bad dream, or having to come back to a dark house before she’d had a chance to turn the lights on, when shadows moved and made them both jump. But, listening to it again, the verses scared him, rather than comforting him. We will all die, and come to dust. He bit his thumb, shaking away the bad memories again, helpless to stop them. It was like that, when they came: he’d be fine for days, weeks sometimes, and something would happen and he was strapped to the chair, watching it all unfold again. He balled his damaged left hand into the right one and swallowed, pushing down bile.
But then suddenly Cord, hidden in the shadows, started singing.
Fear no more the lightning flash
Nor the all-dreaded thunder stone.
She stopped, and cleared her throat just a little. Then she slid her hand into Ben’s, squeezing them tight.
Fear not slander, censure rash;
Thou hast finished joy and moan:
All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust.
She sang two more verses, hand still in his, her voice swelling as the final verse sounded loud, Belinda Beauchamp p
icking out a tiny harmony on the guitar, and when she finished there was silence. Ben squeezed her hand tighter still.
‘I know you’re afraid of things,’ Cordy said to him, so quietly that even Mads, half asleep, wouldn’t have heard. ‘I wish you weren’t, Ben. I’ll always look after you. Promise. We’re the Wildflowers.’
He said nothing; his throat was too tight. ‘Did you hear me?’ she said, still very quiet. ‘I promise. I’ll always look after you. We’ll always be together.’
He nodded, still unable to speak, and squeezed her warm little hand again.
Belinda had put her guitar down. ‘Cord,’ she said, in a strange voice, ‘who taught you that song?’
‘Mumma,’ said Cord, absently, still looking at her brother. ‘She had to learn it at Central.’
‘I mean—’ Belinda blinked. She turned to Mumma, who was smiling at Cord. ‘Has someone taught her to sing like that?’
Mumma was nonplussed. ‘No. She’s got a lovely voice, though, haven’t you, Cord? Always has done.’
‘Yes,’ said Belinda Beauchamp quietly. ‘Yes, she really has. I wonder . . .’
Olivia clapped gently. ‘Hear, hear,’ she said, and Guy joined in. ‘Marvellous, Cordy, here, imaginary bouquets to you, prima donna.’
Ben knew Cord wouldn’t like clapping, or flattery, she didn’t do it to show off or get applause, she did it because singing was part of her. It always had been. His first memory of his little sister was of her in a cherry-red knitted cardigan with a rose on it, humming to herself as she lay back in her cot, waving her fat feet in the air. Belinda Beauchamp got up, stumbling a little on a loose floorboard. At the doorway she paused.
‘You were born to sing,’ she said. ‘It’s a gift, singing like that. You must use it.’
She went downstairs, and the others were left looking at each other. Cord said nothing, just stared at the French windows, where Belinda Beauchamp had been standing. Mads giggled.
‘She’s ever so dramatic.’
‘Belinda? She’s a funny girl, rather theatrical. But I’m fond of her,’ said Mumma, sipping her drink. ‘It was her great dream to sing professionally, you know. But she had a growth on her vocal cords. They took it out last year. She hasn’t sung since.’ Glancing at Cord, she said, ‘It is a gift, darling, she’s right.’
Ben said hotly, ‘She’s not a funny girl.’
He saw his mother turn to him, and felt himself blush, furiously.
‘Sweetheart – I wasn’t laughing at her.’
‘She’s not over-dramatic, she’s just being honest, you wouldn’t understand that . . .’ He trailed off, his face hot, and there was silence. He couldn’t say what he really wanted to. What he’d wanted to say to Mumma these last few years and never would. But this last week, meeting Belinda, had changed everything. Though there was seven years between them he was going to tell her soon that he loved her and the age gap wouldn’t matter. Daddy was years older than Mumma, not that they were any example. Ben vowed he’d become rich somehow and she’d never have to worry about teaching again, and he’d find someone to mend her voice and he would look after her for everything else . . . Her gentle voice, her sweet nature, the way her breasts bounced against her top . . . She was natural and real. ‘She’s not a liar. Not like you.’
There was a thick, tricky silence. ‘What do you mean?’ his mother asked, eventually, and there was a dangerous note in her voice. He heard Guy mutter something to Olivia.
‘You know what I mean, Mumma,’ he said, his voice trembling.
They were on the brink, he knew, and he was about to step into the chasm—
But then he shook his head. ‘It was all she wanted to do and it’s been taken away from her. That’s – that’s all.’ Ben shrugged, retreating from the edge of the abyss. But, I know all about you and Daddy. I’ve known for three years now, he thought, looking at her.
Guy muttered something about turning in and Olivia nodded assent. Ben saw her raise an amused eyebrow at Althea, who smiled. Rage coursed through him. They were all liars, all cheats.
Olivia stood up. ‘Well done, Cordy,’ she said, blowing Cord a kiss. ‘That really was astonishingly beautiful. I’ll be watching you at Covent Garden some day, I’ve a feeling in my bones.’ She yawned. ‘Gosh, I’m done in now.’
Mumma suddenly seemed to notice the time. ‘Mads, you’d better sleep on the other sofa, since it’s so late,’ she said. ‘Ben, go and fetch some spare sheets from our room.’ She came over to them, looking down as she stumbled slightly. ‘That floorboard is loose,’ she said. ‘We need to nail it up – why, Mads, you look done in, darling. Let me get you a glass of milk. Cord, go and help Ben fetch the bedding.’ She touched Cord’s chin. ‘You made me very proud. Cordy? Are you listening? Go and help Ben.’ She pressed her daughter’s shoulder, lightly, and Cord shook herself.
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ she said. Afterwards, long after this, she would tell Ben what that moment was like, how everything was clear to her now, how she knew she had found the missing piece of the puzzle. She shook Ben’s arm. ‘Come on, let’s go.’
She turned for the staircase and went downstairs, and Ben followed.
But Cord reached Mumma and Daddy’s bedroom before him and put her hand on the door handle. Noiselessly she opened the door and was now standing still, staring into the room through a narrow crack in the doorway. The dim glow of the bedside lamp cast her into golden shadow. Her mouth fell open, into a small O. Slowly, she shook her head.
He moved towards her, afraid, and she tried to push him back but he stood behind her instead and stared over her shoulder. He screwed up his tired eyes, afraid now of what she could see.
Visible through the partly opened door was their father, pushing up against someone on the far wall. He was groaning, then he moved back and Ben saw it was Belinda he was pressing himself against. Daddy had his hands on her waist, her top was wide open, and he was kissing her, and her head was thrown back. He could see her small, even teeth. Her golden hair was all messy.
‘No,’ she was saying, wildly. ‘Oh, Tony, I came down to tell you—’
‘Shh, my darling, quietly,’ Daddy said, kissing her neck, and he pulled down her gathered top, exposing her plump, beautiful breasts and with his big hands he held them, lifting them a little so that the soft white flesh spilled out on either side of his tanned fingers. He began kissing one breast then the other, Belinda sagging slightly, her eyes closed, and Ben thought he might be sick.
‘All night, I’ve been waiting for this,’ Daddy was saying. ‘It’s torture to watch you, do you realise . . .?’
Cord reached for Ben’s hand, hanging beside her. He rested his chin on her shoulder. Her fingers tightened around his.
Daddy’s hair was fluffed out at the back, and slightly greying. Ben had never noticed before. Mumma’s nightie was on the bed, pink silk and oyster lace. She had a matching dressing gown. She’d bought it from Harrods with the first lot of the Hartman Hall money; Ben remembered the day she’d come back from shopping, swinging the bags as she got out of the cab . . . He looked at it, then back at them. Ben could see Belinda Beauchamp’s nipples now, shell-pink and tight, the flush on her neck. He thought frantically that if he got an erection now, watching this, he would be the most disgusting person alive.
In the first few seconds it seemed unbelievable they hadn’t been noticed. But the door was only open a foot or so and he found himself staring for a little longer, straining to hear their frantic whispers, the wild, hungry look on her face.
After another moment Cord backed out, quietly, not daring to shut the door again, and turned to him. Her heart-shaped face was white. Then she pursed her lips together, gave a small shrug: What do we do?
In answer Ben turned and went upstairs, and Cord followed him, slowly, silently.
‘Did you know?’ she whispered, at the top of the stairs.
Ben shrugged. ‘Not really.’ He ached to tell her what he had heard the night he’d run away. They’
re both liars, as bad as each other. Upstairs, he could hear Mads and Althea in the sun room, laughing at something.
Cord’s eyes were huge. ‘It’s – it’s awful. Daddy—’ She rubbed her face. ‘How could he?’
‘That’s what they do,’ Ben said. He shrugged bleakly.
Her face was utterly white.
‘Well, I won’t be like that, like either of them,’ she said. Ben smiled for the first time.
‘How can you say that?’
‘I can because I know.’ She shook her head again. ‘My throat hurts from whispering. What do we do about the sheets?’ Her hands closed over his wrist; she stared up at him imploringly; she wanted him to make everything all right and he couldn’t.
Ben went to the crowded dresser. He picked up an old stone paperweight, shaped like a bird, and held it in his hand. Cord stared at it.
‘What are you doing?’ she hissed.
Ben met her gaze. He stretched out his arm and dropped the bird over the bannisters that looked into the hall. It smashed on to the hall table, shattering the bowl that held the keys, shattering the ink-black silence of the floor below. Then, seconds later, he heard his father’s voice.
‘Jesus, what the hell was that?’ Daddy appeared in the corridor, shutting the bedroom door behind him. Ben ran downstairs, glancing up at Cord.
‘I knocked that bird over . . . it must have fallen off the dresser, and I kicked it through the bannisters.’
‘That was Aunt Dinah’s. Alulim. He’s very old.’ Daddy was crouched, sweeping up the bits. ‘She dug him up. Jesus, Ben. Jesus Christ.’
‘It was an accident, Daddy,’ Cord called over the bannisters to him.
‘I know it was an accident but please, be a bit more careful next time. Someone might have been hurt.’
‘Yes, they might,’ Ben said. His father stared at him.
‘You could say sorry, darling.’
The Wildflowers Page 12