The Wildflowers

by Harriet Evans

  Ben turned round to accept the congratulations of another diner behind him. Cord leaned as close as she could to Mads and whispered, ‘I love you, as if you were my own sister, you know that.’ She touched her forehead to Mads’s, and wanted to cry, though she didn’t know quite why exactly.

  Then she hugged her brother. ‘Oh, Ben. Lovely brother.’

  ‘We thought you might be a bit funny about it,’ he explained.

  ‘Course not,’ said Cord, wiping one eye. ‘I’m not a jealous teenager any more. I’m—’ She looked at her watch. ‘You know what, I actually can’t go for a drink,’ she said, and pushed her hair out of her eyes. ‘Dammit.’

  The other three stared at her. ‘Really?’ said Hamish, first.

  ‘I have an audition in the morning,’ she explained. ‘First thing.’

  ‘You never said.’

  ‘It’s – it’s top secret.’

  Mads nodded, politely. ‘How exciting. You can’t tell us anything about it?’

  Cord hesitated. ‘No, I can’t.’

  ‘That’s convenient,’ said Hamish, quietly.

  She turned to him. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Their eyes locked. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I don’t lie,’ Cord said, quietly. ‘It’s true.’

  ‘She doesn’t, she’s right,’ said Ben. ‘Never has done.’

  Hamish put his scarf around his neck. ‘I want to celebrate with you guys. Shall we go and find that pub? Cord, can you come for one drink?’

  ‘I—’ Cord was torn. ‘I’m sorry. I did promise them. I really did. I’ll walk with you towards Charing Cross Road. I can get the bus from there.’

  They walked down Berwick Street, busy on a Friday in late July. Tired, tawdry young women stood in doorways. Brackish liquid pooled on the pavements. Down the road towards Piccadilly, the lights from the Windmill and the Raymond Revuebar glittered.

  ‘It’s not very nice round here, is it?’ said Mads, looking round with interest. ‘Where are we?’

  ‘Soho,’ said Hamish. ‘It used to be nice. It’s a bit crummy these days. Still, all of human life is here. Where’s your dad’s pub?’

  ‘On Wardour Street. The Moon Under Water,’ said Cord, and the four of them walked, in silence, Mads and Ben in front.

  The atmosphere was different. It’s all my fault, Cord thought. I can’t tell them about the audition, can I? They’d go mad if I did . . . it’ll come to nothing, I’m sure . . . But just in case . . . She squeezed Hamish’s arm, as if trying to let him know, via ESP, that she was sorry for behaving badly. He squeezed it back, his warm fingers on her skin, and began humming ‘La Mer’. He was always humming, usually songs by French singers, or trying to sing them in execrable French. His fingers tightened around hers. I could just lean in to you, and never stop leaning, she thought and again the prickling feeling started.

  ‘Well, it’s a great night,’ Hamish said, in his soft voice. ‘I’m glad we could all celebrate your news.’

  Cord wished he wouldn’t say things like that. Childishly she broke her arm free of his grasp. ‘The pub’s just here.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Ben. ‘Oh, it’s not the one I’m thinking of then.’

  ‘It’s busy,’ said Mads, doubtfully.

  Cord suddenly felt responsible for the evening. ‘Look, I’ll come in for a blackcurrant and soda. Let me just see if there’s any room—’

  She left them and went across the road, standing on tiptoe to peer into the window of the pub. She was still, pressing her nose against the dirty glass, breathing fast, and then came back across. A motorbike dodged past her, and hooted.

  ‘There’s no room,’ she said. ‘Let’s – let’s go somewhere different.’

  But there wasn’t anywhere else – it was almost eleven, and other than brothels and private drinking clubs, there was nowhere open. ‘Are you sure?’ Ben asked. ‘Not just a tiny table we could all—’ He stepped off the kerb.

  ‘No!’ Cord called, angrily. ‘God, why don’t you believe me? Don’t, just don’t.’

  ‘I only wanted to—’

  She nodded. ‘I’m sorry. Anyway, you know, you’d better go if you’re catching the last train to Richmond. Otherwise you’ll be stuck on the night bus.’ She caught her brother’s hand, pulling him away from the kerb so that his back was to the pub. ‘Look. What about if you come back to my halls? I’ve got a bottle of whisky from Aunt Isla. I have to sleep but you guys could—’

  ‘Stand in the street drinking?’ said Hamish, wryly.

  ‘Oh—’ said Mads. ‘That’d be so lovely, but you’re right, it’s getting late—’

  ‘I’m not sure where the night bus goes from—’ Ben began. ‘Perhaps we had better get the tube. It’s just—’

  Cord breathed a sigh of relief. ‘I’ll show you how to get to Embankment tube. You’ll remember, won’t you, Ben?’

  Ben said, ‘I don’t know.’ He looked deflated. Hamish was staring at Cord, disappointment on his face.

  ‘We’ll celebrate properly soon!’ Cord said. ‘After you’ve told Mumma and Daddy. How about that?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ben. ‘Our last night down here’s tomorrow. How about you plan to come over then, both of you?’

  Cord laughed. ‘I can’t. It sounds like I’m avoiding you, but I really can’t.’

  ‘What is this thing tomorrow?’ Mads said, curiously. ‘You really are being so mysterious. Are you going to the moon? Are you singing for the Queen?’

  But Cord just shook her head.

  They walked down Charing Cross Road, past the theatres, thronged with crowds, lights blinking. Cord saw them off towards the District line of the tube, and then she and Hamish turned around, towards Covent Garden and the deserted streets around Seven Dials.

  ‘Do you want to come to mine?’ Hamish said. ‘We should have got on the tube with them, I suppose.’

  ‘No, I’d better get back.’

  ‘Can you tell me what it’s about? Just me?’

  She said, ‘No, Hamish.’

  ‘Are you seeing someone else?’ He was half joking, but there was a strained tone to his voice. His jaw was tight. ‘Just tell me if you are, Cord.’

  ‘I’m not. Don’t be silly.’

  They were on a quiet street, lined with Georgian houses, down a tiny cul-de-sac. She looked around her, confused; she’d never been this way before.

  ‘It’s not silly. You won’t fix dates. You won’t return my calls. You tell me you love me. You want me. I know you do, you can’t make up the way we are together.’ His hands were clenched. ‘I know your family – I know it’s hard sometimes. I know you think I’m too old for you.’ She was shaking her head. ‘But . . . You break up a nice evening like this, you want everything on your own terms and it’s not always like that, Cord. Grow up. This is real life.’

  She swallowed, her hand on her throat. ‘I am grown up.’

  ‘You’re twenty. You’re a baby.’

  ‘Why are you with me then? Why do you say you love me if you think I’m a baby?’

  ‘Because you’re behaving like one now! Refusing to go into the pub. Acting so weird with them about their engagement. Making up some excuse about needing to go home.’

  ‘I didn’t want to go in there. And I need an early night.’

  Hamish said gently, ‘I know why you didn’t, because of the smoke, because of your voice. Well, that’s fine, but you can’t let it stop you doing—’

  She laughed. ‘I can’t? Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do, Hamish.’ He tried to reply and she held up her hand. ‘Don’t ever tell me that. Ever. It’s my life, singing, I’ve told you that before. It always comes first. It always does.’ She felt as though the dam had burst, that she was free to say what she wanted. ‘It’s my life, and you’re always trying to get me to do what you want, what you think we should do, what you think is best for me. I have to do this tomorrow, OK? You’ll know, you’ll know soon enough. And as for the pub, I don’t ever want to go in
there, and it’s none of your business.’

  She was shaking; he came towards her, his eyes dark. ‘I want what’s best for you because I thought we loved each other. I want to look after you, and vice versa. And you do, you are the kindest person I know. You need someone who watches out for you, who you can lean on, Cordy! I want you to be happy. You need someone to—’

  Cord stepped back. ‘That’s it, though, that’s the thing. I don’t need someone. In fact, I – I really don’t.’ She stared up at him, tears running down her cheeks. ‘I don’t want to be with you any more. I want to be on my own. I have to – I have to be able to do what I need to do. I’m sorry, Hamish. The voice—’

  ‘The voice isn’t everything. It’s not a person. It doesn’t love you.’

  ‘God, what a cliché. You don’t understand, darling, darling Hamish—’ His dear angular kind face, the thick sandy hair with the tuft that stood up the wrong way . . . She wiped her nose on the back of her sleeve, looked down, cleared her aching throat. ‘Professor Mazzi says for the rest of your singing career you have to lay an extra place at the table for your voice. And I will. It’s everything, to me.’

  ‘Everything?’ His voice was hollow.

  ‘Everything.’

  He put out one hand towards her, then let it drop, and they stared at each other, in the moonlit silver-and-dark street.

  The next morning, at eight o’clock, Cord walked up the wide steps below the Albert Hall, looking for Door 11. It was a warm morning, but she had a scarf tied round her neck. There, waiting for her, were Professor Mazzi and Sir Bryan Linton, the director of the Proms, and as they saw her, they started, and moved towards her, eagerly.

  Sir Bryan clasped her hands. ‘My dear Cordelia,’ he said. ‘I trust you got some sleep.’

  Cord smiled. ‘Not much. I’m afraid I – I couldn’t.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. You’d be unusual if you did. Now, come with us, my dear. The orchestra is waiting.’ They were walking along the curved corridors of the vast circular building, picking up pace. ‘Not all of them could make it at this hour, and we don’t have much time, as they need to start packing up the previous night and unloading for tonight. Here we are.’ He opened a pair of doors and they walked down, through the rows and rows of red velvet seats, through the open Prommers area, and Cord stared up at the huge mushroom acoustic diffusers hanging from the vast ceiling, like flying saucers.

  ‘Have you heard from Isotta Cianfanelli?’ she said.

  Sir Bryan shook his head. ‘Not a damn word. My dear, I fully expect she’ll come to her senses and go on tonight, but we can’t assume that, not when no one’s heard a peep from her since she arrived and that was two days ago. I’m afraid she’s very angry with us.’

  Professor Mazzi spoke for the first time. ‘She is an artist. This is how they will behave.’ He held out his hand to Cord, and she realised they had reached the edge of the stage, where steps had been pushed into place for her. She went up, followed by the two men, and the orchestra started clapping, or banging their bows on the music stands, until Sir Bryan called for quiet.

  ‘We do not know whether Miss Cianfanelli is able to sing tonight,’ he said. ‘And her understudy is, as you may or may not know, at home with a broken ankle. The Proms has a fine tradition of debuting new artists. We have asked Miss Wilde to step in and sing the part of the Countess in The Marriage of Figaro. She has just left the Royal Academy of Music, and has performed the role several times there, but we must crave your indulgence, and thank you for supporting her.’

  There was another smattering of applause. The orchestra members gazed at her, some shyly, some openly curious.

  The conductor, Pierre Besson, nodded at her.

  ‘My dear, it is a great honour to conduct your Proms debut.’ He turned back to the orchestra. ‘I have heard this girl sing the Countess before, at the Academy, and she will be one of the great singers of her age. If she goes on . . .’ There was a murmur of amusement. ‘An impossible situation but we will carry on. Thank you for coming this early, to run through the work with her.’ He tapped his baton, and Professor Mazzi squeezed her arm, and he and Sir Bryan melted away. ‘Now, this is a concert performance, so there are no stage directions, but clarinets, if you could gesture Miss Wilde as she walks on as we agreed I would be very grateful. And at the end of “Sull’Aria” remember we are still allegretto, no rallantando as Miss Wilde will not slow down . . . do you usually slow down at the end here before we lead back into the recitative, Miss Wilde? Miss Wilde?’

  But Cord was staring around the vast Victorian hall, imagining it filled with people, seeing their faces, waiting for her to open her mouth and sing. The prickling feeling, the sweaty, tight panic she got lately, every time Hamish mentioned meeting his parents, or visiting hers, or talked about a weekend away with Ben and Mads, or even moving in together – all of it had gone. It had gone, truth be told, the moment she’d peered over the window frame the previous night and seen her father, holed up in a corner of the Moon Under Water, kissing some girl. Cord knew who she was – she’d met her in fact – she was a young actress, daughter of an old friend of Daddy’s, and she’d got a part in Richard III, playing his wife, Lady Anne. She was, however, twenty-five years younger than Daddy. Of course she was . . .

  It was how little he seemed to care, there in that smoky, dingy pub, there amongst the pissed office girls with their white shirts and red lipstick, and the yuppie boys in their wide suits. As she’d stared at him, his hands moving over Georgina’s body, slipping under her clothes, then moving back, holding her face as he passionately kissed her, and she him, Cord had seen a man nudging his mate, over by the pool table, both of them smiling at him. She knew they didn’t recognise him. She knew they were smiling at this drunk, dishevelled man, fondling a young woman in public.

  These images – Mads’s sweet smile, her brother’s gentle pride, their father . . . the long, long walk across the floor of the Albert Hall to this stage, in the early morning chill . . . She closed her eyes, as Hamish’s kind, bewildered face appeared before her. You need someone who watches out for you, who you can lean on.

  She struggled to blink back the tears, gritting her teeth, and she gently cleared her throat. It’s better on my own.

  ‘Yes, Sir Bryan. I’m so sorry. I’m ready now,’ she said, and the conductor nodded at her, and raised his baton, and the orchestra began to play.

  Chapter Twenty

  1941

  The third Christmas of the war was difficult for Ant. London seemed a distant dream to him; he could recall his life there still, but bits of it were becoming blotted over, like rain dropping on to a chalk painting. It bothered him and he took to testing his memory at night, trying to see exactly what he still knew about Kelly Street, the time before his father’s death, his mother’s death. He couldn’t remember the privy at the back of their house, for example, or the colour of the eyes of the sweetshop owner’s granddaughter, who had thick brown plaits and liked sherbets. He remembered the smell of coal in the air, and the burned-caramel scent of the roasted nuts in stiff paper cones sold by the man next to Mornington Crescent tube station. And the scratchy blue seats at the opulent Bedford cinema when he could escape his mother (who didn’t like him going, she said he’d catch fleas), and the particular fug of Turkish cigarettes, and the skinny old usherette who clipped your ticket. But he couldn’t remember the outside of the Bedford or where on the high street in Camden it was. He couldn’t remember whether his father had had a moustache the last time he came home on leave or not and this especially bothered him. They’d argued about Ant going to boarding school – his father was adamant it was best for him, that he couldn’t stay at home with his mother all the time. Ant had shouted at him, and refused to say goodbye. He remembered that.

  He missed London but the truth was that he was at home here now. He loved the sea, and the sand, and the lanes where you could cycle everywhere, and Playland in Swanage where you could go on rides and play on the
slot machines with your gaggle of friends, boys and girls you picked up en route into town, many of whom were staying in Swanage as their whole school had been evacuated. People were still dying every day and the planes buzzed overhead constantly but you got used to it. Ant could recall beginning to feel guilty about this but you had to. You squared your shoulders and carried on. That was all you could do. He had Aunt Dinah, after all, and she had always known how to make things better. He’d believed that, after a while.

  Although, sometimes still . . . take Daphne, for example. Aunt Dinah said Daphne was an old friend she didn’t see much, and Daphne had stayed that first weekend of his birthday and had been quite jolly, helping make beef hash fritters and charming Mrs Proudfoot in the village into giving them a cup of sugar which she had heated up on the gas ring and somehow made long strands like filaments which she twisted into toffee-coloured bundles. She had a sweet tooth, and Ant noticed she ate most of the sugary hair herself.

  Then Daphne said she wanted peace and quiet and to do some sailing, so she came back in a few weeks, then again and again. Ant didn’t understand why when it was anything but peaceful here and there was nowhere to sail, not with the beach and sea bristling with troops and fortifications. But still she kept coming down. She’d bring her ration book with her but it wasn’t worth much as she’d always used up most of her coupons. She was lazy, she lied, and, over time, Ant grew to dislike her. And he wouldn’t ever have admitted it to himself but he was disappointed that Dinah was in awe not just of her intelligence but also her superior social status – it was rumoured that Daphne was the daughter of an earl, that she had eloped with an Italian count to Monte Carlo when she was eighteen and had been excommunicated by her family as a result. ‘She used to be fabulously wealthy, before they cut her off without a penny. She moved in the best circles, Ant dear,’ Dinah told him once. ‘We were in Venice before the war for a conference on Sumeria and Daphne was staying in a palazzo on the Grand Canal. Guest of a duke there. Mallowan and Desmond and I were in a terrible pensione on the Lido and we all got bed bugs. She misses being rich, one has to feel for her. And the people she knew. I mean, she knows everyone. I saw her kiss Oswald Mosley at a party once.’