‘Was she dead too?’
His father gave a small smile. ‘Do you know, I didn’t used to know. But I do now. No, she was alive. But she didn’t come. It was a long time ago.’ He looked up. ‘Well, it’s your wedding day. She’s not too sad there’s no family coming from her side, is she? Old Ian, dead, not a great loss, alas, but she’ll miss her aunt, won’t she?’
‘Aunt Julia? Yes, she’s been wonderful to her.’
‘She was a good old girl.’ He sighed. ‘I screwed her, you know. She was an absolute firecracker.’
Ben could feel a flush breaking over him, prickling uncomfortably on his skin. ‘Oh. God, Dad.’
‘Yes, she made me – well, she knew what she wanted, I can tell you. What a summer we had of it! Dear Jules.’ He chuckled, and took another swig, and Ben could feel the old, familiar anger again.
‘It’s my wedding day, Dad,’ he said shortly. ‘Cool it on the fruity memories, will you?’
‘Sorry. Ben, I do apologise.’ His father was silent, and then he laughed bleakly before saying, ‘Nothing was fun, then. Nothing. We were afraid, all the time. I used to laugh, when the Cold War was at its height, and young people would say how scared they were. Nothing like it. This was real, gut-squeezing fear, not knowing if we were about to be overrun, conquered, killed in our beds. We knew it was right, too . . .’ He trailed off. ‘Ben, you know how my mother died, don’t you?’
‘No, Dad. Of course not. You never talk about her.’
‘Well, I survived and she didn’t. A bomb. We lived in Camden,’ he added, inconsequentially. ‘When she came out she had – she had no—’ He broke off.
‘No what?’
‘I was twelve. It’s a long time ago. But I still see it, you see. She had no face, on one side, Ben, her face was gone, and no arm or shoulder . . . I could see her bone, her – her bones, splintered, sort of – ah. Very white. Sharp. Sticking out through the cloth, her – her cloth dress. Filthy. Isn’t that stupid, that’s what I kept thinking. She hated mess and it was all so filthy.’ He looked down. ‘They dug her out and I watched them and then they told me I was lucky.’ He smiled at his son. ‘Lucky, do you hear? My father had been shot out of the sky a few months back and my mother was there on the ground, two yards away, and the only way to identify her was her engagement ring, but they said I was lucky. I couldn’t even remember if he had a moustache that last time or not, you see. Couldn’t remember.’
He lit another cigarette, with a choking cough. Ben took his hand.
‘I’m sorry, Dad.’
‘Well, you see. That’s where the Bosky came in. I was sent off to live with Dinah and oh, she was wonderful. For a few years it was wonderful, I adored her . . . and then she was gone.’
‘What happened to her?’
‘I honestly don’t know.’ His father pushed himself away from the wall. ‘Let’s not talk about it, not today. Do you have a speech prepared?’
‘Well, it’s fairly rudimentary.’ Ben hesitated, rubbing his arms, for it was cold in the early autumn chill of the day. ‘I want to show it to Cord – I meant to ask you about her, Dad,’ he said impetuously. ‘Doesn’t she seem sort of . . . quiet, these days? Have you noticed?’
‘How so?’
‘Oh, she’s so distant. And thin and tragic-looking.’
‘She’s lost her puppy fat, that’s a good thing. She’s beautiful.’
‘She is – but she seems so sad. Don’t you think?’
His father shook his head. ‘Nope.’
‘Really? You don’t think she misses Hamish?’
‘She’s not you and Mads, Ben darling. She doesn’t want to be in love. I should think she enjoys leaving it all behind.’ Tony threw a stone into the river. They both watched the ripples spreading outwards till they were lost in the silvery water. ‘That idea of dressing up and escaping who you are. This heightened reality where you are only truly present onstage, a controlled dream, and you utterly believe it—’ He halted. ‘Never mind.’
‘No,’ said Ben. ‘Dad, don’t stop. Go on. A controlled dream, you mean like you are only yourself when you’re onstage?’
‘I suppose so. I imagine it’s the same for her.’
‘But she doesn’t seem very happy.’
‘Yes, yes.’ His father seemed to accept this as fact without any regret. ‘I’m afraid that’s the way it is, though.’
‘We’re so different,’ Ben said. ‘I never realised it, but we are.’
His father looked at him. ‘Yes, darling. You are. In more ways than you think.’
Ben’s heart thumped in his chest.
‘I know,’ he said.
Tony’s gaze raked over Ben. ‘Ah. You do, do you?’ he said, almost to himself. The silence between them was suddenly electric.
Ben cleared his throat. Nerves, adrenaline flooded his body.
‘I do,’ he said, and he put his hand on Tony’s arm. ‘I do, Dad. I’ve known for years.’
‘How long?’
‘Years, Dad.’ The night I ran away. Why do you think I ran away? Why didn’t you ever ask me? Ben rubbed the stump of his missing fingers, the worn, safe patch. He thought of when Cord had first seen him, in the hospital, and she’d taken his hand, with the black stitches sewing up the torn skin, and she’d kissed his palm. ‘I’m so glad you’re not dead,’ she’d said, three times in a row, her soft cheek rubbing his fingers, the huge grey eyes fixed on him, trembling with tears. ‘I’m so glad, Benny. I ate all your pear drops, by the way, I didn’t want to but I was worried they’d go sticky and if you were dead you wouldn’t want them.’
‘How did you find out?’
‘It doesn’t matter, Dad. It’s a long time ago.’
‘Don’t you want to know—’
‘No,’ said Ben. ‘Like you just said. Let’s not talk about it, not today.’
Tony said, ‘Ben, darling, look . . .’ He looked out over the river, glinting in the morning sun. ‘I know I screwed it all up. I wanted the best for you and I kept thinking I knew how to do it and by the time I realised . . .’
Ben kept stroking his finger stump, and he swallowed, and then he put his other hand, his ‘good’ hand, on Tony’s knee. ‘Dad. Don’t. I mean it. I know you didn’t mean to hurt me.’
‘I have no control, that’s the trouble.’
‘I know.’ Ben felt the faint stirrings of irritation. ‘We all know. But –’ He stared at Tony, and felt something shift, the balance of power, something fundamental – ‘it’s really important you understand I don’t want it to change anything. I spent years trying to forget all about it. Not today, all right?’
Tony gave a quick smile. ‘Of course, darling. You don’t want to ask your mother about it?’
‘Absolutely not.’ Ben shook his head vigorously.
‘What about Mads?’
‘I haven’t told her . . . not yet.’ Ben shifted on his feet. ‘I need to, I think.’
Tony nodded, suddenly practical. ‘Yes. You should. Does Cord know?’
‘I don’t think so. But I haven’t talked to her properly, not for ages. It’s strange,’ he said, taking up the thread of Cord again. ‘She’s a different person now. Her voice – it makes her special. Like you need to look after her, protect it. I wonder where it came from. Mumma says she gets it from her side of the family.’
Tony roared with laughter, hugging his knees. ‘My darling, I love your mother very much but the first time I heard her sing I nearly called the wedding off.’ He wrinkled his nose, pleased with himself. ‘Sounded like cat’s guts haling souls out of bodies.What’s the line? Much Ado. Something like that.’
‘Sheep’s guts.’
‘What? What?’
Ben said with certainty, ‘Is it not strange that sheep’s guts should hale souls out of men’s bodies. He means lute strings, you know. Not that some woman sounds like a gutted cat.’
‘You sure?’
Ben laughed shortly. ‘Absolutely. I directed a production of it last year.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, Dad. At a pub theatre by the docks in Bristol. It went down rather well.’
‘You did?’ His father sounded amazed.
‘Yes – I—’ I told you, I sent you the poster, he wanted to say, but it’d be pointless. All his rage towards Tony, built up and calcified over the years, had gone, as though it were a carapace covering them both that had suddenly shattered.
Ben glanced at him as they turned into River Walk, narrowly avoiding another morning cyclist. The profile, so like Cord’s, that perfect straight nose, the strong jaw, the lines around the eyes, the grizzled hair . . . But he was an old man now. Tony turned, and caught his hand.
‘I’m proud of you, Ben love,’ he said. ‘You’re a good boy. My boy.’
His hands were calloused, and cold, but strong – Ben flinched at the force of their grip. ‘Thanks,’ he said, and would have said more but Cord appeared at the back door, pulling the sash of her dressing gown around her waist as Ben kicked off his boots. ‘Hello, darlings. Have you been for a father-and-son prenuptial walk?’
‘Cordy.’ Their father kissed her on the cheek. ‘Something like that. How are you today, my darling?’
‘Wonderful,’ said Cord, brightly, twisting a lock of wild dark hair around one finger. ‘Looks like a beautiful day for a wedding, Ben. Come in, let’s have some breakfast. Mumma’s up already.’
The two men came into the kitchen, glad of the warmth after the sharp cold of the autumn morning. Althea was sitting at the kitchen table, pulling flakes of croissant away and popping each delicately into her mouth, as she flicked through the paper.
‘Hello, you two,’ she said. ‘I was extravagant and bought us all croissants from Harrods yesterday. I thought we’d need a special breakfast. And Mrs Berry says she’s coming in specially today to make you bacon and eggs, Ben. She wants to give you a kiss and wish you luck. You always were her favourite boy.’
Ben shrugged, rather embarrassed. He hugged his mother, and sat down.
‘Feels strange, doesn’t it,’ Althea said, smiling at him and pouring him some coffee. Cord leaned against the dresser, arms folded, watching them.
‘What?’ Ben said.
‘Knowing you’re getting married and everything feeling normal. Like Christmas Day when you’re a child, you keep thinking there should be angels. Or birthdays.’
‘Or going to the Bosky, because you’ve looked for it for so long and when you’re there it’s mundane, cleaning your teeth and eating breakfast,’ said Cord, with a trace of her old self. She stopped. ‘Something like that, I imagine.’
‘That’s exactly it,’ Ben said, smiling at her. ‘That’s exactly how it feels.’
‘We’re all together,’ said Althea, patting the seat next to her. ‘Cord, come and sit down, darling. Let’s have breakfast.’
‘Not for me,’ said Cord. ‘Just coffee, thanks.’ She cupped her chin in her hands. Despite what his father had told him Ben still thought his sister was too thin, her eyes huge, with dark puddly circles under them, the hollows under her cheeks too pronounced. ‘When was the last time we were together, just the four of us, I mean?’
‘I can’t remember,’ said Althea. Tony looked up.
‘No idea, darling.’
Ben shrugged too. It had been long, too long, and he had been the one who’d left, not run away like the first time, more distanced himself from them, left behind the grandeur of River Walk and the suffocating feeling of his family to try and be his own person and here, back again on his wedding day, it was OK. Because he loved them all, and none of them was perfect, but they were all here and that was what mattered, and later, he and Mads would be married.
What Ben didn’t know, couldn’t ever have guessed, is that they would never, all four of them, be together again.
Chapter Twenty-Four
15 October 1987
Hello, Book of Wildflowers! Dear old thing.
I should have thought I’d have long stopped writing in you by now. There’s ten or so pages left . . . It scares me, the idea of finishing this exercise book. As if something permanent will come to an end. The question is, will I buy a new book after that? Will I still be writing in you in twenty years’ time, creeping down to sit out on the steps and scribble away undisturbed by the rest of them? Will we still come here? Will we play Flowers and Stones and will the rules still be hung up in the beach hut or will there be other games? What will we look like, as a family, Book? I wish you could tell me. I’ve given you so many secrets over the years I think it’s about time you gave me some back.
I married him. I can call myself Madeleine Wilde now & I think I will. I married him, he was there, he smiled at me the whole way through and I still can’t quite believe this happiness is mine. Someone or something will take it away, I feel sure. I married him in the chilly Victorian church by the park in Twickenham – I’d never been there six months ago, I knew virtually no one in the congregation, I had nothing to do with planning it all. But I didn’t care. I married him, and right behind him as I said my vows were Tony & Cord, smiling at me, the whole way through. Cord sang for us. Althea wore a hat the size of a table dressed for a tea party, flowers and boxes and all sorts spilling over the brim and down the side; of course there was a photo of her in The Times the next day. The headline was “A Rather Wilde Family Wedding” and they had a picture of her and Cord, and another one of me linking arms with Tony and Ben, only my head is turned away, back to Annie to give her my bouquet & because of the veil you can’t see my face. That’s the photo they wanted to use because I’m not the big draw, the rest of them are, and I couldn’t be happier – having my photograph in the paper terrifies me and yet they couldn’t care less. Oh, the Wildes.
We are the Wildflowers.
There it is.
We are.
I write this three days later at the Bosky. It is clear the summer is over, but down here the warmth lingers, and we have walked on the beach most nights. It’s strange, being here alone with Ben, the place to ourselves. It’s strange dashing to the hut so I can scribble all this down, Book. It’s strange, being a bride. I didn’t like it much. I kept catching sight of myself in mirrors. I don’t know the Wildes’ London house well enough to know yet how to avoid them. Ben doesn’t know I often can’t look in mirrors, that I can’t bear to see myself or what might stare back at me.
He knows he’s rescued me but I’m sure he doesn’t know quite how much is wrong with me.
Yesterday I reminded Ben I want children right away. I want them while I’m young. It’s the one thing we always talked about, the moment we met again in Bristol. He came over to my flat that first day, and we kissed and had sex that first night, and we knew, and if I write more about it then it takes the magic away from our secret special world, and I can’t seem to put it down on paper. But he knew then and I wasn’t afraid to tell him, because it’s Ben.
He said, ‘But I thought you were going to design spaceships and aeroplanes.’
‘Build them, not design them,’ I said. ‘Yes, but I want children as soon as possible and then I’ll go back to it. And I want them to have a dog and a big garden and to have holidays like we did. And I want them to have a mummy who does something she loves and a daddy who does too, so they understand that’s important. And I want to read to them every night, stories about nice things, so they’re never scared of the dark, so they fall asleep and don’t have nightmares.’
‘Sounds like you’ve thought it all out,’ he said, and I could only think then of Aunt Jules, who used to hold me when I woke up screaming, because the girls at school wouldn’t and I got moved to a room by myself eventually, which was better for them but only made me more scared. Daddy would shout at me to shut up if I did at Beeches, but I couldn’t stop. The only place I slept well was at the Bosky.
Aunt Jules sent a telegram for the wedding – they read it out at the reception. Funny because no one else knew who she was, they were all Tony and Althea’s friend
s. So people talked over it and that was the only bit of the wedding that mattered to me. I am pasting it in here my book.
To my darling niece on her special day. This is the happiness you deserve and I prayed for. I wish I could be with you and Ben to celebrate but illness keeps me in Australia. I send you all my love, balloons of happiness that float up into the air – Never forget you are golden and the Wildes are lucky to have you. Your loving aunt who adores you and misses you, Julia Fletcher
She always was a bit overdramatic, she loved writing poetry, I thought that balloons part was a bit much.
And Tony read it out which was nice but he read it in a soft sad voice and the room was loud and the guests, these strangers, talked over him, which is so odd for Tony, the last person in the world you’d expect to be talked over.
So I felt, with Ben, that we both wanted to make our own family, that we had the right beginnings. I knew he wanted to be a father. To create a new generation. So we’re not the runaways, the disappointments, the mistakes, the oddities. So we’re the caring ones, who devote ourselves to their happiness, who make sure they have everything, absolutely everything they need.
* * * *
February 1989
Well, Book, it’s funny reading that, written eighteen months ago. One year married. (Paper. Time for a new book for when this runs out? Or will I never write in any book but you?) We did nothing but have sex on that honeymoon. Well, we went for strolls, drank at the Calke Arms, we hiked up to Bill’s Point – we ate like lions. Every morning I’d get dressed and stare out of the window at the back of our room on to the dirt road up to where Beeches is. It’s an old people’s home now. They’ve rechristened it “Driftwood”. You can see them, shuffling about sometimes on the lawn. I fear it is still a depressing place.
Oh, everything changes . . . It’s Valentine’s Day today and our first day in our new house in Primrose Hill. It was five old bedsits & is a strange warren of locked doors. Ben likes the road. He likes the area. I don’t know it at all so I hope it will be an adventure.
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