Chapter Fifteen
Eight months later
Spring 1984
Most days, Ben would stave off loneliness by walking around Bristol. He had grown tall like his mother and, though he was an affable young man, ready to make new friends, he didn’t care for team sports. The other chaps in his halls of residence reminded him of his dreaded ex-schoolmates: competing over the amount of beer drunk at rugger matches or arguing about Gower or Gooch. They were mostly Oxbridge rejects, pretending the faux-Gothic Victorian hall of residence was an Oxford college, organising balls and black-tie dinners where blonde girls wore puffball-shaped brightly coloured taffeta dresses and the boys similarly coloured bow ties to mark themselves out as fun, crazy, up for it. Ben noted it – he noticed everything – but from the sidelines. It wasn’t his scene.
He’d wake early, missing home, yearning for the old house by the Thames, and the sound of Cord singing as she got ready for school, or the smell of rush matting rugs and Mumma’s scent. His heart would ache a little in his tiny, dark, stone room and he’d realise he had to get up, walk it off.
So at first light he would set out across the downs, noticing with some embarrassment the mud caked to his trousers – somehow the washing never got done when you had to do it yourself. Up on the wide-open space at the top of the city he’d walk until he reached the spiralling descent that took him through Clifton, past the Avon Gorge, an apocalyptic chasm so at odds with the demure cream and sugar-pink Georgian terraces clinging to the sides of the rock. Ben liked the drama of Bristol, the contrasts within the city that were alive there today. He’d wander and walk, waiting for the builders’ café that served a full English from six every morning to open so he could settle in with his notebook and a mug of sweet tea and start to write. Only he never did.
One part of the Drama and Film Studies course was to finish a screenplay in the first year. Ben had the idea of writing about a boy who runs away and is locked in a barn for three days whilst his family grows ever more frantic, intercutting between the isolation of the barn and the panic of the family home. It was a neat idea, he knew, but he couldn’t seem to write it – his own experience would get in the way, and the scenes he wrote never seemed urgent, terrifying. In his lectures he was regularly told of the importance of placing one’s characters in peril – but the running-away bit wasn’t perilous, it was the family the boy came from which seemed the more dangerous, and the characters wouldn’t behave the way he wanted them to, either. They kept saying things in his father’s voice, or that of Mads or Mrs Gage.
Away from River Walk and the Bosky, freed from the shackles of school, he had hoped he’d have a fresh start, become his own person, not so much in the shadow of his famous parents and boisterous younger sister. But all he could think about was them, all of them, and how he wasn’t really a part of it all, never had been, never would be.
He had wanted to love Bristol, to embrace the experience fully. But lately he was afraid he was starting to hate it.
But then came a miracle.
One particularly unproductive morning at the café, Ben looked up as a sharp wind knocked a hanging basket against the glass. He saw a caped figure rush by, red shoes on her feet, hair like spun toffee sugar blowing out behind her.
If he hadn’t looked up then would he have seen her again? Would they have bumped into each other? Fate would say yes; Ben, however, was never sure. When he was older he would try to write about it, write about her, and he could never quite capture her. She was always, to him, just out of reach, and it always for ever afterwards seemed a miracle to him that he saw her that day.
‘Mads!’ He pushed aside the table, knocking over his white china cup and saucer and dashing for the door. ‘Mads! Hey!’
Down a vertiginous lane that wound through the heart of Clifton he followed her, past secret driveways and high-up white stucco terraces edged with black railings. She kept disappearing, the navy cape or cloak she was wearing swinging like a bell around her, her shoes flashing jewel red under trees far down the lane. He called and called to her but she never turned around; she obviously didn’t want to see him any more. He had even begun to plan out what he’d say to Cord in the letter he’d write her.
Damn you, Cordy. Mads wouldn’t even say hello to me. Who are you to play God like that? Why do you care if we kissed a few times? We weren’t doing anything wrong but you made her go away as if she was a criminal. She wouldn’t hurt a fly.
‘Mads!’ he bellowed, one last time.
And then it happened. She stopped at the edge of the road and took a pair of headphones off, carefully wound the wire around a Sony Walkman – red like her shoes – turned and looked up at him, perched on the pavement. That silvery hair he’d dreamed of flew about her small, frowning face and then, eyes searching for what she had heard, her gaze settled on him.
‘Oh!’ she cried, the cape rippling around her as she lifted both arms up, hands frantically waving now. ‘Ben? Oh, my goodness, it’s really you. Ben!’
Her blue-grey eyes, molten silver like the sea in the bay after a storm, her flushed cheeks, normally so pale, her thin small hands with bitten nails and tiny deft fingers that could lift a beetle carefully by one leg or pluck an eyelash from a cheek – Ben stared at her helplessly, as she came into focus, running up the steep hill. He didn’t know what to say. All he was aware of was a thrumming ache in the stump on his hand and a rushing feeling that rooted him to the spot.
Life so far had taught Ben to be pragmatic but he had thought of Mads all the time since their last meeting a year and a half ago. And now as she was almost in front of him he couldn’t think of a single thing to say.
‘What were you listening to, Maddy?’ he asked as she reached his side. He nodded at the red Walkman.
‘Kate Bush,’ she said, panting.
‘Never for Ever?’ he said.
‘The Kick Inside. I finally got it on tape for my birthday. I’d forgotten how amazing it is. “The Man with the Child in His Eyes”.’
‘I don’t listen to her any more. I miss her.’
‘Oh, Ben, do you? Do you really? I am absolutely obsessed with her at the moment. I think she’s a proper genius.’
He nodded. ‘So do I. But Never for Ever’s better than The Kick Inside.’
‘No, no way,’ she said, but she was grinning and he grinned back at her and there they both were, as though no time had gone by but they were adults now. ‘Ben, did you know, she’s working on a new album? They had it on the radio last week, and—’ She stopped, putting her hands on the railing next to them, and looked up at him. ‘Forget all that. Why are you in Bristol? You don’t live here, do you?’
‘I’m at university. I’m doing Drama and Film Studies.’
‘No, really? So am I. I’m doing Engineering Design.’
‘But you’re from Bristol!’
‘What can I say,’ she said, shrugging. ‘I’m a home bird. Bit too scared to go anywhere else and I can live in Aunt Jules’s old flat.’
‘What about your dad?’
She shook her head. ‘He died – didn’t you know, Ben?’
‘Oh. No, I didn’t. My – my condolences.’ My condolences? He blinked, wishing he was mature, a man of the world who could negotiate complex situations like this, and rubbed at the stump of his fingers. ‘Um – I’m really sorry. What happened?’
‘He had a heart attack,’ Mads said, shaking her head. ‘He was driving back from Filton, and he pulled into a siding, and they found him dead there, two days later. I had to go and identify him. Had to organise everything and – well, we weren’t close, you know—’ She shook her head and looked up at him with a small smile. ‘He wasn’t very nice. You know that. That was what someone said to me at the funeral. An old colleague. Aunt Jules didn’t even come back for it. There were only seven of us there in the end. Me, the vicar, two colleagues of his from the factory in Filton, a cousin from Dundee, an old man whose name I didn’t get and a lady who lived on our street.’ She bowed her head. ‘He wasn’t very nice, but it was a pathetic gathering. Aunt Jules always said it wasn’t his fault entirely, that it was their dad who messed them up, you know, that he sort of fell apart after their mum died. But I still – I can’t forgive him.’
She coughed, and pushed her canvas rucksack, covered with chemical symbols and peace signs, back over her shoulder. Ben found himself taking her hand.
‘I’m sorry. I know it was bad, but I don’t think Cord and I ever really understood – we were too sheltered from it all.’
‘You shouldn’t have known, no one should. Your parents tried, I loved them for it.’ She nodded seriously. ‘But even they didn’t really understand how bad it was. You know, he wouldn’t give me water once – he locked me in my room on the hottest day of the year because I’d interrupted him while he was working—’ She smiled at Ben’s expression. ‘Yes, he did. I asked him to fetch a cup of water for me and he wouldn’t. I was five, Ben. I was in there for a day, I didn’t go to school, didn’t eat, I peed on the carpet because I was so desperate for the loo and my throat – it was like sandpaper. All I could think of was water. I sort of passed out eventually.’
‘Mads . . .’ Ben shook his head, pain compacting in his chest. He squeezed her fingers. ‘Didn’t anyone say anything? Didn’t the school ask where you were?’
‘That’s what I don’t understand. They used to just ignore it, if I wasn’t in for a day here or there or I had a black eye because he’d hit me or thrown me down the stairs.’ She was speaking rapidly now. ‘He did that once and my hair was so tangled it got caught in the newel post at the bottom of the bannisters and it broke my fall but half of it was pulled out, this side. And I never knew what a newel post is before then. They told me at the hospital. But they sent me home to him again. You know—’ She rubbed her eyes, tiredly. ‘He didn’t calculate it. He wasn’t a sadist. He just had no emotional fallback, no way of calming himself down. If something annoyed him he’d just lose it. I reminded him it was my birthday once and he hit me. He said I was bad and that’s why we didn’t do anything for my birthday. He punched me, Ben, in the face – I was seven years old and he knocked a tooth out.’ She pulled aside her mouth, and he could see one empty black square in the row of teeth. ‘It was a new tooth too, I was so proud of it. But then I came downstairs later and he was crying. Sobbing and sobbing, very quietly, this hissing sound, and his hands were in front of his eyes. He was such an unhappy man. I think that’s when Aunt Jules came into the picture. I think he must have called her in then. They had a ten-year deal. She came back from Oz to look after me and I went to boarding school, too. I think he knew he’d kill me or do something stupid. And—’ She clutched his hands. Her little face was white. ‘I can’t believe I’m saying all this to you after all these years. I want to stop but I can’t. I haven’t really said it. Ever. How are you? How’s everyone? Tell me – how’s—’
He interrupted her. ‘It’s OK,’ Ben heard himself saying. ‘Forget them for a minute. Forget them, Mads.’ He curled his stump into her palm and linked the forefinger and thumb around her thumb, and led her up a steep, curling path where he’d wandered a few days previously on one of his peregrinations. His heart was thumping: anger, sadness, sheer joy at seeing her again, all these things. He felt lightheaded, but also very calm.
There was a tiny pub, perched on the edge of a dilapidated crescent that sold cider in half-pint glasses because it was so strong. At this time of day it was still shuttered up, the empty ashtrays turned over. They sat down on the bench outside on the cobbles, staring out over Brandon Hill, down towards the docks.
They were silent for a long time – a minute or so. Eventually Ben said again, ‘It’s awful. I’m so sorry.’
She shook her head. ‘It’s awful not to be sad that your dad’s died. But I wouldn’t have met all of you if he hadn’t been so horrible. And now I’m free of it.’ A watery, pale sun flickered over the city below. She turned to Ben.
‘You know, my friend Johnny said something to me, in the pub the night after the funeral. Johnny’s really wise. He said, “From everything you’ve said about your dad he was stopping you living properly. He was stopping you from falling in love, or dreaming about the future, having a career, or children, or any of those things . . . He was like a stop on your heart.” And he said, “Well, now he’s gone and you can start to live.” And I – you see, it’s exactly like that. He was born that way. Born sad and mean, and just not very nice.’
‘You know, I’m not sure if it helps but my dad used to say something similar about him too,’ said Ben, biting his lip with the effort of not asking who Johnny was.
‘Darling Tony.’ She clasped her hands together and smiled at Ben and his heart sang. ‘He was right, as always. Daddy hated him, and it always seemed so petty. He caused so much trouble with Tony and Aunt Jules in the war. She never forgave him.’
‘What did he do?’
‘I think it’s more what they did, if you know what I mean,’ said Mads, and she looked up at him again, and raised her eyebrows, and he laughed.
‘That makes sense, where my father’s concerned,’ he said.
‘Well, she always was a free spirit, Aunt Jules, you know. You’d love her.’ Her smile faltered. ‘Tell me, how’s your mum?’
‘Very well, thank you. This new sitcom she’s made, it’s quite something.’
‘I read an interview with her last week in The Times,’ she said. ‘They were extremely disapproving.’
‘It’s never been done before. An older woman talking into a mirror and going out on dates and drinking a bit too much, imagine!’ Ben smiled. ‘I went to a taping. She’s in her bra for a brief shot. That’s what’s got them all in a tizzy. If it was a skimpy bikini it’d be no problem. Talk about double standards.’
‘Is it good?’ said Mads, seriously.
‘Yes. It’s fantastic. Really different and new but of course it’s her and she’s something of a national treasure, I suppose, so it scares the horses that she’s being so daring. She totally carries the show.’
‘Your dad—’
‘Oh, yes, well he’s delighted for her,’ said Ben, a little too quickly. ‘Says he told her all along she should take the part.’
Mads nodded. ‘And – how – how’s Cord?’
‘She’s OK, I think.’ He tipped his head from side to side, a movement of uncertainty. ‘I don’t know. I haven’t seen her since Christmas. I go and stay with them back in London but . . . I don’t see much of any of them.’ He looked out over the rooftops. ‘She started at the Royal Academy in September. She’s pretty busy.’
‘Oh, that’s wonderful.’ Mads nodded emphatically. ‘I didn’t know – she wouldn’t answer my letters . . . I just want to know if she’s OK.’ She cleared her throat, recovering herself.
‘She’s absolutely fine.’ He reached out, wanting to touch her arm. ‘I keep asking her if it’s like Fame and she has to wear a yellow leotard and leg-warmers with people warbling in the corridors and dance routines up and down the front steps. It makes her furious. She’s taking it very seriously.’
Mads gave a gurgle of laughter.
Ben paused. Then: ‘Um. You know, I told her she’d been an absolute idiot about all that business and I think she agreed.’
‘About what?’
‘You – and me—’ He could feel himself blushing, the memory of those ecstatic fumblings with Mads at the beach hut, the thrill of lifting that heavy sheet of silken hair away from her neck, peeling back her T-shirt, of their bruised, throbbing lips, her skin, soft and cool, of the rapturous innocence of it all . . . ‘It was none of her business. She used to act as though she owned you. That you were her friend. I told her it was rubbish. That you were a member of the family.’
‘Family members don’t do what we were doing, Ben,’ she said drily, her eyes glinting with mirth, and he shifted around on his seat, embarrassed, smiling.
‘Humph. Anyway, she’s mellowed a bit, that’s all. She’s got a boyfriend.’
‘Oh, really? Who is he?’
‘He’s an actor friend of Dad’s. Few years older than her, he’s twenty-five. He’s completely mad about her, it’s so strange,’ said Ben, big-brother callous. ‘My father was in Henry V with him and he’d just been dumped, so he took pity on him and asked him down to the Bosky last summer and that was it, apparently.’
‘This is the most exciting news I’ve had all term.’ Mads wriggled on the seat, shaking out her hair. He’d forgotten how little she liked talking about herself, how much happier she was in their lives, not her own. ‘Is he nice? What’s his name? What are they like together? Oh, my goodness.’
‘Hamish. He’s a nice chap. Got that sort of quizzical expression like he’s amused most of the time. He thinks she’s hilarious. He’s kind. And he adores her.’
‘Lucky Cord, how wonderful!’
Ben hesitated. ‘It’s weird . . . oh, Mads, I don’t think she’s as keen on him. Had a letter from her a couple of weeks ago. He tries to hold her hand when they walk down the street.’
‘Dear me, that’s not Cord.’
‘No. She says she wants to devote herself to her art and she can’t fall in love, it’s the enemy of woman’s ambition. She’s got this professor, Italian bloke who’s very short and yells at her and rings up Mumma and Daddy to yell at them if she doesn’t take care of her voice. Thinks she shouldn’t live by the river, it’s too damp for the vocal cords. According to him she ought to focus on singing and there’s no room for anything else in her life.’
‘Imagine that,’ she said, shaking her head.
The front door of the house next to the pub opened. Its owner emerged, looking suspiciously at both of them. She double-locked the door and hurried past them down the hill. The air was suddenly a little chilly.
Ben found himself saying, ‘You don’t have to go anywhere, do you? Will you have breakfast with me?’
‘I have a lecture in five minutes,’ she said. ‘I’m late.’
‘Oh, a lecture,’ he said dismissively. ‘You can miss that.’
‘We scientists actually have to go to lectures most days, not like you arts people who just sit in cafés looking out of the window.’ She bit her lip, trying not to laugh. ‘But – oh, Ben.’
She understood everything, everything. She always had. ‘If I hadn’t been looking out of the window I wouldn’t have seen you, and that would have been terrible,’ he said, and squeezed her hand. She was shaking very slightly, he realised. ‘Later, then? I’ll make you dinner, if you like,’ he said. ‘I’ll come to your flat. If – if you’d like.’
‘Dear Ben,’ she said, eyes bright, her head on one side, looking at him. ‘There you are. Right there, in front of me. We were just playing before, weren’t we? All those years there and now it’s different.’
‘What do you mean?’ he asked, his heart in his throat.
But she just shook her head. She scribbled her address and phone number down on a piece of paper. ‘I must go.’ She thrust it into his hand. ‘Come tonight. Come before that, come as soon as you can.’ She ran down the street, her bright feet pattering on the cobbles. He looked down at the address, her scrawling writing, his heart leaping for joy.
‘I’ll come straight after I’ve been shopping. I’ll bring some food.’ He hesitated and said again, ‘W-W-would you like that?’
‘Yes, I’d like all of that,’ she was calling, as she ran out of sight. ‘Yes, yes, please.’