III
Perhaps the reckoning with her past would always have happened but when it came, it seemed quite out of the blue and it was only afterwards Cordelia Wilde realised how strange it should be that she had been singing the Messiah when the phone call came. She had sung it on the night of her father’s death and it always reminded her of him. He had loved it as much as she did and for a long period afterwards it broke her to hear the first aria and its gentle, hesitant opening chords. Comfort ye, my people.
The final notes were over; the church doors had been flung open, allowing the faintest breeze of the suburban summer’s night to ruffle the back of the aisle; the last audience member, arthritic and lame, had shuffled from his seat towards the exit, still blocked by elderly people dressed in cheesecloth, blowsy florals or pale linens: the summer dress code of the English middle class. While the choir retreated to the side chapel, changing and chatting, Cord busied herself with some new binding tape on her tattered score, ignoring their accusatory glances, delaying the moment when she would have to return to the vestry, take off her concert clothes, become her usual self again. She didn’t want to leave, to walk through the quiet streets bathed in the light from the huge August moon, a silver-and-gold ball in the ink-blue sky. To smell the end of summer in the air. She hated this time of year.
The conductor, a thin young man named William, approached. Cord smiled up at him, gesturing to the sticking tape and the score.
He watched her for a moment and then said awkwardly:
‘Ah – thank you, Cordelia.’ Pity, or embarrassment, coloured the words; he was nervous, she knew, for it was clear to him now exactly why he’d been able to book the once-famous Cordelia Wilde for his small suburban choir’s concert. She knew all this: it was always the same these days, after a performance. ‘It – it was a lovely evening.’
Cord tore off the last piece of tape from the spine of the score. ‘Oh, thanks to you too, William. Well, it’s the Messiah, isn’t it? Can’t go wrong with the Messiah.’
‘Um. Absolutely.’
‘My father used to pretend to be the trumpet,’ she said suddenly. ‘You know, in “The Trumpet Shall Sound”.’ She mimed playing, as he stared blankly. ‘I’d sing, you see, and he’d be the trumpet.’
Every Christmas, together on the sofa in the sitting room at River Walk where the light from the Thames flickered on the yellow walls. The crackle of the fire, the damp, sweet smell of chestnuts. Daddy made an excellent trumpet substitute: he could do most things, mend a kite, put a plaster on a bloody knee, run up a wall and flip back over . . . ‘Rejoice, you men of Angers . . .!’
Her mind was drifting – it did that a lot lately.
William smiled politely. ‘Several choir members are opera buffs and remember your Countess in Figaro, you know. It’s a real thrill to have you here.’
‘That’s very kind,’ she said politely.
‘I wish I’d seen it . . .’ He stopped. ‘It’s such a long time ago you must be awfully bored of people asking you about it.’ Behind his spectacles his eyes bulged. ‘I mean . . .’
Cord laughed. ‘You mean I’m old and washed up and some of your members remember me before my voice was ruined.’
William looked absolutely horrified.
‘No! No, Cor-Cordelia.’ He stumbled over the words, his face flushing a vibrant plum colour. ‘I assure you, I didn’t.’
‘I’m only joking,’ she broke in gently because though that was, of course, what he meant she knew it was the only way to get past moments like these, the intense, sharp pain she felt in her chest when she allowed herself to recall, even if just for a second, how it had been to open her mouth and have this godlike, glorious sound pour forth. Once, long ago, another age.
‘I did enjoy singing with you all. You’re a lovely choir.’ There was a tiny, strained pause. ‘Now, sorry to mention it but the filthy lucre. Do I send in the invoice, or—’
He coughed. ‘No, no, we have your details, the secretary will pay you as soon as the box-office takings have been processed.’
‘Of course. Wonderful!’ She heard the censure in his tone, but these days she had no shame: you had to chase small choirs like this for the money. She’d had one booking recently where they had tried to get out of paying altogether. The choir’s chairman had even left her a snooty voicemail saying she shouldn’t have accepted the gig knowing the state of her voice now: Cord had called in the Musicians’ Union and they’d paid up, albeit ungraciously. But she was long past the point where she could wait for payment; the triumph of Countess Almaviva had been twenty-six years ago and the most she could hope for nowadays, in addition to her teaching, was a concert every few weeks, enough to keep her in bills and food. Even then it was tight.
‘Well, thank you again,’ said William, his high colour fading. He gave her a tiny, rather pompous bow. ‘Forgive me – I must go and join the others. We’re having a little party—’
‘Oh, lovely,’ said Cord, smiling at him.
‘Oh – oh, gosh. I’m awfully sorry, the numbers are rather tight in the pub. I fear—’
Cord patted his arm, torn between horror and wanting to laugh. ‘I wasn’t inviting myself along. Honestly.’
How quickly it becomes farce, she thought and she shivered, and tried to focus on shaking William’s hand, nodding as he backed away in almost comical relief.
Back in her dressing room – in reality a tiny curtained area behind the vestry where the vicar robed – Cord quickly changed out of her heavy velvet dress into linen trousers and a loose top, trying to buoy herself up, still shivering slightly in the chill of the old building though the night was warm. She knew churches like this all too well, their dreadful heating systems, the odd lavatory placements, their officious churchwardens and worst of all the harsh, unforgiving acoustics that seemed to taunt her, magnifying the flaws in that once-flawless voice.
Brushing her hair, Cord stared frankly into the spotted old mirror. For some reason she felt particularly blue this evening, more than her usual post-performance comedown. She was tired, sick of that London August dry, dead feeling: she knew why, of course, it was the same every year.
‘You silly girl,’ she said aloud.
It was also most likely performing the Messiah. Cord knew herself: singing was like a drug, it affected her, it pumped adrenaline and oxygen through her body so that sometimes she could almost capture that feeling, the feeling of triumph, of immersion in one’s art, the swell of exhilaration that made you feel you ruled the world—
Her phone rang and she jumped; it never rang. She fumbled clumsily for it in the bottom of her rucksack.
‘Hello?’
At first she couldn’t tell if someone was speaking or not, the background noise – like a wind tunnel – was so loud.
‘Hello? Anyone there?’ Cord was about to end the call and then she heard the voice.
‘. . . Cordy?’
She felt herself stiffen. No one called her Cordy. Not any more. ‘Who’s this?’
‘Cordy? Can you hear me now? I’m moving away from the beach huts.’
She said again, woodenly, ‘Who is this, please?’
‘It’s me,’ said the voice, clearer with every second, and Cord felt anxiety and fear envelop her, a blush of red that began on her breast bone, flooding her skin, burning her up. ‘It’s Ben, Cordy.’
‘Who?’
‘Your brother. Benedick.’ He was shouting. ‘Gosh, the reception’s terrible here. I couldn’t call you at all inside the house—’ More rapid footsteps. ‘I’m walking towards the lane. Can you hear me now?’
‘Yes.’ Her heart seemed to be in her throat. ‘Aren’t – aren’t you in LA?’
‘I’m back in England for a while. I’ve been trying you all day.’
‘I haven’t checked my phone. I had a concert. We rehearsed most of the afternoon.’
‘Really?’ The surprise in his voice needled her. ‘Hey, that’s great.’
Gazing at the reflection of her face in the clouded mirror, Cord watched the scarlet flush begin to creep up and over her jawline, saw the naked terror in her eyes and was astonished at how even now, years afterwards, it was like this. ‘What do you want, Ben?’ she said, struggling to stay calm. ‘I have to get changed.’
‘Oh, I see – oh, right.’ Unlike her, Ben had not inherited his parents’ ability to dissemble. ‘Well – the thing is . . . it’s Mumma. She’s not well. I wanted to let you know—’
‘What’s wrong with her?’
‘I’m so sorry, Cordy. She’s – she’s dying.’
‘She’s been dying for years, Ben.’
‘Not like that.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Oh, Cordy. She’s only got a few months at the most. It’s a brain tumour. A butterfly glioma, it’s called. So pretty-sounding, isn’t it? But it’s Stage Four.’ His voice was faint. ‘They’ve told us it’s inoperable.’
There was silence, waves and static crackling over the line. Cord swallowed.
‘I didn’t – I didn’t know.’
‘Obviously.’
‘What about chemo?’
‘Lauren and I asked her that today. She doesn’t want it. They’ve said it’d buy her some time, but only a few months, and the treatment is really rough.’
‘Oh, Mumma.’ Cord closed her eyes, and for a second felt the soft touch of her mother’s slim white hands cupping the back of her head, the scent of her perfume, lilac and rose, the glint of her red-gold hair, and sadness pierced her heart. ‘Poor Mumma.’
‘She’s OK, actually. Strange though it may sound. She loves that home. And they can take care of her until the end. I think she’s been – well, like you say, she’s been dying for years, and now she’s been shown her way out it’s almost a relief. Oh, Cord – I’m so sorry to—’ The voice broke off for a moment. ‘I didn’t want to speak to you again like this, Cordy.’
Cord placed a cool hand on her spinning head. She didn’t know what to say.
‘The thing is, she wants to see you. She says she’s got something for you. And – well, the Bosky. It’s about the Bosky.’
‘What about it?’
‘It’s – it’s yours, after she’s gone. Daddy left it to you.’
‘Me?’ Cord put one hand against the wall to steady herself. ‘The – the Bosky?’
Oh, saying it, saying the name of it, the pleasure of the sounds on her tongue, when she never said it, never said phrases like ‘When we’re at the Bosky’, or ‘Last summer at the Bosky’, the chart she used to keep counting down the days, the smell of the place – she remembered it still, pine and lavender, warm dry wood and sea salt . . .
‘They’ve valued it today, so you can decide what to do when she . . .’ Ben trailed off. ‘But she just wants to see you, Cord. Wants to explain some things to you.’
‘What things?’
‘I don’t know.’ For the first time she could hear the exasperation in his voice. ‘She says you have to come and see her, just once, so she can explain. I can handle the sale later on, if you don’t want the house.’
‘It’s not fair, you should have a share—’ she began.
‘You know I don’t care about any of that,’ he said, furiously. ‘Just come down. Come tomorrow. The girls will be there. Your nieces. You haven’t seen them for ten years.’ His voice was hollow. ‘Good God. Cordy, come and meet Lauren – she’s my wife and you’ve never laid eyes on each other. Come and see Mumma one last time. You have to.’
‘No.’
‘How can you—’
But she interrupted him. ‘I can’t, Ben.’ She tried to sound calm. ‘Don’t. I really can’t.’
‘Can’t because you’re working or something, or can’t because you won’t?’
‘Both. Neither.’ She gave a sound between a laugh and a sob.
‘I used to know you better than anyone, anyone in the whole world, and now I – I don’t understand you at all, Cord.’ The bewilderment in his tone broke her heart. The lying, the huge, dreadful web of lies spun by her over the years to hide the truth from him. ‘I went there today, after the estate agents. There’s nothing in the house at all except those photos all over the walls. There’s one of you and Mumma and Mads after she gave her the new clothes, that first summer with her . . .’ Cordelia closed her eyes, twisting herself against the cold stone like a cornered animal, her stomach stabbing with pain. ‘All these memories . . . The place is in a dreadful state and still . . .’ He trailed off. ‘Oh, honestly. I just bloody want to see you, that’s all.’
She swallowed, holding on to the dusty lectern stowed in the corner of the crowded vestry. With huge effort she said, ‘I’m not coming down, Ben. Call me – call me when she’s dead.’
He began to say something, something about Daddy, but Cord cut him off. She stood staring at the phone then, with shaking hands, turned it off.
She knew where he’d have been standing. At the entrance to the beach behind the house where the dark pine trees reared up like a wall, near the field with the horses, darling Claudie with the soft grey muzzle she used to love to stroke. Hedgerows which, now, right now, would be thick with the tight early blackberries of autumn, sharp as ice water, sweet as a kiss. At the top of the lane there was a telephone box and a beach shop, selling plastic balls, shrimping nets, ice lollies. Her first expedition alone had been, at eight, to go and buy some iced buns from the beach shop. The crunch of sand on the stone floor, the smell of cake and tannic tea and suntan lotion. Trotting back along the uneven path, the relief when the gate of the Bosky appeared, her father’s pride in her. ‘Little Cord. You are marvellous, my brave girl. All by yourself.’
Cordelia had not cried when she lost her father, or her best friend. She had not cried when she had ended it with Hamish nor later, when she realised what she had lost by giving him up. She had not cried when she woke up after the operation on her throat to find it had failed or after any of the dreams that haunted her sleeping hours, taunting her with a life she might have had.
But she cried now, pressing her hands to her cheeks, mouth wide open, like a child.
She knew she had to get back to the safety of her flat, to be alone again. As soon as she could manage it, she plucked up her bag and velvet dress with shaking hands and, dashing out into the quiet street, ran away from the church, not caring who saw her.
She was glad of the emptiness of the overground train that carried her back to West Hampstead. She could see her reflection in the darkened, grimy carriage window opposite: pale face, swollen eyes . . . a ghost, that’s what she was, a ghost of another, entirely different, person. When she got home, she shut the door on the outside world, and sank to the ground, hands covering her face.
Golden lads and girls all must, / As chimney sweepers, come to dust . . .
She knew she would not sleep, not now she had looked back, down into the darkness again. Yet through that airless night as she lay with the duvet thrown off the bed, hot and restless, arms spread wide, eyes fixed unseeingly at the ceiling, Cord could only remember the good times. They had been the Wildflowers, and they had been so blissfully, gloriously happy – hadn’t they? Before she – and it was her, the fault was all hers – had deliberately dismantled it all. Bit by bit. A family’s happiness. Her family.