Windfallen

by Jojo Moyes

  She stretched her legs out in front of her, letting her skirt ride up over her knees.

  "I'm awfully hot, George," said the blond woman suddenly. "Shall we go in?"

  Oh, Celia, thought Lottie. You've met your match here.

  Celia glanced at George, who was smoking a cigar, his head tilted back toward the sun. A flicker of something thunderous passed across her face.

  "I suppose it is rather warm," George said. He sat up, brushing sand from his shirtsleeves.

  Then Frances stood up. "I'm getting overheated here, too. I think it's time for a swim," she said. "Are you coming, Adeline? Anyone?"

  Adeline shook her head. "Too, too sleepy, darling. I'll watch."

  But George, shaking his dark hair like a big shaggy dog, had started to undo his shirt, as if suddenly reanimated.

  "That's what we need," he said, tamping out his cigar. "A nice refreshing dip. Irene?"

  The blond woman shook her head. "I haven't my things."

  "You don't need swimming things, woman. Just go in your slip."

  "No, George, really. I'll watch from here."

  The other men were stripping off now, down to shorts or trousers. Lottie, who had wondered if she were about to fall asleep, had been jolted awake and was watching with quiet alarm the sudden shedding of everyone's clothes.

  "C'mon girls. Lottie? I bet you can swim."

  "Oh, she doesn't go in the water."

  Lottie now knew that Celia had drunk too much. She would never have so carelessly referred to Lottie's inability to swim (a deep embarrassment to a seaside dweller) if she had been sober. Lottie shot her a furious glance, but Celia wasn't paying attention. She was busy wrestling with her zipper.

  "What are you doing?"

  "I'm swimming." Celia grinned broadly. "Don't look at me like that, Lots. I've got my slip on. It's no different from a swimsuit, really."

  And then she was off, whooping and squealing as she followed George and a handful of others to the water's edge. Frances plowed in, pushing forth until she was up to her waist in the waves, then diving under like a porpoise, her swimsuit wet and shiny, like the pelt of a seal.

  Celia, having reached the water, had gone in up to her knees and hesitated, until George reached for her arm and, laughing, swung her around so that she fell into the water. Around them the other guests bobbed boisterously in the breakers, pushing and splashing one another, the men naked to the waist, the women in fine layers of lace undergarments. Not one of them, Lottie noted, was wearing a girdle.

  When Celia first turned to wave at her, however, Lottie suddenly wished Mrs. Holden had been more successful in trying to persuade her daughter to wear one. For now that her slip and underwear were soaked with seawater, few parts of Celia's anatomy were protected from view. Get down, under the water, she tried to gesture at her, waving her hands ineffectually. But Celia, her head thrown back as she laughed, didn't seem to notice.

  "Don't worry, darling," Adeline's voice came low and intimate from beside her. "No one will pay any attention. When we are in France, the women are usually naked from the waist up."

  Lottie, trying not to think too hard about what such holidays in France might comprise, gave a weak smile in reply and reached for the wine bottle. Suddenly she felt a distinct need for fortification.

  "It's just Mrs. Holden," she said quietly. "I don't think she'd be terribly pleased."

  "Then here." Adeline handed her a large, boldly patterned scarf. "Go and give her this. Tell her it's a sarong and that I said all the finest people are wearing one."

  Lottie could have kissed her. She took the fabric and padded down to the beach, tying her cardigan around her waist as she did. It was late enough in the afternoon now; the risk of tanning was minimal.

  "Here!" she shouted, bare feet lapped by the receding tide. "Celia! Try this."

  Celia didn't hear her. Or at least didn't want to hear her. She was squealing as George dived for her waist, lifting her into the air and dropping her back into the shallows.

  "Celia!"

  It was hopeless. She felt like someone's aged, persnickety aunt.

  George saw her eventually. He came wading through the waves, his hair plastered to his head, his rolled-up trousers sticking to his thighs. Lottie tried to keep her glance above his waist.

  "Can you give this to Celia? Adeline said it was a sarong or something."

  "A sarong, eh?" George took the cloth from her and looked behind him at Celia, who was launching herself backward on the swell.

  "Think she needs covering up, do you?"

  Lottie looked directly back at him, her face straight. "I don't think she realizes quite how uncovered she is."

  "Oh, Lottie, Lottie, serious little guardian of morals! Look at you, all hot and bothered about your friend." He glanced back down at the cloth, a grin spreading across his face.

  "I've got a better solution," he said. Then, "I think it's you who needs cooling off." And without warning he swept his arms around her waist and threw her up and over his wet shoulder.

  Lottie was aware of being bumped along as he began to jog, and she panicked, tried to get her arm behind her to ensure that her skirt was still covering her knickers. Then suddenly she was falling down, a huge wave of salt water sweeping over her face, so that, coughing and spluttering, she struggled to find the seafloor under her feet. She could hear muffled laughter above her and then, gasping, found her head above water again.

  She managed to stand and paused for a second, her eyes stinging and salt burning in the back of her throat. She felt herself retch a couple of times and made blindly for the shore. When she got there, she bent over, gasping. Her dress was stuck to her legs, her layers of petticoat melded together. Her top, which was a pale cotton, had become almost see-through, clearly revealing the outline of her brassiere. Raising a hand to her hair, she realized it was loose and that the tortoiseshell slide that had held it back off her face was no longer there.

  She looked up and saw George, hands on hips, grinning. Celia, behind him, was wearing a look of appalled amusement.

  "You bloody pig." The words fell out of Lottie's mouth even before she knew she was going to say them. "You bloody, bloody pig. That was not on."

  George looked briefly stunned. Behind her the lull of conversation from the picnic blankets suddenly stalled.

  "Oh, it's bloody funny for you," she yelled, aware that there was a large lump in the back of her throat, threatening tears. "You with handfuls of money and your linen bloody suits. Doesn't matter to you if your clothes get ruined. Look at my summer dress! Look! It's my best one! Mrs. Holden will kill me! And you've lost my bloody comb." And, to her own horror, the tears came, hot tears of frustration and humiliation.

  "Steady on, Lots." Celia's face had fallen. Lottie knew she was embarrassing her but didn't care.

  "Come on, Lottie. It was only a joke." George moved toward her, looking both exasperated and apologetic.

  "Well, it was a very stupid joke." Lottie looked around to see Adeline beside her. She was holding up her wrap to place it around Lottie's shoulders. Her expression was one of mild rebuke. Lottie caught her spicy, jasmine scent as Adeline covered her.

  "George, you must apologize. Lottie was our guest, and you had no right. Lottie, I am very sorry. I'm sure we can get Marnie to launder your lovely dress and make sure it is all right for you."

  But how will I get home, Lottie thought desperately, confronted by an image of herself tottering along the road in Adeline's feather boa and Chinese slippers. She was interrupted by a voice from up on the cliff path.

  "Celia Jane Holden. What on earth do you think you're doing?"

  Lottie spun around to find above her the appalled faces of Mrs. Chilton and Mrs. Colquhoun, who had been taking the scenic route home from Woodbridge Avenue. It had apparently proven rather more scenic than they'd expected.

  "You get out of that water and back into your clothes this instant. Where are your decency and decorum?"

  Celia h
ad gone quite white. She held her hands to her chest, as if suddenly aware of her state of undress. George lifted his hands in a placatory manner, but Mrs. Chilton had pulled herself up to her full five feet four inches, so that her bosom appeared to be hoisted somewhere beneath her chin, and was not about to be pacified.

  "And I don't know who you are, but you, young man, are old enough to know better. Persuading respectable young girls out of their clothes in broad daylight--you are a disgrace." She caught sight of the wine bottles on the sand. "Celia Holden, you had better not have been drinking. Goodness gracious. Are you trying to earn yourself a reputation? I do not imagine for one minute that your mother is going to be pleased about this."

  Mrs. Colquhoun meanwhile held both hands to her silent mouth, as shocked as if she had just witnessed some human sacrifice.

  "Mrs. Chilton, I really--"

  "Lottie? Is that you?" Mrs. Chilton's chin was pulled so far into her neck that they had become one huge pink trunk of disapproval. The fact that Lottie was dressed did not appear to placate her. "You make your way up here this instant. Come on, girls. Both of you, before anyone else sees you." She hauled her handbag under her chest, both hands tightly gripping its clasp. "Don't you look at me like that, Celia. I am not leaving you here with this disreputable rabble. I am going to take both you girls home personally. Goodness gracious, what your poor mother is going to make of this, I don't know."

  EXACTLY THREE WEEKS LATER CELIA LEFT FOR SECRETARIAL school in London. It was meant to be a punishment, and Mrs. Holden was faintly put out that her daughter seemed not just unrepentant but rather indecently pleased to be going. She would stay with Mrs. Holden's cousin in Kensington and, if she did well in her course, would have the chance to work at the cousin's husband's office in Bayswater. "London, Lots! And not a charity coffee morning or hideous sibling in sight." Celia had been in an uncommonly good mood for the entire run up to her departure.

  Lottie, meanwhile, had listened to Celia getting carpeted by her father, and wondered from the silent safety of their room what it was likely to mean for her. Nothing had been said about her going to London. She didn't want to leave. But when she heard them muttering in lowered voices about "bad influences," she knew it wasn't Celia they were talking about.

  THREE

  It had to be said: She was not a girl one could warm to, even if she did try terribly hard. There was nothing wrong with her, exactly; she was always helpful and tidy and usually polite (unlike Celia, she wasn't prone to what her husband called "the hysterics")--but she could be terribly short with people. Blunt enough to be considered rude.

  When Mrs. Chilton had brought them both back on that dreadful Saturday afternoon (Mrs. Holden was still having nightmares about it), Celia had at least had the grace to look shamefaced. She had thrown her arms around her mother's waist and pleaded, "Oh Mummy, I know I was awful, but I'm really, really sorry. Honestly I am." Furious as Mrs. Holden was, she had been quite taken aback; even Mrs. Chilton's granite expression had softened. It was very hard to resist Celia at the best of times.

  Lottie, however, had failed to apologize at all. She had looked rather cross when told to say sorry for her behavior, and retorted that she had not only kept all her clothes on but would never have entered the water of her own free will, as well they all knew. Except she said "bloody knew," which immediately got Mrs. Holden's back up. It had to be said, there was still something of the fishwife in that girl, despite all her best efforts.

  No, said Lottie. She would not apologize for her behavior. Yes, she was sorry that they hadn't been entirely straightforward about where they were going. Yes, she had been there when Celia had stripped to her underwear--and not done anything about it. But she personally had been far more sinned against than sinning.

  Mrs. Holden had become rather cross at this point and told Lottie to go to her room. She hated losing her temper, and it made her feel even more resentful toward the girl. Then Sylvia had come in and said--right in front of Mrs. Chilton, mind--that she had seen Celia practicing kissing on the back of her hand and that Celia had told her she had kissed "simply loads" of nice men and that she knew of a way of doing it without getting pregnant. And even though it was plain to Mrs. Holden that Sylvia had got carried away and was indulging in stories, she knew jolly well that Sarah Chilton would be unable to keep the child's comment entirely to herself, and that had made her crosser with Lottie than ever. It had to be Lottie--there was no one else to be furious with.

  "I don't want to see you anywhere near that house from now on, do you hear me, Lottie?" she said, making her way up the stairs after Sarah left. "I really am very cross with you both. Very cross. And I will not have you embarrassing the family in this way again. Goodness only knows what Dr. Holden is going to say when he gets home."

  "So don't tell him," said Lottie, emerging from their room, her face straight. "He's not interested in women's gossip anyway."

  "Women's gossip? Is that what you call it?" Susan Holden stood on the stairs, clutching the banister. "You both humiliate me in front of polite society and you think this is just women's gossip?"

  From inside their room she heard Celia mutter something.

  "What was that? What did you say?"

  Lottie was gazing into their room. After a moment Celia stuck her head around the door.

  "I said we're terribly sorry, Mummy, and of course we'll stay well away from the disreputable rabble, as Mrs. Chilton so eloquently put it."

  Mrs. Holden gave them both her longest, hardest look. But she swore she could see the faintest of smiles playing around Lottie's lips. And, realizing she was not about to get any more out of either of them, she mustered up what little dignity she could and walked slowly back downstairs, to where Freddie was building himself a rabbit hutch out of old crates. In the good parlor. To live in.

  And now Celia had gone. And Lottie, although she had been careful to do all her chores and had been relentlessly polite and helped with Sylvia's homework, had for weeks been mooning around like a sick puppy when she thought no one was looking. It was all rather wearing. And somehow Susan Holden felt rather less comfortable about Lottie's presence in the house than she once had. Not that she would have admitted it to anyone. Not after all the hard work she had been seen to put into the girl's upbringing. It was just that when it had been the two of them together and she had fed them together, bought their clothes together, scolded them together . . . it had been somehow easier to consider Lottie just part of the family. Now, with Celia gone, she felt unable to deal with Lottie in quite the same way. If Susan admitted it to herself, she felt inexplicably resentful of her. Lottie seemed to sense this and had behaved even more impeccably, which was peculiarly irritating, too.

  Worse, she had the distinct suspicion that, despite everything she said, Lottie was still going to that actress's house. She offered to help Virginia with the shopping, which she had never done before. And then took several hours just to get a pound of mackerel. Or even half a day to pick up Dr. Holden's newspaper. Twice she had come home smelling of scents that you most definitely could not get in Mr. Ansty's chemist shop. And then, when one asked her, she would fix you with that rather too direct stare and say in a tone that, frankly, Susan found rather aggressive, that No, She Had Not Been to the Actress's House. Because Hadn't Mrs. Holden Told Her Not To? She really was too much sometimes.

  Susan should have known, really. Lots of people had warned her against taking in an evacuee. She had disregarded those that said all the London children had nits and lice (although she had peered quite closely at eight-year-old Lottie's hair when she arrived) and those that said she would steal or that the parents would follow and camp in their house and they'd never be rid of any of them.

  No, there was only the mother, and she had never visited so much as once. She had written Susan Holden two letters, once after the first long stay, thanking her in that awful handwriting of hers, and the second time a year later when Susan had invited the child to return. But she had
seemed rather relieved to have the child off her hands.

  And Lottie had never stolen anything or run away or got too forward with boys. No, if anything, Susan was forced to acknowledge, it was Celia who had been a little too developed in that direction. The girl had done what she was told, helped with the little ones, and kept herself nice and presentable.

  Susan Holden felt suddenly guilty, picturing eight-year-old Lottie standing at Merham station, her arms folded protectively around her brown-paper-wrapped bundle of clothes. In the midst of all the chaos, she had looked at Mrs. Holden silently, with those huge dark eyes, and then, as Susan began to chatter a welcome (even then the child was rather unnerving), she had slowly lifted her right hand and taken Susan's own. It had been a curiously moving gesture. And a rather unbalancing one, too. And symptomatic of everything Lottie had been since: polite, self-contained, watchful, affectionate in a rather reserved way. Perhaps it was unfair to be so hard on the girl. She had done nothing really wrong. She was just going to have to adjust to Celia's absence. The girl would be leaving them soon anyway, once she had sorted herself out with a good job. And Mrs. Holden did pride herself on her Christian sense of charity.

  But then she thought about the way that Henry had looked at Lottie that time several weeks ago when she had hitched up her skirt to go in the paddling pool with Frederick. And Susan Holden felt rather complicated about her houseguest again.

  CELIA HAD A BOYFRIEND. IT HADN'T TAKEN HER LONG, Lottie thought wryly. There had been a lengthy gap between letters, and then she had written a breathless account of some awful trouble she had got into at a railway station and how this man, whom she was now stepping out with, had "saved" her. Lottie hadn't taken much notice at first; Celia always was prone to exaggeration. And he was not the first man Celia had sworn was the one for her. Not even in the short time she'd been in London; there had been the man she'd met on the train between Bishops Stortford and Broxbourne; the man who served her at the cafe on Baker Street who always gave her an extra coffee when his boss wasn't around; and there was Mr. Grisham, her shorthand teacher, who had definitely examined her loops and abbreviations with more than simple teacherly interest. But then, gradually, the letters were less about these men and the supposedly interminable evenings in with Aunt Angela and her awful brood and the girls at secretarial school, and increasingly about dinners at fashionable restaurants, and walks on Hampstead Heath they'd had together, and the general superiority of Guy in everything from conversational skills to kissing technique ("for God's sakes, burn this before Mummy sees it").