Windfallen

by Jojo Moyes

"Doesn't seem like eight weeks already, does it? I'll take Freddie if you like. I've got to get mine done. Dad says I'm starting to look like a teddy boy."

  "Listen," said Lottie, standing.

  Joe lifted his head, as if scenting the air. Below them the steady rush and hiss of the sea told of an incoming tide. A dog barked, interrupting Mr. Beans's scented reverie. And then she heard it again. Jazz music, strange, arrhythmic, almost out of tune. A horn and something else underneath it. And laughter.

  "Can you hear it?" She held Joe's arm, forgetting herself. It was coming from Arcadia House.

  "What is it? Someone strangling a cat?"

  "Listen, Joe." She paused, trying to catch the melancholy sound. It wafted over and then withdrew. "Let's go closer."

  "Will Buford has got three new American rock and roll records at his house. I'm going over there this week to listen. Do you want to come?"

  But Lottie, her cardigan pulled around her shoulders, was running now, tripping down the steps to the best vantage point. Mr. Beans cantered happily behind, his claws clipping on the concrete.

  "Mrs. Holden said we should keep to the roads," Joe called to her vanishing figure. Then, after a pause, he followed her.

  Lottie was standing, leaning over the railings toward Arcadia. In the near dark its strips of glass windows glowed brightly, sending banks of light onto the paved terrace. Illuminated there was a small gathering of people; if she really squinted, Lottie could just about make out Julian Armand seated on the old iron bench, his feet resting up on a table. Across the terrace was someone taller, smoking. That was probably George. And there was another man Lottie didn't recognize, talking to him.

  And then there, bathed in a pool of light, were Frances and Adeline, dancing together, their arms resting on each other's shoulders, Adeline's head tipped back as she laughed lazily at something Frances was saying. They swayed together, breaking off briefly to pick up glasses of wine or call across to the men.

  Lottie stared, wondering at the slight thrill that passed through her at the scene. Frances did not look mournful anymore. Even at this distance she looked confident, radiant in the gloom. Like she was in control of something, if Lottie could have worked out what. What is it that can transform someone like that? she wondered. How could that be Frances? When Lottie had last been there, Frances had simply been wallpaper; a tepid, beige presence against the little glowing beacon that was Adeline. And now she overpowered her; she looked taller, more vital, an exaggeration of herself.

  Lottie, transfixed, could hardly breathe. Arcadia kept having that effect on her. She felt herself drawn in, carried on the breath of the minor chords that blew tantalizingly toward her on the sea breeze. They whispered their secrets, suggested new places, new ways for her to be. You need to learn to dream, Adeline had told her.

  "I think Mr. Beans has done his business now," said Joe, his voice cutting across the dark. "We should really be getting you home."

  Dearest Lots, the last letter went. You are perfectly mean not to ask me simply loads of questions about Guy. But I know it's just because you're madly jealous, so I'll forgive you. The men of Merham are not quite in the same league as those of London after all!!! Seriously, though, Lots, I have missed you loads. The girls in my course are a catty bunch. They had all grouped off before I got there, and they do tons of whispering behind hands during our breaks. I got a bit upset about it at first, but now that I have Guy, I just think they are silly and must have very boring, empty lives if they feel the need to indulge in schoolgirl games. (Guy said that.) He is taking me to dinner at Mirabel to celebrate the end of my shorthand and typing exams. Don't tell Mummy, but it will be a miracle if I pass the shorthand. Mine looks like Chinese lettering. Guy said that, too--he's been all over the world and has seen some of these things for real. I was going to send you a photograph of us both at Kempton Park races, but I only have the one and I'm frightened of losing it, so you'll just have to imagine him. Just picture Montgomery Clift with lighter hair and a suntan and somehow you're halfway there . . .

  IT WAS THE THIRD LETTER IN WHICH SHE SOMEHOW hadn't managed to include a picture of "Guy." Lottie was somehow not terribly surprised.

  LOTTIE STOOD SILENTLY AS MRS. HOLDEN ATTACKED her with the clothes brush, brisk downward sweeps removing nonexistent lint from her fitted jacket.

  "You should wear your hair band. Where is your hair band?"

  "It's upstairs. Do you want me to get it?"

  Mrs. Holden frowned at Lottie's hair.

  "It would probably be a good idea. Your hair does tend to fly away rather. Now, Frederick. What on earth have you done to your shoes?"

  "He's polished them with black instead of brown," said Sylvia with some satisfaction. "He says they look more real."

  "More real than what?"

  "Feet. They're hooves," said Freddie, turning his toes in and out again with pride. "Cow's hooves."

  "Well, really, Freddie. Can I not leave you alone for one minute?"

  "Cows don't have hooves. They have feet."

  "No they don't."

  "Yes they do. Cows have cloven feet."

  "You've got cow's feet then. Fat cow's feet. Ow."

  "Sylvia, Freddie, stop kicking each other. It's not nice. Lottie, go and get Virginia, and we'll see if we can rescue them in the five minutes before we leave. Now, Sylvia. Sylvia, where is your coat? I asked you ten minutes ago to put your coat on. It's quite cold today. And what have you done to your fingernails? You could grow potatoes in them."

  "That's because she's been picking her nose. Ow! You've got cow's feet! Big fat ugly cow's feet."

  "Sylvia, I've told you once. Don't kick your brother. We'll get you a nail brush. Where's the nail brush? What on earth is your sister going to say when she sees the state of you all?"

  "Oh, for God's sakes, stop fussing, woman. It's only Celia. She wouldn't care if we met her wearing our bathing suits."

  Mrs. Holden flinched, not looking up at her husband, who was seated on the stairs doing up his shoes. Only Lottie noticed her eyes fill suddenly with tears and the surreptitious attempt she made to wipe them away with her sleeve. Then she ran down the corridor to find Virginia.

  Sympathetic as she was, Lottie had other concerns. She and Joe were not speaking.

  On the way back from walking Mr. Beans, he had said he wasn't entirely sure she should be spending so much time at Arcadia. They were getting quite a reputation, that lot. And if Lottie was seen down there too often, well, it would rub off, wouldn't it? And because he cared about her, because he was her friend, well, he thought it only right to let her know.

  Lottie, already furious at his interruption, had demanded, in sneering tones that surprised even herself, exactly what business it was of his whom she spent her time with? She could be spending it with Tommy Bloody Steele for all he had to do with it.

  Joe had flushed. She could see it even in the dark, and that had made her feel guilty and irritated at the same time. And then, after a short silence, he had said rather solemnly that if she didn't know by now she never would, but that no one would ever love her like he did, and even if she didn't love him back, he still felt the need to look out for her.

  Lottie, enraged, had rounded on him. "I told you, Joe. I didn't want you to say that to me ever again. And now you've ruined it. You've ruined everything. We can't be friends. If you can't keep your damned feelings to yourself, then we can't be friends. So why don't you go home to your mother and keep your concerns about my reputation to yourself."

  And with that she had yanked poor old Mr. Beans up on his leash and walked furiously home, leaving Joe standing silently by the park gates.

  NORMALLY JOE WOULD HAVE CALLED FOR HER BY NOW. He would have appeared at the door asking if she wanted to have a coffee or play board games and made some joke about their falling out. And Lottie, secretly pleased to see him, would be glad to smooth things over and have him as her friend again. He had become more important, with Celia away and everything. And irritating
as he was, he was the only other real friend she had. She'd always known she was somehow too dark, too awkward for the Betty Crofts and her like from school, that she had been tolerated in their crowd simply because of Celia.

  But this time Joe was evidently stung. Four days had passed, and still he hadn't come. And Lottie, thinking back to the harsh way she had spoken to him, was left wondering if she should approach him to apologize or whether, if she did, Joe would manage to convince himself this was yet another invitation for him to love her again.

  Mrs. Holden's voice echoed down the hall.

  "Lottie, come on. The train is getting in at four-fifteen. We don't want to be late, do we?"

  Dr. Holden brushed past her. "Go and calm her down, Lottie, there's a good girl. Or Celia will take one look at our little band on the platform and head straight back to London."

  He smiled at her as he spoke, a smile of exasperation and tacit understanding. And Lottie, responding in kind, felt vaguely ashamed as she did so.

  Perhaps mindful of another rebuke, Mrs. Holden did not speak for the ten-minute journey to the station. Mr. Holden didn't either, but that was nothing unusual. Sylvia and Frederick, however, overexcited simply by the prospect of being in the car, fought wildly and pressed their noses up at the windows, shouting at passersby. Lottie, who had been told to sit between them, occasionally pulled one down or scolded the other, but she was still preoccupied with the problem of Joe. She would go by there this evening, she decided. She would apologize. She could do it in a way that made it clear she didn't want any romantic stuff. Joe would come around. He always did, didn't he?

  THE TRAIN ARRIVED AT FOUR-SIXTEEN AND THIRTY-EIGHT seconds. Frederick, who had been closely monitoring the station clock, informed them loudly of its lack of punctuality. For once Mrs. Holden failed to scold him--she was too busy craning her neck trying to catch a glimpse of her daughter above the heads of the arriving passengers, her voice lifting weakly over the sounds of slamming carriage doors.

  "She's there! Third one down!" Sylvia had broken free of her mother's grasp and was running down the platform. Lottie watched her and then found herself half walking, half running, too, followed closely behind by the Holdens, who seemed to have temporarily forgotten their reserve.

  "Celie! Celie!" Sylvia threw herself at her older sister, almost unbalancing her as she stepped down onto the ground. "I've got new shoes! Look!"

  "I've got new shoes, too!" fibbed Frederick, pulling at Celia's hand. "Did you go really fast on the train? Were there any spies in London? Did you go on a double-decker bus?"

  Lottie stood back, feeling suddenly unaccountably awkward as Mrs. Holden threw her arms uninhibitedly around her daughter's shoulders, her face beaming with maternal pride. "Oh, I've missed you! We've all missed you!" she was saying.

  "We certainly have," said Dr. Holden, waiting until his wife released Celia before enveloping her in his own bear hug. "It's lovely to have you home, darling."

  It wasn't just the sudden bite of outsiderdom that was making Lottie feel shy. It was Celia herself. It had been only a matter of months, and yet Celia looked transformed. Her hair had been cut and molded into glossy curves, and her lips were outlined in a bold, almost startling red. She was wearing a belted green woolen coat that Lottie had never seen before and a pair of patent shoes with a matching handbag. The shoes had tapering heels that were at least three inches high. She looked like someone out of a magazine. She looked beautiful.

  Lottie smoothed her own hair back under her hair band and glanced down at her buckled walking shoes with stout soles. Her legs were clad in woolen tights, instead of Celia's nylons. They were too hot already.

  "God, it's nice to see you all," Celia exclaimed, looking around at them. And Mrs. Holden was so pleased to see her that she didn't even chastise her.

  "Lots? Lottie. Don't hang back, I can hardly see you."

  Lottie stepped forward and allowed herself to be kissed. A sweet perfume lingered as Celia stepped back. Lottie fought the urge to rub lipstick from her cheek.

  "I've got loads of things for you from London. I can't wait to show you all. I went a bit mad with the money Angela gave me. Oh, Lots, I can't wait to show you what I've got you! I liked it so much I nearly decided not to give it to you at all."

  "Well, let's not stand here all day," said Dr. Holden, who had started to look at his watch. "Come away from the train, Celia dear."

  "Yes, you must be exhausted. I must say, I didn't like the idea of you traveling all that way by yourself. I told your father he should have collected you."

  "But I wasn't by myself, Mummy."

  Dr. Holden, who had grabbed her suitcase and was already halfway toward the ticket office, stopped and turned.

  Behind Celia a man emerged from the train. He stooped slightly as he stepped down, and then he straightened up beside Celia. Under one arm he was clutching two huge pineapples.

  He glanced around him and smiled, a tentative smile.

  Celia's smile was dazzling. "Mummy, Daddy, I'd like you to meet Guy. And you'll never guess--we're engaged."

  MRS. HOLDEN SAT IN FRONT OF HER DRESSING TABLE pulling pins carefully from her hair, her gaze fixed unseeing on the reflection in front of her. She had always known it was going to be difficult for Lottie when Celia started to blosssom. It was inevitable that Celia would start to show her pedigree at some point. And she had to admit, down in London her daughter had blossomed in a way even she couldn't have imagined. Her little girl had returned home looking like a fashion plate.

  Susan Holden put the pins carefully in a little china pot and replaced the lid. She didn't like to admit quite how relieved she was at Celia's becoming engaged. To a chap of some standing, too. Whether it was out of happiness for Celia or thankfulness that she was now "taken care of," the whole family had, in their way, felt the urge to celebrate. (Henry had given her a quite uncharacteristic peck on the cheek. She still felt quite warm just thinking about it.)

  But Lottie's response to Celia's news had been positively peculiar. When he had initially emerged from the train, she had stared at the young man in a manner that was almost rude. Oh, they had all stared--Celia had taken every one of them by surprise, to be sure. Susan had to admit she'd probably stared a little herself. She hadn't seen a pineapple for years. But Lottie didn't take her eyes off him. Mrs. Holden had particularly noticed this, because the girl had stood right in her line of vision. It had been rather irritating. And then when Celia had announced their engagement, all the color had drained from Lottie's face. Actually drained, like you could have watched it sliding down. She had looked quite pasty afterward. Almost as if she were going to faint.

  Celia hadn't noticed. She was too busy showing off her ring and chattering on about weddings. But, no, even in the midst of all the excitement, Mrs. Holden had noted Lottie's strange response and felt the faintest fluttering of alarm. Even as she digested her daughter's news, she had found herself eyeing her surrogate daughter with concern.

  Perhaps it wasn't so surprising. After all, no one other than Joe would ever be interested in her, Mrs. Holden thought with a peculiar mix of pity and pride in her own daughter. Not with that coloring. And that history.

  She reached for her cold cream and began methodically removing the rouge from her cheeks. Perhaps we've been unfair taking her in after all, she thought. Perhaps we should have left well enough alone, left her with her London folk.

  It is possible we have given her expectations.

  FOUR

  "Totally unclothed, they were. I tell you, ladies, I felt quite faint." Mrs. Colquhoun raised a hand to her mouth, as if pained by the memory. "Right by the sea path, too. Anyone could have seen."

  This was entirely possible, the ladies of the salon conceded, while privately acknowledging that it was debatable whether anyone other than Deirdre Colquhoun would have stumbled across George Bern and Julian Armand taking a bracing morning swim. In fact, most were well aware that Mrs. Colquhoun had made an unusual number of walks a
long the sea path in the past months, even in inclement weather. But of course no one wanted to suggest that it was down to anything other than a desire to see Merham's standards upheld.

  "Weren't they a bit foolhardy, in this water?"

  "I would imagine they were rather blue in this water," Mrs. Ansty observed, smiling. Then stopped, when she realized that no one else thought it amusing.

  "And do you know he actually waved to me? The young one? Actually stood there and waved . . . as if . . . I could see . . ." Mrs. Colquhoun's voice tailed away, her hand still lifted to her mouth as if recalling some past horror.

  "He was singing last week. That Mr. Armand. Just stood on the terrace belting out some sort of opera, if you please. In broad daylight."

  The ladies shook their heads.

  "Something German, I believe," said Margaret Carew, who had a great passion for Gilbert and Sullivan.

  There was a short silence.

  "Well," said Mrs. Ansty.

  "I do believe, ladies, that the inhabitants of that house are beginning to lower the tone of our town."

  Mrs. Chilton put down her cup and saucer. "I'm becoming increasingly concerned about next summer's visitors. What if word gets around about their antics? We've got a reputation to uphold. And we don't want their influence spreading among our young folk, do we? Heaven knows what could happen."

  There was a brief lull in the conversation. No one wanted to bring up the incident with Lottie and Celia on the beach. But Susan Holden was far too buoyed up by Celia's engagement to continue to feel cowed by it.

  "Another piece of pineapple, anyone? Or perhaps a slice of melon?" She emerged through the door and began bustling around the room, stooping to offer little slices of the fruit, which she had carefully placed on cocktail sticks and arranged in attractive circles (Good Housekeeping magazine was very keen on attractive food arrangements).

  "You know, it's amazing to think how far this fruit has traveled just to be here. I said to Henry last night, 'There are probably more pineapples on airplanes these days than people!'" She laughed, pleased by her little joke. "Go on, do try some."

  "It is quite different from the canned variety," said Mrs. Ansty, chewing meditatively. "It's almost a little sharp for my tastes."