Windfallen

by Moyes, Jojo

  Guyhoney, as Mr. Bancroft Senior was apparently known to his wife, turned from the back gate, which looked down over the playing fields, and began walking up to where the ladies were taking their seats under a flapping parasol, sipping at warm tea.

  “Which direction is the ocean?”

  Guy, who had been sitting on the grass, stood and walked over to his father. He pointed over to the east, his words carried away on the brisk winds.

  “I do hope you don’t mind sitting outside. I know it’s a bit blustery, but it might be the last beautiful afternoon of the year, and I like to get the last of the roses.” Mrs. Holden had made frantic motions behind her back to get Virginia to bring out more chairs.

  “Oh, no, we love to be outdoors.” Mrs. Bancroft put a hand to her hair to stop it whipping into her mouth as she took a mouthful of tea.

  “Yes. Yes, one does miss the outdoors in the winter.”

  “And Freddie put a dead fox on the drawing room rug,” said Sylvia.

  “Sylvia!”

  “He did. It wasn’t even me. And now Mummy says she won’t let us in there ever again. That’s why we have to sit in a freezing-cold garden.”

  “Sylvia, that is not true. I’m so sorry, Mrs. Bancroft. We did . . . er . . . have a little incident in the room just before you came, but we had always intended to have tea out here.”

  “Dee Dee, please. And don’t you worry on our account. Outside is fine. And I’m sure Freddie can’t be as bad as our son. Guy Junior was just the most horrific child.”

  Dee Dee beamed at Susan Holden’s shocked expression. “Oh, awful. He used to bring back insects of all sorts and put them in boxes and jars and then forget about them. I’d discover spiders the size of my fist in my flour bin. Ugh!”

  “I don’t know how you cope, out there with all those insects. I’m sure I’d have lived in perpetual terror.”

  “I’d like it,” said Freddie, who had spent the last ten minutes peering at the fresh leather-and-walnut interior of Mr. Bancroft’s brand-new Rover. “I’d like a spider as big as my fist. I’d call it Harold.”

  Mrs. Holden closed her eyes. It was somehow harder to think of one’s rose garden when one was sitting in it.

  “I would. It would be my friend.”

  “Your only friend,” said Celia, who, Mrs. Holden noted, had recovered some of her tartness. She was seated on the edge of the picnic rug, her legs toward Lottie’s, picking miserably at a plate of biscuits.

  Lottie, meanwhile, sat hugging her knees, looking past everyone else at the front gate, as if waiting for some signal to leave. She had not offered to hand any of the scones around, as Mrs. Holden had requested before the Bancrofts arrived. She hadn’t even changed into something pretty.

  “So where’s this house that you told us about, Junior? I bet it isn’t half as pretty as Susan’s house here.”

  Mr. Bancroft strode over to the table, his cigarette waving in his hand for emphasis. His voice, although English, was of indeterminate origin and had a definite transatlantic lilt, which Susan Holden found very unconventional. Mind you, there seemed to be little conventional about Guy Bancroft Senior. A large man, he was wearing a bright red shirt, of the hue one might expect to see on a cabaret performer, and he spoke very loudly, as if everyone else were at least fifty yards away. When he arrived, he had planted great wet kisses on both her cheeks in the French style. Even though he was quite clearly not French.

  “It’s over in that direction. Past the municipal park.” Guy steered his father toward the coast again and pointed.

  In normal circumstances one might have thought him rather . . . common. There was absolutely no refinement in his manners. His clothes, his loud voice—all pointed to a certain lack of upbringing. He had sworn twice in front of her, and Dee Dee had just laughed. But he did have a certain sheen: that of money. It was apparent in his wristwatch, in his highly polished handmade shoes, in the very beautiful crocodile handbag they’d brought Susan Holden from London. When she’d pulled it from its tissue paper, she fought an uncharacteristic urge to lower her head just to breathe in that delicious, expensive smell.

  She tore her mind from the handbag to check her watch again. It was nearly a quarter to four. Henry really should have called by now to say whether he would be home for supper. She didn’t know how many to cook for. She wasn’t entirely sure whether the Bancrofts thought they were staying, and the thought of making her broiler chickens stretch out to a meal for seven made her chest quite fluttery with anxiety.

  “What, toward our hotel?”

  “Yes. But it’s on a promontory by itself. You wouldn’t see it from the coast road.”

  She could get Virginia to run down and get a joint of pork. Just in case. It wouldn’t be wasted if they didn’t stay; the children could have it in rissoles.

  Dee Dee leaned over, her hand pinning her blond hair to her head. “My son has been telling us all about your fascinating neighbors. It must be lovely to have so many artists on your doorstep.”

  Susan Holden sat up a little straighter, beckoning to Virginia through the window. “Well, yes, it is rather nice. So many people assume that a seaside town has little to offer in the way of culture. But we do our best.”

  “You know, I envy you that, too. There’s no culture out on the fruit plantations. Just the radio. A few books. And the occasional newspaper.”

  “Well, we do like to cultivate the spirit of the arts ourselves.”

  “And the house sounds fantastic.”

  “House?” Susan Holden looked blankly at her.

  “Yes, Mrs. Holden?” Virginia stood in front of her, clutching a tray.

  “Sorry, did you say house?”

  “The Art Deco house. Guy Junior says it is one of the most beautiful houses he’s ever seen. I must say in his letters he’s had us fascinated.”

  Virginia was staring at her.

  Mrs. Holden shook her head slightly. “Er . . . don’t worry, Virginia. I’ll come in and talk to you in a minute . . . I’m sorry, Mrs. Bancroft, could you repeat what you just said?”

  Virginia departed with an audible tut.

  “Dee Dee, please. Yes, we’re great fans of modern architecture. Mind you, where I grew up in the Midwest, everything’s modern, you know? We call a house old if it was put up before the war!” She burst into peals of laughter.

  Mr. Bancroft tapped his cigarette into a flower bed. “We should take a walk down there later this afternoon. Take a look at it.”

  “At Arcadia?” Lottie’s head swung around.

  “Is that its name? What a glorious name.” Dee Dee accepted another cup of tea.

  “You want to go to Arcadia?” Mrs. Holden’s voice had risen several keys.

  Lottie and Celia exchanged looks.

  “I understand it’s the most fabulous place, absolutely full of exotic types.”

  “It is that,” said Celia, who for the first time that day was smiling.

  Dee Dee glanced at Celia and back at her mother.

  “Oh. Maybe it’s a little difficult. I’m sure they don’t want us gawping at them. Guyhoney, let’s leave it for another day.”

  “But it’s only five minutes down the road.”

  “Honey—”

  Mrs. Holden caught the glance Dee Dee sent her husband.

  She straightened a little in her chair. Looked deliberately past her children. “Well, of course I do have a standing invitation to visit Mrs. Armand. . . . I mean, only last week I received a letter . . .”

  Mr. Bancroft stubbed out his cigarette and downed his tea in a thirsty gulp. “Then let’s visit. C’mon, Guy, you show us what you’ve been talking about.”

  MRS. HOLDEN WOULD BE REGRETTING THOSE SHOES. Lottie watched as, for the fifteenth time in the short walk, the woman in front of her turned an ankle on the uneven surface of the sea path, anxiously glancing behind her to see whether her visitors had noticed. She needn’t have worried; Mr. and Mrs. Bancroft were arm in arm and oblivious, chatting companionably
, pointing out to sea at distant vessels or up above them to some late-blooming flora. Guy and Celia were at the front, Celia’s arm threaded through his, but with none of the easy conversation of his parents. Celia talked and Guy walked, his head down, his jaw set. It was impossible to know if he was listening. Lottie brought up the rear, half wishing that the fiercely protesting Freddie and Sylvia had been allowed to come, if only to give her something else to focus on other than that pair of golden heads or to provide a lightning rod for Mrs. Holden’s palpably increasing aura of tension.

  She didn’t know why Mrs. Holden had suggested they come. Lottie knew she must be regretting it already, even more than the high-heeled shoes; the closer they came to Arcadia, the more she kept casting nervous looks around her, as if afraid they might bump into someone she knew. She had adopted the halting, uneven gait of the incompetent criminal, and she refused to meet Lottie’s eye, as if afraid she might be challenged on her volte-face. Lottie wouldn’t have bothered—she felt simply miserable: miserable at having to spend yet another hour faced with beaming parental pride in the would-be bride and groom, at having to look again upon the face of the man forbidden to her, at the idea that they were about to inflict all this upon Adeline, who wouldn’t know how to put on an afternoon tea if it leaped up and buried her in Darjeeling.

  Guy’s mother was calling to Celia again. Celia had cheered up immeasurably, partly because of all the attention she was getting from Dee Dee and partly, Lottie suspected, because the thought of her mother at the actress’s house filled her with mischievous delight. Lottie both was glad she was a little happier and wanted to quench that happiness with a raw and burning ferocity.

  Guy’s parents hadn’t seemed to notice her.

  They’ll all be gone soon, she told herself, closing her eyes. And I’ll do more shifts at the shoe shop. I’ll make up with Joe. I’ll be sure my mind is occupied. That it’s so full of stuff that I can’t find any room to think of him. And then Guy, turning into the driveway, chose that moment to glance around and meet her eye, as if his very existence could make a mockery of any attempt to control her feelings.

  “This it?” Mr. Bancroft was standing back on his heels, in much the same manner that his son had several weeks earlier.

  Guy stopped, gazing at the low white house in front of them. “That’s the one.”

  “Nice-looking house.”

  “It’s a kind of mixture between Art Deco and Art Moderne. The style stems from the 1925 Exhibition Internationale des Arts Décoratifs. In Paris. That’s what launched Art Deco. The geometric patterns on the buildings are meant to echo the Machine Age.”

  There was a brief silence. Everyone in the small party turned to stare at Guy.

  “Well, that’s the longest damn sentence I’ve heard you come out with since we got here.”

  Guy glanced down and blushed. “I was interested. I looked it up in the library.”

  “Looked it up in the library, huh? Good for you, son.” Mr. Bancroft lit up another cigarette, shielding his lighter flame with a broad, fat hand. “See, Dee Dee?” he said after an appreciative puff. “Told you our boy would be all right without teachers and suchlike. Anything he needs to know he goes and looks it up himself. In the library, no less.”

  “Well, I think that’s just fascinating, darling. You tell me some more about this house.”

  “Oh, I don’t think that should be me. Adeline will tell you all about it.”

  Lottie watched Mrs. Holden flinch slightly at Guy’s use of Adeline’s first name. There were going to be questions tonight, she could just tell.

  She could also tell that Mrs. Holden was embarrassed by how long it took anyone to answer the door; already on edge, she had stood before the huge white front door clutching her handbag in front of her, raising and lowering it in apparent indecision over whether to knock a second time, in case no one had heard. There were definitely people there; there were three cars in the drive. But no one seemed to be answering.

  “They might be out on the terrace,” said Guy eventually. “I could climb over the side gate and have a look.”

  “No,” said Dee Dee and Susan Holden simultaneously.

  “We don’t want to intrude,” said Susan Holden. “Perhaps they’re . . . perhaps they’re gardening.”

  Lottie didn’t like to mention the fact that the closest thing to greenery on Adeline’s terrace was some bread that had been left to molder down by the big plant pots.

  “Perhaps we should have rung ahead,” said Dee Dee.

  Then, as the silence became excruciating, the door swung open. It was George, who stood for a second, stared slowly at each member of the little party, and then, with a grin at Celia, made an extravagant sweep of his hand and said, “If it isn’t Celia and Lottie and a band of merry men. Come on in. Come and join the party.”

  “Guy Bancroft Senior,” said Mr. Bancroft, holding out a huge hand.

  George looked at it, stuck his own cigarette between his teeth. “George Bern. Delighted. No idea who you are, but delighted.”

  He was, Lottie realized, quite drunk.

  Unlike Mrs. Holden, who stood nervously in the doorway as if reluctant to venture in, Mr. Bancroft did not seem remotely perturbed by George’s odd greeting. “This is my wife, Dee Dee, and my son, Guy Junior.”

  George leaned back theatrically to take a closer look at Guy. “Ah. The famous prince of pineapple. I hear you’ve made quite an impact.”

  Lottie felt herself flush and began to walk briskly down the corridor.

  “Is Mrs. Armand at home?” Mrs. Holden asked formally.

  “She certainly is, madame. And you must be Celia’s sister. Her mother? No, I don’t believe it. Celia, you never told me.”

  There was just the faintest hint of something mocking in George’s voice, and Lottie dared not look at Mrs. Holden’s face. She walked quietly into the main drawing room, from where the sounds of some discordant piano concerto were filtering through the air. The wind was picking up; in some distant part of the house a door repeatedly squeaked and slammed.

  Behind her she heard Dee Dee exclaiming over some piece of art and Mrs. Holden, in somewhat anxious tones, wondering whether Mrs. Armand would mind an unheralded visit, but she had said . . .

  “No, no. You all come on in. Come and join the circus.”

  Lottie could not help but stare at Adeline. She was seated in the middle of the sofa, as she had been when Lottie had first seen her. This time, however, her air of exotic polish had rubbed off; she had apparently been crying, and she sat silently with pale, blotchy cheeks, her eyes lowered, and her hands twisted in front of her.

  Julian had been seated beside her, with Stephen in the easy chair, engrossed in a newspaper. Now, as they approached, Julian stood and strode up to the door.

  “Lottie, how delightful to see you again. What an unexpected pleasure. And whom have you brought with you?”

  “This is Mr. and Mrs. Bancroft, Guy’s parents,” Lottie whispered. “And Mrs. Holden, Celia’s mother.”

  Julian didn’t seem to see Susan Holden. He almost fell upon Mr. Bancroft’s hand in his eagerness to shake it. “Mr. Bancroft! Guy has told us so much about you!” (Here Lottie noticed Celia’s frown as she glanced up at Guy; it was not just going to be Mrs. Holden asking questions tonight.) “Do sit down, sit down. Let us organize some tea.”

  “I’m sure we don’t want to be any trouble,” said Mrs. Holden, who had blanched at a series of nudes on the wall.

  “No trouble, no trouble at all. Sit! Sit! We will have tea.” He glanced over at Adeline, who had hardly moved since they arrived, except to bestow a weak smile on her visitors. “I am very glad to meet you all. I have been entirely remiss in getting to know my neighbors. You’ll have to excuse us if we are not quite up to speed on domestic matters at the moment—we have just lost our help.”

  “Oh, I do feel for you,” said Dee Dee, seating herself on a Lloyd Loom chair. “Nothing worse than being left without help. I say to Guy that
having staff is sometimes more trouble than it’s worth.”

  “It is out in the Caribbean,” said Mr. Bancroft. “You have to have twenty staff to do the work of ten.”

  “Twenty staff!” said Julian. “I’m sure Adeline would be content to have one. We seem to have problems retaining people.”

  “Should try paying them occasionally, Julian,” said George, who had poured himself another glass of red wine.

  Adeline smiled weakly again. Lottie realized that with Frances apparently absent, there was no one there who was actually going to make the tea.

  “I’ll make the tea,” she said. “I don’t mind making tea.”

  “You will? Splendid. What a delightful girl you are, Lottie,” said Julian.

  “Delightful,” said George, smirking.

  Lottie went through to the kitchen, glad to escape the strained atmosphere of the living room. As she cast around for clean cups and saucers, she could hear Julian asking Mr. Bancroft about his business and, with perhaps more enthusiasm, telling him about his own. He sold art, he told Mr. Bancroft. He had galleries in central London and specialized in contemporary painters.

  “Is it popular, this stuff?” She could hear Mr. Bancroft walking around the room.

  “Increasingly so. The prices certain artists make at auction at Sotheby’s or Christie’s are, in some cases, trebling by the year.”

  “You hear that, Dee Dee? Not a bad investment, huh?”

  “If you know what to buy.”

  “Ah. That’s where you are entirely right, Mrs. Bancroft. If you are badly advised, you may end up buying something that, although it may have aesthetic value, has ultimately little monetary worth.”

  “We haven’t really bought paintings, have we Guyhoney? The ones we have bought I bought because they looked pretty.”

  “A perfectly sensible reason for buying something. If you do not love it, it is irrelevant what it is worth.”

  There were bills on the kitchen table, several large bills for heating oil, electricity, and some repairs that had been done to the roof. Lottie, who could not help glancing at them, was shocked by the sums involved. And by the fact that they were all apparently final demands.