Windfallen

by Moyes, Jojo

It was certainly true in Dee Dee’s case; she was wearing a turquoise two-piece in silk shantung with little silk slingbacks in the exact matching shade. Mrs. Holden had been plucking up courage all afternoon to ask her whether she’d had them made specially.

  “Ah. Yes . . . Dee Dee always scrubs up well.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Looks just as good in a pair of shorts and bare feet, though. A real outdoors girl, is my wife. My son takes after her. Or should I say, your son-in-law . . .” He laughed. “Guess all this is going to take some getting used to, huh?”

  “Oh, we already think of you as part of the family.”

  If only Henry would look a little happier. He was staring disconsolately out at the sea of friends, picking at his food and occasionally muttering something to his daughter. Far more than occasionally refilling his glass. Please don’t let Henry get too drunk, she prayed silently. Not in front of all these people. Not today.

  “I had to congratulate Mr. Bancroft on his delightful puddings.” It was Deirdre Colquhoun, breathless and resplendent in an empire-cut coatdress made of pink damask (Freddie had insisted noisily that he knew the old sofa she’d got the fabric from; Susan Holden cast a quick look around to make sure he was nowhere near) and gesturing toward the collapsing displays of exotic fruit and cut-glass bowls of fruit salad. There were no hardened apples, morello cherries, or tinned pineapple to be found in these; there were instead sliced kumquats, paw-paw, and mango, dissected star fruit and opaque lychee, flesh of a color and texture unknown to the English guests. (They consequently gave many a wide berth, sticking to what they knew. Like plum. And orange. Real fruit, as Sarah Chilton surreptitiously muttered to Mrs. Ansty.)

  “What a marvelous display you have put on,” Mrs. Colquhoun murmured admiringly.

  “All fresh, all flown in by airplane yesterday morning.” Mr. Bancroft leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette beneficently. “I might add that they were cut and peeled by Honduran virgins.”

  Mrs. Colquhoun went quite pink. “Goodness . . .”

  “What are you saying, Guyhoney? I hope you’re not being a naughty boy!” Dee Dee leaned back on her own chair to see him, exposing a fair length of tanned thigh as she did.

  “She never lets me get away with anything.” But Mr. Bancroft was smiling.

  “You get away with far too much for your own good.”

  “With you looking like that, sweetheart, can you blame me?” He blew her a noisy kiss.

  “Well . . . anyway. The displays look wonderful.” Mrs. Colquhoun, a hand to her hair, began to make her way unsteadily back to her table.

  Mrs. Holden turned to look at her husband. That was definitely his third cognac. She watched him swirl it joylessly around the balloon glass and swallow it with a kind of grim determination.

  Oh, why did he have to develop one of his moods today?

  LOTTIE, A SEATED REFEREE BETWEEN FREDDIE AND Sylvia, realized she had begun to feel unwell again. She had not felt herself for days; unsurprising, she told herself, when her whole being wanted to curl up somewhere hidden and quietly die. For the past month she’d felt detached, as if she were moving through fog, hearing and seeing other people only from a distance. It had been something of a relief; when she was occasionally forced into feeling—if she happened upon Celia wrapping her arms around Guy’s neck or heard her giggling conspiratorially with her mother about something he had said or done—then the pain that pierced her felt almost unbearable. It was real: sharp, determined, punishing. The fog’s descending brought with it a relief.

  But this was different. She felt physically unbalanced, as if her blood, like the waves, insisted on rushing away from her when she moved. Food she eyed with suspicion. It tasted wrong, held no pleasures. The gaudy displays of fruit she simply could not look at; they were too bright, as if their very cheerfulness were a direct snub to her.

  “Look, Freddie. Look.”

  Sylvia had opened her mouth wide, revealing the well-masticated contents of her plate.

  “Sylvia.” Lottie looked away, closing her eyes. She heard Freddie’s chuckle of delight and then a return “Gaaah,” his own mouth’s contents exposed.

  “Pack it in, you two.”

  Joe was seated on the other side of Freddie. He wasn’t family, but Mrs. Holden had evidently decided to put him at their table anyway. Lottie didn’t have the energy to feel resentful about it. The longer the afternoon went on, the more she had begun to feel rather grateful.

  “You okay, Lottie? You’re looking a bit pale.”

  “Fine, Joe.”

  She just wanted to go home and lie down on her bed and stay very, very still for a long time. Except home didn’t even feel like home anymore. Perhaps it never had been. Lottie gazed around her at the reception, her habitual low-key feeling of dislocation threatening to become something more overwhelming, to swamp her.

  “Look. I’ve poured you some more water. Drink a bit.”

  “Sylvia. Sylvia. How many grapes can you fit in your mouth?”

  “You really don’t look good. Hope you’re not coming down with another bug.”

  “Look. I can get loads more than you. Look, Sylvia. Look.”

  “You’ve hardly touched your food. Go on, have a drink. Make you feel better. Or I could get them to do you a little warm milk—that’s meant to settle your stomach.”

  “Please don’t go on, Joe. I’m fine. Really.”

  Guy’s speech had been very short. He had thanked the Holdens for their hospitality and for putting on such a splendid spread, his parents for the wonderful desserts and for putting up with him, and Celia. For becoming his wife. The fact that he had said this with no huge enthusiasm or romantic flourish was of little comfort. She was still his wife.

  And Celia. Celia sat there with her bewitching smile spread across her face, her veil becomingly framing her elegant neck. Lottie couldn’t look at her, shocked by the depth of hatred she now felt for her. Knowing that she had done the right thing was no comfort at all. Being true to herself, as Adeline had put it, was even less. If she could only persuade herself that she hadn’t meant what she’d felt, then she could move on.

  But she had felt it.

  Oh, God, but she just wanted to lie down. Somewhere dark.

  “Shall I help you to a bowl of trifle?” said Joe.

  THE GUESTS WERE STARTING TO GET RESTLESS. IT WAS time, Mrs. Holden decided, for the newlyweds to head off, in order that some of the older ladies could head back home before it got too late. Mrs. Charteris and Mrs. Godwin were looking a bit weary, and the whole back table had already got their coats.

  She decided that it should really be Henry’s task. He had done very little during the reception—even his speech had been rather perfunctory—and she didn’t want anyone making any comments. She excused herself from her chair and made her way along the long table to her husband. He was gazing at the table, apparently oblivious to the merry conversation around him. Mrs. Holden smelled the alcohol on him before she was even at arm’s length.

  “Henry dear. Could I have a little word?”

  She flinched at the coldness of his gaze when he lifted his head. He stared at her for what felt like an age, the kind of stare that strips one of any sense of self-possession.

  “What have I done now, dearest?” he said. The “dearest” was spat out, like something foul-tasting.

  Susan Holden glanced around to see if anyone else had noticed. “You haven’t done anything, dear. I just wanted to borrow you for a minute.”

  She laid a hand on his arm, glancing around at the Bancrofts, who were deep in conversation.

  “I haven’t done anything.” He looked down, placed both hands palms down on the table, as if to push himself up. “Well, that makes a change, doesn’t it, Susan dear?”

  Oh, but she had never seen him this bad. Her brain started ticking frantically, trying to weigh up the possibilities of getting him out of there without a public row.

  “Makes a change that for once it
all appears to be satisfactory to you.”

  “Henry.” Her voice was hushed, pleading.

  “Well. Not often we all manage to come up to scratch, is it? Not often we meet the exacting standards of Merham’s hostess with the mostest?” He was standing now and had started to laugh: a sharp, bitter laugh.

  “Darling. Darling, please, can we—”

  He turned to her in mock surprise. “Oh, darling, now, am I? Isn’t that lovely? Now I’m your darling. Goodness me, Susan. I’ll be lover next.”

  “Henry!”

  “Mummy?” Celia had appeared at her side. She was looking at her father and back to Mrs. Holden. “Is everything all right?”

  “It’s all fine, dear,” said Mrs. Holden reassuringly, trying to pat her away. “You and Guy go and get ready. You should really be off soon.”

  “All fine. Yes, Celia dearest. It’s all fine.” Dr. Holden turned and placed his hands heavily on his daughter’s shoulders. “You go off now and have a fine life with your fine young man here.”

  “Daddy . . .” Celia was looking uncertain now.

  “You go off and stay beautiful and funny and as sweet as you are. Try your best not to nag and pick at him about things that don’t matter. Try not to look at him as if he were a mangy dog when he happens to do anything that he might want to do . . . anything that doesn’t involve sitting nicely and sipping tea and fretting about what everybody else thinks.”

  “Henry!” Susan Holden’s eyes had filled with tears. She raised a hand to her mouth.

  Guy was now standing behind Celia. He frowned, trying to gauge what was happening.

  “Oh, spare me the tears, Susan. Spare me another bloody dose of tears. If anyone should be crying in this place, it should be me.”

  Celia burst into noisy sobs. Around them the tables had begun to hush. People were watching, glancing uncertainly at each other, their drinks stilled in their hands.

  “Daddy—why are you being so horrible? Please, this is my special day.” Celia attempted to pull him back, away from the table.

  “But it’s not just about this day, dearest Celia, is it? It’s not just about the bloody wedding. It’s about every bloody day afterward. Every bloody endless bloody day until death does you part.” The last bit he had begun to shout. Susan Holden, with some horror, realized that they were now the main focus of attention.

  “Everything okay here?” called Mr. Bancroft.

  Guy placed his arm around Celia. “Fine, Dad. Er, why don’t you come and sit down, Mrs. Holden.”

  “Oh, don’t bother,” said Dr. Holden. “I’m going outside. You can finish your perfectly fine reception without me. Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, the show’s over. Your good doctor is just leaving.”

  “You are a brute, Daddy,” sobbed Celia as he made his way clumsily out through the tables of the Riviera’s dining room. “I shall never, ever forgive you for this.”

  “Cognac,” said Mr. Bancroft, shaking his head. “Can get you like that sometimes.”

  “Please get a grip, Celia dear,” said Mrs. Holden, who was sitting down sipping at a restorative sherry, only the trembling of her hands revealing her own lack of composure. “People are beginning to stare.”

  THERE WERE THREE WINKING LIGHTS DOWN AT THE mouth of the harbor. Fishing boats, Lottie had decided. The lights were too small for any other. Hauling their treasures from the seabed, from that cool, inky darkness, pulling them, silently gasping, into the suffocating night.

  She wrapped her cardigan tighter around her against the chill autumnal air, listening to the swell and hiss of the tide dragging the pebbles in its loose-fingered embrace. It was said to be the most pleasant way to die, drowning. One of the fishermen had told her; apparently once you stopped struggling and opened your mouth, the panic ceased and the water just took you in, enveloped you in its soft, welcoming blackness. A peaceful way to go, he had called it. Curiously, he hadn’t been able to swim either. She had laughed when he told her.

  But then that had been back when laughter had come easily to her.

  Lottie shifted on her chair, breathing in the salt air, wondering how different it would feel from water. She gulped aloud a couple of times, as if testing it, but it didn’t seem a convincing substitute. The only times she’d swallowed seawater, it had burned the back of her throat, left her choking saltily, retching and drooling. The mere thought of it made her feel nauseous again.

  No, the only real answer would be to try it. To swallow it wholly, to go willingly into that dark embrace. Lottie winced and closed her eyes, hearing the unheralded pattern of her thoughts. It is not the pain of today that I cannot bear, she thought, her face buried in her hands. It is the thought of all the days to come, the endless repetition of pain, the jolts of unwelcome discovery. For I will have to know everything about them, about their home, their child, their happiness. Even if I moved far from here, I would still have to know. I will have to watch him forget that we were ever close, that he was mine. And I will shrivel with it and die every day.

  What was one death compared with a thousand?

  Lottie stood, allowing the wind to pull at her skirt and hair. It was only a short walk from the Riviera’s terrace to the beach. No one would even know she had gone.

  She looked down at her feet, curiously dry-eyed. They moved tentatively, one before the other, as if they were not even under her control.

  She barely existed as it was; it seemed only the smallest of steps farther.

  Out at the harbor mouth, the three lights winked into the darkness.

  “Who’s that?”

  Lottie jumped, turned.

  A large, stumbling shadow loomed toward her, attempting clumsily to light a match as it came.

  “Oh, it’s you. Thank God. I thought it was one of Susan’s cronies.”

  Dr. Holden sat heavily on the end of a bench and finally managed to light his match. He held it to the cigarette in his mouth and then exhaled, letting the flame extinguish in the breeze.

  “Escaping, too, are you?”

  Lottie gazed out at the lights and then turned to face him.

  She paused. “No. Not really.”

  He had closed his eyes. She could see his face now in the cast light of the upstairs rooms. Even upwind of him, she could smell the alcohol on his breath.

  “Bloody awful things, weddings.”

  “Yes.”

  “Bring out the worst in me. Sorry, Lottie. Had a bit too much to drink.”

  Lottie folded her arms across herself, wondering if he wanted her to sit down.

  She perched a few feet away from him, on the end of the bench.

  “Want one of these?” He smiled, offering her a cigarette.

  It might have been a joke. She shook her head, smiling weakly back at him.

  “Don’t know why not. You’re not a child. Although my wife insists on treating you like one.”

  Lottie didn’t know what to say. She looked down at her shoes again.

  They sat in silence for a while, listening to the muted sound of the music and laughter filtering through the night air.

  “What are we going to do, Lottie? You about to be forced into the big, wide world and me desperate to escape back to it.”

  She stilled now, conscious of a new timbre to his voice.

  “It’s a bloody mess, that’s for sure,” he said.

  “Yes. Yes it is.”

  He turned to her, moved a little way along the bench. Back at the hotel she could hear the sound of muffled cheering, underlaid by Ruby Murray, singing of happy days and lonely nights.

  “Poor Lottie. Having to listen to the ramblings of a drunken old fool.”

  She shook her head. She couldn’t think what to say.

  “Yes I am. I’m under no illusions. I’ve ruined my own daughter’s wedding, offended my wife, and now I’m out here boring you.”

  “You’re not boring.”

  He took another drag of his cigarette. Looked sideways at her. “You don’t think so?”
/>
  “I’ve never thought so. You’ve . . . you’ve always been very kind to me.”

  “Kind. Kindness. How could I have been anything but? You had a raw deal, Lottie, and you came here and blossomed in spite of it. I was always as proud of you as I was of Celia.”

  Lottie felt her eyes prick with tears. She found kindness so much harder to bear.

  “Huh. In some ways you’ve been more of a daughter than Celia has. You’re smarter, that’s for sure. Don’t have your head filled with romantic twaddle, ridiculous magazines.”

  Lottie gulped. Gazed back out to sea. “Oh. I’m sure I’m as capable of romantic dreams as anyone else.”

  He paused. “Are you?”

  There was real tenderness in his voice.

  Lottie closed her eyes. “Yes,” she said. “For all the good it has done me.”

  “Oh, Lottie . . .”

  And then suddenly, without warning, she began to cry.

  In a stroke he was there beside her, enfolding her in his arms, pulling her into him. She could smell the pipe smoke on his jacket, the warm, familiar scents of childhood. And she gave herself up to him, buried her face in his shoulder, unburdened herself of the grief she’d had to hide for so long. She felt his hand patting her back, as one would a baby. And she could hear him crooning, “Oh, Lottie, oh, my poor girl, I understand. I do understand.”

  And then he shifted slightly, and she looked up at him and saw, in the dim light, an infinite sadness in his face, the weight of unhappiness long borne, and shivered slightly because she saw herself.

  “Poor, dear, Lottie,” he whispered softly.

  And then, as his head lowered to hers, she recoiled. For as his hands held her face, his mouth met hers and kissed her hungrily, desperately, their tears mingling on their cheeks, the unwelcome taste of alcohol on his lips. Lottie, stunned, tried to pull back, stumbling on the uneven grass. But he just moaned and held her closer.

  “Dr. Holden—please—”

  It had taken less than a minute. But as, freeing herself, she glanced over and met the shocked figure of Mrs. Holden, standing in the hotel doorway, she knew it to be the longest minute of her life.

  “Henry . . .” Mrs. Holden’s voice was low, shaking. And then, as she reached a supportive hand out to the wall, Lottie turned and fled into the darkness.