Windfallen

by Moyes, Jojo

  “But it’s your history.”

  “Would you rather I was upset? Sniveling around, telling you, ‘Oh, it wasn’t like this in my day.’”

  “Of course not, it’s just—”

  “It’s just that old people are meant to be forever harping on about the past. Well, I don’t have a blue rinse or a bus pass, and I couldn’t give a stuff whether you paint the walls yellow with blue spots—so you do what you want, as I keep telling you. And stop looking for everyone’s approval.”

  Daisy knew when a conversation was closed. She bit her lip, turned, and walked back into the house to make tea. Aidan, the foreman, was already in the kitchen, the tinny sounds of a radio burbling behind him.

  “She told you about the meeting, has she?”

  He was squeezing the tea bag out with his fingers, his gaunt face speckled with pale turquoise Farrow & Ball paint.

  “What meeting?”

  “Your woman down in the hotel there. She’s calling a meeting about this place. Wants the council to stop your works.”

  “You’re kidding me, right?”

  “I kid you not.” He tipped the bag into the plastic carrier that doubled as a rubbish bin and leaned back against the new stainless-steel units. “You’d better get down there tonight. I’d get the auld boss along as well. You know what they’re like in these sorts of places. Those women can be terrifying.”

  “She frightened the pants off of me.” Trevor, the plumber, stuck his head in searching for biscuits. “About fiftyish with a dog attached, right? Buttonholed me down at the newsagents when I was buying some fags and started having a right old go. Told me I didn’t know what I was doing and that I was opening some Pandora’s box or something.”

  “It’s the bar,” said Aidan. “They don’t want a bar.”

  “But how can you have a hotel without a bar?”

  “Don’t ask me, love. I’m just telling you what they’re all whining about.”

  “Oh, hell. What are we going to do now?” Daisy’s fractured sense of self-possession, barely netted together, was now disintegrating again.

  “What do you mean, do?”

  Mrs. Bernard stood in the door, Ellie balanced on her hip. “There’s nothing to do. You’ll go down there, listen to what she has to say, and then stand up and tell them they’re all a load of backward-looking fools.”

  “That’ll go down well,” said Trevor.

  “So tell them what it’s really like. Win them over.”

  “Speak in public?” Daisy’s eyes had widened. “I don’t think so.”

  “Well, get Jones up here. Get him to do it.”

  Daisy thought back to the two conversations they’d had since he left. He had resurrected his previous opinion of her, she could tell. The one that thought she was flaky, overemotional, not to be trusted with anything. His manner, when talking to her, was cautious and dismissive. He ended telephone calls prematurely and abruptly. When Daisy, still feeling stupid about her outburst, had asked him, in what she thought was a conciliatory manner, when he would be coming up again, he had asked why. Didn’t she think she could handle it by herself?

  “No,” she said now, furiously. “I don’t want to get him up here.”

  “Sounds like he’d handle it better than you could.”

  “We won’t go. We’ll leave the hotel to speak for itself.”

  “Oh, that’s brave. Give Sylvia Rowan a clear way to bad-mouth you to everyone.”

  There was something profoundly irritating about Mrs. Bernard’s scornful tone. Daisy felt she had heard it slightly too often.

  “Look, I don’t do speaking in public.”

  “That’s stupid.”

  “What?”

  “You won’t speak up for your own work. You won’t ring Jones because you made a fool of yourself with him. So you’ll sit here and let everyone walk all over you. That’s stupid.”

  Daisy had had enough. “Oh, and I suppose you never did anything wrong in your life, did you? You married a decent man, had your family, grew up to be an upstanding member of the community. Never suffered a moment’s self-doubt. Well, bully for you, Mrs. Bernard.”

  “Which shows how much you know. I’m just saying, in your circumstances, you need to stick up for yourself a bit more.”

  “My circumstances? My circumstances? I don’t wear a bloody scarlet letter on my forehead, Mrs. Bernard. Outside Stepfordwivesville there are people bringing children up on their own, who aren’t considered to have ‘circumstances,’ as you put it.”

  “I am quite well aware—”

  “I never chose this, you know? I thought I was creating a family. I didn’t think I was making myself a single parent. You think that was on my life plan? Be a single parent? Spend my life living in a building site with a five-month-old baby whose father doesn’t know what she looks like anymore? With a load of disapproving bloody battle-axes? You think that’s what I wanted?”

  Trevor and Aidan exchanged glances.

  “There is no need to get hysterical.”

  “Well, stop bloody getting at me.”

  “Don’t be so sensitive.”

  There was a brief pause.

  “And what do you mean I made a fool of myself with Jones?”

  Mrs. Bernard glanced at the men. “I’m not sure I should say.”

  “Say what?”

  “Oh, don’t mind us.” Aidan settled back against the units, mug of tea in hand.

  For the first time Mrs. Bernard looked unbalanced.

  “Well. You probably thought you were doing the right thing . . . moving on. . . .”

  “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “You and him. The other morning.”

  Daisy frowned, waited.

  The men were very still, listening.

  “I suppose young people are different nowadays . . . things are different.”

  “Oh, God, you think I slept with him, don’t you? You think I slept with Jones. Oh, I don’t believe it.” Daisy turned and rubbed at her forehead, laughing joylessly.

  Mrs. Bernard walked past her and began to point out something of intense interest to Ellie through the window.

  “For your information, Mrs. Bernard, not that it is any of your bloody business, Mr. Jones and I have not laid a bloody hand on each other. He stayed here because you took his car keys, no other reason.”

  “He’s a lovely man, though,” interjected Trevor.

  “Lovely. I’d go out with him. If I was a girl.” Aidan grinned.

  Mrs. Bernard turned and walked past them all. “I never said anything of the sort,” she said abruptly. “I just thought you shouldn’t have been drunk around him, that’s all. Him being your boss and all. But I won’t offer my opinion if you don’t want it.”

  “I don’t want it. In fact, I just want to be left alone.”

  “Well, that’s easy enough. Here, take the baby. I’ve got to go and do some shopping.” She pushed past Daisy, and, thrusting her daughter at her, left the house.

  “DAISY? IS EVERYTHING ALL RIGHT?”

  “No. Yes. I don’t know. I just needed to hear a friendly voice.”

  “What’s the matter, darling?”

  “Oh, you know. Just house hassles.” She waited, traced the receiver with her finger. “And Daniel wrote.”

  “That’s a shame. I was hoping he was dead. To say what?”

  “That he’s confused. Not very happy.”

  “Oh, poor Daniel. Well, that’s big of him. So what’s he going to do now?”

  Julia, Daisy realized, was possibly not the best person she could have rung.

  “Nothing. He’s . . . he’s sorting himself out.”

  “Which leaves you where, exactly?”

  “Forget it, Ju. Let’s not talk about it. Anyway. Ellie’s fine. She’s really doing well with her solids, and she can almost sit up by herself. She’s getting a real seaside glow in her cheeks. When things aren’t so busy and it’s warmed up a little, I’m going to take her for a p
addle.”

  “Bless . . . shall I come up and see you both? I miss my little babycakes.”

  It really was the most irritating word.

  “Let me get past this week. I’ll ring you.”

  “You don’t have to do this, you know, Daise. You can come home to us. Anytime you like. Don’s told me I shouldn’t have let you go up there on your own.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “But you’ll think about it. If it all gets too much. I don’t want you feeling you’re on your own.”

  “I’ll think about it, Ju. I will.”

  “Besides, Daise, it’s Essex.”

  THE ALDERMAN KENNETH ELLIOTT COMMUNITY CENTER had canceled its regular bingo night, and the few pensioners who had arrived for their game were not best consoled by the prospect of a planning meeting. Some stood outside exclaiming disconsolately at one another over their handbags, as if unsure now whether to stay or return home, while several others sat inside on their molded plastic chairs, their cards at the ready, just in case. The bingo caller, a former DJ who was hoping to make his way onto the cruise-ship circuit, stood outside smoking furiously and thinking of the fifteen pounds that would now not be his. All of which might have gone some way toward explaining the prematurely bad-tempered mood among those of Merham’s inhabitants who had braved the sudden showers—and missed the Wimbledon semifinals on the telly—to come.

  It was a low, kidney-colored building, erected in the late 1970s apparently with no aesthetic considerations either inside or out, merely a badly heated shell in which Merham’s One O’Clock Club, Tuesday Social, bingo, and a few mothers and toddlers fought politely for days and space in which to arrange the orange chairs and serve orange squash, cheap biscuits, and tea from its temperamental and oversize urn.

  On the walls of its entrance lobby, photocopied sheets of paper advertised a Dial-a-Bus service, a confidential drug-advice line, and a new play session for children with mental or physical handicaps. Plus a smaller notice, unseen by the former DJ, noting that this Thursday’s bingo evening would be canceled. Dominating all these was a new poster, more than twice their size, with SOS—SAVE OUR STANDARDS stenciled on in lilac ink. The residents of Merham, it exhorted, needed to call a halt to the damaging development of what it inexplicably called the “actress’s house,” in order to protect its young people and Merham’s traditional way of life.

  Daisy looked at this, at the audience of largely middle-aged people with their backs to her, shuffling into seats and looking expectantly at the stage, and fought the urge to turn around and retreat to the relative safety of Arcadia. She was prevented only by the equally terrifying prospect that both Jones’s and Mrs. Bernard’s visions of her were right: that she was weak, spineless, flaky. Not up to it. She hauled Ellie, simultaneously stripping her of Mrs. Bernard’s perennial multitude of layers, out of her pram, tucked it into the corner of the hallway, and then sat as unobtrusively as she could at the rear of the hall while the local mayor, a short, broad man who took evident pleasure in handling his chain of office, with a minimum of fuss introduced Sylvia Rowan.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I’ll keep this short, as I know you’re all anxious to be home.” Mrs. Rowan, resplendent in a boxy red jacket and pleated skirt, stood at the head of the hall, her hands clutching each other under her bosom. “But I’d like to thank you for such a splendid turnout. It just goes to show that community spirit is not dead in some parts of our beloved country!” She paused and smiled, as if waiting for applause, but then, sensing only the dullest murmur of agreement, plowed on.

  “Now, I’ve called this meeting because, as you know, we have spent many years protecting Merham from going the way of the likes of Clacton or Southend. We have, despite considerable opposition, always managed to restrict the circumstances in which alcohol can be sold publicly in this town. Some may think us backward, but I like to think we in Merham have kept a certain family feel, a certain standard to our little town, by not allowing it to become just another row of pubs and nightclubs.”

  She smiled at a muffled “hear hear,” from the back. Daisy, jiggling Ellie gently, closed her eyes.

  “Merham is, I feel, simply one of the most pleasant seaside towns in England. For those who wish to drink, there are the restaurants, run by Mr. and Mrs. Delfino here, the Indian restaurant, and ourselves at the Riviera Hotel. That has always been more than sufficient for our town’s inhabitants and has kept away the—shall we say—rougher elements that are traditionally attracted to seaside towns. But now”—she paused, looked around—“we are under threat.”

  The room grew quieter, only the occasional scrape of a shoe or the shrill ring of a mobile phone breaking the silence.

  “We are all glad, I’m sure, to see one of our finest buildings being renovated. And I am told by the district planning officer that everything being done to the house is entirely in keeping with its history. Although, those of us who know the house’s history will be wondering quite what that means!” She let out a nervous little laugh, echoed by some of the older people in the room. “But, as you are aware by now, this is not going to be for private use. The actress’s house, as we older residents know it, is going to become a hotel for Londoners. Created by the owner of a nightclub in Soho, no less, who wants a place for his type to stay outside the city. Now, some of us may question whether we really need Soho types headed down here and using Merham as their private playground, but, as if that were not bad enough, the new owner is applying for permission for”—she paused and checked a piece of paper in her hand—“a helipad. So you can imagine the noise that is going to create, with helicopters landing at all hours of the day or night. And not just one but two bars, with extended opening hours. So that all sorts can wander around the grounds drunk as you like and quite possibly bringing drugs and who knows what into our little town. Well, ladies and gentlemen, I for one am not willing to stand for it. I think we should lobby our local MP and our planning officer and get them to withdraw permission for a hotel here. Merham doesn’t need it and certainly doesn’t want it!” She ended with a flourish, waving the crumpled sheet of paper above her head.

  Daisy glanced around her at the mild noddings of approval and felt her heart sink.

  The mayor stood at the front, thanking a flushed Mrs. Rowan for her “passionate words” and asking if anyone else present had something to add. Daisy felt her hand rise and the sudden turning of two hundred expectant pairs of eyes on to her.

  “Er, I’m Daisy Parsons, and I’m the designer who’s—”

  “Speak up!” came a call from the front. “We can’t hear you.”

  Daisy moved into the walkway between the two banks of chairs and took a deep breath. The air was smoky, charged with the mingling of several inexpensive perfumes.

  “I’m the designer in charge of renovating Arcadia House. And I’ve listened very carefully to what Mrs. Rowan has to say.” She kept her eyes focused just above their heads, so that she didn’t actually have to see anyone. If she noted their expressions, she knew she would grind to a halt.

  “I understand that you feel very strongly about the house, and that’s entirely admirable. It’s a beautiful house, and if anyone wants to come—”

  “Louder! We still can’t hear you!”

  Daisy closed her eyes. Breathed hard. “If anyone wants to come and see what we’re doing, you’d be more than welcome. In fact, I’d love to hear from anyone who knows the house’s history or its previous inhabitants, because we want to build elements of its past back into the new decor. Although it’s not listed as a historic building, we really are being incredibly sympathetic to the ethos behind its design.”

  On her hip, Ellie shifted, her eyes bright and round as glass buttons.

  “Mrs. Rowan is right, there is an application in for a helipad. But that would be hidden from the town’s view, would only operate within a limited time frame, and, frankly, I don’t think we’ll end up building it anyway. I’m sure most visitors will just come by car or t
rain.” She looked around at the unmoved faces, and barreled on.

  “And, yes, we have applied for licensing for two bars, one inside and one out. But the kinds of people who are going to come to Arcadia are not drunken yahoos, they’re not the kinds who are going to start getting drunk on cheap cider and having fights down on the seafront. These are wealthy, civilized people who just want a gin and tonic and a bottle of wine with their meal. To be frank, you probably won’t even know they’re here.”

  “Noise carries from that house,” interrupted Sylvia Rowan. “If you’ve got a bar outside, there’ll be music of all sorts, and if the wind is blowing the right way, the whole town will have to listen to it.”

  “I’m sure we can work something out, if you tell the owner your concerns.”

  “What you don’t understand, Miss Parsons, is that we’ve seen it all before. We’ve had parties and city types up at that house, and we didn’t like it then.”A murmur of agreement crossed the room. “And that’s without the impact it will have on our existing restaurants.”

  “It will bring more trade to your restaurants. To the town.”

  Ellie suddenly, unaccountably, started to wail. Daisy began jiggling her, trying to focus on the argument above the abrasive sound of her crying.

  “And draw existing trade away.”

  “I really don’t think they’re the same sort of market.” Daisy, standing in the middle of the hall, didn’t think she’d ever felt so alone in her whole life.

  “Oh? And what are you saying our sort of market is, then?”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sakes, Sylvia. You know very well that the kind of people who come for Sunday tea at your precious hotel are hardly going to be playing drum and bass or whatever it’s called at some modern bar.”

  Daisy glanced to her left to see Mrs. Bernard standing up several rows away, Camille and Hal seated beside her, her husband several seats along. The older woman turned, taking in the faces of those people around her.

  “This town is dying,” she said slowly and deliberately, so that the place fell silent. “This place is on its last legs, and we all know it. The school is under threat, half the shops on High Street are boarded up or given over to charities, and our market is shrinking by the week because there aren’t enough customers here to keep the stallholders afloat. Even our bed and breakfasts are vanishing. So we need to stop looking backward, stop opposing every prospect of change, and start letting in a bit of fresh air.”