Windfallen (11 page)

Guy told them this over a succession of family meals. He left out the bit about buggery, but Celia had told Lottie that when they lay in bed, talking in the darkness. Well, Celia talked. Lottie had pretended unsuccessfully to be asleep, believing that her only hope of sanity lay in being unable to flesh out the vision of Guy into any kind of human reality.

They were not the only ones talking about Guy. Mrs. Holden had been quite disconcerted by his casual mention of his black friends, and she’d asked Dr. Holden repeatedly afterward whether he thought “that was all right.”

“What are you worried about, woman?” said Dr. Holden irritably. “That it’ll rub off?” Things were different out there, he said eventually, when Mrs. Holden’s face had stayed pinched and hurt beyond even its usual time frame for such things. The boy probably didn’t have many opportunities to meet his own. And besides, Susan, times were changing. Look at the immigration. (He had rather wanted to read his newspaper in peace.)

“Well, I just wonder if it betrays a little . . . laxity on behalf of his parents. How’s a child supposed to grow up knowing what’s what if they’re only mixing with . . . staff?”

“So remind me to fire Virginia.”

“What?”

“Well, we can’t have Freddie and Sylvia
talking
to the girl, can we?”

“Henry, you’re being deliberately obtuse. I’m sure Guy’s family are perfectly fine. I just think . . . his upbringing sounds . . . a little
unusual
, that’s all.”

“Susan, he’s a fine young man. He has no tics, no obvious deformities, his father is extremely wealthy, and he wants to take our troublesome young flibbertigibbet off our hands. As far as I’m concerned, he could have been brought up playing the bongo drums and eating human heads.”

Mrs. Holden hadn’t known whether to laugh or be appalled. It was so hard to gauge Henry’s sense of humor sometimes.

Lottie was unaware of any of this. At mealtimes she had spent most of the time focused intently on her soup or praying that no one would bring her into conversation. Not that she really had to worry. Mrs. Holden was too busy quizzing Guy about his family and what his mother thought of life back in Britain, while Dr. Holden asked the odd question about whether his father was likely to be affected by all that trouble over land reforms in Guatemala and whether the cold war was really going to make a difference to overseas traders.

For it was too difficult to be near him. It was too hard to listen to his voice (when had she heard it before? She
must
have heard it before. Its timbre was etched on her very soul). His proximity sent her thoughts scrambling, to the point where she was sure she would betray herself. The scent of him, that barely detectable sweetness, as if he still carried the tropics on his very person, left her stumbling over once familiar words. So it was safer not to look at him. Safer not to see his beautiful face. Safer not to have to watch Celia drape her hand possessively over his shoulder or absentmindedly stroke his hair. Safer to stay away. Safer to stay away.

“Lottie? Lottie? I’ve asked you three times whether you want runner beans. Do you need your ears syringed?”

“No, thank you,” whispered Lottie as she tried to stop her heart from jumping out of her chest.

He had looked at her once. Only once, when she had been frozen, standing on the platform, almost felled with shock at her own reaction to him. His eyes, when they had met hers, had bored into her like twin bullets.

“I
T’S A
D.”

“No, no, you’re looking at it from the wrong angle. It could look like a G.”

“Oh, Mummy. Really. You can’t cheat like that.”

“No, honestly, darling. Look. It really is a G. Isn’t that lovely?”

Lottie had walked into the kitchen to fetch a glass of milk. She hadn’t eaten properly for several days and, feeling nauseous, had hoped the milk might settle her stomach.

She hadn’t expected to find Celia and her mother peering over their shoulders onto the flagstoned kitchen floor. Susan Holden had an uncharacteristic air of merriment about her. At the sound of Lottie’s footfall, she looked up and gave her a rare, uninhibited smile.

“I—I just came for some milk.”

“Look, Lottie. Come here. This is very like a G from this particular angle, don’t you think?”

“Oh, Mummy.” Celia was laughing hard now. Her hair had separated into golden ribbons, one of which was slightly caught on her cheek.

Lottie peered over onto the kitchen floor. There lay a piece of apple peel, carved carefully in one elongated spiral, sprawled in an uneven curve.

“It’s definitely a G.”

“I don’t understand,” said Lottie, frowning. Mrs. Holden scolded Virginia if she left any bits of food on the floor. It would apparently encourage pests.

“G for Guy. I’ve never seen a clearer one,” said Mrs. Holden determinedly before stooping and picking it up. She winced slightly as she did this; she was still buying her girdles too small.

“I’m going to tell Guy it was a D. He’ll be fearfully jealous. Who do we know who’s a D, Lots?”

She hardly ever saw Celia and her mother laughing together. Celia had used to say her mother was the most irritating woman on earth. It made her feel as if Celia had joined some new club, as if they had both moved on and left her behind.

“I’ll get my milk.”

“Elvis the Pelvis,” said Frederick, who had walked in holding the dissected innards of an old wristwatch.

“I said D, you little idiot.” But Celia said it fondly. No wonder she’s being nice to everyone, thought Lottie. I’d be nice to everyone.

“Do you know, Mummy, Guy says my lips are like petals.”

“Bicycle pedals,” said Frederick, screaming with laughter.
“Ow!”

“D for Dreamboat. D for Dreamy. He is a little dreamy, isn’t he, Mummy? I wonder where he’s gone sometimes. Shall we do one for you, Lottie? It might come out as a J . . . you never know.”

“I
DON’T KNOW WHAT’S GOT INTO THAT GIRL,” SAID
Mrs. Holden at Lottie’s bristling, departing back.

“Oh, Lottie’s Lottie. She’ll be all right. She’s just got a mood on about something.” Celia smoothed her hair back and checked her reflection in the mirror over the fireplace. “Tell you what, do me another one. With that green apple there. We’ll use a sharper knife this time.”

L
OTTIE WAS OFFERED A JOB IN THE SHOE SHOP
. Shelford’s Shoes, at the far end of the Promenade. She took it, not because she had to (Dr. Holden said she was welcome to wait a while and decide what it was she wanted to do) but because being out at the shoe shop three days a week was so much easier than being at the Holdens’. And it was almost impossible to get to Arcadia. There were spies all over the village, just waiting to warn off anyone who ventured up toward the House of Sin.

Guy had left for almost a week, and for that short period she had been able to breathe again, had just about managed to appear normal. (Luckily Celia was so locked in to her little bubble of love that she hadn’t really questioned what Mrs. Holden was now referring to as Lottie’s “episodes.”) But then he had returned and said his father had told him to “have some fun, a little holiday” before starting his fledgling career in the family business. And Lottie, who had now become physically bowed by the weight of longing she carried around with her, had braced herself for yet more of the same.

Worse, he was now living with them. He had been about to search for lodgings, had asked the Holdens whether there was anywhere particular they would recommend—that Mrs. Chilton’s place, for example. But Mrs. Holden wouldn’t hear of it. She had made him up a room at Woodbridge Avenue. At the far end of the house, you understand. With a water closet of his own. So there would be no need for any walking around the house in the middle of the night, would there? (“Very sage, dear,” Mrs. Chilton had said. “There’s no accounting for hormones.”) But there had been no question of not having him stay. Mr. Bancroft Senior would see that they were a welcoming family. With a large house. The kind of family one would positively aspire to marry into. And the huge crate of exotic fruit he sent up every week in lieu of housekeeping money didn’t go amiss, admittedly. No point Sarah Chilton’s being on the receiving end of
that
.

And three days a week Lottie would walk resignedly down the hill and across the municipal park, bracing herself for a day of squeezing size-eight feet into size-seven Mary Janes and wondering how long she was going to be able to live with this degree of pain and longing.

Joe didn’t come.

It had taken her almost ten days to notice.

T
HEY DECIDED ON A LETTER
. A
N INVITATION. THERE
were ways of getting people to do what you wanted without confrontation, Mrs. Holden said. And Mrs. Holden was very keen on avoiding confrontation. The ladies of the salon wrote a polite letter to Mrs. Julian Armand, asking if she would care to join them, partake of a few refreshments, and see a little of local society. It would be their pleasure, they said, to welcome a fellow aficionada of the arts. The inhabitants of Arcadia House had traditionally played a part in the town’s social and cultural life. (That last bit wasn’t strictly true, but, as Mrs. Chilton said, any woman worth her salt would feel obliged to attend.) “Nicely put,” said Mrs. Colquhoun.

“More than one way to skin a cat,” said Mrs. Chilton.

L
OTTIE WAS ON HER WAY OUT WHEN
M
RS
. H
OLDEN
caught her. She had decided to go to Joe’s house. It had been too long, and, locked in her own private purgatory, she had decided that any diversion would be a welcome one, even one involving Joe’s repeated protestations of devotion. She had developed, perhaps, a little more sympathy for him now. She had, after all, had a rude and unexpected introduction to the pain of unrequited love.

“Lottie, is that you?”

Lottie halted in the hallway, sighing under her breath. There was little she wouldn’t do to avoid being paraded in front of the salon. She’d begun to hate that look of pitied understanding on their faces, their silent, sympathetic acknowledgment of her increasingly fragile place in the Holden household. She might like to get something more permanent soon, Mrs. Holden had said, more than once now. Perhaps go for a nice department store. There was a lovely one in Colchester.

“Yes, Mrs. Holden.”

“Can you come in, dear? I need to ask a favor of you.”

Lottie walked slowly into the parlor, smiling vaguely and insincerely at the expectant faces in front of her. The room, its temperature raised unnaturally by a newly fitted gas fire, seemed to swell with the overheated scents of slightly stale powder and Coty cream perfume.

“I was just going down to town,” she said.

“Yes, dear. But I’d like you to deliver a letter for me on the way.”

So that was it. She relaxed, turned to go.

“To the actress’s house. You know the one.”

Lottie turned back. “Arcadia?”

“Yes, dear. It’s an invitation.”

“But you said we weren’t to go there. You said it was full of—” She paused, trying to remember Mrs. Holden’s exact phrase.

“Yes, yes, I’m quite aware of what I said. But things have moved on. And we have decided to appeal to Mrs. Armand’s better judgment.”

“Right,” said Lottie, taking the proffered envelope. “See you later.”

“You’re not going to let her go alone.” That was Deirdre Colquhoun.

Susan Holden glanced around. There was a brief silence as the ladies looked at one another.

“Well, she can’t go by herself,” said Mrs. Colquhoun.

“She’s probably right, dear. After . . . everything. She’d be better to go with someone.”

“I’m sure I’ll be perfectly safe,” said Lottie, not without some irritation.

“Yes, dear. But you have to accept that there are some things about which your elders know better. Where’s Celia, Susan?” Mrs. Chilton turned toward the door.

“She’s having her hair set,” said Mrs. Holden, who was beginning to look flustered. “Then she’s looking at some of the bridal books. It’s best to be prepared for these things. . . .”

“Well, she can’t go alone,” said Mrs. Colquhoun.

“There’s Guy,” ventured Mrs. Holden.

“Then send the boy with her. She’ll be safe with him.” Mrs. Chilton looked satisfied.

“G-Guy?” stammered Lottie, flushing.

“He’s in the study. Go and get him, dear. The sooner you’re there, the sooner you’ll be home. Besides, it’ll do Guy good to get out. He’s been stuck indoors with Freddie all morning. Poor boy is very patient,” she said, in explanation.

“B-but I’ll be fine by myself.”

“You’re being terribly antisocial at the moment,” said Mrs. Holden. “Honestly, it’s all I can do to drag her out of her room. Doesn’t see her friend Joe anymore, poor old Celia can hardly tempt her out . . . Come on, Lottie. Try to be a bit civil, will you?” Mrs. Holden left the room to find Guy.

“How’s the job, dear? Going well?” Mrs. Chilton had to ask twice.

“Fine,” said Lottie, struggling to keep her attention, aware that this would become another example of her surliness.

“I must come in for some winter boots. I’m definitely in need of some winter boots. Do you have any nice ones in yet, Lottie? Something with a bit of fleece in the lining?”

Oh, God, he was going to walk into the room. And she was going to have to talk to him.

“Lottie?”

“I think we’re still on sandals,” she whispered.

Mrs. Chilton raised an eyebrow at Mrs. Ansty. “I’ll stop by later in the week.”

She’d managed to leave the room without looking at him. She’d nodded a cursory greeting to his hello and then fixed her gaze resolutely on the floor, oblivious to the flickering glances of exasperation exchanged by the older women. But now that they were out of the house and walking briskly along the road, Lottie found herself in an acute dilemma, torn between the desperate desire to run from him and the agony of his considering her ignorant and rude.

Thrusting her hands deep into her pockets, her face down against the wind, she concentrated on keeping her breathing regular. It was almost beyond her to consider anything else. Soon he will be gone, she told herself like a mantra. And then I can force everything to be normal again.