Windfallen (3 page)

There was a muffled answer from an adjoining room and the sound of a door closing. The lack of rugs and furniture meant that sound was amplified, bouncing off the stone floors and into the largely empty space. Celia clutched Lottie’s arm. “Do you think we should stay?” she whispered. “They seem a bit . . .
fast.
”

Lottie gazed around her at the house, at the racks of oversize paintings; at the stacked, rolled rugs, slumped against the walls like stooping, elderly gentlemen; at the African carving of a woman’s bloated stomach. It was all so different from the houses she knew: her own mother’s—cramped, dark, full of oak furniture and cheap porcelain knickknacks, permeated with the smell of coal dust and boiled vegetables, constantly interrupted by the noise of traffic or next door’s children playing outside; the Holdens’—a sprawling, comfortable mock-Tudor family home that seemed to be valued for what it communicated as much as what it housed. Their furniture was inherited and had to be treated reverently, more reverently, it seemed, than its occupants. No cups were to be placed upon it, no children to knock against it. It was all, Mrs. Holden announced, to be “handed on,” as if they were simply guardians of these pieces of wood. Their house was permanently arranged for other people, made nice “for the ladies,” made straight for Dr. Holden “when he comes home,” with Mrs. Holden a fragile little King Canute, desperately trying to push back the inevitable dirt and detritus.

And then there was this place—white, bright, alien, a strange, angular shape with long, low, opaque windows, or portholes through which you could see the sea, filled with an elaborate and chaotically arranged treasure trove of exotica. A place where every item told a story, held a rich provenance from foreign lands. Lottie breathed in the house’s scent, the salt air that had permeated the walls over years, overlaid by the smell of fresh paint. It was strangely intoxicating. “Tea can’t hurt. Can it?”

Celia paused, scanning her face. “Just don’t tell Mummy. She’ll fuss.”

They followed the mournful Frances into the main living room, which was flooded with light from the four windows that faced outward onto the bay, the two middle ones curved around a semicircular wall. On the farthest window to the right, two men were struggling with a curtain pole and heavy drapery, while to their left a young woman was kneeling in the corner, placing lengths of books into a glass-fronted bookcase.

“It’s Julian’s new car. He’s going to be absolutely furious. I should have let you move it.” Frances lowered herself onto another chair, checking the handkerchief for new blood.

George was pouring Frances a large glass of brandy. “I’ll sort Julian out. Now, how is your nose? You look like something by Picasso, dear girl. Do you think we need a doctor? Adeline? Adeline? Do you know a doctor?”

“My father’s a doctor,” said Celia. “I could call him if you like.”

It was several seconds before Lottie noticed the woman. She sat perfectly upright in the center of a small, upright sofa, her legs crossed at the ankles and her hands clasped in front of her, as if completely removed from the chaotic exertions around her. Her hair, which was the kind of blue-black seen on ravens’ feathers, sat close to her head in sleek waves, and she wore a red dress of oriental silk, cut unfashionably long and close; over that was an embroidered jacket upon which peacocks preened their iridescent plumage. She had huge, dark eyes rimmed in kohl, and tiny child’s hands. She was so still that when she dipped her head in greeting, Lottie nearly jumped.

“Aren’t you marvelous? There, George. You have found us some scouts already.” The woman smiled, the slow, sweet smile of the perennially charmed.

Her accent was unfathomable, perhaps French, definitely foreign. It was low and smoky and held a sneaking lilt of amusement. She was way beyond the realms of experience, even of someone whose upbringing stretched further than the twin poles of Manningtree and Walton-on-the-Naze. Lottie was transfixed. She looked at Celia, seeing her own gormless expression reflected back at her.

“Adeline. This is—Oh, goodness, I didn’t ask you your names.” Frances raised a hand to her mouth.

“Celia Holden. And Lottie Swift,” said Celia, who was doing something odd with her feet. “We live behind the park. On Woodbridge Avenue.”

“The girls very kindly lent me their handkerchief,” said Frances. “I’ve made rather a mess of it.”

“You poor darling.” Adeline took Frances’s hand.

Lottie watched, waiting for her to offer some comforting squeeze, some reassuring pat. Instead, stroking it gently, she lifted it to her ruby mouth and there, in front of everyone, without even a hint of a blush, bent slowly and kissed it. “How
awful
for you.”

There was a short silence.

“Oh, Adeline,” said Frances sadly, and pulled her hand away.

Lottie, the air knocked from her lungs at this bizarre demonstration of intimacy, dared not look at Celia. But then Adeline, after a momentary pause, turned back to the room, and her smile grew into a full-wattage beam.

“George, I didn’t tell you. Isn’t this sweet? Sebastian has sent down some artichokes and plovers’ eggs from Suffolk. We can have them for supper.”

“Thank goodness.” George had walked over to the men by the window and was helping support the curtain pole. “I wasn’t in the mood for fish and chips.”

“Don’t be such a snob, darling. I’m sure the fish and chips here are absolutely wonderful. Are they, girls?”

“We really wouldn’t know,” said Celia hurriedly. “We only eat at proper restaurants.”

Lottie bit her tongue, remembering the previous Saturday, when they had sat on the seawall with the Wester-house brothers eating skate from greasy newspaper.

“Of course you do.” Her voice was languorous and faintly accented. “How very proper of you. Now, girls, you will tell me, what is the single best thing about living in Merham?”

Celia and Lottie stared at each other.

“There’s not much,” Celia began. “In fact, it’s rather a bore. There’s the tennis club, but that shuts in the winter. And the cinema, but the projectionist gets ill a lot, and they don’t have anyone else who can operate it. If you want to go somewhere smart, you really have to go to London. That’s what most of us do. I mean, if we want a really good night—if you want to go to the theater, or a really top restaurant—” She was speaking too fast; trying to look insouciant, yet stumbling over her own untruths. Lottie looked at Adeline’s face, its smile of interest becoming just slightly blank, and she felt suddenly overwhelmed with fear that this woman was going to write them off.

“The sea,” she said abruptly.

Adeline’s face turned to meet hers, her eyebrows lifting slightly.

“The sea,” she said again, trying to ignore Celia’s furious expression. “Living right by it, I mean. It’s the best thing. Hearing it in the background all the time, smelling it, walking along the shore and being able to see the curve of the earth . . . knowing when you look out that there is so much going on underneath it that we shan’t ever see, or know about. Like this big mystery, right on our doorstep. . . . And the storms. When the waves come right up over the wall and the wind blows the trees so hard that they bend over like grass, and being inside watching when you’re all warm and cozy and dry . . .” She began to falter, caught Celia’s mutinous face. “That’s what I like anyway.”

There was a short silence.

“It sounds perfect,” said Adeline, lingering over the last word, her eyes fixed on Lottie’s so that the girl blushed. “I am already so glad we came.”

“S
O HOW BADLY DID SHE DAMAGE THE VAN?
D
O YOU
think they’ll bring it to my dad’s?”

Joe pushed his empty coffee cup across the Formica bar, his expression serious. But then Joe didn’t really have any other expressions. His grave eyes, always peering upward as in deferential concern, looked out of place on that freckled, ruddy face.

“I don’t know, Joe. It was only a light or something.”

“Yes, but it will still need replacing.”

Behind him, sometimes swamped by the sound of scraping chairs and cheap crockery, Alma Cogan sang of her “Dreamboat.” Lottie glared at the undreamy features of her companion, wishing she had never mentioned their visit to Adeline Armand’s house. Joe always asked the wrong questions. And usually managed to bring the conversation around to his father’s garage. Joe, as the only son, would inherit the ramshackle business one day, and already this weighty inheritance hung as heavy on him as succession on a prince regent. She had hoped that by bringing him into her confidence about their extraordinary visit, he, too, might have been transported by the strange, exotic characters and the huge ocean liner of a house. That he, too, might have found himself far away from the tight little world of Merham’s social confines. But Joe just focused on the mundane, his imagination constrained by the domestic (how had their maid prepared tea if they’d only just delivered the trunks? exactly which light was it that the woman broke? wouldn’t that fresh-paint smell have given them all a headache?), and Lottie found herself becoming both irritated that she had ever told him and sorely tempted to tell him about the painting of the naked woman, just to make him blush. It was so easy to make Joe blush.

She would have discussed it all with Celia. But Celia was not talking to Lottie. She had not spoken to her since their walk home, during which Celia had spoken rather too much. “Were you deliberately showing me up in front of those people? Lottie! I can’t
believe
you started spouting all that stuff about the sea. As if you care about fish swimming about underneath it—you can’t even swim!”

Lottie had wanted to talk to her about the provenance of Hungarian princesses and Adeline’s kissing Frances’s hand like a suitor, and about what relation George was to either of them (he didn’t behave like anyone’s husband. He had paid both women far too much attention). She wanted to talk about how, with all that work to do and her own house in absolute chaos, Adeline had just sat there in the middle of the sofa like she had nothing to do other than let the day go by.

But Celia was now deep in conversation with Betty Croft, discussing the possibilities for a trip to London before the end of summer. So Lottie just sat and waited for this particular summer storm to blow itself out.

Except Celia had evidently been more put out by Lottie’s interruption than even she had said. As the afternoon drew on, and the blustery clouds outside grew darker and loaded with rain, and the café filled with recalcitrant children and their exasperated parents, still clutching their damp and gritty beach towels, she ignored Lottie’s attempts to join in the conversation and her offer of a slice of bread-and-butter pudding, so that even Betty, who normally loved a good row between friends, started to look a bit uncomfortable. Oh, Lord, thought Lottie resignedly. I’m going to pay for this one.

“I think I’ll head back,” she said aloud, staring at the murky dregs of instant coffee in the bottom of her cup. “Weather’s closing in.”

Joe stood up. “Shall I walk you? I’ve got an umbrella.”

“If you like.”

Adeline Armand had had a portrait of herself propped up in what must have been the study. It hadn’t been a proper painting—it was loose and choppy, as if the artist hadn’t been able to see properly and had had to guess where the marks were meant to go. But somehow you could see it was her. It was that jet-black hair. And that half smile.

“They had a storm over at Clacton on Saturday. Snow in April, can you believe it?”

She hadn’t even minded about the car. Hadn’t even wanted to look at it to check on the damage. And that man—George—had just peeled off a roll of notes as if he were flicking through old bus tickets.

“Went from mild and sunny to hail and everything, all in the space of a couple of hours. There were people on the beach as well. I reckon some of them would have been swimming. You’re getting wet, Lottie. Here, take my arm.”

Lottie threaded her arm through Joe’s and turned back, craning to see the front of Arcadia House. It was the only house she had ever seen to have a front and back of equal magnificence. It was as if the architect couldn’t bear to make one view inferior.

“Wouldn’t you love to live in a house like that, Joe?” She stopped, heedless of the rain. She felt a little giddy, as if unbalanced by the afternoon’s events. Joe looked at her and then up at the house, leaning over slightly to make sure she was covered by the umbrella.

“Looks a bit too much like a ship.”

“That’s the point, though, isn’t it? It’s next to the sea, after all.”

Joe looked worried, as if he were missing something.

“Imagine. You could pretend you were on a liner. Just sailing along the ocean.” She closed her eyes, briefly forgetting about her row with Celia, picturing herself on the upper floors of that house. How lucky that woman was, to have all that space to herself, all that room to sit and dream. “If I had that, I think I’d be the happiest girl alive.”

“I’d like a house that overlooked the bay.”

Lottie stared at him, surprised. Joe never expressed a desire about anything. It was one of the things that made him such easy, if unchallenging, company.

“Would you? Well, I’d like a house that overlooked the bay and had windows like portholes and a great big garden.”

He glanced at her, catching something in her tone.

“And a great big pond where swans could live,” she added encouragingly.

“And a monkey puzzle tree,” he said.

“Oh, yes!” she said. “A monkey puzzle tree! And six bedrooms, with a closet you could walk in to.” They were strolling slowly now, their faces pink from the fine rain blown in from the sea.

Joe furrowed his brow in thought. “And outbuildings that you could put three cars in.”

“Oh, you and your cars. I’d like a big balcony where you could step out of your bedroom and be right on top of the sea.”

“And a swimming pool underneath it. So you could just jump off the edge when you fancied a dip.”

Lottie started to laugh. “First thing in the morning! In my nightie! Yes! And a kitchen below so that the maid could leave me my breakfast when I’d finished.”