Windfallen

  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.

  IT HAD BEEN VERY CIVILIZED, ALL THINGS CONSIDERED. Dr. Holden, home before she managed to finish packing her case, had told her she didn't have to leave like this, despite what Susan said. They had all decided that it would, however, be the best thing if she left as soon as some suitable arrangements could be made. He had a friend in Cambridge who needed help for their children. He knew that Lottie would be very happy there. He had seemed almost relieved when she said she already had her own plans.

  He had not asked her what they were.

  She left soon after eleven the next morning, the address of Adeline's house in France clutched tightly in her hand, along with a brief letter to Joe. Celia and Guy had already gone. Virginia appeared indifferent. Neither Freddie nor Sylvia cried; they had not been told that she was leaving for good. Dr. Holden, awkward and hungover, had surreptitiously given her thirty pounds and told her that it was "toward her future." Mrs. Holden, pale and rigid, had barely looked at her when she said her good-byes.

  Dr. Holden had not said he was sorry. No one had appeared sorry, even after ten years of her living as part of their family.

  But Dr. Holden's embrace had not been the most unfair thing to happen to her. No, she realized, staring at the calendar of her pocket diary, doing the mental arithmetic for the umpteenth time
as she sat on the train to London. No, Adeline's fates had a much crueler sense of humor than even she had envisaged.

  PART TWO

  NINE

  All three lanes are now reopened on the M11, but watch out for those road works at the junction with the M25. And we're just getting in reports of a major snarl up on the west side of the city, with traffic at a standstill around the Hammersmith Broadway and problems heading on to the M4 and the Fulham Palace Road. Looks like it might be a broken-down vehicle. We'll bring you more on that later. Now it's coming up to nine-thirteen, and I'll hand you back to Chris. . . ."

  SWANS MATE FOR LIFE. SHE WAS PRETTY SURE IT WAS swans. Perhaps it could have been ducks. Or maybe even peahens. Was that really their name, "peahens"? That would be like being called "potato people." Or, in her case, "digestive biscuit and cigarette people." Daisy Parsons sat very still, staring out her window as the birds floated benignly under the bridge, the water around them winking brilliantly in the spring sunlight. It had to be swans. Of course it was. No one would really care if a peahen mated for life.

  She glanced at the clock. She'd been sitting there for almost seventeen minutes now. Not that time seemed to have an awful lot of meaning at the moment. It either raced by, as if she had hiccuped and swallowed great hours at once, or, more usually, it dragged, stretching itself like cheap elastic: minutes into hours, hours into days. And Daisy sat in the middle of it all, not entirely sure which direction it was she should be traveling in.

  Beside her, in the car seat, Ellie yawned in her sleep, waving starfish fingers in some invisible salute. Glancing at her, Daisy felt the familiar pang of anxiety that she might be about to wake up, and, leaning forward slightly, she lowered the volume of the radio. It was very important not to wake Ellie up. It was always important not to wake Ellie up.

  Daisy mentally graded the roar of traffic around her, the sound of thrumming engines, absently monitoring its volume. Too much and the baby would wake again. Too little noise and she would be woken by the amplification of a pin dropping. Which was why this shouting outside was really rather annoying.

  Daisy dropped her head onto the steering wheel. And then, when the knocking on the window became just too loud, she eventually looked up, sighed, and opened the car door.

  He was wearing a motorcycle helmet, took it off to speak. Behind him she was dimly aware of several angry-looking people. Some had left their car doors open. You should never leave your car door open. Not in the city. It was one of the rules.

  "Have you broken down, madam?"

  She wished he wouldn't shout. It was going to wake the baby.

  The policeman looked at his colleague, who had just approached from the other side of her car. They were all staring at her.

  "Have you broken down? We need to get you off the road. You're blocking the bridge."

  The swans had reappeared from under the bridge. There they went, floating serenely off toward Richmond.

  "Madam? Can you hear me?"

  "Look, Officer, can you just move her? I can't wait around here all day."

  He would have been a cross-looking man at the best of times. Big red cheeks, overhanging gut, expensive suit and matching car.

  "Look at her. She's obviously a bloody head case."

  "Please step back into your car, sir. We'll all be moving along in a minute. Madam?"

  There were hundreds of them. Thousands of them. Daisy looked behind her, blinking, at the stationary cars streaming out behind her like a multicolored fan. All trying to get onto the bridge. All unable, because she and her little red Ford Fiesta were in the way.

  "What's the problem?" She wished he wouldn't shout. He really was going to wake Ellie in a minute.

  "I can't--"

  "Do you want me to take a look under the bonnet? Look, we just need to push it over here first. Here, Jason. You undo that hand brake, will you? We need to get this thing cleared."

  "You'll wake the baby." She tensed, seeing this man in her car, at Ellie's face, so vulnerable in slumber. Suddenly she felt herself beginning to tremble, the now familiar panic starting to spread from her chest.

  "We'll just push it over to the side. Then we'll get you going again."

  "No. Please. Just leave me--"

  "Look, you release your hand brake. I'll lean across if you like, and--"

  "I was going to my sister's. But I can't."

  "Sorry, madam?"

  "I can't go across the bridge."

  The policeman stopped. She saw him exchange another meaningful look with his colleague.

  "Get a move on!"

  "Stupid cow!"

  Someone had begun pushing his horn. Loudly, insistently.

  She tried to breathe. Tried to clear the noise from her head.

  "What seems to be the problem, madam?"

  She couldn't see the swans anymore. They had disappeared around the bend when she wasn't looking.

  "Please just . . . I can't. I can't go across the bridge." She gazed wide-eyed at the men, trying to make them understand. Realized as the words came that they never would. "That--that's where he first told me he loved me."

  HER SISTER WAS WEARING HER LONDON COAT. IT WAS A brisk, woman-of-a-certain-means type of coat, dark blue wool with naval buttons, armor against a febrile, untrustworthy city. She saw the coat before she saw her, glimpsed it through the partially open door from where the incurious woman police officer had whisked in and out bearing professional understanding and foul-tasting machine coffee. She had drunk the entire cup, untasting, before she remembered she wasn't allowed caffeine. Not when you were breast-feeding. It was one of the rules.

  "She's in here," said a muffled voice.

  "But she's all right?"

  "She's fine. They both are."

  Ellie slept on uncomplainingly in the car seat at Daisy's feet. She hardly ever slept this long, but then, she liked the car seat. Liked feeling enclosed and safe, the health visitor had said. Daisy eyed the chair speculatively, enviously.

  "Daisy?"

  She looked up. Her sister looked tentative. As if approaching something that might bite.

  "C-can I come in?"

  Her sister glanced at Ellie and then away, as if reassuring herself. Then she sat tentatively on the chair beside Daisy and placed a hand on her shoulder.

  "What's happened, sweetheart?"

  It was like waking from a dream. Her sister's face. Her feathered helmet of auburn hair, which mysteriously never seemed to need cutting. Her eyes, intent and anxious. Her hand. No one adult had touched her for almost four weeks. She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

  "Daisy? Sweetheart?"

  "He's gone, Julia." It came out in a whisper.

  "Who's gone?"

  "Daniel. He's . . . he's gone."

  Her sister frowned, then looked down at Ellie. "Gone where?"

  "Left me. And her. And I don't know what to do . . ."

  Her sister held her for a long time, Daisy burying her sobs in the dark wool coat, trying to stave off, in that embrace, the moment when she had to become an adult again. Outside she was dimly aware of the sound of feet on linoleum, the sharp smell of disinfectant. Ellie whimpered in her sleep.

  "Why didn't you tell me?" her sister whispered eventually, stroking her head.

  Daisy closed her eyes. "I thought . . . I thought if I didn't tell anyone, he might come back."

  "Oh, Daisy . . ."

  The policewoman stuck her head around the door. "Your car keys are in reception. We've not impounded the vehicle. If you agree to drive your daughter home, madam, we'll just leave things as they stand." Neither woman flinched; they were used to it. The age gap between them was twenty years--since the death of their mother, it had been a frequent mistake. Then again, since the death they had both behaved more like mother and daughter than sisters.

  "That's very kind of you." Julia Warren made as if to stand. "I'm sorry if we've caused any trouble."

  "No, no, take your time. We don't need the room
at the moment. When you're ready, get someone at the front desk to point you to the car park. It's not far."

  With a bland, understanding smile, she was gone.

  Julia turned back to her sister. "Oh, darling. But why? Where has he gone?"

  "I don't know. He said he just couldn't cope with it all. That it wasn't what he'd expected, and now he's not even sure if it's what he wanted." She was sobbing again now.

  "Daniel said this?"

  "Yes. Bloody Daniel. And I told him it wasn't what I'd bloody expected either, but somehow my feelings didn't seem to count. And he said he thought he was having some kind of breakdown and needed some space, and that was it. I haven't heard from him in three weeks. He didn't even take his mobile." She had found her voice now.

  Her sister shook her head, staring into the middle distance. "He said what?"

  "That he couldn't cope. He didn't like the mess of it. The chaos."

  "But it's always a little difficult after a first baby. And she's only, what, four months?"

  "You don't have to tell me."

  "It gets easier. Everyone knows it gets easier."

  "Well, Daniel didn't."

  Julia Warren frowned, looked down at her immaculate court shoes.

  "Did you still . . . I mean, some women stop giving their partners any attention after they have a baby. Were you still . . . ?"

  She broke off as Daisy stared at her incredulously. There was a brief silence. She resettled her bag on her lap and stared out the small, high window. "I knew you should have got married."

  "What?"

  "You should have got married."

  "That wouldn't have stopped him leaving. There is such a thing as divorce."

  "Yes, Daise, but at least he would have had some financial obligation toward you. As it is, he's been able to just swan off into the sunset."

  "Oh, for God's sakes, Julia. He's left me in the bloody flat. He's taken virtually nothing from the joint account. He's hardly left me like some disgraced Victorian maid."

  "Well, I'm sorry, but if he's really left you, then you have to be practical about these things. I mean, how are you going to support yourself? What are you going to do about the rent?"

  Daisy shook her head in fury. "I can't believe you're doing this to me. The love of my life has left me, I'm in the middle of a bloody nervous breakdown, and all you can think about is the bloody rent!"