Windfallen, Page 23

  "And nothing to do with the fact that your hotel runs one of the bars."

  "That has nothing to do with it. I have lived here all my life."

  "Which is why you probably can't see how run-down it's got."

  "Look, Miss . . . whoever you are. We don't want lowlife here. And we don't want to be swamped with Soho's drunken overflow. It's not that kind of town."

  "And Arcadia House is not going to be that kind of hotel. For your information, the clientele are going to be very upmarket, the kinds of people happy to pay two or three hundred pounds a night for a room. And those kinds of people expect taste, decorum, and a lot of bloody peace and quiet. So why don't you just get your facts straight and leave me alone to do my job."

  Daisy wheeled her pram around, ignoring the potatoes that toppled out of the top of her shopping bag, and began to walk briskly back across the market square, blinking furiously. She turned, shouting on the wind, "And you should train your dog better! It is incredibly rude."

  "You can tell your boss, young lady. You haven't heard the last of this!" Sylvia Rowan's voice carried across the square. "We are the people of England . . . and we have not spoken yet."

  "Oh, bog off, you horrible old bag," Daisy muttered, and then, safely out of sight of onlookers, stopped her pram, lit her fifth cigarette of the day, and inhaled deeply. And burst into tears.

  TWELVE

  Daisy Parsons had grown up the kind of young woman about whom older people murmur approvingly, "Lovely girl." And she was lovely; she was a sweet child, with the ringleted blond locks of a Miss Pears model, a ready smile, and a desire to please. She was educated privately, liked by everyone at her school, and worked industriously to pass exams in architecture, art, and design, in which, her tutors said, she had "a good eye." Into her teens, apart from a brief, unsuccessful experiment with vegetable hair dye, she had done nothing to frighten her parents or leave them sleepless and frantic in the early hours of the morning. Her boyfriends had been few, selective, and generally nice. She had let them go regretfully, usually with some apologetic tears, so that nearly all looked back on her without rancor and most usually as "the one that got away."

  And then Daniel had come: tall, dark, handsome Daniel with his respectable parents (both accountants), Protestant work ethic, and exacting style. The kind of man that made other girls immediately dissatisfied with their own. Daniel had come to protect her just at a time when she was starting to weary of having to look after herself, and both had adapted to their respective roles within the relationship with the contented shimmying of a chicken settling down to roost. Daniel was the driving force in the business, the strong, forthright one. The protector. This freed Daisy up to become her perfect version of herself: beautiful, sweet, sexy, confident in his adoration. A lovely girl. Both saw the perfect vision of themselves reflected in the other's eyes, and liked it. They rarely argued; there was little need. Besides, neither of them liked the emotional messiness of argument, unless they knew it to be the snappings of foreplay.

  Which was why nothing had prepared Daisy for this new life, thrust permanently into a spotlight of disapproval and almost incessantly in dispute--with builders, townspeople, Daniel's parents--all at a time when she felt most vulnerable and without even her traditional armor of loveliness to fall back on. The plumbers, apparently oblivious to her pleadings, had gone off to work on another job, because they couldn't start installing the bathrooms until the builders had finished laying the surface over the new septic tank. The builders couldn't lay the surface, as they were waiting for parts. The suppliers had apparently emigrated. Sylvia Rowan, according to talk, was planning a public meeting to object to the desecration of Arcadia House and the risk to the standards, morals, and general well-being of Merham's citizens if the work was allowed to continue.

  Jones, meanwhile, had called in a cold fury the day after her confrontation in the marketplace and unleashed a verbal torrent on the various ways in which she had already failed to come up to scratch. He could not believe they were already running behind schedule. He could not understand why the supporting beam, when it finally arrived, was the wrong width. He had little faith that they were going to be able to open, as planned, in August. And, to be frank, he was very much starting to doubt whether Daisy was committed and possessed the ability to complete the job to his satisfaction.

  "You're not giving me a chance," said Daisy, biting back tears.

  "You have no idea how much of a chance I'm giving you," he said, and rang off.

  Mrs. Bernard had appeared in the doorway with Ellie. "You don't want to start crying," she said, nodding toward the terrace. "They're not taking you seriously as it is. You start blubbering everywhere, they'll have you down as all hair and hormones."

  "Thank you very much, Mrs. Bernard. That's really helpful."

  "I'm just saying, you don't want them walking all over you."

  "And I'm just saying, when I want your bloody opinion, I'll bloody ask for it."

  Daisy had swept a folder of papers off the table and marched outside to finally lose her temper with the builders, only the second time she'd lost her temper in her life (the first had been when Daniel admitted he'd consigned Mr. Rabbit to the dustbin on the grounds that he lowered the tone of their bedroom). This time she shouted so loudly that her voice could be heard as far as the church, as could a choice selection of threats and expletives filtering through air more used to the cry of gulls and guillemots. The radio, meanwhile, was seen on a rapid trajectory through the air above the cliff path before shattering down onto the rocks below. It was followed by a lengthy silence and then the muttering and slow shuffling of feet as six recalcitrant builders finally found other ways to occupy themselves.

  Daisy reemerged into the house, hands on hips as if resting on a holster, fired up, as the builders would later mutter, and ready to blow again.

  This time she was met with silence. Mrs. Bernard and Ellie, smiles on both their faces, had disappeared back into the kitchen.

  "SO HOW'S IT GOING UP THERE?"

  Camille folded the plastic layer over the perfumed cream and then placed her mother's hands in the heated mitts. It was the only treatment she'd agree to, a weekly manicure. Facials, body wraps--they were all a waste of time, but her hands she had always taken care of. She had decided a long time ago: If touch was one of the main means by which she would be communicating with her daughter, then that touch should always be a pleasant one.

  "It's going."

  "Are you finding it difficult?"

  "Me?" Her mother sniffed. "No. Doesn't make any difference to me what they do to it. But I think the poor girl's struggling a bit."

  "Why?" Camille moved across to the door to shout for a cup of tea. "Tess said she heard she was on her own with a baby."

  "She is on her own. And a face like a wet weekend half the time. The workmen think she's a joke."

  "Do you think she'll cope?"

  "On current form? Probably not. She finds it hard to say boo to a goose. I can't see how she's going to renovate a hotel. She's only got till August."

  "Poor girl."

  Camille came and sat down, facing her mother. "We should go up there. To see her. She's probably lonely." She reached behind her and, without fumbling, located cream, which she began to apply to her own hands.

  "I go all the time."

  "You go for the baby. Even I know that."

  "She doesn't want you blundering in. It'll look like I've been talking about her."

  "You have been talking about her. Come on, we'll make it a day out. Katie would love it. She hasn't been in there for years."

  "Shouldn't Hal be working?"

  "Hal is entitled to take a weekend, Mum, just like the rest of us."

  Her mother sniffed.

  "Look, you don't want her to get too miserable, Mum. If she goes, we'll get some idiot up wanting to install gold pedestals and Jacuzzis and what have you. Oh, hello, Tess. White no sugar when you're ready. You'll have satellite dishes o
ff the side of it and executive conferences there every weekend."

  "You okay, Mrs. Bernard?"

  "Fine thanks, Tess. This daughter of mine is trying to stick her nose in up at Arcadia."

  Tess shook her head, grinning. "Ooh, Camille, you don't want to go getting involved with that little lot. You know there's going to be a battle over that hotel. Sylvia Rowan has been in here shouting the odds all morning. 'It wouldn't have happened in the old days of the Guest House Association,'" she mimicked.

  Camille placed the cream behind her back on the shelf and shut a cupboard door. "All the more reason to show the girl a friendly face or two. God knows what she thinks she's let herself in for."

  Mrs. Bernard shook her head irritably. "Oh, all right. We'll go up Sunday. I'll tell the girl to prepare for an invasion."

  "Good. But you've got to bring Pops as well. He's actually quite interested in seeing what she's doing."

  "Yes, well, he would be."

  "What?"

  "He thinks that now that the house is gone I'll be spending all my time at home with him."

  THEY ALL CAME, IN THE END. A BERNARD FAMILY OUTING, as Camille's father jovially put it, offloading everyone from his beloved Jaguar onto the gravel drive. "I tell you what, chaps. I can't remember the last time we all went out together."

  Daisy, standing at the door in her one good shirt, Ellie on her hip, eyed this Mr. Bernard with interest. Mrs. Bernard had seemed a solitary character, so that it was quite hard now to reconcile her with this bluff, gentle man with apologetic eyes and hands the size of hams. He was wearing a shirt and tie, the kind of man who always did on weekends, and highly polished shoes. You could tell a lot about a man from the shine on his shoes, he told her later. The first time he had met Hal and his brown suede numbers, he thought he must be a communist. Or a fairy.

  "Katie's christening," called Camille, who was holding the back door as Katie and Rollo poured out of the car. She waved in the general direction of the house. "Hello. Camille Hatton."

  "That doesn't count," said Hal. "Hardly an outing."

  "And I don't remember it," said Katie.

  "Mother's Day three years ago. When we took you and Camille to that restaurant over at Halstead . . . what was it?"

  "Overrated."

  "Thank you, Mother-in-law. French, wasn't it?"

  "The only thing French about that place was the smell off the drains. I've brought some cakes. Didn't want you to go to any trouble." Mrs. Bernard handed Daisy the box that she'd held on her lap, then, in exchange, reached out and took the compliant Ellie from her mother.

  "How lovely," said Daisy, who was beginning to feel invisible. "Thank you."

  "We had a grand time," said Mr. Bernard, shaking Daisy's hand warmly. "I had steak au poivre. I still remember it. And Katie had seafood, didn't you, love?"

  "I don't know," said Katie. "Have you really not got a telly?"

  "No. Not anymore. You're the man who gave me directions," said Daisy as Hal drew nearer.

  "Hal Hatton. And you've met Katie." He smiled, his face looking younger, more relaxed than the last time they met. He tipped his head back to gaze into the sun. "Nice of you to have us over. I hear you're on quite a deadline." He took a step back, to see better. "God, I haven't seen this place in years."

  "There's a few walls knocked through. And some of the smaller bedrooms have become bathrooms," said Mrs. Bernard, following his gaze. "They all want en suite nowadays, apparently."

  "Do you want to come through?" Daisy said. "I found some chairs and I've put them out on the terrace, seeing as it's such a nice day. But we can move in if you like. Just watch out for rubble."

  It was as she held the door open that she realized the blond woman couldn't see. Her dog didn't look particularly like a guide dog; it had no frame or harness for her to hold, but it did glance behind her as if well used to adjusting its own speed, and then, as Camille stepped toward the door, her husband's hand just appeared gently at her elbow, disappearing discreetly when she had made it past the front step.

  "It's straight on. But I suppose you know that," she said, with a shade of awkwardness.

  "Oh, God, no," said Camille, turning to face her. Her eyes were clear and blue, perhaps deeper set than usual. "This was always Mum's house. It never really had much to do with us."

  She didn't look like a blind person. Not that Daisy had a clear idea of how a blind person should look, having never actually spent time with one. She just imagined that Camille should look somehow dowdier. Perhaps a little overweight. She certainly shouldn't be wearing designer jeans and makeup and have a waist measurement possibly half the size of her bust.

  "Did you not come here much as children?"

  Camille called ahead. "Hal? Is Katie with you?" She paused. "We did come here occasionally. I think Mum used to get nervous about me being so close to the cliff edge."

  "Oh." Daisy didn't know what else to say.

  Camille stopped. "She didn't tell you I was blind, did she?"

  "No."

  "Plays a lot of cards close to her chest, my mother. But I suppose you've realized that."

  Daisy stood for a minute staring at the smooth, caramel-colored skin, the abundant blond hair. Her hand rose unconsciously to her own. "Do you want . . . I mean, do you want to feel my face or something?"

  Camille burst out laughing.

  "God, no. I can't stand touching people's faces. Unless I'm working, that is." She reached forward, tentatively touched Daisy's arm. "You're quite safe, Daisy. I have no desire to touch anyone's face. Especially beards. I despise beards--they make me shudder. I always think I'm going to find food in one. Now, has my dad managed to let go of his car for two minutes? He's become obsessed with the thing since his retirement," she confided. "That and his bridge. And his golf. Likes his hobbies, does Pops."

  They emerged onto the terrace. Hal guided his wife into a seat, and Daisy watched this casual intimacy with a flicker of envy. She missed having a protector.

  "Used to be a beautiful house, didn't it, love?" Mr. Bernard placed his car keys in his pocket and turned to look at his wife, a strange mixture of emotions flickering over his face.

  Mrs. Bernard shrugged. "Not that anyone around here ever thought so. Till it started changing."

  "I always thought it would benefit from a monkey puzzle tree," her husband said.

  Daisy took in the quick glance exchanged by the Bernards and the slightly uncomfortable silence that followed it.

  "So what do you make of Merham?" said Hal.

  COMING FROM A FAMILY THAT WAS NOT SO MUCH BROKEN as irrevocably fractured by bereavement, Daisy automatically assumed that all other families were like the Waltons. Daniel had told her so more than once, when she'd emerged from one of his family gatherings shocked at the noisy disagreements and simmering resentments that flared up as regularly as did the barbecue. But still she found it hard to view them dispassionately, found herself unconsciously trying to fit in, to tap in to some shared family history. She refused to believe that being part of a large extended family could be anything other than a comfort.

  The Bernards and Hattons, however, had a kind of forced jollity about them, as if they were permanently reassuring themselves of their status as a family, edged by an apparent determination to ever refer only to the good. They exclaimed over the general pleasantness of everything--weather, surroundings, one another's outfits--and addressed one another with fond insults, made references to shared family jokes. Except for Mrs. Bernard, who smacked down any Waltonesque sentiments with the determined efficiency of a hygienist swatting a fly. Just as a Mother's Day treat was memorable only for the stench of drains, so every reference had to be smothered with a caustic aside, only partially alleviated by occasional wit. Thus the endless beauty of the beach was tempered by the fact that holidaymakers were now staying away--and she didn't blame them; the glossy new family car was so smooth it made her carsick; Camille's boss at the salon, who, despite giving her a pay raise, was apparently "
mutton dressed as mutton." The only exception to this was any reference to Katie, in whom her grandmother took an evident pride, and the house, which, perversely, Mr. Bernard didn't seem to want to talk about at all.

  Daisy, who had looked forward to a visit from the family more than she cared to admit, had found it all curiously wearing. And having never spent any length of time around anyone blind before, she became awkward around Camille, unsure where to look when she addressed her, dithering over whether she should serve things directly onto her plate or allow Hal, who had seated himself beside her, to do it for her. Daisy had tripped over the dog twice, the second time eliciting a polite yelp of protest.

  "You don't have to put the sandwiches practically in her mouth," said Mrs. Bernard suddenly. "She's only blind, not a bloody invalid."

  "Love . . ." said Mr. Bernard.

  Daisy, flushing, had apologized and stepped backward into the laburnum.

  "Don't be so rude, Mum. She's only trying to help."

  "Don't be so rude, Granny," echoed Katie, halfway through a chocolate eclair. She was rocking Ellie's car seat with her foot.

  "Let me apologize for my mother," said Camille. "She's old enough to know better."

  "I don't like people fussing over you."

  "And I don't like you jumping in over my head. That's what makes me feel like an invalid."

  There was a brief silence. Camille, apparently unperturbed, made a tentative move forward for her drink.

  "I'm sorry," said Daisy. "I just didn't know how you were going to tell between crab and Marmite."

  "Oh, I just take lots of everything. That way I usually manage to get what I want." Camille laughed. "Or I get Hal to get them for me."

  "You're more than capable of looking after yourself."

  "I know that, Mother." This time there was an edge to Camille's voice.

  "I don't know how you cope with having her under your feet all day," said Hal. "The sharpest tongue in the east."

  "Mummy says Granny can cut paper with her tongue," said Katie, prompting an embarrassed ripple of laughter at the table.