Windfallen (56 page)

“Stop!
”

Jones stopped. He squinted, trying to determine that it was actually her. One hand rose unconsciously to the oversize white dressing across his face.

“You’re not my boss anymore, Jones!” she shouted above the siren, shivering in her crumpled party dress. “So you can’t tell me what to do. You can’t tell me to go home.” It sounded angrier than she had intended.

He looked beaten down, gray-faced. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice thickened and bruised. “I should have been . . . it’s just not how I wanted to be . . . Not how I wanted to be seen. On my back and with a fist in my face—”

“Ssshh. Just ssshh a minute. I don’t want to talk about that.” Daisy shook her head furiously. “I’ve been driving all night, and I need to say something to you, and if I stop now, I won’t get it out.” She was almost delirious with tiredness, the thrumming rain in her ears coursing in cold tears down her face. “I know you like me,” she shouted at him. “I don’t know if you even know it yet, but you do. Because, apart from the fact that we keep somehow injuring each other and the fact that we argue a lot and the fact that I may have lost you your license—which I am really,
really
sorry about—we’re
good
for each other. We’re a good team.”

He made as if to speak again, but she shushed him, her heart in her throat, no longer caring how she appeared. She dropped her head, trying to gather her thoughts. “Look. I know I’ve got baggage. I know that someone like me is probably not on your agenda, what with a baby and everything, but, you know, you’ve got a ton of baggage, too. You’ve got an ex-wife who you’re obviously not over and a load of women you’ve slept with who still work for you—which frankly I think is a bit much. And you’re a bit of a misogynist, which I can’t say I like either.”

He was frowning slightly now, trying to understand, one hand raised over his eyes so that he could still see her through the rain. She began to shiver only half seeing him against the glare of the flashing lights behind him.

“Jones, I’m too tired. I can’t say it like I want to say it. But I’ve worked it all out. Yes, swans mate for life. But they’re only one breed, after all. Right? They’re only one breed. And how can they tell anyway, if they all look the same?”

The ambulance siren had stopped. Or perhaps it had gone. And suddenly it was just the two of them, standing in the middle of the car park, in the cold light of daybreak, with only the sound of the rain around them. She was right by him now, could see his eyes looking directly into hers, his face pained but perhaps, just perhaps, understanding.

“I can’t go on, Jones,” she said, her voice breaking. “I’ve got a baby in the car and I’m too tired to talk and I can’t explain what it is I feel.”

And then, before she could change her mind, she reached up, took his face gently in her wet palms, and placed her mouth on his.

He lowered his head, and she felt with a burst of gratitude his lips on hers, his arms pulling her in to him with a kind of relief. She relaxed, feeling the tension disappear, knowing it was right. Knowing she had done the right thing. She breathed in the scent of the hospital on his skin, and it made her feel protective, as if she wanted to enclose him, bring him in to her.

And then, abruptly and without warning, he was pushing her away, holding her almost at arm’s length.

“What?” said Daisy, panicked. I can’t bear it, she thought. Not after this. Not after everything.

Jones sighed, looking up to the heavens. Then reached forward, enclosed her hand with both of his. They were softer than she’d expected.

“Sorry,” he growled with an apologetic smile, pointing at his bandaged nose. “You don’t know how sorry, Daisy. But at the moment I can’t breathe and kiss at the same time.”

T
HE BIG WHITE HOUSE WAS AS STILL AND QUIET AS IT HAD
been on the day Daisy arrived, its skeleton staff asleep in the staff flats over the garages, its cars silent on the gravel. Through the windows the kitchen was tranquil and gleaming, its shining surfaces uninterrupted by the clatter of tools and trays. Aside from their footfalls crunching the gravel, the only sounds to be heard were the birdsong, the gentle murmur of the breeze in the pines, and, somewhere below, the distant lapping of low tide.

Jones handed Daisy the keys to the back door, and she fumbled in the new light, dazed and stupid with lack of sleep, trying to locate the right one. He gestured, glancing vigilantly down at the sleeping baby in his arms as he did so. Daisy wrestled with the lock, and finally the dormant house allowed them entry.

“Your room,” he whispered, and they padded softly along the corridor and up the back stairs, bumping gently into each other as they went, like drunks returning home after a long night.

Daisy’s belongings were packed up in a neat collection of bags and boxes; only the crib and several changes of clothes from the previous day were still visible, evidence that this had once been something more permanent than a hotel room. Just twenty-four hours ago the sight of the luggage had made Daisy feel panicked and alone. Now it produced a flicker of something like excitement, the promises of a new life, new opportunities, cautiously revealing themselves to her.

She closed the door quietly behind her and Jones walked slowly across the room, murmuring to the slumbering Ellie held close against his chest. He placed her gently in her crib, taking care not to disturb her, sliding his hands out from underneath her soft limbs, and then Daisy came and pulled a light blanket over her child. Ellie barely stirred.

“That all she needs?” he whispered.

Daisy nodded. They stood there for a few seconds, just watching the sleeping child. Then she reached over and took his hand, pulling him toward the bed, still unmade from the previous morning.

Jones sat down, removed his jacket, revealing his rain-wrinkled, blood-spattered shirt, and took off his shoes. Daisy, beside him, pulled her crumpled party dress one-handed over her head, suddenly unself-conscious about the possible exposure of post-baby bulges or stretch marks, even in the harsh light of morning. She replaced it with her old T-shirt and climbed in, the covers whispering against her bare legs.

The window was open, carrying in the warm scents of the salted summer morning, the curtains swaying languorously in the breeze. Jones eased himself down, facing her, his eyes black with lack of sleep, his jaw grayed and unshaven, yet all the tensions somehow ironed from his brow. He gazed at her, unblinking, his eyes softened, his hand gently tracing Daisy’s bare skin.

“You look beautiful,” he said from under his gauze dressing.

“You don’t.”

They smiled at each other, slow, sleepy smiles.

He lifted his finger and placed it on her lips. She kept her eyes on his, and raised her own bandaged hand, lightly touching his face, finally allowing herself the luxury of a touch she’d ached for for so long. Very gingerly, she placed her fingertip on his bandaged nose.

“Does it hurt?” she murmured.

“Nothing hurts,” said Jones. “Absolutely nothing.”

And with a deep sigh of satisfaction, he pulled her to him, wrapped himself around her, buried his big head in that cool, sweet place where her neck met her shoulder. She felt his soft hair and his stubbly jaw against her, the soft touch of his lips, smelled the distant echo of antiseptic on his skin. For a second she recognized the flicker of desire and almost immediately felt it swamped by something more pleasurable, a relaxed anticipation, a deep, joyous feeling of safety. She burrowed into him, feeling the weight of his arm, his leg, entwined with hers, his limbs already heavy with approaching slumber. And then, finally, pressed against the steady beat of his heart, Daisy slept.

T
HE RAIN HAD PASSED OVER
M
ERHAM
. I
T LEFT PAVEMENTS
silvered with water, glowing liquid peach and phosphorescent blue in the early light. Hal’s footsteps, steady and even, splashed as he walked his charge finally toward the gate.

It was Rollo who first saw them coming up the road; through the window Hal saw him leap out from under the coffee table and scramble for the door, barking. Camille, jolted from a light sleep, rose awkwardly from the sofa to follow him, stumbling as she reached for her cane, and worked out where she was. But Rollo had
not
been the most alert. By the time Hal reached the gate, his father-in-law was already down the stairs. He walked out the open door and halfway down the path with the brisk gait of someone a fraction his age, straight past Hal—who at a slower pace stepped aside—and reclaimed his exhausted wife.

There was a short silence. Hal stood in the porch, and placed his arms around Camille, grateful after the long, long night simply to feel her there. Her whispered question he answered with a nod, close enough that she could feel his head against her own.

Then Camille took a step back, squeezing his hand. “We’ll go now, Pops,” she called tentatively. “Unless you want us to stay.”

“Either way, sweetheart.” Joe’s voice was rigid, contained.

Camille made to move, but Hal stayed her. They stood in the doorway, waiting, listening.

Joe, several feet away, faced his wife like an old prizefighter. Hal noted that his hands, behind his back, were trembling.

“You must want a cup of tea,” Joe said eventually.

“No,” said Lottie, smoothing her hair away from her face. “No, I just had one up at the café. With Hal.”

She glanced behind him and then caught sight of the two suitcases in the hall.

“What’s this?” she said.

Joe closed his eyes briefly. Breathed out. As if it were an effort. “You never looked at me like that. Not in forty years of marriage.”

Lottie turned to face him. “I’m looking at you now, aren’t I?”

They stared at each other for some time. Then Lottie took two steps forward, and grasped his hand. “I thought I might take up painting again. I might enjoy doing a bit of painting again.”

Joe frowned, looked at her as if she were not entirely in control of her senses.

Lottie glanced down at their hands. Let out a breath. “This silly cruise thing of yours. You’re not going to make me play bridge, are you? I can’t stand playing bridge. But I don’t mind having a go at a bit of painting.”

Joe stared at her, his eyes widening just a fraction. Then, “You know I’d never . . .” His voice broke off, and he turned away from them all for a minute, his head sunk into his shoulders. Lottie’s own head dipped, and Hal, suddenly feeling like an intruder, turned away, his hand closing around Camille’s.

Joe appeared to compose himself. He hesitated, looked at his wife, then moved forward, just one or two steps, and placed his arm around her shoulders. She moved in to him, a small gesture, but there nonetheless, and after a pause as short as a breath, together, slowly, they walked toward their house.

I
T WAS TIME TO MAKE HIM HAPPY, SHE’D TOLD
H
AL WHEN
he found her, down at the beach huts, sitting alone in the dawn. It had been enough to know that Guy had loved her, that they would have been together.

I don’t understand, Hal had said. He was the love of your life. Even I could see that.

Yes, he was. But I can let him go now, she’d said simply. And although he could normally describe anything to his sightless wife, Hal struggled to convey the sense of release on Lottie’s face, the way her expression, engraved with years of pent-up frustration and grief, had suddenly cleared.

“Sitting there talking to him. It made me realize—all these years wasted. Hankering after someone who wasn’t there when I should have been loving Joe. He’s a good man, you see.”

Outside, two lobstermen had unloaded their boats, hauling their catch over the side with a well-practiced ease. Along the shore the first dogwalkers left meandering tracks on the sand, a temporary history.

“He’s known. He’s always known. But he never resented me for it.”

She had looked at her son-in-law then and stood, a hand pushing back her graying hair, a girlish, tentative smile.

“I think it’s time Joe got himself a wife, don’t you?”

I
had to stay in a hospital for a while afterward. I forget how many weeks. They didn’t call it a hospital, of course, not when they were trying to persuade me to go there. They just said it would be a visit home to England, a chance to spend some time with Mummy.

A “little stay” would make me feel better, you see. Lots of girls had the same problem as me, even if no one really talked about it. It wasn’t the sort of thing one talked about, even then. They knew that I never liked living in the tropics, that if it hadn’t been for Guy I would have come home.

I had wanted that baby, you see. Wanted it so much. I used to dream that it was inside me; sometimes, if I put my hand on the bare skin of my stomach, I could even feel it flutter. I used to talk to it silently, willing it into life. Although I never told anybody. I knew what they’d say.

Because Guy and I never spoke about it. He was rather good like that, Mummy said. Sometimes the less attention one paid to something, the better. Less damage all around. Then, Mummy always was one to turn a blind eye. She never really spoke about it either. It was as if I embarrassed her.

When I came out, everyone pretended I hadn’t been there at all. They just got on with things and left me to my dreams. I didn’t tell them anything. I knew from their faces they didn’t believe half of what I said. Why should they?

But you can’t escape your past, can you? Just like you can’t escape your fate. Guy and I were never really the same afterward. It was as if he carried it around, rotting inside him, and could never look at me without the smell of it, the taint of it, coloring his reaction. He was as full of it as I was empty.

Eighteen apples I did, the day that I told you. Eighteen apples.

And still they came out the same way.