by Moyes, Jojo
Susan should have known, really. Lots of people had warned her against taking in an evacuee. She had disregarded those that said all the London children had nits and lice (although she had peered quite closely at eight-year-old Lottie’s hair when she arrived) and those that said she would steal or that the parents would follow and camp in their house and they’d never be rid of any of them.
No, there was only the mother, and she had never visited so much as once. She had written Susan Holden two letters, once after the first long stay, thanking her in that awful handwriting of hers, and the second time a year later when Susan had invited the child to return. But she had seemed rather relieved to have the child off her hands.
And Lottie had never stolen anything or run away or got too forward with boys. No, if anything, Susan was forced to acknowledge, it was Celia who had been a little too developed in that direction. The girl had done what she was told, helped with the little ones, and kept herself nice and presentable.
Susan Holden felt suddenly guilty, picturing eight-year-old Lottie standing at Merham station, her arms folded protectively around her brown-paper-wrapped bundle of clothes. In the midst of all the chaos, she had looked at Mrs. Holden silently, with those huge dark eyes, and then, as Susan began to chatter a welcome (even then the child was rather unnerving), she had slowly lifted her right hand and taken Susan’s own. It had been a curiously moving gesture. And a rather unbalancing one, too. And symptomatic of everything Lottie had been since: polite, self-contained, watchful, affectionate in a rather reserved way. Perhaps it was unfair to be so hard on the girl. She had done nothing really wrong. She was just going to have to adjust to Celia’s absence. The girl would be leaving them soon anyway, once she had sorted herself out with a good job. And Mrs. Holden did pride herself on her Christian sense of charity.
But then she thought about the way that Henry had looked at Lottie that time several weeks ago when she had hitched up her skirt to go in the paddling pool with Frederick. And Susan Holden felt rather complicated about her houseguest again.
CELIA HAD A BOYFRIEND. IT HADN’T TAKEN HER LONG, Lottie thought wryly. There had been a lengthy gap between letters, and then she had written a breathless account of some awful trouble she had got into at a railway station and how this man, whom she was now stepping out with, had “saved” her. Lottie hadn’t taken much notice at first; Celia always was prone to exaggeration. And he was not the first man Celia had sworn was the one for her. Not even in the short time she’d been in London; there had been the man she’d met on the train between Bishops Stortford and Broxbourne; the man who served her at the café on Baker Street who always gave her an extra coffee when his boss wasn’t around; and there was Mr. Grisham, her shorthand teacher, who had definitely examined her loops and abbreviations with more than simple teacherly interest. But then, gradually, the letters were less about these men and the supposedly interminable evenings in with Aunt Angela and her awful brood and the girls at secretarial school, and increasingly about dinners at fashionable restaurants, and walks on Hampstead Heath they’d had together, and the general superiority of Guy in everything from conversational skills to kissing technique (“for God’s sakes, burn this before Mummy sees it”).
Lottie read and tried to decipher what was definitely the truth. For “monied family,” she decided, one should read simply “own house, with inside toilet”; for “absolutely gorgeous,” a face that didn’t resemble a disgruntled bulldog’s; and for “mad, simply passionate about me,” Celia probably meant that Guy had turned up to meet her at the times and places he said he would. It was hard not to be a little cynical—Lottie had lived many years with Celia by now and had learned the hard way that Celia and veracity were not always the closest of bedfellows. Lottie, for example, had heard herself described by her friend as having been rescued from a burning building during the Blitz, as a mysterious émigrée of Eastern European origin, and as an orphan whose parents had been killed by a doodlebug while celebrating their wedding anniversary with a dinner of smoked salmon and black-market vodka. She had not challenged Celia on any of these, despite becoming gradually aware of their provenance. No one ever challenged Celia; it was one of the things Lottie had learned at the Holden house. There was a feeling that doing so would be like opening Pandora’s box. In fact, no one even mentioned that Celia told fibs. The one time Lottie had mentioned one of these “untruths” to Mrs. Holden, Mrs. Holden had got quite shirty and told her she was sure there had been some mistake and really Lottie was being rather rude going on and on about it.
Perhaps Celia hadn’t even got a boyfriend, Lottie thought. Perhaps all these men were figments of her imagination, and she was really spending her evenings practicing her needlepoint and piano scales with Aunt Angela’s children. The thought made her smile. Just to get Celia going, Lottie had made no mention of Guy at all in her next letter, but she had asked lots of questions about Aunt Angela’s children.
It had been an odd couple of months; only now was Lottie getting used to Celia’s absence. But with that increased comfort, she had become aware of an increased tension within the house, as if Celia’s absence had removed some focus that, like invisible glue, had been holding the whole thing together. Dr. Holden’s absences had become more frequent, which had rather stretched Mrs. Holden’s brittle hold on everyday life. At the same time Freddie and Sylvia, as if responding to some unseen siren, chose this time to become more shrill and excitable, shredding what remained of her “nerves” and giving Dr. Holden an oft-spoken reason for not returning home. “Is it impossible to get a moment’s peace in this house?” he would ask, in his low, seemingly measured tones, and Mrs. Holden would jump, like a dog about to be kicked outside on a cold night.
Lottie would watch him silently as he withdrew to his study or on some unheralded night call, returning his “good night, Lottie” with equal civility. He was never rude to her, had never made her feel like a usurper within the house. Then again half the time he had hardly seemed to notice her at all.
When she had first arrived in the house, he had been less reserved. He had been friendly, had smiled more. Or perhaps she just remembered it like that. On her first night in the house, when she had wept silent tears, unsure what exactly it was that she was crying for but paradoxically afraid that her hosts would hear her and send her home again, he had let himself quietly into her room and sat down on the bed.
“You mustn’t be afraid, Lottie,” he’d said, placing a warm, dry hand on her head. “I imagine life has been pretty difficult for you in London. You’re safe now.”
Lottie had been stunned into silence. No adult had ever spoken to her as he had. With solemnity. And concern. And without some kind of threat or disparagement. Most of them hadn’t even remembered her name.
“For as long as you are here, Lottie, we shall do everything we can to ensure your happiness. And when you are ready to leave, we shall hope that you remember your stay here with fondness. For we are all sure that we shall be fond of you.”
And with those words he had patted her and left, taking with him her eternal gratitude and what passed in her eight-year-old heart as devotion. Had he known that she’d never had so much as a father figure in her life before, let alone kind words from one, he might perhaps have tempered his attempt at affection. But, no, Dr. Holden had smiled and patted her comfortingly, and little Lottie had stopped crying and lain in her soft bed and wondered about the magical and unforeseen existence of men who didn’t swear, demand that she fetch things from the corner shop, or smell of Old Holborn.
As she had grown older, she had developed a slightly less rosy version of Dr. Holden. It was hard not to, when you witnessed at close hand the cruelty that could be inflicted by a man who simply refused to interact with his wife. In the mornings he would retreat behind his newspaper, emerging from behind his inky curtain only to mildly chastise Frederick or Sylvia for some reported misbehavior, or to pick up his coffee cup. In the evenings he would come in late and distracted, w
ould insist that it was impossible for him to talk until he had had a drink and “a few minutes’ peace” that usually managed to stretch far beyond his supper. And meanwhile Mrs. Holden, who seemed unable to read the signs, would be twittering around him anxiously, trying to anticipate his needs, trying to engage him in conversation, trying to get him to notice her new hairdo / nail polish / cardigan without being so crass as to actually tell him about them.
It was at times like these that Lottie would feel vaguely cross with him. She could see that being married to someone like Mrs. Holden would be rather irritating. But it did seem unnecessarily cruel to ignore her in this way, especially when she did so much to try to make his life better. As far as Lottie could see, he did nothing to try to improve hers. And over the years Mrs. Holden had grown more anxious and more twittery, and Lottie had watched his attempts to hide his irritation with her become fewer and his absences longer, and she had decided that, what with her mother and Dr. and Mrs. Holden, marriage was definitely A Bad Lot and something to be avoided, a bit like sewage outlets or chicken pox.
“I THINK HERE, DON’T YOU? IT’S TOO WHITE AT THE moment. Too vacuous. Too . . . spare.”
Lottie squinted, trying to see what Adeline apparently could. It just looked like a wall. She wasn’t entirely sure how a wall could be spare.
But she nodded and tried to look intelligent and raised an eyebrow as if she understood when Adeline announced that Frances had plans for “something figurative.”
“I have this idea,” Adeline said. “For a mural. I don’t want pictures of forests or lakes . . .”
“Or Palladian landscapes,” said Frances, who had appeared behind them. “I can’t bear temples and pillars. Or deer. Really can’t stand those awful deer.”
“No. I have an idea.” Adeline paused, ran a finger down the wall. “It will be a human landscape. We will all appear. All Arcadia’s people.”
“Like a kind of Last Supper. But without the religion.”
“Or the symbolism.”
“Oh, no, we’ve got to have some symbolism. No good paintings without a bit of symbolism.”
They had lost Lottie completely. She stared at the white wall, its reflected light almost blinding in the afternoon sun. Below them the beach stretched out, segregated by its breakwater, packed with holidaymakers despite the approaching autumn. If it had been down to her, she would probably have put a few pots of plants in front of it. Or a bit of trellis.
“. . . and you, Lottie. We said we would paint your portrait, didn’t we? You will feature. And Celia, in her absence.”
She tried to imagine how she would appear on the wall. But all she could picture was one of those cartoon doodles that had appeared everywhere in the war, saying “Wot, no . . . ?”
“Will I have to pose?” she said.
“No,” said Frances, smiling. She had smiled a lot lately. Smiles sat awkwardly on her face, pulling its long sides up like old pantaloons on thin elastic. “We know you now. I prefer something a little more . . . impressionistic.”
“Her hair. You must show her hair. Do you ever let it down, Lottie?” Adeline reached out a slender hand and stroked it. Lottie flinched. She could not help herself.
“It gets a bit tangled. It’s too fine.” Lottie reached up to smooth it, pulling unconsciously away from Adeline.
“Stop putting yourself down, Lottie. Men find it so boring.”
Men? Lottie realigned her vision of herself, as someone in whom men might be interested. Up until now it had been only boys. Or, more specifically, Joe, who barely counted as that.
“One should always refer only to one’s good points. If one only ever draws the eye to the good, people rarely notice the bad.”
It was the closest she had come to revelation. But Lottie barely noticed. “Perhaps we could get Lottie painting.”
“Oh, yes! What an idea, Frances. Would you like that, Lottie? Frances is the most fabulous teacher.”
Lottie shuffled her feet. “I’m not very good at art. My bowls of fruit usually end up looking as if they’re about to keel over.”
“Bowls of fruit . . .” Frances shook her head. “How can you engender passion for art with bowls of fruit? Come on, Lottie. Come and draw what is in your head, your heart.”
Lottie shook her head, stepped back, suddenly reluctant and self-conscious. Adeline’s fingers found her back, propelled her gently forward.
“You need to learn to dream, Lottie. To express yourself.”
“But I don’t even do art anymore now we’ve finished school. Mrs. Holden says I should focus on other lessons, so that I can get a good job in a shop.”
“Oh, forget shops, Lottie. Look, it doesn’t have to be anything. Just enjoy the feel of the pastels. Pastels are beautiful to work with. See . . .” Frances began drawing lines on the wall, smudging the colors with her paint-stained fingers, her movements confident and sure.
Lottie watched, briefly forgetting herself.
“Don’t forget to include yourself, Frances darling.” Adeline placed a hand on her shoulder. “You never include yourself.”
Frances paused. Kept her eyes on the wall.
“I’m not good at painting myself.”
Marnie emerged at the back door. Her apron was covered in blood and feathers, and a half-plucked goose hung by its neck from her left hand. “Excuse me, ma’am. Mr. Armand has arrived.”
Lottie had been staring at the pastel marks. She glanced at Adeline, who smiled gently and nodded, dismissing Marnie. Lottie waited for her to rush to the door, to straighten herself, or race to put on some makeup, as Mrs. Holden invariably did, feeling herself flush with excitement that she was finally going to meet Adeline’s elusive husband.
But Adeline simply turned her attention back toward the white wall.
“Then we will have to get someone to paint you, Frances,” she said, seemingly unconcerned. She paused. “You are, after all, an essential part of our picture, non?”
Marnie’s face reappeared in the doorway. “He’s in the drawing room.”
Frances stepped away from the wall and looked at Adeline in a way that made Lottie feel inexplicably furtive.
“I think I am more effective as an invisible presence,” she said slowly.
Adeline shrugged, as if relinquishing an oft-fought argument, raised a hand slightly, and then turned and walked toward the house.
Lottie had not been entirely sure what she had been expecting. But Julian Armand was so far from anything she might have even considered that she had looked past him twice before realizing that this was the man to whom Adeline was introducing her.
“So charmed,” he said, holding her hand and kissing it. “Adeline has told me so much about you.”
Lottie didn’t speak, staring in a manner that Mrs. Holden would have found certifiable at this short, dapper man with slicked-down hair and an extraordinary curled mustache, like wrought-ironwork on his face.
“Lottie,” she whispered. And he nodded, as if that were quite gracious enough.
It was not hard to see where Adeline got her extravagant tastes. He was dressed in fashions that might have been fitting several decades ago, and even then only in certain esoteric circles: in tweed knickerbockers with a matching waistcoat and jacket. He wore a tie of emerald green and perfectly round tortoiseshell glasses. From his top pocket hung an extremely elaborate fob watch, while in his left hand he held a silver-topped cane. His highly polished brogues were the only conventional thing on him, and even those bore little resemblance to the brogues Lottie knew—the ten-shilling pairs on High Street.
“So this is Merham,” he said, looking around him at the view from the window. “This is where you have decided to base us.”
“Now, Julian, you are not to make any judgments until you have lived here for a whole week.” Adeline reached for his hand, smiling at him.
“Why, you have plans for me?”
“I always have plans for you, dearest. But I don’t want you to decide until you h
ave woken to the sound of the sea and drunk good wine while watching the sun set. Our new home is a little paradise and its hidden charms all the better for their slow appreciation.”
“Ah. I am an expert at slow appreciation, as you know.”
“But, my dear Julian, I know you are also seduced by the bright and the new. And I and this house are neither. So we have to make sure that you view us with the right eyes. Isn’t that right, Lottie?”
Lottie nodded dumbly, not entirely sure what Adeline was on about. Lottie was having trouble concentrating—she had never seen anyone behave toward her husband the way Adeline was, this excessive courtliness.
“Then I promise I shall say not a word. So—who is going to show me around? Frances? Are you well? You look like the sea air agrees with you.”
“I’m fine, thank you, Julian.”
“And who else is here?”
“George. And Minette has just left. She is writing again. And Stephen is coming at the end of the week. I told him you would be back.”
“Marvelous.” Julian beamed and patted his wife’s hand. “A home already. All I have to do is sit down in the midst of it all and pretend I have always been here.” He turned around slowly, pivoting on his stick as he examined the room. “And this house? What is its history?”
“We know a little, thanks to Lottie and her friend. It was built by the son of a local family, and when he died, it was owned by a couple . . . who?”
“The MacPhersons,” said Lottie. He was wearing a great big fat ring on his little finger. Like a woman’s dress ring, it was.
“Yes, the MacPhersons. But it is in Art Moderne style, as you can see. Quite unusual, I think. And it has a wonderful light, non? Frances says it has a wonderful light.”