Elsie cradled the dustbin in her arms and sobbed.
After some time, there was a firm knock on the door. Elsie stood up, dried her eyes and whipped the eiderdown from the billiard table, pinning it below her chin to cover her modesty. ‘Come in,’ she called, trying her best to cover the distraught notes in her voice.
The receptionist from last night peered around the door. ‘Morning. I’m afraid you’re going to have to leave shortly. Your friend paid on her way out, so don’t worry about that.’
‘Oh, right,’ Elsie said. ‘When did she leave?’
The woman grimaced. ‘About an hour ago, I should think.’
‘Did she leave me a message?’
The receptionist shook her head. ‘She was in too much of a rush to catch a train.’
‘A train?’ Elsie queried. ‘Did she say where she was going?’
‘Folkestone, I think. She said she was heading to Charing Cross.’
‘Oh, God,’ Elsie murmured. ‘Right, I’m going!’
‘I didn’t mean you had to leave right this moment.’
Elsie ignored her, dropped the eiderdown to the floor and fumbled to put on her dress. She ran her fingers through her messy hair, not caring how she looked. She pulled on her shoes as she was still hobbling out of the room.
She had to get out of here right now and find a way of getting to Folkestone before Violet did something stupid in her misguided way of trying to make amends for her appalling revelation last night. As Elsie stumbled from the hotel and out into the cold London morning, she thought of what Violet had finally blurted out: that she had convinced Woody that Elsie was back with Laurie and that there was no possible future for him with her. Then Violet had slept with Woody. Weeks later, she had aborted his baby.
Elsie clambered out of the taxi at the bottom of the driveway to Cliff House. She had managed to procure an illegal ride from London to Folkestone in the back of a Royal Mail van, sitting atop sacks full of mail. The journey was an uncomfortable one, horribly whisking together her alcohol-induced nausea with Violet’s devastating revelations. She had spent the entire journey staring at the road ahead through a tiny crack behind the driver’s seat. They had arrived in Folkestone town centre and the driver had pulled over in a quiet side street and helped Elsie jump down before promptly scarpering. She had never even got his name. From there, she had run to Folkestone train station, losing her cartwheel hat en-route, hoping to have arrived before the train. But she was too late. The only possible train that Violet could have caught had arrived fifteen minutes earlier. Elsie had hastily summoned a taxi and had sat smoking nervously in the back, trying to stop her thoughts from wondering what Violet was planning on doing.
‘Thank you,’ Elsie called to the driver, tossing him the fare. ‘Keep the change.’
Hitching up her dress, she ran flat out towards the house. She arrived struggling for air, and banged hard on the door. Nothing. She banged again. ‘Come on.’
Elsie stepped back and peered up at the house. There was no movement. Nothing. The house stood eerily silent and she was reminded of the strange malaise the place had always cast over her.
She banged on the door again and tried the handle, but it was locked.
Maybe they’re in the back garden or in the shelter for some reason, Elsie thought, hurrying around the side of the house. She gazed through the kitchen window and tried the back door.Nobody was home.
Elsie kicked the door in anger, then stood back, wondering what to do next. If Violet hadn’t come here, then where had she gone? Why take the train to Folkestone, if not to come to Cliff House?
She turned from the building, facing out to sea. The turquoise sky was daubed with thin white patches. The opposing white cliffs of France were clearly visible. Somewhere on that part of the continent, where masses of Allied troops were now landing, were Laurie and Woody, their fates as yet undecided. Their respective futures, inextricably linked with Elsie’s, were as yet unwritten.
Elsie sniffed as a solitary tear rolled down her cheek to the corner of her mouth.
She watched as a herring gull glided silently above her, suddenly buffeted by a change in the direction of the wind. On that wind, Elsie caught the sound of something. Shouting. She cocked her head and strained to listen. Her time cowered over receiver sets, listening intently, meant that she was able to filter out the extraneous noises that came on a windy cliff top. Someone was shouting. Elsie couldn’t quite get the words but she recognised the voice: Mr Falkirk, an elderly neighbour from along the cliff path.
She craned her neck and searched the direction of the shouting, but couldn’t see any sign of him.
Then, another voice: Agnes.
Elsie hurried to the edge of the garden, climbed over the low wooden fence and began to move as quickly as she could along the narrow path cut into the cliff. Brambles and nettles reached out for her bare legs, snatching at her dress as she went.
As she reached the low rise in the hill that brought Mr Falkirk’s small bungalow into view, she saw Agnes and him exchanging words at the edge of his property.
Elsie crouched down behind a gorse bush and watched the pair’s heated discussion. She was aware that her bright blue dress made her highly visible should either party turn in her direction.
Slowly peering around the side of the bush, Elsie watched Mr Falkirk throw up his arms in a defeatist manner, turn and stride back towards his house. Agnes marched onwards along the cliff path, clutching something in
