The Day of the Storm (11 page)

“Yes, I know…”

“And after Mrs Pettifer passed on, there wasn't anyone to do the cooking. Mind, I can cook all right, but it takes me a good part of my time taking care of the Commander, and I wouldn't want to see him going about the place looking shabby.”

“No, of course not…”

I was interrupted by the slam of a door.

A hearty male voice called, “Pettifer!” and Pettifer said, “Excuse me a moment, miss,” and went out to investigate, leaving the door open behind him.

“Pettifer!”

I heard Pettifer say, with what sounded like the greatest satisfaction, “Hallo, Joss.”

“Is she there?”

“Who, here?”

“Rebecca.”

“Yes, she's right here, in the sitting-room … I was just going to get her a cup of coffee.”

“Make it two would you, there's a good chap. And black and strong for me.”

His footsteps came down the hall, and the next moment he was there, framed in the doorway, long-legged, black-haired, and—it was obvious—angry.

“What the hell do you think you're doing?” he demanded.

I could feel my hackles rising, like a suspicious dog. Home, Eliot had said. This was Boscarva, my home, and whether I was here or not was nothing to do with Joss.

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“I went to pick you up and Mrs Kernow told me you'd already left.”

“So?”

“I told you to wait for me.”

“I decided not to wait.”

He was silent, fuming, but finally appeared to accept this inescapable fact.

“Does anyone know you've arrived?”

“I met Eliot at the gate. He brought me here.”

“Where's he gone?”

“To find his mother.”

“Have you seen anyone else? Have you seen Grenville?”

“No.”

“Has anyone told Grenville about your mother?”

“A letter came by this morning's post, from Otto Pedersen. But I don't think he's seen it yet.”

“Pettifer must take it to him. Pettifer must be there when he reads it.”

“Pettifer didn't seem to think that.”

“I think it,” said Joss.

His apparently outrageous interference left me without words, but as we stood glaring at each other across the pretty patterned carpet and a great bowl of scented narcissus, there came the sound of voices and footsteps down the uncarpeted staircase and along the hall towards us.

I heard a woman's voice say, “In the sitting-room, Eliot?”

Joss muttered something that sounded unprintable, and marched over to the fireplace where he stood with his back to me, staring down into the flames. The next instant, Mollie appeared in the doorway, hesitated for a moment and then came towards me, hands outstretched.

“Rebecca.” (So it was to be a warm welcome.) Eliot, following behind her, closed the door. Joss did not even turn round.

I worked it out that by now Mollie must be over fifty, but this was hard to believe. She was plump and pretty, her fading blonde hair charmingly coiffed, her eyes blue, her skin fresh and lightly scattered with freckles which helped to create this astonishing illusion of youth. She wore a blue skirt and cardigan and a creamy silk blouse; her legs were slim and shapely and her hands beautifully manicured, decorated with pale pink fingernails, and many rings and fine gold bracelets. Scented, immaculately preserved, she made me think of a charming little tabby cat, curled precisely in the centre of her own satin cushion.

I said, “I'm afraid this is something of a shock.”

“No, not a shock, but a surprise. And your mother … I'm so dreadfully sorry. Eliot's told me about the letter…”

At this Joss swung around from the fireplace.

“Where is the letter?”

Mollie turned her gaze upon him, and it was impossible to guess whether this was the first time she had realized he was there, or whether she had seen him and simply decided to ignore him.

“Joss. I didn't think you were coming this morning.”

“Yes. I just got here.”

“You know Rebecca, I believe.”

“Yes, we've met.” He hesitated, seeming to be making an effort to pull himself together. Then he smiled, ruefully, turned to lean his broad shoulders against the mantelpiece and apologized. “I'm sorry. And I know it's none of my business, but that letter that came this morning … where is it?”

“In my pocket,” said Eliot, speaking for the first time. “Why?”

“It's just that I think Pettifer should be the one to break the news to the old man. I think Pettifer is the only person to do it.”

This was greeted by silence. Then Mollie let go of my hands and turned to her son.

“He's right,” she said. “Grenville's closest to Pettifer.”

“That's all right by me,” said Eliot, but his eyes, on Joss, were cold with antagonism. I did not blame him. I felt the same way myself—I was on Eliot's side.

Joss said again, “I'm sorry.”

Mollie was polite. “Not at all. It's very thoughtful of you to be so concerned.”

“None of my business, really,” said Joss. Eliot and his mother waited with pointed patience. At last he took the hint, heaved his shoulders away from the mantelpiece, and said, “Well, if you'll excuse me, I'll go and get on with some work.”

“Will you be here for lunch?”

“No, I can only stay a couple of hours. I'll have to get back to the shop. I'll pick up a sandwich at the pub.” He smiled benignly at us all, not a trace of his former temper showing. “Thanks all the same.”

And so he left us, modest, apologetic, apparently cut down to size. Once more the young workman, an employee, with a job to do.

6

Mollie said, “You must forgive him. He's not always the most tactful of men.”

Eliot laughed shortly. “That's the understatement of the year.”

She turned to me, explaining, “He's restoring some of the furniture for us. It's old and it had got into bad repair. He's a marvellous craftsman, but we never know when he's going to arrive or when he's going to go!”

“One day,” said her son, “I shall lose my temper with him and punch his nose into the back of his neck.” He smiled at me charmingly, his eyes crinkling, belying the ferocity of his words. “And I'm going to have to go too. I was late as it was, now I'm bloody late. Rebecca, will you excuse me?”

“Of course. I'm sorry, I'm afraid it was my fault. And thank you for being so kind…”

“I'm glad I stopped. I must have known how important it was. I'll see you…”

“Yes, of course you will,” said Mollie quickly. “She can't go away now that she's found us.”

“Well I'll leave the two of you to fix everything up…” He made for the door, but his mother interrupted gently.

“Eliot.” He turned. “The letter.”

“Oh, yes, of course.” He took it from his pocket, the fateful letter, a little crumpled now, and handed it to Mollie. “Don't let Pettifer make too big a meal of it. He's a sentimental old chap.”

“I won't.”

He smiled again, saying goodbye to both of us. “See you at dinner.”

And he was gone, whistling up his dog as he went down the hall. We heard the front door open and shut, his car start up. Mollie turned to me.

“Now,” she said, “come and sit by the fire and tell me all about it.”

I did so, as I had already told Joss and Mrs Kernow, only this time I found myself stumbling a little when I got to the bit about Otto and Lisa living together, as though I were ashamed of it, which was a thing which I had never been. As I talked and Mollie listened, I tried to work this out, and to understand why my mother had disliked her so much. Perhaps it was simply a natural antipathy. It was obvious that they would never have had anything in common. And my mother had never had much tolerance for women who bored her. Men, now, were different. Men were always amusing. But women had to be very special for my mother to be able to tolerate their company. No, it could not all have been Mollie's fault. Sitting across the fireside from her, I resolved that I would be friends with her, and perhaps compensate, in a small way, for the short shrift she had received from Lisa.

“And how long are you going to be able to stay in Porthkerris? Your job … do you have to get back?”

“No. I seem to have been given a sort of indefinite leave.”

“You'll stay here, with us?”

“Well, I've got this room with Mrs Kernow.”

“Yes, but you'd be much better here. There's not a lot of space, that's the only thing; you'll have to sleep up in the attic, but it's a dear little room if you don't mind the sloping ceilings and you manage not to bump your head. You see, Eliot and I seem to have filled up the guest rooms, and as well I've got my niece staying for a few days. Perhaps you'll make friends with her. It'll be nice for her to have someone young about the place.”

I wondered where the niece was. “How old is she?”

“Only seventeen. It's a difficult age, and I think that her mother felt it would be a good thing if she was out of London for a little. They live there, you see, and of course she has so many friends, and there is so much going on…” She was obviously finding it difficult to find the right words … “Anyway, Andrea's down here for a week or two to have a little change, but I'm afraid she's rather bored.”

I imagined myself at seventeen, in the unseen Andrea's shoes, staying in this warm and charming house, cared for by Mollie and Pettifer, with the sea and the cliffs on my doorstep, the countryside inviting long walks, and all the secret crooked streets of Porthkerris waiting to be explored. To me it would have been heaven, and impossible to be bored. I wondered if I would have very much in common with Mollie's niece.

“Of course,” she went on, “as you've probably gathered, Eliot and I are only here because Mrs Pettifer died and really the two old men couldn't manage on their own. We've got Mrs Thomas, she comes in each morning to help do the housework, but I do all the cooking, and keep the place as bright and pretty as I can.”

“The flowers are so lovely.”

“I can't bear a house without flowers.”

“What about your own house?”

“My dear, it's empty. I shall have to take you up to High Cross one day to show it to you. I bought a pair of old cottages just after the war and converted them. Even though I shouldn't say so, it is very charming. And, of course, it's so handy for Eliot's garage; as it is, living here, he seems to be perpetually on the road.”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

I could hear footsteps coming down the hall again; in a moment the door opened, and Pettifer edged around it, cautiously, carrying a tray laden with all the accoutrements of mid-morning coffee, including a large silver pot with steam drifting from its spout.

“Oh, Pettifer, thank you…”

He came forward, stooped with the weight of the tray, and Mollie got up to fetch a stool and place it swiftly beneath the tray so that the old man could put it down before it tilted so sharply that everything on it went hurtling to the floor.

“That's splendid, Pettifer.”

“One of the cups was for Joss.”

“He's upstairs working. He must have forgotten about the coffee. Never mind, I'll drink it for him. And, Pettifer…” He straightened, slowly, as though all his old joints were aching. Mollie took the letter from Ibiza off the mantelpiece where she had placed it for safety. “We thought, all of us, that perhaps it would be the best if you told the Commander about his daughter and then gave him this letter. It would be best, we thought, coming from you. Would you mind?”

Pettifer took the thin blue envelope.

“No, Madam. I'll do it. I'm just on my way up now to get the Commander up and dressed.”

“It would be a kindness, Pettifer.”

“That's all right, Madam.”

“And tell him that Rebecca is here. And that she's staying. We'll have to make up the bed in the attic but I think she'll be quite comfortable.”

Again a gleam came into Pettifer's face. I wondered if he ever really smiled, or whether his face had dropped permanently into those lugubrious lines and a cheerful expression had become physically impossible.

“I'm glad you're staying,” he said. “The Commander will like that.”

When he'd gone, I said, “You'll have a lot to do. Shouldn't I go, and get out from under your feet?”

“You'll have to collect your things from Mrs Kernow anyway. I wonder how we could manage that? Pettifer could take you, but now he'll be occupied with Grenville and I must speak to Mrs Thomas about your room and then start thinking about lunch. Now what are we going to do?” I could not imagine. I was certainly not going to be able to carry all my belongings up the hill from the town. But luckily Mollie answered her own question. “I know. Joss. He can take you and bring you back up the hill in his van.”

“But isn't Joss working?”

“Oh, for once we'll interrupt him. It's not often he's asked to put himself out—I'm sure he won't mind. Come along, we'll go and find him.”

I had thought that she would take me to some forgotten outhouse or shed where we would find Joss, surrounded by wood shavings and the smell of hot glue, but to my surprise, she led me upstairs, and I forgot about Joss, because these were my first impressions of Boscarva, where my mother had been brought up, and I didn't want to miss a thing. The stairs were uncarpeted, the walls half panelled and then darkly papered above and hung with heavy oil paintings. All was at variance with the pretty, feminine sitting-room which we had left downstairs. On the first-floor landing passages led to left and right, there was a tallboy of polished walnut, and bookcases heavy with books, and then we went on again, up the stairs. Here was red drugget, white paint, again the passages led away to either side, and Mollie took the right-hand one. At the end of this passage was an open door, and from behind it the sound of voices, a man's and a girl's.