The Day of the Storm (20 page)

“Down in Porthkerris. I had to do some shopping for Mollie.”

“What time is it?”

“Half past twelve.”

“Then let's have a glass of sherry.”

“Is that allowed?”

“I don't give a damn if it's allowed or not. You know where the decanter is.”

I poured two glasses, carried his over and set it carefully down on the table by his chair. I pulled up a stool and sat facing him. I said, “Grenville, I have to go back to London.”

“What?”

“I have to go back to London.” The blue eyes narrowed, the great jaw thrust out; I hastily made Stephen Forbes my scapegoat. “I can't stay away for ever. I've already been away from work nearly two weeks, and Stephen Forbes, the man I work for, he's been so good about it, I can't just go on taking advantage of his kindness and generosity. I've just realized that it's Friday already. I must go back to London this weekend. I must be back at work on Monday morning.”

“But you've only just come.” He was obviously thoroughly disgusted with me.

“I've been here three days. After three days fish and guests stink.”

“You're not a guest. You're Lisa's child.”

“But I still have commitments. And I like my job and I don't want to stop working.” I smiled, trying to divert him. “And now I've found the way to Boscarva, perhaps I can come again, when I've got more time to spare, to spend with you.”

He did not reply but sat, looking old and grumpy, staring into the fire.

He said dismally, “I may not be here then.”

“Oh, of course you will be.”

He sighed, took a slow, shaky mouthful of sherry, set down his glass, and turned to me, apparently resigned.

“When do you want to go?”

I was surprised, but relieved, that he had given in so easily.

“Perhaps tomorrow night. I'll get a sleeper. And then I can have Sunday to get myself settled into my flat.”

“You shouldn't be living in a flat in London on your own. You weren't made for living alone. You were made for a man, and a home, and children. If I were twenty years younger and could still paint, that's how I'd show you to the world, in a field or a garden, knee-deep in buttercups and children.”

“Perhaps it'll happen one day. And then I shall send for you.”

His face was suddenly full of pain. He turned away from me and said, “I wish you'd stay.”

I longed to say that I would, but there were a thousand reasons why I couldn't. “I'll come back,” I promised.

He made a great and touching effort to pull himself together, clearing his throat, re-settling himself in his chair. “That jade of yours. We'll have to get Pettifer to pack it in a box, then you can take it with you. And the mirror … could you manage that on the train, or is it too big? You ought to have a car, then there would be no problems. Have you got a car?”

“No, but it doesn't matter…”

“And I suppose that desk hasn't…”

“It doesn't matter about the desk!” I interrupted, so loudly and so suddenly that Grenville looked at me in some surprise, as though he had not expected such bad manners.

“I'm sorry,” I said quickly. “It's just that it really doesn't matter. I couldn't bear everybody to start quarrelling about it again. Please, for my sake, don't talk about it, don't think about it any more.”

He regarded me thoughtfully, a long unblinking stare that made me drop my eyes.

He said, “You think I'm unfair to Eliot?”

“I just think that perhaps you never talk to each other, you never tell each other anything.”

“He'd have been different if Roger hadn't been killed. He was a boy who needed a father.”

“Couldn't you have done as a father?”

“Could never get near him for Mollie. He was never made to stick to anything. Always chopping and changing jobs and then he started that garage up three years ago.”

“That seems to be a success.”

“Second-hand cars!” His voice was full of unjustified contempt. “He should have gone into the Navy.”

“Suppose he didn't want to go into the Navy?”

“He might have, if his mother hadn't talked him out of it. She wanted to keep him at home, tied to her apron strings.”

“Oh, Grenville, I think you're being thoroughly old-fashioned and very unfair.”

“Did I ask you for your opinion?” But already he was cheering up. A good argument was, to Grenville, like a shot in the arm.

“I don't care whether you asked for it or not, you've got it.”

He laughed then, and reached forward to gently pinch my cheek. He said, “How I wish I could still paint. Do you still want one of my pictures to take back to London with you?”

I was afraid that he had forgotten. “More than anything.”

“You can get the key of the studio from Pettifer. Tell him I said you could have it. Go and nose around, see what you can find.”

“You won't come with me?”

Again the pain came into his face. “No,” he said gruffly, and turned away to take up his sherry. He sat, looking down at the amber wine, turning the glass in his hand. “No, I won't come with you.”

*   *   *

At lunch he broke the news to the others. Andrea, livid that I was going back to London while she had to stay in horrible, boring Cornwall, went into a sullen sulk. But the others were gratifyingly dismayed.

“But do you have to go?” That was Mollie.

“Yes, I really must. I've got a job to do and I can't stay away for ever.”

“We really love having you here.” She could be charming when she wasn't aggressive and possessive about Eliot, resentful of Grenville and Boscarva. I saw her again as a pretty little cat, but now I was aware of long claws hidden in the soft velvet paws, and I knew that she had no compunction about using them.

“I've loved it too…”

Pettifer was more outspoken. After lunch I went out to the kitchen to help him with the dishes, and he minced no words.

“What you want to go away for now, just when you're settling down and the Commander's getting to know you—well, it's beyond me. I didn't think you were that sort of a person…”

“I'll come back. I've said I'll come back.”

“He's eighty now. He's not going to last for ever. How are you going to feel, coming back and him not here, but six feet under the ground and pushing up the daisies?”

“Oh, Pettifer,
don't.
”

“It's all very well saying ‘Oh, Pettifer,
don't.
' There's nothing I can do about it.”

“I've got a job. I must go back.”

“Sounds like selfishness to me.”

“That's not fair.”

“All these years he's not seen his daughter, and then you turn up and stay three days. What sort of a grandchild are you?”

I didn't reply because there was nothing to say. And I hated feeling guilty and being put in the wrong. We finished the dishes in silence, but when they were done and he was wiping down the draining board with a damp cloth, I tried to make my peace with him.

“I'm sorry. I really am. It's bad enough having to go without you making me feel a brute. And I will come back. I've said I will. Perhaps in the summer … he'll still be here in the summer, and the weather will be warm and we can do things together. Perhaps you could take us out in the car…”

My voice trailed away. Pettifer hung his cloth neatly over the edge of the sink. He said, gruffly, “The Commander said you were to have the key of the studio. Don't know what you'll find down there. A lot of dust and spiders, I should think.”

“He said I could have a picture. He said I could go and choose one.”

He slowly dried his worn, gnarled hands. “I'll have to find the key. It's put away for safe keeping. Didn't want it lying around where anyone could get their hands on it. There's a lot of good stuff down in the studio.”

“Any time will do.” I could not bear his disapproval. “Oh, Pettifer, don't be angry with me.”

He melted then. “Oh, I'm not angry. Perhaps it's me who's being selfish. Perhaps it's me who doesn't want you to go.”

I saw him suddenly, not as the ubiquitous Pettifer around whom this household revolved, but as an old man, nearly as old as my grandfather and probably as lonely. A stupid lump came into my throat and for a terrible moment I thought I was going to burst into tears, which would have made it the second time that day, but then Pettifer said, “And don't go choosing one of them nudes, they wouldn't be suitable,” and the dangerous moment was behind me and we were smiling, friends again.

That afternoon Mollie lent me her car, and I drove the five miles to the railway junction and there bought myself a ticket back to London and reserved a sleeper for the night train on Saturday. The violence of the wind had dropped a little, but it was still wild and stormy, with trees down and devastation everywhere, smashed greenhouses, broken branches, and fields of early spring bulbs flattened by the gales.

I got home to find Mollie in the garden at Boscarva, bundled up against the weather (even Mollie could not look elegant on such a day) and trying to tie up and rescue some of the more fragile shrubs that grew around the house. When she saw the car, she decided to call it a day, for as I put it away and walked back towards the house I met her coming towards me, stripping off her gloves and tucking a strand of hair into her head-scarf.

“I can't bear it a moment longer,” she told me. “I hate wind, it exhausts me. But that darling little daphne was being snapped to ribbons, and all the camellias have been burnt by this wind. It turns them quite brown. Let's go in and have a cup of tea.”

While she changed I put the kettle on, and set out cups on a tray. “Where is everybody?” I asked her when she reappeared, miraculously neat once more, down to her pearls and her matching ear-rings.

“Grenville's having a nap and Andrea's up in her room…” she sighed. “… I must say, she really isn't the easiest of girls. If only she'd do something to amuse herself instead of skulking around in this tiresome manner. I'm afraid it's not doing her any good being down here, I didn't think it would, to be quite honest, but my poor sister was quite desperate.” She looked around the comfortable kitchen. “This is cosy. Let's have our tea in here. The drawing room's so draughty when the wind's from the sea, and we can scarcely draw the curtains at half past four in the afternoon…”

She was right, it was cosy in the kitchen. She found a cloth and laid the tea, setting out cakes and biscuits, sugar bowl and silver milk jug. Even for kitchen tea, it appeared, her standards were meticulous. She pulled up two wheel-back chairs, and was in the act of reaching for the teapot when the door opened and Andrea appeared.

“Oh, Andrea, dear, just in time. We're having kitchen tea today. Do you want a cup?”

“I'm sorry, I haven't got time.”

This unexpectedly mannerly reply made Mollie look up sharply. “Are you going out?”

“Yes,” said Andrea, “I'm going to the cinema.”

We both stared at her like fools. For the impossible had happened—Andrea had suddenly decided to take much trouble with her appearance. She had washed her hair and tied it back off her face, found a clean polo-necked tee-shirt, and even, I was delighted to see, a bra to wear beneath it. Her Celtic cross hung around her neck on its thread of leather, her black jeans were neatly pressed, her clumpy shoes polished. Over her arm was a raincoat and a fringed leather handbag. I had never seen her look so presentable. And, best of all, the expression on her face was neither sulky nor malevolent, but … demure? Could one possibly describe Andrea as looking demure?

“I mean,” she went on, “if that's all right by you, Auntie Mollie.”

“Well, of course. What are you going to see?”

“
Mary of Scotland.
It's on at the Plaza.”

“Are you going by yourself?”

“No, I'm going with Joss. He rang me while you were out gardening. He's going to give me supper afterwards.”

“Oh,” said Mollie, faintly. And then, feeling that further comment was expected of her, “… how are you going to get down there?”

“I'll walk down, and I expect Joss will drive me home…”

“Have you got some money?”

“I've got 50p. I'll be all right.”

“Well…” But Mollie was defeated. “Have a good time.”

“I will,” she flashed us both a smile. “Goodbye.”

The door swung to behind her.

“Goodbye,” said Mollie. She looked at me. “Extraordinary,” she said.

I was concentrating on my cup of tea. “Why so extraordinary?” I said casually.

“Andrea and … Joss. I mean he's always been quite polite to her, but … to ask her out…?”

“You shouldn't sound so surprised. She's attractive when she cleans herself up and bothers to smile. Probably she smiles at Joss all the time.”

“You think it's all right, letting her go? I mean I do have responsibilities…?”

“Honestly, I don't see how you could have stopped her going. Anyway she's seventeen, she's not a child. She can surely look after herself by now…”

“That's just the trouble,” said Mollie … “That's always been the trouble with Andrea.”

“She'll be all right.”

She would not be all right, and I knew this, but I could not disillusion Mollie. Besides, what did it matter? It was no business of mine if Joss chose to spend his evenings making firelit love to an adolescent nymphomaniac. They were two of a kind. They deserved each other. They were welcome to each other.

When we had finished tea, Mollie tied a neat apron around her waist and started preparing dinner. I cleared away the cups and saucers and washed them up. As I was drying the last plate, and putting it away, Pettifer appeared, bearing in his hand a large key which looked as though it might unlock a dungeon.