The Day of the Storm (23 page)

Words began to spill out of her mouth, made ugly with weeping. (I thought briskly,
at least she isn't missing any teeth,
and hated myself for my own hard heart.)

“I … we … went to the cinema … and wh … when we came out, we went to a pub, and…”

“Which pub?”

“I don't know…”

“You must know which pub…”

My voice rose in impatience. Behind me, Mollie, whom I had not heard come into the room, said, “Oh, don't shout at her. Don't be unkind.”

I made an effort and tried again, more gently.

“Can't you remember where you went?”

“No. It was d … dark … and I … couldn't see. And then … and then…”

I held her firmly, trying to calm her “Yes. And then?”

“And Joss had a lot of whisky to drink. And he wouldn't bring me home. He wanted me to g … go back to his flat with him … and…”

Her mouth went square, her features dissolved into uncontrollable weeping. I let her go and stood up, backing away from her. At once Mollie took my place.

“There,” she said. “There, there.” She was more gentle than I, her voice as soothing as a mother's. “Now there's nothing more to worry about. The doctor's on his way, and Pettifer's putting a nice hot bottle in your bed. You don't need to tell us any more. You don't need to talk about it any more.”

But, perhaps calmed by Mollie's manner, Andrea seemed anxious to make a clean breast of it, and, through interminable sobs and gasps, we were to hear the rest of the story.

“And I didn't want to go. I … I wanted to come home. And I … left him. And he came after me. And … I tried to run, and I tripped on the p … pavement, and my shoe … c … came off. And then he c … caught me, and he be … began shouting at me … and I screamed and he
hit
me…”

I looked at the faces around me, and the same horror and consternation, in varying degrees, was mirrored upon them. Only Grenville appeared coldly, deeply angry, but still he did not move, he did not say a word.

“It's all right,” Mollie said again, her voice shaking only a little. “Now, everything's all right. Come along, upstairs.”

Somehow Andrea, wilted and bedraggled, was eased off the sofa, but her legs would not hold her weight, and she started to collapse. It was Morris who, standing nearest to her, stepped forward and caught her before she fell, swinging her up, with surprising strength, into his puny arms.

“There,” said Mollie, “Morris will carry you upstairs. You'll be all right…” She moved towards the door. “If you'll come this way, Morris.”

“OK,” said Morris, who did not appear to have much option in the matter.

I watched Andrea's face. As Morris moved, her eyes opened and looked straight into mine, and our glances clashed and held. And I knew that she was lying. And she knew that I knew she was lying.

Leaning her head against Morris's chest, she began to cry again. Swiftly, she was borne from the room.

We listened as Morris's burdened footsteps went down the hall, started up the staircase. Then Eliot said, with masterly understatement, “An unsavoury business.” He glanced at Grenville. “Shall I ring the police now or later?”

Grenville spoke at last. “Who said anything about ringing the police?”

“You surely don't intend to let him get away with it?”

I said, “She was lying.”

Both men looked at me in some surprise. Grenville's eyes narrowed and he was at his most formidable. Eliot frowned. “What did you say?”

“Some of her story may be true. Most of it probably is. But still, she was lying.”

“How was she lying?”

“Because as you said yourself, she was besotted with Joss. She wouldn't leave him alone. She told me that she'd been often to his flat, and she must have been, because she described it to me and every detail was right. I don't know what happened this evening. But I do know that if Joss wanted her to go back with him, she'd have gone like a shot. No arguments.”

“Then how,” asked Eliot smoothly, “do you account for the bruise on her face?”

“I don't know. I said I don't know about the rest of her story. But that bit, for sure, she made up.”

Grenville moved. He had been standing for a long time. Slowly, he went to his chair and lowered himself carefully into it.

“We can find out what really happened,” he said at last.

“How?” Eliot's question came out like the shot of a gun.

Grenville swung his head around and fixed his gaze on Eliot.

“We can ask Joss.”

Eliot let out a sound, which in old-fashioned novels would have been written as “Pshaw.”

“We shall ask him. And we will be given the truth.”

“He doesn't know what the truth means.”

“You have no justification for making such a statement.”

Eliot lost his temper. “Oh, for God's sake, does the truth have to be thrown in your face before you recognize it?”

“Don't raise your voice to me.”

Eliot was silent, staring in disbelief and disgust at the old man. When at last he spoke, it was in scarcely more than a whisper. “I've had enough of Joss Gardner. I've never trusted him nor liked him. I believe he's a phoney, a thief and a liar, and I know that I'm right. And one day you too will know that I'm right. This is your house. I accept that. But what I will not accept is his right to take it over, and us with it, just because he happens to be…”

I had to stop him. “Eliot!” He turned to look at me. It was as though he had forgotten I was there. “Eliot, please. Don't say any more.”

He looked down at his glass, finished the drink in a single mouthful. “All right,” he said at last. “For the moment, I won't say any more.”

And he went to pour himself another whisky. As he did this, with Grenville and I watching him in silence, Morris Tatcombe came back into the room.

“I'll be off then,” he said to the back of Eliot's head.

Eliot turned and saw him. “Is she all right?”

“Well, she's upstairs. Your mother's with her.”

“Have another drink before you go.”

“No, I'd better be off.”

“We really can't thank you enough. What would have happened if you hadn't seen her…” He stopped, the unfinished sentence conjuring up visions of Andrea dying of exposure, exhaustion, loss of blood.

“Just lucky I did.” He backed away, obviously anxious to be off, but not quite sure how to get there. Eliot put the stopper into the decanter, left his freshly filled glass on the table and came to his rescue.

“I'll see you to the door.”

Morris ducked his head in the general direction of Grenville and myself.

“Night, all.”

But Grenville had hauled himself to his feet with massive dignity. “You've handled things very sensibly, Mr Tatcombe. We're grateful to you. And we would be grateful, too, if you would keep the girl's version of what happened to yourself. At least until it has been authenticated.”

Morris looked sceptical. “These things get around.”

“But not, I am sure, through you.”

Morris shrugged. “It's your affair.”

“Exactly. Our affair. Good night, Mr Tatcombe.”

Eliot led him away.

Grenville laboriously settled himself once more in his chair. He passed a hand over his eyes, and it occurred to me that such scenes could not be good for him.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes. I'm all right.”

I wished that I could confide in him, tell him that I knew about Sophia, and Joss being her grandson. But I knew that if there were any telling to be done, it had to come from him.

“Would you like a drink?”

“No.”

So I left him alone, busying myself in tidying the cushions on the flattened sofa.

It was some time before Eliot re-appeared, but when he did he seemed quite cheerful again, the sudden row which had flared between him and Grenville now quite forgotten. He went to pick up his drink. “Good health,” he said, raising his glass to his grandfather.

“I suppose we're in debt to that young man,” said Grenville. “I hope one day we'll be able to settle it.”

“I shouldn't worry too much about Morris,” Eliot replied lightly. “I should think he's quite capable of settling it for himself. And Pettifer has asked me to tell you both that dinner is ready.”

We ate alone, the three of us. Mollie stayed with Andrea, and in the middle of dinner the doctor arrived and was taken upstairs by Pettifer. Later, we heard him talking to Mollie in the hall, then she showed him out and came into the dining room to tell us what he had said.

“Shock, of course. He's given her a sedative, and she has to stay in bed for a day or two.”

Eliot had gone to pull out a chair for her, and she sank into this looking exhausted and shaken. “Imagine such a thing happening. How I'm going to tell her mother, I can't think.”

“Don't think about it,” said Eliot, “till tomorrow.”

“But it was such an appalling story. She's only a child. She's only seventeen. What could Joss have been thinking of? He must have gone out of his mind.”

“He was probably drunk,” said Eliot.

“Yes, perhaps he was. Drunk and violent.”

Neither Grenville nor I said anything. It was as though we had entered into some sort of an unspoken conspiracy, but this did not mean that I had forgiven Joss, nor condoned anything that he had done. Later, probably, when he had been interrogated by Grenville, the whole truth would come out. By then I would probably be back in London.

And if I was still here … Slowly, I ate a little bunch of grapes. This could be my last dinner at Boscarva, but I truly did not know whether I wanted it to be or not. I had reached a cross-roads, and had no idea which was the way I should take. But soon I was going to have to make up my mind.

A compromise, Eliot had said, and it had sounded tepid. But after the histrionics of this evening, the very words had a solid ring to them, sensible and matter-of-fact, with their feet planted squarely on the ground.

You were made for a man and a home and children.

I reached for my wine glass and, glancing up, saw that Eliot watched me across the polished table. He smiled, as though we were conspirators. The expression on his face was both confident and triumphant. Perhaps, while I was thinking that I would probably end up by marrying him, he already knew that I would.

We were back in the drawing room, sitting around the fire and finishing our coffee, when the telephone started to ring. I thought that Eliot would go to answer it, but he was deep in a chair with the paper and a drink, and managed to linger so long that it was Pettifer who finally took the call. We heard the kitchen door open and his old feet go so slowly across the hall. The ringing stopped. For some reason I glanced up at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was nearly a quarter to ten.

We waited. Presently the door opened and Pettifer's head came around the edge of it, his spectacles glinting in the lamplight.

“Who is it, Pettifer?” asked Mollie.

“It's for Rebecca,” said Pettifer.

I was surprised. “For me?”

Eliot said, “Who's ringing you at this hour of the day?”

“I've no idea.”

I got up and went out of the room. Perhaps it was Maggie, wanting to tell me something about the flat. Perhaps it was Stephen Forbes, wondering when I was going to return to work. I felt guilty, because I should have been in touch with him, letting him know what I was doing and when I planned to go back to London.

I sat on the hall chest and picked up the receiver.

“Hallo?”

A small, mouse-like voice began speaking, sounding very far away.

“Oh, Miss Bayliss, we were passing, and he was lying there … my husband said … so we got him up the stairs and into the flat … don't know what happened. Covered in blood and he could hardly talk. Wanted to call the doctor … but he wouldn't let us … frightened leaving him there on his own … there ought to be somebody there … said he'd be all right…”

I must have been exceptionally slow and stupid, but it took me a little time to realize that this was Mrs Kernow, calling me from the phone box at the end of Fish Lane, to tell me that something had happened to Joss.

12

I was amazed and gratified to find myself in a state of almost total calm. It was as though I had already been prepared for this crisis, been given my orders and told what to do. There were no doubts and so no indecision. I must go to Joss. It was as simple as that.

I went up to my bedroom and got my coat, put it on, did up the buttons, came downstairs again. The key of Mollie's car lay where I had left it, on the brass tray in the middle of the table in the hall.

I picked it up, and as I did so the drawing room door opened and Eliot came up the passage towards me. It never occurred to me that he would try to stop me going. It never occurred to me that anyone or anything could stop me going.

He saw me, bundled into my old leather coat. “Where are you off to?”

“Out.”

“Who was that on the telephone?”

“Mrs. Kernow.”

“What does she want?”

“Joss has been hurt. She and Mr Kernow were walking home along the harbour road, they'd been visiting her sister. They found him.”

“So?” His voice was cold and very quiet. I expected to be intimidated, but I was not.

“I'm going to borrow your mother's car. I'm going to him.”

His thin face hardened, the skin drawn tight over the jutting bones.

“Have you gone out of your mind?”

“I don't think so.”

He said nothing. I slipped the key into my pocket and made for the door, but Eliot was faster than I, and in two strides was in front of me, standing with his back to the door and with his hand on the latch.