A Gathering Storm (11 page)

The next morning, Mrs Wincanton telephoned to say that lessons were cancelled, and the following day when she arrived at Carlyon, the place rang with nervous tension. Then the blow fell.

‘Daddy’s taking us to Scotland for the summer,’ Angie cried. ‘We’re to stay in a real castle.’

On further enquiry it turned out that the castle belonged to friends of the Wincantons, Lord and Lady Hamilton. Lady Hamilton – Aunt Alice – was an old schoolfriend of Oenone’s and was Angie’s godmother. They were to spend July and August up there. The staff at Carlyon were to be put onto board wages, though Mrs Pargeter had agreed to go to Mrs Wincanton’s aged parents a few miles away because they’d recently lost their cook. All these arrangements had been made, it seemed, in the twinkling of an eye, and Beatrice was dismayed to find that she was to spend the summer on her own.

Several weeks passed, the loneliest weeks Beatrice had ever experienced, for she’d grown used to companionship and now it was gone. After the first few days without Carlyon, without Angelina, the tenor of her parents’ routine became unbearable. Wherever she drifted in the house she was in someone’s way, and she took to going for long walks with Jinx over the cliffs or down to the beach. Cornwall was starting to get busy with summer visitors. Sometimes when the tide was low she’d take that forbidden passage to the less visited next cove, where she’d become absorbed in the rockpools there because it was quieter. But she’d no longer imagine mermaids and palaces. Instead, like a good student, she’d draw fish and birds in her sketchbook, or if it was warm in the sun, sit and read novels from the pile Miss Simpkins had lent her, then when the tide was coming in she’d urge Jinx up the narrow steps cut into the cliff and pass home along the fringes of Carlyon’s gardens.

Her mother had started to encourage her to play tennis at the club further up the hill, where she joined the fringes of a group of the sons and daughters of families Delphine met through charity work or her French conversation lessons. They were friendly, not as grand as the Wincantons’ friends; they invited her to picnics and birthday treats, but still she didn’t feel a part of it all. The Wincantons had spoilt her for that.

When the weather was bad she found herself holed up in her bedroom at home, reading, or arranging and labelling her nature collections. Sometimes she was summoned downstairs to amuse her father by playing chess or reading to him. In the evenings they all sat together listening to the news of the Japanese invasion of China, whilst Delphine sewed and Hugh Marlow played endless games of solitaire, and Beatrice seethed with frustration and loneliness. And every time the postman came she hoped there’d be something for her. Sometimes there would be: a letter or a postcard badly spelt but enthusiastically written by Angelina, with a picture of a stag on it from Hetty.

Beatrice felt empty, yearning. There was a space to fill.

And then Rafe came.

Late July brought more visitors to St Florian, though because it was tucked away, and the beaches were small, it didn’t attract the big crowds. Still, the town was busier than usual. Small children hunted crabs in the rockpools at low tide, the jolly sails of boats skimmed the sea and the Italian ice-cream man set up his barrow on the quay.

One afternoon of intense heat and stillness, Beatrice took Jinx for a walk on the beach, seeking coolness by the water. Delphine had gone to bed complaining of a headache. Hugh was playing bridge at Colonel Brooker’s, a new development that ‘at least gives him an interest,’ as his wife said. Beatrice imagined the middle-aged men sitting round the table talking of the days when they’d diced with death in the trenches rather than gambling away small sums at cards. Yesterday’s men, all of them. Another war was coming, but it wouldn’t be theirs.

She passed a group of boys of about sixteen, playing cricket on the sand, far too absorbed in their game to notice her. When she reached the sea she pulled off her sandals and walked in the shallows, throwing pebbles into the sea for Jinx. They reached the headland that separated this cove from the next. The tide hadn’t gone out far enough yet to reveal the passage, but she looked for the jagged rock where she’d got stuck that far-off day two years ago and saw it as an important moment now, for it had brought her Angelina and a life at Carlyon.

She stopped as close to the rocks as she dared, watching the waves dash against them and swirl back, dash and swirl, then whistling to Jinx, turned back, thinking she’d find the narrow path over the other headland and walk down to the town and buy an ice cream.

As she neared the cricket game she saw the boys had spread out across the beach, the reason quickly becoming obvious as a tennis ball hurtled past her into the waves. A six,’ cried the batter, a heavy red-haired boy she vaguely recognized as James Sturton, a local boy who frequented the tennis club. Jinx leapt into the sea, seized the ball and ran off with it along the beach.

‘Flipping heck, Sturton,’ cried the bowler. ‘You nearly took her head off.’ He wheeled round and strode across the sand towards Beatrice. ‘Sorry miss,’ he called. ‘You’re not hurt, are you?’

‘No, not at all,’ Beatrice said. He was tall for his age, this boy, loose-limbed and graceful, with sleek, butter-coloured hair and a thin, sunburned face. A stranger, but with something of Ed in him, that public-school gloss, and, in the concerned way he looked at her and smiled, utterly familiar.

‘Jinx,’ Beatrice said severely, and they both looked at the dog, who opened his mouth in a teasing smile, thus dropping the ball, then snatching it up again, ready for a good chase.

Beatrice called him. He ignored her. The boy lunged towards the dog, which pranced further away. They spent several minutes, calling and coaxing, in Beatrice’s case, or sprinting and rugby tackling in the boy’s. The other boys watched, laughing, the large boy, Sturton, taking the chance to sprawl on the sand and mop his flushed face with a handkerchief. ‘Come on, you lummoxes,’ the fair-haired boy shouted to his friends. ‘Give us a hand.’

After several minutes Jinx allowed himself to be caught and the fair-haired boy wiped the ball carefully on his shorts before raising it in triumph.

‘I’m so sorry.’ Beatrice clipped the dog on the lead and said, ‘He’s got awful manners, hasn’t he? I hope he hasn’t spoilt your game.’

The boy gave Beatrice a mock bow. ‘The fault was ours, or more specifically, Sturton’s. He could bat for England, could Sturton, but his sixes would knock out the umpire.’

Beatrice hardly heard the sense of his words, so intent was she on the sound of his voice, and the warmth of his gaze. She imagined he must spend a lot of time on the playing-fields to be so sun-browned, and she marvelled that it made his eyes seem so blue.

He was putting out his hand now. ‘How do you do?’ he said. ‘Ashton. Rafe Ashton.’

Beatrice managed to get out her own name and shook his hand. It was as though a warm current passed between them.

‘See you around, Beatrice Marlow,’ he said. ‘Bye, Jinx-boy.’ And he was striding back to resume his game.

I’m already forgotten, Beatrice assumed, but as she led Jinx past the temptation of the spinning ball and towards the path to the harbour, Rafe gave her a smile that assured her otherwise.

‘Arlene Brooker has her sister’s boy staying,’ Mr Marlow remarked, reaching for the condiments. ‘Rafe Ashton. He’s sixteen – a nice-looking lad. I met him with Larry Sturton’s boy at the Brookers’ today. Turns out Rafe’s at Winchester with James.’ Beatrice’s father didn’t notice his daughter’s interest in this conversation. He began to eat in his usual irritating way, nibbling his food off the fork in fussy, catlike movements.

Delphine spread her napkin on her lap and began to sever fat from her chop. ‘Arlene Brooker has told me about Rafe and his older half-brother. A dreadful business. Her sister’s been widowed twice already and has married for a third time. They were in Paris with her last husband, but this one’s stationed in India, somewhere in the mountains – where would that be?’

‘Kashmir, I reckon,’ her husband said.

‘Yes, Kashmir, that was it. The boys used to stay with their grandfather in the school holidays, but do you remember Arlene telling us that he died at Easter? Gerald, the older boy, he’s at Sandhurst, but Arlene said she could take Rafe. I imagine he’ll be in Cornwall often.’

‘I think I saw him this morning,’ Beatrice plucked up the courage to say. ‘Playing cricket on the beach. And one of the other boys was definitely James Sturton.’

‘It’s a pity they’re all boys,’ said her mother. ‘It would be nice to have more girls for you to play with.’

‘I don’t mind,
maman
.’ She wasn’t keen on meeting strangers of either gender. But she thought she’d like to see something more of Rafe.

For the next few days she walked on the beach or up to the tennis club or shopped for her mother with a continuous sense of hope that she might see him.

The Brookers’ villa was up on the plateau near the tennis club, and Beatrice would walk past the house trying to appear as though she were not avidly looking for Rafe. One afternoon when she loitered, pretending to find early blackberries in the hedges, she was sure it was his voice she heard in the back garden, laughing and talking, though she could only make out the odd word of whatever adventure he was recounting.

It was three mornings after their first meeting that she saw him on the beach again, this time swimming. A wind had got up, and Rafe and James Sturton were surfing the waves with handheld boards. When he saw her he splashed his way to shore, where he rubbed his back vigorously with a towel as he asked her questions.

‘Do you live in Saint Florian?’

‘Yes.’

‘All the time or just the holidays?’

‘I live here all the time,’ she told him. ‘Do you remember the first house you come to when you walk back that way?’ She pointed to the dunes and he looked and nodded. ‘That’s where I live. It’s called The Rowans.’ She was surprised at how easy she found him to talk to.

‘Do you know the Brookers, my uncle and aunt?’ he asked, pulling the towel around his shoulders.

‘Yes, I think you met my father recently,’ she replied. ‘He plays bridge with your uncle.’

‘That was your father? What a coincidence.’ He laughed.

‘I’m sorry you can’t go home,’ she told him.

‘Don’t be. It’s not bad here, and I’m hoping to see my mother at Christmas if my stepfather gets some leave. I haven’t seen her for a year.’

He looked wistful so she said quickly, ‘I hope you do.’ She did feel sorry for him, separated from his family, but his thoughts had already moved on.

‘I say, do you play tennis?’ he said, his face brightening, and when Beatrice nodded, ‘We must make up a foursome. Sturton’s got a sister who plays, don’t you, Sturton?’

‘What’s that?’ James Sturton had waded out of the sea and now stood puffing beside them, like a friendly walrus.

‘Tennis. Your sister and Beatrice here. We must do it. I’ll send you a note.’ He was shivering with cold and excitement, his eyes full of light and happiness. And yet, there was a vulnerability there, too – she’d seen it. Something in the twist of his smile. She wanted to tell him it was all right, everything was all right. Because she could see it hadn’t always been so for him.

The next morning she’d arranged with old Harry to ride Cloud, and it was as she was pulling on her riding boots that an envelope slipped through the letterbox. She beat Jinx to snatch it from the mat, read her name and wrenched open the front door in time to see Rafe’s retreating back. He was dressed in shorts and an old shirt, with a towel draped over his shoulder. ‘Rafe,’ she called, and he turned, his sensitive face breaking into a smile when he saw her. He glanced at her boots and breeches.

‘You’re going riding?’ he asked, unnecessarily, bending to rub Jinx’s rough coat, and when she nodded, said, ‘Let me know if you can play tennis.’

‘Wait a moment,’ she said, scrabbling open the envelope. ‘Tomorrow afternoon? Um,’ she said, trying to be offhand like Angie, ‘yes, thank you, I can.’

‘See you up there,’ he said. He looked at his watch and the sun flashed on the metal. ‘Must hurry. We’ve bought an old canoe.’ His eyes gleamed with humour. ‘Sturton’ll probably scalp me if I don’t show to help him carry it.’ He pulled the gate shut and she heard his whistle as he passed back down the lane.

Beatrice stood on the doorstep, listening to the whistle and the wail of gulls, feeling the sun on her face. It shone from a cerulean sky. The air was warm and thick as honey. Time slowed. Whatever happens, she told herself, I must always remember this moment. She’d pin it in her memory like one of her butterflies. Take it out to look at, if she needed to remind herself what pure happiness was.

On the way up the cliff path, half an hour later, she turned to look down on the beach. Two boyish figures were struggling to launch a cumbersome canoe in the surf. She watched, laughing, as one gained a seat and the other scrambled in, only for a wave to strike them broadside, capsizing the craft. There was a rush to rescue the paddles before they tried again. Then they were afloat, and coursing through the waves onto calmer water. She turned and laboured on up the path, larksong heralding her ascent.

Harry had got Cloud saddled and ready for her. She thanked him, but refused the offer of his company. ‘I’m fine with him now. He knows me.’

Harry grunted, but Beatrice knew he wouldn’t let her go if he wasn’t sure. She mounted Cloud and he shortened the stirrups for her and remarked, ‘Don’t go too hard in this heat, he won’t like it.’

‘Of course I won’t, Harry. Don’t worry.’ He stood back and she set off at a walk, out of the stableyard, down the lane, heading for the meadows on the brow of the cliff. Cloud, his flanks quickly damp with sweat, was reluctant even to break into a trot, but she urged him on. Away from the shelter of the trees the afternoon sun beat down. She wouldn’t ride for long. She turned along the cliffs, above the sea, where there was the slightest of breezes.

The world vibrated with a long rumble of thunder. The pony hesitated and his ears switched back. Beatrice glanced up, whispering calming words, and was surprised to see that the horizon ahead was vanishing into a dark haze. As she gazed out to sea, she saw black clouds rolling towards them across the water, yet still, immediately below, the sea sparkled in sunlight. Soon, she noticed the birds fell silent. A draught of cool air began to blow, and on it floated a faint scent of rain. As she watched, the brightness leached from the sea below, leaving it dull as liquid lead. Horse and rider toiled along the wide band of cliff behind the trees bordering Carlyon, and as they passed the secret steps down to the second cove, she realized a storm was coming – coming swiftly, too. They’d ride as far as the next promontory, she decided, then turn in time to gain home before it reached them.