The Day of the Storm (10 page)

“Thank you.” I smiled politely. “Goodbye.”

I turned and began to walk, feeling his eyes on my back. Then he spoke once more and I turned back. He was smiling, all friends again.

“You want a house, make up your mind quickly. They're selling like hot cakes.”

“Yes, I'm sure. But I don't want one. Thank you.”

The lane led downhill towards the great blue bowl of the sea, and now I was truly in the country, in a farmland of fields grazed by sweet-faced Guernseys. Wild violets and primroses grew in the grassy hedges, and the sun came out and turned the rich grass to emerald. Presently, I came around a corner and saw the white gates, set between low drystone walls; a driveway curved down, out of sight, and there were high hedges of escallonia and elm trees, tortured to unnatural shapes by the relentless winds.

I could not see the house. I stood at the open gates and looked down the drive, my courage seeping away like bathwater after the plug has been pulled out. I could not think what I was meant to do, nor what I was going to say once I had done it.

My mind was, unexpectedly and mercifully, made up for me. Down by the house, out of sight, I heard a car start up and come at some speed up the drive towards me. As it approached, a low-slung open sports car of some age and style, I stood aside to let it flash past between the gate posts and up the hill in the direction from which I had come, but still there was time to see the driver and the great red setter sitting up on the back seat, with the deliriously joyful expression of any dog being taken for a ride in an open car.

I thought that I had not been noticed but I was wrong. A moment later the car stopped with a screech of brakes and a shower of small stones flung from the back wheels. Then it went into reverse, and returned, with scarcely less speed back to the spot where I stood. It stopped, the engine was killed, and Eliot Bayliss, leaning an arm on the driving wheel, surveyed me across the empty passenger seat. He was bare-headed and wore a sheepskin car coat, and his expression was one of amusement, perhaps intrigue.

“Hallo,” he said.

“Good morning.” I felt a fool, bundled in my old coat, with the wind blowing stray strands of hair over my face. I tried to push them away.

“You look lost.”

“No. I'm not.”

He continued to regard me, frowning slightly. “I saw you last night, didn't I? At The Anchor? With Joss.”

“Yes.”

“Are you looking for Joss? As far as I know he's not arrived yet. That is, if he's decided to come today.”

“No. I mean I'm not looking for him.”

“Then who—” asked Eliot Bayliss gently—“are you looking for?”

“I … I wanted to see old Mr Bayliss.”

“It's a little early for that. He doesn't usually appear 'til mid-day.”

“Oh.” I had not thought of this. Some of my disappointment must have shown in my face, for he went on, in the same gentle and friendly voice, “Perhaps I could help. I'm Eliot Bayliss.”

“I know. I mean … Joss told me last night.”

A small frown appeared between his eyebrows. He was obviously and naturally puzzled by my relationship with Joss.

“Why did you want to see my grandfather?” And when I did not reply, he suddenly leaned across to open the door of the car and said, with cool authority, “Get in.”

I got in, closing the door behind me. I could feel his eyes on me, the shapeless coat, the patched jeans. The dog leaned forward to nuzzle my ear; his nose was cold and I reached over my shoulder to stroke the long, silky ear.

I said, “What's he called?”

“Rufus. Rufus the Red. But that doesn't answer my question, does it?”

I was saved by another interruption. Another car. But this time it was the Post Office van, rattling scarlet and cheerful, down the lane towards us. It stopped, and the postman rolled down the window to say to Eliot, good naturedly, “How can I get down the drive and deliver the letters if you park your car in the gateway?”

“Sorry,” said Eliot, unperturbed, and he got out from behind the driving wheel and went to take a handful of mail and a newspaper from the postman. “I'll take it—it'll save you the trip.”

“Lovely,” said the postman. “Be nice if everyone did my job for me,” and with a grin and a wave he went on his way, presumably to some outlying farmstead.

Eliot got back into the car.

“Well,” he said, smiling at me. “What am I going to do with you?”

But I scarcely heard him. The pile of mail lay loosely in his lap, and on the top was an airmail envelope, postmarked Ibiza, and addressed to Mr Grenville Bayliss. The spiky handwriting was unmistakable.

A car is a good place for confidences. There is no telephone and you can't be unexpectedly interrupted. I said, “That letter. The one on the top. It's from a man called Otto Pedersen. He lives in Ibiza.”

Eliot, frowning, took up the envelope. He turned it over and read Otto's name on the back. He looked at me. “How did you know?”

“I know his writing. I know him. He's writing to … to your grandfather to tell him that Lisa is dead. She died about a week ago. She was living with Otto in Ibiza.”

“Lisa. You mean Lisa Bayliss?”

“Yes. Roger's sister. Your aunt. My mother.”

“You're Lisa's child?”

“Yes.” I turned to look directly at him. “I'm your cousin. Grenville Bayliss is my grandfather, too.”

His eyes were a strange colour, greyish-green, like pebbles washed by some fast-moving stream. They showed neither shock nor pleasure, simply regarded me levelly without expression. He said at last, “Well I'll be damned.”

It was hardly what I expected. We sat in silence because I could think of nothing to say, and then, as though coming to a sudden decision, he tossed the pile of mail into my lap, started the car up once more, and swung the wheel around so that once more we were facing the drive.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“What do you think? Taking you home of course.”

Home. Boscarva. We came around the curve of the drive and it was there, waiting for me. Not small, but not large either. Grey stone, smothered in creeper, grey slate roof, a semicircular stone porch with the door open to the sunshine, and inside a glimpse of red tiles, a clutter of flowerpots, the pinks and scarlets of geranium and fuchsia. A curtain fluttered at an open upstairs window and smoke plumed from a chimney. As we got out of the car the sun came out from behind a cloud and, caught in the spread arms of the house, sheltered from the north wind, it was suddenly very warm.

“Come along,” said Eliot and led the way, the dog at his heels. We went through the porch and into a dark, panelled hallway illuminated by the big window on the turn of the stairs. I had imagined Boscarva as being a house of the past, sad and nostalgic, filled with the chill of old memories. But it wasn't like that at all. It was vital, humming with a sense of activity. There were papers lying on the table, a pair of gardening gloves, a dog's lead. From beyond a doorway came the kitchen sounds of voices and the clatter of crockery. From upstairs a vacuum-cleaner hummed. And there was a smell compounded of scrubbed stone and old polished floors, and years of woodfires.

Eliot stood at the foot of the staircase and called, “Mamma.” But when there was no answer, only the continued hum of the vacuum-cleaner, he said, “You'd better come this way.” We went down the hall and through a door which led into a long, low drawing room, palely panelled and sensuous with the brightness and scent of spring flowers. At one end, in a fireplace of carved pine and Dutch tiles, a newly lit fire flickered cheerfully, and three tall windows, curtained in faded yellow silk, faced out over a flagged terrace, and beyond the balustrade of this I could see the blue line of the sea.

I stood in the middle of this charming room as Eliot Bayliss closed the door and said, “Well, you're here. Why don't you take your coat off?”

I did so. It was very warm. I laid it over a chair where it looked like some great, dead creature.

He said, “When did you get here?”

“Last night. I caught the train from London.”

“You live in London?”

“Yes.”

“And you've never been here before?”

“No. I didn't know about Boscarva. I didn't know about Grenville Bayliss being my grandfather. My mother never told me till the night before she died.”

“How does Joss come into it?”

“I…” It was too complicated to explain. “I'd met him in London. He happened to be at the junction when my train got in. It was a coincidence.”

“Where are you staying?”

“With Mrs Kernow in Fish Lane.”

“Grenville's an old man. He's ill. You know that, don't you?”

“Yes.”

“I think … this letter from Otto Pedersen … we'd better be careful. Perhaps my mother would be the best person…”

“Yes, of course.”

“It was lucky you saw the letter.”

“Yes. I thought he would probably write. But I was afraid that I would have to break the news to you all.”

“And now it's been done for you.” He smiled, and all at once he looked much younger … belying those strange coloured eyes and the thick silver-fox hair. “Why don't you wait here and I'll go and find my mother and try to put her in the picture. Would you like a cup of coffee or something?”

“Only if it's not a nuisance.”

“No nuisance. I'll tell Pettifer.” He opened the door behind him. “Make yourself at home.”

The door closed softly, and he was gone. Pettifer.
Pettifer had been in the Navy too, he looked after my father and sometimes drove the car and Mrs Pettifer did the cooking.
So my mother had told me. And Joss had told me that Mrs Pettifer had died. But in the old days she had taken Lisa and her brother into the kitchen and made hot buttered toast. She had drawn the curtains against the dark and the rain, and made the children feel safe and loved.

Alone, I inspected the room where I had been left to wait. I saw a glass-doored cabinet filled with Oriental treasures, including some small pieces of jade, and wondered if these were the ones that my mother had mentioned to me. I glanced around, thinking that perhaps I might find the Venetian mirror and the davenport desk as well, but then my attention was caught by the picture over the mantelpiece, and I went to look at it, all else forgotten.

It was a portrait of a girl, dressed in the fashion of the early 1930s, slender, flat-chested, her white dress hanging straight to her hips, her dark, bobbed hair revealing with enchanting innocence the long, slender neck. She sat, in the picture, on a tall stool, holding a single long-stemmed rose, but you could not see her face, for she was looking away from the artist, out of some unseen window, into the sunshine. The effect was all pink and gold, with sunlight filtering through the thin stuff of her white dress. It was enchanting.

Behind me the door opened suddenly and I turned, startled, as an old man came into the room, stately, bald-headed, a little stooped, perhaps; treading cautiously. He wore rimless spectacles and a striped shirt with an old-fashioned hard collar, and over it all a blue and white butcher's apron.

“Are you the young lady wanting a cup of coffee?” He had a deep, lugubrious voice, and this, with his sombre appearance, made me think of a reliable undertaker.

“Yes, if it's not too much trouble.”

“Milk and sugar?”

“No sugar. Just a little milk. I was looking at the portrait.”

“Yes. It's very pleasing. It's called ‘Lady Holding a Rose'.”

“You can't see her face.”

“No.”

“Did my … Did Mr Bayliss paint it?”

“Oh yes. That was hung in the Academy, could have been sold a hundred times over, but the Commander would never part with it.” As he said this, he carefully took off his spectacles, and was now staring at me intently. His old eyes were pale. He said, “For a moment, when you spoke, you reminded me of someone else. But you're young and she'd be middle-aged by now. And her hair was dark as a blackbird. That's what Mrs Pettifer used to say. Dark as a blackbird's wing.”

I said, “Eliot didn't tell you?”

“What didn't Mr Eliot tell me?”

“You're talking about Lisa, aren't you? I'm Rebecca. I'm her daughter.”

“Well.” Fumbling a little he put his spectacles back on again. A faint gleam of pleasure showed on his gloomy features. “I was right then. I'm not often wrong about things like that.” And he came forward, holding out a horny hand. “It's a real pleasure to meet you … A pleasure that I never thought I should have. I thought you'd never come. Is your mother with you?”

I wished that Eliot had made it a little easier for me.

“My mother's dead. She died last week. In Ibiza. That's why I'm here.”

“She died.” His eyes clouded. “I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. She should have come back. She should have come home. We all wanted to see her again.” He took out a copious handkerchief and blew his nose. “And who—” he asked— “is going to tell the Commander?”

“I think … Eliot's gone to fetch his mother. You see, there's a letter for my grandfather in the post, it came this morning. It's from Ibiza, from the man who was … taking care of my mother. But if you think that wouldn't be a very good idea…”

“What I think won't make no difference,” said Pettifer. “And whoever tells the Commander, it's not going to lessen his sorrow. But I'll tell you one thing. You being here will help a lot.”

“Thank you.”

He blew his nose again and put away his handkerchief.

“Mr Eliot and his mother … well, this isn't their home. But it was either the old Commander and me moving up to High Cross or them coming here. And they wouldn't be here if the doctor hadn't insisted. I told them we could manage all right, the Commander and me. We've been together all these years … but there, we're neither of us as young as we used to be, and the Commander, he had this heart attack…”