The Day of the Storm (15 page)

“She used to tell fortunes from teacups.”

“Who told you that?”

“My mother.”

“That's right, she did. And wonderful things she told us were going to happen to us all. 'Course, they didn't, but it was fun listening to her, just the same. She and your mother were great friends. Sophia used to take her down to the beach and Mrs Pettifer would pack a picnic. And if it was stormy weather they'd go long walks up on the moor.”

“But what was my grandmother doing all this time?”

“Oh, playing bridge or mah-jongg most afternoons. She had a very select circle of friends. She was a nice enough lady, but not really interested in children. Perhaps if she'd been more interested in Lisa when she was a child, they'd have had more in common when Lisa grew up, and maybe your mother wouldn't have run off like that, breaking all our hearts.”

“What happened to Sophia?”

“Oh, she went back to London, she got married and she had a baby, I think. Then, in 1942, she was killed in the Blitz. The baby was down in the country and her husband was overseas, but Sophia stayed in London because she was working in a hospital there. We didn't hear about it for a long time, till long after it happened. Mrs Pettifer and I felt as though a light had gone out of our lives.”

“And my grandfather?”

“He was sorry, of course. But he hadn't seen her for years. She was just a girl who'd once worked for him.”

“Are there any more pictures of her?”

“There's pictures of Sophia in provincial art galleries up and down the country. There's one in the gallery in Porthkerris if you want to go and look at that. And there's a couple upstairs in Mrs Roger's bedroom.”

“Could we go and look at them now?” I sounded eager and Pettifer looked surprised, as though I were suggesting something faintly indecent. “I mean Mrs Bayliss wouldn't mind, would she?”

“Oh, she wouldn't mind. I don't see why not … come on.”

He got laboriously to his feet, and I followed him upstairs and along the first-floor passage to the bedroom over the drawing room, which was large and furnished in a very feminine fashion with old-fashioned Victorian furniture and a faded pink and cream carpet. Mollie had left it painfully neat. The two little oil paintings hung side by side between the windows, one of a chestnut tree with a girl lying in its shade, the other of the same girl hanging out a line of washing on a breezy day. They were scarcely more than sketches, and I was disappointed.

“I still don't know what Sophia looks like.”

Pettifer was about to reply when, from the depths of the house, came the ringing of a bell. He cocked his head, like a dog listening. “That's the Commander, he's heard us talking through the wall. Excuse me a moment.”

I followed him out of Mollie's room and closed the door behind me. He went on down the passage a little way and opened a door, and I heard Grenville's voice.

“What are you two muttering about in there?”

“I was just showing Rebecca the two pictures in Mrs Roger's room…”

“Is Rebecca there? Tell her to come in…”

I went in, past Pettifer. Grenville was not in bed, but sitting in a deep arm-chair with his feet propped up on a stool. He was dressed, but there was a rug over his knees and the room was cheered by the flicker of a fire. Everything was very neat and shipshape and smelt of the Bay Rum he put on his hair.

I said, “I thought you were in bed.”

“Pettifer got me up after lunch. I get bored stiff lying in bed all day. What have you been talking about?”

“Pettifer was showing me some of your pictures.”

“I expect you think they're very old-fashioned. They're going back to realism now, you know, these young artists. I knew it would come. You'll have to have one of my pictures. There are racks of them in the studio that have never been sorted out. I closed the place up ten years ago, and I haven't been there since. Pettifer, where's the key?”

“Put safely away, sir.”

“You'll have to get the key off Pettifer, go down and nose around, see if there's anything you'd like. Got anywhere to hang it?”

“I've got a flat in London. It needs a picture.”

“I thought of something else sitting here. That jade in the cabinet downstairs. I brought it back from China years ago, gave it to Lisa. Now, it belongs to you. And a mirror that her grandmother left her—where's that, Pettifer?”

“That's in the morning room, sir.”

“Well, we'll have to get it down, give it a clean. You'd like that, wouldn't you?”

“Yes, I would.” I felt greatly relieved. I had been wondering how to bring up the subject of my mother's possessions, and now, without any prompting, Grenville had done it for me. I hesitated and then, striking while the iron was hot, mentioned the third thing. “… and there was a davenport desk.”

“Hm?” He fixed me with his ferocious stare. “How do you know?”

“My mother told me about the jade and the mirror, and she said there was a davenport desk.” He continued to glare at me. I wished all at once that I had said nothing. “I mean, it doesn't matter, it's just that if nobody did want it … if it wasn't being used…”

“Pettifer, do you remember that desk?”

“Yes, I do, sir, now you come to mention it. It was up in the other attic bedroom, but I can't remember having seen it lately.”

“Well, look for it some time, there's a good fellow. And put another bit of wood on the fire…” Pettifer did so. Grenville, watching him, said suddenly, “Where is everybody? The house is quiet. Only the sound of the rain.”

“Mrs Roger's out to a bridge party. I think Miss Andrea's in her room…”

“How about a cup of tea?” Grenville cocked an eye at me. “You'd like a cup of tea, wouldn't you? We haven't had the chance of getting to know each other. Either you're keeling over in the middle of dinner, or I'm too old and infirm to get out of bed. We make a fine pair, don't we?”

“I'd like to have tea with you.”

“Pettifer will bring up a tray.”

“No,” I said. “I will. Pettifer's legs have been up and down these stairs all day. Let's give him a rest.”

Grenville looked amused. “All right. You bring it up, and let's have a good big plateful of hot buttered toast.”

I was to wish, many times over, that I had never brought up the subject of the davenport desk. Because it could not be found. While Grenville and I ate our tea, Pettifer began to look for it. By the time he came to take the tray away, he had combed the house from top to bottom, and the desk was nowhere.

Grenville scarcely believed him. “You've just missed it. Your eyes are getting as old as mine.”

“I could scarcely miss seeing a desk.” Pettifer sounded aggrieved.

“Perhaps,” I said, trying to be helpful, “it was sent away to be mended or something…” They both looked at me as though I were a fool, and I hastily shut up.

“Would it be in the studio?” Pettifer ventured.

“What would I do with a desk in the studio? I painted there, I didn't write letters. Didn't want a desk cluttering the place up…” Grenville was getting quite agitated. I stood up, “Oh, it'll turn up,” I said in my best, soothing voice, and picked up the tea tray to carry it downstairs. In the kitchen I was joined by Pettifer, upset by what had happened.

“It's not good for the Commander to get worked up about anything … and he's going to go after this like a terrier after a rat. I can tell.”

“It's all my fault. I don't know why I even mentioned it.”

“But I remember it. I just can't remember having seen it lately.” I began to wash the cups and saucers and Pettifer picked up a tea towel in order to dry them. “And there's another thing. There was a Chippendale chair that used to go with it … mind, they didn't match, but the chair always sat in front of that desk. It had a tapestry seat, rather worn, birds and flowers and things. Well, that's gone, too … but I'm not going to tell the Commander that and neither are you.”

I promised that I wouldn't. “Anyway,” I said, “it doesn't matter to me one way or the other.”

“No, but it matters to the Commander. Artistic he may have been, but he had a memory like an elephant and that's one thing he hasn't lost.” He added gloomily, “I sometimes wish he had.”

That evening when I went downstairs, changed once more into the brown and silver caftan, I found Eliot in the drawing room, alone except for that inevitable companion, his dog. Eliot sat by the fire with a drink and the evening paper, and Rufus was stretched, like some glorious fur, on the hearthrug. They looked companionable, caught in the light of the lamp, but my appearance disturbed the peaceful scene, and Eliot stood up, dropping the paper behind him on the seat of the chair.

“Rebecca. How are you?”

“I'm all right.”

“I was afraid last night that you were going to be ill.”

“No. I was just tired. I slept till ten o'clock.”

“My mother told me. Would you like a drink?”

I said that I would and he poured me some sherry and I went to crouch by the fire and fondle the dog's silky ears.

As Eliot brought me my drink I asked, “Does he go everywhere with you?”

“Yes, everywhere. To the garage, to the office, out to lunch, into the pubs, anywhere I happen to be going. He's a very well-known dog in this part of the world.”

I sat on the hearthrug, and Eliot subsided once more into his chair and picked up his drink. He said, “Tomorrow I have to go over to Falmouth, see a man about a car. I wondered if you'd like to come with me, see a bit of the country. Does that appeal to you?”

I was surprised by my own pleasure at this invitation. “I'd love it.”

“It won't be very exciting. But perhaps you can amuse yourself for an hour or two while I'm doing business, and then we'll stop at a little pub I know on the way home. They serve delicious sea food. Do you like oysters?”

“Yes.”

“Good. So do I. And then we'll come home by High Cross, and you can see where we normally live, my mother and I.”

“Your mother told me about it. It sounds charming.”

“Better than this mausoleum…”

“Oh, Eliot, it's not a mausoleum…”

“I was never much of a one for Victorian relics…”

Before I could protest further, we were joined by Grenville. At least, we heard him coming, step by step downstairs; heard him talking to Pettifer, the high-pitched voice and the low growl; heard them coming down the hall, the tap of Grenville's stick on the polished wood.

Eliot made a small face at me and went to open the door, and Grenville moved in, like the prow of some great, indestructible ship …

“That's all right, Pettifer, I can manage now.” I had got up from the hearthrug, wanting to help push forward the chair which he had used the night before, but this seemed to madden him. He was obviously not in a good mood.

“For God's sake, girl, stop fussing around. Do you think I want to sit
in
the fire, I'll burn to death sitting there…”

I edged the chair back to its original position and finally Grenville reached it and sank into it.

“How about a drink?” Eliot asked him.

“I'll have a whisky…”

Eliot looked surprised … “Whisky?”

“Yes, a whisky. I know what that fool of a doctor said but tonight I'm having a whisky.”

Eliot said nothing, just nodded his head in patient acquiescence and went to pour the drink. As he did so Grenville leaned round the edge of the chair and said, “Eliot, have you seen that davenport desk around the place?” and my heart sank into my shoes.

“Oh, Grenville, don't start that again…”

“What do you mean, start that again? We've got to find the damned thing. I told Pettifer just now, got to go on looking till we've found it.”

Eliot came back with the glass of whisky. He drew up a table and set the glass within Grenville's reach.

“What davenport desk?” he asked patiently.

“Little davenport desk, used to be in one of the bedrooms. Belonged to Lisa, and now it belongs to Rebecca. She wants it. She's got a flat in London, wants to put it there. And Pettifer can't find it, says he's been through the house with a toothcomb, can't find it. You haven't seen it, have you?”

“I've never set eyes on it. I don't even know what a davenport desk is.”

“It's a little desk. Got drawers down the side. Bit of tooled leather on the top. They're rare now, I believe. Worth a lot of money.”

“Pettifer's probably put it somewhere and forgotten.”

“Pettifer doesn't forget things.”

“Well, perhaps Mrs Pettifer did something with it and forgot to tell him.”

“I've already
said;
he doesn't forget things.”

We were joined at this moment by Mollie, who appeared, smiling determinedly, as though she had heard the angry voice raised beyond the closed door, and was about to spread oil on troubled waters.

“Hallo, everybody, I'm afraid I'm a little late. I had to go and do some very exciting things to that delicious piece of halibut Rebecca bought for me this morning. Eliot, dear…” she kissed him, apparently seeing him for the first time that evening. “And Grenville—” she stooped to kiss him too—“you're looking more rested.” Then, before he could contradict her, she smiled across the top of his head at me. “Did you have a good afternoon?”

“Yes, thank you. How was the bridge?”

“Not too bad. I won twenty pence. Eliot darling, I'd love a drink. Andrea's just coming. She won't be a moment…” But she finally ran out of defensive small talk, and Grenville instantly opened fire. “We've lost something,” he told her.

“What have you lost? Your cuff-links again?”