The Day of the Storm

  “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 Pettif
er 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?”

  “We have lost a davenport desk.”

  It was becoming ludicrous.

  “You’ve lost a davenport desk?”

  For her benefit, Grenville went through the whole rigmarole. On being told that it was I who had precipitated this crisis, Mollie looked at me with some reproach, as though she thought this a poor way to return her hospitality and kindness. I was inclined to agree with her.

  “But it must be somewhere.” She took her glass from Eliot, drew up a stool and sat, all ready to work the whole thing out. “It must have been put somewhere for safety.”

  “Pettifer has looked for it.”

  “Perhaps he hasn’t seen it. I’m sure he should get his glasses changed. Perhaps it’s been put somewhere and he’s forgotten.”

  Grenville thumped the arm of his chair with a balled fist. “Pettifer does not forget things.”

  “In fact—” said Eliot coolly—“he forgets things all the time.”

  Grenville glared at him. “And what does that mean?”

  “Nothing personal. Just that he’s getting older.”

  “I suppose you’re blaming Pettifer…”

  “I’m not blaming anybody…”

  “You just said he’s too old to know what he’s doing. If he’s too old what the hell do you think I am?”

  “I never said that…”

  “You blamed him…”

  Eliot lost his patience. “If I was going to blame anybody,” he said, raising his voice almost to the pitch of Grenville’s, “I’d ask a few questions of young Joss Gardner.” There was a pause after he’d come out with this. And then, in a more controlled, reasonable voice, he went on. “All right, so nobody wants to accuse another man of stealing. But Joss is in and out of this house all the time, in and out of all the rooms. He knows what’s in this place better than anybody. And he’s an expert, he knows what it’s worth.”

  “But why should Joss take a desk?” asked Mollie.

  “A valuable desk. Don’t forget that. It’s rare and it’s valuable, Grenville just said so. Perhaps he needed the money. To look at him he could do with a bit of extra cash. And he’s an expert. He’s up and down to London all the time. He’d know where to sell it.”

  He stopped, abruptly, as though realizing that already he had said too much. He finished his whisky, and went, without speaking, to pour himself a second glass.

  The silence became uncomfortable. To break it, Mollie said, briefly, “I don’t think that Joss…”

  “Just a lot of poppycock,” Grenville interrupted her savagely.

  Eliot set down the whisky bottle with a thump. “How do you know? How do you know anything about Joss Gardner? He turns up, like a hippy, out of nowhere, says he’s going to open a shop, and the next thing you’ve opened up the house to him and given him the job of patching up all the furniture. What do you know about Joss? What do any of us know about him?”

  “I know that I can trust him. I was trained to judge a man’s character…”

  “You could be wrong…”

  Grenville raised his voice and rode over Eliot’s, “… and it would be no bad thing if you were to take a few lessons in choosing your companions.”

  Eliot’s eyes narrowed. “What does that mean?”

  “It means that if you want to be made a fool of, try doing business with that little shyster Ernest Padlow.”

  If I could have escaped at that moment, I would. But I was caught, jammed into the corner behind Grenville’s chair.

  “What do you know about Ernest Padlow?”

  “I know you’ve been seen around with him … drinking in bars…”

  Eliot shot a glance at me, and then said, under his breath, “That bastard Joss Gardner.”

  “It wasn’t Joss who told me, it was Hargreaves, at the bank. He came up for a glass of sherry the other day. And Mrs Thomas came in to do my fire this morning, she’d seen you with Padlow, up at that gimcrack nightmare he calls a housing estate.”

  “Back-stairs gossip.”

  “You hear the truth from truthful people. It doesn’t matter in which direction they live. And if you think I’m selling up my land to that jumped-up little beachsweeper, you’re wrong…”

  “It won’t always be your land.”

  “And if you’re so sure it will be yours, all I can say is, don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched. Because you, dear boy, are not my only grandchild.”

  And at this dramatic moment, like a nicely stage-managed play, the door opened and Andrea appeared to tell us that Pettifer had told her to tell us that dinner was ready.

  8

  It was hard to sleep that night. I tossed and turned, fetched a glass of water, paced the floor, looked out of the window, climbed back into bed and tried once more to compose myself, but always, when I closed my eyes, the evening came back to me like a film played over and over, voices drummed in my ears, and would not be stilled.

  All right, so nobody wants to accuse another man of stealing. What do any of us know about Joss?

  If you want to be made a fool of, try doing business with that little shyster Ernest Padlow. And if you think I’m selling my land to that jumped-up little beachsweeper, you’re wrong …

  It won’t always be your land …

  … you, dear boy, are not my only grandchild.

  Dinner had been a gruesome meal. Eliot and Grenville had scarcely spoken a word from beginning to end. Mollie, to make up for their silence, had kept up a patter of meaningless conversation to which I had tried to respond. And Andrea had watched us all, a gleam of triumph in her round, seeking eyes, while Pettifer trod heavily to and fro, removing dishes, handing round a lemon soufflé rich with whipped cream, which nobody seemed to want.

  When at last it was over, they had all dispersed. Grenville to his bedroom, Andrea to the morning room from whence we presently heard the blare of the television set. Eliot, with no explanations, put on a coat, whistled up his dog and banged out of the front door. I guessed he had gone to get drunk and didn’t entirely blame him. Mollie and I ended up in the drawing room, one on either side of the fire. She had some tapestry and seemed quite prepared to sit and sew in silence, but this would have been unbearable. I said, plunging straight in with the apology which I felt I owed her, “I am sorry about this evening. I wish I’d never mentioned that desk.”

  She did not look at me. “Oh, it can’t be helped.”

  “It was just that my mother had mentioned it to me, and when Grenville spoke about the jade and the mirror, well, it never occurred to me that I’d start such a storm in a tea-cup.”

  “Grenville’s a strange old man. He’s always been stubborn about people, he’ll never see that there can be two sides to every situation.”

  “You mean about Joss…”

  “I don’t know why he’s so taken with Joss. It’s frightening. It’s as though Joss were able to exert some hold ove
r him. Eliot and I never wanted him in and out of the house this way. If Grenville’s furniture needed to be repaired, surely he could have come and fetched it in his van and taken it down to his workshop, like any other tradesman would do. We tried to talk Grenville out of it, but he was adamant, and, after all, this is his house. It isn’t ours.”

  “But it will be Eliot’s one day.”

  She sent me a cold look.

  “After this evening, one wonders.”

  “Oh, Mollie, I don’t want Boscarva, Grenville would never leave a place like this to me. He just said that to win a point; perhaps it was the first thing that came into his head. He didn’t mean it.”

  “He hurt Eliot.”

  “Eliot will understand. You have to make allowances for old people.”

  “I’m tired of making allowances for Grenville,” said Mollie, viciously snapping at a strand of wool with her silver scissors. “My life has been disrupted by Grenville. He and Pettifer could have come and lived at High Cross; that’s what we wanted. The house is smaller and more convenient and it would have been better for everybody. And Boscarva should have been made over to Eliot years ago. As it is, death duties are going to be exorbitant. Eliot is never going to be able to afford to keep it going. The whole situation is so unrealistic.”

  “I suppose it’s hard to be realistic when you’re eighty and you’ve lived in a place most of your life.”

  She ignored this. “And all that land, and the farm. Eliot is simply trying to make the best of it all, but Grenville won’t see that. He’s never shown any interest, never encouraged Eliot in any way. Even the garage at High Cross, Eliot got that going entirely on his own. At the beginning, he asked his grandfather to help, but Grenville said he wasn’t going to have anything to do with second-hand cars, and there was a row, and finally Eliot borrowed the money from someone else, and he’s never asked his grandfather for a shilling since that day. You’d think he’d deserve some credit for that.”

  She was pale with anger on Eliot’s account—a little tigress, I thought, fighting for her cub, and I remembered my mother’s low opinion of the way in which she had possessed and molly-coddled the young Eliot. Perhaps neither of them had ever grown out of the habit.