The Day of the Storm

  To change the subject I told her about Eliot’s invitation for the next day. “He said he’d take me into High Cross on the way home.”

  But Mollie was only momentarily diverted. “You must go in and see the house, Eliot’s got the key. I go up most weeks to make sure everything’s all right, but really I get so depressed having to leave my darling little house and come back to this gloomy place…” and then she laughed at herself wryly. “It’s getting me down, isn’t it? I must try to pull myself together. But really I’ll be glad when it’s all over.”

  When it’s all over. That meant when Grenville finally died. I didn’t want to think about him dying any more than I wanted to think about Joss coupled with the unsavoury Andrea; any more than I wanted to think about Joss helping himself to a davenport desk and a Chippendale chair, heaving them into the back of his little truck, and selling them to the first dealer who made him a good offer.

  What do you know about Joss? What do any of us know about him?

  For my part I wished I knew nothing. I turned in bed, thumped at the pillows, and waited, without much hope, for sleep.

  It rained in the night, but the next morning it was still and clear, the sky a pale, washed blue, everything wet and shining, translucent in the cool spring light. I leaned out of the window and smelt the dampness, mossy and sweet. The sea was flat and blue as a sheet of silk, gulls drifted lazily over the rim of the cliff, a boat moved out from the harbour, heading for distant fishing-grounds, and so still was the air that I could hear the distant chug of its engine.

  My spirits rose. Yesterday was over, today would be better. I was glad to be getting out of the house, away from Mollie’s reproach and Andrea’s unsettling presence. I bathed and dressed and went downstairs and found Eliot in the dining room, eating bacon and eggs, and looking—I was thankful to see—cheerful.

  He looked up from the morning paper. “I wondered,” he said, “if I was going to have to come and wake you up. I thought perhaps you’d forgotten.”

  “No, I didn’t forget.”

  “We’re the first down. With any luck we’ll be out of the house before anyone else appears.” He grinned, ruefully, like a repentant boy. “The last thing I want on a beautiful morning like this is recriminations.”

  “It was all my fault, mentioning that stupid desk. I said I was sorry last night to your mother.”

  “It’ll all blow over,” said Eliot. “These little differences of opinion always do.” I poured myself a cup of coffee. “I’m just sorry that you were involved.”

  We left straight after breakfast, and there was a marvellous feeling of relief to be in his car, with Rufus perched on the back seat, and to be escaping. The car roared up the hill away from Boscarva; the wet road was blue with reflected sky, and the air smelt of primroses. As we climbed up and over the moor, the view spread and dipped before us—there were hills topped by ancient cairns and standing stones, and tiny forgotten villages, tucked into the folds of unexpected valleys where little rivers ran, and ancient clumps of oak and elm stood clustered by narrow, hump-backed bridges.

  But I knew that we could not enjoy our day together, that we could not be entirely at ease, until I had made my peace with him.

  I said, “I know that it’ll blow over, and that perhaps it wasn’t important, but we have to talk about last night.”

  He smiled at me, glancing sideways. “What do we have to say?”

  “Just that, what Grenville said about having another grandchild. He didn’t mean it. I know he didn’t mean it.”

  “No, perhaps he didn’t. Perhaps he was just trying to set us against each other, like a pair of dogs.”

  “He’d never leave me Boscarva. Never in a thousand years. He doesn’t even know me, I’ve only just come into his life.”

  “Rebecca, don’t give it another thought. I’m not going to.”

  “And, after all, if it is going to be yours one day, I don’t see why you shouldn’t start thinking about what you’re going to do with it.”

  “You mean Ernest Padlow? What a lot of gossips those old people are, carrying tales and making mischief. If it isn’t the bank manager it’s Mrs Thomas, and if it isn’t Mrs Thomas it’s Pettifer.”

  I made myself sound casual. “Would you sell the land?”

  “If I did, I could probably afford to live at Boscarva. It’s time I set up on my own.”

  “But—” I chose my words tactfully—“but wouldn’t it be rather … spoiled … I mean, living there with rows of Mr Padlow’s little houses all round you?”

  Eliot laughed. “You’ve got entirely the wrong end of the stick. This wouldn’t be a building estate like the one at the top of the hill. This would be high-class stuff, two acre lots, very high specifications as to the style and the price of the houses built on them. No cutting down of trees, no despoiling of the amenities. They’d be expensive houses for expensive people, and there wouldn’t be a lot of them. How does that sound to you?”

  “Have you told Grenville this?”

  “He won’t let me. He won’t listen. He’s not interested and that’s it.”

  “But surely if you explained…”

  “I’ve been trying to explain things to him all my life and I’ve never got anywhere. And now, is there anything else you want to discuss?”

  I considered. I certainly didn’t want to discuss Joss. I said, “No.”

  “In that case shall we forget about last night and enjoy ourselves?”

  It seemed a good idea. We smiled at each other. “All right,” I said at last. We crossed a bridge and came to a steep hill, and Eliot changed down, expertly, with the old-fashioned gear stick. The car poured up the savage slope, its long, elegant bonnet seeming to point straight to the sky.

  We got to Falmouth about ten o’clock. While Eliot attended to his business I was turned loose to explore the little town. Facing south, sheltered from the north wind, with gardens already filled with camellias and scented daphne bushes, it made me think of some Mediterranean port, and this illusion was strengthened by the blue of the sea on that first warm spring day, and the tall masts of the yachts which lay at anchor in the basin.

  I felt, for some reason, impelled to shop. I bought freesias for Mollie, tightly in bud with their stalks wrapped in damp moss so that they would not wither before I got home, a box of cigars for Grenville, a bottle of fruity sherry for Pettifer, a record for Andrea. The sleeve portrayed a transvestite group with sequined eyelids. It seemed to me to be right up her street. And for Eliot … I had noticed that his watch strap was wearing thin. I found a narrow strap in dark crocodile, very expensive, exactly right for Eliot. Then I bought a tube of toothpaste for myself, because I needed one. And for Joss…? Nothing for Joss.

  Eliot picked me up, as we had arranged, in the lounge of the big hotel in the middle of town. We drove very fast out of the town and through Truro, and down into the little maze of lanes and wooded creeks that lay beyond until we came to a village called St Endon, where there were white cottages, palm trees and gardens full of flowers. The road wound down towards the creek, and at the very bottom was a little pub, right on the water’s edge, with the high tide lapping at the wall below the terrace. Kittiwakes perched along the top of it, their eyes bright and friendly, unlike the greedy, wild gulls of Boscarva.

  We sat out in the sunshine, drinking sherry, and I gave Eliot his present, then and there; he seemed inordinately delighted, ripping off the old watch strap right away and fitting on the new, shining leather one, adjusting the little clips with the blade of his penknife.

  “What made you think of giving me that?”

  “I noticed your old one was worn. I thought perhaps that you might lose your watch.”

  He leaned back in his chair, watching me across the table. It was so warm that I had pulled off my sweater and rolled up the sleeves of my cotton shirt. He said, “Did you buy presents for everybody?”

  I was embarrassed. “Yes.”

  “I thought you had a lot of
parcels. Do you always buy presents for people?”

  “It’s nice to have people to buy presents for.”

  “Isn’t there anyone in London?”

  “Not really.”

  “No one special?”

  “There’s never been anyone special.”

  “I can’t believe it.”

  “It’s true.” I could not think why I was confiding in him this way. Perhaps it had something to do with the warmth of the day, surprising me by its beneficence, lowering all my guards. Perhaps it was the sherry. Perhaps it was simply the intimacy of two people who had weathered such a storm as the row that had taken place last night. Whatever the reason, it was easy that day to talk to Eliot.

  “Why is that?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. It may have something to do with the way I was brought up … my mother lived with one man after another, so I lived with them too. And there’s nothing like living at close quarters with people to destroy that marvellous illusion of romance.”

  We laughed. “That could be a good thing,” said Eliot. “But it could be a bad thing, too. You mustn’t close up altogether. Otherwise nobody’s ever going to get near you.”

  “I’m all right.”

  “Are you going back to London?”

  “Yes.”

  “Soon?”

  “Probably.”

  “Why not stay for a bit?”

  “I don’t want to wear out my welcome.”

  “You won’t do that. And I’ve hardly spoken to you. Anyway, how can you go back to London and leave all this behind you…?” His gesture included the sky, the sun, the quiet, the lap of water, the promise of the coming spring.

  “I can, because I have to. I’ve a job to get back to and a flat that needs painting, and a life to pick up and start all over again.”

  “Can’t that wait?”

  “Not indefinitely.”

  “There’s no reason to go.” I did not reply. “Unless,” he went on, “you were put off by what happened last night.” I smiled and shook my head, because we had promised not to mention that again. He leaned on the table, his chin on his fist. “If you really wanted a job you could get one here. If you wanted a flat of your own you could rent that too.”

  “Why should I stay?” But I was flattered at being so persuaded.

  “Because it would be good for Grenville, and for Mollie, and for me. Because I think we all want you to stay. Particularly me.”

  “Oh, Eliot…”

  “It’s true. There’s something very serene about you. Did you know that? I noticed it that first evening I saw you before I even knew who you were. And I like the shape of your nose, and the sound of your laugh, and the way you can look marvellously ragamuffin one minute, in jeans and with your hair coming all unravelled, and then, the next minute, like a princess in a fairy story, with your plait over your shoulder and that stately gown you wear in the evenings. I feel as though I’m finding out new things about you every day. And this is why I don’t want you to go. Not just yet.”

  I found that I could think of no rejoinder to this long speech. I was touched by it, and embarrassed too. But still, it was gratifying to be liked and admired, and even more gratifying to be told so.

  Across the table, he began to laugh at me. “Your face is a picture. You don’t know where to look and you’re blushing. Come along, finish your drink and we’ll go and eat oysters—I promise I’ll not pay you any more compliments!”

  We lingered over lunch in the small, low-ceilinged dining room, eating at a table which wobbled so much on the uneven floor that Eliot was forced to prop up one of the legs with a scrap of folded paper. We ate oysters and steak and a fresh green salad and drank our way through a bottle of wine. We took our coffee back into the sunshine, and sat on the edge of the terrace wall, watching two boys, sunburned and barelegged, rig up a dinghy and take her sailing out on to the blue waters of the creek. We saw the striped sail fill with some mysterious, unfelt breeze, as the dinghy heeled and went away from us, around the tip of a wooded promontory. And Eliot said that if I stayed in Cornwall, he would borrow a boat and teach me to sail; we would go mackerel fishing from Porthkerris—in the summer he would show me all the tiny coves and secret places which the tourists never found.

  At last it was time to go, and the afternoon wound itself in like a long, shining ribbon. Sleepy and replete he drove me slowly back to High Cross, taking the long road that led through forgotten villages and the heart of the country.

  When we got to High Cross, I realized that it stood at the very summit of the peninsula, so that the village had two aspects, one north to the Atlantic, the other south to the Channel; it was like being on an island, swept with clean winds and ringed by the sea. Eliot’s garage stood in the middle of the village street, a little back from the road, with a cobbled forecourt set about with tubs of flowers, and inside the glass-fronted showroom stood the gleaming, racy cars. Everything was very new and expensive looking and immaculately kept. I wondered, as we crossed the forecourt towards the showrooms, how much Eliot had had to sink into such a venture, and why he had decided that it was a viable proposition to open such a specialized garage in this out-of-the-way spot.

  He pulled one of the sliding glass doors aside and I went in, my feet making no sound on the highly polished rubber floors.

  “Why did you decide to start your garage here, Eliot? Wouldn’t it have been better in Fourbourne or Falmouth or Penzance?”

  “Psychological selling, my dear. Get a good name for yourself and people will come from the ends of the earth to buy what you’ve got to sell.” And he added with disarming candour, “Besides, I already owned the land, or at least my mother did, which was an excellent incentive to build the garage here.”

  “Are all these cars for sale?”

  “Yes. As you can see we concentrate on continental and sports cars. We had a Ferrari in last week, but that was sold a couple of days ago. It had been crashed, but I’ve got this young mechanic working for me, and by the time he’d finished with it it was as good as new…”

  I laid my hand on the gleaming yellow bonnet. “What’s this?”

  “A Lancia Zagato. And this is an Alfa Romeo Spyder, only two years old. Beautiful car.”

  “And a Jensen Interceptor…” That was one that I recognized.

  “Come and see the workshop.” I followed him through another sliding door at the back of the showroom and decided that this was more like my idea of a garage. Here was the usual clutter of dismantled engines, oil cans, long flexes trailing from the ceiling, naked bulbs, tool benches, old tyres and trolleys.

  In the middle of all this a figure was stooped over the stripped-down engine of a skeletal car. He wore a welding mask which made him appear monstrous, and worked with the roaring blue flame of a welding gun. The noise of the gun was overlaid by non-stop blaring music from a surprisingly small transistor radio perched on a beam above him.

  Whether or not he saw us coming was anybody’s guess, but it was only when Eliot switched off the radio that he shut off his gun and straightened up, pushing the welding mask up and back off his face. I saw a thin, dark young man, oil-stained and in need of a shave, his hair long, his eyes sharp and bright.

  “Hallo, Morris,” said Eliot.

  “Hallo.”

  “This is Rebecca Bayliss, she’s staying at Boscarva.”

  Reaching for a cigarette, Morris looked my way and gave me a nod. I said, “Hallo,” just to be friendly, but got no more response. He lit his cigarette, then slipped the fancy lighter back into the pocket of his oily overalls.

  “Thought you’d be coming in this morning,” he told Eliot.

  “I told you I was going over to Falmouth.”

  “Any luck?”

  “A 1933 Bentley.”

  “What sort of condition?”

  “Looked OK. A bit of rust.”

  “Get the old paint spray out. There was a chap in the other day, wanting one of them.”

  “I
know, that’s why I bought it. Thought we’d take the transporter over, tomorrow or the next day, pick her up.”

  They fell silent. Morris went to his transistor and turned it on again, if anything louder than before. I looked down at the confusion of engineering on which he had been working and finally asked Eliot what sort of a car it had originally been.

  “A 1971 Jaguar XJ6 4.2 litre, if you really want to know. And it will be again when Morris has finished with it. This is another that was in a crash.”

  Morris came back to stand between us.

  “What exactly are you doing to it?” I asked him.

  “Straightening out the chassis, fixing the wheel alignment.”

  “What about the brake shoes?” said Eliot.

  “It could have done with new brake shoes, but I fixed the old ones to cover us for the guarantee … and Mr Kemback rang up from Birmingham…”

  They began to talk shop. I drifted away, deafened by the sound of rock, went back through the showroom and out into the forecourt where Rufus waited, with dignity and patience, behind the driving wheel of Eliot’s car. Together we sat there until we were rejoined by Eliot. “Sorry about that, Rebecca; I wanted to check on another job. Morris is a good mechanic, but he gets shirty if he’s expected to answer the telephone as well.”

  “Who’s Mr Kemback? Another customer?”

  “No, not exactly. He was down here last summer on holiday. He runs a motel, a garage, just off the M6. He’s got quite a selection of old cars. Wants to start a museum, you know, a sort of sideline to the bacon-and-egg trade. He seems to want me to run it for him.”

  “You mean go and live in Birmingham?”

  “Doesn’t sound very tempting, does it? Anyway, that’s it. Let’s go and look at my mother’s house.”

  We walked there, just a little way down the street, then up a short lane and through a double white gate, and the path sloped up to a long, low white house, which had been converted from two ancient thick-walled stone cottages. Eliot took a key out of his pocket and opened the door and inside it was cold, but not musty or damp. It was furnished like an expensive London flat, with pale, thick, fitted carpets and pale walls and sofas upholstered in mushroom-coloured brocade. There were a great many mirrors and little crystal bag chandeliers hanging from the low-beamed ceilings.