The Day of the Storm

  “And I didn’t want to go. I … I wanted to come home. And I … left him. And he came after me. And … I tried to run, and I tripped on the p … pavement, and my shoe … c … came off. And then he c … caught me, and he be … began shouting at me … and I screamed and he hit me…”

  I looked at the faces around me, and the same horror and consternation, in varying degrees, was mirrored upon them. Only Grenville appeared coldly, deeply angry, but still he did not move, he did not say a word.

  “It’s all right,” Mollie said again, her voice shaking only a little. “Now, everything’s all right. Come along, upstairs.”

  Somehow Andrea, wilted and bedraggled, was eased off the sofa, but her legs would not hold her weight, and she started to collapse. It was Morris who, standing nearest to her, stepped forward and caught her before she fell, swinging her up, with surprising strength, into his puny arms.

  “There,” said Mollie, “Morris will carry you upstairs. You’ll be all right…” She moved towards the door. “If you’ll come this way, Morris.”

  “OK,” said Morris, who did not appear to have much option in the matter.

  I watched Andrea’s face. As Morris moved, her eyes opened and looked straight into mine, and our glances clashed and held. And I knew that she was lying. And she knew that I knew she was lying.

  Leaning her head against Morris’s chest, she began to cry again. Swiftly, she was borne from the room.

  We listened as Morris’s burdened footsteps went down the hall, started up the staircase. Then Eliot said, with masterly understatement, “An unsavoury business.” He glanced at Grenville. “Shall I ring the police now or later?”

  Grenville spoke at last. “Who said anything about ringing the police?”

  “You surely don’t intend to let him get away with it?”

  I said, “She was lying.”

  Both men looked at me in some surprise. Grenville’s eyes narrowed and he was at his most formidable. Eliot frowned. “What did you say?”

  “Some of her story may be true. Most of it probably is. But still, she was lying.”

  “How was she lying?”

  “Because as you said yourself, she was besotted with Joss. She wouldn’t leave him alone. She told me that she’d been often to his flat, and she must have been, because she described it to me and every detail was right. I don’t know what happened this evening. But I do know that if Joss wanted her to go back with him, she’d have gone like a shot. No arguments.”

  “Then how,” asked Eliot smoothly, “do you account for the bruise on her face?”

  “I don’t know. I said I don’t know about the rest of her story. But that bit, for sure, she made up.”

  Grenville moved. He had been standing for a long time. Slowly, he went to his chair and lowered himself carefully into it.

  “We can find out what really happened,” he said at last.

  “How?” Eliot’s question came out like the shot of a gun.

  Grenville swung his head around and fixed his gaze on Eliot.

  “We can ask Joss.”

  Eliot let out a sound, which in old-fashioned novels would have been written as “Pshaw.”

  “We shall ask him. And we will be given the truth.”

  “He doesn’t know what the truth means.”

  “You have no justification for making such a statement.”

  Eliot lost his temper. “Oh, for God’s sake, does the truth have to be thrown in your face before you recognize it?”

  “Don’t raise your voice to me.”

  Eliot was silent, staring in disbelief and disgust at the old man. When at last he spoke, it was in scarcely more than a whisper. “I’ve had enough of Joss Gardner. I’ve never trusted him nor liked him. I believe he’s a phoney, a thief and a liar, and I know that I’m right. And one day you too will know that I’m right. This is your house. I accept that. But what I will not accept is his right to take it over, and us with it, just because he happens to be…”

  I had to stop him. “Eliot!” He turned to look at me. It was as though he had forgotten I was there. “Eliot, please. Don’t say any more.”

  He looked down at his glass, finished the drink in a single mouthful. “All right,” he said at last. “For the moment, I won’t say any more.”

  And he went to pour himself another whisky. As he did this, with Grenville and I watching him in silence, Morris Tatcombe came back into the room.

  “I’ll be off then,” he said to the back of Eliot’s head.

  Eliot turned and saw him. “Is she all right?”

  “Well, she’s upstairs. Your mother’s with her.”

  “Have another drink before you go.”

  “No, I’d better be off.”

  “We really can’t thank you enough. What would have happened if you hadn’t seen her…” He stopped, the unfinished sentence conjuring up visions of Andrea dying of exposure, exhaustion, loss of blood.

  “Just lucky I did.” He backed away, obviously anxious to be off, but not quite sure how to get there. Eliot put the stopper into the decanter, left his freshly filled glass on the table and came to his rescue.

  “I’ll see you to the door.”

  Morris ducked his head in the general direction of Grenville and myself.

  “Night, all.”

  But Grenville had hauled himself to his feet with massive dignity. “You’ve handled things very sensibly, Mr Tatcombe. We’re grateful to you. And we would be grateful, too, if you would keep the girl’s version of what happened to yourself. At least until it has been authenticated.”

  Morris looked sceptical. “These things get around.”

  “But not, I am sure, through you.”

  Morris shrugged. “It’s your affair.”

  “Exactly. Our affair. Good night, Mr Tatcombe.”

  Eliot led him away.

  Grenville laboriously settled himself once more in his chair. He passed a hand over his eyes, and it occurred to me that such scenes could not be good for him.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes. I’m all right.”

  I wished that I could confide in him, tell him that I knew about Sophia, and Joss being her grandson. But I knew that if there were any telling to be done, it had to come from him.

  “Would you like a drink?”

  “No.”

  So I left him alone, busying myself in tidying the cushions on the flattened sofa.

  It was some time before Eliot re-appeared, but when he did he seemed quite cheerful again, the sudden row which had flared between him and Grenville now quite forgotten. He went to pick up his drink. “Good health,” he said, raising his glass to his grandfather.

  “I suppose we’re in debt to that young man,” said Grenville. “I hope one day we’ll be able to settle it.”

  “I shouldn’t worry too much about Morris,” Eliot replied lightly. “I should think he’s quite capable of settling it for himself. And Pettifer has asked me to tell you both that dinner is ready.”

  We ate alone, the three of us. Mollie stayed with Andrea, and in the middle of dinner the doctor arrived and was taken upstairs by Pettifer. Later, we heard him talking to Mollie in the hall, then she showed him out and came into the dining room to tell us what he had said.

  “Shock, of course. He’s given her a sedative, and she has to stay in bed for a day or two.”

  Eliot had gone to pull out a chair for her, and she sank into this looking exhausted and shaken. “Imagine such a thing happening. How I’m going to tell her mother, I can’t think.”

  “Don’t think about it,” said Eliot, “till tomorrow.”

  “But it was such an appalling story. She’s only a child. She’s only seventeen. What could Joss have been thinking of? He must have gone out of his mind.”

  “He was probably drunk,” said Eliot.

  “Yes, perhaps he was. Drunk and violent.”

  Neither Grenville nor I said anything. It was as though we had entered into some sort of an u
nspoken conspiracy, but this did not mean that I had forgiven Joss, nor condoned anything that he had done. Later, probably, when he had been interrogated by Grenville, the whole truth would come out. By then I would probably be back in London.

  And if I was still here … Slowly, I ate a little bunch of grapes. This could be my last dinner at Boscarva, but I truly did not know whether I wanted it to be or not. I had reached a cross-roads, and had no idea which was the way I should take. But soon I was going to have to make up my mind.

  A compromise, Eliot had said, and it had sounded tepid. But after the histrionics of this evening, the very words had a solid ring to them, sensible and matter-of-fact, with their feet planted squarely on the ground.

  You were made for a man and a home and children.

  I reached for my wine glass and, glancing up, saw that Eliot watched me across the polished table. He smiled, as though we were conspirators. The expression on his face was both confident and triumphant. Perhaps, while I was thinking that I would probably end up by marrying him, he already knew that I would.

  We were back in the drawing room, sitting around the fire and finishing our coffee, when the telephone started to ring. I thought that Eliot would go to answer it, but he was deep in a chair with the paper and a drink, and managed to linger so long that it was Pettifer who finally took the call. We heard the kitchen door open and his old feet go so slowly across the hall. The ringing stopped. For some reason I glanced up at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was nearly a quarter to ten.

  We waited. Presently the door opened and Pettifer’s head came around the edge of it, his spectacles glinting in the lamplight.

  “Who is it, Pettifer?” asked Mollie.

  “It’s for Rebecca,” said Pettifer.

  I was surprised. “For me?”

  Eliot said, “Who’s ringing you at this hour of the day?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  I got up and went out of the room. Perhaps it was Maggie, wanting to tell me something about the flat. Perhaps it was Stephen Forbes, wondering when I was going to return to work. I felt guilty, because I should have been in touch with him, letting him know what I was doing and when I planned to go back to London.

  I sat on the hall chest and picked up the receiver.

  “Hallo?”

  A small, mouse-like voice began speaking, sounding very far away.

  “Oh, Miss Bayliss, we were passing, and he was lying there … my husband said … so we got him up the stairs and into the flat … don’t know what happened. Covered in blood and he could hardly talk. Wanted to call the doctor … but he wouldn’t let us … frightened leaving him there on his own … there ought to be somebody there … said he’d be all right…”

  I must have been exceptionally slow and stupid, but it took me a little time to realize that this was Mrs Kernow, calling me from the phone box at the end of Fish Lane, to tell me that something had happened to Joss.

  12

  I was amazed and gratified to find myself in a state of almost total calm. It was as though I had already been prepared for this crisis, been given my orders and told what to do. There were no doubts and so no indecision. I must go to Joss. It was as simple as that.

  I went up to my bedroom and got my coat, put it on, did up the buttons, came downstairs again. The key of Mollie’s car lay where I had left it, on the brass tray in the middle of the table in the hall.

  I picked it up, and as I did so the drawing room door opened and Eliot came up the passage towards me. It never occurred to me that he would try to stop me going. It never occurred to me that anyone or anything could stop me going.

  He saw me, bundled into my old leather coat. “Where are you off to?”

  “Out.”

  “Who was that on the telephone?”

  “Mrs. Kernow.”

  “What does she want?”

  “Joss has been hurt. She and Mr Kernow were walking home along the harbour road, they’d been visiting her sister. They found him.”

  “So?” His voice was cold and very quiet. I expected to be intimidated, but I was not.

  “I’m going to borrow your mother’s car. I’m going to him.”

  His thin face hardened, the skin drawn tight over the jutting bones.

  “Have you gone out of your mind?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  He said nothing. I slipped the key into my pocket and made for the door, but Eliot was faster than I, and in two strides was in front of me, standing with his back to the door and with his hand on the latch.

  “You’re not going,” he said pleasantly. “You don’t really think I’d let you go?”

  “He’s been hurt, Eliot.”

  “So what? You saw what he did to Andrea. He’s rotten, Rebecca. You know he’s rotten. His grandmother was an Irish whore, God knows who his father was, and he’s a womanizing bastard.”

  The ugly words, which were meant to shock me, slid off my back like water from a duck. Eliot saw this and my unconcern infuriated him.

  “Why do you want to go to him? What good could you do? He won’t thank you for interfering, if it’s thanks you’re looking for. Leave him alone, he has no part of your life, he’s none of your concern.”

  I stood watching him, hearing him, without making sense of anything he said. But I knew, all at once, that it was over, the uncertainty and the indecision, and I felt light with relief, as though a great weight had been lifted from my shoulders. I still stood at the crossroads. My life was still a confusion. But one thing had made itself abundantly clear. I could never marry Eliot.

  A compromise, he had said. But, for me, it would have been a poor bargain. All right, he was weak, and probably not the most successful of businessmen. I had recognized these flaws in his character and had been prepared to accept them. But the welcome he had shown me, the hospitality, and the charm which he could turn on and off like a tap, had blinded me to his vindictiveness and the frightening strength of his jealousy.

  I said, “Let me go, Eliot.”

  “Supposing I say that I won’t let you go? Supposing I keep you here?” He put his hands on either side of my head, pressing so tightly that it felt as though my skull would crack open, like a nut. “Supposing, now, that I said I loved you?”

  I was sickened by him. “You don’t love anyone. Only Eliot Bayliss. There’s no room for anyone else in your life.”

  “I thought we decided that it was you who didn’t know how to love.”

  His grip tightened. My head began to pound and I closed my eyes, enduring the pain.

  “When I do—” I told him through clenched teeth—“it won’t be you.”

  “All right then, go…” He let me loose so suddenly that I nearly lost my balance. Savagely he turned the handle and flung the door open, and instantly the wind poured in, like some monstrous creature that had been waiting all evening to invade the house. Outside was the dark and the rain. Without another word, not stopping to look at Eliot, I ran past him and out into it, as though to some sanctuary.

  I had still to get to the garage, to struggle with doors in the darkness, to find Mollie’s little car. I was convinced that Eliot was just behind me, as frightening as an imagined bogy man, waiting to jump, to catch me, to stop me from getting away. I slammed the car door shut, and my hand shook so much I could scarcely get the ignition key fitted. The first time I turned it, the engine did not start. I heard myself whimpering as I pulled out the choke and tried again. This time the engine caught. I put the car into gear and shot forward, through the darkness and the rain, up the puddled driveway with a great spattering of gravel, and so at last out and on to the road.

  Driving, I regained some of my previous calm. I had eluded Eliot, I was going to Joss. I must drive with care and good sense, not allow myself to panic, not risk a skid or a possible collision. I slowed down to a cautious thirty miles per hour. I deliberately loosened my death-like clutch on the driving wheel. The road ran downhill, black and wet with rain. The lights of Port
hkerris came up towards me. I was going to Joss.

  Now, the tide was at full ebb. As I came out on to the harbour road, I saw the lights reflected in wet sand, the boats drawn up out of the reach of the storm. Overhead tattered scraps of cloud still poured across the sky. There were people about, but not very many.

  The shop was in darkness. Only a single light glowed from the top window. I parked the car by the pavement and got out and went to the door and it opened. I smelt the new wood, my feet brushed through the shavings which still lay about the place. From the light of the street lamp outside I could see the staircase. I went up it, cautiously, to the first floor.

  I called up, “Joss!”

  There was no reply. I went on, up into the soft light. There was no fire and it was very cold. A squall of rain swept the roof above me.

  “Joss.”

  He was lying on his bed, roughly covered by a blanket. His forearm lay across his eyes, as though to shut out some unbearable light. When I spoke he lowered this, and raised his head slightly to see who it was. Then he dropped back on to the pillow.

  “Good God,” I heard him say. “Rebecca.”

  I went to his side. “Yes, it’s me.”

  “I thought I heard your voice. I thought I was dreaming.”

  “I called up, but you didn’t reply.”

  His face was in a terrible mess, the left side bruised and swollen, the eye half-closed. Blood had trickled and dried from a cut in his lip, and there did not seem to be any skin on the knuckles of his right hand.

  “What are you doing here?” He spoke muzzily, perhaps because of the lip.

  “Mrs Kernow rang me.”

  “I told her not to say anything.”

  “She was worried about you. Joss, what happened?”

  “I fell amongst thieves.”

  “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

  “Yes, everywhere else.”

  “Let me see…”

  “The Kernows bandaged me up.”

  But I stooped over him, gently drawing back the blanket. As far as his rib-cage he was naked and below this tenderly swathed in what looked like strips torn from an old sheet. But the ugly bruising had spread up and on to his chest, and on his right side the red stain of blood had started to seep through the white cotton.