“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 an
d 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…”
“Yes, I know…”
“And after Mrs Pettifer passed on, there wasn’t anyone to do the cooking. Mind, I can cook all right, but it takes me a good part of my time taking care of the Commander, and I wouldn’t want to see him going about the place looking shabby.”
“No, of course not…”
I was interrupted by the slam of a door.
A hearty male voice called, “Pettifer!” and Pettifer said, “Excuse me a moment, miss,” and went out to investigate, leaving the door open behind him.
“Pettifer!”
I heard Pettifer say, with what sounded like the greatest satisfaction, “Hallo, Joss.”
“Is she there?”
“Who, here?”
“Rebecca.”
“Yes, she’s right here, in the sitting-room … I was just going to get her a cup of coffee.”
“Make it two would you, there’s a good chap. And black and strong for me.”
His footsteps came down the hall, and the next moment he was there, framed in the doorway, long-legged, black-haired, and—it was obvious—angry.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.
I could feel my hackles rising, like a suspicious dog. Home, Eliot had said. This was Boscarva, my home, and whether I was here or not was nothing to do with Joss.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I went to pick you up and Mrs Kernow told me you’d already left.”
“So?”
“I told you to wait for me.”
“I decided not to wait.”
He was silent, fuming, but finally appeared to accept this inescapable fact.
“Does anyone know you’ve arrived?”
“I met Eliot at the gate. He brought me here.”
“Where’s he gone?”
“To find his mother.”
“Have you seen anyone else? Have you seen Grenville?”
“No.”
“Has anyone told Grenville about your mother?”
“A letter came by this morning’s post, from Otto Pedersen. But I don’t think he’s seen it yet.”
“Pettifer must take it to him. Pettifer must be there when he reads it.”
“Pettifer didn’t seem to think that.”
“I think it,” said Joss.
His apparently outrageous interference left me without words, but as we stood glaring at each other across the pretty patterned carpet and a great bowl of scented narcissus, there came the sound of voices and footsteps down the uncarpeted staircase and along the hall towards us.
I heard a woman’s voice say, “In the sitting-room, Eliot?”
Joss muttered something that sounded unprintable, and marched over to the fireplace where he stood with his back to me, staring down into the flames. The next instant, Mollie appeared in the doorway, hesitated for a moment and then came towards me, hands outstretched.
“Rebecca.” (So it was to be a warm welcome.) Eliot, following behind her, closed the door. Joss did not even turn round.
I worked it out that by now Mollie must be over fifty, but this was hard to believe. She was plump and pretty, her fading blonde hair charmingly coiffed, her eyes blue, her skin fresh and lightly scattered with freckles which helped to create this astonishing illusion of youth. She wore a blue skirt and cardigan and a creamy silk blouse; her legs were slim and shapely and her hands beautifully manicured, decorated with pale pink fingernails, and many rings and fine gold bracelets. Scented, immaculately preserved, she made me think of a charming little tabby cat, curled precisely in the centre of her own satin cushion.
I said, “I’m afraid this is something of a shock.”
“No, not a shock, but a surprise. And your mother … I’m so dreadfully sorry. Eliot’s told me about the letter…”
At this Joss swung around from the fireplace.
“Where is the letter?”
Mollie turned her gaze upon him, and it was impossible to guess whether this was the first time she had realized he was there, or whether she had seen him and simply decided to ignore him.
“Joss. I didn’t think you were coming this morning.”
“Yes. I just got here.”
“You know Rebecca, I believe.”
“Yes, we’ve met.” He hesitated, seeming to be making an effort to pull himself together. Then he smiled, ruefully, turned to lean his broad shoulders against the mantelpiece and apologized. “I’m sorry. And I know it’s none of my business, but that letter that came this morning … where is it?”
“In my pocket,” said Eliot, speaking for the first time. “Why?”
“It’s just that I think Pettifer should be the one to break the news to the old man. I think Pettifer is the only person to do it.”
This was greeted by silence. Then Mollie let go of my hands and turned to her son.
> “He’s right,” she said. “Grenville’s closest to Pettifer.”
“That’s all right by me,” said Eliot, but his eyes, on Joss, were cold with antagonism. I did not blame him. I felt the same way myself—I was on Eliot’s side.
Joss said again, “I’m sorry.”
Mollie was polite. “Not at all. It’s very thoughtful of you to be so concerned.”
“None of my business, really,” said Joss. Eliot and his mother waited with pointed patience. At last he took the hint, heaved his shoulders away from the mantelpiece, and said, “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and get on with some work.”
“Will you be here for lunch?”
“No, I can only stay a couple of hours. I’ll have to get back to the shop. I’ll pick up a sandwich at the pub.” He smiled benignly at us all, not a trace of his former temper showing. “Thanks all the same.”
And so he left us, modest, apologetic, apparently cut down to size. Once more the young workman, an employee, with a job to do.
6
Mollie said, “You must forgive him. He’s not always the most tactful of men.”
Eliot laughed shortly. “That’s the understatement of the year.”
She turned to me, explaining, “He’s restoring some of the furniture for us. It’s old and it had got into bad repair. He’s a marvellous craftsman, but we never know when he’s going to arrive or when he’s going to go!”
“One day,” said her son, “I shall lose my temper with him and punch his nose into the back of his neck.” He smiled at me charmingly, his eyes crinkling, belying the ferocity of his words. “And I’m going to have to go too. I was late as it was, now I’m bloody late. Rebecca, will you excuse me?”
“Of course. I’m sorry, I’m afraid it was my fault. And thank you for being so kind…”
“I’m glad I stopped. I must have known how important it was. I’ll see you…”
“Yes, of course you will,” said Mollie quickly. “She can’t go away now that she’s found us.”
“Well I’ll leave the two of you to fix everything up…” He made for the door, but his mother interrupted gently.
“Eliot.” He turned. “The letter.”
The Day of the Storm Page 8