'I see.' Jonah wanted to ask lots of questions but suddenly felt rather shy of this practical, quickwitted girl. 'It's very kind of her to ask me to stay. After all, she doesn't know me.'
A particularly savage blast of wind battered the car and he recoiled in his seat. Clio seemed unmoved, driving with speed and efficiency.
'You're not quite a stranger,' she said. 'She knew your mother and she's known Piers and his family for ages.'
'Even so . . .' Jonah was beginning to be aware of a heightening of tension, of some approaching calamity. The headlights of a wide, high vehicle travelling in the opposite direction blinded them so that the car swerved a little as the lorry rocked and splashed past them.
'Sorry about that.' Clio's laugh was a little shaky. 'He seemed to need rather a lot of road. Not far now. This is Winsford.'
Twinkling lights shone comfortingly through the rain-streamed windows; cottages clustered in around them and then fell away behind as Clio changed gear and the car began to climb. They seemed to be on open moorland now and, so great was the wind's force, it was as if some giant fist were pressing down upon them. Suddenly there was the rattle of a cattle-grid beneath their wheels and then they were plunging downhill again through a great avenue of trees; drifts of sodden beech leaves gleamed wetly at the sides of the road. Gradually Jonah became aware of another sound beyond the howling of the gale and the hiss of rain and the rhythmic swish of the wipers: a growling, roaring, restless voice that seemed to be travelling with them.
'Can you hear the river?' cried Clio. She seemed almost elated by the wildness.
A stone wall loomed up in the headlights' beam and the car began to slow.
As they turned onto the narrow bridge, Jonah saw a figure of a man leap out of the darkness: he was signalling them to stop, his mouth wide open as if crying for help. It seemed that Clio would drive right over him and Jonah shouted and caught at her arm, trying to wrench the wheel.
'What is it?' Her voice was high and frightened. 'For God's sake . . . !'
He felt the juddering of metal on stone as she slammed on the brakes and the car scraped the wall but he was already undoing his seatbelt and fumbling with the door catch. The rain beat down on him, plastering his clothes to his back, as he ran back over the bridge. His voice was caught and flung away on the wind, drowned by the insistent roaring of the water, but there was no sign of any man. Clio was beside him, grasping his arm.
'What was it? What did you see?'
'There was a man. You must have seen him.'
'No, there was nobody. The headlights must have played some trick with the shadows. There's nobody here. Come on, we're drenched. Let's get inside.' And, still holding his arm, she led him across the bridge and into the house where Hester was waiting.
CHAPTER TWO
Later, upstairs in her room at the end of the house, Clio sat on the tapestry stool and stared at her reflection in the ancient spotted looking-glass. It creaked and protested in its mahogany stand as she tilted it a little, before picking up her brush. She was still shaken by Jonah's violent reaction and by the jarring physical shock of the car hitting the bridge. No real harm had been done but she was confused, not only by Jonah's insistence that he'd seen someone but also by Hester's behaviour. Instead of reassuring him by telling him that there could have been no man on the bridge, she'd watched him with a kind of anxious compassion that had made Clio feel quite angry, possibly because of her own fright.
'The bridge leads only to the house and the garden,' she'd said, sounding cross in her attempt to rally Jonah. 'It doesn't go anywhere else. It's private. Hester's already told us that she's been alone all day. Why should anyone hide on the bridge in this weather just to jump out at us and run away?'
She'd looked at Hester, seeking confirmation, but Hester's eyes had been fixed on Jonah's face.
'I saw him,' he'd repeated stubbornly.
'I think we need a drink,' Hester had said – much to Clio's relief – and Jonah had swallowed two fingers of Scotch and begun to pull himself together. At this point Clio had left them, coming upstairs to make up his bed.
Now, as she brushed her hair, Clio's attention was caught by the glimmer of a white envelope propped against one of the pretty hand-painted glass candlesticks. Because this small room, with its one electric socket, was difficult to light adequately, Clio had placed candle-holders in every possible place: two shallow pottery bowls on the high, narrow mantelshelf above the tiny Victorian grate, one tall brass serpent on the small bamboo table beside the bed, and four in different styles of glass on the polished Edwardian washstand that served as a dressingtable. She'd lit them all as soon as she'd come into the room and immediately had grown more calm, soothed by the familiar pattern of objects and the sense of security this little room always projected.
Putting down her brush, Clio reached for the envelope and studied the impatient, curling writing. Oh, how well she could imagine him, crouched at his desk, fielding interruptions, dashing down the words. Quickly she tore open the envelope and unfolded the sheet, her whole attention fixed on his message to her.
Honestly, darling, I can't believe that I ever agreed to let you go. Not even for a whole wilderness of godmothers who have had hip replacements. I simply can't do without you a moment longer. I know that these four weeks are part of your holiday but the place is in chaos; nobody understands how I work and no quiet sanctuary to flee to at the end of the day.
Can we meet somewhere? Please! Bristol? Exeter? I suppose you couldn't escape to London for a few hours? Please, Clio, give your mind to a meeting next week, however brief, or you won't have a job to come back to because the agency will simply have ceased to exist. You are essential to it and to me.
His signature was unreadable. Clio pressed the paper to her face, hunched on the stool, longing for him. Falling in love with him had ruined everything: all her well-laid plans, her sensible goals for the future, smashed by her absolute need – and his.
'This is Peter Strong,' her boss had said, introducing them. 'This is Clio Taverner, Peter. Clio runs the place actually, but don't tell the MD I said so. I wish I could take her to Boston with me, but there we are.'
'We can't talk here,' he said – and took her out to lunch, bombarding her with questions about the advertising agency, her PA work, herself. To begin with she was mesmerized by the sheer force of his personality but as she grew accustomed to him – and with the assistance of a large glass of Sauvignon Blanc – she began to enjoy herself: responding and expanding under the warmth and intensity of his concentration.
She was so sure, so joyful in this new and overwhelming love that possessed her, that when she heard about his wife and his brood of children she was certain that there must be some mistake: not just for the obvious reason – that she did not want to see him as a philanderer – but because he was so not the ordinary sort of man who had those kind of dependants. His character was an interesting mix: single-minded toughness and a brilliant flair for words combined with minute attention to detail and an amazing memory for small sweet things. He never avoided mentioning his family if the subject were relevant but he talked about them as if they existed in a different sphere that was quite remote from his work and his relationship with Clio. He separated his life into watertight compartments and, because this was perfectly natural to him, she seemed able to accept it too. When she tried to rationalize this to herself she realized that his sense of urgency, of immediacy, made anything other than the present dimension unreal. When he was at the agency his work was of paramount importance; when he was alone with her she was all he saw or heard or wanted, and she found it impossible – almost foolish – to worry about anything beyond her delight in his company. She'd never been so concentrated on before and she was bewitched by it. His attitude seemed all the more reasonable because his family lived in Hampshire, where his wife ran a livery stable, and Peter stayed in London four nights each week. It underpinned the ability to compartmentalize that came so readily to him
.
He liked Clio's tiny slice of a house – three rooms on three floors – much better than his rather bleak apartment though he always returned to it each night, however late.
Before too long reality asserted itself. She became accustomed to weekends without him, outings put off at the last moment, the unexpected arrival of one or other of his family at the flat; and yet the sheer quality of the time they had together cancelled out the loneliness. She kept up with her friends, went skating, to Pilates, to aerobics classes, knowing that she would see him each weekday morning and that his eyes would light with a kind of relief and joy.
'Aaah,' he'd say – as if she were a long, cold refreshing drink. 'There you are.'
Clio put the paper back into its envelope and resumed the hair-brushing but her thoughts were busy. For the first few weeks after the operation, Hester had been looked after professionally. It was Clio who'd suggested that she could take four weeks of her holiday time to be with her until she was strong and self-sufficient again. Peter had agreed to it, and there was only one more week to go, but it would be heaven to see him briefly. How could they meet – and where? An idea so simple that it took her by surprise suggested itself. Why not invite him here, to Bridge House? It would be interesting to see Peter and Hester together: Peter so vital and intense; Hester so intelligent and detached. Clio laughed aloud at the prospect, and wondered how her godmother was getting on with Jonah. She hoped they were having a good heart-to-heart about the war. Remembering that she was supposed to be making up his bed, she went out onto the landing and along to the airing cupboard to find some sheets.
'I remember your mother very well,' Hester was saying. 'Such a pretty little girl. We were all very fond of her.'
She realized that she was making an effort quite as much to raise her own spirits as to distract Jonah from his preoccupation. She knew, too, that she could not take him into the drawing-room. After her day-long premonition had culminated with such violence in his experience on the bridge, her usual detachment and common sense had deserted her: the drawing-room held other vibrations to which, in his present state, he might respond. Instead, she poured him another Scotch and led the way out of the large square hall, with its inglenook fireplace and comfortable chairs, into the book-room where she had been sitting earlier, beside a small wood fire.
'Mum never talks about the war,' he answered, looking around him appreciatively, taking in the book-lined walls, the small revolving table beside the wing-chair, the chaise longue under the window. 'She's got a thing about it. I suppose that losing both her parents gave her a horror of it all. I knew the name of your house from some photos we have at home of my mother when she was little. She's made a bit of a mystery of it all, to tell you the truth, and when she mentioned your name I felt as if an opportunity I'd been waiting for had suddenly come. And then that thing happened on the bridge.' He glanced at Hester apologetically. 'I'm behaving like an idiot but it was very real, you know. I saw him . . . Sorry. This is an amazing room.'
She acknowledged his attempt to pull himself together and gestured to the other armchair.
'Sit down,' she said. 'This was my mother's favourite room. She said that it was the only room in the house where you couldn't hear the river.'
Jonah sat down and stretched out his legs towards the fire. 'Didn't she like the noise of water?'
'She found it rather relentless. There are moments, you know, when you want to turn it off, just for a moment; to shout at it to be quiet. Especially at this time of the year.'
'I wondered what it was,' he told her. 'When we were in the car, I mean. I could hear it in the background, like some growling, angry voice. Rather menacing. I can understand how your mother must have felt about it. It must be rather frightening sometimes.'
'Towards the end she found it so. Especially at night. She seemed to hear voices in its roaring.' She fell silent, sipped at her Scotch, trying to see her way ahead.
'Voices?' His own voice was reflective as if he were imagining it. 'Particular voices, d'you mean, or what?'
Hester hesitated. 'She wasn't quite herself at the end. My two brothers were killed early on in the war and the eldest, Edward, was in Singapore in 1942 and taken prisoner by the Japanese. She adored her sons and the shock of losing them weakened her. She was never particularly strong and she just seemed to lose interest in living. Worse than that, she had no desire to live in a world where such appalling things were happening. Edward's capture was the last straw. She couldn't co-exist with the thought of his imprisonment. She died in the autumn of 1942. Sixty years ago.' She nearly added, 'This very night,' but felt that this would simply add to the emotional tension.
'How terrible for you to lose your brothers and your mother within such a short time.' His horror was genuine. 'You must have been terribly young. Was my mother here then? Was she evacuated?'
'She arrived later in the war.' She responded instinctively to his sympathy, abandoning some of her caution. 'Your grandfather Michael and my brother Edward were at Cambridge together. They were very good friends and, when your grandmother was killed, Michael asked if he could bring Lucy to us.'
'So you knew him? You actually knew my grandfather. He came here to this house. How amazing! So you really do remember my mother?'
Hester hesitated again for a brief moment, then reached into her pocket and drew out a small snapshot. 'I thought this might interest you.'
Jonah bent over it eagerly: two figures posing just outside French windows opening on to a sunny lawn. The bigger girl with short dark hair was kneeling beside a small child. One arm was round the little girl, the other gesturing towards the camera as if to fix her attention. 'Look,' she might be saying. 'Look, Lucy. Smile.' On the back in fading ink were the words: 'Hester with Lucy in the garden at Bridge House. June 1945.'
As he looked, a memory, whole and complete, slid into his mind. He was standing at the door of the small attic room watching his mother searching for something in a chest. The musty scent of old clothes and books was in his nostrils and the unshaded bulb glimmered weakly, lighting pieces of broken, dusty furniture but leaving cobwebby corners unlit and rather menacing. His mother wrestled with the drawer, tugging at it sharply so that it slid out suddenly and a big envelope with old snapshots came spilling to the floor.
He ran forward and caught at one of the snapshots, peering at the small figures before turning it over to see the names written on the back: 'Lucy with Robin and Jack at Bridge House. August 1944.'
'Who are these children?' he asked his mother curiously. 'Lucy. That's you, isn't it? But who are these little boys?'
'I don't know.' She took the photograph from him quickly and put it back into the envelope, shoving it into the drawer and closing it. 'It's all too long ago to remember.'
An atmosphere of fear and distress alerted him, young though he was, and later he crept back to look at the snapshot again: the three children captured in the grainy texture of the past, beaming at the camera, and the name typed on the big buff envelope: 'Major Michael Scott', his grandfather's name.
Now Hester watched him as he turned the snapshot over and he glanced at her almost unseeingly and shook his head.
'This is extraordinary,' he said at last. 'This reminds me of the one we have at home except that, in that one, it's my mother with two little boys. Jack and Robin. Their names are written on the back of the snapshot just like this.'
'That would have been my nephews. My sister, Patricia's, two little boys,' said Hester. 'Jack and Lucy were very close friends.'
'The photograph always fascinated me but she simply refuses to talk about it. Can you imagine why that should be?'
'It was a very painful time for her,' Hester replied cautiously. 'Tell me, how is Lucy? Where does she live?'
'In Chichester.' Jonah was reluctantly diverted. 'My parents have lived there all their married lives. My father was a science teacher but he's got this ghastly disease called lupus. Have you heard of it? The body's immune system goes
into overdrive and attacks itself. It's pretty grim.'
'I am so sorry.' It was Hester's turn to be horrified. 'How frightful for him. And for poor Lucy.'
'She'll be amazed when she knows I've actually been here. I hope she won't be upset. How long was she here with you? I didn't realize that you were all friends. I assumed it was just a normal evacuation thing.' Jonah settled more comfortably in his chair, ready for confidences. 'It must have been wonderful for her to come here to you all, having just lost her mother. Did my grandfather bring her down?'
Before Hester could answer, the door opened and Clio put her head round it.
'I thought you'd be in the drawing-room,' she said. 'Supper's ready and Jonah's bed's made up. Come and eat.'
The breakfast-room was connected to the kitchen by an archway through which the working area could be glimpsed. The paraphernalia of cooking, pots and pans and utensils hastily cast aside, was prevented from intruding on the comfortable simplicity of the room by the simple mechanism of an amber-coloured velvet curtain twitched across the archway after the last plate had been carried through. Coming in from the small, cosy bookroom, Jonah was struck by the light, uncluttered space: honeysuckle-coloured walls, a stripped wood floor with several blue rugs making deep pools of colour, a square table covered with a cream oilcloth patterned with tiny, dark green ivy leaves.
Clio appeared to have recovered from her fright on the bridge. A smile of suppressed excitement was pressed upon her upward-curving lips and she was wrapped in a large apron that had 'Kiss the Cook' printed across it. An enormous tortoiseshell cat – so large that Jonah doubted he was real – was curled in a basket chair.
'That's St Francis,' said Hester. 'He was called Billy to begin with but his unusually philanthropic attitude towards birds and rodents required some kind of public recognition.'
'It doesn't matter what you call him,' said Clio, noting Jonah's doubtful expression. 'He'll ignore you anyway. I call him Frank.'
Memories Of The Storm Page 2
