Mistress of the Storm

by M. L. Welsh

  Chapter Four

  Home at last, Henry walked into the Twogoods’ kitchen and slipped off his sopping wet coat. The room was hot with cooking and every window was covered with steam. For a few seconds his arrival went unnoticed, giving him an opportunity to surreptitiously grab a tea towel and dry his hair – a move that would have earned him a sharp smack on the head if it had been spotted.

  Around the kitchen table four of Henry’s brothers jostled with his father for the best seat. Mrs Twogood lifted a large casserole pot out of the oven. Placing it in the centre of the table, she started dishing out the food. Fierce argument broke out almost immediately on the subject of portion size – fairness thereof.

  ‘He’s got loads of stew. And three potatoes. I’ve only got two.’

  ‘At least you’ve got yours – there’ll hardly be anything left for me at this rate.’

  Mrs Twogood carried on with her task, ignoring them all.

  Slipping into the available space, Henry joined them. His mother put a plate piled high with food in front of him – to howls of complaint.

  ‘Henry doesn’t need all that food.’

  ‘ ’S not fair, Mum. Why’s he got the best portion?’

  ‘Got to keep his strength up,’ she replied equably. ‘Growing boy like young Henry.’ She smiled fondly at her youngest son.

  ‘Growing sideways,’ joked Bertie, winking at Henry, while Fred made a dive with his fork for one of his potatoes.

  ‘Saw you walking home with your girlfriend, Henry,’ chipped in Will, the second youngest, to his sibling.

  ‘Oh, that’s nice, Henry,’ said Mrs Twogood, perking up. ‘Verity Gallant, was it?’

  ‘She’s not my girlfriend,’ said Henry, squirming uncomfortably in his seat and fending off an attempt from Fred on a second potato.

  ‘Henry’s got a girlfriend, Henry’s got a girlfriend,’ chanted Percy and Will.

  Their younger brother glowered unhappily down at his plate. ‘She’s not my girlfriend.’

  Mr Twogood – who had already started on his food, despite a disapproving glance from his wife – looked up from his plate. ‘Steer clear of the Gallants. No good ever came of ’em.’

  ‘Oh, Daniel,’ chided Henry’s mother.

  Henry looked pained. ‘Verity’s not like that, Dad. Is she, Mum?’

  ‘Seems very nice to me, Dan. Always says please and thank you – which is more’n you can say for most of ’em.’

  ‘Once a Gallant, always a Gallant, that’s all I’m saying.’

  Back now in the comfort and warmth of her home – no one seemed to have noticed her uncharacteristically late appearance – Verity stood by her bedroom window, watching the rain batter the glass, heavy droplets of water colliding and merging in random paths. She pressed her face against the cold pane and gazed at the lights of the Storm, anchored out at sea.

  Verity’s bedroom was in the eaves of the roof, which made her ceiling low in places but gave her lots of nooks in which to pile all the books she had gleaned from charity shops and jumble sales. Something about the room being so high up made it feel cut off from the world and safe. Verity liked to sit by the arched window and look down across the rooftops to the ocean.

  She fished the wooden ball out of her coat pocket. So the tall stranger from the library was the captain of the Storm … But why had he given this to her? Why hand the book to her? Holding the ball up to the window for added illumination, she tilted her head to look at it once more. The doorbell jangled. Torn from debating her mystery, Verity frowned. A visitor at any time of day was unusual in the Gallant household.

  Turning back to the red leather-bound book, she ignored the muffled clamour of voices two floors below.

  … but this time she chose to tell a tale of terrifying cruelty: for she was running short of youth and vitality. She spoke of how each would be sacrificed; that she would feast greedily on their blood, sucking every last drop from them – heedless of their pain – so she might have longer life. And from then on it was a bitter blessing to bear a third daughter. From then, the joy of her arrival was mixed with worry and fear.

  Verity shivered and then jumped at the sound of her mother’s voice calling up to her from the bottom of the stairs. She sounded startled. Reluctantly Verity put down the book and went to the window. She peered down, trying to get a glimpse of the unannounced visitor.

  The light from the hall streamed out onto the dark street, but all she could see past the pillars of the portico was a shadowed figure whose cloak trailed down almost to the ground. Further down the street, Verity could make out a number of silhouetted men approaching her house, each with a heavy box or case on his shoulder.

  Her mother called up again. ‘Verity. Could you come downstairs please?’

  Tucking the wooden ball into the pocket of her pinafore, Verity hurried down the first flight of stairs: her stairs – no one else ever used them. Jumping down the two steps of the corner turn, she remembered to adopt a more seemly gait for the final, more impressive, flight with its red runner and brass rods.

  At the bottom, in the hall, her mother was looking up at her with a mixture of confusion and anticipation. Beside her stood the cloaked figure. A woman. She was directing a swarthy man as he manoeuvred a large trunk through the doorway.

  ‘Verity,’ her mother repeated slightly distractedly, ‘have you seen your father? I can’t think where he’s gone …’

  Verity shook her head politely, then stood quietly waiting to be introduced.

  Mrs Gallant ran a hand nervously through her hair. ‘So unexpected … What a day for surprises. Your father’s, er … the, er … wife of your father’s father …’ Clearly a little lost for words, she eventually trailed off into complete silence.

  The figure turned to face Verity at last. Tall, with a slender figure, the elderly lady before her had obviously once been stunning. Even now she was still very attractive. She towered elegantly over Verity.

  ‘I am the wife of your grandfather,’ she said. ‘And you will call me Grandmother.’ Her mouth twitched into a smile, but her pale blue eyes were distant. They reminded Verity of the stuffed shark in the maritime museum. She gazed in silent astonishment at the latest development in a thoroughly unusual week. She didn’t have a grandmother. What was this lady talking about?

  ‘Yes. Grandmother,’ agreed Mrs Gallant, seizing gratefully on the mot juste. ‘Of course. Your grandmother has come to visit. Isn’t that nice?’

  Was it Verity’s imagination or did her mother sound unsure – as if she were trying to convince herself?

  ‘Apparently it was all arranged some time ago,’ she added brightly. ‘I wonder where your father’s got to … So odd – I’m sure he was in his study just a moment ago.’

  But the old lady wasn’t listening. Bending over, she grabbed Verity’s face with her cool, dry hands, staring into it intently. Verity forced herself not to pull away, looking instead at the old lady’s features: the perfectly straight nose, the high cheekbones, the delicately arched brows, the soft white hair that looked stylish rather than old. Verity shivered, as if a chill breeze had passed over her.

  The visitor stood up, and without further comment swept past, her interest at an end.

  Verity regained enough composure to close her mouth, reminding herself that it was still rude to stare, even if this person was the grandmother no one had ever told you about. Unconsciously keeping several steps behind, she followed the imposing visitor into the sitting room.

  Their mysterious relative had the assured self-possession of the naturally good-looking. Her clothes were clearly of the highest quality and there was an air of privilege about her. She looked like a woman who wasn’t used to people disagreeing with her.

  The woman to be known as Grandmother continued to direct the various men who were now bringing a stream of cases and boxes into the house. She was used to commanding respect, Verity observed. Fear, even. ‘Not there. Keep that one upright. This will do very well on the table.’


  Mother stood near Verity, stroking her hair nervously, completely floored by all this activity. ‘Such a surprise …’ she repeated, for want of anything else to say.

  Verity’s grandmother smiled at her, and patted her hostess’s stomach with an air of possession. ‘I came as soon as I heard.’

  ‘Oh,’ Verity’s mother said, a little flustered. ‘I, er …’

  ‘Such wonderful news,’ the old lady continued, her eyes still glassy, still cool. ‘Such a proud time for Tom.’

  ‘Marvellous,’ Verity’s mother agreed quickly to cover her confusion. ‘So glad he was able to get word to you.’

  Poppy slipped into view, holding a beautiful porcelain-faced doll with real hair and an exquisite outfit. ‘Grandmother’s brought some lovely presents,’ she said.

  Verity looked across the room to see box after box packed with delicacies, handwoven cloth, toys … She could make out a doll’s house in one and a sewing basket in another. Poppy was now holding up a very fetching outfit, and handed another to her sister. ‘This is for you,’ she said excitedly.

  Verity held the dress to her waist. It was lovely, but she could tell just by looking that she would be far too big for it.

  The men had finished bringing Grandmother’s property into the house. Informing her of this, they left with a large tip.

  ‘Felicity, you have done well,’ Grandmother exclaimed, swinging round to face her. ‘Such beautiful little girls.’ Stroking Poppy’s head, she continued, ‘This one so pretty and charming. And this one …’ Leaning down, she pinched Verity’s waist. ‘So robust, so sturdy.’ She laughed, looking around at her audience, who joined in.

  Verity stood there feeling a little hurt.

  ‘Goodness,’ exclaimed Mother. ‘I haven’t even offered you a drink. Let me go and make some tea.’ Poppy jumped up to help her, leaving Verity alone with their guest.

  Moving gracefully around the furniture in the sitting room, Grandmother seated herself and patted the space next to her. Verity obeyed the unspoken instruction, realizing with a sinking heart that she was going to have to make polite conversation.

  ‘Father hasn’t mentioned you before,’ she said eventually.

  Her grandmother said nothing, choosing instead to peer curiously at Verity. Verity’s heart pounded anxiously. That had come out badly.

  ‘Will there …? Is, er … my grandfather joining us later?’ Verity continued, on the basis that if she’d never heard of the woman now sitting on the sofa, then perhaps any number of other relatives might be about to visit. Verity realized she knew she had a grandfather – even though she couldn’t remember her parents ever discussing him. She seemed to have a vague impression he had been away from Wellow for a very long time. It was odd that she had never asked about him, she thought.

  Still the old lady continued to take in her granddaughter’s appearance … Perhaps she was a little hard of hearing? The weather. She could talk about the weather.

  ‘It’s a shame you’re here for the autumn,’ she continued in a louder tone. ‘The summer was very clement.’ Verity found the silent scrutiny unbearable. Dredging her mind for something else to say, she added limply, ‘Of course, today’s squall must have made it very difficult for the Storm.’

  Grandmother’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. ‘Do you think so?’ she asked, in a tone that made Verity long desperately to go back to uncomfortable silence.

  Mother reappeared with Poppy. ‘We could show you to your room while we wait for the tea,’ she said to her guest, smoothing down her dress as she spoke.

  ‘That would be lovely.’ Grandmother had switched her demeanour in an instant.

  Verity and Poppy hung back as Mother led their visitor up to the first floor and opened the door to the guest room. Looking over the street, it had a pleasant atmosphere: light and bright with a neat rose pattern on the wallpaper.

  Grandmother walked straight over to the window and looked out at the view, then dismissively around the room. ‘It’s a little small,’ she said. Before anyone could say anything, she swept out and headed up to the next floor. Entering Verity’s room, once again she headed for the window and pulled aside the curtain. Taking out a handkerchief, she delicately polished away the smudge on the glass made by Verity’s nose. ‘This is much more suitable,’ she said.

  Verity stared, silently aghast. Was their strange new visitor really suggesting she have her room?

  ‘After all,’ her grandmother went on, ‘when you are – like me – so near to the end of a long life, it’s the simple things that bring you happiness. A nice view – a little space for the few possessions you have gathered …’

  ‘But,’ said Verity anxiously, ‘this is my room.’

  The old lady didn’t appear to have heard her. ‘Whereas a little girl who is just starting out in life – how many truly important things can she have, hm?’

  Verity was outraged. ‘I have my books—’ she started.

  ‘Books?’ Grandmother looked around the room at the piles of reading matter everywhere. Suddenly Verity’s chin was cupped in a thin, cold hand. The old sash window rattled as an icy wind blew into the room. Goose pimples rose on Verity’s skin.

  ‘Verity’ – Grandmother’s face was the very model of sympathetic concern – ‘you must be careful not to fill your head with too much …’ She paused, apparently searching for the right word. ‘Information.’ She spat the word out with distaste.

  ‘Besides,’ she continued, ‘it is not attractive to be always with your head in a book. That is no way to draw admirers, hm?’ Inclining her head slightly, she smiled coquettishly at Poppy, who giggled sunnily.

  Verity gripped the wooden ball in her pinafore pocket. She didn’t feel scared or hurt any more, just angry. ‘I don’t want the kind of admirers who like stupid girls,’ she muttered crossly, watching everyone troop back out of her room – her former room.

  ‘I hope you have not raised your children to cheek their elders and betters,’ she heard her grandmother commenting as she made her way back down the stairs. Through the gap in the door she saw the old lady throw a look of pure venom in her direction.

  Suddenly Verity felt scared again.

  In the sitting room Poppy played a short piece from her primer on the piano, her long fair hair hanging smoothly down her back against a pretty dress that suited her slim figure so well.

  ‘How delightful,’ exclaimed Grandmother, clapping her hands together in a way that didn’t actually make any noise. ‘What an enchanting little girl you are, Poppy,’ she added with a rather pointed look in Verity’s direction that only she noticed.

  ‘Well, this is all working out rather well,’ said Mother happily as Poppy drew her by the hand to find another songbook.

  Verity stared in disbelief. Could she really be the only one who noticed her grandmother’s barbs? It was as if this intimidating old lady had simply waltzed in and woven a spell of enchantment over everyone in the house but her.

  ‘I can’t understand why you’re being so obstructive, Verity,’ Mother said as she helped to make the new bed. Moving around the room, she knelt down to pull Verity’s nightgown straight. ‘Honestly, I do wish you’d try to keep yourself a little neater. You could make anything look like a sack of potatoes tied in the middle. You have to be accommodating. Remember she’s the guest.’

  ‘Don’t you think it’s odd,’ asked Verity, ‘that Father didn’t mention she would be visiting? And now he’s not here …’

  Mrs Gallant swallowed down her irritation at being left alone to deal with this situation by her ever-forgetful husband. ‘It is a little unusual,’ she agreed briskly. ‘But Grandmother is the wife of your father’s father, and we have a duty to welcome her.’

  ‘It seems peculiar calling her Grandmother too,’ said Verity. ‘After all, she isn’t really related to us, is she?’

  ‘I do hope you’re not suggesting that you address our guest by her first name,’ said her mother briskly.

  ‘
Father has never mentioned Grandmother before,’ Verity went on as she got into her new bed.

  ‘Father doesn’t like to discuss it,’ said Mother, kissing her on the forehead.

  ‘Of course.’ Verity reflected that there were clearly any number of things Father didn’t like to discuss.

  Verity wasn’t sure what time it was when she woke up. She sat upright, her heart beating jerkily.

  She’d been dreaming. About the Keeper of the Wind. No. She’d been dreaming she was the Keeper of the Wind. And that everyone she met was charmed by her. It was wonderful. She was so popular and pretty, funny and charming. She had beautiful clothes, went to fascinating parties, and everyone wanted to be her friend. But after a while it … well, it was boring. No one ever seemed to disagree with her. No one dared.

  Until eventually she started doing whatever she chose, to see if anyone would stop her. Until she found herself stealing anything she took a liking to. Until she killed at will. Until she took newborn children and drank their blood to make herself younger … That was when Verity had woken up.

  She slipped out of bed. It was just a dream, she reminded herself. It’s just a book. Standing at the window, she opened the curtains. The full moon was high in the clear night sky. Staring down at the street, Verity was astonished to see a tall boy with long chestnut hair and bright green eyes slowly walking under a lamppost on the opposite pavement.

  As if sensing her stare, he looked up. His eyes locked with hers. Unaccountably embarrassed, her cheeks flushed pink and she hurriedly moved away from the window.