The Day of the Storm

by Rosamunde Pilcher

  “I think you’re being very unkind.”

  She laughed. “Yes, I know, and it wasn’t his fault. He probably turned into quite a personable young man if his mother gave him half a chance.”

  “I wonder what happened to Mollie?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t particularly care, either.” My mother could always be cruelly off-hand. “It’s like a dream. Like remembering dream people. Or perhaps—” her voice trailed away—“perhaps they were real and I was the dream.”

  I felt uncomfortable, because this was too near the truth that I was trying to keep at bay. I said quickly, “Are your parents still alive?”

  “My mother died that Christmas we spent in New York. Do you remember that Christmas? The cold and the snow and all the shops full of the sound of ‘Jingle Bells’? By the end of that Christmas I felt I never wanted to hear that damned tune again. My father wrote to me, but of course the letter didn’t reach me until months later by which time it had followed me half round the world. And then it was really too late to write and say anything. Besides, I’m so useless about writing letters. He probably thought I simply didn’t care.”

  “Didn’t you ever write?”

  “No.”

  “Didn’t you like him either?” It seemed a sorry state of affairs.

  “Oh, I adored him. He was wonderful. Terribly good looking, attractive to women, frightfully fierce and frightening. He was a painter. Did I ever tell you that?”

  A painter. I had imagined everything, but never a painter. “No, you never said.”

  “Well, if you’d had any sort of education at all you’d probably have guessed. Grenville Bayliss. Doesn’t that mean anything to you at all?”

  I shook my head sadly. It was terrible never to have heard of a famous grandfather.

  “Well, why should it? I was never any good at trailing you round art galleries or museums. come to think of it, I was never much good at anything. It’s a wonder you’ve turned out so well on a solid diet of maternal neglect.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Who?”

  “Your father.”

  “How do you imagine him?”

  I considered the question and came up with Augustus John. “Bohemian, and bearded and rather leonine…”

  “Wrong,” said my mother. “He wasn’t like that at all. He started off his life in the Navy and the Navy left an indelible stamp on him. You see, he didn’t decide to be a painter until he was nearly thirty, when he threw up a promising career and enrolled at the Slade. It nearly broke my mother’s heart. And moving to Cornwall and setting up house at Porthkerris simply added insult to injury. I don’t think she ever forgave him for being so selfish. She’d adored queening it in Malta, and probably fancied herself as wife to the Commander-in-Chief. I must say, he was tailor-made for the part, very blue-eyed and imposing and terrifying. He never lost what was known in those days as a quarter-deck manner.”

  “But you weren’t terrified of him?”

  “No. I loved him.”

  “Then why didn’t you go home?”

  Her face closed up. “I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. Terrible things had been said, by all of us. Old resentments and old truths had all come boiling up, and threats were made and ultimatums handed out. And the more they opposed me, the more determined I became, and the more impossible it was, when the time came, to admit that they’d been right, and I’d been wrong, and I’d made a hideous mistake. And if I had gone home, I would never have got away again. I knew that. And you wouldn’t have belonged to me any more, you’d have belonged to your grandmother. I couldn’t have borne that. You were such a precious little thing.” She smiled and added rather wistfully, “And we did have fun, didn’t we?”

  “Yes, of course we did.”

  “I would have liked to go back. Sometimes I very nearly did. It was such a lovely house. Boscarva it was called, and it was rather like this villa, standing square on a hill above the sea. When Otto first brought me here, it reminded me of Boscarva. But here it’s warm and the winds are gentle; there, it was wild and stormy, and the garden was honeycombed with tall hedges to shelter the flower beds from the sea winds. I think the wind was the thing that my mother most hated. She used to seal all the windows and shut herself indoors, playing bridge with her friends or doing needlepoint.”

  “Didn’t she ever do things with you?”

  “Not really.”

  “But who looked after you?”

  “Pettifer. And Mrs Pettifer.”

  “Who were they?”

  “Pettifer had been in the Navy, too; he looked after my father and cleaned the silver and sometimes drove the car. And Mrs Pettifer did the cooking. I can’t tell you how cosy they were. Sitting by the kitchen fire with them making toast and listening to the wind battering at the windows, knowing that it couldn’t get in … it made you feel so safe. And we used to read fortunes from the teacups…” Her voice trailed off, memories uncertain now. And then, “No, that was Sophia.”

  “Who was Sophia?”

  She did not reply. She was staring at the fire, her expression far away. Perhaps she had not heard me. She said at last, “After my mother died I should have gone back. It was naughty of me to stay away, but I was never over-endowed with what is known as moral fibre. But, you know, there are things at Boscarva that belong to me.”

  “What sort of things?”

  “A desk, I remember. A little one, with drawers down the side, and a lid that opened up. I think it’s called a davenport. And some jade that my father brought home from China and a Venetian looking-glass. They were all mine. On the other hand, I moved around so much that they would just have been a nuisance.” She looked at me, frowning a little. “But perhaps you don’t think they are a nuisance. Have you got any furniture in this flat of yours?”

  “No. Practically none.”

  “Then perhaps I’ll see if I can get hold of them for you. They must still be at Boscarva, provided the house hasn’t been sold or burned down or something. Would you like me to try and get hold of them?”

  “More than anything. Not just because I need furniture, but because they belonged to you.”

  “Oh, darling, how sweet, too jokey the way you long for roots, and I could never bear to have any. I always felt they would just tie me down in one place.”

  “And I always feel that they would make me belong.”

  She said, “You belong to me.”

  We stayed talking until the early hours of the morning. About midnight, she asked me to refill her waterjug, and I found my way into the deserted kitchen and did this for her, and realized then that Otto, with gentle tact, had probably taken himself quietly off to bed, so that we could be together. And when at last her voice grew tired and her words began to trail off in a blur of exhaustion, I said that I was sleepy too, which I was, and I stood up, cramped from sitting, stretched, and put more logs on the fire. Then I took away her second pillow so that she lay, ready for sleep. The silken shawl had slipped to the floor, so I picked this up and folded it and laid it on a chair. It remained only to stoop and kiss her, turn off the lamp, and leave her there in the firelight. As I went through the door, she said, as she always used to say when I was a little girl, “Good night, my love. Goodbye until tomorrow.”

  * * *

  The next morning I was awake early, aware of sunshine streaming through the gaps in the shutters. I got up and went to open them, and saw the brilliant Mediterranean morning. I stepped out through the open windows on to the stone terrace which ran the length of the house and saw the hill sloping down to the sea, maybe a mile distant. The sand-coloured land was veiled in pink, the first tender blossoms of the almond trees. I went back into my room, dressed, and went out again—across the terrace, down a flight of steps, and through the ordered, formal garden. I vaulted a low stone wall, and walked on in the direction of the sea. Presently, I found myself in an orchard, surrounded by almond trees. I stopped and looked up at a froth of pink blossom and beyo
nd it a pale and cloudless blue sky.

  I knew that each flower would bear a precious fruit which, when the time came, would be frugally cropped, but even so I could not resist picking a single spray, and I was still carrying this when an hour or so later, having walked to the sea and back, I retraced my steps up the hill towards the villa.

  It was steeper than I had realized. Pausing for breath, I looked up at the house, and saw Otto Pedersen standing on the terrace watching my progress. For an instant we both stood still; then he moved and started down the steps, and came down the garden to meet me.

  I went on more slowly, still holding the spray of blossom. I knew then. I knew before he came close enough for me to see the expression on his face, but I went on, up through the orchard, and we met at last by the little drystone wall.

  He said my name. That was all.

  I said, “I know. You don’t have to tell me.”

  “She died during the night. When Maria went in this morning to wake her … it was all over. It was so peaceful.”

  It occurred to me that we were not doing much to comfort each other. Or maybe there was no need. He put out a hand to help me over the wall, and kept my hand in his as we walked together up through the garden to the house.

  She was buried, according to Spanish law, that very day, and in the little churchyard in the village. There was only the priest present, and Otto and Maria and myself. When it was all over, I put the spray of almond blossom on to her grave.

  * * *

  I flew back to London the next morning, and Otto drove me to the airport in his car. For most of the time we travelled in silence, but as we approached the terminal he suddenly said, “Rebecca, I don’t know whether this has any significance, but I would have married Lisa. I would have married her, but I already have a wife in Sweden. We do not live together, and have not done so for a number of years, but she will not divorce me because her religion will not allow it.”

  “You didn’t need to tell me, Otto.”

  “I wanted you to know.”

  “You made her so happy. You took such care of her.”

  “I am glad that you came. I am glad that you saw her.”

  “Yes.” There was, all at once, a terrible lump in my throat, and my eyes filled and brimmed with painful tears. “Yes, I am glad too.”

  In the terminal, my ticket and my luggage checked, we stood and faced each other.

  “Don’t wait,” I said. “Go now. I hate goodbyes.”

  “All right … but first…” He felt in his jacket pocket and took out three fine, worn silver bracelets. My mother had worn them always. She had been wearing them that last night. “You must have these.” He took my hand and slipped them on to my wrist. “And this.” Out of another pocket came a folded wad of British notes. He pressed it into my palm and closed my fingers over it. “They were in her handbag … so you must have them.”

  I knew they hadn’t been in her handbag. She had never any money in her handbag except a few coppers for the next telephone call, and some dog-eared bills, long overdue. But there was something in Otto’s face that I couldn’t refuse, so I took the money and kissed him, and he turned on his heel, without a word.

  * * *

  I flew back to London in a state of miserable indecision. Emotionally I was empty, drained even of grief. Physically I found that I was exhausted but I could neither sleep nor face the meal that the stewardess offered me. She brought me tea and I tried to drink that, but it tasted bitter and I left it to grow cold.

  It was as though a long-locked door had been opened, but only a crack, and it was up to me to open it wide, although what lay behind it was dark and fraught with uncertainty.

  Perhaps I should go to Cornwall and seek out my mother’s family, but the glimpses I had been given of the set-up at Porthkerris were not encouraging. My grandfather would be very old, lonely and probably bitter. I realized that I had made no arrangement with Otto Pedersen about letting him know that my mother was dead, and so there was the hideous possibility that if I went to see him, I should be the one who would have to break the news. As well, I blamed him a little for having let his daughter make such a mess of her life. I knew that she was impulsive and thoughtless, and stubborn too, but surely he could have been a little more positive in his dealings with her. He could have sought her out, offered to help, inspected me, his grandchild. But he had done none of these things, and surely this would always stand like a high wall between us.

  And yet, I longed for roots. I did not necessarily want to live with them, but I wanted them to be there. There were things at Boscarva that had belonged to my mother, and so now belonged to me. She had wanted me to have them, had said as much, so perhaps I was under an obligation to go to Cornwall and claim them as my own, but to go only for this reason seemed both soulless and greedy.

  I leaned back and dozed and heard again my mother’s voice.

  I was never frightened of him. I loved him. I should have gone back.

  And she had said a name—Sophia—but I had never found out who Sophia was.

  I slept at last and dreamed that I was there. But the house in my dream had no shape or form and the only real thing about it was the sound of the wind, battering its way inland, fresh and cold from the open sea.

  * * *

  I was in London by the early afternoon, but the dark day had lost its shape and meaning, and I could not think what I was meant to do with what remained of it. In the end I got a taxi and went to Walton Street to seek out Stephen Forbes.

  I found him upstairs, going through a box of books out of an old house which had just been sold up. There was no one else with him, and as I appeared at the top of the stairs he stood up and came towards me, thinking that I was a potential customer. When he saw that I was not, his manner changed.

  “Rebecca! You’re back.”

  I stood there, with my hands in my coat pockets.

  “Yes. I got in about two.” He watched me, his face a question. I said, “My mother died, early yesterday morning. I was just in time. I had an evening with her, and we talked and talked.”

  “I see,” said Stephen. “I’m glad you saw her.” He cleared some books from the edge of a table, and leaned against it, folding his arms and eyeing me through his spectacles. He said, “What are you going to do now?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You look exhausted. Why not take a few days off?”

  I said again, “I don’t know.”

  He frowned. “What don’t you know?”

  “I don’t know what to do.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “Stephen, have you ever heard of an artist called Grenville Bayliss?”

  “Heavens, yes. Why?”

  “He’s my grandfather.”

  Stephen’s face was a study. “Good Lord. When did you find that out?”

  “My mother told me. I’d never heard of him,” I had to admit.

  “You should have.”

  “Is he well known?”

  “He was, twenty years ago when I was a boy. There was a Grenville Bayliss over the dining-room fireplace in my father’s old house in Oxford. Part of my growing up, one might say. A grey stormy sea and a fishing boat with a brown sail. Used to make me feel seasick to look at it. He specialized in seascapes.”

  “He was a sailor. I mean, he’d been in the Royal Navy.”

  “That follows.”

  I waited for him to go on, but he was silent. I said at last, “What am I to do, Stephen?”

  “What do you want to do, Rebecca?”

  “I never had a family.”

  “Is it so important?”

  “Suddenly it is.”

  “Then go and see him. Is there any reason not to?”

  “I’m frightened.”

  “Of what?”

  “I don’t know. Of being snubbed, I suppose. Or ignored.”

  “Were there dreadful family rows?”

  “Yes. And cuttings off. And never darken my door ag
ain. You know the sort of thing.”

  “Did your mother suggest that you went?”

  “No. Not in so many words. But she said there were some things that belonged to her. She thought I should have them.”

  “What sort of things?”

  I told him. “I know it’s nothing very much. Perhaps not even worth making the journey for. But I’d like to have something that belonged to her. Besides—” I tried to turn it into a joke—“they might help to fill up some of the blank spaces in the new flat.”

  “I think collecting your possessions should be a secondary reason for going to Cornwall. Your first should be making friends with Grenville Bayliss.”

  “Supposing he doesn’t want to make friends?”

  “Then no harm has been done. Except possibly a little bruising to your pride, but that won’t kill you.”

  “You’re rail-roading me into this,” I told him.

  “If you didn’t want my advice, then why did you come to see me?”

  He had a point. “I don’t know,” I admitted.

  He laughed. “You don’t know much, do you?” and when at last I smiled back, he said, “Look. Today’s Thursday. Go home and get some sleep. And if tomorrow’s too soon, then go down to Cornwall on Sunday or Monday. Just go. See how the land lies, see how the old boy is. It may take a few days, but that doesn’t matter. Don’t come back to London until you’ve done all you can. And if you can get hold of your own bits and pieces, well and good, but remember that they’re of secondary importance.”

  “Yes. I’ll remember.”

  He stood up. “Then push off,” he said. “I’ve got enough to do without wasting my time running a private Tell Auntie column on your account.”

  “Can I come back to work when all this is over?”

  “You better had. I can’t manage without you.”