“Goodbye then,” I said.
“Au revoir,” said Stephen, and as if on an afterthought, leaned forward to give me a clumsy kiss. “And Good Luck!”
I had already spent enough money on taxis, so, still carrying my case, I walked up to the bus stop and waited until one came, and lurched my way back to Fulham. Gazing, unseeing, out of the window at the grey, crowded streets, I tried to make some plans. I would go to Cornwall, as Stephen suggested, on Monday. At this time of year it shouldn’t be difficult to get a seat on the train or find somewhere to stay when I finally got to Porthkerris. And Maggie would keep an eye on my flat.
Thinking of the flat made me remember the chairs I had bought before I had gone to Ibiza. That day seemed a lifetime ago. But if I did not claim them then they would be sold as the disagreeable young man had threatened. With this in mind, I got off the bus a few stops before my own so that I could call into the shop and pay for the chairs and thus be certain that they would be waiting for me when I returned.
I had steeled myself to do business once more with the young man in the blue denims, but as I let myself in and the bell rang with the opening and the closing of the door, I saw with some relief that it was not he who stood up from behind the desk at the back of the shop, but another man, older, with grey hair and a dark beard.
He came forward, taking off a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles, as I thankfully put down my suitcase.
“Good afternoon.”
“Oh, good afternoon. I came about some chairs I bought last Monday. Cherrywood, balloon-back ones.”
“Oh, yes, I know.”
“One of them had to be repaired.”
“It’s been done. Do you want to take them with you?”
“No. I’ve got a suitcase. I can’t carry them. And I’m going away for a few days. But I thought if I paid for them now, perhaps you’d keep them until I got back.”
“Yes, of course.” He had a charming, deep voice, and when he smiled his rather saturnine face lit up.
I began to open my bag. “Will it be all right if I write you a cheque? I’ve got a Bankers Card.”
“That’s all right … would you like to use my desk? And here’s a pen.”
I began to write. “Who shall I make it out to?”
“To me. Tristram Nolan.”
I was gratified to know that it was he who owned this pleasant shop and not my mannerless, cowboy friend. I wrote the cheque and crossed it, and handed it to him. He stood, head down, reading it, and took so long that I thought I must have forgotten something.
“Have I put the date?”
“Yes, that’s perfect.” He looked up. “It’s just your name. Bayliss. It’s not very common.”
“No. No it’s not.”
“Are you any relation to Grenville Bayliss?”
Having his name flung at me, just now, was extraordinary and yet not extraordinary at all, in the same way that a name, or a relevant item of news, will spring at you, unbidden, from a page of close print.
I said, “Yes, I am.” And then because there was no reason why he shouldn’t know, “He’s my grandfather.”
“Extraordinary,” he said.
I was puzzled. “Why?”
“I’ll show you.” He laid my cheque down on his desk and went to pull out from behind a drop-leafed sofa table a large, sturdy oil painting in a gilt frame. He held it up, balancing one corner on his desk, and I saw that it was by my grandfather. His signature was in the corner, and the date below it, 1932.
“I’ve only just bought it. It needs cleaning, of course, but I think it’s very charming.”
I stepped closer to inspect it, and saw sand dunes in an evening light, and two young boys, naked, bent over a collection of shells. The work was perhaps old-fashioned, but the composition charming—the colouring delicate and yet somehow robust—as though the boys, vulnerable in their nakedness, were still tough, and creatures to be reckoned with.
“He was good, wasn’t he?” I said, and could not hide the note of pride in my voice.
“Yes. A marvellous colourist.” He put the picture back. “Do you know him well?”
“I don’t know him at all. I’ve never met him.”
He said nothing, simply stood, waiting for me to enlarge on this odd statement. To fill the silence I went on. “But I’ve decided that perhaps it’s time I did. In fact, I’m going to Cornwall on Monday.”
“But that’s splendid. The roads will be empty at this time of the year, and it’s a lovely drive.”
“I’m going by train. I haven’t got a car.”
“It will still be a pleasant journey. I hope the sun shines for you.”
“Thank you very much.”
We moved back to the door. He opened it, I picked up my suitcase. “You’ll look after my chairs for me?”
“Of course. Goodbye. And have a good time in Cornwall.”
3
But the sun did not shine for me. Monday dawned grey and depressing as ever and my faint hopes that the weather would improve as the train rocketed westwards soon died, for the sky darkened with every mile and the wind got up and the day finally dissolved into pouring rain. There was nothing to be seen from the streaming windows; only the blurred shapes of hills and farmsteads, and every now and then the clustered roofs of a village flashed by, or we raced through the half-empty station of some small anonymous town.
By Plymouth, I comforted myself, it would be different. We would cross the Saltash Bridge and find ourselves in another country, another climate, where there would be pink-washed cottages and palm trees and thin winter sunshine. But of course all that happened was that the rain fell even more relentlessly; as I stared out at flooded fields and leafless wind-torn trees, my hopes finally died and I began to be discouraged.
It was nearly a quarter to five by the time we reached the junction which was the end of my journey, and the dark afternoon had sunk, already, into twilight. As the train slowed down alongside the platform, I saw an incongruous palm tree, silhouetted like a broken umbrella against the streaming sky, and the falling rain shimmered and danced in front of the lighted sign which said “St Abbotts, change for Porthkerris.” The train finally stopped. I shouldered my rucksack and opened the heavy door which was instantly torn out of my grasp by the wind. The sudden impact of strong cold air, driven inland, over the dark sea, made me gasp, and with some idea of making haste I picked up my bag and jumped out on to the platform. I followed the general exodus of travellers up and over the wooden bridge to the station building on the far side. Most of the other passengers seemed to have friends to meet them, or else walked through the ticket office in a purposeful fashion, as though knowing that a car was waiting for them on the far side. Blindly, I followed them, feeling very new and strange but hoping that they would lead me to a taxi. But when I came out into the station yard, there were no taxis. I stood about, hopeful of being offered a lift, but too shy to ask for one, until the tail light of the last car, inevitably, disappeared up the hill in the direction of the main road and I was forced to return to the ticket office for help and advice.
I found a porter, stacking hen coops in a smelly parcels office.
“I’m sorry, but I have to get to Porthkerris. Would there be a taxi?”
He shook his head slowly, without hope, and then said, brightening slightly, “There’s a bus. Runs every hour.” He glanced up at the slow-ticking clock high on the wall. “But you’ve just missed one, so you’ll ’ave to wait some time.”
“Can’t I ring up for a taxi?”
“Isn’t much call for taxis at this time of the year.”
I let my heavy rucksack slip to the floor and we gazed at each other, both defeated by the enormity of the problem. My wet feet were slowly congealing. As we stood there, there came, above the noise of the storm, the sound of a car, driven very fast down the hill from the road.
I said, raising my voice slightly in order to make my point, “I must get a taxi. Where could I telephone?”
“There’s a box just out there…”
I turned to go in search of it, trailing my rucksack behind me, and as I did so I heard the car stop outside in the yard; a door slammed, footsteps ran, and the next moment a man appeared, banging the door open and shut against the icy wind. He shook himself like a dog before crossing the floor and disappearing through the open door of the Parcels Office.
I heard him say, “Hallo, Ernie. I think there’s a parcel here for me. From London.”
“’Ullo, Mr Gardner. That’s a dirty night.”
“Filthy. The road’s awash. That looks like it … that one over there. Yes, that’s it. Want me to sign for it?”
“Oh, yes, you’ll ’ave to sign. ’Ere we are…”
I imagined the slip of paper, smoothed on a table top, the stub of a pencil taken from behind Ernie’s ear. And for the life of me I could not remember where I had heard that voice before, nor why I knew it so well.
“That’s great. Thanks very much.”
“You’re welcome.”
The telephone, the taxi, forgotten for the moment, I watched the door, waiting for him to reappear. When he did, carrying a large box stuck with red GLASS labels, I saw the long legs, the blue denims drenched in mud to the knee, and a black oilskin, beaded and running with rivulets of water. He was bare-headed, his black hair plastered to his skull, and he saw me for the first time and stopped dead, holding the parcel in front of him like an offering. In his dark eyes was first a flicker of puzzlement, and then recognition. He began to smile. He said, “Good God!”
It was the young man who had sold me the two little cherrywood chairs.
I stood open-mouthed, feeling obscurely that someone had played me a mean and unfair trick. If ever I was in need of a friend it was at this moment, and yet fate had chosen to send me, possibly, the last person on earth I ever wanted to see again. And that he should see me thus, drenched and desperate, was somehow the last straw.
His smile widened. “What a fantastic coincidence. What are you doing here?”
“I’ve just got off the train.”
“Where are you going?”
I had to tell him. “To Porthkerris.”
“Is someone coming for you?”
I very nearly lied and told him “yes.” Anything to get rid of him. But I was always a useless fibber, and he would be bound to guess the truth. I said, “No,” and then I went on, trying to sound competent, as though I could take good care of myself, “I’m just going to phone for a taxi.”
“It’ll take hours. I’m going to Porthkerris, I’ll give you a ride.”
“Oh, you don’t need to bother…”
“No bother, I’m going anyway. Is that all your luggage?”
“Yes, but…”
“Come on then.”
I still hesitated, but he seemed to consider the matter already settled, going over to the door to open it, and holding it open with his shoulder, waiting for me to follow. So eventually I did so, edging past him, and out into the fury of the dark evening.
In the dim light I saw the Mini pick-up, parked, with the sidelights burning. Letting the door slam behind him, he crossed over to this, and gently loaded his parcel into the back, and then took my rucksack from me, and heaved this in too, covering the two bundles in a cursory fashion with an old piece of tarpaulin. I stood watching him, but he said, “Go on, get in, there’s no point us both getting wet through,” so I did as I was told, settling myself in the passenger seat with my bag jammed between my legs. Almost at once he had joined me, shutting his door with an almighty slam, and switching on the engine as though there were not a moment to be lost. We roared up the hill away from the station, and the next moment had turned on to the main road and were heading for Porthkerris.
* * *
He said, “Tell me more, now. I thought you lived in London.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Have you come down for a holiday?”
“Sort of.”
“That sounds good and vague. Are you staying with friends?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know.”
“What does that mean?”
“Just that. It means I don’t know.” This sounded rude but it couldn’t be helped. I felt as though I had no control over what I was saying.
“Well, you’d better make up your mind before you get to Porthkerris, otherwise you’ll be spending the night on the beach.”
“I … I’m going to stay in a hotel. Just for tonight.”
“Well, that’s great. Which one?”
I sent him an exasperated look and he said, reasonably enough, “Well, if I don’t know which one, I can’t take you there, can I?”
He seemed to have me cornered. I said, “I haven’t booked in to any hotel. I mean, I thought I could do that when I arrived. There are hotels, aren’t there?”
“Porthkerris is running with them. Every other house is a hotel. But at this time of the year most of them are closed.”
“Do you know some that are open?”
“Yes. But it depends what you want to pay.”
He glanced at me sideways, taking in my patched jeans, scuffed shoes, and an old fur-lined leather coat that I had worn for warmth and comfort. At the moment this garment looked and smelt like a wet dog.
“We go from one extreme to the other. The Castle, up on the Hill, where you change for dinner, and dance the foxtrot to a three-piece orchestra, right down to Mrs Kernow who does Bed and Breakfast at Number Two, Fish Lane. Mrs Kernow I can recommend. She looked after me for three months or more before I got into my own place, and her prices are very reasonable.”
I was diverted. “Your own place? You mean you live here?”
“I do now. Have done for the last six months.”
“But … the shop in the New Kings Road … where I bought the chairs?”
“I was just helping out for a day or so.”
We came to a crossroads, and, slowing down, he turned to look at me. “Have you got the chairs yet?”
“No. But I’ve paid for them. They’ll still be there when I get back.”
“Good,” said the young man.
We drove for a little in silence. Through a village, and up over a wild bit of country high above the sea; then the road leaned down again, and there were trees on either side of us. Through these, through twisted trunks and branches tortured by the wind, there presently appeared, far below us, the twinkling lights of a little town.
“Is that Porthkerris?”
“It is. And in a moment you’re going to have to tell me if it’s to be The Castle or Fish Lane.”
I swallowed. The Castle was out of the question, obviously, but if I went to Fish Lane I would necessarily place myself under an obligation to this managing person. I had not come to Porthkerris for any other reason than to see Grenville Bayliss, and I had an uncomfortable feeling that if I once got involved with this man he would stick like a burr.
I said, “No, not The Castle…” meaning to suggest some other, more modest establishment, but he cut me short.
“That’s great,” he said, with a grin. “Mrs Kernow of Fish Lane it is, and you won’t regret it.”
My first impression of Porthkerris, in the dark and the gusty rain, was confused to say the least of it. The town was, on this unsalubrious evening, nearly empty of people; the deserted streets gleamed wetly with reflected light, and the gutters ran with water.
At a great speed, we plunged down into a warren of baffling lanes and alleys, at one time emerging out on to the road which circled the harbour, only to turn back once more into the maze of cobbled roads and uneven, haphazard houses.
We turned at last into a narrow street of grey terrace houses, with front doors opening flush on to the pavement.
All was seemly and respectable. Lace curtains veiled windows, and there could be glimpsed statuettes of girls with dogs, or large green pots containing aspidistras.
The car slowed at last and stopped.
“We’re
here.” He switched off the engine, and I could hear the wind and, above its whine, the nearby sound of the sea. Great breakers thundered up on to the sand, and there was the long hiss of the retreating waves.
He said, “You know, I don’t know your name.”
“It’s Rebecca Bayliss. And I don’t know yours.”
“Joss Gardner … it’s short for Jocelyn, not Joseph.” With this useful bit of information he got out of the car and rang a bell in a door and, while waiting for an answer, went to retrieve my rucksack from underneath the tarpaulin. As he heaved it out, the door opened and he turned and was illuminated in a shaft of warm light which streamed from inside the house.
“Joss!”
“Hallo, Mrs Kernow.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I’ve brought you a visitor. I said you were the best hotel in Porthkerris.”
“Oh, my soul, I don’t belong to take visitors at this time of the year. But come along in now, out of the rain, what weather isn’t it? Tom’s down at the Coastguard lodge, been some sort of a warning up from the Trevose way, but I don’t know, I haven’t heard no rockets…”
Somehow we were all inside and the door shut and there was scarcely room for the three of us to stand in the narrow hall.
“Come along in by the fire … it’s nice and warm, I’ll get you a cup of tea if you like…” We followed her into a tiny, cluttered, cosy parlour. She knelt to poke the fire to life and add more coal, and for the first time I was able to take a good look at her. I saw a small, bespectacled lady, quite elderly, wearing bedroom slippers and a pinafore over her good brown dress.
“We don’t really want tea,” he told her. “We just want to know if you can give Rebecca a bed—for a night or so.”
She stood up from the fireplace. “Well, I don’t know…” She looked at me doubtfully, and what with my appearance and the dog-smelling coat I didn’t blame her for being doubtful.
I started to open my mouth, but Joss sailed in before I could say a word. “She’s highly respectable and she won’t run away with the spoons. I’ll vouch for her.”
“Well…” Mrs Kernow smiled. Her eyes were pretty, a very pale blue. “The room’s empty, so she may as well have it. But I can’t give her supper tonight, not expecting anybody, I haven’t anything in the house but a couple of little pasties.”
The Day of the Storm Page 5
