The Day of the Storm by Rosamunde Pilcher

painting. But he always appears to have had the constitution of an ox, and he made a miraculous recovery. He didn’t want to leave Boscarva, and he had this couple to take care of him…”
    â€œThe Pettifers?”
    Joss frowned. “How do you know about the Pettifers?”
    â€œMy mother told me.” I thought of the long-ago tea parties by the kitchen fire. “I never imagined they’d still be there.”
    â€œMrs Pettifer died last year, so Pettifer and your grandfather were left on their own. Grenville Bayliss is eighty now, and Pettifer can’t be far behind him. Mollie Bayliss wanted them to move up to High Cross and sell Boscarva, but the old man was adamant, so in the end she and Eliot moved in with him. Without noticeable enthusiasm, I may add.” He leaned back in his chair, his long clever hands resting on the edge of the table. “Your mother … was she called Lisa?” I nodded.
    â€œI knew Grenville had a daughter who’d had a daughter, but the fact that you call yourself Bayliss threw me slightly.”
    â€œMy father left my mother before I was born. She never used his name.”
    â€œWhere’s your mother now?”
    â€œShe died—just a few days ago. In Ibiza.” I repeated, “Just a few days ago,” because all at once it seemed like a lifetime.
    â€œI’m sorry.” I made some sort of vague gesture, because there weren’t any words. “Does your grandfather know?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œHave you come to tell him?”
    â€œI suppose I may have to.” The idea of doing so was daunting.
    â€œDoes he know you’re here? In Porthkerris?”
    I shook my head. “He doesn’t even know me. I mean we’ve never met. I’ve never been here before.” I made the final admission. “I don’t even know how to find his house.”
    â€œOne way and another,” said Joss, “you’re going to give him something of a shock.”
    I felt anxious. “Is he very frail?”
    â€œNo, he’s not frail. He’s fantastically tough. But he’s getting old.”
    â€œMy mother says he was frightening. Is he still frightening?”
    Joss made a gruesome face, doing nothing to comfort me. “Terrifying,” he said.
    The waitress brought our soup. It was oxtail, thick and brown and very hot. I was so hungry that I ate it right down to the bottom of the bowl without saying another word. As I finally laid down my spoon, I looked up and saw that Joss was laughing at me.
    â€œFor a girl who didn’t want to eat, you haven’t done so badly.”
    But this time I did not rise. I pushed the empty bowl away, and leaned my elbows on the table.
    â€œHow is it that you know so much about the Bayliss family?” I asked him.
    Joss had not bolted his soup as I had. Now, he was taking his time, buttering a roll, being maddeningly slow.
    â€œIt’s easy,” he said. “I do a certain amount of work up at Boscarva.”
    â€œWhat sort of work?”
    â€œWell, I restore antique furniture. And don’t gape in that unattractive fashion, it does nothing for you.”
    â€œ Restore antique furniture? You must be joking.”
    â€œI’m not. And Grenville Bayliss has a houseful of old and very valuable stuff. In his day he made a lot of money, and he invested most of it in antiques. Now, some of the things are in a shocking state of repair, not that they haven’t been polished to within an inch of their lives, but ten years ago he put in central heating and that wrecks old furniture. Drawers shrink and veneers curl and crack, and legs fall off chairs. Incidentally—” he added, diverted by the memory—“it was I who mended your cherrywood chair.”
    â€œBut how long have you been doing this?”
    â€œLet’s see, I left school when I was seventeen, and I’m twenty-four now, so that makes it