The Day of the Storm by Rosamunde Pilcher Page A

about seven years.”
    â€œBut you had to learn …”
    â€œOh, sure. I did joinery and carpentry first, four years of it at a trade school in London, and then when I’d got that under my belt, I apprenticed myself for another couple of years to an old cabinet-maker down in Sussex. I lived with him and his wife, did all the dirty jobs in the workshop, learned everything I know.”
    I did a few sums. “That’s only six years. You said seven.”
    He laughed. “I took a year off in the middle to travel. My parents said I was becoming parochial. My father has a cousin who runs a cattle ranch up in the Rockies, south-west Colorado. I worked as a ranch hand nine months or more.” He frowned. “What are you grinning about?”
    I told him. “That first time I saw you, in the shop … you looked like a ranch hand … you looked real. And somehow it annoyed me that you weren’t.”
    He smiled. “And you know what you looked like?”
    I cooled off. “No.”
    â€œThe head girl of a nicely run orphanage. And that annoyed me. ”
    A small clash of swords, and once more we were on opposite sides of the fence.
    I eyed him with dislike as he cheerfully finished his soup; the waitress came to take away the empty plates, and to set down a carafe of red wine. I had not heard Joss ordering the wine, but now I watched him pour two full glasses and I saw the long spade-tipped fingers; I liked the idea of them working with wood and old and beautiful things, shaping and measuring and oiling and coaxing into shape. I picked up the glass of wine and against the light it glowed red as a ruby. I said, “Is that all you’re doing in Porthkerris? Restoring Grenville Bayliss’s furniture?”
    â€œGood God, no. I’m opening a shop. I managed to rent these premises down on the harbour six months or so ago. I’ve been here, off and on, ever since. Now, I’m trying to get it into some sort of order before Easter, or Whitsun, or whenever the summer business really starts.”
    â€œIs it an antique shop?”
    â€œNo, modern, furniture, glass, textiles. But antique restoring goes on in the background. I mean I have a workroom. I also have a small pad on the top floor which is where I now live, which is why you were able to take over my room at Mrs Kernow’s. One day when you’ve decided that I’m trustworthy you can climb the rickety stairs and I’ll show it to you.”
    I ignored this fresh little sally.
    â€œIf you work down here, what were you doing in that shop in London?”
    â€œTristram’s? I told you, he’s a friend; I drop in and see him whenever I’m up in town.”
    I frowned. There were so many coincidences. Our lives seemed to be tied up in them, like a parcel well-knotted with ends of string. I watched him finish his wine and once more was visited with the unease which I had known earlier in the evening. I knew I should ask him a thousand questions, but before I could think of one the waitress arrived at our table once more, bearing steaks and vegetables and fried potatoes and dishes of salad. I drank some wine and watched Joss, and when the waitress had gone I said, “What does Eliot Bayliss do?”
    â€œEliot? He runs a garage up at High Cross, specializes in highly-powered second-hand cars, Mercedes, Alfa Romeos. If you’ve got the right sort of cheque book he can supply you with practically anything.”
    â€œYou don’t like him, do you?”
    â€œI never said I didn’t like him.”
    â€œBut you don’t.”
    â€œPerhaps it would be nearer the mark to say he doesn’t like me.”
    â€œWhy?”
    He looked up, his eyes dancing with amusement. “I haven’t any idea. Now why don’t you eat up your steak before it gets cold.”
    *   *   *
    He drove me home. It was still raining and I was, all at once, deathly