The Day of the Storm by Rosamunde Pilcher Read Free Book Online Page A

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.”
    â€œYou didn’t need to tell me, Otto.”
    â€œI wanted you to know.”
    â€œYou made her so happy. You took such care of her.”
    â€œI am glad that you came. I am glad that you saw her.”
    â€œYes.” 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.
    â€œDon’t wait,” I said. “Go now. I hate goodbyes.”
    â€œAll 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