The House of Storms (15 page)

There was darker water now, so clear you could see right down into bottomless nothing. Marion’s dad was murmuring instructions, checking the distant landmarks. The Temple of Winds was just a glint of moonlight. Lights scattered north towards Avonmouth clustered as if drawn on strings towards the tiara of the Severn Bridge. Big ships hung tall across the waters, sleepy-still as they waited at anchor with lights at their topmasts, or churning ablaze through the main outer dredge-ways as they went about the business of the guilded world. You could see inside the lit windows of their cabins, and breathe the smoky rush they bore from their weathertops and engines.

Marion tugged the boom. Laying a quick hand on Ralph’s knee, which sent a warm shudder through him, she squeezed past to take the rudder. Dad leaned over the side, peering into the depthless waters. He then began to stir a stick of driftwood and mutter something until threads of faint luminosity started to form. Was this some phosphorous effect? But Dad was still muttering, almost singing, words too quick and slurred for Ralph to catch. A glass float—sparkling blue, a mirror of the night—bobbed up. Dad lifted it into the boat. A thin strip of tether, then a thicker stream of rope, followed.

Ralph helped pull whilst Marion coiled and stowed, with the exquisite press of her forearm coming and going against his back until the rope lay coiled wyredark on the floor of the boat in the gaining light of the rising moon. He’d just witnessed, he realised, the casting of a spell. But now a crate was emerging and he was too absorbed in getting the thing over the side. He had to lean so far back against its weight that he feared they’d be capsized. Then, in a final rush, the crate was on board.

Gushing slats revealed the green shapes of bottles. Dad gave a wide grin. ‘Nothing but the best for this Midsummer, eh? Now—let’s get back to shore and have this stuff hidden before we run into the bloody Excise Men …’

G
REATGRANDMASTER THOMAS MEYNELL
finally arrived at Invercombe on the last train of the eve of Midsummer. Next morning, he felt exhilarated, and he wondered as he wandered the corridors just how many other discoveries Alice had been quietly nurturing amongst their guild’s possessions—but none, he decided, could be quite this glorious. It was hardly surprising, he thought, looking into rooms where air and sunlight wafted through open windows, that Ralph had recovered in this place.

The doors of bedrooms breathed open. This room, surely, was Ralph’s. There were stones and books and shells, although there was no sign of the lad. This one, around the corner, was certainly Alice’s. Glancing back, he decided to risk entering it. Last night, both claiming tiredness, they’d slept in separate rooms. Yet he felt much closer to his wife here as the sea air washed in through the open French windows and light glowed across the black leather sides of her big portmanteau. He smiled and touched its immovable locks, and glanced again towards the door.

There were things about his wife which, secretly, Tom had long known. That she was perhaps a little older than she claimed, for example. Or that her guilded origins weren’t quite as exalted as she liked everyone to think. His father had had his doubts from the start—he even used the phrase
gold-digger
—but, for Tom, that slight aura of evasion and mystery had always been one of the many things which he’d found so impossibly attractive about Alice.

Here was the mirror where she prepared herself, although he’d never seen her look anything less than perfect, not even in the wildest moments of their passion. In fact, she was even
more
perfect then. He felt his cock stirring. He recalled the secret, magical things which had once been so precious to him about their sexual life. Her wiles and abandonments. The first time she’d astonished him by bowing unbidden to take him into her mouth. Love—sex—was both simple and extraordinary. Like a song he hadn’t heard in years, it all came back to him. Last night really had been nothing but weariness. Now, it would be like old times, resurrected by the inescapable magic of this house.

His gaze strayed along the perfume vials to the green velvet case where she kept her jewellery. He slid it open, running his fingers through glints of sapphire and pearl as he thought of how they had lain on Alice’s skin. A chain snagged, but he managed to untangle it, and was laying things back in some approximation of the Alice-like neatness when his knuckle brushed on something, and a drawer underneath, which had shown no previous sign of existing, sprang out. There was an odder mixture of stuff down here. Even the finer bits, like this silver bangle set with bits of green stone, seemed much too brash for her. And this brooch was surely cheap paste—extremely cheap, if he could tell. And this hatpin had been corroded by long exposure to air and rain. And here was exactly the kind of brass button his father had once favoured for his waistcoats. Then a fine diamond earring; but just the one, and missing some of its gems. And surely this was simply the catch from a man’s zip fly—but perhaps here lay the edges of another secret about Alice of which Tom wasn’t entirely ignorant. After all, we all had our histories. He didn’t begrudge her that. Why, he, too, had had his long-lost passions … Then, as if summoned by the thought, he discovered a silver teardrop strung on a thin gold chain. It turned and flashed as he held it before the mirror. It was a fine piece—expensive, too. Not that he hadn’t wanted to spend more on dear, sweet Jackie Brumby, but this graceful chain and pendant was probably as extravagant an item as any laundry maid could safely wear, even if she had had to keep it hidden beneath her blouse as their own private secret. But how he’d adored the way it swung and glinted between her naked breasts as they made love.

‘You slept well?’

Turning, Tom slipped the chain from his fingers, closed the velvet drawer.

Alice’s voice, her whole presence, was cool and lithe.

‘I think it must be this country air.’

She smiled. ‘That’s what people always say, isn’t it?’

‘And I was thinking I might move my stuff in here and sleep with you tonight.’

She’d done up her hair in a way he especially liked, loosely caught at the back by a long-fingered tortoiseshell comb to display her fine neck and ears. Her legs were unstockinged and her bare feet were lightly entwined in espadrilles. Slipping her arm into his, she led him downstairs and into the gardens. Up there on the left is the famous weathertop—well, darling, it
should
be famous, anyway. That way, the promontory known as Durnock Head. Over there, those fairy turrets disguise the very first telephone transmission house ever built by our fellow guildsmen. Why, the place could be a museum of some significance, were it not far too beautiful! They reached the Lebanon walk, where the cooler air was threaded with cobwebs. There had been, Tom couldn’t help remembering, a minor spat with his father about the authorising of some papers just before the old man had died from some spasm of the brain whilst out riding one of the unicorns at Walcote. Even on this glorious morning, the thoughts, like some aethered darkness cast out by the sunlight, wouldn’t go away.

I’ve done a funny thing, darling. It’s not much, really—but you know those documents we talked about a shifterm or so ago ? Well, fact is, I still haven’t signed them. Oh, it’s nothing to do with the planning process or that new plant of yours or our guild. It’s just—and I know this is entirely stupid, my dearest Alice—but I simply want to be able to tell you I haven’t signed them, and then for you to smile back at me and say it doesn’t matter. And I’d sign the papers then, anyway. I’d sign the bloody lot of them. Told you it was stupid, didn’t I? I just want to hear you say you love me whether I sign those papers or not. But, as they crossed the bridge over a lily-studded canal, Tom found that he was unable to say any of those things.

‘Ahead of us now, darling—this wide space—is what we call the pleasure grounds …’

Long trestles had been laid across the grass and were being covered by blazing tablecloths, and then by an endless stream of tureens and serving plates which were being borne down the valley from the kitchens. And pies the size of wagon wheels. Cakes of all colours and varieties. Pyramids of oranges. Scented mountains of peaches …

‘Nibble away, dear. It’ll all be eaten at midday when the locals arrive.’ Her hand, butterfly-light, settled on his waist. ‘It’s a shame none of this can yet be made with bittersweet. Cook just uses it as a decoration. You know, you really are getting a shade portly.’

And then she was off, chiding or laughing with the servants, kind and compassionate, beautiful and wise: the very picture of the mistress of the house. Pushing away the shining image of Jackie’s pendant, deciding that all his worries would probably settle into decent order if he just spent a little longer here, Tom looked about for Ralph. The shock of how tall his son had grown, the breadth of his shoulders, the length of his sun-tinged hair and the sense of warm health he exuded through his scruffy clothes, was even stronger this morning than it had been during their brief encounter the night before.
You really are a man now. I’m so, so proud of you.
But once again, the things Tom wanted to say to those closest to him wouldn’t come.

‘This is quite a show, eh? Anyway, Dad …’ Ralph smiled, as anyone would, at the busy scene. ‘I’m pleased you’ve finally come down to Invercombe.’

‘You called me Dad …’

‘It’s just a word people use around here. I suppose I’ve picked it up. You don’t mind, do you?’

‘I quite like it.’ Tom felt layers of ice breaking somewhere within him.
Dad
—perhaps it signalled the start of a new ease between them.

They wandered the lawns, Ralph happily pointing out this or that landmark or variety of tree, Latin names tripping from his tongue as easily as the pleasant burr of his new western accent. His son was fuller than ever with suppositions and theories, and Tom was breathless by the time they’d climbed the steps to the lip of the vine-fronded grotto which looked out across the pleasure grounds, but Ralph didn’t pause as he talked until, finally, as the first of the locals began to appear, his gaze lingered on a particular dark-haired maid who was helping erect more trestles to support the seemingly endless tide of food. Tom had noticed her as well. She was exceptionally pretty—no, beautiful was the word—and the way Ralph was looking at her, that mixture of awe and longing … She glanced in their direction, and waved cheerily in a gesture as warm as the sunlight. Tom smiled to himself, to think that his son might be finding love. He even allowed another brief, illicit thought of dear, lost Jackie who’d left service and died so inexplicably …

‘What I’m really after is evidence of specialisation—inherited adaptation to local conditions. I have this idea, you see, Dad, and I think it might be important to how we view life as a whole. I can’t quite fully explain it yet…’

The scent the mouth of the grotto breathed out at them was cool and earthy.

‘This really is an excellent place for study,’ Tom agreed. After all, there’s so much of our own guild history here. Those old devices—you really must show me. By the way,’ he continued, quickly changing tack with the slight fall in his son’s face, ‘I’ve left the new prospectus for Highclare in your room. Your mother suggested I bring one down personally. Apparently, the post here’s a little unreliable.’

‘Highclare—that’s our main academy, isn’t it?’

‘It’s where you’re going this autumn. Hasn’t all this been … ?’

‘I honestly hadn’t thought, Father.’

There goes
Dad.
It was ridiculous, really, that Alice had never got around to mentioning this, with all the time she’d had with him here.

‘Although I suppose it makes a kind of sense that I go there,’ Ralph conceded.

‘Well, that was what we thought. Your mother and I.’

‘Of course.’

‘And all of this is assuming that you’re still as well as you seem to be—I mean, fully recovered.’ Briefly, Tom could almost hate Alice for the way she’d foisted the task of breaking the news about Highclare to Ralph on him. But after all, he was Chief Telegrapher, and she’d simply and discreetly left the path clear for him to have the sort of man-to-man conversation about the future which any better father would have had already with his son. As always, it was his fault, not hers. For not being here. For his stupid obsessions. And he so admired Ralph for the dignified way in which he was taking this. He wasn’t even asking to be reassured about what Highclare, with its cold dorms, its initiations and muddy pitches, was really like.

‘I’m sorry.’ Ralph’s eyes, unfocused, met his father’s. ‘I suppose this was due to happen. I mean’—he gestured vaguely—‘how could we be here in this lovely spot without the Telegraphers? And I know I have responsibilities. It’s just that—well, it’s come as a surprise. And I think I’m close this summer to discovering something important. You understand that, don’t you?’

‘Yes,’ Tom agreed as they looked at each other blankly. ‘I think I do.’

The picnic in the pleasure grounds was due to start at midday, but time amongst the shorepeople, and with the sole exception of the tide, was always
about,
which generally allowed a good hour or two’s leeway. So it was a little before ten when the first arrivals tumbled through the swing gate which they had never dared use and up the paths into Invercombe’s amazing grounds, and it was considerably after one-thirty when the main procession finally arrived. By then, the great pies were in ruins, cook had had to summon up many more batches of sausages and there was a chronic shortage of lemonade, but there was plenty of almost everything else to go round even if the scene of sunlit jellies and ravaged hams looked more like a battlefield than a picnic, and there was much lobbing of bread rolls.

Denise Price, who was this year’s Midsummer Queen, arrived in a flower-bedecked chair surrounded by rose-petal-tossing swarms of children, although her acolytes scampered ahead at the first whiff of food, and she, after a little hesitation, and hungry herself, soon tucked up her train and ran to join them. Afterwards, sated and somewhat jolly, people headed in ragged groups back towards the Midsummer Market which always took place in the dray field up towards Luttrell. The presence of Invercombe’s greatgrandmaster and his beautiful mistress this year was a bonus. Many even commented—although well out of earshot of Denise Price—that Alice Meynell was today’s real Midsummer Queen. She browsed the stalls of fruit and knotted hanks of herb and aromatic cigars and cheroots, along with the ubiquitous stacks of label-less bottles. People were proud that she was here, and grateful for her interest, and answered all of her many questions with a frankness which they probably came to regret.