Memories of the Storm Read Online Free Page A

honeysuckle-coloured walls, a stripped wood
floor with several blue rugs making deep pools of
colour, a square table covered with a cream oilcloth
patterned with tiny, dark green ivy leaves.
    Clio appeared to have recovered from her fright
on the bridge. A smile of suppressed excitement
was pressed upon her upward-curving lips and she
was wrapped in a large apron that had 'Kiss the
Cook' printed across it. An enormous tortoiseshell
cat – so large that Jonah doubted he was real – was
curled in a basket chair.
    'That's St Francis,' said Hester. 'He was called
Billy to begin with but his unusually philanthropic
attitude towards birds and rodents required some
kind of public recognition.'
    'It doesn't matter what you call him,' said Clio,
noting Jonah's doubtful expression. 'He'll ignore
you anyway. I call him Frank.'
    Jonah put out a cautious hand and stroked the
soft warm animal rather gingerly. St Francis stirred,
licked his left flank once or twice and resumed
slumber without acknowledging Jonah's caress.
    'Told you so,' said Clio with some satisfaction.
'Come and sit down. I've made a mushroom omelette
and then there's a casserole.'
    During supper it was easy for Hester to divert
the conversation away from the war to Jonah's
work: the scripts he'd written and the novel he was
presently adapting for television. Clio had seen one
of his plays, which they discussed at length, and he
entertained them with stories about productions
and famous actors. He was a witty raconteur,
making them laugh and encouraging their questions,
so that it was much later, when Clio was
stacking the dishwasher in the kitchen and Jonah
and Hester were still at the table drinking coffee,
that tension crept back to chill the cheerful atmosphere.
    'It's stopped raining,' Clio called through the
archway, 'though there's a terrific gale blowing.
Listen to the river.'
    She leaned across the sink and opened the
window so that the restless voice that had distantly
accompanied their supper was suddenly borne in
upon them on a wild rush of wind, clamouring now
with a renewed violence.
    'Can we go out and see it?' asked Jonah. 'The
river must be pretty impressive after all that rain.'
    To Clio's surprise, Hester rose and took him
out through the kitchen into the yard rather than
on to the terrace outside the drawing-room where
visitors were usually shown the river. A light outside
the door illuminated the courtyard and he
passed Clio's car and went on to the bridge. Hester
watched him from the doorway, Clio at her
shoulder. The noise of the water was overwhelming:
brawling, brutal, black and oily-looking in the darkness,
its sheer force was breathtaking. Branches
and other detritus swirled upon its swollen breast,
smashing against the stone piers of the bridge and
vanishing beneath the arch, and all the while the
river roared and thundered as it raced between its
imprisoning banks.
    Jonah came back to them slowly, his face
clenched painfully as though his head hurt; his eyes
looked at them unseeingly. He staggered slightly as
the wind gusted even more strongly, and Clio put
out her hand and drew him into the warm shelter of
the house.
    'I'll show you your room,' she said, concerned by
his expression. 'Let's get your bag. I left it in the
hall.'
    They went upstairs together and Hester returned
thoughtfully to the kitchen to finish the clearing up.
When they reappeared about ten minutes later,
both looked equally strained.
    'I'm sorry we didn't get round to talking properly
about Mum and the war,' Jonah said rather awkwardly
to Hester. 'I'd like to know more. It's odd
but I feel strangely affected by this place.' He
grimaced, as if embarrassed by his admission.
'Probably overwork. I think I'll turn in.'
    Hester, who was not given to endearments or
shows of affection, touched him lightly on the
shoulder. 'We will talk, I promise. When the
moment is right. Sleep well, Jonah.'
    He went away from them, up the stairs, and
Clio gave a little shiver. It was obvious