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

open with his shoulder, waiting for me to follow. So eventually I did so, edging past him, and out into the fury of the dark evening.
    In the dim light I saw the Mini pick-up, parked, with the sidelights burning. Letting the door slam behind him, he crossed over to this, and gently loaded his parcel into the back, and then took my rucksack from me, and heaved this in too, covering the two bundles in a cursory fashion with an old piece of tarpaulin. I stood watching him, but he said, “Go on, get in, there’s no point us both getting wet through,” so I did as I was told, settling myself in the passenger seat with my bag jammed between my legs. Almost at once he had joined me, shutting his door with an almighty slam, and switching on the engine as though there were not a moment to be lost. We roared up the hill away from the station, and the next moment had turned on to the main road and were heading for Porthkerris.
    *   *   *
    He said, “Tell me more, now. I thought you lived in London.”
    â€œYes, I do.”
    â€œHave you come down for a holiday?”
    â€œSort of.”
    â€œThat sounds good and vague. Are you staying with friends?”
    â€œYes. No. I don’t know.”
    â€œWhat does that mean?”
    â€œJust that. It means I don’t know.” This sounded rude but it couldn’t be helped. I felt as though I had no control over what I was saying.
    â€œWell, you’d better make up your mind before you get to Porthkerris, otherwise you’ll be spending the night on the beach.”
    â€œI … I’m going to stay in a hotel. Just for tonight.”
    â€œWell, that’s great. Which one?”
    I sent him an exasperated look and he said, reasonably enough, “Well, if I don’t know which one, I can’t take you there, can I?”
    He seemed to have me cornered. I said, “I haven’t booked in to any hotel. I mean, I thought I could do that when I arrived. There are hotels, aren’t there?”
    â€œPorthkerris is running with them. Every other house is a hotel. But at this time of the year most of them are closed.”
    â€œDo you know some that are open?”
    â€œYes. But it depends what you want to pay.”
    He glanced at me sideways, taking in my patched jeans, scuffed shoes, and an old fur-lined leather coat that I had worn for warmth and comfort. At the moment this garment looked and smelt like a wet dog.
    â€œWe go from one extreme to the other. The Castle, up on the Hill, where you change for dinner, and dance the foxtrot to a three-piece orchestra, right down to Mrs Kernow who does Bed and Breakfast at Number Two, Fish Lane. Mrs Kernow I can recommend. She looked after me for three months or more before I got into my own place, and her prices are very reasonable.”
    I was diverted. “Your own place? You mean you live here?”
    â€œI do now. Have done for the last six months.”
    â€œBut … the shop in the New Kings Road … where I bought the chairs?”
    â€œI was just helping out for a day or so.”
    We came to a crossroads, and, slowing down, he turned to look at me. “Have you got the chairs yet?”
    â€œNo. But I’ve paid for them. They’ll still be there when I get back.”
    â€œGood,” said the young man.
    We drove for a little in silence. Through a village, and up over a wild bit of country high above the sea; then the road leaned down again, and there were trees on either side of us. Through these, through twisted trunks and branches tortured by the wind, there presently appeared, far below us, the twinkling lights of a little town.
    â€œIs that Porthkerris?”
    â€œIt is. And in a moment you’re going to have to tell me if it’s to be The Castle or Fish Lane.”
    I swallowed. The Castle was out of the question, obviously, but if I went to Fish Lane I would necessarily place myself under an obligation to