Free The Day of the Storm by Rosamunde Pilcher

“Now,” he said, “we are ready to go.” He opened the door, on to a curtain of rain.
    I protested, “But you’ll get wet,” but he only said “Scuttle” so I scuttled, and he scuttled too, and the next instant we were back in the van, scarcely wet at all, with the doors banged tight and shut against the storm, although small puddles of rain on my seat and at my feet gave rise to the suspicion that this staunch vehicle was no longer as watertight as it had once been. But he started the noisy engine and we were away, and with the volume of water both outside and inside the car it was a little like being taken for a fast ride in a leaky motor boat.
    I said, “Where are we going?”
    â€œThe Anchor. It’s just round the corner. Not very smart. Do you mind?”
    â€œWhy should I mind?”
    â€œYou might mind. You might have wanted to be taken to The Castle.”
    â€œYou mean to foxtrot to a three-piece orchestra?”
    He grinned. He said, “I can’t foxtrot. Nobody ever learned me.”
    We flashed down Fish Lane, around a right angled corner or two, beneath a stone archway and so out into a small square. One side of this was formed by the low, uneven shape of an old inn. Warm light shone from behind small windows spilled from a crooked doorway and the Inn sign over the door swung and creaked in the wind. There were four or five cars already parked outside, and Joss inserted the van neatly into a tidy space between two of them, turned off the engine, said, “One, two, three, run,” and we both got out and sprinted the short distance between the car and the shelter of the porch.
    There Joss shook himself slightly, brushed the rain from the soft surface of his sweater, took the oilskin off my shoulders and opened the door for me to go ahead of him.
    It was warm inside, and low-ceilinged and smelt the way old pubs have always smelt. Of beer and pipe smoke and musty wood. There was a bar, with high stools, and tables around the edge of the room. Two old men were playing darts in a corner.
    The barman looked up and said, “Hi, Joss.” Joss put the oilskin up on a coat hook, and led me across the room to be introduced.
    â€œTommy, this is Rebecca. Rebecca, this is Tommy Williams. He’s been here man and boy; anything you want to know about Porthkerris, or the people who live here, you come and ask Tommy.”
    We said, “How do you do.” Tommy had grey hair and a lot of wrinkles. He looked as though he might be a fisherman in his spare time. We sat ourselves on two stools, and Joss ordered a scotch and soda for me and a scotch and water for himself, and while Tommy fixed these the two men began to talk, falling comfortably into conversation the way men in pubs always seem to.
    â€œHow are things going with you?” That was Tommy.
    â€œNot too bad.”
    â€œWhen are you opening up?”
    â€œEaster, maybe, with a bit of luck.”
    â€œPlace finished is it?”
    â€œMore or less.”
    â€œWho’s doing the carpentry?”
    â€œDoing it myself.”
    â€œThat’ll save you something.”
    My attention wandered. I lit a cigarette and looked around me, liking what I saw. The two old men playing darts; a young couple, jeaned and longhaired, crouched over a table and a couple of pints of bitter, discussing, with avid and intense concentration—existentialism? Concrete painting? How they were going to pay the rent? Something. But it mattered, intensely, to both of them.
    And then a party of four, older, expensively dressed, the men self-consciously casual, the women unwittingly formal. I guessed they were staying at The Castle, and out of boredom with the weather, perhaps, had come down the town for a spot of slumming. They seemed uncomfortable, as though they knew they looked out of place, and could scarcely wait to get back to the padded velvet comfort of the big hotel on the hill.
    My eyes moved