Free The Day of the Storm by Rosamunde Pilcher Page B

Joss’s part was like a slap in the face.
    At last, “Well, see you around,” said the tall man, and moved off.
    â€œSure,” said Joss.
    â€œNight, Tommy,” he called to the barman as he pushed the door open and let the dog out ahead of him.
    â€œGood night, Mr Bayliss,” said the barman.
    I felt my head jerk around as though someone had pulled a string. He had already disappeared, leaving the door swinging behind him. Without thinking, I slipped off the stool to go after him, but a hand caught my arm and restrained me, and I turned to find Joss holding me back. For a surprising second our eyes clashed, and then I shook myself free. Outside I heard a car start up. Now it was too late.
    I said, “Who is he?”
    â€œEliot Bayliss.”
    Eliot. Roger’s boy. Mollie’s child. Grenville Bayliss’s grandson. My cousin. My family.
    â€œHe’s my cousin.”
    â€œI didn’t know that.”
    â€œYou know my name. Why didn’t you tell him? Why did you stop me going after him?”
    â€œYou’ll meet him soon enough. Tonight it’s too late and too wet and too dark for family reunions.”
    â€œGrenville Bayliss is my grandfather, too.”
    â€œI thought there was probably some connection,” said Joss coolly. “Have another drink.”
    By now I was really angry. “I don’t want another drink.”
    â€œIn that case, let’s go and eat.”
    â€œI don’t want to eat either.”
    I thought that I truly didn’t want to. I didn’t want to spend another moment with this boorish and overbearing young man. I watched him finish his drink and get down off his stool, and for an instant I thought that he was actually going to take me at my word; was going to drive me back to Fish Lane and there dump me, un-nourished. But, luckily, he did not call my bluff, simply paid for the drinks, and without a word led the way through a door at the far end of the bar, which gave on to a flight of stairs and a small restaurant. I followed him because there didn’t seem to be anything else to do. Besides, I was hungry.
    Most of the tables were already occupied, but a waitress saw Joss and recognized him and came over to say good evening, and led us to what was obviously the best table in the room, set in the narrow alcove of a jutting bay window. Beyond the window could be seen the shapes of rain-washed roofs, and beyond them again the liquid darkness of the harbour, a-shimmer with reflections from the street lamps on the quay and the riding lights of fishing boats.
    We faced each other. I was still deeply angry and would not look at him. I sat, drawing patterns with my finger on the table mat, and listened to him ordering what I was to eat. Apparently I was not even to be allowed the right of making my own choice. I heard the waitress say, “For the young lady, too?” as though even she were surprised by his cursory behaviour, and Joss said, “Yes, for the young lady, too,” and the waitress went off, and we were alone.
    After a little I looked up. His dark gaze met mine, unblinking. The silence grew, and I had the ridiculous feeling that he was waiting for me to apologize to him.
    I heard myself say, “If you won’t let me talk to Eliot Bayliss, perhaps you’ll talk about him.”
    â€œWhat do you want to know?”
    â€œIs he married?” It was the first question that came into my head.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œHe’s attractive.” Joss acknowledged this. “Does he live alone?”
    â€œNo, with his mother. They have a house up at High Cross, six miles or so from here, but about a year ago they moved into Boscarva, to be with the old man.”
    â€œIs my grandfather ill?”
    â€œYou don’t know very much about your family, do you?”
    â€œNo.” I sounded defiant.
    â€œAbout ten years ago Grenville Bayliss had a heart attack. That’s when he stopped