Memories of the Storm Read Free Page B

and along to the airing cupboard to find
some sheets.
    'I remember your mother very well,' Hester was
saying. 'Such a pretty little girl. We were all very
fond of her.'
    She realized that she was making an effort quite
as much to raise her own spirits as to distract Jonah
from his preoccupation. She knew, too, that she
could not take him into the drawing-room. After
her day-long premonition had culminated with
such violence in his experience on the bridge, her
usual detachment and common sense had deserted
her: the drawing-room held other vibrations to
which, in his present state, he might respond.
Instead, she poured him another Scotch and led
the way out of the large square hall, with its
inglenook fireplace and comfortable chairs, into
the book-room where she had been sitting earlier,
beside a small wood fire.
    'Mum never talks about the war,' he answered,
looking around him appreciatively, taking in the
book-lined walls, the small revolving table beside
the wing-chair, the chaise longue under the window.
'She's got a thing about it. I suppose that
losing both her parents gave her a horror of it all. I
knew the name of your house from some photos we
have at home of my mother when she was little.
She's made a bit of a mystery of it all, to tell you the
truth, and when she mentioned your name I felt as
if an opportunity I'd been waiting for had suddenly
come. And then that thing happened on the
bridge.' He glanced at Hester apologetically. 'I'm
behaving like an idiot but it was very real, you
know. I saw him . . . Sorry. This is an amazing
room.'
    She acknowledged his attempt to pull himself
together and gestured to the other armchair.
    'Sit down,' she said. 'This was my mother's
favourite room. She said that it was the only room
in the house where you couldn't hear the river.'
    Jonah sat down and stretched out his legs
towards the fire. 'Didn't she like the noise of
water?'
    'She found it rather relentless. There are
moments, you know, when you want to turn it off,
just for a moment; to shout at it to be quiet.
Especially at this time of the year.'
    'I wondered what it was,' he told her. 'When
we were in the car, I mean. I could hear it in
the background, like some growling, angry voice.
Rather menacing. I can understand how your
mother must have felt about it. It must be rather
frightening sometimes.'
    'Towards the end she found it so. Especially at
night. She seemed to hear voices in its roaring.' She
fell silent, sipped at her Scotch, trying to see her
way ahead.
    'Voices?' His own voice was reflective as if he were
imagining it. 'Particular voices, d'you mean, or
what?'
    Hester hesitated. 'She wasn't quite herself at the
end. My two brothers were killed early on in the war
and the eldest, Edward, was in Singapore in 1942
and taken prisoner by the Japanese. She adored
her sons and the shock of losing them weakened
her. She was never particularly strong and she
just seemed to lose interest in living. Worse
than that, she had no desire to live in a world where
such appalling things were happening. Edward's
capture was the last straw. She couldn't co-exist with
the thought of his imprisonment. She died in the
autumn of 1942. Sixty years ago.' She nearly added,
'This very night,' but felt that this would simply add
to the emotional tension.
    'How terrible for you to lose your brothers and
your mother within such a short time.' His horror
was genuine. 'You must have been terribly young.
Was my mother here then? Was she evacuated?'
    'She arrived later in the war.' She responded
instinctively to his sympathy, abandoning some of
her caution. 'Your grandfather Michael and my
brother Edward were at Cambridge together. They
were very good friends and, when your grandmother
was killed, Michael asked if he could bring
Lucy to us.'
    'So you knew him? You actually knew my grandfather.
He came here to this house. How amazing!
So you really do remember my mother?'
    Hester hesitated again for a brief moment, then
reached into her pocket