The Day of the Storm Read Free Page B

you,” said the young man, “… but if you had a large fat man for dinner, he’d probably end up on his backside.”
    There was a pause while I regarded him—I hoped coldly. His eyes were brimming, with a malicious amusement which I had no intention of sharing. I did not appreciate the suggestion that the only men who would ever come and have dinner with me would necessarily be large and fat.
    I said at last, “How much would it cost me to have the leg repaired?”
    â€œSay five pounds. That means you get the chairs for a tenner each.”
    I worked this out, and decided that I could just afford them.
    â€œI’ll take them.”
    â€œGood,” said the young man and put his fists on his hips and smiled amiably, as though this were the end of the transaction.
    I decided he was utterly inefficient. “Do you want me to pay for them now, or to leave a deposit…?”
    â€œNo, that doesn’t matter. You can pay for them when you collect them.”
    â€œWell, when will they be ready?”
    â€œIn about a week.”
    â€œDon’t you want my name?”
    â€œNot unless you want to give it to me.”
    â€œWhat happens if I never come back?”
    â€œThen I expect they’ll be sold to someone else.”
    â€œI don’t want to lose them.”
    â€œYou won’t,” said the young man.
    I frowned, angry with him, but he only smiled and went to the door to open it for me. Cold air poured in, and outside the drizzle had started and the street looked dark as night.
    He said, “Goodbye,” and I managed a frosty smile of thanks and went past him, out into the gloom, and as I did so I heard the bell ring as he shut the door behind me.
    The day was, all at once, unspeakable. My pleasure in buying the chairs had been wrecked by the irritation which the young man had generated. I did not usually take instant dislikes to people and I was annoyed not only with him, but with myself, for being so vulnerable. I was still brooding on this when I walked down Walton Street and let myself into Stephen Forbes’s bookshop. Even the comfort of being indoors and the pleasant smell of new paper and printers’ ink did nothing to dispel my wretched mood.
    The shop was on three levels, with new books on the ground floor, second-hand books and old prints upstairs, and Stephen’s office in the basement. I saw that Jennifer, the second girl, was busy with a customer, and the only other person visible was an old lady in a tweed cape engrossed in the Gardening section, so I headed for the little cloakroom, unbuttoning my coat as I went, but then I heard Stephen’s heavy, unmistakeable footsteps coming up from downstairs, and for some reason I stopped to wait for him. The next moment he appeared, tall, stooping and spectacled, with his usual expression of vague benevolence. He wore dark suits that always managed to appear as though in need of a good press, and already, at this early hour, the knot of his tie had begun to slip down, revealing the top button of his shirt.
    â€œRebecca,” he said.
    â€œYes, I’m here…”
    â€œI’m glad I’ve caught you.” He came to my side speaking low-voiced, so as not to disturb the customers. “There’s a letter for you downstairs; it’s been forwarded on from your old flat. You’d better nip down and collect it.”
    I frowned. “A letter?”
    â€œYes. Airmail. Lots of foreign stamps. It has, for some reason, an air of urgency about it.”
    My irritation, along with all thoughts of new chairs, was lost in a sudden apprehension.
    â€œIs it from my mother?”
    â€œI don’t know. Why don’t you go and find out?”
    So I went down the steep, uncarpeted stairs to the basement, lit, on this dark day, by long strip-lights let into the ceiling. The office was marvellously untidy—as usual—littered with letters and parcels and files,