What Tomorrow Brings Read online

  That night we went to Gennaro’s in Dean Street where all the ladies were presented with a rose as they went in. That set the mood for the evening and while we waited for our meal we drank red wine from an earthenware carafe and talked about China and the recent Japanese invasion.

  ‘What are the Japanese after?’ I asked, keen to hear his explanation.

  ‘Oh, it’s power and money as much as anything. The Japanese economy is in a mess and they want to rape the Chinese of their agriculture and mining products. They’re militaristic in Tokyo and bloody desperate to expand their empire. West into China is about the only place they can go, what with the Americans holding on to the islands in the south and east. They don’t seem to care that it’s costing them to keep armies in Manchuria.’

  Manchuria and Tokyo. Even the names were exciting. ‘Have you been to Manchuria?’ I asked, breathlessly.

  He shook his head. ‘I tried but I couldn’t get in, but I did get to the Marco Polo bridge south of Peking, where there is a face-off. The Japs are pretending to do manoeuvres on their side but it’s only a ruse. They’re trying to force the Chinese to react. It’s going to be terrible.’ He smoothed his fair hair back from his face. He wasn’t bad-looking, I thought, but not my type. I didn’t know what my type was, really. I’d had a few boyfriends, intellectual fellows at university with whom I’d debated politics and rearmament and other matters of the day but none of those friendships had come to anything. I didn’t seem to be able to give my heart easily.

  ‘Are you going back?’ We were eating pasta covered in a marvellous creamy sauce which in my excitement I kept dripping on to my chin. At one point Charlie reached over and wiped my face with his napkin. ‘Mucky pup,’ he smiled and I was embarrassed but his amused blue eyes were gentle behind the glasses.

  ‘Sorry,’ I muttered and told myself severely to calm down. This sort of conversation was what I’d been longing for and I wasn’t going to let the opportunity slip away.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he laughed. ‘Gennaro would be pleased that you are so relaxed and enjoying his food. Me too.’ Was he flirting with me? Yes of course he was. Charlie liked to flirt but I wasn’t ready for that.

  ‘China,’ I said. ‘Are you going back?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m not going back to China for the moment. I think Spain is calling.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Another day, another war.’

  ‘Which side do you support?’ I asked, rather boldly I suppose because I’d only just met him.

  He turned the question back on me. ‘Which do you?’ he said and held up his glass of wine to indicate to the waiter that we wanted some more.

  I paused before answering. Xanthe had come home a couple of months ago talking about Clive getting into a fight with some men in a bar. ‘They were communists,’ she said excitedly. ‘People he’d known at school, from decent families, not common workers or anything. They were going to Spain to fight in the International Brigade. Against Franco, I think. I’m not really sure.’ She put her finger to her red-painted lips and frowned. She was thinking, trying to remember the exact ins and outs. But I knew she wouldn’t be able to. Xanthe generally only heard parts of a conversation. ‘Anyway,’ she continued, ‘Clive was furious and said they were Reds and class traitors and words like that. He hit one of them.’ Her eyes were sparkling. ‘It was thrilling.’

  But I had an utterly different take on the situation. Three years at university had given me ample opportunity for debate and I had made up my mind a year ago. I was scared of the rise of fascism in Europe. I was scared too of the rise of communism in eastern Europe but in Spain the Socialists seemed to have more legitimacy.

  ‘The Republicans,’ I said and waited for his face to fall. It didn’t.

  ‘I knew you’d say that,’ he laughed. ‘And I agree, although as a reporter and not a politician I have to be pretty neutral.’

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘It’s our job to put the facts out clearly and let our readers decide.’

  ‘Is that what you do with Monica and the gossip column?’

  I could feel my cheeks going red. I’d been getting above myself.

  He leant back in his chair and stared at me. ‘You know, Blake, you’re not bad-looking. I’m guessing that you’re pretty intelligent and . . . mm . . . ambitious? Yes? You’re probably made for the newspaper industry.’

  I blushed even more. Nobody had ever told me I was good-looking. Xanthe was the pretty one in our family, a fact that was accepted by everyone, me included. She was petite and blonde with blue eyes and the regulation tip-tilted nose. Nobody could doubt she was one of my mother’s glamorous family, the talked-about beauties who had all been photographed as ‘girls in pearls’ in glossy magazines. On the other hand, I was a twig cut from the northern mill family tree. I had red-brown hair in those days which bounced crazily away from my head unless it was held back with clips or a ribbon. My hazel eyes had flecks of green in them and I was tallish and thin with a flat chest and boy’s hips. Worst of all, in the summer I had a scattering of childish freckles across my nose which everybody remarked upon. They were there now and I self-consciously put my hand up to my face.

  ‘It’s no good trying to hide those freckles,’ Charlie smiled. ‘I’ve already spotted them. Very Just William.’

  I frowned at first and then laughed with him. It was odd. In only a few hours I felt as though I’d known him for ever and that we could say anything to each other. That never changed. Charlie Bradford was the best of men, kind and clever and almost honourable. Nobody is entirely honourable. That first night though he was quite keen on my coming to his flat for a coffee after we left Gennaro’s but I shook my head. ‘I must get home,’ I said. ‘My parents will be wondering where I am.’

  ‘You still live at home? My God! That’s no way to behave, Blake.’ He helped me on with my jacket and then picked up my rose from the table. ‘Don’t forget this. Now, you must find yourself a flat. That is if you want to be independent, which I’m assuming you do.’

  ‘I am independent,’ I said fiercely, but of course, I wasn’t. And then the next day my mother proved it by forcing me to take Xanthe away and now I was stuck reading my newspaper while my erstwhile colleagues were writing it.

  ‘Oh hell,’ I groaned out loud as I sat alone on the veranda looking out across the village and harbour to the sea. It was cobalt blue this morning and flat calm, perfect for a swim. As soon as my coffee had settled I would gather my bathing things and go down the steps to the beach.

  Mrs Penney, who did for us when we were at the holiday house, had brought the newspaper up with her when she came first thing and I had eagerly riffled through the pages. It was my paper; and I read the articles carefully instead of looking to see which of my colleagues had been published. There was a photograph of our new king and queen on the front and I studied it for a moment before turning to the inside pages.

  Monica Cathcart had chosen three letters to reply to with her usual cloying false sincerity. I wondered who had actually done the choosing – it wouldn’t be her, that was certain. Then I turned to Charlie’s column, a thoughtful piece about how the Spanish bishops had come out in support of Generalissimo Franco. I read it avidly and found myself agreeing with his obvious distaste.

  My reading was disturbed by shouting from our beach and I stood up and went to the edge of the veranda to look down. Three men were on the sand running about and laughing and while I watched, one of them started stripping off his clothes ready, I supposed, to go in for a swim. Couldn’t they read the ‘private beach’ notices? I thought indignantly.

  ‘I’m going down to the beach,’ I called to Xanthe, who didn’t reply and in a temper born not only from the trespassers but from my frustration at being here at all, I hurried down the winding steps which would take me directly on to the sand.

  ‘Hello,’ said one of the men who, with his pal, was lying beside the rocks. They looked startled, staring at me with puzzled and slightly embarrassed expressio
ns. ‘Where on earth did you spring from?’ They were young, in their early twenties I guessed, with open friendly faces and sun-streaked hair. They were dressed in white slacks and white shirts. To my eyes they looked like members of a cricket team.

  ‘I came from my house, up there.’ I nodded towards the steps. ‘And you are trespassing. This is a private beach.’

  ‘Oh Lord,’ said the first man. He was young, probably younger than I was and judging from the striped varsity tie that he was using as a belt, still in college. ‘I’m sorry,’ he apologised. ‘We didn’t know.’

  ‘We came across the rocks from the other side,’ said the other one, scrambling to his feet. ‘We’ll go.’

  They seemed quite nice and I was sorry that I’d been so snappy with them. ‘You can go up our steps,’ I conceded. ‘It’ll be quicker. Turn left at the house and follow the road round. It’ll take you into the village.’

  I waited while they gathered their shoes and white panamas, then a thought struck me. ‘I saw three of you. I’m sure I did.’

  They turned their heads towards the sea and I did too. Someone was swimming across the bay like I loved to do and, strangely compelled, I started to walk to the water’s edge. The sun was dancing on the sea and making the rough water thrown up by the swimmer’s arms sparkle in a million drops. He turned and struck out for the shore until he was able to stand up in the foam and shake the glittering beads of water from his black hair. And the world stopped spinning as I watched Amyas walk out of the sea.

  Chapter Two

  IN THE YEARS after whenever I thought of summer it was of those idyllic weeks spent with Amyas. From my chair here on the veranda I can look down to the very spot where I first met him, that strange almost mythical figure who came out of the ocean.

  He stood in the little waves of foam which were washing the beach, with his hands raised, squeezing water out of his hair, which hung below his ears, then wiping his face with his hand. I stared at him with my eyes screwed up, for the sun was behind him and he appeared to be in some sort of magical haze.

  The vision spoke. ‘The water is fantastic.’

  I swallowed, closing my mouth, which I feared had been hanging open. ‘Yes,’ I stuttered. ‘It always is.’

  Now he was staring at me. ‘You’re a nut-brown girl, if ever I saw one,’ he said. ‘Do you know that Irish folk song? It could have been written about you. That hair’ – he was looking at the wild locks blowing around my face – ‘it’s the colour of chestnuts. Glorious. Are you Irish?’

  I shook my head. I seemed to be unable to speak. All I could do was stare at him; at his slightly olive skin and the fan of dark hair which covered his chest, and looking up I gazed at his face which now, as my vision cleared, I could see was the most handsome I had ever seen. It seems wrong to describe a man as beautiful, but Amyas was. His every feature was well formed: straight nose, firm chin, and dark brown eyes which in almost a flick of a switch could display every emotion from passion to amusement and even hatred.

  My eyes trailed down. He wasn’t wearing swimming trunks but had gone into the sea in his knee-length thin cotton underpants which clung to his body and left nothing hidden. He knew I was staring.

  ‘I wasn’t planning to swim when we set out this morning,’ he laughed and looked down at his pants, where I could see the dark outline of hair and the bulge of his manhood. ‘Am I embarrassing you?’ It was bold and careless and I bit my lip. His arrogance infuriated me.

  ‘Not in the least,’ I replied sharply, finding my voice at last. ‘But you’d better get dressed and leave. You’re trespassing. This is a private beach.’

  ‘Private?’ He gave me an amused look. ‘Do people have private beaches these days?’

  ‘Of course they do. If they can afford them.’

  ‘And you can?’

  ‘The house and the beach belong to my family,’ I said, now feeling awkward, ‘not that it’s any of your business.’ My anger was returning and I turned my head and looked back to the rocks. The other two men were climbing the steps and as I watched one of them turned and waved.

  ‘Look,’ I said, ‘your friends are leaving.’

  ‘So they are.’ He didn’t move but then suddenly thrust out his hand. ‘Amyas Troy. How do you do?’

  I automatically took his hand and nodded my own greeting. ‘Seffy Blake.’

  ‘Seffy?’

  ‘Persephone.’ I waited for the raised eyebrows and nervous laugh which usually greeted the announcement of my name. But none came. He simply nodded.

  I turned away and started to walk back towards the rocks and after a moment Amyas fell in beside me. I could see a pile of clothes close to where the other boys had been. ‘Are those yours?’ I pointed to them.

  He looked around the empty cove. ‘I suppose they must be,’ he said. ‘I don’t see any other trespassers on your private beach.’ He was laughing at me, making fun of my ridiculous outrage, and reaching the clothes I paused. God, I thought, I must sound like the most awful snob and was suddenly ashamed of myself. What was so wrong about these perfectly ordinary young men enjoying themselves on the beach? Only days ago I’d argued for the Socialists in Spain and here I was fiercely protecting our private property. I was as big a hypocrite as Monica Cathcart.

  ‘Mr Troy,’ I said slowly. ‘You can stay here for a bit, if you like. I don’t mind. Have another swim, perhaps.’

  He bent down and finding his jacket on top of the pile reached into the pocket for a packet of cigarettes. He lit one and deeply inhaled the smoke. ‘I might,’ he said. ‘I might if you stay with me.’

  ‘Oh, I can’t,’ I said quickly. ‘I have things to do.’

  ‘You don’t.’ He grinned at me. ‘You know you don’t.’

  ‘Don’t I?’ I felt helpless and overwhelmed and so unlike my normal self. It was as if I didn’t want to leave him. Couldn’t leave him. But this was foolish and I gave myself a mental shake. ‘My sister is in the house.’ I looked up the steps. ‘I’m supposed to be looking after her.’

  Amyas threw away his cigarette. ‘All right,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Let me strip off these wet shorts and I’ll come with you.’

  ‘No . . .’ I started to say but he already had a hand on the waistband and was pulling down the underpants. I spun round and stood with my back to him, gazing out over the sea and the azure sky above it. I could smell the surf, the sharp ozone scent of the ocean, and wondered what beaches this water had washed up on before. Perhaps exciting foreign lands where coconut trees grew on white sand and half-naked men fished from palm leaf boats. Oh, the prospect thrilled my already heightened imagination and an unaccustomed tremor fizzed through my body.

  Behind me Amyas was whistling quietly as he dressed and I ached to turn around and look at him again. What had happened to me? I wondered. Why wasn’t I running up the steps and back to the security of the house and the annoyance that was Xanthe?

  ‘Ready.’ He spoke softly and I turned to find him dressed in white slacks like those of the other boys and an unbuttoned white shirt. ‘You didn’t embarrass me either,’ he said with a mock serious expression.

  I was puzzled. How on earth could I have embarrassed him? ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Well,’ he tucked his jacket and canvas shoes under one arm and then picked up the wet pants. ‘You were standing against the sun and you aren’t exactly dressed in armour plate.’ I looked down and realised with a horrified gasp that I was still in my thin nightdress covered only by the filmiest of peignoirs. Amyas must have been able to see straight through it.

  ‘Oh, God,’ I said and then burst into laughter. ‘I’m as bad as you,’ I giggled.

  ‘Nobody’s as bad as me,’ he replied.

  Back at the house, I made fresh coffee which we drank sitting on the veranda. Xanthe hadn’t emerged from her room and Mrs Penney had gone home so we were on our own.

  ‘I like your house,’ said Amyas. ‘Arts and Crafts, isn’t it?’

  I nodded
. ‘My grandfather had it built before the war. It’s a holiday home.’

  ‘So, I conclude that your family is wealthy?’

  I squirmed a bit. My mother said that talking about money was vulgar, but then she’d always had plenty and couldn’t understand that to some people talking about it was a vital daily need.

  ‘Yes, I suppose so,’ I answered.

  ‘Titled?’

  ‘Well, yes,’ I said, with an embarrassed laugh. ‘My grandfather had cotton mills in Manchester and made a lot of money. He gave some of it to the government of the day and they rewarded him with a baronetcy. But we’re trade, really.’

  Amyas nodded and turned his face away to look at the sea. He had the most perfect profile, not one feature wrong and everything in handsome proportion. I couldn’t stop staring at him.

  ‘What about you?’ I asked. ‘What are you doing down here? You and your pals.’

  ‘Walking tour. Although to tell you the truth there hasn’t been much walking and no bad thing, either. I hate walking.’

  I laughed. ‘Why did you join in, then?’

  Amyas was silent for a moment then he said, ‘I’ve never been to Cornwall before. It was an opportunity.’ He turned and gave me the full force of his smile. ‘And now I’ve been rewarded.’

  The moment was lost in a blare of dance music from the wireless in Xanthe’s room. She’s bored, I thought. Decided to give up crying and any minute she’ll be out here, demanding I drive her to the station. Amyas was cocking his head towards the long windows where the music was coming from.

  ‘It’s my sister,’ I explained. ‘I’ve had to bring her here so that she can get over a love affair. He was a bad lot anyway.’

  ‘Who is he?’ Amyas asked. ‘Someone I might know?’

  ‘I don’t expect so. Clive Powell, son of the steel magnate.’ The words were scarcely out of my mouth when Xanthe appeared through the windows. She was dressed and made up, ready to travel.

  ‘You were talking about Clive,’ she said her voice shrill, ‘I heard you. And to a stranger. It’s not fair.’