Page 4 of The Gathering Storm

‘And you think he’d like there to be a council estate on Morland land?’

‘I don’t think he would fight against it,’ Bertie said. ‘If you clear a slum, the people have to go somewhere. Another thing to consider,’ he went on, seeing that she still wanted to argue, ‘is that if you sell at the first approach, rather than waiting to be forced, you may have some say over exactly where the building will be sited. That’s worth having.’

Polly sighed. ‘I suppose one has accept change,’ she said reluctantly.

‘I’m afraid there may be more on the way,’ Bertie said. ‘I had a chat with Jack on the phone last night.’ Jack was Jessie’s brother, who had been a flier in the war and was now working in aircraft design. ‘He said that Hugh Dowding told him there’s going to be a big reorganisation in the RAF. It will mean a lot of new airfields being built.’

‘Now, darling, don’t start Polly worrying about that,’ Jessie said. ‘To change the subject, tell me, what are James’s plans? Does he have any? I thought he was only coming home for Christmas, but here we are in February and he’s still at Morland Place.’

‘He’s waiting to hear from Mr Bedaux. He and his wife went to America for Christmas and didn’t need James with them.’

Charles Bedaux was an American production engineer whom James had met when invited to join his expedition across British Columbia in 1934, and had since worked for in various capacities.

‘But I think James is worried he’s plunged into some new scheme and forgotten all about him. I don’t mind for my own part – I like having him around. I was quite dreading him going. But, of course, now Lennie’s coming for a visit, so I’ve got that to look forward to.’

‘Oh, yes,’ Jessie said. ‘It’ll be lovely to see the dear boy again. We must have a dinner for him.’

‘When is he expected?’ Bertie asked.

‘Towards the end of March,’ Polly said. ‘I hope he stays a long time. It was lovely when I lived in New York and we saw each other all the time.’

‘Perhaps he’ll stay for good,’ Jessie suggested. ‘After all, he’s got nothing to go back for, really, has he?’

‘Except his business empire,’ Bertie said drily.

Polly thought about her cousin Lennie – after her father, the person who had always been the most devoted to her. She imagined him at Morland Place, imagined them riding together, walking together, talking. They had so many memories in common. ‘We’ll have to find something for him to ride while he’s here,’ she said happily, and the conversation turned, as it so often did quite naturally, to horses.

In Whitley Heights, above Los Angeles, the morning air was cool and scented with pine, and the sun threw long shadows across the terrace from the orange trees that shaded one end. Lennie, dressed as far as trousers and shirt, looked out over the hills, where the early light lay like silver gilt across the dark trees. The only sound was of birdsong.

On the first terrace below, the gardener was raking a few leaves together on the rectangle of lawn; on the second terrace, the turquoise pool rippled gently, reflecting the sky. Everyone on Whitley Heights had a pool, but lawns were not natural to California. It was that emerald oblong, maintained at such expense, that marked Lennie out as a rich man. He shook his head at the idea. He had made his first million dollars so long ago he never thought of himself as rich. Yes, it was agreeable to have the money to invest in his interests and to see them flourish. It hardly mattered that, flourishing, they then made him even more money.

For the last nine months nothing much had mattered to him. His pregnant wife had been killed in a car smash back in June, and his life had been dark. Only recently had he felt his internal landscape shifting, and this morning he was aware that something heavy inside him had settled into a new position. The day was something to be looked forward to, rather than merely endured. And in this sweet early morning, the planning of the trip he was intending to take was no chore but part of the pleasure. He had a few more things to settle, to ensure that his business would carry on without him, and some last-minute presents to buy. Then there would be just his packing to do.

Wilma, his housekeeper, would want to do the packing herself, and would argue strenuously about it, but holding his own against her would be another sign that he was getting back to normal. She had taken a loving stranglehold on his life these last eight months. She had been with him for ten years, ever since he first came to California, and together with Beanie, his driver, formed the nucleus of a tight, loyal household. The way they schemed to protect him, he sometimes thought they believed him to be a lovable imbecile.

He heard Wilma come out of the house behind him: the slip-slap of the dreadful broken-down slippers she insisted on wearing was unmistakable.

‘Breffus about ready, Mr Lennie. You want it out here?’

He turned to smile at her. ‘Might as well,’ he said. She would have squeezed him juice from his own oranges; and her coffee was the best on the west coast. Perhaps she would have made him pancakes.

She didn’t smile back. Her lower lip, reliable gauge of her mood, was sticking out. ‘Might as well get all o’ God’s good sunshine you can, ’fore you go to England. How folks can live in all that fog beats me.’

‘The sun shines in England too, you know,’ he said.

‘Nu-huh,’ she countered. ‘I seen it on the movies. Everybody creeping about in the fog. Enough to make you crazy. They say English folk are all mad. You should stay here, Mr Lennie, an’ let me take proper care of you.’

‘It’s not for ever. It’ll only be for a few weeks,’ Lennie said – though he wondered. He had a feeling of standing at a crossroads. His life here in California seemed to have paused, as though a phase was completed. And in England there was Polly, whom he had loved all his life, though without return: she had only cared for him as a cousin. But Ren, her husband, was dead, killed in an aeroplane crash shortly before she had given birth to their son, Alec. Now Lennie’s Beth was gone too, and enough time had passed for both of them to start thinking about a new future. Perhaps together? She had always depended and leaned on him. She had given her son the second name of Lennox, in his honour. Surely there was something there to work with. Who knew? Perhaps the time was right for them.

‘What am I s’pose to do while you’re away gallivanting?’ Wilma was grumbling. ‘Sit on the porch and rock?’

‘Oh, you’ll find something. Clean the whole house from top to bottom, if I know you. What’s for breakfast?’ he prompted.

‘I’m fixing you pancakes,’ she said

It was odd how often she read his mind. Or was it vice-versa? ‘With bacon?’

‘Don’t I always fix bacon with pancakes? What kind o’ question is that?’ She was reluctant to let go of her sense of grievance, and he heard her muttering her way to the kitchen: No good reason I know of for folks to go skedaddling off to England every five minutes …