Summer in February by Jonathan Smith Page B

blades as they leant back against the
     door.
    Gilbert’s heart jumped. The room jumped. Dolly and Prudence grabbed Joey. The colour left Alfred’s face. His mouth twitched.
     His mouth moved again but he did notspeak. His first clear thought, which quickly leapt to fury, was that someone, some fool, had gone outside to sabotage the
     whole effect of his performance, but there was only one door out of his studio and Gilbert had been pressed hard up against
     it.
    Then there was another, louder, knocking. Alfred grabbed the poker and moved towards the door, but Gilbert had already lifted
     the latch and opened it, and so strong was the wind he felt as if someone had shoulder-barged the panels. Flurries of rain
     hit the floorboards at his feet.
    A man in black, a stout figure in a tarpaulin sou’wester and oilskins, stood framed in the door, with large raindrops running
     off his moustache. In the lane below stood a horse and wagonette. The horse, head down between the shafts, steamed and glistened.
    ‘Mr Munnings, sir?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘I’m led to believe a Mr Carter-Wood is here?’
    Joey, looking embarrassed and younger than ever, stepped forward over Dolly’s outstretched legs, apologising for the interruption.
    ‘Sorry, what is it?’
    ‘Your sister, sir.’
    ‘Florence? Florence!’
    Gilbert watched Joey hurry out into the storm, clatter down the outside wooden steps, and embrace the advancing girl.
    ‘At this time of night?’ Alfred said to the man in the oilskin.
    ‘The young lady paid me proper, sir, that’s all right.’
    ‘No, the horse, what about the
horse
!’
    ‘That’s all right, he don’t mind.’
    But Alfred did mind and he dug into his pocket and put some coins in the man’s hand.
    ‘Give him a bit of something extra from me.’
    While this was going on Laura was still inside encouraging everyone to carry on as normal, to enjoy themselves, an order immediately
     countermanded by the returning Munnings who told them all to resume their seats and told Joey and his sister, still talking
     outside in the rain, to bloody well come in if they were coming in or bloody well stay out if they were staying out. Joey
     and his sister were, however, not only bloody well coming in but willy-nilly now the centre of attraction.
    ‘This is Florence, my sister. Down from London. She’s a painter too. Much better than me. Not difficult, I know.’
    ‘Hullo, Florence Carter-Wood!’ came from all quarters.
    Hands took off her long black coat; a gap opened up to the fire; a glass of punch was offered, and a cushion was placed for
     her on the floor. Before he would let his sister sit down, however, Joey explained to Dolly that Florence would be living
     in the cottage with him, that is next door to Harold and Laura Knight, and next door, of course, to Dolly, ‘or in between
     you all, if you prefer’. When Dolly shook Florence’s cold hand and said, ‘Oh, oh, we’ll all be nice and cosy then,’ Florence’s
     eyes widened and she looked in a puzzled way at Joey because she had never met anyone before in society who ever spoke like
that
. Evidently things were going to be very different in Cornwall.
    There had, it transpired, been a misunderstanding over dates, and the train to Penzance was delayed three hours, and there
     had been a nasty—
    ‘Oh, it’s far too long a story,’ Florence said, ‘but when I arrived in Lamorna … Mr Knight told me you were down here, so
     of course I came.’
    ‘I’m so glad you did,’ Joey said. ‘It’s so wonderful to see you.’
    She sat down, whispering:
    ‘So, Joey, this … is one of your famous parties?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘What fun!’
    She wrapped her hands round the warm punch, then inclining her head slightly towards Dolly but keeping her eyes on Joey she
     privately asked:
    ‘And who is …
she
?’
    ‘Dolly … You’ll like her.’
    Florence, amazed at this remark, looked up instead at Munnings, standing above her with his hands on his hips.