The Shell Seekers (21 page)

"In nineteen twenty-seven? I suppose about sixty-two. He was a very old father. He didn't marry until he was fifty-five."

"Have you any other of his paintings?" He glanced around him, at walls crammed with pictures as though for an exhibition.

But, "Not in here," Penelope told him. "Most of these were done by his colleagues. There is a pair of unfinished panels, but they're up on the landing. They were the very last work he did, and by then his arthritis was so bad he could scarcely hold the brush. Which was why he never finished them."

"Arthritis? How cruel."

"Yes. It was very sad. But he was enormously good about it, very philosophical. He used to say, "I've had a good run for my money," and left it at that. But it must have been dreadfully frustrating for him. Long after he had stopped painting, he still kept his studio, and when he was depressed or had what he called a Black Dog on his shoulder, he used to take himself off and go back to the studio and just sit there in the window, looking at the beach and the sea."

"Do you remember him?" Hank asked Olivia.

She shook her head. "No. I was born after he died. But my sister Nancy was born in his house in Porthkerris."

"Do you still have the house down there?"

"No," Penelope told him sadly. "Finally, it had to be sold."

"Do you ever go back?"

"I haven't been for forty years. But, oddly enough, just this morning, I was thinking that I really must go and see it all again." She looked at Olivia. "Why don't you come with me? Just for a week. We could stay with Doris."

"Oh . . ." Taken unawares, Olivia hesitated. "I ... I don't know . . ."

"We could go any time . . ." Penelope bit her lip. ". . . but how silly of me. Of course you can't make sudden snap deci-sions."

"Oh, Mumma, I'm sorry, but it is a bit difficult. I'm not due for a break until the summer, and I'm meant to be going to Greece with some friends. They've got a villa and a yacht." This was not strictly true, as the tentative plan had not yet been finalized, but holidays were so precious, and Olivia longed for the sun. As soon as the words were out, however, she was filled with guilt, because she saw the momentary disappointment cloud Penelope's face, to be instantly replaced with an understanding smile.

"Of course. I should have thought. It was just an idea. And I don't have to have company."

"It's a long drive on your own."

"I can perfectly easily go by train."

"Take Lalla Friedmann. She'd love a trip to Cornwall."

"Lalla. I never thought of her. Well, we'll see. . . ." And abandoning the topic, Penelope turned to Hank. "Now, here we are chattering away, and this poor man hasn't even got a drink. What would you like?" 

Lunch was slow, leisurely, and delicious. As they consumed the delicate pink sirloin, which Hank had kindly carved, the crisp and nutty vegetables, the horse-radish sauce, the Yorkshire pudding, and rich brown gravy, Penelope bombarded him with questions. About America; about his home and his wife and his children. Not, Olivia knew, as she went around the table pouring wine, because she felt she had to be polite and make conversation, but because she was genuinely interested. People were her passion, particularly if they were strangers from a foreign shore, and even more specially if they happened to be both personable and charming.

"You live in Dalton, Georgia? I can't imagine Dalton, Georgia. Do you live in an apartment, or do you have a house with a garden?"

"I have a house, and I have a garden, too, but we call it a yard."

"I suppose, in such a climate, you can grow practically ev-erything."

"I'm afraid I don't know that much about it. I employ a landscaper to keep the place neat. I have to admit that I don't even cut my own grass."

"That's good sense. Nothing to be ashamed of."

"And you, Mrs. Keeling?"

"Mumma's never had any help," Olivia told him. "All you see beyond the window is entirely her own creation."

Hank was incredulous. "I can't believe it. For one thing, there's so much of it."

Penelope laughed. "You mustn't look so horrified. To me it's not a tedious task, but a tremendous pleasure. However, one can't go on indefinitely, so, on Monday morning, rattle of drums, fanfare of trumpets, I am starting to employ a gardener."

Olivia's jaw dropped. "You are? You really are?"

"I told you I was going to look around for someone."

"Yes, but I scarcely believed you would."

"There's a very good firm in Pudley. Called Autogarden, which doesn't seem to me to be a very imaginative name, but that's beside the point. And they're going to send a young man out three days a week. That should get the worst of the digging done, and if he's amenable I'll get him to do other things for me as well, like sawing logs and humping coal. Anyway, we'll see how it goes. If they send a lazy lout or it costs too much, I can quite easily cancel the arrangement. Now, Hank, have another helping of beef."

The mammoth luncheon took up most of the afternoon. When finally they rose from the table, it was nearly four o'clock. Olivia offered to do the dishes, but her mother refused to let her, and instead they all put on coats and went out into the garden for a bit of fresh air. They wandered around, inspecting things, and Hank helped Penelope to tie up a straying branch of clematis, and Olivia found a cluster of aconites beneath one of the apple trees and picked herself a tiny bunch to take back to London.

When it was time to say goodbye, Hank kissed Penelope.

"I can't thank you enough. It's been great."

"You must come back."

"Maybe. One day."

"When do you return to America?"

"Tomorrow morning."

"What a short visit. How sad. But I have so enjoyed meeting you."

"Me too."

He went to the car and stood holding the door open for Olivia to get in.

"Goodbye, Mumma."

"Oh, my darling." They embraced. "And I'm sorry about Cosmo. But you mustn't be sad. Just be grateful that you had that time with him. No looking back over your shoulder. No regrets."

Olivia put on a brave smile. "No. No regrets."

"And unless I hear to the contrary, I'll expect you next weekend. With Antonia."

"I'll be in touch."

"Goodbye, my darling."

They had gone. She had gone. Olivia, in her beautiful chest-nut-brown coat, with the mink collar turned up around her ears, and the little bunch of aconites clutched in her hand. Like a child. Penelope was filled with sadness for her. Your children never stopped being children. Even when they were thirty-eight and successful career women. You could bear anything for yourself, but seeing your children hurt was unendurable. Her heart went with Olivia, heading back to London; but her body, tired now and weary from the day's activities, took her slowly back indoors.

The next morning the tiredness, the lassitude were still with her. She awoke feeling depressed and could not think why, and then remembered Cosmo. It was raining, and for once she expected no guests for Sunday lunch, and so she stayed in bed until half past ten, when she got up and dressed and walked down to the village to collect her Sunday newspapers. The church bells were tolling, and a handful of people made their way beneath the lych-gate for Morning Service. Not for the first time Penelope wished that she were truly religious. She believed, of course, and went to church at Christmas and Easter, because without something to believe in, life would be intolerable. But now, seeing the little procession of villagers filing up the gravel path between the ancient leaning gravestones, she thought it would be good to join them with the certainty of finding comfort. But she did not. It had never worked before and it was unlikely to work now. It was not God's fault; just something to do with her own attitude of mind.

Home again, she lit the fire and read The Observer, and then assembled herself a small meal of cold roast beef, an apple, and a glass of wine. She ate this at the kitchen table and then went back into the sitting room and took a little nap. Awakening, she saw that the rain had stopped, so she pulled herself off the sofa, put on her boots and her old jacket, and went out into the garden. She had pruned her roses in the autumn and fed them well with compost, but there was still some dead wood around, and she plunged into the thicket of thorns and set to work.

As always when thus employed, she lost all sense of time, and her mind was full of nothing but her roses when, straightening to ease her aching back, she was startled to see two figures coming across the grass towards her; for she had not heard a car arrive and was not expecting visitors. A girl and a man. A tall and exceptionally handsome young man, with dark hair and blue eyes, his hands in his pockets. Ambrose. Her heart missed a beat, and she told herself not to be a fool, because it wasn't Ambrose, coming at her out of the past, but her son Noel, who resembled his dead father so exactly that his unexpected appearances often gave her this uncanny turn.

Noel. With, naturally enough, a girl.

She pulled herself together, put a smile on her face, dropped her secateurs into her pocket, drew off her gloves, and edged herself out of the rose-bed.

"Hello, Ma." Reaching her side, still with his hands in his pockets, he leaned forward to give her a peck on the cheek.

"What a surprise. Where have you sprung from?"

"We've been staying in Wiltshire. Thought we'd come by to see how you're doing." Wiltshire? Drop by from Wiltshire? They had come miles out of their way. "This is Amabel."

"How do you do."

"Hello," said Amabel, making no move to shake hands. She was tiny as a child, with seaweedy hair and round, pale green eyes like two gooseberries. She wore an enormous ankle-length tweed coat that seemed familiar, and which, after a second look, Penelope recognized as an old one of Lawrence Stern's, which had mysteriously disappeared -during the move from Oakley Street.

She turned back to Noel.

"Staying in Wiltshire? Who have you been staying with?"

"Some people called Early, friends of Amabel's. But we left after lunch, and I thought that as I hadn't seen you since you were in hospital, I'd drop by and find out how you're getting on." He beamed upon her with his most delightful smile. "I must say, you're looking fantastic. I thought I'd find you all pale and ailing with your feet up on the sofa."

Mention of the hospital irritated Penelope.

"Just a stupid scare. There's not a thing wrong with me. As usual, Nancy's blown a mountain out of a molehill, and I hate being fussed over." And then she felt remorseful, for really it was very kind of him to come all this way just to see her. "You're sweet to be so concerned, and I'm splendidly well. And it's lovely to see you both. What tune is it? Heavens, nearly half past four. Would you like a cup of tea? Let's go in and have one. You take Amabel in, Noel. There's a good fire in the sitting room. I'll join you in a moment, when I've dealt with my boots."

He did this, ambling away from her across the grass towards the conservatory door. She watched them go and then went in-doors herself by way of the garden room, where she changed into her shoes and hung up her coat, and then went upstairs, through the empty bedrooms, to her own room, where she washed her hands and tidied her hair. Down the other stairs, and in the kitchen, she put on the kettle and laid a tray. She found some fruitcake in a tin. Noel loved fruitcake, and the girl, Amabel, looked as though she could do with a bit of feeding up. Penelope wondered if she was anorexic. It would not be surprising. Noel found himself the most extraordinary girl-friends.

She made the tea and carried the tray through to the sitting room where Amabel, who had taken off Lawrence's coat, crouched like a thin cat in the corner of the sofa, while Noel piled logs on the dying ashes in the grate. Penelope set down the tray, and Amabel said, "What a smashing house."

Penelope tried to warm to her. "Yes. It's friendly, isn't it?"

The gooseberry eyes were turned on The Shell Seekers.

"That's a smashing picture."

"Everybody remarks on it."

"Is it Cornwall?"

"Yes, Porthkerris."

"I thought so. I went there once for a holiday, but it rained all the time."

"Oh dear." She could think of nothing else to say and filled in the ensuing pause with the business of pouring the tea. When this was done, cups handed round, and the fruitcake cut, she started the conversation up again.

"Now. Tell me about your weekend. Was it fun?"

Yes, they told her, it had been fun. A house party often, and a point-to-point on the Saturday, and then dinner at some other person's house, and then a dance, and they hadn't got to bed until four o'clock.

It sounded, to Penelope, inexpressibly awful, but she said, "How nice."

That seemed to exhaust their news, so she started in on her own, and told them about Olivia's visit with her American friend. Amabel stifled a yawn, and Noel, perched on a low stool by the fire, with his teacup on the floor by his side and his long legs folded like jack-knives, listened politely but, Penelope felt, without too much attention. She debated telling him about Cosmo, and then decided against it. She thought about telling him that Antonia was going to come and stay at Podmore's Thatch, but decided against that, too. He had never known Cosmo, and was not much interested in the affairs of his family. He was, in truth, not much interested in anything but himself, for he resembled his father not only in looks but in character as well.