The Shell Seekers (80 page)

Afterwards, when it was all over, Olivia was to wonder what on earth they would have done without Mrs. Plackett. For all her own experience of life, she had never before had to cope with a funeral. There was, she discovered, much to be done. And the initial hurdle, on arrival at Podmore's Thatch, was the task of dealing with Nancy.

George Chamberlain had answered the telephone at the old Vicarage when Olivia rang from London, and, for the first time in her life, she had been deeply thankful to hear the lugubrious tones of her brother-in-law. She had told him what had happened as simply and as quickly as she could, explained that she was, herself, going straight to Podmore's Thatch, and then rang off, leaving him to break the sad news to Nancy. She had hoped, for the moment, that that would be the end of it but, as she turned the Alphasud into the gates of Podmore's Thatch, she saw Nancy's car and realized that she was not going to get off as lightly as she had hoped.

She was no sooner out of her own car, than Nancy was there, bursting out of the open door and bearing down with arms outstretched, her blue eyes starting, her face swollen with weeping. Before Olivia could take evasive action, Nancy had flung her arms around her sister, pressing her hot cheek against Olivia's own pale, cool one, and dissolving once more into noisy sobs.

"Oh, my dear ... I came straight over. When George told me, I just came. I had to be with you all. I ... I had to be
here
. ..."

Olivia stood still as stone, enduring for as long as was acceptably polite the messy, distasteful embrace. Then, gently, she detached herself. "That was good of you, Nancy. But there was no need—"

"That's what George said. He said I'd just be a nuisance." Nancy felt up the sleeve of her cardigan for a sodden handkerchief, endeavoured to blow her nose and generally pull herself together. "But of course I couldn't stay at home. I had to be here." She gave herself a little shake, drew her shoulders back. She was being plucky. "I knew I had to come. The drive was a nightmare; I felt quite shaky when I got here, but Mrs. Plackett made me a cup of tea and I'm better now."

The prospect of supporting Nancy in her grief and getting her through the next few hours was almost more than Olivia could bear. "You mustn't stay," she told her sister, casting about for some watertight reason for getting Nancy out of the house. Inspiration struck. "You have your children and George to consider. You mustn't neglect them. I have no one but myself to think about, so I am the obvious person to be here."

"But your job?"

Olivia turned back to her car and retrieved her small suitcase from the back seat.

"It's all fixed. I'm not going back to the office until Monday morning. Come on, let's go inside. We'll have a drink and then you can go home. If you don't need a gin and tonic, I do."

She led the way, and Nancy followed. The familiar kitchen was neat, scrubbed; felt warm, but dreadfully empty.

"What about Noel?" Nancy asked.

"What about him?"

"You told him?"

"Of course. As soon as I'd rung George. I spoke to him at his office."

"Was he very, very shocked?"

"Yes, I think he was. He didn't say very much."

"Is he coming down here?"

"Not at the moment. I told him if I needed him, I'd be in touch."

Nancy, as though incapable of standing for more than two minutes, pulled out a chair and sat at the table. Her dramatic flight from the old Vicarage to Podmore's Thatch had apparently left her no time either to comb her hair, powder her nose, or find herself a blouse that matched her skirt.

She looked not only distraught but a mess, and Olivia knew a surge of the old, irritated impatience. Whatever happened, good or bad, Nancy always made a drama of it and, moreover, cast herself in the leading role.

"She went to London yesterday," Nancy was saying. "We don't know why. Just went off on the train, on her own, for the whole day. Mrs. Plackett said she returned home quite ex-hausted." She sounded offended, as though, yet again, Penelope had pulled a fast one on her. Olivia half expected her to add, And
she never even told us she was planning to die
. To change the subject, she asked, "Where is Antonia?"

"She's gone to Pudley to do some shopping?"

"Have you seen her?"

"Not yet."

"And Mrs. Plackett?"

"Upstairs, I think, getting your room ready."

"In that case, I'll take my bag up and have a word with her. You stay here. When I come back, we'll have that drink, and then you can get back to George and the children. . . ."

"But I can't simply leave you on your own. . . ."

"Of course you can," Olivia told her coolly. "We can keep in touch by telephone. And I'm better on my own."

Nancy finally departed. With her gone, Olivia and Mrs. Plackett were at last able to get down to business.

"We'll have to get in touch with an undertaker, Mrs. Plackett."

"Joshua Bedway. He's the best man for the job."

"Where is he?"

"Right here, in Temple Pudley. He's the village carpenter, does undertaking as a sideline. He's a good man, very tactful and discreet. Does a lovely job." Mrs. Plackett glanced at the clock. It was nearly a quarter to one. "He'll be home now, having his dinner. Like me to give him a ring?"

"Oh, would you? And ask him to come as soon as possible."

Mrs. Plackett did this, with no histrionics, no pious lowering of the voice. A simple explanation was given and a simple request made. She might have been asking him to come and mend a gate. When she rang off, her expression was satisfied, as though with a job well done.

"That's it, then. He'll be here at three. I'll come with him. Be easier for you to have me here."

"Yes," said Olivia. "Yes, it would be much easier."

They then sat at the kitchen table and made lists. By now, Olivia was onto her second gin and tonic, and Mrs. Plackett had accepted a small glass of port. A real treat, she told Olivia. She was very partial to port.

"Next person to get hold of, Miss Keeling, is the vicar. You'll want a church service, of course, and a Christian burial. Need to fix on a plot in the graveyard, and then a day and a time for the funeral. And then speak about hymns and such-like. You'll have hymns, I hope. Mrs. Keeling loved her concerts, and a bit of music's nice at a funeral."

Discussing practical details made Olivia feel marginally better. She unscrewed her fountain pen. "What's the vicar's name?"

"The Reverend Thomas Tillingham. Mr. Tillingham, he's known as. Lives in the Vicarage, next to the church. Best would be to give him a tinkle, and maybe ask him over tomorrow morn-ing. Give him a cup of coffee."

"Did he know my mother?"

"Oh, yes. Everybody in the village knew Mrs. Keeling."

"She was never exactly a regular church-goer."

"No. Maybe not. But always ready to help with the organ fund, or the Christmas jumble. And every now and then, she'd ask the Tillinghams for dinner. Best lace-mats on the table, and a bottle of her best claret."

It was not hard to imagine. Olivia, for the first time that day, found herself smiling. "Entertaining her friends; that was what she really loved."

"She was a lovely lady in every way. You could talk to her about anything." Mrs. Plackett took a ladylike sip of her port. "And another thing, Miss Keeling. You should let Mrs. Keeling's solicitor know that she's with us no more. Bank accounts, that sort of thing. That will all have to be attended to."

"Yes, I'd thought of that." Olivia wrote: Enderby, Looseby & Thring. "And we'll have to put notices in the papers.
The Times
and
The Telegraph,
perhaps . . ."

"And then, flowers in the church. It's nice to have flowers, and you may not find time to do them yourself. There's a nice girl in Pudley. She's got a little van. When Mrs. Kitson's old mother-in-law died, she did lovely flowers."

"Well, we'll see. But first, we'll have to decide when the funeral is to be."

"And after the funeral . . ." Mrs. Plackett hesitated. "Nowadays a lot of people don't think it's necessary, but I believe it's nice for folk to come back to the house and have a cup of tea and a bit of something to eat. Fruit-cake's nice. Course, it depends on the time of the service, but when friends come a long way—and I've no doubt there'll be many from far afield—it seems pretty thankless to send them away without so much as a cup of tea. And somehow, it makes things easier. You can have a bit of a talk, and talking takes the edge off sadness. Makes you feel you're not alone."

The old-fashioned country custom of a wake had not occurred to Olivia, but she saw the common sense of Mrs. Plack-ett's suggestion. "Yes, you're perfectly right. We'll organize some-thing. But I should warn you, I'm a useless cook. You'll have to help me."

"You leave it to me. Fruit-cake's my speciality."

"In that case, that seems to be everything." Olivia laid down her pen and leaned back in her chair. Across the table, she and Mrs. Plackett surveyed each other. For a moment, neither spoke. Then Olivia said, "I think, Mrs. Plackett, you were probably my mother's best friend. And right now, I know perfectly well that you're mine."

Mrs. Plackett became embarrassed. "I've done no more than I should, Miss Keeling."

"Is Antonia all right?"

"I think so. She was shocked, but she's a sensible girl. Good idea, sending her to do the shopping. I gave her a list as long as my arm. Keep her busy. Make her feel useful." With that, Mrs. Plackett downed the last of her port, set the empty wineglass on the table, and heaved herself to her feet. "Well, if it's all right with you, I'll take myself home and give Mr. Plackett a bite to eat. But I'll be back at three, to let Joshua Bedway into the house. And I'll stay till he's finished and gone."

Olivia went to the door with her and saw her away, stately as ever on her bicycle. Standing there, she heard the sound of an approaching car, and the next moment the Volvo turned in at the gate. Olivia stayed where she was. Fond as her affections were for Cosmo's daughter, and sorry for the girl as she felt, she knew that she, herself, was incapable of dealing with yet another flood of emotion, another damp and teary embrace. The carapace of reserve, strong as an armour, was, for the time being, her sole defence. She watched as the Volvo drew to a halt, watched Antonia unbuckle her seat-belt and climb out from behind the steering wheel. As she did this, Olivia folded her arms, the body language gesture of physical rejection. Over the roof of the car, across the few feet of gravel that separated them, their eyes met. There was a pause, and then Antonia closed the door of the car with a soft clunk and came, walking, towards her.

"You're here," was all she said.

Olivia unfolded her arms and laid her hands on Antonia's shoulders. "Yes. I'm here." She leaned forward and they kissed, formally, touching cheeks. It was going to be all right There were to be no histrionics. For this deliverance Olivia was deeply grateful, but she felt sad too, because it is always sad when some-one you have known as a child finally grows up, and you know that they will never be truly young again.

At exactly three o'clock, Joshua Bedway was there, driving up in his little van, with Mrs. Plackett beside him. Olivia had harboured fears that he would be attired in inky black, with an expression of gloom to match, but all he had done was to change from his overalls into a decent suit and a black tie, and his sunburnt countryman's face did not look to her as though it could stay sombre for very long.

For the moment, however, he was both saddened and sympathetic. He told Olivia that her mother would be very missed in the village. In the six years that she had lived in Temple Pudley, she had made herself, he said, very much part of the little community.

Oh'via thanked him for his kind words, and with formalities over, Mr. Bedway produced, from some pocket, his notebook. There were one or two details, he told her, and proceeded to list them. Listening to him, it dawned upon her that, at his job, he was a true professional, and for this she was deeply greatful. He spoke of The Plot and The Sexton and The Registrar. He asked questions and Olivia answered them. When he finally closed his notebook, returned it to its pocket, and said, "I think that's all, Miss Keeling; you can safely leave the rest to me," she did just that, gathered up Antonia, and walked out of the house.

They did not go down to the river, but made their way out of the gate and across the road, to climb a stile and follow the old bridle track that climbed the hill behind the village. It led through fields filled with grazing sheep and their lambs; the hawthorn hedges were coming into flower, and mossy ditches were cushioned in wild primroses. At the top of the hill stood a stand of ancient beeches, their roots exposed, eroded by centuries of wind and weather. Reaching these, hot and breathless from the climb, they sat, with a feeling of some accomplishment, and surveyed the view.

It stretched for miles, a great chunk of unspoiled English countryside, basking in the warm sunshine of an exceptional spring afternoon. Farms, fields, tractors, houses, all were minimized by distance to toy size. Steeply below them, Temple Pudley slumbered, a random cluster of gold stone houses. The church was half hidden by yews, but Podmore's Thatch and the white-washed walls of the Sudeley Arms were clearly visible. Smoke, like tall plumes of grey feather, rose from chimneys, and in one garden a man had lighted a bonfire.