The Shell Seekers (18 page)

Dead. Cosmo dead. "Dead." She said the word, whispered it, but did not know that she was saying it.

"He died late on Thursday night. In hospital . . . the funeral was yesterday."

"But ..." Cosmo, dead. It was not believable. "But . . . how? Why?"

"I ... I can't tell you—not over the telephone."

Antonia, without Cosmo in Ibiza. "Where are you ringing from?"

"From Pedro's."

"Where are you living?"

"At Ca'n D'alt."

"Are you alone there?"

"No. Tomeu and Maria moved in to keep me company. They've been marvellous."

"But ..."

"Olivia, I have to come to London. I can't stay here, because the house doesn't belong to me and ... oh, a thousand other reasons. Anyway, I'll have to get some sort of a job. If I came . . . could I stay with you for a few days, just until I get myself settled? I wouldn't ask you such a favour, only there isn't anyone else."

Olivia hesitated, hating herself for hesitating, but only too aware that every instinct in her being was reacting violently against the thought of any person, even Antonia, invading the precious privacy of her house and her life.

"What . . . what about your mother?"

"She's married again. She lives in the North now, near Hud-dersfield. And I don't want to go there . . . I'll explain that later, too."

"When do you want to come?"

"Next week. Maybe Tuesday, if I can get a flight. Olivia, it would only be for a few days, just until I get myself organized."

Her pleading voice, over the miles of telephone cable, sounded young and vulnerable, as it had when she was a child. Suddenly, Olivia remembered Antonia as she had first seen her, running across the polished floor of the Ibiza airport, to fling herself into Cosmo's arms. And she was filled with disgust at herself. This is Antonia, you selfish cow, appealing for help. This is Cosmo's Antonia and Cosmo is dead, and the fact that she's turning to you is the greatest compliment she could pay you. For once in your life, stop thinking of yourself.

As though Antonia could see her, she smiled, comforting, reassuring. She said, making her voice warm and strong, "Of  course you can come. Let me know when your flight is due, and I'll meet you at Heathrow. You can tell me everything then."

"Oh, you are a saint. I won't be any trouble."

"Of course you won't." Her practical, well-trained mind moved on to other possible difficulties. "Are you all right for money?"

"Oh." Antonia sounded surprised, as though she had not even considered such details, which she probably hadn't. "Yes. I think so."

"You've got enough to pay for the air ticket?"

"Yes, I think so. Just."

"Be in touch, then, and I'll expect you."

"Thank you so much. And . . . I'm sorry to tell you about Daddy. . . ."

"I'm sorry too." It was the understatement of her life. She closed her eyes, shutting away the pain of a loss that she had not yet fully absorbed. "He was a very special person."

"Yes." Antonia was crying. She could hear, see, almost feel the tears. "Yes . . . goodbye, Olivia."

"Goodbye."

Antonia rang off.

After a little, clumsily, Olivia replaced her own receiver. She felt, all at once, immensely cold. Curled in the corner of the sofa, she wrapped her arms around herself, staring at her neat and shining sitting room where nothing had changed, nothing had moved, and yet everything was different. For Cosmo had gone. Cosmo was dead. For the rest of her life Olivia would have to live in a world in which there was no Cosmo. She thought of that warm evening outside Pedro's where they had sat and listened to the boy playing the Rodrigo concerto on his guitar, and filling the night with the music of Spain. Why that occasion in particular, when there was a whole cornucopia of memories from her months with Cosmo?

A step on the stair made her look up. She saw Hank Spots-wood coming down towards her. He wore her white towelling bathrobe, and he did not look ridiculous in this because it was a man's one anyway and fitted him easily. She was pleased that he did not look ridiculous. She could not have borne him, at that moment, to have appeared looking ridiculous. And this was crazy, too, for what did it matter how he looked, when Cosmo was dead?

She watched him, saying nothing. He said, "I heard the telephone."

"I hoped it wouldn't wake you."

She did not know that her face was ashen, her dark eyes like two holes in her face.

He said, "What's wrong?"

He had a stubble of beard and his hair was tousled. She thought of last night and was glad it was him.

"Cosmo has died. The man I told you about last night. The man in Ibiza."

"Oh, dear God."

He was down the stairs, across the floor, sitting beside her; gathering her wordlessly into his arms as though she were a hurt child in need of comfort. With her face pressed against the rough white towelling of her own bathrobe, she wished, violently, that she were able to cry. Longed for tears to come, for grief to spill over in some physical way that would ease the tight pain of misery that held her in its grip. But this did not happen. She had never been much good at crying.

"Who was that on the telephone?" he asked.

"Cosmo's daughter, Antonia. Poor child. He died on Thursday night. The funeral was yesterday. I don't know any more."

"What age a man was he?"

"I suppose . . . about sixty. But so young."

"What happened?"

"I don't know. She didn't want to talk about it over the telephone. She just said he died in hospital. She . . . she wants to come to London. She's coming next week. She's going to stay with me for a few days."

He said nothing to this, but his arms tightened about her, his hand gently patting her shoulder, as though he soothed a highly strung animal. After a bit, she felt comforted. She had stopped feeling cold. She freed her hands and laid them against his chest and drew away from him, composed now, and herself again.

"I'm sorry," she apologized. "I'm not usually so emotional."

"Is there anything I can do?"

"There's nothing anybody can do. It's all over."

"What about today? Would you rather we called it all off?

I'll just disappear, get out of your way, if you'd like me to. You'd maybe like to be alone."

"No, I don't want to be alone. The last thing I want is to be alone." She marshalled her flying thoughts, set them into order, and knew that her first priority was to let her mother know that Cosmo had died. She said, "But I'm afraid Sissinghurst or Hen-ley are out. I'll have to go to Gloucestershire after all, and see my mother. I told you she'd been unwell, but I didn't tell you that she had a slight heart attack. And she was so fond of Cosmo. When I was living in Ibiza, she came and stayed with us. It was such a happy time. One of the happiest times of my life. So I have to tell her that he's died, and I want to be there when I do it." She looked at Hank. "Would you mind coming with me? I'm afraid it's a dreadfully long drive, but she'll give us lunch and we can spend a peaceful afternoon with her."

"I'd be pleased to come. And I'll drive you."

He was like a rock. She managed a smile, filled with affec-tionate gratitude. "I'll ring her now." She reached for the tele-phone receiver. "Tell her to expect us for lunch."

"Couldn't we take her out for a meal?"

Olivia dialled the number. "You don't know my mother."

He accepted this, and got to his feet. "I smell coffee perk-ing," he observed. "How would it be if I cooked the breakfast?"

They were out of the house and away by nine o'clock in the morning, Olivia in the passenger seat of her own dark green Al-phasud, and Hank at the wheel. He drove, at first, with the greatest care, anxious not to forget that he was on the wrong side of the road, but after they had stopped to fill up with petrol, he became more confident, picked up speed, and they headed down the motorway towards Oxford at a steady seventy.

They did not talk. His concentration was all for the other traffic and the great road that curved ahead of them. Olivia was content to be silent, her chin sunk deep in the fur collar of her coat, her eyes watching but not seeing the dull countryside that flew past the windows.

But after Oxford, it got better. It was a sparkling winter day, and as the low sun rose in the late winter sky, the frost on plough and grass melted, and lacy black trees threw long shadows across road and field. Farmers had started ploughing, and hosts of gulls followed the tractors and the furrows of newly turned black earth. They passed through small towns bustling with Saturday-morning busyness. Narrow streets were lined with the cars of country families, in from outlying districts to do the weekend shopping, and pavements teemed with mothers and children and perambulators, and market stalls piled with garish garments, plastic toys and balloons, flowers, and fresh fruit and vegetables. Farther on still, outside a village pub, they came upon a Meet, the cobbled yard a-clatter with horses' hooves, the air loud with the bay and whimper of hounds, the cry of hunting horns, and the raised voices of the huntsmen resplendent in their pink coats. Hank could scarcely believe his good fortune. "Will you look at that?" he kept saying, and he would have stopped the car to watch, but a young policeman firmly moved him on. He drove off, but reluctantly, glancing back over his shoulder for a last glimpse of the traditional English scene.

"It was like something out of a movie, with that oJd inn and the cobbled yard. I wish I'd had my camera."

Olivia was pleased for him. "You can't say I'm not giving you your money's worth. We could have driven all over the country and never found anything as good as that."

"This is obviously my lucky day."

Now the Cotswolds lay ahead. The roads narrowed, winding through watery meadows and over small stone bridges. Houses and farmsteads, built of honey-coloured Cotswold stone, stood golden in the sunshine, with cottage gardens that, in summer, would be a riot of colour, and orchards of plums and apple trees.

"I can understand why your mother chose to live here. I've never seen such countryside. And everything's so green."

"Funnily enough, she didn't come here for the lovely countryside. When she sold up the London house, she had every intention of going to live in Cornwall. She'd lived there as a girl, you see, and I think she yearned to go back. But my sister Nancy thought it was too far away, too far from all her children. So she found this house foi her. As things have turned out, perhaps it's all been for the best, but at the time I was angry with Nancy for interfering."

"Does your mother live alone?"

"Yes. But that's another aggravation. The doctors now say she ought to have a companion, a housekeeper, but I know she'll resent this most dreadfully. She's enormously independent and not even very old. Only sixty-four. I feel it's an insult to her intelligence to start treating her as though she's already senile. As it is, she never stops. Cooks and gardens and entertains and reads everything she can lay her hands on, and listens to music, and rings people up and has long, satisfying conversations. Sometimes she takes herself off abroad to stay with old friends. France, usually. Her father was a painter, and she spent much of her girlhood in Paris." She turned her head to smile at Hank. "But why am I telling you about my mother? Before very long, you'll be able to see it all for yourself."

"Did she like Ibiza?"

"Adored it. Cosmo's place was an old Ibecenco farmhouse, inland, up in the hills. Very rural. Just my mother's cup of tea. Whenever she found herself with a spare moment, she disappeared into the garden with a pair of secateurs, just as though she were at home."

"Does she know Antonia?"

"Yes. She and Antonia were out with us at the same time. They made great friends. No age barrier. My mother's marvellous with young people. Much better than I could ever be." She was silent for a moment, and then added, in an impulsive rush of honesty, "I'm not very sure of myself even now. I mean, I want to help Cosmo's child, but I don't relish the thought of having anyone to live with me, for how ever short a time. Isn't that a shameful thing to have to admit?"

"Not shameful. Quite natural. How long will she stay?"

"I suppose until she finds herself a job and somewhere to live."

"Has she got any qualifications for a job?"

"I've no idea."

Probably not. Olivia sighed deeply. The morning's events had left her drained with emotion and physically exhausted. It was not just that she had yet to come to terms with the shock and grief of Cosmo's death, but she felt as well surrounded, besieged by other people's problems. Antonia would arrive, would come and stay, would have to be comforted, encouraged, supported, and, in all likelihood, at the end of the day, be helped to find some sort of a job. Nancy would continue to telephone Olivia and badger her with the question of a housekeeper for their mother, while Mother was going to fight, tooth and nail, any suggestion that she should have anyone to live with her. And on top of all this ...

Her thoughts abruptly stopped dead. And then carefully backtracked. Nancy. Mother. Antonia. But of course. The solution was there. The problems, arranged together, could be made to cancel each other out, like those fraction sums one used to be given at school, with the answer one of beautiful simplicity.