The Shell Seekers (34 page)

Ambrose moved towards the stair, anxious to ascend and see more, but "This is as far as we go," Penelope told him. She opened a door. "This is my parents' bedroom. It used to be the dining room, I think, and it looks over the garden. It's lovely in the mornings, because it gets all the sun. And this is my room, facing out over the street. And the bathroom. And this is where my mother keeps her Hoover. And that's it."

The tour of inspection was over. Ambrose returned to the foot of the staircase, and stood there, looking upwards.

"Who lives in the rest of the house?"

"Lots of people. The Hardcastles, and then the Cliffords, and then the Friedmanns in the attics."

"Lodgers," said Ambrose. The word stuck in his throat, because it was a word that his mother had always uttered with the greatest disdain.

"Yes, I suppose they are. It's lovely. It's like having friends around all the time. And that reminds me, because I must go and tell Elizabeth Clifford we're here. I tried to ring her, but the number was engaged, and then I forgot to try again."

"Are you going to tell her I'm here too?"

"Of course. Coming with me? She's a darling, you'll love her."

"No. I think not."

"In that case, why don't you go back to the kitchen and put a kettle on the stove and we can have a cup of tea or something. I'll see if I can borrow a bit of cake or something off Elizabeth, and then after tea we'll have to go out and buy ourselves eggs and bread and stuff; otherwise we shan't have anything to eat for breakfast."

She sounded like a little girl playing Wendy Houses.

"All right."

"Shan't be a moment."

She left him, running up the staircase on her long legs, and Ambrose stood there in the hall and watched her go. He chewed his lip. Usually so sure of himself, he was filled by unfamiliar uncertainty, and the uneasy suspicion that, by coming here, to Penelope's house, he had somehow lost control of the situation. This was disturbing, because it had never happened before, and he had a horrid premonition that her extraordinary mixture of naivety and sophistication could well have the same effect on him as a tremendously strong dry martini, leaving him both legless and incapable.

The big stove in the kitchen was unlit, but there was an' electric kettle, so he filled that and switched it on. The darkness of the February afternoon had closed in, and the big shadowy room felt cold, but the fireplace in the sitting room was laid with sticks and paper, so he lit it with his lighter and watched the sticks catch, and then added some coal from a copper bucket and a log or two. By the time Penelope came running down the stairs it was burning well and the kettle sang.

"Oh, clever man, you've lit the fire. That always makes everything much more cheerful. There wasn't any cake, but I borrowed a bit of bread and some margarine. Something's missing, though." She stood frowning, trying to puzzle this out, and then realized what it was. "The clock. Of course, it hasn't been wound. Wind the clock, Ambrose. It's got such a comforting tick-lock."

The clock was an old-fashioned one, high on the wall. He pulled up a chair and stood on it, opened the glass, set the hands, and wound the big key. While he was thus occupied, Penelope opened cupboards, took out cups and saucers, found a teapot.

"Did you see your friend?" With the clock going, he climbed down from the chair.

"No, she wasn't in, but I went on up and found Lalla Fried-mann. I'm quite glad I saw her, because I was a bit worried about them. They're refugees, you see, a young Jewish couple from Munich, and they've had the most ghastly time. The last time I saw Willi, I thought perhaps he was going to have a breakdown." She thought of telling Ambrose that it was because of Willi that she had joined the Wrens, and then decided against it. She wasn't sure that he would understand. "Anyway, she says he's much better, and he's got a new job and she's going to have a baby. She's such a nice person. She teaches music, so she must be frightfully clever. Do you mind having your tea without milk?"

After tea, they walked up to the King's Road, found a gro-cer's and did a little shopping, and then they returned to Oakley Street. It was nearly dark, so they pulled all the black-out curtains, and she made up the beds with clean sheets while he sat and watched her.

"You can sleep in my room, and I'll sleep in my parents' bed. Would you like to have a bath before you change? There's always heaps of hot water. Or would you like a drink?"

Ambrose said yes on both counts, so they went back downstairs and she opened a cupboard and brought out a bottle of Gordon's and a bottle of Dewar's and a bottle of something strange and unlabelled that smelt of almonds.

"Who does all this belong to?" he asked.

"Papa."

"Won't he mind if I drink it?"

She gazed at him in astonishment. "But that's what it's there for. To give to friends."

This was new ground once more. His mother doled out sherry in tiny glasses, but if he wanted gin, he had to produce it for himself. He did not, however, make any remark, but simply poured himself a hefty Scotch and, carrying this in one hand and his grip in the other, made his way upstairs, to the bedroom allocated to him. It felt strange, taking off his clothes in such alien, feminine surroundings, and as he undressed he prowled a bit, like a cat making itself at home: looking at pictures, sitting on the bed, inspecting the titles of the books on the bookshelf. He expected Georgette Heyer and Ethel M. Dell, but found instead Virginia Woolf and Rebecca West. Not only a Bohemian but an intellectual as well. This made him feel sophisticated. Wearing his Noel Coward dressing gown and carrying his bath towel, his wash-bag, and the whisky, he made his way down the hall. In the cramped bathroom he shaved, and then ran a bath and soaked for a bit. The bath was far too short for his long legs, but the water was boiling. Back in the bedroom, he dressed again, embellishing his uniform with a starched shirt, a black satin tie from Gieves, and his best black half-wellington boots, polished up with a handkerchief. He brushed his hair, turning his head this way and that in order to admire his profile, and then, content, picked up the empty tumbler and went down the stairs.

Penelope had disappeared, presumably to hunt through her mother's wardrobe for something to wear. He hoped that she would not shame him. By firelight, the sitting room looked satis-factorily romantic. He poured himself another Scotch and looked through the piles of gramophone records. Most of them were classics, but he found Cole Porter sandwiched between Beethoven and Mahler. He put the record on the old gramophone, wound up the handle.

You're the top,

You're the Coliseum,

You're the top,

You're the Louvre Museum.

He began to dance, eyes half closed, holding an imaginary girl in his arms. Perhaps after the theatre and a spot of supper, they would go on to a night-club. The Embassy or the Bag of Nails. If he ran out of money, they'd probably take a cheque. With a bit of luck, it wouldn't bounce.

"Ambrose."

He hadn't heard her coming. Slightly embarrassed at being caught out in his little pantomime, he turned. She came across the room towards him, shy of her appearance, anxious for his approval, waiting for him to make some comment. But Ambrose found himself, for once, without words, for, in the soft light of lamp and fire, she was very beautiful. The dress she had finally unearthed had perhaps been fashionable five years ago. It was made of creamy chiffon, splashed with crimson and scarlet flowers, and the flowing skirt fitted over her slender hips and then flared out into folds. The bodice had little buttons down the front, and there was a sort of cape, in layers, which moved as she moved, fluttering like butterfly wings. Her hair she had swept up, revealing the long and perfect line of neck and shoulder, and as well a remarkable pair of dangling silver-and-coral earrings. She had put on some coral lipstick and smelt delicious.

He said, "You smell delicious."

"Chanel Number Five. I found some in the bottom of a bottle. I thought it might have gone a bit stale. . . ."

"Not stale."

"No ... do I look all right? I tried on about six dresses, but I thought this was the best. It's dreadfully old and a bit short, because I'm taller than Sophie, but . . ."

Ambrose set down his drink and reached out his hand. "Come here."

She came, and placed her hand in his. He pulled her into his arms and kissed her, very gently and tenderly, because he did not want to do anything that might disarrange her elegant hair or her modest make-up. Her lipstick tasted sweet. He drew away from her, smiling down into her warm, dark eyes.

"I almost wish," he told her, "that we didn't have to go out."

"We'll come back," she told him, and his heart leaped in anticipation.

The Dancing Years was very romantic and sad and quite unreal. There were a lot of dirndls and lederhosen, and pretty songs, and the characters all fell in love with each other, and then bravely renounced each other and said goodbye, and every other tune was a waltz. When it was over, they went out into the pitch-black streets, drove up Piccadilly, and went to Quaglino's for dinner. A band was playing and couples danced on the stamp sized floor, all the men in uniform and a good many of the girls as well.

Bourn.

Why does my heart go bourn,

Me and my heart go boum-boumpety-boum,

All the time.

Between courses, Ambrose and Penelope danced too, but it wasn't really dancing because there was space only to stand in one spot and shift from foot to foot. But that was all right, because they had their arms around each other and their cheeks touched and every now and then Ambrose would kiss her ear or murmur something outrageous.

It was nearly two o'clock before they returned to Oakley Street. Holding hands, stifling laughter, they made their way in the inky darkness through the wrought-iron gate and down the steep stone steps.

"Who bothers about bombs?" Ambrose said. "We can just as easily kill ourselves stumbling around in the black-out."

Penelope detached herself from him, found the key and the lock and finally got the door open. He walked past her into the warm, velvety blackness. He heard her close the door behind them, and then, when it was safe to do so, she turned on the light.

It was very quiet. Above them, the other occupants of the house slumbered in silence. Only the ticking of the clock disturbed the stillness, or the passing of a car in the street outside. The fire that he had lighted was nearly out, but Penelope went through to the far end of the room to stir the embers and turn on a lamp. Beyond the archway the living room was suffused with light, like a stage set after the curtain has just gone up. Act One, Scene One. All that was needed were the actors.

He did not immediately join her. He felt pleasantly tipsy, but had reached the point when he knew that he wanted another drink. He went to the whisky bottle and poured himself a tot, filling the tumbler with soda from the siphon. Then he turned off the kitchen light and went through to the flickering flamelight and the huge cushioned sofa and the girl he had desired all evening.

She knelt on the hearthrug, close to the warmth of the fire.

She had taken off her shoes. As he appeared, she turned her head and smiled. It was late, and she might have been tired, but her dark eyes were bright, her face glowing.

She said, "Why is a fire such a companionable thing? Like having another person in the room."

"I'm glad it's not. Another person, I mean."

She was relaxed, peaceful. "It was a good evening. It was fun."

"It's not over yet."

He sat, lowering himself onto a low, wide-lapped chair. He set down his drink. He said, "Your hair is all wrong."

"Why wrong?"

"Too tidy for love."

She laughed, and then put up her hands, and began slowly to unpin the elegant knot. He watched her in silence, the classic feminine gesture of raised arms, the flimsy cape of her dress falling against her long neck like a little scarf. The last pin was removed, and she shook her head and the long dark mass of hair, like a tassel of silk, fell down over her shoulders.

She said, "Now I'm me again."

From the-kitchen, the old clock struck two gentle resounding notes.

She said, "Two o'clock in the morning."

"A good time. The right time."

She laughed again, as though nothing he could say could give her anything but delight. So close to the blazing fire, it was immensely warm. He set down his glass and pulled off his jacket, unknotted the tie and stripped it loose, unbuttoned the restricting collar of his starched shirt. Then he stood up, and stooping, pulled her to her feet. Kissing her, burying his face in the clean, scented profusion of her hair, his hands felt, beneath the flimsy silk of her dress, the slenderness of her young body, her rib-cage, the steady beat of her heart. He picked her up in his arms—and for a girl so tall, she was amazingly weightless—took a couple of strides and set her down on the sofa, and she was still laughing, lying there with that magical hair spread all over the threadbare cushions. Now, his own heart thumped like a drum, and every nerve in his body jangled with need of her. At times, during his short relationship with her, he had found himself wondering whether or not she was a virgin, but he no longer wondered, for it had ceased to matter. Sitting beside her, he began, very gently, to undo the tiny buttons down the front of her dress. She lay there, complaisant, not trying to stop him, and when he began to kiss her again, her mouth, her neck, her round and creamy breasts, her response was both sweet and accepting.