The Shell Seekers (38 page)

I get no kick from champagne, Mere alcohol doesn't thrill me at all, So tell me, why should it be true . . .

Outside a tall, self-respecting house, he parked by the pavement's edge and made his way down basement steps to a flower-filled area. He rang the bell of the yellow front door. He was taking a chance, of course, but at four o'clock in the afternoon, she was usually around, taking a nap, or pottering in her tiny kitchen, or otherwise unoccupied. The chance paid off. She came to the door with her blonde hair tousled and a lacy negligee held modestly across her rounded, lavish breasts. Angie. Who had, when Ambrose was seventeen, gently relieved him of his virginity, and to whom he had fled, in times of trouble, ever since.

"Oh." Her face lit up, filled with delight. "Ambrose!"

No man could have had a better welcome.

"Hello, Angie."

"It's ages since I've seen you. Thought you must be bobbing about in the ocean by now." She held out a plump and motherly arm. "Don't stand there on the doorstep. Come along in."

Which he did.

As Penelope opened the front door of Oakley Street, Elizabeth Clifford leaned over the bannister and called her name. Penelope went upstairs.

"How did it go?"

"Not very well." Penelope grinned. "She's the worst. All hatted and gloved and furious because I wasn't wearing stock-ings. She said we wouldn't be allowed into the restaurant because I wasn't, but of course we were."

"Does she realize you're having a child?"

"Yes. I didn't actually tell her, but the dawning of knowl-edge suddenly broke. You could tell. Much better, really. Ambrose was furious, but she might just as well know."

"I suppose so," said Elizabeth, but had it in her heart to feel sorry for the poor woman. Young people, even Penelope, could be dreadfully unperceptive and unfeeling. "Do you want a cup of tea, or something?"

"Later, I'd love one. Look, I've got to find something to wear tomorrow. Do help me."

"I've been nosing around in an old trunk. . . ." Elizabeth led the way into her bedroom, where a variety of crushed and shredded garments were piled upon the enormous double bed she shared with Peter. "Isn't this one rather nice? I bought it to go to Hurlingham ... I think it was nineteen-twenty-one. When Peter was in his cricket-playing period." She took a dress from the top of the pile; creamy linen, very fine; long-waisted, shapeless, hem-stitched. "It looks a bit grubby, but I could wash and iron it and have it ready for tomorrow. And look, there are even shoes to match—don't you adore the diamante buckles? . . . and cream silk stockings."

Penelope took the dress and went to the mirror, holding it up in front of her, gazing with half-closed eyes, turning her head this way and that to gauge the effect.

"It's a lovely colour, Elizabeth. All wheatey. Could I really borrow it?"

"Of course."

"What about a hat? I suppose I ought to wear a hat. Or put my hair up, or something."

"And we'll have to find a petticoat. It's so fine it's transpar-ent, and your legs will show."

"Can't have my legs showing. Dolly Keeling would have a fit. . . ."

They began to laugh. Laughing, tearing off the red cotton dress, pulling the pale linen over her head, Penelope began to feel quite light-hearted. Dolly Keeling was a pain in the neck, but she was marrying Ambrose, not his mother, so what did it matter what that lady thought of her?

The sun shone. The sky was blue. Dolly Keeling, having break-fasted in bed, rose at eleven. Her headache, though it had not actually disappeared, had subsided. She bathed, dressed her hair, and put on her face. This took a long time, for it was important that she should look both youthful and impeccable, and hopefully put everyone else, including the bride, into the shade. With the final eyelash tweaked into place, she stood up, shed her filmy gown and donned her finery. A lilac silk dress, with a loose, floating coat of the same material. A fine straw halo hat, worn off the face, and bound with lilac grosgrain ribbon. Her totter-heeled, peep-toe shoes, her long white gloves, her white kid hand-bag. The ultimate reflection in the mirror reassured and bolstered her morale. Ambrose would be proud of her. She took a final couple of aspirin, doused herself in Houbigant, and went downstairs to the lounge.

Ambrose was waiting for her, looking devastating in his best uniform, and smelling as though he had just come straight from an expensive barber, which he had. There was an empty glass on the table at his side, and when she kissed him she smelt the brandy on his breath, and her heart went out to her dear boy, because he was, after all, only twenty-one, and bound to be nervous.

They went downstairs and took a taxi to the King's Road. Driving along, Dolly held Ambrose's hand, tightly, in her own little white-gloved fingers. They did not talk. It was no good talking. She had been a good mother to him ... no woman could have done more. And as for Penelope . . . well, some things were better left unsaid.

The cab drew up outside the imposing edifice of the Chelsea Town Hall. They stepped out onto the warm, breezy pavement, and Ambrose paid the driver. While he was doing this, Dolly rearranged herself, smoothed her skirts, touched her hat to make certain that it was safely anchored, and then glanced about her. A few yards away, another person waited. It was a bizarre little figure, even tinier than herself, and with the thinnest black silk legs that Dolly had ever seen. Their eyes met. Dolly, flustered, hastily looked away, but it was too late, for already the other woman had moved forward, her face alight with eager anticipation, to pounce upon Dolly, grasping her wrist with a grip like a vice, and proclaiming, "You have to be the Keelings. I knew it. Knew it in my bones the moment I set eyes on you."

Dolly gaped, convinced that she was being attacked by a lunatic, and Ambrose, turning from the cab as it drove away, was as taken aback as his mother.

"I'm sorry, I—"

"I'm Ethel Stern. Lawrence Stern's sister." She was but-toned into a child-size scarlet jacket with much frogging and embellishment, and wore on her head a vast, billowing black velvet tam-o'-shanter. "Aunt Ethel to you, young man." She released Dolly's arm and thrust her hand in Ambrose's direction. When he did not instantly take it, a dreadful uncertainty crossed Aunt Ethel's wrinkled features.

"Don't say I've got the wrong family?"

"No. No, of course not." He had reddened slightly, embar-rassed by the encounter and her outlandish appearance. "How do you do? I am Ambrose, and this is my mother, Dolly Keeling."

"Thought I couldn't be mistaken. I've been waiting for hours," she went on chattily. Her hair was dyed dark red, and her hectic make-up haphazard, as though she had applied it with her eyes shut. Her blackened eyebrows did not quite match, and the dark lipstick was already beginning to seep up into the wrinkles of skin around her mouth. "I'm usually late for everything, so I made a big effort today, and of course was far too early." All at once her expression altered to one of deepest tragedy. She was like a little clown; an organ-grinder's monkey. "My dear, isn't it absolutely bloody about poor Lawrence? Poor devil, he'll be so disappointed."

"Yes," said Dolly faintly. "We were so looking forward to meeting him."

"Always enjoys a trip to London. Any old excuse will do. . . ."At this point, she let out a screech, causing Dolly to jump out of her skin, and began waving her arms in the air. Dolly saw the taxi come trundling up from the other direction, and from this emerged Penelope and presumably the Cliffords. They were all laughing, and Penelope looked totally relaxed and not in the least nervous.

"Hello! Here we all are. What perfect timing. Aunt Ethel. Gorgeous to see you . . . Ambrose, hello." She gave him a quick peck. "You've never met the Cliffords, have you? Professor and Mrs. Clifford. Peter and Elizabeth. And this is Ambrose's mother. . . ." Everybody looked pleasant and shook hands and said "How do you do." Dolly smiled and nodded and was charming, the while her eyes busy, darting from one face to another, missing nothing, making their usual instant assessment.

Penelope looked as though she were wearing fancy dress, and yet, maddeningly, beautiful too—stunning and distinctive. She was so tall and slender, and the long, loose creamy dress, an heirloom, Dolly guessed, only served to accentuate this enviable elegance. Her hair she had knotted up into a loose coil at the nape of her neck, and she wore an enormous straw hat of acid green, wreathed with daisies.

Mrs. Clifford, on the other hand, resembled a retired governess, probably very clever and brainy, but dowdily attired. The Professor was slightly smarter (but then it was always easier for a man to be well dressed) in a dark grey flannel chalk-striped suit and a blue shirt. He was tall and thin, hollow-cheeked, ascetic. Quite attractive in a scholarly way. Dolly was not the only one who thought him attractive. From the corner of her eye she had spied Aunt Ethel greet him with an embrace, hanging from his neck and kicking up her little old legs behind her like the soubrette in a musical comedy. She wondered if perhaps Aunt Ethel was slightly mad, and hoped this did not run in the family.

Finally, they were all organized by Ambrose, who told them that if they did not get going soon, then he and Penelope would miss their slot. Aunt Ethel settled her hat, and they trooped indoors for the ceremony. Which took no time at all, and was over before Dolly had found a moment to dab at her eyes with her lace-trimmed handkerchief. Then they all trooped out again and moved on to the Ritz, where Peter Clifford, acting on instructions from Cornwall, had booked a table for lunch.

There is nothing like delicious food and a quantity of champagne, all dispensed by an urbane host, for improving any situation. Everybody, even Dolly, began to relax, despite the fact that Aunt Ethel chain-smoked throughout the meal and told countless questionable anecdotes, screaming with laughter long before the punch line was even reached. The Professor was charming and attentive, and told Dolly that he liked her hat, and Mrs. Clifford seemed really interested in life at The Coombe Hotel and wanted to hear all about the people who lived there. Dolly told her, dropping the name of Lady Beamish more than once. And Penel-ope took off her acid-green hat and hung it on her chair, and darling Ambrose got to his feet and made a dear speech, referring to Penelope as his wife, whereupon everybody gave a little cheer. All in all it was a good party, and by the time it was over, Dolly felt that she had made friends for life.

But the best of everything has to come to an end, and at last, reluctantly, it was time to gather their belongings, push back their little gilt chairs, get to their feet and head for their various destinations—Dolly to The Basil Street, the Cliffords to an early evening concert at the Albert Hall. Aunt Ethel went on to Putney, and the young couple to Oakley Street.

It was while they stood, mildly tipsy, in the foyer, waiting for the taxis that would finally disperse them, that the event occurred which doomed forever Penelope's relationship with her mother-in-law. For Dolly, woozy with champagne, and feeling sentimental and magnanimous, took Penelope's hands in her own and, gazing up at her, said, "My dear, now that you are Ambrose's wife, I should like you to call me Marjorie."

Penelope blinked in some astonishment. It seemed a funny thing to call your mother-in-law Marjorie, when you knew perfectly well that her name was Dolly. However, if that was what she wanted . . .

"Thank you. Of course I will." She stooped and kissed the soft and scented cheek offered so graciously.

And for a year, she did call her Marjorie. Writing to thank for a birthday present, "Dear Marjorie . . ." she began the letter. Phoning The Coombe Hotel to give news of Ambrose, "Oh, Marjorie, it's Penelope speaking," she was to say.

It was not until many months had passed, by which time it was too late to rectify the situation, that she realized that Dolly had really said, in the foyer of the Ritz, "My dear, I should like you to call me Madre."

On the Sunday morning, Ambrose drove Penelope to Paddington to put her on the Riviera for Cornwall. The train, as usual, was stuffed to the gunwales with troops, seamen, and soldiers, kitbags and gas masks and tin hats. It had been impossible to book a seat, but Ambrose found an empty corner that he piled with her luggage, so that no other person could claim it.

They returned to the platform to say goodbye. It was hard to find the words, because all at once everything was alien and new; they were husband and wife, and neither knew what was expected of them. Ambrose lit a cigarette and stood smoking it, gazing up and down the platform, glancing at his watch. Penelope longed for the guard to blow his whistle, for the train to start to move, for it all to be over.

She said, with some violence, "I hate goodbyes."

"You'll have to get used to them."

"I don't know when I'll see you again. In a month, when I come back to Portsmouth for my discharge, will you be gone?"

"Most likely."

"Where will they send you?"

"It's anybody's guess. The Atlantic. The Med."

"The Med would be nice. Anyway, sunny."

"Yes."

Another pause.

"I wish Papa and Sophie could have been there yesterday. I so wish you could have met them."

"When I get some decent leave, I'll maybe get down to Cornwall for a few days."

"Oh, do."

"I hope everything goes all right. The baby, I mean."