The Shell Seekers (53 page)

After a little, they sauntered on, down the slope of the hill. The road curved, and the White Caps Hotel was revealed, a detached stone house in a row of similar houses, with heavy sash windows facing out over the bay. It had stood empty and dilapidated for some time, but now they saw that it had been freshened up with white paint and looked startlingly trim. The tall iron railings which fronted the car-park had been painted too, and the car-park was full of khaki trucks and Jeeps. At the open gateway, a young Marine stood guard.

"Well, I never did," Lawrence remarked. "Doris got it right for once."

They drew closer. Saw the white flagstaff, the flag snapping in the wind. Newly scrubbed granite steps led up to the front door sparkling in the sunshine. They paused to stare. The young Marine, on guard at the pavement's edge, stared back at them, impassive.

After a bit, "We'd better get moving," Lawrence said. "Otherwise, we'll be shunted on, like a couple of street-walkers."

But before they could do this, there came a flurry of activity from inside the building. The inner glassed door was opened, and two uniformed figures appeared. A Major and a Sergeant. They ran down the steps with a fine military clatter of booted feet, crossed the gravel and got into one of the Jeeps. The Sergeant drove. He started the engine, backed, and turned. As they came through the gate, the young Marine on guard saluted and the Officer returned his salute. Emerging onto the main road, they paused for a second, but there was no traffic, and at once the Jeep turned out and down the hill in the direction of the town, at some speed and creating a good deal of din.

Penelope and her father watched it disappear beyond the curved terrace of quiet houses. When the sound of the Jeep en-gine had died away, "Come," said Lawrence, "let's get on."

"Where are we going?"

"To see the landing craft, of course. And then the Gallery. We haven't been for weeks."

The Gallery. That meant goodbye to any plans for the rest of the afternoon. Ready with objections, Penelope turned towards him, but saw his dark eyes bright with the prospect of pleasure, and hadn't the heart to spoil his fun.

She smiled, assenting, slipped her hand beneath his arm.

"All right. The landing craft, and then the Gallery. But let's take our time. No point in getting exhausted."

The Gallery, even in August, was always chill. The thick granite walls kept out the warmth of the sun, and the tall windows let in all the draughts. As well, the floor was slate-flagged, and there was no form of heating, and today the wind, gusting up from the North Beach, delivered from time to time great clouts upon the building, causing the framework of the northern skylight to shudder and rattle. Mrs. Trewey, who was on duty by the door, sat at an old card table piled with catalogues and picture postcards, with a rug around her shoulders and a small electric fire scorching her shins.

Penelope and Lawrence were the only visitors. They sat side by side on the long, aged leather couch that stood in the middle of the floor. They sat in silence. This was the tradition. Lawrence did not wish to talk. He liked to be left alone, perched forward, his chin resting upon his hands, supported by his stick, intent upon the familiar works, remembering, communing contentedly with his old friends, many of whom were now dead.

Penelope, accepting this, sat back, huddled into her cardigan, with her long bare brown legs stretched out in front of her. Her sneakers had holes in the toes. She thought about shoes. Nancy needed shoes, but she needed a new thick sweater as well, with the winter coming on, and there were insufficient clothes coupons for both. It would have to be shoes. As for a sweater, perhaps Penelope could unearth some old hand-knitted garment, unravel the wool, and re-knit it for Nancy. This had been done before, but it was a tedious and fiddly job, and she did not relish the prospect. How wonderful it would be to go and buy new wool, rose pink or primrose yellow, thick and soft, and knit Nancy something really pretty.

Behind them the door opened and shut. A draught of cold air stirred and died. Another visitor. Neither Penelope nor her father shifted. Footsteps. A man. A few words were exchanged with Mrs. Trewey. And then came the slow, halting tread of booted feet as the newcomer made his way around the room.

After ten minutes or so, he moved into the edge of Penelope's vision. Still thinking about Nancy's sweater, she turned her head and looked at him, and saw the back view of what could only be the Royal Marine Major who had been driven away, so dashingly, in the Jeep. Khaki battledress, green beret, a crown on his shoulder-straps. Unmistakable. She watched his progress as he moved slowly towards them, his hands clasped behind his back. Then, when he was only a few yards away, he turned, aware of their presence, perhaps diffident of disturbing them. He was tall and wiry, his face unremarkable save for a pair of astonishingly light and clear blue eyes.

Penelope met his glance, and felt embarrassed to be caught staring. She turned away. It was left to Lawrence to break the ensuing silence. All at once he became aware of the newcomer, and raised his head to see who it could be.

There came another gust of wind, another shudder and rattle of glass. When this had died, Lawrence said, "Good afternoon."

"Good afternoon, sir."

Beneath the brim of his great black hat, Lawrence's eyes narrowed in puzzlement. "Aren't you the man we watched set off in the Jeep?"

"That's right, sir. You were on the other side of the road. I thought I recognized you." His voice was cool, lightly pitched.

"Where's your Sergeant?"

"Down at the harbour."

"It hasn't taken you long to find this place."

"I've been here three days, and this is the first opportunity I've had to pay a visit."

"You mean, you knew about the Gallery?"

"But of course. Who doesn't?"

"Far too many people." Another pause while Lawrence's eyes travelled over the stranger. On such occasions, he had a sharp and brilliant regard, which many people, subjected to it, found unnerving. The Royal Marine Major, however, did not appear to be unnerved. He simply waited, and Lawrence, liking his coolness, visibly relaxed. He said abruptly, "I'm Lawrence Stern."

"I thought you might be. I hoped you would be. I'm honoured to meet you."

"And this is my daughter, Penelope Keeling."

He said, "How do you do," but made no move to come forward and shake her hand.

Penelope said, "Hi."

"You'd better tell us your name."

"It's Lomax, sir. Richard Lomax."

"Well, Major Lomax." Lawrence patted the worn leather beside him. "Come and sit down. You make me fed uncomfortable, standing there. Never was much of a one for standing."

Major Lomax, still looking unperturbed, complied with this suggestion, coming to settle himself on Lawrence's other side. He leaned forward, relaxed, his hands between his knees.

"It was you who started up the Gallery, wasn't it, sir?"

"Me and a lot of other people. Early nineteen twenties, it was. This used to be a chapel. Stood empty for years. We got it for a song, but then had the problem of filling it with only the best of paintings. To form a nucleus of a rare collection, we all donated a favourite work. See." He leaned back, and used his stick as a pointer. "Stanhope Forbes. Laura Knight. What a particular beauty that is."

"And unusual. I always associate her with circuses."

"That was done at Porthcurno." His stick moved on. "Lamorna Birch. Munnings. Montague Dawson. Thomas Millie Dow. Russell Flint . . ."

"I must tell you, sir, that my father had one of your paint-ings. Unfortunately, when he died, his house was sold and the picture went as well. . . ."

"Which one was that?"

They talked on. Penelope stopped listening. She stopped brooding about Nancy's wardrobe, and started thinking about food instead. Supper this evening. What could she give them? Macaroni cheese? There was a rind of Cheddar left over from the week's ration, which could be grated into a sauce. Or cauliflower cheese. But they'd had cauliflower cheese two nights ago, and the children would complain.

". . . you have no modern works here?"

"As you can see. Does that bother you?"

"No."

"You like them, though?"

"Mir6 and Picasso I love. Chagall and Braque fill me with joy. Dali I hate."

Lawrence chuckled. "Surrealism. A cult. But soon, after this war, something splendid is going to happen. I and my generation, and the generation which followed it, have gone as far as we can go. The prospect of the revolution which will come to the world of art is something which fills me with enormous excitement. For that reason only, I should like to be a young man again. To be able to watch it all happening. Because, one day, they will come. As we came. Young men with bright visions and deep perceptions and tremendous talent. They will come, not to paint the bay and the sea and the boats and the moors, but the warmth of the sun and the colour of the wind. A whole new concept. Such stimulation. Such vitality. Marvellous." He sighed. "And I shall be dead before it even begins. Do you wonder I feel regretful? To miss all that."

"There is only so much each man can do in his lifetime."

"True. But it is hard not to be greedy. It is human nature always to want more."

Another silence fell. Penelope, thinking of supper, glanced^at her watsh. It was a quarter to four. By the time they reached Cam Cottage it would be nearly five.

She said, "Papa, we should go."

He scarcely heard her. "Hm?"

"I said, it's time we started for home."

"Yes. Yes, of course." He collected himself, gathered himself up, but before he could struggle to his feet, Major Lomax was upright and ready to help him. "Thank you . . . very kind. Age is a terrible thing." He was finally erect. "Arthritis is worse. I haven't painted for years."

"I'm sorry."

When they were finally ready to make their way, Major Lomax walked to the door with them. Outside, in the windy cobbled square, his Jeep was parked. He was apologetic. "I'd like to be able to drive you home, but it's against regulations to take civilians in Service vehicles."

"We prefer to walk," Lawrence assured him. "We take our time. "Nice to talk to you."

"I hope I'll see you again."

"But of course. You must come and have a meal with us."

He stood considering this brilliant idea. Penelope, with a sinking heart, knew exactly what he was going to say next. She dug him in the ribs with her elbow but he ignored her warning, and it was too late. "Come and have supper this evening."

She hissed at him furiously. "Papa, there isn't anything for supper. I don't even know what we're going to eat."

"Oh." He looked hurt, let down, but Major Lomax made it all right. "So very kind of you, but I'm afraid this evening is no good for me."

"Another time, maybe."

"Yes, sir. Thank you. Another time I should like that very much."

"We're always around."

"Come on, Papa."

"Au revoir then, Captain Lomax." He raised his stick in farewell, took heed at last of Penelope's urging, and moved forward. But still, he was put out.

"That was rude," he reproached her. "Sophie never refused a guest, even if there was nothing more to offer him than bread and cheese."

"Well, he couldn't have come anyway."

Arm in arm, they made their way down' the sloping cobbles towards the harbour road, and the first stage of the long walk home. She did not look back but still had the feeling that Major Lomax stayed where he was, standing by his Jeep, watching their progress until they finally turned the corner by The Sliding Tackle and were lost from his view.

The excitement and stimulation of the afternoon, added to the long walk and copious intakes of fresh air, rendered the old man very tired. It was with some relief that Penelope finally steered him up the garden and through the open front door of Cam Cottage, where he at once collapsed into a chair and sat, slowly getting his breath. She removed his hat and hung it up, unwound the muffler from his neck. She took one of his mittened hands between her own and rubbed it gently, as though this small attention might bring the life back to his waxy twisted fingers.

"Next time we go to the Gallery, Papa, we'll get a taxi to take us back."

"We should have taken the Bentley. Why didn't we take the Bentley?"

"Because we can't get any petrol for it."

"Not much use without petrol."

After a little, he was sufficiently recovered to make his way into the sitting room, where she settled him into the familiar sagging cushions of his chair.

"I'll make you a cup of tea."

"Don't bother. I'll have a little sleep."

He leaned back and closed his eyes. She knelt at the fire and put a match to paper, waited until sticks and coal had kindled. He opened his eyes. "A fire in August?"

"I don't want you getting cold." She stood up. "You're all right?"

"Of course." He smiled at her, a smile of grateful love. "Thank you for coming with me. It was a good afternoon."

"I'm happy you enjoyed it."