The Shell Seekers (57 page)

Now it was September. Indian Summer. Chilly evenings and nights, and days of cloudless skies and glowing, golden sun. Leaves were starting to change colour, to drop, drifting in the still air, onto the grass of the lawn. The border in front of the house was bright with dahlias, and the last roses of the summer opened their velvety faces and filled the air with a fragrance which, because it was so precious, seemed twice as strong as the scents of June.

A Saturday. Over lunch, Clark and Ronald announced that they were going down to the beach, to meet a gang of their school friends and swim. Doris, Penelope, and Nancy were not invited to join them. Accordingly, they took themselves off, scampering down the garden path as though there was not a moment to be lost, laden with towels and spades, a packet of jam sandwiches, and a bottle of lemonade.

With the boys out of the way, the warm afternoon fell silent and empty. Lawrence retired to the sitting room for a little snooze by the open window. Doris took Nancy out into the gar-den. Penelope, with the dishes done and the kitchen straight, walked up to the orchard and unpegged the day's massive wash. Back in the kitchen, she folded the piles of sweet-scented linen, sheets, and towels; set shirts and pillowcases aside for ironing. Later. That could be done later. The outdoors beckoned. She went out of the kitchen and across the hall, where only the grandfather clock ticked, and a drowsy bee buzzed at a window-pane. The front door stood open, golden light streaming across the worn carpet. Across the lawn, Doris sat in an old garden chair with a basket of mending on her lap, and Nancy played contentedly in her sand-pit. The sand-pit had been built by Ernie and the sand brought up from the beach in Mr. Penberth's vegetable cart. In fine weather, it kept Nancy endlessly amused. She sat there now, wearing a pair of patched overalls and nothing else, and built sand-pies with an old tin bucket and a wooden spoon. Penelope joined them. Doris had spread an old blanket on the ground and she lay on this and watched Nancy, amused by the concentration on the child's face, entranced by the sweep of dark lashes on rounded cheek, the dimpled hands patting the sand.

"You haven't been ironing, have you?" Doris asked.

"No. Too hot."

Doris held up a shrunken shirt, its ragged collar split like a grin. "Suppose there's any point in mending this?"

"No. Turn it into a polishing rag."

"We've got more polishing rags in this house than clothes. You know, when this bleeding war ends, the best thing for me is going to be able to go out and buy clothes. New clothes. Dozens of them. I'm sick and tired of making do. Look at this jersey of Clark's. I mended it last week and there's another great hole in the elbow. How the hell do they do it?"

"They're growing lads." Idle, Penelope rolled onto her back, unbuttoning her shirt, pulling her skirt above her bare knees. "They can't help bursting out of their clothes." She closed her eyes against the glare of the sun. "Remember how skinny and pale they were when you first came here? You'd scarcely recognize them now, so brawny and brown, and Cornish as they could be."

"I'm glad they're not older." Doris broke off a length of darning wool and threaded her needle. "Wouldn't want them to be soldiers. Couldn't bear to . . ."

She stopped. Penelope waited. "What couldn't you bear?" she prompted.

Doris' reply came in an agitated whisper. "We've got a visi-tor."

The sun blanked out. A shadow lay across her supine body. She opened her eyes and saw, standing at her feet, the dark outline of a man's form. In some panic, she sat up, rearranging her sprawled legs, reaching to re-button her shirt. . . .

"I'm sorry," said Richard. "I didn't mean to startle you."

"Where did you spring from?" She scrambled to her feet, dealt with the final button, and pushed her hair out of her face.

"I came in by the top gate, across the garden."

Her heart was racing. She hoped she was not blushing. "I never heard you."

• "Is this a bad time to call?"

"Not a bit. We're not doing anything."

"I've been stuck in an office all day, and suddenly I could bear it no longer. I thought, with a bit of luck, I'd find you here." His eyes moved from Penelope to Doris, who sat in her chair as though mesmerized, the mending basket still in her lap, the threaded needle held aloft, like some sort of symbol. "I don't think we've ever met. Richard Lomax. You must be Doris."

"That's right." They shook hands. Doris, mildly flustered, added, "Pleased to meet you, I'm sure."

"Penelope told me about you, and your two sons. Are they not around?"

"No, they've gone swimming with their chums."

"Sensible fellows. You were out the other night when I came for dinner."

"Yes. I took the boys to The Mikado."

"Did they enjoy it?"

"Oh, loved it. Ever such good tunes. And funny too. They didn't half laugh."

"I'm glad." He turned his attention to Nancy, who sat star-ing up at him, nonplussed by the arrival of this tall stranger into her life. "Is this your little girl?"

Penelope nodded. "Yes. This it Nancy."

He squatted to her height. "Hello." Nancy stared. "How old is she?"

"Nearly three."

There was sand on Nancy's face and the seat of her overalls was damp. "What are you doing?" Richard asked her. "Making sand-pies? Here, let me have a go." He took up the little bucket and removed the wooden spoon from Nancy's unresisting hand. He filled the bucket, pressed down the sand, and turned it out into a perfect sand-pie. Nancy instantly demolished it. He laughed and gave her back her toys. "She has all the right instincts," he remarked, and settled himself on the grass, removing his beret and unbuttoning the tight collar of his khaki battledress.

Penelope said, "You look hot."

"I am. It's too warm to be dressed like this." He undid the rest of the buttons and removed the offending garment, rolling up the sleeves of his cotton shirt and at once becoming quite human-looking and comfortable. Perhaps encouraged by this, Nancy clambered out of the sandpit and came to sit on Penelope's knee, where she had a good view of the new arrival and could stare, unblinking, at his face.

"I never can guess how old other people's children are," he said.

"Do you have children of your own?" Doris asked inno-cently.

"Not that I know of."

"Come again?"

"I'm not married."

Penelope bent her head, laid her cheek against the silky fronds of Nancy's hair. Richard leaned back on his elbows, turned his face up to the sun. "It's as hot as midsummer, isn't it? Where else should one be but sitting in a garden? Where's your father?"

"Having a sleep. He's probably awake by now. In a moment, I'll go and tell him you're here. He's longing to see you and have another game of backgammon."

Doris looked at her watch, stowed her needle, and set down the mending basket on the grass. She said, "It's nearly four o'clock. Why don't I go and make us all a cup of tea? You'd like one, wouldn't you, Richard?"

"I can't think of anything I'd like more."

"I'll tell your father, Penelope. He likes having tea in the garden."

She left them. They watched her go. Richard said, "What a nice girl. ..."

"Yes."

Penelope began to pick daisies, to fashion them into a chain for Nancy. "What have you been doing all this time?"

"Scrambling on the cliffs. Bouncing around in the surf in those God-forsaken landing craft. Getting wet. Drafting orders, planning exercises, and writing long reports."

They fell silent. She added another daisy to the chain. After a bit, he said abruptly, "Do you know General Watson-Grant?"

"Yes, of course. Why do you ask that?"

"Colonel Mellaby and I have been asked to have a drink with him on Monday."

She smiled. "So have Papa and I. Mrs. Watson-Grant rang up this morning to invite us. Mr. Ridley, the grocer, came up with a couple of bottles of gin and they decided it was a good excuse to throw a little party."

"Where do they live?"

"About a mile away; up the hill, out of the town."

"How will you get there?"

"The General's going to send his car for us. His old gardener can drive. He gets petrol, you see, because of being in the Home Guard. I'm sure it's all dreadfully illegal, but it's very kind of him, because otherwise we couldn't go."

"I hoped you'd be there."

"Why?"

"So that I'll know somebody. And because I thought, afterwards, I could take you out for dinner."

The daisy chain had grown quite long. She held it out like a garland between her hands. She said, "Are you inviting Papa and me, or just me?"

"Just you. But if your father wants to come . . ."

"He won't. He doesn't like being out late."

"Will you?"

"Yes."

"Where shall we go?"

"I don't know."

"There's the Sands Hotel . . . ?"

"That's been requisitioned since the beginning of the war. Now, it's full of convalescent wounded."

"Or the Castle?"

The Castle. Her spirits sank at the very thought of the place. During Ambrose's first unfortunate visit to Cam Cottage, Penelope, in desperation, and casting about for some way to amuse her husband, suggested that they go to the Castle for the Saturday night dinner-dance. The evening had been no more successful than the rest of the weekend. The chill and formal dining-room had been half empty, the food dull, and the other residents aged. From time to time a dispirited band had played a selection of out-of-date tunes, but they couldn't even dance, because Penelope by then was so enormous that Ambrose could not get his arms around her.

She said quickly, "No, don't let's go there. There are old waiters like tortoises, and most of the people staying are in wheel-chairs. It's dreadfully depressing." She considered the question, and came up with a far more cheerful suggestion. "We could go to Gaston's Bistro."

"Where's that?"

"Just above the North Beach. It's tiny, but the food's not bad. Sometimes, on birthdays and things, Papa takes me and Doris there."

"Gaston's Bistro. It sounds highly unexpected. Are they on the phone?"

"Yes."

"I'll ring and book a table."

"Doris, he's asked me out for dinner."

"Get away! When?"

"On Monday. After the Watson-Grants' party."

"Did you say you'd go?"

"Yes. Why? Do you think I should nave refused?"

"Refused? You'd have needed your head examined. I think he's lovely. I dunno, reminds me of Gregory Peck in a funny way."

"Oh, Doris, he's not a bit like Gregory Peck."

"Not to look at, but he's got that quiet way. You know what I mean. What are you going to wear?"

"I haven't thought. I'll find something."

Doris became exasperated. "You know, you drive me nuts sometimes. Go and get something new. You never spend a brass farthing on yourself. Go down the town to Madame Jolie and see what she's got."

"I haven't got any clothing coupons. I spent my last on horrible tea-towels and a warm dressing-gown for Nancy."

"For goodness' sake, you only need seven. Surely between the six of us we can rustle up seven clothing coupons. And if we can't, I know where I can buy Black Market ones."

"That's against the law."

"Oh, to hell with the law. This is an occasion. Your first date for years. Live dangerously. On Monday morning, go down the town and buy yourself something pretty."

She could not remember when she had last been inside a dress shop, but as Madame Jolie was really Mrs. Coles, the Coastguard's wife, and fat and homely as anybody's grand-mother, there was no reason to feel intimidated.

"My dear life, I haven't seen you in here for years," she remarked as Penelope came through the door.

"I want a new dress," Penelope told her, wasting no time.

"I haven't anything very special in stock, dear, most of it that Utility stuff. Can't get anything else. But there is one pretty red that would fit you. Red was always your colour. Patterned in daisies this one is. It's rayon, of course, but it's got a nice silky feel."

She fetched it. Penelope, closeted into a minute curtained cubicle, pulled off her clothes and slipped the red dress over her head. It felt soft, and smelt excitingly new. Emerging from be-hind the modest curtain, she did up the buttons and buckled the red patent belt.

"Oh, it's perfect," said Madame Jolie.

She went to the long mirror and gazed at her reflection, trying to see herself with Richard's eyes. The dress had a square neck and padded shoulders, and a skirt of flaring pleats. The wide belt made her waist appear tiny, and when she turned to inspect the back view, the skirt fanned out as she moved, and the effect was so feminine, so becoming, that she found herself filled with delight at her own appearance. No garment had ever given her such confidence. It was a bit like falling in love, and she knew that she had to possess it.

"How much is it?"