The Shell Seekers (62 page)

"Still, I could do without it."

"Will it help to remember how much I love you?" "Yes. A bit."

The winter was upon them. Bitter east winds assaulted the countryside, and moaned down across the moor. The sea, turbulent and angry, turned the colour of lead. Houses, streets, the very sky appeared bleached with cold. At Cam Cottage, fires were lighted first thing in the morning and kept going all day, fuelled with small rations of coal and anything else that would burn. The days grew short, and with the black-out curtains drawn at tea-time, the nights very long. Penelope reverted to her poncho and her thick black stockings, and taking Nancy out for her afternoon walks involved much bundling of the child into woollen sweaters, leggings, bonnets, and gloves.

Lawrence, his old bones chilled, warmed his hands at the fire and became restless and morose. He was bored.

"Where's Richard Lomax got to? Hasn't been here for three weeks or more."

"Three weeks and four days, Papa." She had started counting them.

"Never stayed away so long before."

"He'll be back for his backgammon."

"What's he doing with himself?"

"I've no idea."

Another week passed, and still there was no sign of him. Despite herself, Penelope began to worry. Perhaps he was never coming back. Perhaps some Admiral or General, sitting in state at Whitehall, had decided that Richard was destined for other things, and had posted him off to the North of Scotland, and she would never see him again. He hadn't written, but perhaps he was forbidden to. Or perhaps . . . and this was almost unthinkable . . . with the Second Front looming in the future, he had been parachuted into Norway or Holland; an advance scout sent to pave the way for Allied troops . . . her anxious, overworked imagination turned and fled from the prospect.

Nancy's birthday was imminent, and this was a good thing, for it gave Penelope something else to think about. She and Doris were planning a small party. Invitations to tea were sent out to ten little female friends. Ration points were squandered on chocolate biscuits, and Penelope, with hoarded ounces of butter and margarine, made a cake.

Nancy was now old enough to look forward to her special day, and for the first time in her short life realized what it was all about. It was about presents. After breakfast, she sat on the hearthrug by the sitting room fire and opened her parcels, watched, in some amusement, by her mother and her grandfa-ther, and, adoringly, by Doris. She was not disappointed. Penelope gave her a new doll and Doris clothes for the doll, lovingly contrived from scraps of material and odds and ends of knitting wool. There were a sturdy wooden wheelbarrow from Ernie Penberth, and a jigsaw puzzle from Ronald and Clark. Lawrence, always on the lookout for signs of inherited talent, had bought his grandchild a box of coloured pencils; but Nancy's best present of all came from her grandmother, Dolly Keeling. A large box to be opened, layers of tissue paper torn away; and finally, a new dress. A party dress. Layers of white organdie, trimmed with lace and smocked in pink silk. Nothing could have given Nancy more delight.

Kicking aside her other gifts, "I want to put it on now," she announced, and started then and there to struggle out of her dungarees.

"No, it's a party dress. You can put it on this afternoon, for your party. Look, here's your doll, dress her up in her new clothes. Look at the party dress Doris has made for her. And it's got a petticoat as well, with lace. ..."

Later in the morning, "You'll have to move out of the sitting room, Papa," Penelope told him. "We've got to have the party in here, and space to play games." She heaved the table to the edge of the floor.

"And where am I meant to take myself? The coal shed?"

"No. Doris has lit the fire in the study. You can be quiet and peaceful in there. Nancy doesn't want any males about the place. She's made that very clear. Even Ronald and Clark have to stay out of the way. They're going to have tea with Mrs. Penberth."

"Aren't I allowed to come and eat birthday cake?"

"Yes, of course you are. We mustn't allow Nancy to become too dictatorial."

The little guests arrived at four o'clock, urged through the front door by mothers or grannies, and for a gruelling hour and a half Doris and Penelope were in sole charge. The party followed the usual pattern. All had brought small gifts for Nancy, which had to be opened. One child wept and said she wanted to go home, and another, a bossy little madam with ringlets, asked if there was going to be a conjuror. Penelope told her briskly that there wasn't.

Games were played. "I sent a letter to my love and on the way I dropped it," they all piped in unison, sitting cross-legged in a circle on the sitting room floor. One little guest, perhaps overexcited, wet her knickers and had to be taken upstairs and lent a dry pair.

The farmer's in his den

The farmer's in his den 

Heigh-ho, my daddy-o, 

The farmer's in his den
.

Penelope, already exhausted, looked at the clock and could scarcely believe that it was only half past four. There was still an hour to be survived before mothers and grannies would reappear to claim their little darlings and take them away.

They played "Pass the Parcel." All went well until the bossy child in ringlets said that Nancy had snatched the parcel and it was her turn to undo the paper. Nancy objected and got a clout over the ear from the ringleted one, whereupon she promptly/ hit back. Penelope made soothing noises and tactfully separated them. Doris appeared at the door and said that tea was ready. No announcement had ever been more welcome.

Games were thankfully abandoned and they all trooped into the dining room, where Lawrence was already seated in his carver chair at the head of the table. The curtains were drawn, the fire lighted, and all was festive. For a moment, the children were silenced, either by the awe-inspiring sight of the old man, sitting there like a patriarch, or else by the prospect of food. They gazed at the starched white cloth, the bright mugs and plates, the straws for sucking lemonade and the crackers. The feast included jellies and sandwiches, iced biscuits and jam tarts, and, of course, the cake. They took their places at the table, and for a little while all was silent, save for the sound of munching. There were accidents, of course: sandwiches dropped on the carpet and a mug of lemonade upset, soaking the table-cloth, but this was all routine and speedily dealt with. Then crackers were pulled, paper hats unfolded and placed on heads, and garish brooches and trinkets pinned to dresses. Finally, Penelope lit the three candles on the cake, and Doris turned off the overhead light. The dark room became a stage set, a magic place, the candle flames reflected in the wide eyes of the children who sat around the table.

Nancy, in the place of honour beside her grandfather, stood up on her chair and he helped her to cut the cake.

"
Happy birthday to you . . .

Happy birthday to you.

Happy birthday, dear Nancy ...
"

The door opened and Richard walked in.

"I couldn't believe it. When you appeared, I thought I was seeing things. I couldn't believe it was true." He seemed thinner, older, grey with fatigue. He needed a shave, and his battledress was creased and soiled. "Where have you been?"

"The back of beyond."

"When did you get back?"

"About an hour ago."

"You look exhausted."

"I am," he admitted. "But I said I'd be here for Nancy's party."

"You stupid man, that didn't matter. You should be in bed."

They were alone. Nancy's little visitors had all departed, each one with a balloon and a lollipop. Doris had taken Nancy upstairs to give her a bath. Lawrence had suggested a glass of whisky, and had gone in search of a bottle. The sitting room was still in disorder, with all the furniture out of place, but they sat, unconcerned, in the midst of it all, Richard prone in an armchair, and Penelope on the hearthrug at his feet.

He said, "The whole exercise took longer . . . was more complicated . . . than we'd anticipated. I couldn't even write you a letter."

"I guessed that."

A silence fell. In the warmth of the fire, his eyelids drooped. Fighting sleep, he sat up, rubbed his eyes, ran a hand over his stubbly chin. "I must look a total wreck. I haven't shaved, and I haven't slept for three nights. Now I'm incapable. Which is sad, because I'd planned to take you out and have you to myself for the rest of the evening, and hopefully the rest of the night as well; but somehow I don't think I can make it. I'd be no use. Fall asleep in the soup. Do you mind? Can you wait?"

"Of course. I don't mind anything now that you're safely back again. I had terrifying visions of you being intrepid and getting killed or captured."

"You overestimate me."

"When you were away, it felt like for ever, but now you're here again and I can actually look at you and touch you; it's as though you'd never been away at all. And it wasn't just me that missed you. It was Papa, too, pining for his backgammon."

"I'll come up one evening and we'll have a game." He leaned forward and took her face in his hands. He said, "You are just as ravishingly beautiful as I remembered you." His tired eyes crinkled up in amusement. "Perhaps more so."

"What's so funny?"

"You. Had you forgotten that you are wearing a most un-becoming paper hat?"

He stayed only for a little while, long enough to drink the whisky Lawrence had brought him. After that, exhaustion took over and, swallowing yawns, he pulled himself to his feet, apologized for being such dull company, and said good night. Penelope saw him out. In the darkness beyond the open door, they kissed. Then he left her, making his way down the garden, headed for a hot shower, his bunk, and sleep.

She came indoors and closed the door. She hesitated for a moment, needing time to collect her flying thoughts, and finally went into the dining room, found a tray, and started in on the tedious business of clearing up the remains of Nancy's party.

She was in the kitchen, washing up at the sink, when Doris joined her.

"Nancy's asleep already. Wanted to go to bed in her new dress." She sighed. "I'm bushed. I thought that party was never going to end." She flicked a towel from the rack, and came to dry. "Has Richard gone?"

"Yes."

"Thought he'd be taking you out for supper tonight."

"No. He's gone back to catch up on his sleep."

Doris wiped and stacked a pile of plates. "Still, it was nice, him turning up like that. Expecting him, were you?"

"No."

"Thought not."

"Why do you say that?"

"I was watching you. You went all white in the face. All bright-eyed. Like you was going to faint."

"I was just surprised."

"Oh, come off it, Penelope. I'm not a fool. It's like forked lightning when you two are together. I could see the way he looked at you. He's potty about you. And by the looks of you, since he walked into your life, it's mutual."

Penelope was washing a Peter Rabbit mug. She turned it over in her hands, in the soapy water. "I didn't realize it showed so much."

"Well, don't sound so miserable about it. Nothing to be ashamed of, having a fling with a handsome chap like Richard Lomax."

"I don't think I'm just having a fling. I know I'm not. I'm in love with him."

"Get away."

"And I don't exactly know what I'm going to do. . . ."

"It's as serious as that?"

Penelope turned her head and looked at Doris. Their eyes met, and it occurred to her, at that moment, that they had become, over the years, very close. Sharing responsibilities, sorrows, frustrations, secrets, jokes, and laughter, they had built themselves a relationship that went beyond the bounds of mere friendship. In fact, as much as any person could, Doris . . . worldly, practical, and infinitely kind . . . had filled the aching void left by Sophie's death. And so it was easy to confide.

"Yes."

There was a pause. "Sleeping with him, are yoil?" asked Doris, marvellously casual.

"Yes."

"How the hell did you manage that?"

"Oh, Doris, it wasn't very difficult."

"No ... I mean . . . well, where?"

"The studio."

"I'll be buggered," said Doris, who only swore when she found herself at a total loss for words.

"Are you shocked?"

"Why should I be shocked? It's nothing to do with me."

"I'm married."

"Yes, you're married, worse luck."

"Don't you like Ambrose?"

"You know I don't. Never said as much, but a straight question deserves a straight answer. I think he's a rotten husband and a rotten father. He scarcely ever comes to see you, and don't tell me he doesn't get leave. He hardly ever writes. And he doesn't even send Nancy a birthday present. Honest, Penelope, he's not worthy of you. Why you ever married the man is a mystery to me."

Penelope said hopelessly, "I was having Nancy."

"That's a bloody reason if ever I heard one."

"I never thought you'd say that."