The Shell Seekers (77 page)

So the leaving, the parting, was over. Penelope settled to the long drive. She thought about Podmore's Thatch, and discovered that she longed to be home. With satisfaction, she anticipated arrival, entering her own house, inspecting her garden, unpacking, opening windows, reading her mail. . . .

Beside her, Antonia asked, "Are you all right?"

"Did you think I should be in tears?"

"No. But leaving somewhere you love is always painful. You waited so long to come back. And now we're going away again."

"I am fortunate. I have my heart in two places, so wherever I am, I am content."

"Next year, you must come again. Stay with Doris and Ernie. That'll give you something to look forward to. Cosmo always said that life wasn't worth living unless you had something to look forward to."

"Dear man, how right he was." She thought about this. "I'm afraid, for the moment, your future looks a little bleak and lonely."

"Only for the moment."

"It's better to be realistic, Antonia. If you steel yourself for the worst news of Danus, then anything better comes as a won-derful bonus."

"I know that. And I don't have any illusions about him. I realize that it may take a long time and, for him, I hate the prospect. But for me, selfishly, knowing about his being ill makes everything so much easier. We really do love each other and nothing else matters . . . that's the most important thing of all, and that's what I'm going to hang on to."

"You've been very brave. Sensible and brave. Not that I expected anything else of you. I'm really very proud of you."

"I'm not really brave. But nothing's so bad if you can do something. On Monday, driving home from Manaccan, and neither of us saying a word, and knowing something was wrong, and with no idea of what it was . . . that was the worst. I felt that he was tired of me, that he wished I wasn't there, that he'd gone to see his friend on his own. It was really horrible. Isn't misunderstanding the most horrible thing in the world? I'll never let it happen to me again. And I know it won't ever happen again between Danus and me."

"It was as much his fault as yours. But I think that painful reserve is inbred in him, inherited from his parents and very much part of the way he was brought up."

"He told me that was what he loved so much about you. The way you were always more than ready to discuss anything. And, more important, to listen. He told me that, as a child, he never really talked to his parents, and never felt truly close to them. So sad, isn't it? They probably adored him, but just never got around to telling him."

"Antonia, if Danus has to stay in Edinburgh and undergo treatment, or even has to go to hospital for a while . . . have you thought what you want to do?"

"Yes. If I may, I'll stay with you for another week or two. By then we should know which way the wind is going to blow. And if it's a long-term thing, then I'll ring Olivia and accept that offer of help. Not that I want to be a photographer's model. There's really no job I'd dislike more, but if I could earn some decent money doing it, I could put it by and save it up, and then when Danus is well again, at least we'd have the smallest beginnings of a start in life. And that'll give me something to work for. I won't feel I'm totally wasting my time."

As they travelled up the backbone of the county and the coastline receded, the fog had melted and rolled away. On the high ground, sunshine washed over fields and farms and moorland, and the old engine houses of disused tin mines pointed to the cloudless spring sky, jagged as broken teeth.

Penelope sighed. She said, "So strange."

"What's so strange?"

"First it was my life. And then Olivia's. And then Cosmo came. And then you. And now it's your future we talk about. A strange progression."

"Yes." Antonia hesitated, and then went on. "One thing you don't have to worry about. There's not all that much wrong with Danus. I mean, he's not impotent or anything."

The significance of this observation took an instant to sink in. Penelope turned her head and looked at Antonia. Antonia's charming profile was intent on the road ahead, but a faint blush warmed her cheeks.

She turned back to look out of the window, smiling secretly to herself. She said, "I am glad."

The church clock of Temple Pudley struck five o'clock as they turned into the gate of Podmore's Thatch and drew to a halt. The front door stood open, and smoke curled from a chimney. Mrs. Plackett was there, waiting for them. The kettle sang, and she had made a batch of scones. No home-coming could have been more welcome.

Mrs. Plackett was vociferous, torn between wanting to hear their news and to give them hers.

"Look at you, how brown you are! Must have had the same good weather as we have. Mr. Plackett's had to water our vegeta-bles, ground is so dry. And thanks for the postcard, Antonia. Was that your hotel with all the flags flying? Looked like a palace to me. Had vandals in the churchyard, broke all the flower vases and wrote disgusting words on the tombstones with spray paint. Got a few bits in for you; bread and butter and milk and a couple of chops for your supper. Have a good drive, did you?"

They were finally able to tell her that, yes, they had had a good drive, the roads had been clear, and they were dying for a cup of tea.

It was only then that it dawned on Mrs. Plackett that three people had set off for Cornwall and only two had returned.

"Where's Danus? Drop him off at Sawcombe's, did you?"

"No, he didn't come with us. He had to go back to Scotland. He caught the train yesterday."

"To Scotland? That was a bit unexpected, wasn't it?"

"Yes. But it couldn't be helped. And we had five wonderful days together."

"That's all that matters. Did you see your old friend?"

"Doris Penberth? Yes, of course. And I may tell you, Mrs. Plackett, that we talked ourselves dry." Mrs. Plackett was making the tea. Penelope sat at the table and helped herself to a scone. "You are the dearest thing to be here to meet us."

"Well, I said to Linda, thought I'd best come along. Get the house aired. Pick a few flowers. Know you don't like the house without flowers. And that's another bit of news. Linda's Darren's started walking. Toddled clear across the kitchen the other day." She poured tea. "It's his birthday on Monday. Said I'd give Linda a hand, ask you if you'd mind if I came Tuesday instead. And I cleaned the windows, and put your mail on vour desk. . . ." She drew out a chair and seated herself, her large, competent arms crossed on the table before her. "... a great pile there was, lying on the mat inside the door. . . ."

She went at last, pedalling homewards on her stately bicycle to give Mr. Plackett his tea. While they gossiped, Antonia had unloaded the car and carried their cases upstairs. She was, pre-sumably, unpacking, for she had not reappeared, and so, as soon as Mrs. Plackett was gone, Penelope did what she had been wanting to do ever since she came through the door. The conservatory first. She filled a can and watered all the pot plants. Then picked up a pair of secateurs and went out into the garden. The grass needed cutting, the iris were out, and the far end of the border was a mass of red and yellow tulips. The first of the early rhododendrons had flowered, and she picked a single bloom and marvelled at its pale-pink perfection, collared in stiff dark-green leaves, and decided that no human hand could achieve such satisfying arrangement of petal and stamen. After a little, holding the flower, she wandered on down through the orchard, awash with fruit blossom, and through the gate to the riverbank. The Windrush flowed quietly by, slipping away beneath the overhanging branches of willow. There were cowslips out, and clumps of pale-mauve mallow, and, as she walked, a mallard emerged from a reedy thicket and proceeded to swim downstream, followed, to Penelope's enchantment, by half a dozen fluffy ducklings. She walked as far as the wooden bridge, and then, having for the moment had her fill, made her way slowly back to the house. As she crossed the lawn, Antonia called from the upstairs window of her bedroom.

"Penelope." Penelope stopped, looked upwards. Antonia's head and shoulders were framed in a tangle of honeysuckle. "It's after six o'clock. Would you mind if I telephoned Danus? I promised I would, just to let him know we're safely back."

"Of course. Use the phone in my bedroom. And send my love."

"I will."

In the kitchen, she found a lustre jug and filled it with water, and into it placed the rhododendron flower. She carried this through to the living room, already lavishly decorated by Mrs. Plackett's unprofessional but loving hands. She put the jug on her desk, picked up her mail, and settled herself in her armchair. The dull buff-coloured letters, most likely containing bills, were dropped to the floor. The others . . . she leafed them through. A thick white envelope looked interesting. She recognized Rose Pilkington's spidery handwriting. She slit the envelope with her thumb. She heard a car turning in at the gate, to draw up and stop at the front door.

She did not move from her chair. A stranger would ring the bell, a friend would simply walk indoors. This visitor did just that thing. Footsteps crossed the kitchen, the hall. The door of the living room opened and her son Noel walked into the room.

She could scarcely have been more surprised. "Noel!"

"Hello." He wore a pair of fawn twill trousers, a sky-blue sweater, a red-spotted cotton handkerchief knotted at his neck. He was very tanned and looked quite amazingly handsome. Rose Pilkington's letter was forgotten.

"Where have you sprung from?"

"Wales." He shut the door behind him. She raised her face, .expecting one of his perfunctory kisses, but he did not stoop to embrace her. Instead, with some grace, he arranged himself in front of the fireplace, his shoulders propped against the mantelpiece, his hands in his trouser pockets. Behind his head, the wall where once
The Shell Seekers
had hung looked bare and empty. "I was there for Easter weekend. Now I'm on my way back to London. Thought I'd drop in."

"Easter weekend? But it's
Wednesday
."

"It was a long weekend."

"How very convenient for you. Did you enjoy yourself?"

"Very much, thank you. And how was Cornwall?"

"Magic. We got back about five o'clock. I haven't even unpacked yet."

"And where are your travelling companions?" His voice had an edge to it. She looked at him sharply, but his eyes veered away and he would not meet her gaze.

"Danus is in Scotland. He went back yesterday, by train. And Antonia is upstairs, in my bedroom, ringing him up to let him know that we have arrived safely."

Noel raised his eyebrows. "From that bit of information, it's hard to guess exactly what has happened. Returning to Scotland seems to indicate that relations became strained while you all lived it up at The Sands Hotel. And yet, at this moment, Antonia is talking to him on the telephone. You'll have to explain."

"There's nothing to explain. Danus had an appointment in Edinburgh which he had to keep. As simple as that." Noel's expression implied that he did not believe her. She decided to change the subject. "Do you want to stay for supper?"

"No, I must get back to London." But he did not shift him-self.

"A drink then . . . would you like a drink?"

"No, I'm all right."

She thought,
I will not let him bully me
. She said, "But I would like one. I would like a whisky and soda. Perhaps you'd be kind enough to get it for me."

He hesitated, and then went through to the dining room. She heard cupboards being opened, the clink of glass. She stacked the letters that lay in her lap, and laid them neatly on the table beside her chair. When he returned, she saw that he had changed his mind about that drink, and carried two glasses. He gave her one, and returned to his former position.

He said, "And
The Shell Seekers
?"

So that was it. She smiled. "Was it Olivia who told you about
The Shell Seekers
, or was it Nancy?"

"Nancy."

"Nancy was deeply hurt that I'd done such a thing. Person-ally offended. Is that how you feel? Is that what you've come to tell me?"

"No. I just want to know what in God's name induced you to do such a thing."

"My father gave it to me. In giving it to the Gallery, I feel that I've simply given it back to him."

"Have you any idea what that picture is worth?"

"I know what it's worth to me. As for a financial appraisal, it's never been exhibited before and so it has never been valued."

"I rang my friend, Edwin Mundy, and told him what you'd done. He'd never seen the picture, of course, but he had a very clear idea of what it would fetch in a sale-room. Do you know the price he put on it ... ?"

"No, and I don't wish to be told." Noel opened his mouth to tell her but found himself on the receiving end of a warning glance so formidable that he shut it again, and said nothing. "You are angry," his mother told him. "Because, for some reason, both you and Nancy feel that I have given away something which, by rights, belongs to you. It doesn't, Noel. It never did. As for the panels, you should be gratified that I took your advice. You urged me to sell them, and it was you who put me on to Boothby's and Mr. Roy Brookner. Mr. Brookner found me a private buyer and I was offered a hundred thousand for them. I accepted this. The money is there, to be included in my estate when I die. Doesn't that satisfy you, or do you want more?"