The Shell Seekers (78 page)

"You should have discussed it with me. I am, after all, your son."

"We had discussed it. Over and over. And each time the discussion came to nothing, or ended in a row. I know what you want, Noel. You want money now. In your hand. To squander as you wish on some wild-goose idea that will in all probability come to nothing. You've got a perfectly good job but you want a better one. Commodity broking. And once you've got that out of your system, and probably lost every penny you possess in the process, then it'll be something else . . . some other pot of gold at the end of a non-existent rainbow. Happiness is making the most of what you have, and riches is making the most of what you've got. You have so much going for you. Why can't you see that? Why do you always want more?"

"You talk as though I think only of myself. I don't. I'm thinking of my sisters as well, and your grandchildren. One hundred thousand sounds a lot, but there'll be taxes to pay, and if you continue to squander it on any lame dog that comes your way and takes your fancy—"

"Noel, don't talk to me as though I were senile. I am per-fectly in charge of my senses; I shall choose my own friends and make my own decisions. Going to Porthkerris, staying at The Sands, taking Danus and Antonia to keep me company was the first time in my life, the very first time, that I have experienced the joys of extravagance and generosity. For the first time in my life, I didn't have to weigh the worth of every penny. For the first time, I was able to give with no worry about the cost. It was an experience that I shall never forget, and made all the more heartwarming by the grace and gratitude with which it was received."

"Is that what you want? Endless gratitude?"

"No, but I think you should try to understand. If I'm wary of you and your needs and your schemes, it's because I've lived through it all before with your father, and I'm not about to start again."

"You can scarcely blame me for my father."

"I don't. You were just a little boy when he walked out on us all. But in you he left a lot of himself behind. Good things. His looks, his charm, and his undoubted abilities. But other characteristics as well, which are not so commendable—grand ideas; lavish tastes; and no respect for other people's property. I am sorry. I hate to say such things. But it seems the time has come for you and me to be quite open with each other."

He said, "I had no idea you disliked me so much."

"Noel, you are my son. Can't you see that if I didn't love you beyond all else, I would never trouble to say these things?"

"You have an odd way of showing love. Giving all you possess to strangers . . . nothing to your children."

"You talk like Nancy. Nancy told me that I never gave her anything. What is wrong with you both? You and Nancy and Olivia were my life. For years you were everything I lived for. And yet now, hearing you say such things, I am filled with despair. I feel that somewhere and somehow I have totally and utterly failed you."

"I think," said Noel slowly, "that you have."

After that, there seemed to be nothing more to say. He fin-ished his drink, turned and set the glass on the mantelpiece. He was, it was obvious, about to take his leave, and the thought of his going with the bitterness of their quarrel still between them was more than Penelope could bear. "Stay for supper with us, Noel. We won't be late. You'll be back in London by eleven."

"No. I must go." He moved away.

She pulled herself out of her chair and followed him through the kitchen and out of the door. Without looking at her, or meeting her eyes, he got into his car, slammed the door shut, fastened his seat-belt, switched on the ignition.

"Noel." He faced his mother, his handsome features unsmiling, antagonistic, without love. She said, "I am sorry." He nodded briefly, acknowledging her apology. She tried a smile. "Come back again soon." But the car was already moving, and her words drowned in the roar of its supercharged engine.

When he had gone, she went back indoors. She stood at the kitchen table and thought about supper, and could not think what she meant to do. With an enormous effort she gathered her wits; she made her way to the larder, fetched potatoes, carried the basket to the sink. She turned on the cold tap and watched it run. She thought of tears but was beyond weeping.

She stood there, incapable, for some minutes. Then the kitchen telephone rang sharply once and jerked her back to reality. She opened a drawer, took out her small, sharp knife. When Antonia came running down the stairs to find her, she was peace-fully peeling potatoes.

"I'm sorry, we talked for ages. Danus says he'll pay you for the call. It must have cost pounds." Antonia sat on the table and swung her legs. She was smiling and looked sleek and satisfied as a little cat. "He sent you his dearest love, and says he's writing you a long letter. Not a bread-and-butter letter, a toast-and-mar-malade one. And he's seeing the doctor tomorrow morning, and he's going to ring us the moment he knows what the verdict is. He sounded terrific, not worried in the very least. And he says the sun's shining, even in Edinburgh. I'm sure that's a good sign, aren't you? A hopeful one. If it had been raining, it wouldn't be nearly so cheerful for him. Did I hear voices? Did you have a caller?"

"Yes. Yes, I did. It was Noel, on his way back to London from a weekend in Wales. A very long weekend, he assured me." It was all right, her voice was fine, just right, casual and quite steady. "I asked him to stay for supper, but he wanted to get back. So he had a drink and took himself off."

"I'm sorry I missed him. But there was so much to say to Danus. I couldn't stop chattering. Would you like me to do those potatoes? Or shall I go and find a cabbage or something? Or lay the table? Isn't it lovely to be home? I know it's not my home but it feels like it, and it's somehow so perfect to be back again. You feel like that too, don't you? You're not regretting anything?"

"No," Penelope told her. "I regret nothing."

The next morning at nine o'clock, she made two telephone calls to London, and two appointments. One of them was with Lalla Friedmann.

Danus' appointment was at ten o'clock and they had worked out the previous evening that it would be at least half past eleven before he could get himself to a telephone, to let them know the doctor's verdict. But the call came just before eleven and it was Penelope who answered it because Antonia was down in the orchard, hanging out a line of washing in the breezy wind.

"Podmore's Thatch."

"It's Danus."

"
Danus
! Oh dear, Antonia's out in the garden. What news? Tell me at once. What news have you for us?"

"I haven't any news."

Penelope's heart dropped with disappointment. "Didn't you see the doctor?"

"Yes, I did, and then I went up to the hospital for my EEG, but . . . and you're never going to believe this . . . the computer there is on the blink and they couldn't give me the results."

"I don't believe it. How utterly exasperating! How long have you got to wait?"

"I don't know. They couldn't say."

"So what are you going to do?"

"Do you remember me telling you about my friend Roddy McCrae? I had a drink with him last night in The Tilted Wig, and he's off tomorrow morning for a week's fishing in Sutherland. He asked me to go with him, to stay in the croft, and I've decided to accept his invitation, and just light out. If I have to wait two days to hear the results of the brain-scan, I might as well wait a week. And at least I won't be kicking my heels at home, biting the ends off my fingernails and driving my mother insane."

"So when will you return to Edinburgh?"

"Thursday, probably."

"Is there no way that your mother can get in touch with you at the croft, and let you have some news?"

"No. I told you, it's at the back of beyond. And, to be truthful, I've lived so long with this thing, I can wait another seven days."

"In that case, perhaps it's better to go. And, in the mean-time, we'll keep our fingers crossed. We won't stop.thinking about you for a single moment. You promise to call us the moment you get back?"

"Of course. Is Antonia around . . . ?"

"I'll fetch her. Hold on."

She left the receiver hanging by its cable and went out through the conservatory. Antonia was ambling back across the grass with the empty washing basket under her arm. She wore a pink shirt, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, and a navy-blue cotton skirt, blowing in the wind.

"Antonia. Quick, it's Danus . . ."

"Already?" The colour flowed from her cheeks. "Oh, what did he say? What's happened?"

"No news yet because the computer's broken down . . . but let him tell you for himself. He's waiting on the telephone. Here . . . I'll take the basket."

Antonia thrust it at her and fled indoors. Penelope carried the basket to the garden seat which stood outside the sitting room window. Really, life was too cruel. If it wasn't one thing, then it was another. But better, perhaps, under the circumstances, that Danus should take himself off with his friend. The company of an old colleague was sometimes the answer on such occasions. She imagined the two young men in that world of endless moors and towering hills, bitter-cold northern seas, and deep, brown, fast-flowing rivers. They would fish together. Yes, it was a good decision that Danus had made. Fishing was said to be immensely therapeutic.

A movement caught the corner of her eye. She looked, and watched Antonia emerge from the conservatory and come across the grass towards her. The girl looked despondent, dragging her feet like a child. She thumped herself down beside Penelope and said, "Damn."

"I know. It's very frustrating. For all of us."

"Beastly bloody old computer. Why can't they make these things work? And why does it have to happen to Danus?"

"I must say, it is the crudest of luck. But there's nothing to be done, so we must just make the best of it."

"It's all very well for him; he's going off fishing for a week."

Penelope had to smile. "You sound," she told Antonia, "like a neglected wife."

"Do I really?" Antonia became remorseful. "I don't mean to. It's just that another week to wait seems endless."

"I know. But it's much better that he shouldn't just sit around and wait for the telephone to ring. Nothing in this world is more demoralizing. He's much better to be happily occupied. I'm sure you don't grudge him that. And the week will pass. You and I will occupy ourselves happily. I'm going to London on Monday. Would you like to come with me?"

"To London? Why?"

"Just to see some old friends. I haven't been for long enough. If you'd like to come with me, we could take the car. But if you'd rather stay here, perhaps you'd drive me to Cheltenham and I'll catch the train."

Antonia thought about this suggestion. Then she said, "No. I think I'll stay. I might have to go back to London soon enough, and it's a waste to miss a single day in the country. And Mrs. Plackett isn't coming on Monday because of Barren's birthday, so I'll do the housework and cook a delicious dinner for you to come home to. Besides"—she smiled, looking more like her old self again— "there's always the faintest possibility that Danus might find himself within ten miles of a telephone and decide to ring me up. It would be a tragedy if I wasn't here."

And so Penelope went to London alone. As they had planned, Antonia drove her to Cheltenham and she caught the 9:15. In London, she visited the Royal Academy and lunched with Lalla Friedmann. Afterwards, she took a taxi and drove to the Gray's Inn Road, and the offices of Enderby, Looseby & Thring, Solici-tors. She gave her name to the girl who sat behind the reception desk and was led up two flights of narrow stairs to Mr. Enderby's private office. The girl knocked and opened the door.

"Mrs. Keeling to see you, Mr. Enderby."

She stood back. As Penelope went through the door, Mr. Enderby rose to his feet and came from behind his desk to greet her.

In the old and penniless days, Penelope would have got herself from the Gray's Inn Road to Paddington Station either by bus or by tube. In her mind, she had actually planned to do this thing, but when she eventually emerged onto the pavement outside the premises of Enderby, Looseby & Thring, she discovered that the prospect of battling her way across London by public transport was, all at once, quite untenable. A cruising taxi approached; she stepped forward and flagged it down.

In the taxi, she sat back, grateful to be alone, absorbed in her thoughts, recollecting her conversation with Mr. Enderby. Much had been discussed, decided, and accomplished. There was nothing more to be done. Achievement had been reached, but it had all been exhausting, and she found herself at the end of her rope, both physically and mentally. Her head ached; her feet seemed too large for their shoes. In addition, she felt both grubby and hot, for the afternoon, although overcast and sunless, was warm; the air heavy, stale and used. Gazing from the taxi window, waiting for the traffic lights to change from red to green, she was suddenly overwhelmed and depressed by all she saw. The size of the city; the millions of human beings who thronged the streets, their faces anxious and worried, all hurrying as though fearful of being late for some life-or-death appointment. Once she had lived in London. It had been her home. Here she had brought up her family. Now, she could not imagine how she had endured those years.