“I am enormously intelligent.”
“What are you reading?”
“George Eliot. The Mill on the Floss.”
“Don’t start identifying with poor Maggie Tulliver.”
“I never identify with anyone. You have a marvellous library. Everything I want to read, or reread, or have never had time to read. I shall probably spend the whole of the year with my nose in a book.”
“That’s all right by me, provided you emerge every now and then to satisfy my carnal lusts.”
“I’ll do that.” He bent and kissed her, spectacles and all, and went indoors to fetch himself a can of beer.
She finished The Mill on the Floss and started in on Wuthering Heights and then Jane Austen. She read Sartre, Recherché du temps perdu, and, for the first time in her life, War and Peace. She read classics, biographies, novels by authors she had never even heard of. She read John Cheever and Joseph Conrad, and a battered copy of The Treasure Seekers, which took her straight back over the years to the house in Oakley Street where she had been a child.
And as these books were all familiar old friends to Cosmo, they were able to spend their evenings deep in long literary discussions, usually to the background accompaniment of music; the “New World,” and Elgar’s “Enigma Variations,” and symphonies or operas in their entirety.
To keep in touch, he had The Times sent out from London each week. One evening, after reading an article on the treasures of the Tate Gallery, she told him about Lawrence Stern.
“He was my grandfather, my mother’s father.”
Cosmo was gratifyingly impressed. “But how enormously exciting. Why did you never tell me before?”
“I don’t know. I don’t usually talk about him. Anyway, nowadays most people have never even heard of him. He went out of date and became forgotten.”
“What a painter he was.” He frowned, deep in calculations. “But he was born … when was it … in the eighteen-sixties. He must have been a very old man when you came into the world.”
“More than that, he was dead. He died in nineteen forty-six, in his own bed, in his own house, in Porthkerris.”
“Did you used to go to Cornwall for holidays and things?”
“No. The house was always let to other people, and finally my mother sold it. She had to, because she was perpetually strapped for cash and that was another reason we never went away for holidays.”
“Did you mind?”
“Nancy minded most dreadfully. And Noel would have minded too, except that he was particularly good at looking after himself. He always made friends with the right boys, and managed to wangle invitations to go sailing and skiing, and join jolly parties in villas in the south of France.”
“And you?” Cosmo’s voice was loving.
“I didn’t mind. I didn’t want to go away. We lived in a huge house in Oakley Street with an equally huge garden at the back, and I had all the museums and the libraries and the art galleries right there, just for the taking.” She smiled, remembering those full and satisfying days. “Oakley Street belonged to my mother. At the end of the war Lawrence Stern made it over to her. My father was a fairly—” she sought for the right word—“lightweight sort of person. Not a man with drive or many resources. I think my grandfather must have known this, and was anxious that she should be independent and at least have a home in which to bring up her family. Besides, he was eighty then, and crippled with arthritis. He knew that he would never live there again.”
“Does your mother live there still?”
“No. It became too unwieldy and expensive to run, so this year she finally decided to sell, and move out of London. She had dreams of going back to Porthkerris, but my sister Nancy talked her out of that and instead found her a cottage in a village called Temple Pudley in Gloucestershire. To give Nancy her due, it’s perfectly charming, and Mother is very happy there. The only gruesome thing about it is its name. Podmore’s Thatch.” She screwed up her nose in distaste and Cosmo laughed. “Admit it, Cosmo, it is a bit twee.”
“You could rename it. Mon Repos. Is it filled with beautiful paintings by Lawrence Stern?”
“No. Unfortunately. Only three. I wish she had more. I think, the way the market’s going, they could be very valuable in a year or two.”
The conversation turned to other Victorian artists, and finally to Augustus John, and Cosmo went off to find the two volumes of his biography, which she had read but wished to read again. They discussed him at length and agreed that, for all his wicked ways, they had nothing but admiration for that randy old lion, and yet both considered his sister Gwen to be the better artist.
And after that they showered and put on reasonably respectable clothes and walked up to the village, to Pedro’s bar, where you could sit out under the stars and have a drink. And a young man with a guitar materialized and sat on a wooden chair and quite simply, with no ceremony, began to play the second movement of the Rodrigo Guitar Concerto, filling the warm darkness with that plangent and stately music, the very essence of Spain.
* * *
Antonia was due to arrive in a week’s time. Already Maria had started in on spring cleaning her bedroom, hauling all the furniture out onto the terrace, whitewashing the walls, laundering curtains and blankets and covers, and beating rugs with much venom and a cane switch.
Such urgent activity brought the appearance of Antonia that much nearer and Olivia was filled with apprehension. This was not entirely selfish, although the prospect of sharing Cosmo with another woman, even if she was only thirteen and his daughter, was dismaying, to say the least of it. The true anxiety lay within herself, because she was frightened of failing Cosmo, of saying the wrong thing, or doing something tactless. According to Cosmo, Antonia was both charming and uncomplicated, but this did nothing to reassure Olivia, because she had never had anything to do with children. Noel had been born when she was almost ten, and by the time he was out of babyhood, Olivia had virtually left home and gone out into the world. There were Nancy’s offspring, of course, but they were so unattractive and unbearably bad-mannered that Olivia made a point of having as little to do with them as possible. So what did one say? What did one talk about? What were they all going to do with themselves?
One late afternoon, when they had had their swim and were stretched out in long chairs by the pool, she confided in Cosmo.
“It’s just that I don’t want to spoil things for you both. You obviously feel very close to each other, and I can’t believe she won’t think I’m alienating your affections. After all, she’s only thirteen. It’s a difficult sort of age, and a little jealousy would be the most understandable and natural reaction.”
He sighed. “How can I convince you that it won’t be like that?”
“Three’s a bad number at the best of times. Sometimes, she’s bound to want you to herself, and I may not be perceptive enough to get out of the way. Admit it, Cosmo, I do have a case.”
Considering this, he did not reply at once. At last, with a sigh, he said, “There is obviously no way I can persuade you that none of what you fear is going to happen. So let’s indulge in a little sideways thinking. How would it be if, while Antonia is with us, we ask another person to come and stay? Make it a sort of house party. Would that ease your mind?”
This suggestion put an entirely different aspect to the situation. “Yes. Yes, it would. You’re brilliant. Who shall we ask?”
“Anyone you like, provided it’s not a young, handsome, and virile man.”
“What about my mother?”
“Would she come?”
“Like a shot.”
“She won’t expect us to occupy separate bedrooms, will she? I’m too old to go corridor-creeping, I’d probably fall down the stairs.”
“My mother has illusions about nobody, least of all me.” She sat up, suddenly excited. “Oh, Cosmo, you’ll adore her. I can’t wait for you to meet her.”
“In that case, we have no time to waste.” He heaved himself out o
f his chair and reached for his jeans. “Come on, girl, move your backside. If we can get your mother lined up and Antonia organized, then they can meet up at Heathrow and come out together on the same flight. Antonia’s always a bit windy about flying alone, and your mother would probably enjoy the company.”
“But where are we going?” Olivia asked, buttoning her shirt.
“We’ll walk up to the village and use the telephone in Pedro’s. Have you got her number at Podmore’s Thatch?”
He said the name with relish, causing it to sound more embarrassing than usual, and looked at his watch. “It’s about six-thirty in England. Will she be at home? What will she be doing at six-thirty in the evening?”
“She’ll be gardening. Or cooking dinner for ten people. Or pouring someone a drink.”
“Can’t wait to get her here.”
* * *
The flight from London via Valencia was due at nine-fifteen. Maria, who could not wait to see Antonia again, volunteered to come in and cook the dinner. Leaving her to prepare this mammoth feast, they drove to the airport. They were both, though neither would admit it, in a state of some nervous excitement and because of this arrived far too early, and so had to hang about the soulless Arrivals lounge for half an hour or more before the girl on the Tannoy announced in crackling Spanish that the plane had touched down. Then there was more delay, while passengers disembarked, went through Immigration, claimed their luggage; but finally the doors opened, and a flood of humanity surged to freedom. Tourists, pale-faced and travel-weary; families of locals with strings of children; sinister dark-spectacled gentlemen in sharp suits; a priest and a pair of nuns;… and then at last, just as Olivia was beginning to fear that they had missed the flight, Penelope Keeling and Antonia Hamilton.
They had found a trolley on which to pile their luggage, but had chosen one with balky wheels that kept shooting off in the wrong direction, and for some reason this had them both in giggles, and so engrossed were they in talking and laughing and trying to keep the wretched thing on a straight course, that they did not instantly catch sight of Cosmo and Olivia.
Part of Olivia’s nervous apprehension sprang from the fact that she was always afraid, after a period of separation from Penelope, that her mother might have changed. Not aged, exactly, but perhaps appear tired, or diminished in some dreaded, subtle way. But the moment she caught sight of her, anxiety faded. It was all right. Penelope looked vital as ever and marvellously distinguished. Tall and straight-backed, with her thick greying hair twisted up into a knot at the back of her head and her dark eyes bright with amusement, even the struggles with the trolley did nothing to detract from her dignity. She was, inevitably, slung about with bags and baskets, and was dressed in her old blue cape, an officer’s boat cloak that she had bought secondhand from an impoverished Naval widow at the end of the war and worn ever since, on all occasions from weddings to funerals.
And Antonia … Olivia saw a tall and slender child, looking older than her thirteen years. She had long, straight, strawberry-blond hair, and wore jeans, a T-shirt and a red cotton jacket.
There was no time for more. Cosmo raised his arms and called his daughter’s name, and they were seen. Antonia abandoned Penelope and the trolley and came running towards them, hair flying, a pair of rubber swimming flippers in one hand and a canvas satchel in the other, dodging through the throng of baggage-laden humanity to throw herself into Cosmo’s arms. He caught her up and swung her round, long spindly legs flying, kissed her soundly, and set her down on her feet again.
“You’ve grown,” he told her accusingly.
“I know, a whole inch.”
She turned to Olivia. She had freckles across her nose and a full, sweet mouth, too big for her heart-shaped face, and her eyes were greeny-grey and fringed with long, thick, very fair eyelashes. Their expression was open and smiling, full of interest.
“Hello. I’m Olivia.”
Antonia disentangled herself from her father’s arms, tucked the rubber flippers under her arm, and held out a hand. “How do you do?”
And Olivia, looking down at the young, bright face, knew that Cosmo had been right, and all her fears unfounded. Charmed and disarmed by Antonia’s mannerly grace, she shook the outstretched hand. “I’m glad you’re here,” she told her, and then, with that safely over, abandoned father and daughter and went to claim her own relation, still patiently guarding the luggage. Penelope, with soundless delight, flung wide her arms in one of her typical expansive gestures, and Olivia happily cast herself into them, to hug enormously, to press her face against her mother’s cool firm cheek, to smell the long-familiar scent of patchouli.
“Oh, my darling pet,” said Penelope, “I can’t believe I’m really here.”
Joined by Cosmo and Antonia, they all started talking at once.
“Cosmo, this is my mother, Penelope Keeling…”
“You met up all right at Heathrow?”
“No trouble at all; I carried a newspaper and wore a rose between my teeth.”
“Daddy, we had a hilarious flight. Someone was sick…”
“Is this all your luggage?”
“How long did you have to wait at Valencia?”
“… and the air hostess spilt a whole glass of orange juice over a nun.”
Finally, Cosmo got matters under control, took charge of the trolley, and led the way out of the terminal, into the warm, dusky blue starlit darkness, filled with the smell of petrol and the sound of cicadas. Somehow, they all crammed into the Citroën, Penelope in the front and Antonia and Olivia jammed together in the back. The luggage was piled on top of the passengers and at last they were off.
“How’s Maria and Tomeu?” Antonia wanted to know. “And the bantams? And Daddy, do you know something, I got top marks in French. Oh, look, there’s a new disco. And a roller-skating rink. Oh, we must go roller-skating, Daddy, can we? And I really want to learn to wind-surf these holidays … is it frightfully expensive to have lessons?”
The now familiar road climbed up and away from the town and into the countryside, where the hills were pricked with the lights of random farmhouses, and the air was heavy with the scent of pine. When they turned into the track that led down to Ca’n D’alt, Olivia saw that Maria had turned on all the outside lights and these shone out like a celebration through the branches of the almond trees. And even as Cosmo stopped the car, and they were commencing to unload themselves, Maria and Tomeu were there, coming towards them through all this brightness; Maria stocky and sun-browned in her black dress and apron, and Tomeu shaven for the occasion and wearing a clean shirt.
“Hola, señor,” called Tomeu, but Maria had no thoughts for any person but her darling child.
“Antonia.”
“Oh, Maria.” She was out of the car and away, running down the path and into Maria’s embrace.
“Antonia. Mi niña. Favorita. Comó està usted?”
They were home.
Penelope’s bedroom, which had once been a donkey’s stable, led directly off the terrace. It was so small that there was room only for the bed and a chest of drawers, and a row of wooden pegs had to do duty as a wardrobe. But Maria had given it the same ruthless treatment as Antonia’s room, and it shone clean and white and smelled of soap and freshly ironed cotton, and Olivia had filled a blue-and-white jug with yellow roses and stood this, with some carefully chosen books, on the wooden bedside table. Two tiled steps led up to a second door, and she opened this and explained to her mother the whereabouts of the only bathroom.
“The plumbing’s a bit erratic; it depends on the state of the well, so if the loo doesn’t work the first time, you just have to go on trying.”
“I think it’s all quite perfect. What an enchanting place.” She divested herself of her cape, hung it on a peg, and turned to stoop over the bed and open her suitcase. “And what a dear man Cosmo seems. And how well you’re looking. I’ve never seen you look so well.”
Olivia sat on the bed and watched her mother un
pack.
“You’re an angel to come at such short notice. It’s just that I thought it might be easier, having Antonia, if you were here as well. Not that that’s the only reason I asked you. Ever since I set eyes on this place, I’ve been wanting to show it to you.”
“You know I love doing things on the spur of the moment. I phoned Nancy and told her I was coming and she was mad with envy. And a bit cross, too, because she hadn’t been invited, but I didn’t take the slightest bit of notice of that. And as for Antonia, what a darling pet of a child. Not in the least shy, laughing and chatting the whole day. I do wish Nancy’s children could be half as companionable and well-mannered. Heaven only knows what sin I committed to be landed with such a pair for grandchildren.…”
“And Noel? Have you seen Noel lately?”
“No, haven’t set eyes on him for months. I rang him up the other day to make sure he was still alive. He was.”
“What’s he doing with himself?”
“Well, he’s found himself a new flat, somewhere off the King’s Road. What it’s going to cost him I didn’t dare to ask, but that’s his problem. And he’s thinking of leaving the publishing world and going into advertising—he says he’s got some very good contacts. And he was just off to Cowes for the weekend. The usual.”
“And you? How are things with you? How’s Podmore’s Thatch?”
“Dear little house,” said Penelope fondly. “The conservatory’s finished at last, I can’t tell you how pretty it is. I’ve planted a white jasmine and a vine, and bought rather a smart basket chair.”
“About time you had some new garden furniture.”
“And the magnolia flowered for the first time and I’ve had the wistaria pruned. And the Atkinsons came for a weekend, and it was so warm we were able to have dinner in the garden. They were asking after you and send their dearest love.” She smiled, becoming motherly, her expression one of satisfied affection. “And when I get home, I shall be able to tell them that I have never seen you look so well. Blooming. Beautiful.”
“Was it an awful bombshell for you, my staying with Cosmo and throwing up my job and generally behaving like a lunatic?”
The Shell Seekers Page 8