Penelope and Lawrence were the only visitors. They sat side by side on the long, aged leather couch that stood in the middle of the floor. They sat in silence. This was the tradition. Lawrence did not wish to talk. He liked to be left alone, perched forward, his chin resting upon his hands, supported by his stick, intent upon the familiar works, remembering, communing contentedly with his old friends, many of whom were now dead.
Penelope, accepting this, sat back, huddled into her cardigan, with her long bare brown legs stretched out in front of her. Her sneakers had holes in the toes. She thought about shoes. Nancy needed shoes, but she needed a new thick sweater as well, with the winter coming on, and there were insufficient clothes coupons for both. It would have to be shoes. As for a sweater, perhaps Penelope could unearth some old hand-knitted garment, unravel the wool, and re-knit it for Nancy. This had been done before, but it was a tedious and fiddly job, and she did not relish the prospect. How wonderful it would be to go and buy new wool, rose pink or primrose yellow, thick and soft, and knit Nancy something really pretty.
Behind them the door opened and shut. A draught of cold air stirred and died. Another visitor. Neither Penelope nor her father shifted. Footsteps. A man. A few words were exchanged with Mrs. Trewey. And then came the slow, halting tread of booted feet as the newcomer made his way around the room. After ten minutes or so, he moved into the edge of Penelope’s vision. Still thinking about Nancy’s sweater, she turned her head and looked at him, and saw the back view of what could only be the Royal Marine Major who had been driven away, so dashingly, in the Jeep. Khaki battledress, green beret, a crown on his shoulder-straps. Unmistakable. She watched his progress as he moved slowly towards them, his hands clasped behind his back. Then, when he was only a few yards away, he turned, aware of their presence, perhaps diffident of disturbing them. He was tall and wiry, his face unremarkable save for a pair of astonishingly light and clear blue eyes.
Penelope met his glance, and felt embarrassed to be caught staring. She turned away. It was left to Lawrence to break the ensuing silence. All at once he became aware of the newcomer, and raised his head to see who it could be.
There came another gust of wind, another shudder and rattle of glass. When this had died, Lawrence said, “Good afternoon.”
“Good afternoon, sir.”
Beneath the brim of his great black hat, Lawrence’s eyes narrowed in puzzlement. “Aren’t you the man we watched set off in the Jeep?”
“That’s right, sir. You were on the other side of the road. I thought I recognized you.” His voice was cool, lightly pitched.
“Where’s your Sergeant?”
“Down at the harbour.”
“It hasn’t taken you long to find this place.”
“I’ve been here three days, and this is the first opportunity I’ve had to pay a visit.”
“You mean, you knew about the Gallery?”
“But of course. Who doesn’t?”
“Far too many people.” Another pause while Lawrence’s eyes travelled over the stranger. On such occasions, he had a sharp and brilliant regard, which many people, subjected to it, found unnerving. The Royal Marine Major, however, did not appear to be unnerved. He simply waited, and Lawrence, liking his coolness, visibly relaxed. He said abruptly, “I’m Lawrence Stern.”
“I thought you might be. I hoped you would be. I’m honoured to meet you.”
“And this is my daughter, Penelope Keeling.”
He said, “How do you do,” but made no move to come forward and shake her hand.
Penelope said, “Hi.”
“You’d better tell us your name.”
“It’s Lomax, sir. Richard Lomax.”
“Well, Major Lomax.” Lawrence patted the worn leather beside him. “Come and sit down. You make me feel uncomfortable, standing there. Never was much of a one for standing.”
Major Lomax, still looking unperturbed, complied with this suggestion, coming to settle himself on Lawrence’s other side. He leaned forward, relaxed, his hands between his knees.
“It was you who started up the Gallery, wasn’t it, sir?”
“Me and a lot of other people. Early nineteen twenties, it was. This used to be a chapel. Stood empty for years. We got it for a song, but then had the problem of filling it with only the best of paintings. To form a nucleus of a rare collection, we all donated a favourite work. See.” He leaned back, and used his stick as a pointer. “Stanhope Forbes. Laura Knight. What a particular beauty that is.”
“And unusual. I always associate her with circuses.”
“That was done at Porthcurno.” His stick moved on. “Lamorna Birch. Munnings. Montague Dawson. Thomas Millie Dow. Russell Flint…”
“I must tell you, sir, that my father had one of your paintings. Unfortunately, when he died, his house was sold and the picture went as well.…”
“Which one was that?”
They talked on. Penelope stopped listening. She stopped brooding about Nancy’s wardrobe, and started thinking about food instead. Supper this evening. What could she give them? Macaroni cheese? There was a rind of Cheddar left over from the week’s ration, which could be grated into a sauce. Or cauliflower cheese. But they’d had cauliflower cheese two nights ago, and the children would complain.
“… you have no modern works here?”
“As you can see. Does that bother you?”
“No.”
“You like them, though?”
“Miró and Picasso I love. Chagall and Braque fill me with joy. Dali I hate.”
Lawrence chuckled. “Surrealism. A cult. But soon, after this war, something splendid is going to happen. I and my generation, and the generation which followed it, have gone as far as we can go. The prospect of the revolution which will come to the world of art is something which fills me with enormous excitement. For that reason only, I should like to be a young man again. To be able to watch it all happening. Because, one day, they will come. As we came. Young men with bright visions and deep perceptions and tremendous talent. They will come, not to paint the bay and the sea and the boats and the moors, but the warmth of the sun and the colour of the wind. A whole new concept. Such stimulation. Such vitality. Marvellous.” He sighed. “And I shall be dead before it even begins. Do you wonder I feel regretful? To miss all that.”
“There is only so much each man can do in his lifetime.”
“True. But it is hard not to be greedy. It is human nature always to want more.”
Another silence fell. Penelope, thinking of supper, glanced at her watch. It was a quarter to four. By the time they reached Carn Cottage it would be nearly five.
She said, “Papa, we should go.”
He scarcely heard her. “Hm?”
“I said, it’s time we started for home.”
“Yes. Yes, of course.” He collected himself, gathered himself up, but before he could struggle to his feet, Major Lomax was upright and ready to help him. “Thank you … very kind. Age is a terrible thing.” He was finally erect. “Arthritis is worse. I haven’t painted for years.”
“I’m sorry.”
When they were finally ready to make their way, Major Lomax walked to the door with them. Outside, in the windy cobbled square, his Jeep was parked. He was apologetic. “I’d like to be able to drive you home, but it’s against regulations to take civilians in Service vehicles.”
“We prefer to walk,” Lawrence assured him. “We take our time. “Nice to talk to you.”
“I hope I’ll see you again.”
“But of course. You must come and have a meal with us.” He stood considering this brilliant idea. Penelope, with a sinking heart, knew exactly what he was going to say next. She dug him in the ribs with her elbow but he ignored her warning, and it was too late. “Come and have supper this evening.”
She hissed at him furiously. “Papa, there isn’t anything for supper. I don’t even know what we’re going to eat.”
“Oh.” He looked hurt, let down, but Major L
omax made it all right. “So very kind of you, but I’m afraid this evening is no good for me.”
“Another time, maybe.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you. Another time I should like that very much.”
“We’re always around.”
“Come on, Papa.”
“Au revoir then, Captain Lomax.” He raised his stick in farewell, took heed at last of Penelope’s urging, and moved forward. But still, he was put out.
“That was rude,” he reproached her. “Sophie never refused a guest, even if there was nothing more to offer him than bread and cheese.”
“Well, he couldn’t have come anyway.”
Arm in arm, they made their way down the sloping cobbles towards the harbour road, and the first stage of the long walk home. She did not look back but still had the feeling that Major Lomax stayed where he was, standing by his Jeep, watching their progress until they finally turned the corner by The Sliding Tackle and were lost from his view.
The excitement and stimulation of the afternoon, added to the long walk and copious intakes of fresh air, rendered the old man very tired. It was with some relief that Penelope finally steered him up the garden and through the open front door of Carn Cottage, where he at once collapsed into a chair and sat, slowly getting his breath. She removed his hat and hung it up, unwound the muffler from his neck. She took one of his mittened hands between her own and rubbed it gently, as though this small attention might bring the life back to his waxy twisted fingers.
“Next time we go to the Gallery, Papa, we’ll get a taxi to take us back.”
“We should have taken the Bentley. Why didn’t we take the Bentley?”
“Because we can’t get any petrol for it.”
“Not much use without petrol.”
After a little, he was sufficiently recovered to make his way into the sitting room, where she settled him into the familiar sagging cushions of his chair.
“I’ll make you a cup of tea.”
“Don’t bother. I’ll have a little sleep.”
He leaned back and closed his eyes. She knelt at the fire and put a match to paper, waited until sticks and coal had kindled. He opened his eyes. “A fire in August?”
“I don’t want you getting cold.” She stood up. “You’re all right?”
“Of course.” He smiled at her, a smile of grateful love. “Thank you for coming with me. It was a good afternoon.”
“I’m happy you enjoyed it.”
“Enjoyed meeting that young man. Enjoyed talking to him. Haven’t talked like that for a long time. A long time. We will have him here for a meal, won’t we? I’d like to see him again.”
“Yes, of course.”
“We’ll get Ernie to shoot some pigeon. He’d like pigeon.…” His eyes closed again. She left him.
* * *
By the end of August, the harvest had been gathered in, the United States Rangers had taken possession of the new camp at the top of the hill, and the weather had broken.
The harvest was a good one, and the farmers were well satisfied. Doubtless, in the fulness of time, they would be given a pat on the head by the Ministry of Agriculture. As for the American troops, they made less impact on Porthkerris than had been feared. Gloomy forebodings by staunch chapel-goers proved unfounded, and there were no drunks, brawls, or rapes. On the contrary, they seemed exceptionally well-behaved and well-mannered. Young, rangy, and crew-cut, wearing camouflage jackets and red berets, they padded the streets in their rubber-soled boots and, apart from a few statutory wolf whistles and friendly overtures to the children, whose pockets soon bulged with chocolate and chewing-gum, their presence made little difference to the day-to-day life of the little town. Under orders, perhaps for security reasons, they kept a low profile, and made the journey between the camp and the harbour sardined into the backs of trucks or driving Jeeps with trailers piled with ropes, crampons, and grappling irons. On these occasions, they would whistle dutifully at any lady who happened to pass, as though anxious to live up to the wild reputation that had preceded them. But as the days went by and their exhaustive training proceeded, it became clear that General Watson-Grant had been right, and men who spent their waking hours enduring wild sea journeys and the chilling face of the Boscarben Cliffs had no thought in mind, at the end of the day, but a hot shower, food, and sleep.
To add to their discomfort, the weather, after weeks of sunshine, had become appalling. The wind swung around to the north-west, the barometer dropped, and the rain came in squalls, low grey clouds of it, pouring in from the ocean. Down in the town, the wet cobbles of narrow streets shone like fish scales, and gutters ran with rogue water and sodden scraps of rubbish. At Carn Cottage, the flower borders were blown to wet ribbons, an old tree lost a branch, and the kitchen was festooned with wet washing, because there was no other place to dry it.
It was enough, as Lawrence remarked, gazing from the window, to damp any person’s ardour.
The sea was grey and angry. Stormy rollers thundered in onto the North Beach, depositing a fresh scouring of flotsam far beyond the usual high-water line. But, as well as flotsam, other and more interesting objects were washed up. The sad remains of a merchant ship, torpedoed and sunk out in the Atlantic months or weeks before, and finally carried ashore by the tides and the prevailing wind: a lifebelt or two, some shattered decking, and a number of wooden crates.
Ernie Penberth’s father, out in the early morning with his horse and vegetable cart, was the first to spy them. At eleven o’clock on the same day, Ernie appeared at the back door of Carn Cottage. Penelope was peeling apples, and looked up from this task to see him there, his black oilskin dripping with water and a saturated cap pulled down over his nose. But he was grinning.
“Like some tinned peaches, would you?”
“Tinned peaches? You’re pulling my leg.”
“My dad’s got two crates of them down at the shop. Picked them up off the North Beach. Got them back and opened them up. Californian tinned peaches. Good as fresh.”
“What a windfall! Can I really have some?”
“He’s put aside six for you. Thought the children would like them. Says if you like, to go down; you can get them any time.”
“He is a saint! Oh, Ernie, thank you. I’ll go this afternoon, before he changes his mind.”
“He won’t do that.”
“Do you want to eat with us?”
“No, better get back. Thanks all the same.”
As soon as lunch was over, Penelope duly set out, booted, buttoned into an old yellow oilskin, and with a woollen hat pulled down over her ears. She carried two sturdy shopping baskets, and once she had become accustomed to the force of the wind—which threatened, from time to time, to hurl her off her feet—and gusts of rain, driving, needle-sharp, into her face, the wild weather became exhilarating and she began to enjoy herself. Dropping down into the town, she found it strangely deserted. The storm had driven everyone indoors, but the feeling of isolation, of having the place to herself, served only to increase her satisfaction. She was made to feel intrepid, like an explorer.
Mr. Penberth’s greengrocery store was Downalong, halfway along the harbour road. It was possible to reach by a maze of back lanes, but instead she chose the way that led by the sea and, turning the corner by the Lifeboat House, stepped out into the teeth of the gale. The tide was high, the harbour a-brim with raging grey water. Screaming gulls were blown in all directions, fishing boats rocked and swayed at anchor, and at the far end of the North Pier, she saw the landing craft bobbing and dancing at their moorings. The weather was obviously too wild even for the Commandos to venture out.
It was with some relief that she came at last to the greengrocer’s, a tiny triangular building at the junction of two narrow lanes. As she opened the door and stepped inside, a bell jangled overhead. The shop was empty, smelling pleasantly of parsnips and apples and earth, but when she shut the door, a curtain in the back wall was raised and Mr. Penberth appeared, wearing his usual ga
rb of navy-blue guernsey and mushroom-shaped cap.
“It’s me,” she said unnecessarily, dripping water all over his floor.
“Thought it might be.” He had his son’s dark eyes and the same grin, though fewer teeth. “Walk down, did you? That’s some bugger of a day. But the gale’s blown itself out, it’ll be fair by evening. Just heard the shipping forecast on the wireless. Get my message, did you? Ernie tell you about the tinned peaches?”
“Why else do you think I’m here? Nancy hasn’t tasted a peach in her life.”
“Better come through to the back. Keeping them hidden, I am. People find out I’ve got tinned peaches, and my life won’t be worth living.” He held aside the curtain and she carried her baskets through into the cramped and cluttered space at the back of the shop, which did duty as store-room and office. Here simmered a black stove, which was never allowed to go out, and here Mr. Penberth did his telephoning, and made himself cups of tea when business was quiet. Today it smelt strongly of fish, but Penelope scarcely noticed this, her attention being wholly taken up by the piles of cans that were stacked on every available horizontal surface … Mr. Penberth’s loot of the morning.
“What a find! Ernie said they were on the North Beach. How did you get the crates back here?”
“Fetched my neighbour. He gave me a hand. Humped them home in the cart. Six be enough for you, will it?”
“More than enough.”
He loaded three into each of her baskets. “How are you off for fish?” he asked.
“Why?”
Mr. Penberth disappeared beneath the knee-hole of his desk and emerged with the source of the fishy smell. Penelope, looking into the bucket, saw it was nearly filled with blue-and-silver mackerel. “One of the boys was out this morning, swapped me these for some of the peaches. Mrs. Penberth won’t eat mackerel, says they’re dirty fish. Thought you could use them. Fresh, they are.”
“If I could have half a dozen, they’d do us for supper.”
The Shell Seekers Page 40