The Shell Seekers

by Rosamunde Pilcher

  Like a couple of young girls kindled with innocent excitement, they set to work; they peeled vegetables, made a salad, buffed up the old dining room table, gave little-used silver a cursory clean, polished the crystal wineglasses. Lawrence, alerted, heaved himself out of his chair and made his way cautiously down to the cellar where, in happier days, he had stored his considerable stock of French wine. Now, there was little remaining, but he returned bearing a bottle of what he termed Algerian plonk and, as well, a dusty bottle of port, which he proceeded, with the utmost care, to decant. Penelope knew that no greater tribute could be paid to a guest.

  At twenty-five past seven, with Nancy asleep in her bed, Doris and the boys departed, and all as ready as it would ever be, she fled upstairs to her room to do something about her own appearance. She changed into a clean shirt, pushed her bare feet into a pair of scarlet court shoes, brushed her hair, plaited it, wound it up into a coil, pinned it in place. She had no powder, no lipstick, and had used the last of her scent. A long and critical gaze in the mirror afforded small satisfaction. She looked like a governess. She found a string of scarlet beads and fastened them around her neck and, as she did this, heard the gate at the bottom of the garden open and click shut. She went to the window and saw Richard Lomax making his way up the fragrant garden, up the stepped path towards the house. She saw that he, too, had changed, from battledress to the semi-formality of khaki drill and a chestnut shining Sam Browne. He carried, discreetly, a wrapped parcel that could only contain a bottle.

  Since saying goodbye, she had been a-brim with the anticipation of seeing him again. But now, watching his approach, knowing that he would in an instant be ringing the front-door bell, she was assailed by panic. Cold feet, Sophie had always called this dropping of the heart, caused by an impetuous action suddenly regretted. Supposing the evening wasn’t all right, but turned out to be all wrong, and with no Doris’ to help her jolly it along? It was perfectly possible that she had been mistaken about Richard Lomax. That the flash of ecstasy, the unexplained happiness, the extraordinary sensation of closeness and familiarity could simply have been part of an illusion, springing from her own rising spirits and the fact that the sun, after days of rain, had decided to shine.

  She moved from the window, took a last glance at her reflection, settled the red necklace, and went out of the room and down the stairs. As she did this, the doorbell rang. She crossed the hall and opened the door, and he smiled and said, “I hope I’m not too late, or too early.”

  “Neither. You found the way.”

  “It wasn’t difficult. What a beautiful garden.”

  “The storm hasn’t done it any good.” She stepped back. “Come in.”

  He did so, removing his green beret with its scarlet flash and silver badge. She closed the door. He laid his beret on the chest and turned to face her. He held up the wrapped parcel and said, “This is for your father.”

  “How kind.”

  “Does he drink Scotch?”

  “Yes…”

  It was going to be all right and she hadn’t been wrong about him. He wasn’t ordinary. He was immensely special because he had brought with him, into Carn Cottage, not only a certain glamour but ease as well. She remembered the spiky misery of having Ambrose there. The tensions and the silences and the way everybody, affected by the prickly atmosphere, became irritable and crotchety. But with this tall stranger came only the most comfortable of presences. He might have been an old friend of many years, calling to renew acquaintance, to catch up on mutual news. The sense of déjà vu returned, more strongly than ever. So strong was it, that she half expected the sitting room door to be flung open and Sophie to emerge, laughing and talking nineteen to the dozen, and throwing her arms around the young man’s neck, and kissing him on both cheeks. Oh, my darling, I have so been looking forward to seeing you again.

  “… but we haven’t had a bottle in the house for months. He’ll be delighted. He’s in the sitting room, waiting for you.…” She went to open the door. “Papa. Our guest has come … and he’s brought you a present.…”

  * * *

  “This posting of yours,” said Lawrence. “How long is it for?”

  “I’ve no idea, sir.”

  “And you wouldn’t tell me even if you knew. Do you suppose next year we’ll be ready to invade Europe?”

  Richard Lomax smiled, but was giving nothing away. “I should hope so.”

  “These Americans … They seem to be keeping themselves very much to themselves. We’d imagined every sort of high jinks.”

  “They haven’t exactly come here for a holiday. As well, they’re highly professional soldiers and a totally self-contained unit. They have their own officers, their own canteen, their own recreations.”

  “How do you get on with them?”

  “Very well, on the whole. They’re fairly wild … perhaps not as disciplined as our own troops but, individually, very courageous.”

  “And you’re in overall charge of the whole operation?”

  “No. Colonel Mellaby is the Officer Commanding. I’m simply the Training Officer.”

  “Like working with them?”

  Richard Lomax shrugged. “It’s certainly different.”

  “And Porthkerris. Had you ever been here before?”

  “No. Never. My holidays were usually spent in the North, climbing mountains. But I’d always known about Porthkerris, because of the artists who’d come here. I’d seen paintings of the harbour, in the various galleries my mother insisted I visit, and it’s extraordinary how unique, how instantly recognizable it was. Unchanged. And the light. The glaring light off the sea. I could scarcely believe it, until I experienced it for myself.”

  “Yes. It has a magic. You never get used to it, how ever long you live here.”

  “You’ve been in Porthkerris for some years now?”

  “Since the early nineteen-twenties. I brought my wife here just after we were married. We had no house, so we camped out in my studio. Like a couple of gypsies.”

  “Is that your wife’s portrait in the sitting room?”

  “Yes. That was Sophie. She must have been about nineteen when that was painted. Charles Rainier did it. We all took a house near Varengeville one spring. It was meant to be a holiday, but he became restless if he wasn’t working, so Sophie agreed to sit for him. It took less than a day, but it was one of the best things he’d ever done. But, of course, he had known her all her life, as I had. Known her since she was a child. You can work fast when you are so close to your model.”

  The dining room was shadowy in the dying light. Only the candles provided illumination and the last shafts of the sinking sun, piercing through the windows in beams that struck back a reflected lustre from crystal and silver and the polished surface of the circular mahogany table. The dark wallpaper contained the room like the lining of a jewel box, and beyond the swags of heavy, faded velvet, caught back with frayed silken ropes and tassels, airy lace curtains stirred in the draught from the open casement.

  It was growing late. Soon the window would have to be closed, the black-out curtains drawn. Their meal was over. The soup, the grilled fish, the delicious treat of peaches had been consumed and the plates cleared away. From the sideboard, Penelope had fetched a dish of Cox’s orange pippins, windfalls from the tree at the top of the orchard, and set it in the middle of the table. Richard Lomax had taken one, was peeling it with a pearl-handled fruit knife. His hands were long, with square-tipped fingers. She watched them dealing so neatly with the knife, the unbroken coil of peel dropping onto the plate. He sliced the apple into four neat quarters.

  “Do you still have the studio?”

  “Yes, but it’s deserted now. I seldom go there. I cannot work and the walk is too far for me.”

  “I’d like to see it.”

  “Any time. I have the key.” Across the table, he smiled at his daughter. “Penelope will take you.”

  Richard Lomax sliced the apple quarters again.

 
“Charles Rainier … is he still alive?”

  “As far as I know. Provided he hasn’t opened his mouth too wide and been murdered by the Gestapo. Hopefully not. His home is in the south of France. If he behaves himself, he should survive.…”

  She thought of the Rainier’s house, the roof smothered in bougainvillaea, the red rocks dropping down to the gentian sea, the feathery yellow mimosa. She thought of Sophie, calling down from the terrace to say that it was time to stop swimming because lunch was ready. In the face of such dazzling images, it was hard to realize that Sophie was dead. This evening—ever since Richard Lomax’s arrival—she had been with them; not dead, but alive; even now, sitting in the empty chair at the head of the table. It was not easy to find good reason for this persistent illusion: that everything was as it had been. That nothing had changed. Whereas, in truth, everything had changed. Fate had been cruel; flung the war at them, torn their family life apart; seen Sophie and the Cliffords killed in the Blitz. Fate, perhaps, had thrown Penelope at Ambrose. But it was she who had let him make love to her, started Nancy, and finally married him. Looking back, she did not regret the making love, which she had enjoyed just as much as he had; even less did she regret the arrival of Nancy, and indeed, now, could not imagine life without her deliciously pretty and engaging child. What she did regret, most bitterly, was that idiotic marriage. You mustn’t marry him unless you love him, Sophie had said, but for once in her life Penelope had not heeded Sophie’s advice. Ambrose was her first relationship, and she had no one to compare him with. Her parents’ blissful marriage did not help. She imagined that all marriages were just as blissful, so getting married was a good idea. Faced with the situation, Ambrose, when he had got over his initial dismay, seemed to think it was a good idea too. So they had gone ahead and done it.

  A dreadful, ghastly mistake. She didn’t love him. Had never loved him. She had nothing in common with him, and not the least wish ever to see him again. She looked across at Richard Lomax, his quiet face turned towards Lawrence. Her eyes dropped to his hands, now clasped on the table before him. She thought of taking his hands in hers, and lifting them and pressing them to her cheek.

  She wondered if he was married too.

  “I never met the man,” Lawrence was saying, “but it seemed to me that he must have been a very dull fellow.” They were still on the subject of portrait painters. “One might have expected unimagined misdemeanours and indiscretions … he certainly had ample opportunity … but as it was, it doesn’t appear that he ever put a foot wrong. Beerbohm did a cartoon of him, you know, gazing from his window at a long queue of society ladies all waiting to have themselves immortalized by him.”

  Richard Lomax said, “I liked his sketches better than his portraits.”

  “I agree. All those elongated ladies and gentlemen in hunting gear. Ten feet tall and impossibly arrogant.” He reached for the port decanter, filled his glass, and handed the decanter on to his guest. “Tell me, do you play backgammon?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Fancy a game?”

  “I’d be delighted.”

  It was nearly dark. Penelope got up from the table and closed the windows and pulled all the curtains, the horrible black ones and the lovely velvet ones. Saying something about coffee, she went out of the room and down the passage to the kitchen. She did the kitchen blackout and then turned on the light, to the expected disorder of saucepans, dirty plates and cutlery. She put the kettle on. She heard the men move through to the sitting room, heard coal being shovelled onto the fire, all to the continuous and companionable murmur of conversation.

  Papa was in his element, having the time of his life. If he enjoyed the backgammon, it was likely that he would invite Richard Lomax back for another session. Finding a clean tray, taking coffee-cups from the cupboard, she smiled.

  The game finished just as the clock struck eleven. Lawrence had won. Richard Lomax, conceding defeat with a smile, got to his feet. “I think it’s time I went.”

  “I’d no idea it was as late as that. I’ve enjoyed myself. We must do it again.” Lawrence thought about this, and added, “If you’d like to.”

  “Very much, sir. I’m afraid I can’t make any specific plans, because my time isn’t my own.…”

  “That’s all right. Any evening. Just drop in. We’re always here.” He began to struggle out of his chair, but Richard Lomax stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t get up.…”

  “Well…” Gratefully the old man sank back against the cushions. “Maybe I won’t. Penelope will see you out.”

  While they played, she had sat knitting by the fire. Now she drove her needles into the ball of wool and stood up. He turned to smile at her. She went to open the door, heard him say, “Good night, sir, and thank you again.…”

  “Not at all.”

  She led the way through the dark hall and opened the front door. Outside, the garden was drowned in a blue light, heavy with the scent of stock. An eyelash of a moon hung in the sky. Far below, on the beach, the sea whispered. He emerged to stand beside her on the doorstep, his beret in his hand. They both gazed upwards, at threads of cloud and the faint gleam of the moon. There was no wind, but a damp chill emanated from the lawn, and Penelope, hugging herself, shivered.

  He said, “I’ve hardly talked to you all evening. I hope you don’t think I was being very ill-mannered.”

  “You came to talk to Papa.”

  “Not entirely, but I’m afraid that’s how it worked out.”

  “There’ll be another time.”

  “I hope so. Like I said, my time is scarcely my own … I can’t make plans or dates.…”

  “I know.”

  “But I’ll come when I can.”

  “Do that.”

  He pulled on his beret, settled it on his head. The moonlight flashed on the silver badge. “It was a delicious dinner. Mackerel has never tasted so good.” She laughed. “Good night, Penelope.”

  “Good night, Richard.”

  He turned and walked away, swallowed into the bloomy dusk of the garden, and was gone. She waited to hear the gate click shut behind him. Standing there in her thin shirt, she found her arms rough with goose bumps. She shivered again and went back into the house closing the door behind her.

  * * *

  Two weeks passed before they saw him again. For some extraordinary reason this did not fret Penelope. He had said that he would come when he could, and she knew that he would. She could wait. She thought about him a great deal. During the busy days, he was never completely out of her mind, and at night he invaded her dreams, causing her to wake with drowsy content, smiling, clinging to the memory of the dream before it should fade and die.

  Lawrence was more concerned than she. “Haven’t heard from that nice chap Lomax,” he would grumble from time to time. “I was looking forward to another session of backgammon.”

  “Oh, he’ll come, Papa,” she reassured him, tranquil because she knew it was true.

  Now it was September. Indian Summer. Chilly evenings and nights, and days of cloudless skies and glowing, golden sun. Leaves were starting to change colour, to drop, drifting in the still air, onto the grass of the lawn. The border in front of the house was bright with dahlias, and the last roses of the summer opened their velvety faces and filled the air with a fragrance which, because it was so precious, seemed twice as strong as the scents of June.

  A Saturday. Over lunch, Clark and Ronald announced that they were going down to the beach, to meet a gang of their school friends and swim. Doris, Penelope, and Nancy were not invited to join them. Accordingly, they took themselves off, scampering down the garden path as though there was not a moment to be lost, laden with towels and spades, a packet of jam sandwiches, and a bottle of lemonade.

  With the boys out of the way, the warm afternoon fell silent and empty. Lawrence retired to the sitting room for a little snooze by the open window. Doris took Nancy out into the garden. Penelope, with the dishes done and the kitchen s
traight, walked up to the orchard and unpegged the day’s massive wash. Back in the kitchen, she folded the piles of sweet-scented linen, sheets, and towels; set shirts and pillowcases aside for ironing. Later. That could be done later. The outdoors beckoned. She went out of the kitchen and across the hall, where only the grandfather clock ticked, and a drowsy bee buzzed at a window-pane. The front door stood open, golden light streaming across the worn carpet. Across the lawn, Doris sat in an old garden chair with a basket of mending on her lap, and Nancy played contentedly in her sand-pit. The sand-pit had been built by Ernie and the sand brought up from the beach in Mr. Penberth’s vegetable cart. In fine weather, it kept Nancy endlessly amused. She sat there now, wearing a pair of patched overalls and nothing else, and built sand-pies with an old tin bucket and a wooden spoon. Penelope joined them. Doris had spread an old blanket on the ground and she lay on this and watched Nancy, amused by the concentration on the child’s face, entranced by the sweep of dark lashes on rounded cheek, the dimpled hands patting the sand.

  “You haven’t been ironing, have you?” Doris asked.

  “No. Too hot.”

  Doris held up a shrunken shirt, its ragged collar split like a grin. “Suppose there’s any point in mending this?”

  “No. Turn it into a polishing rag.”

  “We’ve got more polishing rags in this house than clothes. You know, when this bleeding war ends, the best thing for me is going to be able to go out and buy clothes. New clothes. Dozens of them. I’m sick and tired of making do. Look at this jersey of Clark’s. I mended it last week and there’s another great hole in the elbow. How the hell do they do it?”

  “They’re growing lads.” Idle, Penelope rolled onto her back, unbuttoning her shirt, pulling her skirt above her bare knees. “They can’t help bursting out of their clothes.” She closed her eyes against the glare of the sun. “Remember how skinny and pale they were when you first came here? You’d scarcely recognize them now, so brawny and brown, and Cornish as they could be.”

  “I’m glad they’re not older.” Doris broke off a length of darning wool and threaded her needle. “Wouldn’t want them to be soldiers. Couldn’t bear to…”