The Shell Seekers

by Rosamunde Pilcher

  There is always the possibility that Ambrose will be gentlemanly and allow you to divorce him. To be honest, I see no earthly reason why he should do this, and I am perfectly prepared to stand up in court as the guilty co-respondent and let him divorce you. If this happens, he must have access to Nancy, but that is a bridge we must cross when we reach it.

  All that matters is that we should be together, and eventually—hopefully sooner than later—married. The war will, one day, be over. I shall be demobilized and returned, with thanks and a small gratuity, to civilian life. Can you deal with the prospect of being the wife of a schoolteacher? Because this is all I want to do. Where we shall go, where we shall live, and how it will be, I cannot tell, but if I have any choice, I should like to go back to the north, to be near the lakes and the mountains of the Peak district.

  I know it all seems a long way off. A difficult road lies ahead, strewn with obstacles which, one by one, will have to be overcome. But thousand-mile journeys begin with the first step, and no expedition is the worse for a little thought.

  On reading this through, it strikes me as the letter of a happy man who expects to live forever. For some reason, I have no fears that I will not survive the war. Death, the last enemy, still seems a long way off, beyond old age and infirmity. And I cannot bring myself to believe that fate, having brought us together, did not mean us to stay that way.

  I think of you all at Carn Cottage, imagine what you are doing, and wish I were with you, sharing the laughter and domestic doings of what I have come to think of as my second home. All of it was good, in every sense of the word. And in this life, nothing good is truly lost. It stays part of a person, becomes part of their character. So part of you goes everywhere with me. And part of me is yours, forever. My love, my darling,

  Richard.

  On Tuesday, the sixth of June, the Allied Forces invaded Normandy. The Second Front had started, and the last long battle begun. The waiting was over.

  * * *

  The eleventh of June was a Sunday.

  Doris, visited by a fit of religious zeal, had carted her boys off to church, and Nancy to Sunday school, leaving Penelope to cook the lunch. For once the butcher had turned up trumps and produced, from under his counter, a small leg of spring lamb. This was now in the oven, roasting and smelling delicious, and surrounded by crisping potatoes. The carrots simmered, the cabbage was shredded. For pudding, they would eat rhubarb and custard.

  It was nearly twelve o’clock. She thought of mint sauce. Still wearing her cooking apron, she went out of the back door and made her way up the slope of the orchard. It was breezy. Doris had done a big wash and pegged it out on the line, and sheets and towels flapped and snapped in the wind like ill-set sails. The ducks and hens, penned into their run, saw Penelope coming and set up a great cackling, expecting food.

  She found the mint, picked a sharply scented bunch of sprigs; but as she walked back through the long grass towards the house, she heard the sound of the bottom gate open and shut. It was too early for the church-goers’ return, and so she went by way of the stone steps that led down onto the front lawn and stood there, waiting to see who was coming to call.

  The visitor appeared, taking his time. A tall man, in uniform. A green beret. For the fraction of an instant, long enough for her heart to leap, she thought it was Richard, but at once saw that it was not. Colonel Mellaby reached the top of the path and paused. He raised his head and saw her watching him.

  Everything, suddenly, was very still. Like a film caught in a single frame because the projector has broken down. Even the breeze dropped. No bird sang. The green lawn lay between them like a battlefield. She was motionless, waiting for him to make the first move.

  Which he did. With a click and a whirr, the film started up again. She went to meet him. He looked changed. She had not realized that he was so pale and gaunt.

  It was she who spoke first. “Colonel Mellaby.”

  “My dear…” He sounded like General Watson-Grant, being at his very nicest, and from that second she knew, without doubt, what he had come to tell her.

  She said, “Is it Richard?”

  “Yes. I’m so sorry.”

  “What’s happened?”

  “It’s bad news.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Richard’s … been killed. He’s dead.”

  She waited to feel something. Felt nothing. Only the bunch of mint clutched tight in her fist; a strand of hair across her cheek. She put up a hand and pushed this aside. Her continued silence lay between them like a great uncrossable chasm. She knew this, and was sorry for him, but could do nothing to help.

  At last, with an enormous and visible effort, he continued. “I heard this morning. Before he went, he asked me … he said if anything happened to him, I was to come at once and let you know.”

  She found her voice at last. “It was good of you.” It didn’t sound like her own voice. “When did it happen?”

  “On D-Day. He went over with the men he’d trained here. The Second United States Rangers.”

  “He didn’t have to go?”

  “No. But he wanted to be with them. And they were proud to have him.”

  “What happened?”

  “They landed on the flank of Omaha Beach with the United States First Division, at a place called Pointe de Hué, near the bottom of the Cherbourg peninsula.” His voice was more confident now, he spoke unemotionally, of matters which he understood. “From what I can gather, they had some difficulty with their equipment. The rocket-propelled grapnels became wet during the crossing, and failed to work properly. But they did climb the cliff, and they took the German gun battery at the top. They achieved their objective.”

  She thought of the young Americans who had spent their winter here in Porthkerris; an ocean away from their own homes, their own families.

  “Were there many casualties?”

  “Yes. In the course of the assault, at least half of them died.”

  And Richard with them. She said, “He didn’t think he was going to be killed. He said that death, the last enemy, still seemed a long way off. It’s good that he thought that, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” He chewed his lip. “You know, my dear, you don’t have to be brave. If you want to cry, don’t try to stop it. I’m a married man, with children of my own. I would understand.”

  “I’m married, too, and I have a child.”

  “I know.”

  “And I haven’t cried for years.”

  He was reaching for his breast pocket, unbuttoning the flap. From the pocket he produced a photograph. “One of my sergeants gave me this. He was in charge of the camera, and he took this one day when they were all out at Boscarben. He thought … I thought … that you might like to have it.”

  He handed it to her. Penelope looked down at the photograph. Saw Richard, turning as though to glance over his shoulder, to be caught unawares and smile at the cameraman. In uniform, but bareheaded, and with a coil of climbing rope slung over his shoulder. It must have been a breezy day, just like today, for his hair was ruffled. In the background lay the long horizon of the sea.

  She said, “That was very kind. Thank you. I didn’t have a photograph of him.”

  He fell silent. They both stood there, unable to think of anything more to say.

  Finally, “You’ll be all right?” he asked her.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I’ll leave you then. Unless there is anything else I can do.”

  She thought about this. “Yes. Yes, there is something. My father is in the house. In the sitting room. You’ll find him quite easily. Will you go, now, and tell him about Richard?”

  “You really want me to do that?”

  “Somebody has to. And I’m not sure that I’m strong enough.”

  “Very well.”

  “I’ll be there in a moment. I’ll give you time to break the news, and then I’ll come.”

  He went. Up the path, up the front-door steps, through the d
oor. Not only a kindly man, but a courageous one. She stood where he had left her, with her bunch of mint in one hand, and the photograph of Richard in the other. She remembered the ghastly morning of the day that Sophie died, and how she had railed and wept, and longed now for just such a flood of emotion. But there was nothing. She felt simply numb, and cold as ice.

  She looked at Richard’s face. Nevermore. Never again. Nothing left. She saw his smile. Remembered his voice reading aloud to her.

  She remembered the words. Quite suddenly, they were there, filling her mind like a once-forgotten song.

  … the die is cast,

  There will be time to audit

  The accounts later, there will be sunlight later

  And the equation will come out at last.

  There will be sunlight later. She thought, I must tell Papa that. And it seemed as good a way as any to start out on the left-over life that lay ahead.

  12

  DORIS

  Podmore’s Thatch. A bird sang, its voice piercing the silence of the grey dawn. The fire had died, but the light over The Shell Seekers burnt on, as it had burnt throughout the night. Penelope had not slept, but now she stirred, like a sleeper awakening from a deep and untroubled dream. She stretched her legs beneath the thick woollen blanket, spread her arms and rubbed at her eyes. She looked about; saw, in the soft light, her own sitting room, the reassurance of possessions, flowers, plants, desk, pictures; the window open onto her own garden. She saw the lower branches of the chestnut tree, the buds not yet sprung into leaf. She had not slept, but wakefulness had not left her fatigued. On the contrary, she was steeped in a sort of calm content, a tranquillity that sprang, perhaps, from the rare self-indulgence of total recall.

  Now she had come to the end. The play was over. The illusion of theatre was strong. Footlights dimmed, and in the dying light the actors turned to make their way from the stage. Doris and Ernie, young as they would never be young again. And the old Penberths and the Trubshots, and the Watson-Grants. And Papa. All dead. Long dead. Last of all went Richard. She remembered him smiling, and realized that time, that great old healer, had finally accomplished its work, and now, across the years, the face of love no longer stirred up agonies of grief and bitterness. Rather, one was left feeling simply grateful. For how unimaginably empty the past would be without him to remember. Better to have loved and lost, she told herself, than never to have loved at all. And know that it was true.

  From the mantelpiece her golden carriage clock struck six. The night was gone. It was tomorrow. Another Thursday. What had happened to the days? Trying to puzzle out this conundrum, she discovered that two weeks had flown by since Roy Brookner’s visit, when he had taken away the panels and the sketches. And still she had had no word from him.

  Also, she had heard nothing from either Noel or Nancy. With that last quarrel lying sour between them all, they had simply taken themselves off and remained apart from their mother and resolutely incommunicado. This bothered her a good deal less than her children probably imagined. In time, no doubt, they would be in touch again, not apologizing, but acting as though nothing untoward had ever taken place. Until such time, she had too much on her mind, and no energy to waste fretting over infantile umbrages and hurt feelings. There were better things to think about and far too much to do. As usual, house and garden had claimed most of her attention. The April days, in typical fashion, altered continuously. Grey skies, livid green leaves, drenching showers, and then sunshine again. The forsythias flamed, butter-yellow; the orchard became a carpet of daffodils and violets and primroses.

  Thursday. Danus would come this morning. And perhaps, today, Roy Brookner would ring up from London. Considering this possibility, she found herself convinced that today he would ring. It was more than a feeling. Stronger than that. A premonition.

  By now the single bird had been joined in song by a dozen others and the air was filled with their chorus. Impossible now to consider sleep. She got off the sofa, turned off the light, and went upstairs to draw herself an enormously hot and very deep bath.

  * * *

  Her premonition was right, and the call came through in the middle of lunch.

  The sweet dawn had collapsed into a grey day, overcast and drizzly and offering no inducement to picnic out of doors, or in the conservatory. So they sat, she and Antonia and Danus, around the kitchen table, to consume an enormous spaghetti bolognaise and a platter of crudités. Because of the weather, Danus had spent the morning clearing out the garage. Penelope, going to her desk to find a telephone number, had become waylaid, diverted by its clutter, and stayed there, paying overdue bills, rereading old letters, and throwing out a number of company reports which she had never even bothered to take out of their envelopes. Antonia had cooked the lunch.

  “You are not only an excellent gardener’s boy, but a first-class cook,” Danus told her, grating Parmesan cheese over his spaghetti.

  The telephone rang.

  Antonia said, “Shall I get it?”

  “No.” Penelope set down her fork and got to her feet. “It’s probably for me anyway.” She did not answer the call in the kitchen, but went through to the sitting room, closing doors behind her.

  “Hello.”

  “Mrs. Keeling?”

  “Speaking.”

  “It’s Roy Brookner here.”

  “Yes, Mr. Brookner.”

  “I’m sorry I’ve been so long in getting in touch with you. Mr. Ardway was visiting friends in Gstaad, and didn’t return to Geneva until a couple of days ago, when he found my letter waiting for him at his hotel. He flew into Heathrow this morning, and I have him here in my office. I’ve shown him the panels, and told him that you’re prepared to sell them privately, and he’s very grateful for the opportunity. He has offered fifty thousand for each of them. That’s a hundred thousand for the pair. Pounds Sterling, of course, not dollars. Would that be acceptable to you, or would you prefer to have a little time to think about it? He’d like to return to New York tomorrow but is perfectly prepared, if necessary, to postpone his flight, if you feel you need more time to come to an agreement. Personally, I feel it is a very fair offer, but if … Mrs. Keeling? Are you still there?”

  “Yes, I’m still here.”

  “I’m sorry. I thought perhaps we’d been cut off.”

  “No. I’m still here.”

  “Have you any comment to make?”

  “No.”

  “Would the sum I’ve mentioned be acceptable to you?”

  “Yes. Perfectly acceptable.”

  “So you’d like me just to go ahead and finalize the sale?”

  “Yes. Please.”

  “Mr. Ardway, I need hardly tell you, is delighted.”

  “I’m so glad.”

  “I’ll be in touch. And, of course, payment will be made as soon as the transaction has gone through.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Brookner.”

  “It’s perhaps not the appropriate time to mention it, but there will, of course, be considerable taxes to be paid. You realize that?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Have you an accountant, or some person who looks after your affairs?”

  “I’ve got Mr. Enderby, of Enderby, Looseby and Thring. They’re solicitors in the Gray’s Inn Road. Mr. Enderby took care of everything when I sold Oakley Street and bought this house.”

  “In that case, perhaps you should get in touch with him and let him know the situation.”

  “Yes. Yes, I’ll do that.…”

  A pause. She wondered if he was going to ring off.

  “Mrs. Keeling?”

  “Yes, Mr. Brookner?”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Why?”

  “You sound a little … faint?”

  “That’s because I’m finding it difficult to sound anything else.”

  “You’re quite happy with the arrangement?”

  “Yes. Quite happy.”

  “In that case, goodbye, Mrs. Keeling…”<
br />
  “No, Mr. Brookner, wait. There’s something else.”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s about The Shell Seekers.”

  “Yes?”

  She told him what she wanted him to do.

  * * *

  She replaced, very slowly, the receiver. She was sitting at her newly ordered desk, and went on sitting there for some moments. It was very quiet. From the kitchen, she could hear the murmur of voices. Antonia and Danus, who never seemed to run out of things to say to each other. She went back and found them, still sitting at the table, having finished their spaghetti and now moved on to fruit and cheese and coffee. Her own plate had disappeared.

  “I put yours in the oven to keep warm,” Antonia told her, and rose as if to fetch it, but Penelope stopped her.

  “No. Don’t bother. I don’t want any more.”

  “A cup of coffee then?”

  “No. Not even that.” She sat in her chair, her arms folded on the table. She smiled because she could not help smiling, because she loved them both, and was about to offer them what she considered the most precious gift in the entire world. A gift which she had offered to each of her three children and which they had, one by one, turned down.

  “I have a proposition to make,” she said. “Will you both come to Cornwall with me? Come to Cornwall and we’ll spend Easter there? Together. Just the three of us.”

  Podmore’s Thatch,

  Temple Pudley,

  Gloucestershire.

  April 17th, 1984.

  My darling Olivia,

  I am writing to tell you a number of things which have happened and which are about to happen.

  That last weekend, when Noel brought Antonia down, and cleared out the attic and Nancy came for Sunday lunch, we had, and I am sure you have not been told about this, a real blazer of a row. It was, inevitably, about money, and the fact that they considered I should sell my father’s pictures right now, while the market is high. Their concern, they assured me, was all for myself, but I know them both too well. It is they who need the money.