The Shell Seekers (31 page)

"Yes, I see; but tell me more about Cosmo."

"Well, he was all right. I mean, there didn't seem to be anything wrong with him. And then, about six months ago, he started this horrible coughing. It used to keep him awake at nights, and I'd lie and listen and try to tell myself that it was nothing very serious. But finally I persuaded him to go and see his doctor, and he went into the local hospital for an X-ray and a check-up. He never, actually, came out. They opened him and removed half of one of his lungs and then closed him up again, and said that he'd soon be able to come home, but then he had a post-operative collapse, and that was it. He died in hospital. He never recovered consciousness."

"And you were alone?"

"Yes. I was alone, but Maria and Tomeu were always around, and I never imagined such a thing was going to happen, so I wasn't actually all that worried or frightened. And it all happened so quickly. One day, it seemed, we were together, at Ca'n D'alt, just the way we'd always been, and the next day he was dead. Of course it wasn't the next day. It just seemed that way."

"What did you do?"

"Well ... it sounds dreadful, but we had to have a funeral. You see, in Ibiza only the shortest time can elapse between death and the burial. It has to happen the very next day. You wouldn't think that, in a day, on an island where practically nobody has a telephone, the news would get around, but it did. Like bush telegraph. He had so many friends. Not just people like us, but all the local people as well, men he'd drunk with in Pedro's bar, and the fishermen down in the harbour, and the farmers who lived around us. They were all there."

"Where was he buried?"

"In the graveyard of the little church in the village."

"But . . . it's a Catholic church."

"Of course. But that was all right. Daddy wasn't a churchgoer, but as a child he'd been baptized and received into the Catholic Church. As well, he'd always been very friendly with the village priest. Such a kind man . . . enormously comforting. He conducted the service for us, not in the church, but by the graveside, in the sunlight. By the time we left, you couldn't see the grave for flowers. It looked so beautiful. And then everybody came back to Ca'n D'alt, and Maria had made some things to eat, and they all had some wine, and then they all went away again. And that was what happened."

"I see. It all sounds very sad, but quite perfect. Tell me, have you told Olivia all this?"

"Bits of it. She didn't really want to hear too much."

"That's in character. When Olivia is deeply touched or distressed, she hides her feelings away, almost as though she were pretending to herself that nothing had happened."

"Yes. I know. I realized that. And it didn't matter."

"What did you do when you were with her in London?"

"Not much. I went to Marks and Spencers and got myself some warm clothes. And I went and saw Daddy's solicitor. That was a pretty depressing interview."

Penelope's heart sank for the girl. "Did he leave you nothing?"

"Virtually nothing. He had nothing to leave, poor darling."

"What about the house in Ibiza?"

"That never belonged to us. It belongs to a man called Car-los Barcello. And I wouldn't want to stay there. Even if I did, I couldn't pay the rent."

"His boat. What happened to that?"

"He sold that soon after Olivia left. He never bought another."

"But the other things. His books, and furniture and pictures?"

"Tomeu has arranged with a friend to store them for me until such time as I need them, or can bear to go back and get them."

"It's hard to believe, Antonia, I know, but that time will come."

Antonia put her arms behind her head and gazed at the ceiling. She said, "I'm all right now. I'm sad, but I'm not sad that he didn't go on living. He would have been ill and frail, and he wouldn't have lasted for more than another twelve months. The doctor told me that. So it was better that he went the way he did. My only real sadness are the years that were wasted after Olivia went. He never had another woman. He loved Olivia very much. I think, probably, she was the love of his life."

It was quiet now. The thumpings and footsteps from the loft had ceased, and Penelope guessed that Noel had decided to chuck his hand in and had taken himself back downstairs.

After a little, she said, choosing her words with some care, "Olivia loved him too, as much as she has ever been able to give her heart to any man."

"He wanted to marry her. But she wouldn't."

"Do you blame her for that?"

"No. I admire her. It was honest, and very strong."

"She's a special person."

"I know."

"She just has never wanted to marry. She has this horror of dependence, and committal, and putting down roots."

"She has her career."

"Yes. Her career. That matters to her more than anything else in the world."

Antonia considered this. She said, "It's funny. You could understand it better if she'd had a miserable childhood, or suffered some dreadful trauma. But with you for a mother, I can't imagine anything like that ever happening to her. Is she so different from your other children?"

"Totally." Penelope smiled. "Nancy is the very opposite. All she ever dreamed about was being a married woman with a house of her own. A little bit The Lady Of The Manor, perhaps, but what of it? She does no harm. She's happy. At least, I imagine she's happy. She's got exactly what she always wanted."

"How about you?" Antonia asked. "Did you want to be married?"

"Me? Heavens, it's so long ago, I can scarcely remember. I don't think I thought very much about it. I was only nineteen and it was wartime. In wartime, one didn't think very far into the future. Just lived from day to day."

"What happened to your husband?"

"Ambrose? Oh, he died, some years after Nancy was married."

"Were you lonely?"

"I was alone. But that's not the same as being lonely."

"I never knew anyone who died before. Not before Cosmo."

"The first experience of losing someone close to you is always the most shattering. But time passes, and you come to terms with it."

"I suppose so. He used to say, 'all life is a compromise'."

"That was wise. For some, it has to be. For you, I should like to think that there was something better in store."

Antonia smiled. The magazine had long since fallen to the floor, and her eyes had lost their feverish brightness. She was, like a child, becoming drowsy.

"You're tired," Penelope told her.

"Yes. I'll sleep now."

"Don't wake too early." She got up off the bed, and went to draw back the curtains. The rain had ceased, and out of the darkness came the hoot of an owl. "Goodnight." She went to the door, opened it, turned off the light.

"Penelope."

"What is it?"

"It's just so lovely to be here. With you."

"Sleep well." She closed the door.

The house was silent. Downstairs, all the lights were out. Noel had obviously decided to call it a day, and gone to bed. There was nothing more to be done.

In her room, she pottered about, taking her time, cleaning her teeth, brushing her hair, putting night-cream on her face. In her night-dress she went to draw back the heavy curtains. Through the open window a breeze stirred, cold and damp, but smelling earthily sweet, as though her garden, with spring nearly upon them, was stirring, woken from the long winter sleep. The owl hooted again, and it was so quiet that she could hear the soft whisper of the Windrush flowing on its way beyond the orchard.

She turned from the window and climbed into bed and turned off the light. Her body felt heavy and tired, grateful for the comfort of cool sheets and soft pillows, but her mind stayed wide awake, because Antonia's innocent curiosity had stirred up the past in a disconcerting and not wholly welcome fashion, and Penelope had answered her questions with some caution, neither lying nor telling the whole truth. The truth was too confused to tell, devious and long ago. Too long ago to start unravelling the strands of motivation and reason and the sequence of events. She had not talked of Ambrose, nor mentioned his name, nor thought about him, for longer than she could remember. But now, she lay open-eyed, gazing into the gloomy darkness that was not truly dark, and knew that she had no option but to go back. And it was an extraordinary experience; like watching an old film, or discovering a dog-eared photograph album, turning the pages, and being amazed to find that the sepia snapshots had not faded at all, but had stayed evocative, clear, and sharp-edged as ever.

8

AMBROSE

The Wren Officer squared her papers and unscrewed her fountain pen.

"Now then, Stern, what we have to decide is which Category to put you in."

Penelope sat on the other side of the desk and looked at her. The Wren Officer had two blue stripes on her sleeve and a neat crop of hair. Her collar and tie were so stiff and tight that they looked as though they might choke her; her watch was a man's, and beside her, on the desk-top, lay her leather cigarette case and a hefty gold lighter. Penelope recognized another Miss Pawson and felt quite kindly towards her.

"Have you any qualifications?"

"No. I don't think so."

"Shorthand? Typing?"

"No."

"University degree?"

"No."

"You must call me 'Ma'am.'"

"Ma'am."

The Wren Officer cleared her throat, finding herself disconcerted by the guileless expression and dreamy brown eyes of the new Wren Rating. She wore uniform, but somehow it didn't look right on her; she was too tall, and her legs were too long, and her hair was a disaster, soft and dark and bundled up into a loose coil that looked neither neat nor secure.

"You went to school, I presume?" She half expected to be told that Wren Stern had been educated at home, by a genteel governess. She looked that sort of girl. Taught a little French and water-colour painting and not much else. But Wren Stern said, "Yes."

"Boarding school?"

"No. Day schools. Miss Pritchett's when we were living in London, and the local Grammar School when we were living in Porthkerris. That's in Cornwall," she added kindly.

The Wren Officer found herself longing for a cigarette.

"This is the first time you've been away from home?"

"Yes."

"You must call me 'Ma'am.' "

"Ma'am."

The Wren Officer sighed. Wren Stern was going to be one of those problems. Cultured, half-educated, and totally useless. "Can you cook?" she asked without much hope.

"Not very well."

There was no alternative. "In that case, I'm afraid we'll have to make you a Steward."

Wren Stern smiled agreeably, seeming pleased that they had at last come to some decision.

"All right."

The Wren Officer made a few notes on the form, and then screwed the top back on her pen. Penelope waited for the next thing to happen. "I think that's it." Penelope got to her feet, but the Wren Officer was not finished. "Stern. Your hair. You must do something about it."

"What?" asked Penelope.

"It mustn't touch your collar, you know. Naval regulations. Why don't you get the hairdresser to cut it off?"

"I don't want it cut off."

"Well . . . make some sort of effort. Try to get the hang of a neat little bun."

"Oh. Yes. All right."

"Off you go then."

She went. "Goodbye." The door half closed behind her and then opened again. "Ma'am."

She was drafted to the Royal Naval Gunnery School, HMS Excellent, at Whale Island. She was a Steward, but, perhaps because she "spoke proper," was made an Officer's Steward, which meant that she worked in the Wardroom: laying up tables, serving drinks, telling people they were wanted on the telephone, polishing silver and waiting at meals. As well, before darkness fell, she had to go around all the cabins and do the black-out, knocking on doors, and, if there was someone inside, saying "Permission to darken ship, sir." She was, in fact, a glorified parlourmaid, and was paid a parlourmaid's wages, thirty shillings a fortnight. Every two weeks, she had to attend pay parade, lining up until it was time to salute the sour-faced Pay Commander —who looked as though he hated women and probably did—say her name, and be handed the meagre buff envelope.

Asking permission to darken ship was just part of a whole new language she had had to learn, and she had spent a week at a training depot doing this. A bedroom was a cabin; the floor, the deck; when she went to work, she was going on board; a Make and Mend was a half day; and if you had a row with your friend it was called Parting Brass Rags, but as she didn't have a friend to have a row with, the occasion to use this seamanlike expression never arose.

Whale Island really was an island, and you had to cross a bridge to get there, which was quite exciting and made it seem like going on board a ship even if you weren't. A very long time ago it had started life as a mudbank in the middle of Portsmouth Harbour, but by now was a large and important Naval Training Establishment, with a parade ground and a drill-shed and a church, and jetties, and huge batteries where the men did their training. Administrative offices and accommodation were housed in a lot of neat red brick blocks and buildings. The lower deck quarters were square and plain, like council houses, but the Wardroom was quite grand, a country manor with the football field as its estate.