The Shell Seekers (37 page)

"And your own plans?"

He told her. He had finally passed his Gunnery exams, had a week coming up at Divisional School, and would then be sent to sea.

"But your honeymoon?"

"No honeymoon. Married tomorrow, a night at Oakley Street, and then back on Sunday to Portsmouth.

"And Penelope?"

"I'm putting her on the train for Porthkerris on Sunday morning."

"Porthkerris? Is she not coming back to Portsmouth with you?"

"No. Actually." Biting his thumb-nail, he gazed from the window as though something riveting were about to happen in the street below. Which it wasn't. "She's got a bit of leave."

"Oh dear. What a little time you'll have together."

"Can't be helped."

"No, I suppose not."

She turned to set down her sherry glass and saw the girl reach the top of the stairs, standing there, hesitating, looking around her, looking for somebody. A very tall girl, with long dark hair caught back from her forehead—a schoolgirl's hair, plain and undressed. Her face, with its creamy complexion and deep-set dark eyes, was remarkable for its sheer unadornment; the gleam of unpowdered skin, the pale mouth, the dark brows, natural and unplucked and strongly shaped. She wore, on that hot day, clothes more suitable for a country holiday than a formal luncheon in a London hotel. A dark-red cotton dress with white spots and a white belt around its slender waist. White sandals on her feet, and . . . Dolly had to take a second look, just to be sure . . . yes, bare legs. Who on earth could she be? And why was she looking this way? And coming towards them? And smiling . . . ?

Oh, dear God.

Ambrose was getting to his feet. "Mummy," he was saying, "this is Penelope."

"Hello," said Penelope.

Dolly just managed not to gape. She could feel her jaw dropping, but jerked it back into place and transformed the grimace into a brilliant smile. Bare legs. No gloves. No handbag. No hat. Bare legs. She hoped that the head waiter would allow them into the restaurant.

"My dear."

They shook hands. Ambrose busied himself drawing up another chair, and signalling the waiter. Penelope sat in the full light of the window and faced Dolly with a gaze disconcerting in its unblinking directness. She is eyeing me, Dolly told herself, and knew the stirrings of resentment. She had no right to eye her future mother-in-law, and start up this tiresome fluttering of her heart. Dolly had expected youth, shyness, diffidence, even. Certainly not this.

"So nice to meet you . . . and you had a good drive up from Portsmouth. Yes, Ambrose has been telling me. . . ."

"Penelope, what do you want to drink?"

"An orange or something. With ice, if there is any."

"Not a sherry? Nor a glass of wine?" Dolly tried tempting her, smiling still to cover her discomfiture.

"No. I'm hot and thirsty. Just orange."

"Well, I've ordered a bottle of wine for luncheon. We can have our little toast then."

"Thank you."

"I'm sorry about your parents' not being able to be there tomorrow."

"Yes. I know. But Papa caught flu, and then he didn't go to bed and he started wheezing. The doctor's put him to bed for a week."

"Is there nobody else who could look after him?"

"Except Sophie, you mean?"

"Sophie?"

"My mother. I call her Sophie."

"Oh, I see. Yes. Is there nobody else who could take care of your father?"

"Only Doris, our evacuee. And she's got her own two boys to keep an eye on. Besides, Papa's a rotten patient; Doris wouldn't stand a chance with him."

Dolly made a little gesture with her hands.

"I suppose, like the rest of us, you're servantless now."

"We always have been," Penelope told her. "Oh, thank you, Ambrose, that's perfect." She took the glass from his hand, drank half of it in what looked like a single mouthful, and then set it down on the table.

"You always have been? Have you never had any help in the house?"

"No. Not servants. People staying who lent a hand, but never servants."

"But who does the cooking?"

"Sophie. She loves it. She's French. She's a marvellous cook."

"And the housework?"

Penelope looked slightly nonplussed, as though she had never considered housework. "I don't know. It seems to get done. Sooner or later."

"Well." Dolly allowed herself a little laugh, worldly and mondaine. "It all sounds very charming. And Bohemian. And very soon, I hope, I shall have the pleasure of meeting your parents. Now, let's talk about tomorrow. What are you going to wear for your wedding?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"I haven't thought about it. Something, I suppose."

"But you must go shopping!"

"Oh, heavens no, I won't go shopping. There are masses of things at Oakley Street. I'll find something."

"You'll find something. . . ."

Penelope laughed. "I'm afraid I'm not a clothes person. We none of us are. And we none of us ever throw anything away. Sophie's got some pretty things stashed away at Oakley Street. This afternoon Elizabeth Clifford and I are going to have a good old rootle-round." She looked at Ambrose. "Don't look so worried, Ambrose, I won't let you down."

He smiled bleakly. Dolly told herself that she felt heart-sorry for the poor boy. Not a loving glance, not a tender touch, not a quick kiss had passed between him and this extraordinary girl he had found and decided to marry. Were they in love? Could they possibly be in love and continue to behave in such a careless fashion? Why was he marrying her if he was not besotted by her? Why was he marrying . . . ?

Her thoughts, probing, came upon a possibility so appalling that they did a swift about turn and scuttled for home.

And then, timidly, emerged again.

"On Sunday you're going home, Ambrose tells me."

"Yes."

"On leave."

Ambrose was staring at Penelope, trying to catch her eye. Dolly was aware of this, but Penelope, apparently, was not. She simply sat there, continuing to look calm and unruffled.

"Yes. For a month."

"Will you stay at Whale Island?"

Ambrose started waving his hand about, and finally, as though he could think of nothing else to do with it, clamped it over his mouth.

"No, I'm being discharged."

Ambrose let out a great noisy sigh.

"For good?"

"Yes."

"Is that usual?" She felt proud of herself, still smiling, but icy-voiced.

Penelope, too, smiled. "No," she told Dolly.

Ambrose, perhaps deciding that the situation could get no worse, now sprang to his feet. "Let's go and get something to eat. I'm starving."

Composedly, slowly, Dolly collected herself, her handbag, her white gloves. Standing, she looked down at Ambrose's future wife, with her dark eyes and her tassel of hair, and her careless grace. She said, "I am not sure whether they will allow Penelope into the restaurant. She doesn't seem to be wearing any stockings."

"Oh, for God's sake . . . they won't even notice." He sounded angry and impatient, but Dolly smiled to herself, because she knew that his anger was directed, not at herself, but Penelope, because she had let the cat out of the bag.

She is pregnant, she told herself, leading the way across the lounge towards the dining room. She has trapped him, caught him. He does not love her. She is forcing him to marry her.

After luncheon, Dolly excused herself. She was going upstairs for a little lie-down. A silly headache, she explained to Penelope, with just a hint of accusation in her voice. I have to be so careful. The slightest excitement . . . Penelope looked a little taken aback, because the luncheon had scarcely been exciting, but said that she quite understood; that she would see Dolly at the Registry Office tomorrow; that it had been a delicious lunch, and thank you very much. Dolly got into the archaic lift and rose upwards like a caged bird.

They watched her go. When he guessed that she was out of earshot, Ambrose turned on Penelope.

"Why the hell did you have to tell her?"

"What? That I'm pregnant? I didn't tell her. She guessed."

"She didn't have to guess."

"She'll know sooner or later. Why not now?"

"Because . . . well, that sort of thing upsets her."

"Is that why she's got a headache?"

"Yes, of course it is. . . ." They made their way downstairs. "It's started everything off on the wrong foot."

"Then I'm sorry. But I honestly can't see that it makes any difference. Why should it matter to her? We're getting married. And what business is it of anybody but ours?"

He could come up with no reply to this. If she could be so obtuse, then there was no explaining. In silenca they emerged into the warm sunshine and walked down the street to where he had parked his car. She laid a hand on his arm. She was smiling. "Oh, Ambrose, you're not really bothered? She'll get over it. Water under the bridge, Papa always says. Nine-day wonder. And then it'll be forgotten. Besides, once the baby arrives, she'll be delighted. Every woman looks forward to her first grandchild and dotes on it."

But Ambrose was not so sure. They drove at some speed down Pavilion Road, down the King's Road, turning into Oakley Street. When he drew up outside the house, "Are you coming in?" she asked him. "Come and meet Elizabeth. You'll love her."

But he declined. He had other things to do. He would see her tomorrow. "All right." Penelope was tranquil and did not argue. She gave him a kiss, got out of the car, and slammed the door shut. "I shall now go and dig myself up a wedding dress."

He grinned reluctantly. Watched her run up the steps and let herself in through the front door. She waved, and was gone.

He put the car into gear, did a U-turn and sped back the way they had come. He crossed Knightsbridge and drove through the gates into the park. It was very warm, but cool beneath the trees, and he parked the car and walked a little way, and found a seat and sat upon it. The trees rustled in the breeze and the park was full of pleasant summer sounds . . . children's voices and bird-song, with the continuous rumble of London traffic as background music.

He felt morose and gloomy. It was all very well, Penelope saying that it didn't matter, and that his mother would get used to the idea of a shotgun marriage—for indeed, what else was it? —but he knew perfectly well that she would never forget and probably never forgive. It was just very unfortunate that the Sterns were not going to be at the wedding tomorrow. They, with their liberal views and Bohemian attitudes, might possibly have been able to swing the balance, and even if Dolly refused to come round to their way of thinking, at least she might be made to realize that there was another point of view.

For, according to Penelope, they were not a bit bothered about the forthcoming baby; quite the opposite—they were thrilled, and had made it clear, through their daughter, that Ambrose was in no way expected to make an honest woman of her.

Being told that he was a prospective father had knocked the ground from beneath his feet as nothing else could possibly do. He was shaken, appalled, and furiously angry—with himself for letting himself be caught in the classic, dreaded trap, and with Penelope for having taken him in. "Are you all right?" he had asked her, and "Oh, yes, all right," she had replied, and, in the heat of the moment, and with one thing and another, there simply hadn't been time to double-check.

And yet, she had been very sweet. "We don't need to get married, Ambrose," she had assured him. "Please don't think you have to." And she had looked so calm and untroubled about the whole sorry affair that he had found himself doing a swift about-face and considering the possibilities on the other side of the coin.

Perhaps he was not, after all, in such a fix. Things could be very much worse. She was, in her strange way, beautiful. And well-bred. Not any common little girl, picked up in some Ports-mouth pub, but the daughter of well-to-do, if unconventional, parents. Parents, moreover, of property. That enviable house in Oakley Street was not to be sneezed at, and a place in Cornwall was definitely an added bonus. He saw himself sailing in the Helford Passage. And there was always, at the end of the road, the possibility of inheriting a 4'/2-litre Bentley.

No. He had done the right thing. Once his mother had got over the little hiccup of discovering that Penelope was pregnant, then things should be all right. Besides, there was a war on. It was going to blow up at any moment and it would last for a long time, and they wouldn't be able to see much of each other, or even live together, until it was over. Ambrose had no doubt that he would survive. His imagination was not vivid, and he was not troubled by nightmares of engine-room explosions, or being drowned, or freezing to death in the winter seas of the Atlantic. And by the time it was finished, he would probably feel more like settling down and taking on the role of family man than he did at the moment.

He shifted in his chair, which was hard-backed and hid-eously uncomfortable. He noticed, for the first time, the lovers who lay only a few yards away, entwined on the bruised grass. Which gave him a splendid idea. He got off" the chair and walked back to his car, drove out of the Park, around Marble Arch and into the quiet streets of Bayswater. He was whistling under his breath.