The Shell Seekers (46 page)

"But, Mother, did he arrive with any sort of credentials?"

"Of course he did. I engaged him through a garden contractor."

"Do they know if he's honest?"

"
Honest
? Why shouldn't he be honest?"

"You're so naive, Mother, you'd trust any person who looked vaguely presentable. After all, he is working around the house and the garden, and you're on your own."

"I am not on my own. I have Antonia."

"Antonia, by the looks of it, is as besotted by him as you are. . . ."

"Nancy, what gives you the right to say such things?"

"If I wasn't concerned about you, I wouldn't have the need to say them."

"And what do you imagine that Danus might do? Rape Antonia and Mrs. Plackett, I suppose. Murder me, strip my house of its possessions, and head for Europe. That wouldn't do him much good. There's nothing of value here anyway."

She spoke in thoughtless heat, and as soon as the words were out instantly regretted them, for Noel pounced with the speed of a cat upon a mouse.

"Nothing of value! What about your father's pictures? Will nothing I say persuade you to understand that you are vulnerable here; you have no sort of an alarm system, you never lock a door, and without a doubt you are underinsured. Nancy's right. We know nothing about this oddball you've employed as a gardener, and even if we did, it's crazy—under any circumstances—not to take some sort of positive action. Sell, or reinsure, or do bloody something."

"I have a funny feeling that you would like me to sell."

"Now, don't start getting het up. Think rationally. Not
The Shell Seekers
, of course, but certainly the panels. Now, while the market's high. Find out what the wretched things are worth, and then put them up for sale."

Penelope, who all this time had been standing, now sat down again. She put an elbow on the table and rested her forehead in the palm of her hand. With her other hand, she reached for the butter knife, and with it began to score a deep pattern of marks on the coarse weave of the dark-blue table-cloth.

After a bit, "What do you think, Nancy?" she asked.

"Me?"

"Yes, you. What do you have to say about my pictures and my insurance and my private life in general?"

Nancy bit her lip, took a deep breath, and then spoke, her voice coming out clear and high-pitched, making her sound as though she were making a speech at the Women's Institute. "I think ... I think Noel is right. George believes that you should reinsure. He told me so, after he read about the sale of
The Water Carriers
. But the premiums would, naturally, be very high. And the insurance company may insist on tighter security. After all, they have to consider their client's investment."

"You sound to me," said her mother, "as though you are quoting George word for word, or else reading from some incomprehensible manual. Have you no ideas of your own?"

"Yes," said Nancy, sounding normal again. "I do. I think you should sell the panels."

"And raise, maybe, a quarter of a million?"

She spoke the words casually. The discussion was going better than Nancy had dared to hope, and she felt herself grow warm with excitement.

"Why not?"

"And once I've done that, what am I expected to do with the money?"

She looked at Noel. He shrugged elaborately. He said, "The money you give away when you're alive is worth twice the money you give away when you're dead."

"In other words, you want it now."

"Ma, I didn't say that. I'm simply generalizing. But face it; to go to bed with a nest-egg like that would be tantamount to simply handing it over to the Government."

"So you think I should hand it over to you."

"Well, you've got three children. You could unload a certain amount of it onto them, split into three. Keep a bit for yourself, to enjoy life. You've never been able to do that. Always had your nose to the grindstone. You used to travel all over the place with your parents. You could travel again. Go to Florence. Back to the south of France."

"And what would you two do with all that lovely money?"

"I suppose Nancy would spend it on her children. As for me, I'd move on."

"Into what?"

"New fields, pastures green. Set up on my own . . . commodity broking, perhaps ..."

He was his father all over again. Perpetually dissatisfied with his lot, envious of others, materialistic and ambitious, and un-shakeable in his belief that the world owed him a living. It could have been Ambrose who spoke to her, and this, as nothing else could have done, finally caused Penelope to lose her patience.

"Commodity broking." She made no effort to keep the scorn from her voice. "You must be out of your mind. You'd be as well to put your entire capital on a single horse, or a turn of the roulette wheel. As well you are quite shameless and sometimes you fill me with despair and disgust." Noel opened his mouth to defend himself, but she talked him down, raising her voice. "Do you know what I think? I don't think you give a hoot what happens to me, or to my house or my father's pictures. You care only what happens to yourself, and how swiftly and easily you can get your hands on yet more money." Noel closed his mouth, his face tightening in anger and the colour draining from his thin cheeks. "I haven't sold the panels and I may never sell them, but if I do I shall keep everything for myself, because it is mine, and mine to do as I like with, and
the greatest gift a parent can leave a child is that parent's own independence
. As for you, Nancy, and your children, it was you and George who made the decision to send them to those ridiculously expensive schools. Perhaps if you'd been a little less ambitious for them, and had spent more time on teaching them manners, they'd have turned out a great deal more appealing than they are at the moment."

Nancy, with an immediacy that surprised even herself, sprang to the defence of her offspring. "I'll thank you not to criticize my children."

"It's about time somebody did."

"And what right have you to say a word against them? You take no interest in them. You show more interest in your endless eccentric friends and your wretched garden. You never even come and see them. Never come to see us, how ever often we invite you . . ."

It was Noel who lost his patience. "Oh, for God's sake, Nancy, shut up. Your bloody children are neither here nor there. We're not talking about your children. We're trying to have an intelligent discussion. ..."

"They have everything to do with it. They're the future generation . . ."

"God help us. ..."

". . . and a great deal more worthy of financial support than some hare-brained scheme of yours for making yet more money. Mother's right. You'd squander the lot of it, gamble it away ..."

"Coming from you, that's laughable. You haven't a single opinion of your own, and you know bloody nothing about bloody anything. ..."

Nancy sprang to her feet. "I've had enough. I'm not staying here to be insulted. I'm going home."

"Yes," said her mother. "I think it's time you both went. And I think, as well, that it's a very good thing Olivia isn't here. Listening to this appalling conversation, she would destroy you both. For that reason alone, if she were with us, I am perfectly certain that neither of you would have had the courage to even start such a disgraceful discussion. And now . . ." She, too, got to her feet, and picked up the tray. "You are both, as you never cease to tell me, busy people. There can be no point in wasting the rest of the afternoon in fruitless argument. I, meantime, shall go and start the washing-up."

As she headed towards the kitchen, Noel fired his final malicious shot. "I'm sure Nancy would love to help you. Nothing she likes better than getting down to a sinkful of dishes."

"I've already said, I've had enough. I'm going home. And as for the washing-up, there's no need for Mother to martyr herself. Antonia can do it when she gets back. After all, isn't she meant to be the housekeeper?"

Penelope, at the open door, stopped dead. She turned her head and looked at Nancy, and there was an expression of disgust in her dark eyes that caused Nancy to suspect that she had actually gone too far.

But her mother did not throw the tray of coffee-cups at her. She simply said very quietly, "No, Nancy. She is not meant to be a housekeeper. She is my friend. My guest."

She went. Presently they heard the sound of taps running, the clatter of china and cutlery. A silence fell between them, disturbed only by a large bluebottle, which, under the mistaken delusion that it was suddenly high summer, decided that this was the moment to break cover and emerge from its winter hiding. Nancy reached for her jacket, put it on. Buttoning it, she raised her head and looked at Noel. Across the table, their eyes met. He pulled himself to his feet.

"Well," he said quietly. "You made a right bloody mess of that."

"Speak for yourself," Nancy snapped.

He left her, disappearing upstairs to collect his things. Nancy stayed where she was, waiting for him to return, deter-mined to retain her dignity, to nurse her hurt feelings, to suffer no loss of face. She filled in the time checking on her appearance, combing her hair, powdering her flushed and mottled face, applying a layer of lipstick. She was deeply upset and longed to escape, but hadn't the nerve to do it on her own; Mother had always had a way with her, and Nancy was determined that she was going to leave this house without making any sort of an apology. After all, what had she got to apologize for? It was Mother who had been so impossible, Mother who had said all those unforgivable things.

When she heard Noel return, she snapped shut her compact, slipped it into her bag, and went through to the kitchen. The dishwasher whirred, and Penelope, her back to them, scoured saucepans at the sink.

"Well, we're on our way," said Noel.

Their mother abandoned the saucepans, shook her hands dry, and turned to face them. Her apron and her reddened hands did nothing to detract from her dignity, and Nancy remembered that her rare outbursts had never lasted more than a few moments. She had never, in her life, borne a grudge, never sulked. Now, she even smiled, but it was a funny sort of smile. As though she was sorry for them, had, in some way, defeated them.

She said, "It was good of you to come," and sounded as though she meant it. "And thank you, Noel, for all your hard work."

"No problem."

She reached for a towel and dried her hands. They all trooped out of the kitchen, through the front door, to where the two cars waited on the gravel sweep. Noel slung his grip into the back of the Jaguar, got in behind the wheel, and, with a cursory wave of the hand, shot out through the gate to disappear in the direction of London. He had not said goodbye to either of them, but neither mother nor daughter commented on this.

Instead, in silence, Nancy too got into her car, fastened her safety-belt, drew on her pigskin gloves. Penelope stood watching these preparations for departure. Nancy could feel her mother's dark gaze upon her face, could feel the blush start, creep up her neck into her cheeks.

Penelope said, "Be careful, Nancy. Drive safely."

"I always do."

"But, just now, you're upset."

Nancy, staring at the driving wheel, felt tears rush to her eyes. She bit her lip. "Of course I'm upset. Nothing is so upsetting as family rows."

"Family rows are like car accidents. Every family thinks, 'It couldn't happen to us,' but it can happen to everybody. The only way to avoid them is to drive with the greatest care and have much consideration for others."

"It isn't that we don't consider you. We're simply thinking of your own good."

"No, Nancy, that is not so. You just want me to do what you want me to do, which is to sell my father's pictures and hand over the loot before I die. But I'll sell my father's pictures when I choose to. And I'm not going to die. Not for a long time." She stepped back. "Now, off you go." Nancy wiped the stupid tears from her eyes, switched on the ignition, put the car into gear, let off the hand-brake. "And remember to give my love to George."

She was gone. Penelope stood there, on the gravel outside her open door, long after the sound of Nancy's car had been swallowed into the still warmth of the miraculous spring afternoon. Glancing down, she saw a groundsel thrusting its way between the stone chips. She stooped and pulled it out, tossed it away, and then turned and went indoors.

She was alone. Blessed solitude. The saucepans could wait. She went through the kitchen and into the sitting room. The evening would turn chilly, so she lit a match and kindled the fire. When the flames were licking to her satisfaction, she got up off her knees and went to her desk and found the torn scrap of newspaper with the advertisement for Boothby's, which Noel, a week ago, had drawn to her attention.
Ring Mr. Roy Brookner
. She laid it in the centre of her blotter, secured it with her paperweight, and then returned to the kitchen. Opening a drawer, she took from it her small, sharp vegetable knife, and then made her way upstairs to her bedroom. This was now filled with golden afternoon sunlight pouring through the west window, winking on silver and reflected in mirrors and glass. She put the knife on her dressing-table and went to open the doors of the huge Victorian wardrobe, which only just fitted beneath the sloping ceiling. The wardrobe was filled with her clothes. She took them all out and laid them, in annfuls, on her bed. This involved a certain amount of to-ing and fro-ing, but gradually the big bed, with its cotton crochet cover, was piled with every sort of garment, resembling the jumble stall at the church fete, or possibly the ladies' cloakroom at some manic party.