The Shell Seekers (58 page)

Madame Jolie groped down the back of her neck for the price ticket. "Seven pounds ten shillings. And seven coupons, I'm afraid."

"I'll have it."

"You've made the right decision. Fancy that, the first dress you tried on. Thought of it the moment you walked in. Might have been made for you. What a stroke of luck."

"Papa, do you like my new dress?" She took it out of the paper bag, shook it out of its folds, held it in front of her. In his chair, he took off his spectacles and leaned back on the cushions with half-closed eyes, the better to get the effect.

"That's a good colour for you . . . yes, I like that. But why have you suddenly bought yourself a new dress?"

"Because we're going for a drink with the Watson-Grants this evening. Had you forgotten?"

"No, but I've forgotten how we're getting there."

"The General's sending his car for us."

"How kind."

"And someone will bring you back. Because I'm going out for dinner."

He put his spectacles on again and, for a long moment, surveyed his daughter over the top of them. Then he said, "With Richard Lomax," and it wasn't a question.

"Yes."

He reached for his newspaper. "Good."

"Papa, listen. You think I should go?"

"Why shouldn't you?"

"I'm a married lady."

"But not a bourgeois nitwit."

She hesitated. "Suppose I get involved."

"Is that likely?"

"It might be."

"So. Get involved."

"You know something, Papa? I really like you."

"I am gratified. Why?"

"A thousand reasons. But mostly because we've always been able to talk."

"It would be a disaster if we couldn't. As for Richard Lo-max, you are no longer a child. I don't wish to see you hurt, but your mind is your own. You make your own decisions."

"I know," she said. She did not say "I have."

They were the last to arrive at the Watson-Grant's party. This was because, by the time John Tonkins, the General's old gar-dener, called to collect them, Penelope was still at her dressing-table, agonizing as to how to do her hair. She had finally decided to wear it up and then, at the last moment and in some exasperation, torn out all the pins and shaken it loose. After that, she had to find some sort of coat, for warmth, for the new dress was flimsy and the September evenings chill. She had no coat, only her tartan poncho, and that looked so terrible that more moments had to be wasted searching for an old cashmere shawl of Sophie's. Clutching this, running downstairs in search of her father, she found him in the kitchen, having decided on the spur of the moment that he had to clean his shoes.

"Papa. The car's there. John's waiting."

"I can't help that. These are my good shoes and they haven't been cleaned for four months."

"How do you know it's four months?"

"Because that was the last occasion we went to the Watson-Grants'."

"Oh, Papa." His crippled hands struggled with the tin of boot polish. "Here. I'll do them."

She accomplished this as swiftly as she could, wielding brushes and getting brown polish all over her hands. She washed her hands while he was putting on his shoes, and then knelt to tie the laces for him. At last, at Lawrence's pace, they made their way out of the house and across the garden to the top gate, where John Tonkins and the old Rover awaited them.

"I'm sorry we've kept you, John."

"Doesn't matter to me, Mr. Stern." He held the door open and Lawrence painfully inserted himself into the front seat. Penelope got into the back. John took his place at the wheel and they were off. But not very fast, for John Tonkins was wary of his employer's car and drove as though it were a time bomb that might explode if he went faster than thirty miles an hour. Finally, at seven o'clock, they trundled up the drive of the General's enviable garden, which burgeoned with rhododendron, azalea, camellias, and fuchsia, and drew to a crunching halt at the front door of the house. Three or four other cars were already parked on the gravel. Penelope recognized the Trubshots' old Morris, but not the khaki staff car with its Royal Marine insignia. A young Marine driver sat behind the wheel, whiling away the time by reading Picture Post. Getting out of the Rover, she found herself secretly smiling.

They went indoors. Before the war, a uniformed parlourmaid would have been waiting to let them in, but now, there was nobody.'The hall was empty and a buzz of conversation led them across the sitting room to where, in the General's conservatory, the party was already in full swing.

It was a very large and elaborate conservatory, built by the Watson-Grants when the General had finally retired from the Army and they left India for good, and which they had furnished with potted palms, long rattan chairs, camel stools, tiger-skin rugs, and a brass gong slung between the ivory tusks of some long-defunct elephant.

"Oh,, there you are at last!" Mrs. Watson-Grant had spied them and came to greet them. She was a small, spare woman with shingled hair, tanned to leather by the cruel suns of India, a chain-smoker and an inveterate bridge player. In Quetta, if rumours were to be believed, she had spent most of her life on the back of a horse, and had once stood her ground in the face of a charging tiger and coolly shot it dead. Now, she was reduced to running the local Red Cross and Digging for Victory in her vegetable garden, but she missed the social whirl of the old days, and it was typical that, having laid her hands on a couple of bottles of gin, she instantly threw a party. "Late as usual," she added, for she had never been one for calling a spade anything but a spade. "What'll you drink? Gin and orange, or gin and lime? And, of course, you know everybody. Except perhaps Colonel Mellaby and Major Lomax ..."

Penelope looked about her. Saw the Springburns from St. Enedoc and Mrs. Trubshot, tall and wraith-like, veiled in lilac chiffon and wearing an enormous hat with a velvet bow and a buckle. With Mrs. Trubshot was Miss Pawson, standing there four-square in a pair of lace-up shoes with rubber soles thick as tank-treads. She saw Colonel Trubshot, who had button holed the unknown Colonel Mellaby and was holding forth as usual, doubtless airing his opinions on the conduct of the war. The Royal Marine Colonel was a great deal taller than Colonel Trubshot, a handsome man with a bristling moustache and thinning hair, and he had to stoop slightly in order to hear what was being said. From the expression on his face of polite, attentive boredom, Penelope guessed that it was not fascinating. She saw Richard standing at the far side of the room, with his back to the garden. Miss Preedy was with him. Miss Preedy, wearing an embroidered Hungarian blouse and a folk-weave skirt and looking as though she were about to spring into a Gopak. He said something to her, and she burst into a gale of giggles, tucking her head demurely to one side, and he looked up, caught Penelope's eye, and sent her just the ghost of a wink.

"Penelope." General Watson-Grant materialized at her elbow. "You've got a drink? Thank God you're here. I was afraid you wouldn't come."

"I know. We're late. We kept poor John Tonkins waiting."

"No matter. I just felt a bit anxious for these Royal Marines. Poor chaps, invited to a party and then find themselves in a roomful of washed-up old odds and sods. I'd have asked more cheerful company for them, but I couldn't think of any. Only you."

"I shouldn't worry. They look quite happy."

"I'll introduce you."

"We already know Major Lomax."

"Do you? When did you meet him?"

"Papa got talking to him in the Gallery."

"They seem nice fellers." The General's eye, hostly, strayed. "I'm going to rescue Mellaby. He's had ten minutes of undiluted Trubshot, and that's enough for any man."

He left her as abruptly as he had appeared, and, abandoned, Penelope went to talk to Miss Pawson and hear about her stirrup-pumps. The party progressed. For some time Richard neither sought her out nor claimed her, but this did not matter, for it simply extended the anticipation of finally finding herself at his side and being with him again. As though performing some ritual dance, they circled, never within earshot; smiling into other faces, listening to other conversations. Eventually, finding herself by the open door that led out into the garden, Penelope turned to set down her empty glass, but was diverted by the prospect of the General's garden. The sloping lawn streamed with golden light, clouds of midges danced in the dark shade of the trees. The still air was alive with the cooing of wood-pigeons and sweet with the scents of a warm September evening.

"Hello." He had come to stand beside her.

"Hello."

He took the empty glass out of her hand. "Do you want another drink?"

She shook her head. "No."

He found space on a table bearing a potted palm and set the glass down. "I spent half an hour feeling anxious because I thought perhaps you weren't going to arrive."

"We're always late for everything."

He glanced about him. "I am entranced by this marvellous ambience. We could be in Poona."

"I should have warned you."

"Why should you? It's delightful."

"I think a conservatory is the most enviable of rooms. One day, if I ever have a proper house of my own, I shall build one. Just as big and spacious and sunny as this."

"And will you fill it with tiger skins and brass gongs?"

She smiled. "Papa says all that's missing is the punkah wallah."

"Or perhaps a horde of dervishes, erupting from the shrub-bery, bent on death and destruction. Do you suppose our host shot the rug?"

"More likely Mrs. Watson-Grant. The drawing room is set about with photographs of her in a pith helmet, with the spoils of the chase laid out at her feet."

"Have you met Colonel Mellaby?"

"Not yet. He's been lionized. I couldn't get near him."

"Come and I'll introduce you. And then, I think, he'll say it's time for us to leave. He'll take us as far as the HQ in the staff car, and then we'll have to walk. Do you mind?"

"Not at all."

"And your father ...?".

"John Tonkins will take him home."

He put a hand beneath her elbow. "Come, then. . . ."

It happened as he said it would. Introduced to Penelope Colonel Mellaby made a little polite small talk, and then glanced at his watch and announced that it was time to depart. Farewells were said. Penelope confirmed that Lawrence would be taken home to Cam Cottage, and kissed him good night. The General saw the three of them to the door, and Penelope gathered up her shawl from the chair where she had left it. Outside, the Royal Marine driver, hastily stowing his Picture Post, sprang from the car and held open the door. The Colonel got into the front and Penelope and Richard took the back seats. In a stately fashion they drove away, but the Royal Marine driver was not nearly so timid as poor John Tonkins had been, so that in no time they had reached the old White Caps Hotel and were piling out again.

"You two are going out for dinner? Take the car and my driver if you want."

"Thank you, sir, but we'll walk. It's a lovely evening."

"Certainly is. Oh well, have a good time." He gave them an avuncular nod, dismissed his driver, turned on his heel, and made his way up the steps to disappear through the door.

Richard said, "Shall we go?"

It was indeed a beautiful evening, pearly and still; the calm sea translucent, gleaming like the inside of a shell. The sun had set, but the huge sky stayed streaked with the pink of its afterglow. They walked, dropping down into the town, by empty pavements and past shuttered shops.

There were few people about, but, mingling with these locals, strayed aimless groups of American Rangers, with a leave pass under their belts and no apparent way of diverting themselves. One or two had found girls, giggling sixteen-year-olds who hung on to their elbows. Others queued up outside the cinema, waiting for it to open, or trod the streets in their soft-soled boots, searching for likely pubs. When they spied Richard approaching, these groups were apt to melt mysteriously out of sight.

Penelope said, "I'm sorry for them."

"They're all right."

"It would be nice if people could ask them to parties, too."

"I don't think they'd have very much in common with General Watson-Grant's guests."

"He was a bit embarrassed at having asked you to meet a washed-up lot of odds and sods."

"Did he say that? He was quite wrong. I found them all fascinating."

This seemed a bit of an overstatement. "I like the Spring-burns. He farms over at St. Enedoc. And I love the Watson-Grants."

"How about Miss Pawson and Miss Preedy?"

"Oh, they're lesbians."

"I suspected. And the Trubshots?"

"The Trubshots are a cross we all mutually bear. She's not so bad, but he's a pain in the neck; he's head of the ARP, and he's always running people in for showing chinks of light, and they have to go to court and be fined."

"Not the best way, I admit, to win friends and influence people, but I suppose he's just doing his job."

"You're much nicer than Papa and I are about him. And the other thing we can never understand is why such a shrimp of a man married such a tall lady. He scarcely comes up to her waist."