The Shell Seekers (68 page)

"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.

When they had finally departed, I had time to think it all over, and the next morning telephoned Mr. Roy Brookner of Boothby's. He came down and saw the panels, and took them away with him. He has found me a private buyer, an American, who has offered me a hundred thousand pounds for the pair. This offer I have accepted.

There are many ways I could spend this sudden windfall but, right now, I am going to do what I have been wanting to do for a long time, and that is go back to Cornwall. As neither you nor Noel nor Nancy felt that you had the time or the desire to come with me, I have invited Antonia and Danus. Danus was at first hesitant about accepting my invitation. It did come rather out of the blue, and I think he was embarrassed, and perhaps felt I was being, in some way, sorry for him and a little patronizing. I think he is a very proud young man. But I finally persuaded him that he would be doing us a kindness; we need a strong male to deal with luggage, porters, and head waiters. In the end, he agreed to speak to his employer and see if he could get the week off. This he has done, and we leave tomorrow morning, Antonia and myself sharing the driving. We shall not stay with Doris as there is not space in her little house for three visitors, so I have booked in at The Sands Hotel, and we shall be there over Easter.

I chose The Sands because I remember it as being unpretentious and homely. When I was a child, whole families used to come from London for the summer holidays. They came year after year, and brought their children and their chauffeurs and their nannies and their dogs, and every summer the management organized a little tennis tournament, and there was" a party in the evening, when the grown-ups foxtrotted in dinner jackets and the children danced Sir Roger de Coverley and were given balloons. During the war, it was turned into a hospital and filled with poor wounded boys tucked up in scarlet blankets; where they were taught how to make baskets by pretty VADs in white caps.

But when I told Danus where we were going, he looked a little astonished. Apparently, The Sands is now very up-market and grand, and I think he was concerned, in the nicest possible sort of way, about the expense. But, of course, it doesn't matter what it costs. This is the first time in my life I have actually written that sentence. It gives me the most extraordinary sensation, and I feel as though I had suddenly become a totally different person. I do not object to this in the very least, and feel as excited as a child.

Yesterday, Antonia and I drove to Cheltenham and shopped. This new Penelope took over, and you would not have recognized your frugal mother, but I think would have approved. We went quite mad. Bought dresses for Antonia, and a delicious cream satin shirt, and jeans and cotton pullovers and a yellow oilskin and four pairs of shoes. Then she disappeared into a beauty shop to have her fringe trimmed, and I went off on my own and spent money on delightful, unnecessary necessities for my holiday. A new pair of canvas lace-ups, some talcum powder, a huge bottle of scent. Camera films and face cream, and a cashmere pullover the colour of violets. I bought a thermos flask, and a tartan rug (for picnics), and a pile of paperbacks to keep myself amused (including
The Sun Also Rises
—it's years since I read Hemingway). I bought a book on British birds, and another lovely one full of maps.

When I had completed this orgy of extravagance, I called in at the bank, then treated myself to a cup of coffee, and went to collect Antonia. I found her looking quite unfamiliar and very beautiful. Not only had she had her hair trimmed, but her eyelashes dyed. It totally changes her appearance. At first she was a bit embarrassed about it, but by now has got used to the idea and can be observed, only every now and then, taking admiring glances at herself in the mirror. I have not been so happy for a long time.

Mrs. Plackett comes in tomorrow and will clean and lock up the house after we have left. We return on Wednesday the twenty-fifth.

There is just one more thing.
The Shell Seekers
has gone. I have given it, as a memorial to my father, to the Art Gallery in Porthkerris which Papa helped to found. In a strange way, I need it no longer, and I like to think that others—ordinary people—will be able to share the pleasure and delight that it has always given me. Mr. Brookner arranged for its transport to the West Country, and a van duly arrived and carted it away. The gap over the fireplace is very apparent, but one day I shall fill it with something else. Meantime, I look forward to seeing it hanging, for all the world to see, in its new home.

I have not written to Noel nor Nancy. They will find out about everything sooner or later, and will probably be extremely resentful and annoyed, but I can't help that. I have given them all I can, and they always want more. Perhaps now they will stop pestering me, and get on with their own lives.

But you, I believe, will understand.

My love, as always, 

Mumma

Nancy was feeling a little uncomfortable with herself. The reason for this was because she had not been in touch with her mother since that abortive Sunday when the terrible row over the paintings had blown up, and Penelope had rounded on the pair of them and given her and Noel such a distasteful and distressing piece of her mind.

It wasn't that Nancy felt guilty. On the contrary, she had been deeply hurt. Mother had come out with accusations that could never be unsaid, and Nancy had allowed the days to pass in frigid noncommunication because she expected Penelope to make the first move. To telephone, if not to apologize,- then to chat, to ask after the children, perhaps to suggest a meeting. To prove to Nancy that all was forgotten and relations between them once more on a normal footing.

Nothing, however, happened. No such call came through. At first Nancy remained resolutely offended, nursing her um-brage. She resented the sensation that she had been put in the doghouse. She had, after all, done nothing wrong. Simply spoken up, concerned for the good of them all.

But gradually, she became worried. It was not like Mother to sulk. Was it possible that she was unwell? She had worked herself up into a terrible state, and that surely could not be good for an elderly woman who had suffered a heart attack. Had this had its repercussions? She quailed at the thought, pushed the niggle of anxiety out of her mind. Surely not. Surely, if so, Anto-nia would have been in touch. She was young and probably irresponsible, but even she could not be as irresponsible as that.

Concern became an obsession that Nancy could not get out of her mind. During the last day or so, she had actually gone to the telephone more than once and picked it up, intending to dial the Podmore's Thatch number, only to replace the receiver because she couldn't think what she was going to say, and could dream up no reason for saying it. And then inspiration struck. Easter loomed. She would invite Mother and Antonia over to the old Vicarage for Easter lunch. This would involve no loss of face, and over roast lamb and new potatoes, they would all become reconciled.

She was engaged in the not very arduous task of dusting the dining room when this brilliant plan occurred to her. She set down the duster and the tin of polish and went straight to the kitchen and the telephone. She dialled the number and waited, smiling socially, all ready to put that smile into her voice. She heard the ringing sound. It was not answered. Her smile faded. She waited for a long time. Finally, feeling totally let down, she replaced the receiver. 

She rang again at three in the afternoon and again at six. She rang Faults, and asked the man to check the line. "It's ringing out," he told her.

"I know it's ringing out. I've been listening to it ringing out all day. There must be something wrong."

"Are you certain the person you are calling is at home?"

"Of course she's at home. She's my mother. She's always at home."

"If you leave it with me, I'll check and ring you back."

"Thank you."

She waited. He rang back. There was nothing wrong with the line. Mother, it seemed, was simply not there.

By now Nancy was not so much worried as thoroughly annoyed. She rang Olivia in London.

"Olivia."

"Hello."

"Nancy here . . ."

"Yes. I guessed."

"Olivia, I've been trying to get hold of Mother, and there's no reply from Podmore's Thatch. Have you any idea what can have happened?".

"Of course there's no reply. She's gone to Cornwall."

"To
Cornwall
?"

"Yes. She's gone off for Easter. Taken the car, along with Antonia and Danus."

"Antonia and
Danus
?"

"Don't sound so horrified." Olivia's voice was filled with amusement. "Why shouldn't she? She's been wanting to go for months, and none of us would go with her, so she's taken them for company."

"But surely they're not all staying with Doris Penberth? There wouldn't be room."

"Oh, no, not with Doris. They're staying at The Sands."

"
The Sands
?"

"Oh, Nancy, do stop repeating everything I say."

"But The Sands is the best. One of the best hotels in the country. It's written up everywhere. It costs the
earth
."

"But haven't you heard? Mother's got the earth. She's sold the panels to a millionaire American for a hundred thousand pounds."

Nancy wondered if she was going to be sick, or faint. Probably faint. She could feel the blood pour from her cheeks. Her knees trembled. She reached for a chair.

"A hundred thousand pounds. It's not possible. They couldn't be worth that. Nothing's worth a hundred thousand pounds."

"Nothing's worth anything unless somebody wants it. There's the rarity value as well. I tried to explain all this to you that day we lunched at L'Escargot. Lawrence Sterns seldom come on the market, and this American, whoever he is, probably wants those panels more than anything else in the world. And doesn't care what he pays for them. Luckily for Mumma. I couldn't be more pleased for her."

But Nancy's mind still raced. A hundred thousand pounds. "When did all this happen?" she managed at last.

"Oh, I don't know. Sometime quite recently."

"How do you know about it?"

"She wrote me a long letter and told me everything. Told me about the row she'd had with you and Noel. You are dreadful. I've told you over and over to leave her alone, but you wouldn't. Just nagged incessantly until she couldn't stand it another mo-ment. I guess that's why she finally decided to sell the panels. Probably realized that that was the only way to stop your endless needling."

"That's totally unfair."

"Oh, Nancy, stop pretending to me and stop pretending to yourself."

"They've got a terrible hold on her."

"Who have?"

"Danus and Antonia. You should never have sent the girl to live with Mother. And I don't trust Danus further than I could throw him."

"Neither does Noel."

"Doesn't that worry you?"

"Not in the least. I have great faith in Mumma's judge-ment."

"And what about the money she's squandering on them?

Right now. Living in luxury at The Sands Hotel. With her gardener."

"Why shouldn't she squander the money? It's hers. And why shouldn't she squander it on herself and two young people she happens to be fond of? Like I said, she asked us all to go with her and none of us would. We had our chance and we turned it down. We have no one to blame but ourselves."

"When I was invited, The Sands Hotel was never mentioned. It was going to be bed-and-breakfast in Doris Penberth's spare bedroom."

"Is that what stopped you from accepting? The thought of pigging it with Doris? Would you have gone if The Sands Hotel had been dangled in front of your nose, like a carrot before a donkey?"