The Shell Seekers (69 page)

"You have no right to say that."

"I have every right. I'm your sister, God help me. And there's another thing you should know. Mumma's gone to Porthkerris because she's been yearning to for ages; but as well, she's gone to see
The Shell Seekers
. She's donated it to the Art Gallery there, in memory of her father, and she wants to look at it, hanging in its new home."

"Donated it?" For a moment, Nancy thought she had misheard, or certainly misunderstood her sister. "You mean, she's given it away?"

"Just that."

"But it's probably worth thousands. Hundreds of thousands."

"I'm sure everybody concerned appreciates that."

The Shell Seekers
. Gone. The sense of injustice perpetrated upon her and her family left Nancy cold with rage. "She always told us," she said bitterly, "that she couldn't live without that picture. That it was part of her life."

"It was. For years, it was. But I think now that she feels she can do without it. She wants to share it. She wants other people to enjoy it."

Olivia, it was quite obvious, was on Mother's side.

"And what about us? What about her family? Her grandchildren. Noel. Does Noel know about this?"

"I've no idea. I don't suppose so. I haven't seen nor heard of him since he took Antonia down to Podmore's Thatch."

"I shall tell him." It was a threat.

"Do that," said Olivia, and rang off.

Nancy slammed down the receiver. Damn Olivia. Damn her. She lifted the instrument once more and with shaking hands dialled Noel's number. She could not remember when she had been so upset.

"Noel Keeling."

"Nancy here." She spoke grimly, feeling important, calling a family conference.

"Hi." He did not sound enthusiastic.

"I've just been speaking to Olivia. I tried to ring Mother, but there was no reply, so I called Olivia to see if she knew what was going on. She did know, because Mother had written her a letter. She wrote to Olivia, but she never bothered to get in touch with either you or me."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Mother's gone to Cornwall, and she's taken Danus and Antonia with her."

"Good God."

"And they're staying at The Sands Hotel."

That caught his attention.

"The Sands? I thought she was going to stay with Doris. And how can she afford The Sands? It's one of the most bloody expensive hotels in the country."

"I can tell you how. Mother's sold the panels. For a hundred thousand pounds. Without, I may say, discussing it with any of us. A hundred thousand pounds, Noel. Which, by the looks of it, she intends to squander. And that's not all. She's given The Shell Seekers away. Gifted the picture to the Art Gallery in Porthker-ris, if you please. Simply handed it over, and heaven knows what it must be worth. I think she must be mad. I don't believe she knows what she's doing. I told Olivia what I believe. That those two young people, Antonia and Danus, have got a sinister hold on her. It happens, you know. You read about such things in the papers. It's criminal. It shouldn't be allowed. There must be something we can do to stop it. Noel. Noel? Are you still there?"

"Yes."

"What do you say?"

Noel said "Shit" and rang off.

The Sands Hotel,

Porthkerris,

Cornwall.

Thursday, 19th April.

Darling Olivia,

Well, here we all are, and we've been here for a whole day. I cannot tell you how beautiful it all is. The weather is like high summer and there are flowers everywhere. And palm trees, and little cobbled streets, and the sea is the most wonderful blue. A greener blue than the Mediterranean, and then a very dark blue out on the horizon. It is like Ibiza, only better, because everything is green and lush, and in the evenings, when the sun has gone down, it's all damp and smells leafy.

We had a wonderful trip down. I drove most of the way and then Penelope a bit, but Danus didn't because he doesn't drive. Once we'd got onto the motorway it didn't take any time at all, and your mother couldn't believe how fast we were going. When we got to Devon, we took the old road over Dartmoor, and ate our picnic on the top of a rock, with views in all directions, and there were small shaggy ponies who were pleased to consume the crusts of our sandwiches.

The hotel is out of this world. I've never stayed in an hotel before and I don't think Penelope has either, so it's all new experience. She kept telling us how comfortable and cosy it was all going to be, but when we finally came up the drive (between banks of hydrangeas) it was instantly obvious that we'd let ourselves in for a hie of luxury. A Rolls and three Mercedes parked in the forecourt, and a uniformed porter to deal with our luggage. Danus calls it our matched luggage, because each of our suitcases is just as battered and disreputable as the others.

Penelope, however, has taken everything in her stride. By everything, I mean enormously thick carpets, swimming pools, Jacuzzis, private bathrooms, televisions by our beds, huge bowls of fresh fruit, and flowers everywhere. We have clean sheets and towels every day. Our rooms are all in the same corridor, and have adjoining balconies, looking out over the gardens and the sea. From time to time, we step out onto them and converse with each other. Just like Noel Coward's
Private Lives
.

As for the dining room, it is like being taken out for dinner in the most expensive restaurant in London. I am sure I shall become quite blase about oysters, lobsters, fresh strawberries, thick Cornish cream, and fillet steaks. It is splendid having Danus with us, because he gives much thought as to what we are to drink with this delicious food. He seems to know an awful lot about wines, but he never drinks himself. I don't know why, any more than I don't know why he doesn't drive a car.

There is so much to do. This morning we went down into the town, and our first port of call was Cam Cottage, where your mother used to live. But it was sad because, like so many houses down here, it has been turned into an hotel, the lovely stone wall demolished, and most of the garden bulldozed into a car-park. But we went into what remains of the garden and the hotel lady brought us out a cup of coffee. And Penelope told us about how it used to be, and how her mother had planted all the old roses, and the wistaria, and then she told us about her being killed in London during the Blitz. I never knew about this. When she told us, I wanted to cry, but I didn't, I just hugged her, because her eyes went all bright with tears, and somehow I couldn't think of anything else to do.

After Cam Cottage we went on, deep into the heart of the little town, to find the Art Gallery and to see
The Shell Seekers
. The Gallery is not large, but a particularly attractive one, with whitewashed walls and a huge northern skylight. They have hung
The Shell Seekers
in quite the most important position and it looks utterly at home, bathed in the cold brilliant light of Porthkerris, where it was originally conceived. The Art Gallery lady was elderly, and I don't think she remembered Penelope, but she certainly knew who she was and made a great fuss of her. Apart from this, there don't seem to be a great many people still alive whom she knew and remembers from the old days. Except Doris, of course. She is going to see Doris tomorrow afternoon, and have tea with her. She is much looking forward to this, and seems excited at the prospect. And on Saturday, we are going out on the Lands End road, and taking a picnic to the cliffs at Penjizal. The hotel provides picnics in fancy cardboard boxes, with real knives and forks, but Penelope does not consider these proper picnics, so we shall stop off on the way and buy fresh bread and butter and pat6 and tomatoes and fresh fruit and a bottle of wine. If it goes on being as warm as this, I expect that Danus and I shall swim.

And then on Monday, Danus and I are going to go over to the south coast, to Manaccan, where a man called Everard Ashley is running a nursery garden. Danus was at Horticultural College with this man, and he wants to go and look at the nursery, and maybe get a few tips. Because, in the fulness of time, this is what he wants to do, but it's difficult because you need a lot of capital for such a venture, and he hasn't got any. Never mind, it's always worth picking other people's brains, and it'll be fun to go over and see the other side of this magical county.

From all this, you will gather that I am very happy. I couldn't have believed that, so soon after Cos-mo's death, I could be happy again. I hope it's not wrong. I don't think it is, because it feels nothing but right.

Thank you for everything. For being so endlessly kind and patient and for fixing for me to stay at Podmore's Thatch. Because if you hadn't done that, I wouldn't be here, living the life of Riley with the two people I like absolutely most in the whole world. Except, of course, yourself.

My love, 

Antonia

Her children, Nancy, Olivia and Noel, had . . . Penelope was forced to admit . . . been maddeningly right. Porthkerris, to all intents and purposes, was changed. Cam Cottage was not the only house with a bulldozed garden, an hotel sign over the gate, and striped umbrellas set up on the newly constructed terrace. The old White Caps Hotel had been hideously enlarged and converted into holiday flats, and the harbour road, where once the artists had lived and worked, had become a fairground of amusement arcades, discos, fast-food restaurants, and souvenir shops. In the harbour itself, most of the fishing boats were gone. Now only one or two remained, and the empty moorings were filled by pleasure craft offering, for enormously inflated sums of money, day trips to see the seals, with a few queasy hours of mackerel fishing thrown in as an added inducement.

And yet, astonishingly enough, it was not so changed. Now, in the spring, the town was still comparatively empty, for the first flood of tourists would not arrive until Whitsun. There was time to dawdle, space to stand and look. And nothing could ever alter that marvellous blue, silken sweep of the bay, nor the curve of the headland, nor the baffling muddle of streets and slate-roofed houses tumbling down the hill to the water's edge. The gulls still filled the sky with their screams, the air still smelted of salty wind and privet and escallonia, and the narrow lanes of the old town, mazelike, were as confusing as they had ever been.

Penelope walked to visit Doris. It was pleasant to be alone. The company of Danus and Antonia had proved nothing but delight, but still, for a little while, solitude was welcome. In the sunlight of the warm afternoon, she made her way down through the aromatic gardens of the hotel, onto the road above the beach, past terraces of Victorian houses, and descended into the town.

She searched for a florist's. The one she remembered was now a dress shop, filled with the sort of clothes that tourists, mad to spend their money, mistakenly buy. Elasticated sun tops in

Day-glo pink, enormous T-shirts emblazoned with the features of pop stars, and crotch-hugging jeans that caused one pain just to look at them. She found a flower shop at last, in a crooked corner where, a long time ago, an old cobbler in a leather apron, had put new soles on their shoes, and charged them one and three pence for his work. She went in and bought a huge bouquet for Doris. Not anemones or daffodils, but more exotic blooms. Carnations and iris and tulips and freesias, an armful of them, wrapped in crisp, pale-blue tissue paper. A little farther on down the street, she turned into an off-licence and bought, for Ernie, a bottle of The Famous Grouse whisky. Laden with these purchases, she continued on her way, deep into Downalong, where the lanes were so narrow that there was no space for pavements, and the whitewashed houses crowded in on either side, with steep granite steps climbing to brightly painted front doors.

The Penberth house was tucked into the very heart of this labyrinth. Here Ernie had lived with his mother and father, and down these alleys Doris and Penelope and Nancy had come on wartime winter afternoons, to call on old Mrs. Penberth, and be given saffron cakes and strong tea out of a pink teapot.

Now, remembering, it seemed extraordinary to Penelope how long it had taken her to realize that Ernie, in his shy and silent way, was courting Doris. And yet, perhaps, not so extraordinary. He was a man of few words, and his presence at Cam Cottage, saying little, and working like ten men, became, quite naturally, something that they all took for granted.
Oh, Ernie will do it
was the cry when something really horrible had to be accomplished, like a hen slaughtered, or the gutters cleaned out. And he always did. Nobody ever thought of him as an eligible man; he was just one of the family, undemanding, uncomplaining, and perpetually good-natured.

It was not until the autumn of 1944 that the penny finally dropped. Penelope walked into the kitchen at Cam Cottage one morning to find Doris and Ernie having a cup of tea together. They sat at the kitchen table, and in the middle of the table stood a blue-and-white jug crammed with dahlias.

She surveyed the scene. "Ernie, I didn't know you were here. . . ."

He was embarrassed. "Just dropped in." He pushed his cup and saucer away and got to his feet.

She looked at the flowers. Dahlias, with all the work they entailed, were no longer grown at Cam Cottage. "Where did these come from?"