The Shell Seekers

by Rosamunde Pilcher

  “Perhaps. But after all, why not? You’ve worked all your life; sometimes, when I saw you so tired and strained, I worried for your health.”

  “You never said.”

  “Olivia, your life and what you do with it is none of my business. But that doesn’t mean I have no concern for you.”

  “Well, you were right. I was ill. After I’d done it, cut the cords and burnt my boats, I sort of went to pieces. I slept for three days. Cosmo was angelic. And after that I was all right. I hadn’t realized I was so tired. I think if I hadn’t done this thing, I might well have ended up in some nut-house, having a tiny crise de nerfs.”

  “Don’t even suggest such a thing.”

  As they spoke, Penelope moved to and fro, laying her clothes away in the chest of drawers, reaching up to hang the shabby and familiar dresses that she had brought with her. It was typical of Penelope that there should be nothing new or fashionable, bought especially for the holiday, and yet Olivia knew that her mother would imbue even these timeless garments with her own brand of distinction.

  But, surprisingly, there was something new. From the bottom of the suitcase was taken a gown of emerald-green wild silk, which, held up and shaken free of its creases, revealed itself as a gold-embroidered caftan, rich and voluptuous as something from the Arabian Nights.

  Olivia was suitably impressed. “Wherever did you get that heavenly thing?”

  “Isn’t it delicious? I think it’s Moroccan. I bought it off Rose Pilkington. Her mother had brought it home from some Edwardian jaunt to Marrakesh and she found it in the bottom of an old trunk.”

  “You’ll look like an Empress in it.”

  “Ah, but that is not all.” The caftan, fitted onto a hanger, joined the ranks of faded cottons, and Penelope reached for her capacious leather satchel and began to rummage about in its depths. “You know I wrote and told you that dear old Aunt Ethel had died? Well, she left me a little legacy. It arrived a couple of days ago, just in time for me to bring out here.”

  “Aunt Ethel left you something? I didn’t think she had anything to leave.”

  “Nor I. But somehow typical of her, surprising us all right up to the very end.”

  And, indeed, Aunt Ethel had always been surprising.

  Lawrence Stern’s only and very much younger sister, she had decided, at the end of the first world war, that at thirty-three, and with the flower of British manhood cruelly depleted by the slaughter of the French battlefields, she had little option but to accept inevitable spinsterhood. Undepressed by this, she had set about enjoying her single state as much as was humanly possible. She had lived in a tiny house in Putney, long before that area became fashionable, where, to make ends meet, she took in the odd lodger (or lover? her family was never quite sure) and gave piano lessons. Not a potentially exciting existence, but Aunt Ethel made it exciting, living, penurious as she was, every day to the full. When Olivia, Nancy, and Noel were children, a visit from Aunt Ethel was always keenly awaited, not because she brought them presents, but because she was such fun, and not like an ordinary grown-up at all. And going to her house was the greatest of treats, simply because you could never be sure what was going to happen next. Once, as they sat down to the lopsided cake she had baked for their tea, the bedroom ceiling had collapsed. Another time, they had lit a bonfire at the end of her tiny garden, and the fence caught fire and the fire brigade, bells clanging, had to be summoned. As well, she taught them the Can-Can and vulgar music-hall songs loaded with double entendres which caused Olivia to shake with guilty laughter, although Nancy had always pursed her lips and pretended not to understand.

  She had looked, Olivia remembered, like a little stick insect, with child-sized feet and dyed red hair, a smoking cigarette never far from her hand. But despite her raffish appearance and lifestyle (or perhaps because of it), her circle of friends was legion, and there was scarcely a town in the country where Aunt Ethel did not have a dear old school chum or an erstwhile beau. A good deal of her time was spent visiting these friends—who were always begging her to come and stay and give them a good laugh—but between these forays to provincial England, she homed back to London, to the art exhibitions and concerts that were breath of life to her; to her copious letter-writing, her current lodger, her piano students, and her telephone. She was always ringing up her stockbroker, who must have been a patient man, and if her meagre shares went up a point in the course of the day, she would allow herself two pink gins instead of one as the sun went over the yardarm. She called them her little drinky-poos.

  In her seventies, when the pace and expense of London finally became too much even for her, Aunt Ethel moved to Bath, to be near her dearest friends, Milly and Bobby Rodway. But then Bobby Rodway passed on, to be followed shortly by Milly, and Aunt Ethel was left alone. She managed for a bit, indestructible and cheerful as ever, but age was creeping up on her, and she ended up tripping over the milk bottle and breaking her hip on her own front doorstep. After that, she went downhill like a rocket, and eventually became so frail and incapable that she was placed, by the authorities, in an old folks’ home. Here, shawled, forgetful, and tremulous, she was regularly visited by Penelope, who drove down to Bath from London and, more recently, Gloucestershire, in her old Volvo. Once or twice Olivia accompanied her mother on these occasions, but they left her feeling so depressed and sad that she always tried to find some excuse not to go.

  “The dear old thing,” Penelope now said fondly. “Do you know, she was nearly ninety-five? Far too old … ah, here it is.”

  She found at last what she was searching for, and withdrew, from the satchel, an old and worn leather jewel box. She pressed the catch, and the lid sprang open, and there, cushioned in faded velvet, lay a pair of earrings.

  “Oh.” The small sign of wonder was quite involuntary, but the sight of them filled Olivia with such delight. They were beautiful. Jewelled gold and enamel, fashioned in the form of a cross, with ruby and pearl pendants, and a circle of smaller pearls joining the arms of the cross to the gold stud. They were trinkets from another age, with all the intricate splendour of the Renaissance.

  “These belonged to Aunt Ethel?” was all she could think of to say.

  “Amazing, aren’t they?”

  “But where did the old girl get these?”

  “I’ve no idea. They’ve been languishing in the bank for the past fifty years.”

  “They look antique.”

  “No. Victorian, I think. Probably Italian.”

  “Perhaps they belonged to her mother?”

  “Yes, perhaps. Perhaps she won them in a card game. Or was given them by a rich and adoring lover. With Aunt Ethel, it’s anybody’s guess.”

  “Have you had them valued?”

  “I haven’t had time. And, although they’re very pretty, I don’t suppose they’re worth much. Anyway, they’re exactly right with my caftan. Don’t you think they’re made for each other?”

  “Yes, I do.” Olivia returned the box to her mother. “But when you get home, promise me to have them valued and get them insured.”

  “I suppose I should. I’m so stupid about things like that.” And she dropped the box back into her bag.

  The unpacking was now completed. Penelope closed the empty suitcase, stowed it under the bed, and turned to the mirror that hung on the wall. She took the tortoiseshell pins from her coil of hair and shook it loose, so that it lay, grey-streaked but thick and strong as ever, down her back. Swinging it forward over one shoulder, she took up her hairbrush. With satisfaction, Olivia watched the remembered ritual, the raised arm, the long, sweeping strokes.

  “And you, my darting? What is your future?”

  “I shall stay here for the year. A sabbatical.”

  “Does your Editor know you intend returning?”

  “No.”

  “Will you go back to Venus?”

  “Maybe. Maybe I’ll move on.”

  Penelope laid down her brush, took the long tassel of hair in her hand, twis
ted it, folded it, and pinned it back into place. She said, “Now I must go and wash myself and then I’m ready for anything.”

  “Don’t fall over the steps.”

  She took herself off in the direction of the bathroom. Olivia, waiting for her, stayed where she was, sitting on the bed, feeling herself filled with gratitude for Penelope’s calm and practical acceptance of the situation. She thought about having another sort of mother, avid with curiosity and romantic images, linking Olivia with Cosmo, imagining her daughter standing at some altar in a white dress designed to look well from the back. The very idea made her laugh and shudder all at the same time.

  When Penelope returned, she got to her feet.

  “Now, how about something to eat?”

  “I am rather hungry.” She looked at her watch. “Dear heavens, it’s nearly half past eleven.”

  “Half past eleven is nothing. You’re in Spain now. Come on, let’s go and see what Maria’s concocted for us.”

  So together they went out onto the terrace. Beyond the lights, the darkness was thick and warm as blue velvet, and Olivia led the way up the stone stairs to the kitchen, where they found Cosmo and Antonia and Maria and Tomeu sitting around the candle-lit table, carousing with a bottle of wine, and all talking at once, in a castanet clatter of Spanish.

  * * *

  “She is splendid,” Cosmo said.

  They were alone together again and it was like coming home. They had made love and now lay in the darkness, Olivia cradled in the curve of his arm. They talked quietly, so as not to disturb the other sleeping occupants of the house.

  “Mumma? I knew you would love her.”

  “I see now where you got your looks.”

  “She’s a hundred times better-looking than I am.”

  “We must show her off. No one would forgive me if I let her go back to England and they’d never even met her.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “We’ll throw a party. As soon as possible. Start the social ball rolling.”

  A party. This was a whole new idea. Since that first abortive party on the boat, Cosmo and Olivia had spent all their time alone together, talking to nobody but Tomeu and Maria and the few local men who patronized Pedro’s bar.

  She said, “But who will we invite?”

  She felt rather than heard his laughter. His arm tightened around her shoulders. “My darling, surprise, surprise, I’ve friends all over the island. I have, after all, lived here for twenty-five years. Did you imagine that I was a social outcast?”

  “I never thought about it,” she told him truthfully. “I haven’t wanted anybody but you.”

  “And I have wanted nobody but you. Anyway, I thought you needed a rest from people. I was frightened for you, those days when you did nothing but sleep. I decided then that it would be better to take things quietly for a bit.”

  “Yes.” She had not realized any of this, had taken their solitude entirely for granted. Now, with hindsight, she wondered why she had not questioned their self-imposed period of retreat. “I never thought about that, either.”

  “Time to think about it now. How does the idea of a party appeal to you?”

  She discovered that it did. “Enormously.”

  “Informal or terribly grand?”

  “Oh, terribly grand. My mother has brought her party frock.”

  The next day, over breakfast, he made a list of names, both aided and impeded by his daughter.

  “Oh, Daddy, you must ask Madame Sangé.”

  “I can’t, she’s dead.”

  “Well, Antoine, then. Surely he can come.”

  “I thought you didn’t like that randy old goat.”

  “I don’t much, but I’d like to see him. And the Hardback boys, they’re terribly nice; they might ask me wind-surfing and then we wouldn’t have to pay for lessons.”

  The list was finally completed, and Cosmo departed for Pedro’s bar to spend the morning telephoning. The proposed guests who were not on the telephone were contacted by means of written invitations that were delivered by Tomeu driving, at some danger to himself and anyone else he happened to meet on the road, Cosmo’s Citroën. Replies flooded back, and the final count was seventy. Olivia was impressed, but Cosmo modest. He told her that he had always been one to hide his light under a bushel.

  An electrician was summoned to fix strings of coloured lights around the area of the swimming pool. Tomeu swept and tidied, set up trestle-tables, manhandled cushions and chairs. Antonia was put to polishing glasses, washing china seldom used, sent to search on some forgotten shelf for tablecloths and napkins. Olivia and Cosmo, with a list as long as her arm, made an exhausting trip to the town and came back laden with groceries, olive oil, roasted almonds, bags of ice cubes, oranges, lemons, and crates of wine. And all the time, Maria and Penelope worked in the kitchen, where, in total accord and without a word of a common language, they boiled hams, roasted birds, concocted paellas, whipped eggs, stirred sauces, kneaded bread, and sliced tomatoes.

  Finally, all was ready. The guests were due at nine, and at eight o’clock Olivia went to have a shower and change. She found Cosmo, shaved and smelling delicious, sitting on the bed trying to fit his gold links into the cuffs of his best shirt.

  “Maria’s put so much starch on this bloody thing, I can’t get the holes open.”

  She sat beside him and took the shirt and the cuff-links from him. He watched her. “What are you going to wear?” he asked.

  “I have two beautiful new dresses that I bought to stun the hotel guests at Los Pinos and I never wore either of them. Never had time. You came into my life, and since then I’ve been forced to walk around in rags.”

  “Which will you wear?”

  “They’re in the cupboard. You can choose.”

  He got up and opened the cupboard door and rattled around with the hangers, and finally found the dresses. One short, a brilliant pink chiffon, with layers of cloudlike skirts. The other long, sapphire-blue, waistless, flowing from a deep cuff and shoe-string shoulder-straps. He chose the blue one, as she had known he would, and she kissed him and gave him back his shirt, and went to shower. When she returned from the bathroom, he had gone. She dressed slowly, with immense care, making up her face, dressing her hair, fixing earrings, spraying scent. Finally she buckled the delicate sandals and then lifted the dress up and over her head. It settled over her body cool and light as a breath of air. As she moved, it moved with her. It was like being dressed in a breeze.

  A knock came at her door. She said, “Come in” and it was Antonia. “Olivia, do you think this is all right?…” She stopped and gazed. “Oh. You look so lovely. What a scrumptious dress.”

  “Thank you. Now let’s look at you.”

  “My mother bought it for me in Weybridge, and it looked all right in the shop, but I’m not sure about it now. Maria says it’s not grand enough.” It was a white sailor dress with a pleated skirt and a square collar braided in navy blue. Her brown legs, white-sandalled, were bare, and she had braided two thin plaits of her red-gold hair and tied them back with a navy-blue bow.

  “I think it’s perfect. You look clean and crisp as … I don’t know. A brand-new paper bag?”

  Antonia giggled. “Daddy says you must come. People have started to arrive.”

  “Is my mother there?”

  “Yes, she’s out on the terrace, looking fantastic. Oh, do come.…” She grabbed Olivia’s hand and tugged her out through the door, and hand in hand, under the lights, they made their way down the terrace. Olivia saw Penelope already deep in conversation with some man and knew that she had been right, for in her silken caftan and her inherited jewels, her mother looked, indeed, like an Empress.

  * * *

  After that evening, the whole pattern of their lives at Ca’n D’alt changed. After weeks of aimless solitude, it seemed that now they never had a day to themselves. Invitations flooded in, for dinner parties, picnics, barbecues, boat trips. Cars came and went, there never seemed t
o be fewer than a dozen people around the swimming pool, and many of them were youngsters of Antonia’s age. Cosmo finally got around to fixing the wind-surfing lessons, and they would all drive down to the beach where these were held, and Olivia and Penelope would lie on the sand, ostensibly watching Antonia’s efforts to master the maddeningly difficult sport, but actually engaged in Penelope’s favourite occupation, which was people-watching. As the people they watched on this particular beach, both young and old, were almost totally naked, her comments were hilarious and the two of them spent most of the time in hopeless, goggle-eyed giggles.

  Sometimes, every now and then, came the gift of a lazy day. Then they never stirred from the house and the garden, and Penelope, wearing an old straw hat and looking, with her newly acquired tan and her shabby cotton dress, like a native Ibecenco, found a pair of secateurs and attacked Cosmo’s straggling roses. They swam constantly, for exercise and refreshment, and when the evenings grew cooler, went for little rural strolls, through cornfields and past small houses and farmyards where naked-bottomed babies played happily in the dust along with the goats and the hens, while their mothers unpegged washing, or drew water from the well.

  * * *

  When it was time, at last, for Penelope to leave, none of them wanted her to go. Cosmo, goaded by Olivia and his daughter, formally invited her to stay for longer but, though touched, she refused.

  “After three days, fish and guests stink, and I’ve been with you for a month.”

  “But you’re not a fish nor a guest, and you don’t stink a bit,” Antonia assured her.

  “You’re very sweet, but I must get home. I’ve been away too long already. My garden will never forgive me.”

  “You’ll come again, though, won’t you?” Antonia insisted.

  Penelope did not reply. Across the silence, Cosmo looked up and into Olivia’s eyes.

  “Oh, do say you’ll come.”

  Penelope smiled and patted the child’s hand. “Maybe,” she told her. “One day.”

  They all went to the airport to see her off. Even after they had said goodbye to her, they lingered on, waiting to watch her plane take off. When it had gone, the sound of engines fading, dying into the immensity of the sky, and there was no longer any reason to stay, they turned and went back to the car and drove home in silence.