The Shell Seekers

by Rosamunde Pilcher

  By the time Mrs. Plackett arrived, the chain-saw had been whining for half an hour, and from the bottom of the orchard, bonfire smoke spiralled into the still morning air, filling the garden with the delicious scent of burning wood.

  “He’s come, then,” said Mrs. Plackett as she appeared through the door, for all the world like a ship in full sail. She wore, as it was wintry, her fur pixie hood, and carried her plastic bag containing working shoes and pinafore. She knew all about Penelope’s decision to employ a gardener, just as she knew almost everything that went on in her employer’s life. They were very good friends and kept nothing from each other. When Mrs. Plackett’s daughter Linda was “caught” by the boy who worked in the Pudley garage, Mrs. Keeling was the first person Mrs. Plackett told. And Mrs. Keeling had been a tower of strength, fiercely opposed to the notion that Linda should marry the feckless fellow, and knitting the baby a lovely white matinee coat. And in the end she had been right, because soon after the baby was born, Linda met Charlie Wheelwright, as nice a chap as Mrs. Plackett had ever known, and he had married Linda and taken the little bastard on as well, and now there was another baby on the way. Things had a way of working out for the best. There was no denying that. But still, Mrs. Plackett remained grateful to Mrs. Keeling for her kind and practical counsel at a time of real stress.

  “The gardener, you mean? Yes, he’s come.”

  “Saw the bonfire smoke as I cycled through the village.” She took off her fur pixie hood, unbuttoned her coat. “But where’s the van?”

  “He came on his bike.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “I didn’t ask.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “He’s young, and well-spoken and very good-looking.”

  “Hope they haven’t sent you one of those fly-by-nights.”

  “He doesn’t look like a fly-by-night.”

  “Oh, well.” Mrs. Plackett tied on her pinafore. “We’ll just have to see.” She rubbed her swollen red hands together. “Bitter morning, it is. Not so much cold as damp.”

  “Have a cup of tea,” suggested Penelope, as she always did.

  “Well, I wouldn’t mind,” said Mrs. Plackett, as she always did.

  The morning was on its way.

  Mrs. Plackett, having chased the Hoover round the house, polished the brass stair rods, scrubbed the kitchen floor, dealt with a pile of ironing, and used at least half a tin of furniture polish, took herself off at a quarter to twelve, in order to be home again, in Pudley, in time to give her husband his dinner. She left behind her a house shining cleanly and smelling sweetly. Penelope glanced at the clock, and set about preparing lunch for two. A pot of home-made vegetable soup was put to heat. From the larder she fetched half a cold chicken, a crusty loaf of brown bread. There were some stewed apples in a dish, a jug of cream. She laid the kitchen table with a checked cotton cloth. If it had been sunny, she would have laid the table in the conservatory, but the clouds hung dark and low and the day had never come to anything. She put a tumbler and a can of beer by his place. Afterwards, perhaps he would like a cup of tea. The fragrant broth began to simmer. Soon, he would come. She waited.

  At ten past twelve, when he had still not appeared, she went in search of him. She found a neatly cut hedge, a smouldering bonfire, and a stack of little logs, but no sign of the gardener. She would have called him, but as she did not know his name, this was impossible. She went back to the house, beginning to wonder if, after a single morning’s work, he had decided to chuck his hand in and go home, never to return. But, at the back of the house, she found his bicycle, so knew that he was still around. She walked across the gravel to the garage, and there came upon him, just inside the door, sitting on an upturned bucket, eating a dull-looking sandwich made of white bread, and apparently engrossed in what could only be The Times crossword.

  Discovering him at last in such cramped, cold, and uncomfortable surroundings filled her with indignation.

  “What on earth are you doing?”

  He sprang to his feet, startled out of his skin by her unexpected appearance and the tone of her voice, dropping his paper and knocking over the bucket, which made a hideous clatter. His mouth was still full of sandwich, which he had to chew and swallow before he could say anything. He turned red and was obviously enormously embarrassed.

  “I’m … having my lunch.”

  “Having your lunch?”

  “Twelve to one. You said it would be all right.”

  “But not out here. Not sitting on a bucket in the garage. You must come into the house, and have it with me. I thought you understood that.”

  “Have it with you?”

  “What else? Don’t your other employers give you your midday meal?”

  “No.”

  “I’ve never heard of anything so dreadful. How can you possibly do a day’s work on a sandwich?”

  “I manage.”

  “Well, you don’t manage with me. Throw that horrible bit of bread away, and come indoors.”

  He looked nonplussed, but did as he was told, not throwing the sandwich away, to be sure, but wrapping it up in a bit of paper and stowing it in the bag of his bicycle. Then he picked up the newspaper and stowed that away as well, retrieved the bucket and set it in its accustomed corner. With all this done, she led him indoors. He shed his jacket, revealing a much-mended navy-blue guernsey sweater. Then he washed his hands, and dried them, and took his place at the table. She set before him a big bowl of steaming soup, told him to cut bread and help himself to butter. She took a smaller bowl for herself and settled down beside him.

  He said, “This is really very kind of you.”

  “Not kind at all. Simply the way I’ve always done things. No. That’s not right. Because I’ve never had a gardener before. But when my parents had any person to work for them out of doors, they always joined us for the midday meal. I think I never realized things were done differently. I’m sorry. Perhaps the little mix-up was all my fault. I should have made myself more clear.”

  “I didn’t realize.”

  “No, of course you didn’t. Now, tell me about yourself. What’s your name?”

  “Danus Muirfield.”

  “What a perfect name.”

  “I thought it was quite ordinary.”

  “Perfect for a gardener, I mean. Some people have names that are exactly right for their professions. I mean, what could Charles de Gaulle have been but the saviour of France? And poor Alger Hiss. Born with a name like that, he simply had to be a spy.”

  He said, “When I was a boy, we had a rector in our church and he was called Mr. Paternoster.”

  “There you are … that just proves my point. Where were you a boy? Where were you brought up?”

  “Edinburgh.”

  “Edinburgh. You’re Scottish.”

  “Yes, I suppose I am.”

  “What does your father do?”

  “He’s a lawyer. A Writer to the Signet.”

  “What a lovely title. So romantic. Didn’t you want to be a lawyer too?”

  “For a bit I thought I might, but then…” He shrugged. “I changed my mind. Went to Horticultural College instead.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-four.”

  She was surprised. He looked older. “Do you like working for Autogarden?”

  “It’s all right. It makes for variety.”

  “How long have you worked for them?”

  “About six months.”

  “Are you married?”

  “No.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “In a cottage on Sawcombe’s farm. Just outside Pudley.”

  “Oh, I know the Sawcombes. Is it a nice house?”

  “It’s all right.”

  “Who looks after you?”

  “I look after myself.”

  She thought of the horrible white-bread sandwich. Imagined the cheerless cottage, with an unmade bed and washing hung around the stove to dry. She wondered
if he ever made himself a proper meal.

  “Were you at school in Edinburgh?” she asked him, suddenly intrigued by this young man, wanting to know what had happened to him, the circumstances and motivation that had brought him to such a humble life.

  “Yes.”

  “Did you go straight to Horticultural College from school?”

  “No. I went out to America for a couple of years. I worked on a cattle ranch in Arkansas.”

  “I’ve never been to America.”

  “It’s a great place.”

  “Did you never think of staying there … for good, I mean?”

  “I thought of it, but I didn’t.”

  “Were you in Arkansas all the time?”

  “No. I travelled around. I saw a lot of the country. I spent six months in the Virgin Islands.”

  “What an experience!”

  He had finished his soup. She asked him if he would like more, and he said that he would, so she filled his bowl again. As he picked up his spoon, he said, “You said you’d never had a gardener before. Have you looked after this place all by yourself?”

  “Yes,” she told him with some pride. “It was a wilderness when I came here.”

  “You’re obviously very knowledgeable.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “Have you always lived here?”

  “No. I’ve lived most of my life in London. But I had a big garden there, too, and before that, when I was a girl, I lived in Cornwall, and there was a garden there. I’m lucky. I’ve always had gardens. I can’t imagine being without one.”

  “Do you have a family?”

  “Yes. Three children. All grown up. One married. I’ve two grandchildren as well.”

  He said, “My sister has two children. She’s married to a farmer in Perthshire.”.

  “Do you go back to Scotland?”

  “Yes. Two, three times a year.”

  “It must be very beautiful.”

  “Yes,” he said. “It is.”

  After the soup, he ate most of the chicken, and all the stewed apple. He would not drink the beer, but accepted gratefully her offer of a cup of tea. When he had drunk the tea, he glanced at the clock and got to his feet. It was five minutes to one.

  He said, “I’ve finished the hedge. I’ll bring the logs up to the house, if you’ll show me where to store them. And perhaps you’d like to tell me what you want done next. And, as well, how many days a week you need me to come.”

  “I suggested three days to Autogarden, but if you work at this speed, I may only take two.”

  “That’s all right. It’s up to you.”

  “How do I pay you?”

  “You pay Autogarden, and they pay me.”

  “I hope they pay you well.”

  “It’s all right.”

  He reached for his jacket and put it on. She said, “Why didn’t they give you a van to come to work in?”

  “I don’t drive.”

  “But all young people drive nowadays. You could easily learn.”

  “I didn’t say I couldn’t drive,” said Danus Muirfield. “I said I didn’t.”

  When she had shown him where to put the logs and had set him to work again, double-trenching her vegetable plot, Penelope returned to her kitchen to wash up the lunch dishes. “I didn’t say I couldn’t drive. I said I didn’t.” He had not accepted the can of beer. She wondered if he had been caught for drunk driving and had had his licence taken away from him. Perhaps he had killed some person, had taken the pledge, and sworn that alcohol, no more, should cross his lips. The very idea of such horror filled her with chill. And yet, a tragedy of such massive proportions was not beyond the bounds of possibility. And it would explain a lot about him … the tenseness in his face, the unsmiling mouth, the bright, unblinking eyes. There was something there, veneered by wariness. Some mystery. But she liked him. Oh yes, she liked him very much.

  * * *

  At nine o’clock the next evening, which was a Tuesday, Noel Keeling turned his Jaguar into Ranfurly Road, and drove down the dark, rainy street to stop outside his sister Olivia’s house. He was not expected, and had prepared himself to find her out, which she usually was. She was the most social woman he knew. But, surprisingly, the lights burnt behind the drawn curtains of her sitting room window, so he got out of the car, locked it, and went up the little path to ring the bell. A moment later, it was opened, and Olivia stood there, wearing a flame-red woollen housecoat, no make-up, and her spectacles. Obviously not dressed for company. He said, “Hello.”

  “Noel.” She sounded astonished, as well she might, for he was not in the habit of dropping in on her, despite the fact that he lived only a couple of miles away. “What are you doing?”

  “Just calling. Are you busy?”

  “Yes, I am. Trying to do some reading for a meeting tomorrow morning. But that doesn’t matter. Come on in.”

  “I’ve been having a drink with some friends in Putney.” He smoothed down his hair, followed her into her sitting room. As usual, it was marvellously warm, firelit, filled with flowers … he envied her. He had always envied her. Not just her success, but the competence with which she seemed to handle every facet of her busy life. On the low table by the fire was her brief-case, sheaves of papers, pages of proof, but she stooped to bundle these into some sort of order and remove them to her desk. He went to the fireside, ostensibly to warm his hands at the flames, but actually to cast his eye over the invitations that she had propped on the mantelpiece, and generally check on her social engagements. He saw that she had been asked to a wedding to which he had not, and also a private view at a new gallery in Walton Street.

  She said, “Have you had anything to eat?”

  He turned to face her. “A few canapes.” He pronounced it the way it was spelt, which was one of the few old family jokes that they still shared.

  “Do you want something?”

  “What are you offering?”

  “There’s the remains of a bit of quiche I had for supper. You can eat that up if you want. And biscuits and cheese.”

  “That’d be great.”

  “I’ll get it then. Help yourself to a drink.”

  He accepted this kind offer, pouring himself a stiff whisky and soda, while she disappeared through to her little kitchen beyond the dining room, turning on lights as she went. There, in a companionable fashion, he joined her, pulling a tall stool to the little counter that separated the two rooms, for all the world like a man in a pub chatting up the barmaid.

  He said, “I went and saw Ma on Sunday.”

  “Did you? I saw her on Saturday.”

  “She told me you’d been. With a fancy American in tow. How do you think she’s looking?”

  “Marvellous, considering.”

  “Do you think it really was a heart attack?”

  “Well, a warning anyway.” She looked at him, her mouth wry. “Nancy’s already got her buried ten feet under the daisies.” Noel laughed, shook his head. Nancy was one of the few things he and Olivia had always agreed about. “Of course, she does too much. She’s always done too much. But at least she’s agreed to getting some help in the garden. That’s a beginning.”

  “I tried to get her to say she’d come up to London tomorrow.”

  “For what reason?”

  “Go to Boothby’s. Watch the Lawrence Stern come under the hammer. See what it fetches.”

  “Oh yes, The Water Carriers. I’d forgotten it was tomorrow. Did she say she would?”

  “No.”

  “Well, why should she? It’s not as though she was going to make any money out of it.”

  “No.” Noel looked down into his glass. “But she would if she sold her own.”

  “If you mean The Shell Seekers, think again. She’d die before letting that picture go.”

  “How about the panels?”

  Olivia’s expression was deeply suspicious. “Did you talk to Mumma about this?”

  “Why not? They’re dreadful
pictures, admit it. They simply moulder away at the top of the stairs. She’d never even notice their going.”

  “They’re unfinished.”

  “I wish everybody would stop telling me they’re unfinished. My bet is that they have a rarity value that is beyond price.”

  After a little, she said, “Supposing she did agree to sell them.” Olivia took out a tray, set plates and a fork and knife upon it, a dish of butter, a wooden platter of cheese. “Are you going to suggest what she does with the resultant loot, or are you going to leave that to her discretion?”

  “The money you give away while you’re alive is worth twice what you leave when you die.”

  “Which means that you want to get your greedy little paws on it.”

  “Not just me. All three of us. Oh, don’t look so po-faced, Olivia, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. These days everybody’s short of capital, and don’t tell me Nancy isn’t mad to get her hand on a bit of extra cash. She’s always drooling on about how expensive everything is.”

  “You and Nancy, maybe. But you can count me out.”

  Noel turned his glass. “You wouldn’t say no, though?”

  “I don’t want anything from Mumma. She’s given us enough. I just want her to be there, well, and secure, with no money worries, and able to enjoy herself.”

  “She’s comfortably off. We all know that.”

  “Do we? What about the future? She may live to be a very old lady.”

  “All the more reason to sell those dismal nymphs. Invest the capital for her twilight years.”

  “I don’t want to discuss it.”

  “So you don’t think it’s a good idea?”

  Olivia did not reply to this, simply picked up the tray and bore it back to the fireside. Following her, he decided that no woman could look so straight-backed and formidable as Olivia when you were trying to do something of which she did not approve.

  She set down the tray with something of a thump on the low table. Then she straightened, facing him across the room. She said, “No.”