“Why not?”
“I think that you should leave Mumma alone.”
“All right.” With easy grace he gave in, knowing that, in the long term, this was the best way to get what he wanted. He settled himself in one of her deep armchairs, perched forward so that he could deal with his impromptu meal. Olivia moved to stand with her shoulders against the mantelpiece, her hands deep in the pockets of her gown. He felt her eyes upon him as he picked up the fork, sliced into the quiche. “We’ll forget about selling the panels. Talk about something else.”
“Like what?”
“Like, have you ever seen, or heard Ma mention, or even suspected the existence of, any rough oil sketches that Lawrence Stern would have done for all his major works?”
He had spent the day debating as to whether or not he should take Olivia into his confidence about his discovery of the old letter and its subsequent possibilities. In the end, he had decided to take the risk. Olivia was an important ally to win. Only she, of all three of them, had any influence on their mother. As he asked the question, he kept his eyes on her face, saw her expression stiffen into wariness, alert with suspicion. This was to be expected.
After a bit, she said, “No.” This, too, was to be expected, but he knew that she was telling the truth, because she always did. “Never.”
“You see, there must have been some.”
“What started you on this wild-goose chase?”
He told her about finding the letter.
“The Terrazzo Garden? That’s in the Metropolitan in New York.”
“Exactly so. And if a rough oil sketch was done for The Terrazzo Garden, then why not for The Water Carriers and The Fisherman’s Courtship and all the other old classics that are now incarcerated in boring museums in every self-respecting capital in the world.”
Olivia thought about this. Then she said, “They were probably destroyed.”
“Oh, rubbish. The old boy never destroyed anything. You know that as well as I do. No house was ever so full of the junk of ages as Oakley Street. Unless it’s Podmore’s Thatch. You know, that loft of Ma’s is a positive fire risk. If any insurance man saw what’s been crammed up there, under the thatch, he’d have a fit.”
“Have you been up there lately?”
“Went on Sunday, to search for my squash racket.”
“Was that all you were searching for?”
“Well, I did have a look around.”
“For a folio of rough oil sketches.”
“Something like that.”
“But you didn’t find them.”
“Of course not. You couldn’t find an elephant in all that clutter.”
“Did Mumma know what you were looking for?”
“No.”
“You are a despicable creep, Noel. Why do you always have to do everything the backhanded way?”
“Because she’s no more idea what’s in that loft than she knew what was up in the attics of Oakley Street.”
“What is up there?”
“Everything. Old boxes; chests of clothes and bundles of letters. Dressmaker’s dummies, toy perambulators, footstools, bags of tapestry wool, weighing machines, boxes of wooden blocks, piles of magazines tied together with string, knitting patterns, old picture frames … you name it, it’s there. And like I said, it’s all a hideous fire risk. The thatch does nothing to help. One spark on a windy day and the whole house would go up like a furnace. One simply hopes Ma will have time to fling herself from some window before she’s incinerated. I say, this is a delicious quiche. Did you make it?”
“I never make anything. I buy it all from the supermarket.” She pushed herself away from the mantelpiece and crossed the room to the table behind him. He heard her pour a drink, and allowed himself a smile, because he knew that he had aroused her anxieties, and so caught her attention, and, hopefully, her sympathy. She came back to the fireside and sat on the sofa facing him, with the glass cradled in her hands.
“Noel, do you really think it’s dangerous?”
“Yes. Honestly. Truthfully. I do.”
“What do you think we should do?”
“Clear the whole place out.”
“Mumma would never agree to that.”
“All right, then, sort it out. But half of the junk up there is only fit for a bonfire, like the bundles of magazines and the knitting patterns and tapestry wool.…”
“Why the tapestry wool?”
“It’s alive with moth.”
She said nothing to this. He had finished the quiche and now started in on the cheese, a particularly delicious wedge of Brie.
“Noel. You’re not just blowing this all up just so that you’ve got a good excuse to go snooping? If you do find those rough sketches or anything else of value, remember that everything in that house belongs to Mumma.”
He met her eye, assuming an expression of blameless innocence. “You surely don’t think I’d steal them.”
“I wouldn’t put it past you.”
He chose to ignore this. “If we found those rough sketches, have you any idea what they’re worth? At least five thousand each.”
“Why do you talk about them as if you know they’re there?”
“I don’t know they’re there! I just suspect that they might be. But more important is that the loft is a potential fire risk and I think something should be done about it.”
“Do you think we should get the whole house reassessed for insurance while we’re about it?”
“George Chamberlain looked after all that when he bought the place for Ma. Perhaps you should have a word with him. And I’m not doing anything this weekend. I’ll go down on Friday evening and tackle the Herculean task. I’ll give Ma a ring, tell her I’m coming.”
“Will you ask her about the sketches?”
“Do you think I should?”
Olivia did not answer at once. And then she said, “No, don’t.” He looked at her in some surprise. “I think it might fuss her, and I don’t want her fussed. If they turn up, we can tell her, and if they aren’t there, it makes no difference anyway. But, Noel, you’re not to say another word to her about selling her pictures. They really are nothing to do with you.”
He put his hand to his heart. “Scout’s honour.” He smiled. “You’ve come around to my way of thinking.”
“You’re a devious villain, and I shall never come round to your way of thinking.”
He accepted this with equanimity, finished his supper in silence, and then got to his feet and went to replenish his glass.
From behind him, she said, “Are you really going? To Podmore’s Thatch, I mean.”
“No reason not to.” He returned to his chair. “Why?”
“You could do something for me.”
“I could?”
“Do you know who I mean by Cosmo Hamilton?”
“Cosmo Hamilton? But of course. Lover boy from sunny Spain. Don’t say he’s come into your life again?”
“No, he hasn’t come into my life. He’s gone out of it. He’s dead.”
For once, Noel was truly startled and shocked. “Dead.” Olivia’s face was calm, but very pale and still, and he regretted his facetiousness. “Oh, I am sorry. But what happened?”
“I don’t know. He died in hospital.”
“When did you hear?”
“On Friday.”
“But he was a young man.”
“He was sixty.”
“What a bloody thing to happen.”
“Yes. I know. But the thing is, he has this young daughter, Antonia. She’s arriving tomorrow at Heathrow from Ibiza, and she’s going to stay here for a few days, and then go down to Podmore’s Thatch and keep Mumma company for a bit.”
“Does Ma know?”
“Of course. We fixed it on Saturday.”
“She never said anything to me.”
“I don’t suppose she did.”
“How old is this girl … Antonia?”
“Eighteen. I’d intended taking
her myself and staying the weekend, but I’ve got tied up with a man.…”
Noel, himself again, raised an eyebrow. “Business or pleasure?”
“Purely business. A French designer, queer as a coot, staying at the Ritz, and I really want to spend some time with him.”
“So?”
“So if you are going to Gloucestershire on Friday night, you’d do me a favour if you’d drive her down with you.”
“Is she pretty?”
“Does your answer depend on it?”
“No, but I’d like to be told.”
“At thirteen, she was charming.”
“Not fat and spotty.”
“Not in the least. When Mumma came out to stay with us in Ibiza, Antonia was there at the same time. They became tremendous friends. And since Mumma was ill, Nancy drones on about the fact that she shouldn’t live alone. But if Antonia’s with her, she won’t be alone. I thought it was rather a good idea.”
“You’ve got it all worked out, haven’t you?”
Olivia ignored this gibe. “Will you take her?”
“Sure, I don’t mind.”
“When will you pick her up?”
Friday evening … he considered.… “Six o’clock.”
“I’ll make a point of being back from the office. And, Noel.…” Suddenly she smiled. She had not smiled all evening, but she smiled now, and for an instant there was a fondness between them, a companionship. They might have been any affectionate brother and sister who had just spent a pleasant hour together. “… I’m grateful.”
* * *
The next morning, from the office, Olivia rang Penelope.
“Mumma.”
“Olivia.”
“Mumma, look, I’ve had to change my plans. I can’t come down this weekend after all, I’ve got to do some business with a poncy Frenchman, and Saturday and Sunday are the only days he seems to be able to give me. I’m terribly sorry.”
“But what about Antonia?”
“Noel’s bringing her down. He hasn’t phoned you yet?”
“Not a word.”
“He will. He’s coming down on Friday, and staying for a couple of days. We had a long family conference last night and decided you simply must have that loft of yours cleared out before the whole place goes up in smoke; I hadn’t realized it was such a squirrel hoard. You are a naughty old thing.”
“A family conference?” Penelope sounded surprised, as indeed she was. “You and Noel?”
“Yes, he dropped in yesterday evening and I gave him supper. He told me he’d been up to the loft to look for something, and that there’s so much junk up there, it’s a real fire risk. So we agreed that he should come down and clear it out Don’t worry, we’re not really being overbearing, just concerned, and he’s promised he won’t throw anything away or burn it without your consent. I think it’s rather kind of him. And he actually volunteered to do the job, so don’t go all stuffy and say we’re treating you like an idiot.”
“I’m not being stuffy at all, and I think it’s rather kind of Noel, too. I’ve been meaning to tidy it up myself, every winter for the past five years, but it’s such a task, it was never difficult to find an excuse not to do it. Do you think Noel can manage on his own?”
“Antonia’ll be there. She’d probably rather enjoy it. But don’t you go humping anything.”
Penelope was struck by a bright idea. “I could ask Danus to come for the day. Another pair of strong arms wouldn’t come amiss, and he could be in charge of the bonfire.”
“Who’s Danus?”
“My new gardener.”
“I forgot about him. What’s he like?”
“A dear man. Has Antonia arrived yet?”
“No. I meet her off the plane this evening.”
“Send her my love and say I can’t wait to see her.”
“I’ll do that. And she and Noel will be with you on Friday evening, in time for dinner. I’m just sorry I’m not going to be there too.”
“I shall miss you. But another time.”
“’Bye then, Mumma.”
“Goodbye, my darling.”
* * *
In the evening, Noel rang.
“Ma.”
“Noel.”
“How are you?”
“I’m splendid. I hear you’re coming down for the weekend.”
“Olivia’s spoken to you?”
“This morning.”
“She says I’ve got to come and empty the loft. She says she’s having nightmares about you going up in smoke.”
“I know, she told me. I think it’s a good idea, and very kind of you.”
“Well, that’s a turn-up for the books; we thought you’d be livid.”
“Then you thought wrong,” Penelope retorted, a little weary of this new image of herself as a pigheaded, uncooperative old lady. “And I shall get Danus in for the day to help you. He’s my new gardener, and I’m sure he won’t mind. And he’s terribly good at lighting bonfires.”
Noel hesitated and then said, “Great.”
“And you’re bringing Antonia with you. I’ll expect you then, on Friday evening. And don’t drive too fast.”
She was about to put the receiver down and cut him off, but he sensed this, and yelled “Ma,” and she put it to her ear again.
“I thought we’d finished.”
“I wanted to tell you about the sale. I went along to Booth-by’s this afternoon. How much do you think The Water Carriers went for?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“Two hundred and forty-five thousand, eight hundred pounds.”
“Dear heaven. Who bought it?”
“An American art gallery. Denver, Colorado, I think.”
She shook her head in wonder, as though he could see her.
“What a sum of money.”
“Makes you sick, doesn’t it?”
“It certainly,” she told him, “makes you think.”
Thursday. By the time Penelope had got herself out of bed and downstairs, the gardener was already at work. She had given him a key to the garage, so that he could gain access to the garden tools, and from her bedroom window he could be observed toiling in the vegetable garden. She did not disturb him, because, during that first day, she had been made to realize that he was not only hard-working, but a private sort of person, and would not relish her constantly appearing to give him the time of day, check on his activities, and generally make a nuisance of herself. If he needed anything, then he would come and ask her. If not, then he would simply get on with his task.
But still, at a quarter to twelve, with the sketchy housework accomplished, and a batch of bread proving on the Aga, she untied her apron and went down the garden to have a word, and remind him that she was expecting him, indoors, for lunch. It was warmer today, and there was quite a lot of blue sky. Not much heat in the sun, but still, she would lay the table in the conservatory, and they would eat their meal out there.
“Good morning.”
He looked up and saw her, and straightened his back, leaning on the spade. The still morning air was filled with robust and heartening smells: freshly turned earth and the rotted compost mixed with a quantity of horse manure, which he had harrowed from her carefully nurtured heap.
“Good morning, Mrs. Keeling.”
He had shed his jacket and sweater and worked in his shirtsleeves. His forearms were brown and knotted with lean muscle. As she watched him, he put up a hand and wiped a smear of mud from his chin with his wrist. The gesture caused a piercing sensation of déjà vu, but now she was prepared for this, and it did not cause her heart to hiccup, but simply filled her with pleasure.
“You look warm,” she told him.
He nodded. “It’s warm work.”
“Lunch will be ready at twelve.”
“Thank you. I’ll be in.”
He went back to his digging. A robin was hovering around, as much, Penelope guessed, for company as for worms. Robins were delightfully gregarious. She
turned and left him to his labours, and made her way back to the house, picking a bunch of early polyanthus on the way. The flowers were velvety and richly scented, and brought to mind the pale primroses of Cornwall, studding the sheltered hedgerows at a time when the rest of the country was in the grip of winter.
I must go soon, she told herself. Spring in Cornwall is such a magical time. I must go soon, otherwise it will be too late.
* * *
She said, “Danus, what do you do on weekends?”
Today she was giving him cold ham and baked potatoes and cauliflower cheese. For pudding, there were jam tarts and a baked egg custard. Not a snack, but a proper meal, and she sat and ate it with him, and wondered if, at this rate, she would become enormously stout.
“Nothing much.”
“I mean, do you work for anybody at weekends?”
“I sometimes give a Saturday morning to the Pudley Bank Manager. He’d rather play golf than garden and his wife complains about the weeds.”
Penelope smiled. “Poor man. What about Sunday?”
“My Sundays are free.”
“Would you come here for the day … as a job, I mean. I’ll pay you, I won’t pay Autogarden, and that’s quite fair, because it isn’t gardening I want you to do.”
He looked a little surprised, as well he might.
“What is it you want me to do?”
She told him about Noel and the attic. “There is such a lot of rubbish up there, I know, and it’ll all have to be humped downstairs and sorted out. He can’t possibly do it all by himself. I thought if you could be here to give him a hand, it really would be a help.”
“Of course I’ll come. But as a favour. You don’t need to pay me.”
“But—”
“No,” he said firmly. “I don’t want to be paid. What time shall I be here?”
“About nine in the morning.”
“Fine.”
“Quite a little party for lunch. I have a young girl coming to stay for a few weeks. Noel’s bringing her with him tomorrow evening. She’s called Antonia.”
“That’ll be nice for you,” said Danus.
“Yes.”
“A bit of company.”
* * *
Nancy was not a great one for reading newspapers. If she had to go to the village to shop, which she did most mornings, because there was a singular lack of communication between herself and Mrs. Croftway, and they always seemed to be running out of butter or instant coffee, or gravy browning, then she usually dropped in at the newsagents and bought herself a Daily Mail or a copy of Woman’s Own to peruse over the sandwich and chocolate biscuit that comprised her lunch, but The Times did not enter the house until the evening, brought home by George in his brief-case.
The Shell Seekers Page 21
