The Shell Seekers

by Rosamunde Pilcher

  She went. Presently they heard the sound of taps running, the clatter of china and cutlery. A silence fell between them, disturbed only by a large bluebottle, which, under the mistaken delusion that it was suddenly high summer, decided that this was the moment to break cover and emerge from its winter hiding. Nancy reached for her jacket, put it on. Buttoning it, she raised her head and looked at Noel. Across the table, their eyes met. He pulled himself to his feet.

  “Well,” he said quietly. “You made a right bloody mess of that.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Nancy snapped.

  He left her, disappearing upstairs to collect his things. Nancy stayed where she was, waiting for him to return, determined to retain her dignity, to nurse her hurt feelings, to suffer no loss of face. She filled in the time checking on her appearance, combing her hair, powdering her flushed and mottled face, applying a layer of lipstick. She was deeply upset and longed to escape, but hadn’t the nerve to do it on her own; Mother had always had a way with her, and Nancy was determined that she was going to leave this house without making any sort of an apology. After all, what had she got to apologize for? It was Mother who had been so impossible, Mother who had said all those unforgivable things.

  When she heard Noel return, she snapped shut her compact, slipped it into her bag, and went through to the kitchen. The dishwasher whirred, and Penelope, her back to them, scoured saucepans at the sink.

  “Well, we’re on our way,” said Noel.

  Their mother abandoned the saucepans, shook her hands dry, and turned to face them. Her apron and her reddened hands did nothing to detract from her dignity, and Nancy remembered that her rare outbursts had never lasted more than a few moments. She had never, in her life, borne a grudge, never sulked. Now, she even smiled, but it was a funny sort of smile. As though she was sorry for them, had, in some way, defeated them.

  She said, “It was good of you to come,” and sounded as though she meant it. “And thank you, Noel, for all your hard work.”

  “No problem.”

  She reached for a towel and dried her hands. They all trooped out of the kitchen, through the front door, to where the two cars waited on the gravel sweep. Noel slung his grip into the back of the Jaguar, got in behind the wheel, and, with a cursory wave of the hand, shot out through the gate to disappear in the direction of London. He had not said goodbye to either of them, but neither mother nor daughter commented on this.

  Instead, in silence, Nancy too got into her car, fastened her safety-belt, drew on her pigskin gloves. Penelope stood watching these preparations for departure. Nancy could feel her mother’s dark gaze upon her face, could feel the blush start, creep up her neck into her cheeks.

  Penelope said, “Be careful, Nancy. Drive safely.”

  “I always do.”

  “But, just now, you’re upset.”

  Nancy, staring at the driving wheel, felt tears rush to her eyes. She bit her lip. “Of course I’m upset. Nothing is so upsetting as family rows.”

  “Family rows are like car accidents. Every family thinks, ‘It couldn’t happen to us,’ but it can happen to everybody. The only way to avoid them is to drive with the greatest care and have much consideration for others.”

  “It isn’t that we don’t consider you. We’re simply thinking of your own good.”

  “No, Nancy, that is not so. You just want me to do what you want me to do, which is to sell my father’s pictures and hand over the loot before I die. But I’ll sell my father’s pictures when I choose to. And I’m not going to die. Not for a long time.” She stepped back. “Now, off you go.” Nancy wiped the stupid tears from her eyes, switched on the ignition, put the car into gear, let off the hand-brake. “And remember to give my love to George.”

  She was gone. Penelope stood there, on the gravel outside her open door, long after the sound of Nancy’s car had been swallowed into the still warmth of the miraculous spring afternoon. Glancing down, she saw a groundsel thrusting its way between the stone chips. She stooped and pulled it out, tossed it away, and then turned and went indoors.

  She was alone. Blessed solitude. The saucepans could wait. She went through the kitchen and into the sitting room. The evening would turn chilly, so she lit a match and kindled the fire. When the flames were licking to her satisfaction, she got up off her knees and went to her desk and found the torn scrap of newspaper with the advertisement for Boothby’s, which Noel, a week ago, had drawn to her attention. Ring Mr. Roy Brookner. She laid it in the centre of her blotter, secured it with her paperweight, and then returned to the kitchen. Opening a drawer, she took from it her small, sharp vegetable knife, and then made her way upstairs to her bedroom. This was now filled with golden afternoon sunlight pouring through the west window, winking on silver and reflected in mirrors and glass. She put the knife on her dressing-table and went to open the doors of the huge Victorian wardrobe, which only just fitted beneath the sloping ceiling. The wardrobe was filled with her clothes. She took them all out and laid them, in armfuls, on her bed. This involved a certain amount of to-ing and fro-ing, but gradually the big bed, with its cotton crochet cover, was piled with every sort of garment, resembling the jumble stall at the church fête, or possibly the ladies’ cloakroom at some manic party.

  But the wardrobe stood empty, its back wall revealed. Years ago, this had been papered in a dark and heavily embossed design, but beneath these variations could be discerned other irregularities: the panels and strappings that made up the fabric of the solid old piece of furniture. Penelope took up the knife and reaching into its capacious interior, ran her fingers over the bumpy surface of the wallpaper, feeling her way by her sense of touch. Finding what she sought, she inserted the blade of the knife low down, in the angle of back and floor, and drew it upwards, slitting the paper as though she were opening an envelope. She judged the measurements with concentrated care. Two feet on the vertical, three feet across, and then two feet down again. Unsupported, the flap of wallpaper sagged, curled, and finally collapsed, to reveal the object that had been hidden behind if for the past twenty-five years. A battered cardboard folder, tied with string and secured to the mahogany panels by straps of sticky tape.

  * * *

  That evening, in London, Olivia rang Noel.

  “How did you get on?”

  “All done.”

  “Did you find anything exciting?”

  “Not a bloody thing.”

  “Oh, dear.” He could hear the amusement in her voice, and silently cursed her. “All that hard work for nothing. Never mind. Better luck next time. How’s Antonia?”

  “She’s okay. I think she’s taken a fancy to the gardener.”

  He had hoped to shock her. “Well, that’s very nice,” said Olivia. “What’s he like?”

  “Odd.”

  “Odd? Do you mean queer?”

  “No. I mean he’s odd. Fish out of water. Square peg in a round hole. Upper-class, public school, so what’s he doing being a gardener? Another thing—he doesn’t drive a car and he doesn’t drink. And he never smiles. Nancy’s convinced he’s hiding a dark secret, and for once I’m inclined to agree with her.”

  “How does Mumma like him?”

  “Oh, she likes him all right. Treats him like a long-lost nephew.”

  “In that case, I shouldn’t worry. Mumma’s no fool. How is she?”

  “The usual.”

  “Not too tired?”

  “Fine, as far as I could see.”

  “You didn’t say anything about the sketches? Mention them? Ask her about them?”

  “Not a word. If they ever existed, she’s probably forgotten about them. You know how vague she is.” He hesitated, and then went on casually. “Nancy was there for lunch. Started quoting George on reinsurance. There was a bit of a row.”

  “Oh, Noel.”

  “You know what Nancy’s like. Tactless as hell, stupid bitch.”

  “Was Mumma upset?”

  “A bit. I smoothed things over. But now she’s
even more stubborn than ever about things.”

  “Well, I suppose it’s her affair. Anyway, thank you for taking Antonia down.”

  “My pleasure.”

  * * *

  Monday morning again. By the time Penelope came downstairs, Danus had arrived and was already hard at work in the vegetable garden. The next caller was the postman in his little red van, and then Mrs. Plackett, stately on her bicycle, with her apron in her bag and the news that the Pudley ironmonger was having a sale and why didn’t Mrs. Keeling buy herself a new coal shovel. They were discussing this important project when Antonia appeared, and was duly introduced to Mrs. Plackett. Pleasantries were exchanged, and their various weekend activities relayed. Then Mrs. Plackett collected Hoover and dusters and climbed the stairs. Monday was her day for the bedrooms. Antonia began to fry bacon for her breakfast, and Penelope took herself into her sitting room, shut the door, and sat down at her desk to telephone.

  It was ten o’clock. She dialled the number.

  “Boothby’s, Fine Art Dealers. Can I help you?”

  “Would it be possible to speak to Mr. Roy Brookner?”

  “Just hold on for a moment.”

  Penelope held on. She felt nervous.

  “Roy Brookner.” A deep voice, cultured, very pleasant.

  “Mr. Brookner, good morning. My name is Mrs. Keeling, Penelope Keeling, and I’m calling from my home in Gloucestershire. In The Sunday Times last week you had an advertisement regarding Victorian paintings. It gave your name and the number to ring.”

  “Yes?”

  “I wondered if you would be in this neighbourhood sometime in the near future?”

  “You have something you want me to look at?”

  “Yes. Some works by Lawrence Stern.”

  There was the very smallest hesitation. “Lawrence Stern?” he repeated.

  “Yes.”

  “You’re sure they are Lawrence Sterns?”

  She smiled. “Yes, quite sure. Lawrence Stern was my father.”

  Another slight pause. She imagined him reaching for a note pad, unscrewing the cap of his fountain pen.

  “Could you give me your address?” Penelope did so. “And your telephone number?” She did this as well. “I’m just consulting my engagement diary. Would this week be too soon?”

  “The sooner the better.”

  “Wednesday? Or Thursday?”

  Penelope calculated, laid swift plans. “Thursday would be best.”

  “What time on Thursday?”

  “The afternoon? About two o’clock?”

  “Splendid. I have another call to make in Oxford; I can deal with that in the morning and then come on to you.”

  “If you make for Pudley, that’s the easiest. The village is signposted.”

  “I shall find the way,” he assured her. “Two o’clock on Thursday. And thank you, Mrs. Keeling, for calling me.”

  * * *

  Waiting for him to arrive, Penelope pottered about her conservatory, watering a cyclamen, snipping off dead geranium heads and browned leaves. The weather had turned gusty, the east wind bringing with it enormous sailing clouds and blinking sunshine. But the early warmth was doing its work, for already there were yellow daffodil heads bobbing in the orchard, the first primroses were showing their pale faces, and the sticky buds of the chestnut were splitting open, to reveal the frilly, delicate green of the baby leaves.

  She was dressed in her tidiest clothes, as befitted the importance and formality of the occasion, and occupied her mind by trying to decide how Mr. Brookner would look. With the only clues his name, and his voice over the telephone, there was little to go on, and every time she thought about it, she came up with a different image. He would be very young, a brainy student, with a bulging forehead and a pink bow-tie. He would be elderly, academic, immensely knowledgeable. He would be businesslike and bouncy, with jargon at his fingertips and a mind like an adding machine.

  He was, of course, none of these things. When, a little after two o’clock, she heard the slam of a car door, shortly followed by the ring of the front-door bell, she set down the watering can and went through the kitchen to let him in. Opening the door, she was faced with his back view, standing there on the gravel gazing about him, as though appreciative of country quiet and rural surroundings. He turned at once. A very tall and distinguished gentleman, with dark hair sliding back from a high tanned forehead and deep-brown eyes observing her politely from behind heavy horn-rims. He wore a quietly patterned and well-cut tweed suit, a checked shirt, and a discreetly striped tie. Given a bowler hat and a pair of field-glasses, he could have graced the smartest of race meetings.

  “Mrs. Keeling.”

  “Yes. Mr. Brookner. Good afternoon.” They shook hands.

  “I was just admiring the view. What a beautiful spot, and a charming house.”

  “I’m afraid you have to come into it through the kitchen. I haven’t got a front hall.…” She led the way indoors, and he was immediately diverted by the beguiling prospect of the far door leading into the conservatory, at that moment filled with sunshine, and bosky with greenery.

  “I wouldn’t bother about a front hall if I had a kitchen as pretty as this … and a conservatory as well.”

  “I built the conservatory, but the rest of the house is very much as I found it.”

  “Have you lived here long?”

  “Six years.”

  “Do you live alone?”

  “Most of the time. At the moment I have a young friend staying, but she’s gone off for the afternoon. She’s driving my gardener to Oxford … They’ve taken the motor mower in the back of my car and they’re going to get it sharpened.”

  Mr. Brookner looked a little surprised.

  “You have to go all the way to Oxford to get it sharpened?”

  “No, but I wanted them out of the way while you were here,” Penelope told him bluntly. “And they’re buying seed potatoes as well, and some stuff for the garden, so the trip won’t be wasted. Now, would you like a cup of coffee?…”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Right.” He stood there, unimpatient, and looking as though he might be prepared to hang about for ever. “Well, in that case, I suppose we’d better not waste any more time. Shall we go up and look at the panels first?”

  “Whatever you say,” said Mr. Brookner.

  She led him out of the kitchen and up the narrow stairs to the tiny landing.

  “… here they are, hanging on either side of my bedroom door. These were the very last paintings my father ever did. I don’t know if you knew, but he suffered most dreadfully from arthritis. By the time these were done, he could scarcely hold his brushes, and so, you see, they were never finished.” She stood aside, making room for Mr. Brookner to move forward, inspect, stand back—(only a foot or two, otherwise he’d have gone backwards down the stairs)—move in again. He said nothing. Perhaps he didn’t like them. To cover her sudden nervousness, she began to speak again. “They’ve always been a bit of a joke. We had this little house in Porthkerris, you see, up at the top of the hill, and never any money to spend on it, so it became dreadfully shabby. The hall there was decorated in an old Morris paper, but it grew worn and torn and my mother couldn’t afford to replace it, so she suggested that Papa should paint two long decorative panels that would hide the worst of the worn bits. And she wanted something in his old style, allegorical, fabulous, that she could keep for ever and call her own. So he did, and these were the result. But he couldn’t finish them. However, Sophie … my mother … didn’t mind. She said she loved them even better just the way they were.”

  Still he made no comment. She wondered if he was plucking up his courage to tell her that they were worth nothing, when, all at once, he turned and smiled.

  “You call them unfinished, Mrs. Keeling, and yet they are marvelously complete. Not so finely detailed, of course, or meticulous as those great works he executed at the turn of the century, but still, perfect in their own way. And wha
t a colourist he was. Look at the blue of that sky.”

  She was filled with gratitude towards him. “I am so pleased you like them. My children have always either ignored them, or been particularly scathing about them, but they’ve always given me enormous pleasure.”

  “And so they should.” He turned from his absorbed inspection. “Is there anything else you want me to see, or is that all?”

  “No. I have more downstairs.”

  “May we go and look?”

  “Of course.”

  Downstairs again, and into the sitting room. His eyes at once fell upon The Shell Seekers. Before his arrival, she had switched on the small strip light that illuminated the picture, and now it waited for his consideration. At this moment, on this particular day, it seemed to Penelope more dear than ever, fresh and bright and cool as the day it had been painted.

  After a long time, “I didn’t know,” said Mr. Brookner, “that such a work existed.”

  “It’s never been exhibited.”

  “When was it done?”

  “Nineteen twenty-seven. His last big picture. The North Beach at Porthkerris, painted from his studio window. One of the children is myself. It’s called The Shell Seekers. When I was married, he gave it to me as a wedding present. That was forty-four years ago.”

  “What a present. What a possession, for that matter. You’re surely not having to contemplate selling this?”

  “No. I’m not selling this. But I wanted you to see it.”

  “I’m glad I have.”

  His eyes went back to the picture. After a bit, she realized that he was simply occupying himself until she should choose to make her next move.

  “That’s all, I’m afraid, Mr. Brookner. Except for some sketches.”

  He turned from The Shell Seekers, his features impassive. “Some sketches?”

  “By my father.”

  He waited for her to enlarge on this, and when she did not, “Am I going to be allowed to see them?” he asked.

  “I don’t know if they’re worth anything, or even if they would interest you.”

  “I can’t say until I’ve had a look at them.”

  “Of course not.” She reached behind the sofa and produced the battered cardboard folder tied with string. “They’re in here.” Mr. Brookner, taking it from her, lowered himself into the seat of a widelapped Victorian chair. He laid the folder on the carpet at his feet, and with long, sensitive fingers, untied the knotted string.