Papa said she looked like a Mexican gypsy in it, but he smiled as he said it, delighted by her enterprise. He did not smile, these days, very often. He had grown, since Sophie’s death, immensely old and frail. His old leg wound from the First World War had started, for some reason, to play up. The cold, damp wintry weather caused him considerable pain, and he had taken to walking with a stick. He was bowed, he had grown very thin, his crippled hands curiously waxy and lifeless, like the hands of a man already dead. Incapable now of doing very much around the house and garden, he spent most of his time, mittened and shawled in rugs, by the sitting room fire, reading the newspapers or well-loved books, listening to the wireless, or writing letters in his painful, uncertain hand, to old friends who lived in other parts of the country. Sometimes, when the sun shone and the sea was blue and dancing with white-caps, he would announce that he felt like a little fresh air, whereupon Penelope would fetch his caped overcoat and his big hat and his stick, and they would set out together, arm in arm, to make their way down the steep streets and alley-ways and into the heart of the little town, strolling along the harbour wall, watching the fishing boats and the gulls, perhaps calling in at The Sliding Tackle for a drink of anything that the landlord could produce from beneath his counter; and if he had nothing to produce, then downing tumblers of watery, lukewarm beer. Other times, if he was feeling strong enough, they went on as far as the North Beach and the old studio, locked now and seldom entered; or took the sloping lane that led to the Art Gallery, where he was happy to sit, contemplating the collection of paintings that he and his colleagues had somehow gathered together, and lost in an old man’s silent and lonely memories.
* * *
And then in August, by which time Penelope had resigned herself to the fact that nothing exciting was ever going to happen again, it did.
It was the boys, Ronald and Clark, who started the ball of speculation rolling. They returned from school in high dudgeon, having missed their afternoon game of football because they were, it seemed, no longer allowed to use the town rugger field at the top of the hill. It, along with two of Willie Pendervis’ best pasture fields, had been requisitioned, surrounded by miles of barbed-wire fencing, and forbidden to all. The reason for this was the cause of much discussion. Some said it was to be an armoury depot in readiness for the Second Front. Others, a prisoner-of-war camp; or, yet again, a powerful wireless station for sending secret coded messages to Mr. Roosevelt.
Porthkerris, in short, was rife with rumour.
Doris was the bearer of the next mysterious manifestation of warlike activity. Out for a walk with Nancy, she came home by way of the main road, and returned to Carn Cottage bursting with news.
“That old White Caps Hotel—the one that’s stood empty for months … Well, it’s all been done up. Painted and scrubbed, bright as a penny, and the car-park’s full of trucks and those American Jeep things, and there’s a smashing Royal Marine Commando on guard at the gate. That’s right. Royal Marines. I saw his cap badge. Fancy that. Bit of fun having a few soldiers round the place…”
“Royal Marines? What on earth are they doing here?”
“Perhaps they’re going to invade Europe. Do you suppose it’s the start of the Second Front?”
Penelope considered this unlikely. “Invade Europe from Porthkerris? Oh, Doris, they’d all drown themselves trying to get round Land’s End.”
“Well, it’s got to be something.”
And then, overnight, it seemed, Porthkerris lost its North Pier. More barbed-wire entanglements appeared, clear across the harbour road, just past The Sliding Tackle, and all beyond, including the Fish Market and the Salvation Army hut, were declared Admiralty property. The deep-water moorings at the end of the pier were cleared of fishing boats, and their place taken by a dozen or so small landing craft. All of this was discreetly guarded by a handful of Royal Marine Commandos, wearing battledress and green berets. Their presence in the town caused a mild stir, but still nobody could come up with a reasonable explanation of what it was all about.
It was not until the middle of the month that they were finally enlightened. There had come a spell of perfect weather, warm and breezy, and this particular morning Penelope and Lawrence had taken themselves out of doors, she to sit on the front-door step and shell peas for lunch, and he to recline in a deck-chair set up on the grass, with his hat tipped over his eyes to shade them from the glare. As they sat there, in companionable silence, a sound reached their ears—the bottom gate being opened and shut. Both looked up, and presently observed General Watson-Grant making his way up the stone steps between the fuchsia hedges.
While Colonel Trubshot was in charge of the ARP in Porthkerris, General Watson-Grant commanded the local Home Guard. Lawrence detested Colonel Trubshot, but he had a lot of time for the General who, although he had spent most of his Army life stationed in Quetta and skirmishing with the Afghans, had, on retirement, put these warlike activities behind him and, instead, absorbed himself in peaceful pursuits and accomplishments, for he was a keen gardener and the possessor of a considerable collection of stamps. Today he did not wear his Home Guard uniform but a cream drill suit, probably fashioned in Delhi, and a battered panama hat with a faded black silk ribbon. He carried a stick, and glancing up to see Penelope and Lawrence waiting for him, raised this in greeting.
“Good morning. Another lovely day.”
He was a small man, spare as a whip, with a stubbly moustache and a leather-coloured skin, legacy of years on the North-West Frontier. Lawrence watched his approach with pleasure. The General called only from time to time, but his visits were always welcome. “Not interrupting you, am I?”
“Not at all. We’re doing nothing but enjoy the sun. Forgive me if I don’t get up. Penelope, get the General another chair.”
Penelope, who wore her cooking apron and no shoes, set aside the colander of pea pods and stood up.
“Good morning, General Watson-Grant.”
“Ah, Penelope. Nice to see you, my dear. Busy with the cookhouse? Left Dorothy slicing beans.”
“Would you like a cup of coffee?”
The General considered her offer. He had walked a long way, and was not a coffee man, preferring gin. Lawrence knew this, and made the token gesture of looking at his watch. “Twelve o’clock. Surely something a little stronger. What have we got, Penelope?”
She laughed. “I don’t think very much, but I’ll look.”
She went into the house, dark after the brightness of the out of doors. Found, in the dining room sideboard, a couple of bottles of Guinness, tumblers and a bottle opener. She put these on a tray, carried them out and set them down on the front-door step, and then went back to fetch the General his chair. This she set up for him, and he settled himself gratefully, perched forward, with his bony knees sticking up and his narrow trousers riding high, revealing knobbly ankles in yellow socks and leather brogues shiny as chestnuts.
“This is the life,” he remarked.
Penelope took the cap off a bottle and poured his drink. “It’s Guinness, I’m afraid. We’ve had no gin for months.”
“Just the ticket. As for the gin, we finished our ration a month ago. Mr. Ridley’s promised me a bottle when his next allocation comes through, but heaven knows when that’s going to be. Well. Cheers.”
He downed half the long drink in what appeared to be a single swallow. Penelope returned to her pea-podding and listened while the two elderly men inquired after each other’s health and exchanged a few scraps of gossip and comments on the weather and the general state of the war. She was, however, pretty certain that this was not the reason for the General’s visit and, when there came a pause in the conversation, she chipped in.
“General Watson-Grant, I’m sure you’re the very person to tell us what’s going on in Porthkerris. The camp on the rugger pitch, and the harbour closed, and the Royal Marines moving in. Everybody’s guessing, but nobody knows. Ernie Penberth is our usual source of information, but he’s har
vesting, and we haven’t seen him for three weeks.
“As a matter of fact,” said the General, “I do know.”
Lawrence said quickly, “Don’t tell us if it’s secret.”
“I’ve known for some weeks but it’s all been kept under wraps. However, now I can tell you. It’s a training exercise. Cliff-climbing. The Royal Marines are instructing.”
“And who are they going to instruct?”
“A company of United States Rangers.”
“United States Rangers? You mean we are about to be invaded by Americans?”
The General looked amused. “Better Americans than Germans.”
“Is the camp for the Americans?” Penelope asked.
“Exactly so.”
“Have the Rangers arrived yet?”
“No, not yet. I imagine we’ll know when they do. Poor devils. They’ve probably spent their lives on the prairie or the flat plains of Kansas, never seen the sea in their lives. Imagine being dumped down at Porthkerris and then invited to climb Boscarben Cliffs.”
“Boscarben Cliffs?” Penelope felt quite faint. “I can’t think of anything worse than being taught to climb at Boscarben. The cliffs there are perpendicular and about a thousand feet high.”
“I suppose that’s the whole idea,” said the General. “Though, I must say I agree with you, Penelope. The very prospect gives me vertigo. Rather them than me, poor bloody Yanks.” Penelope grinned. The General had never minced his words, and this was one of the things she most liked about him.
“And the landing craft?” Lawrence asked.
“Transport. They’ll take them round to the cliffs by sea. Should think they’ll be dead with mal de mer before they’ve even landed the craft on the shingle at the foot of the cliffs.”
Penelope felt even sorrier for the poor young Americans. “They’ll wonder what’s hit them. And what will they do with their spare time? Porthkerris isn’t exactly a hotbed of wild social activity, and The Sliding Tackle’s not the most lively pub in the world. Besides, there’s nobody here. All the young people have gone. Nobody left but grass widows and little children and old people. Like us.”
“Doris will be thrilled,” Lawrence observed. “American soldiers, all talking like film stars, will make a nice change.”
The General laughed. “It’s always a problem to know what to do with a lot of randy soldiery. But by the time they’ve been up and down the Boscarben Cliffs a couple of times, I don’t suppose they’ll have much energy left for…” He paused, searching for an acceptable word. “Gallivanting” was all he could come up with.
It was Lawrence’s turn to laugh. “I think it’s all very exciting.” He was struck by a bright idea. “Let’s go and gawp, Penelope. Now that we know what it’s all about, let’s go and see for ourselves. We’ll go this afternoon.”
“Oh, Papa. There’s nothing to see.”
“Plenty to see. Bit of new blood around the place. We could do with something happening, provided it’s not a stray bomb. Now, General, your drink is finished … have the other half.”
The General considered this proposal. Penelope said quickly, “There isn’t any more. Those were the last two bottles.”
“In that case”—the General laid his empty tumbler on the grass by his feet—“I should be on my way. See how Dorothy’s getting on with tiffin.” He pulled himself, with some difficulty, out of the sagging deckchair, and they all followed suit. “That was splendid. Most refreshing.”
“Thank you for coming. And putting us in the picture.”
“I thought you might like to know. Thought you were probably wondering what it was all about. It makes everything feel a bit more hopeful, doesn’t it? As though we might be staggering towards the conclusion of this flaming war.” He tipped his hat. “Goodbye, Penelope.”
“Goodbye. And my regards to your wife.”
“I’ll convey them.”
“I’ll see you to the gate,” said Lawrence, and they moved off together. Penelope, watching them make their way down the garden, was reminded of two old dogs. A dignified St. Bernard and a wiry little Jack Russell. The reached the steps and began, with some care, to descend them. She stooped to pick up the pan of shelled peas and the colander of pods and carried them indoors, to find Doris and relay everything that General Watson-Grant had told her and Lawrence.
“Americans.” Doris could scarcely believe their good fortune. “Americans in Porthkerris. Oh, thank God for that, a bit of life at last. Americans.” She repeated the magic word. “Well, we thought of a lot of funny things, didn’t we, but we never came up with Americans.”
* * *
General Watson-Grant’s visit had the effect on Lawrence of a shot in the arm. Over lunch they all talked of nothing else, and when Penelope emerged from the kitchen, after clearing the meal away and washing up the dishes, she found him waiting for her, already dressed for outdoor activity, with a worn corduroy jacket to protect his old bones from the nippy breeze, and a scarlet muffler wound round his neck. He wore his hat and his mittens, and sat patiently, leaning against the hall chest, with his hands resting on the horn handle of his stick.
“Papa.”
“Let’s be off then.”
She had a thousand things to do. Vegetables to be thinned and weeded, the grass to be cut, and a pile of ironing to be dealt with.
“You really want to go?”
“Said I did, didn’t I? Said I wanted to go and gawp.”
“Well, you’ll have to wait a moment or two, till I find a pair of shoes.”
“Get a move on then. We haven’t all day.”
Which was exactly what they had, but she didn’t say this. She went back into the kitchen, to tell Doris the plan, and to give Nancy a quick kiss, and then ran upstairs to put on sneakers, wash her face, brush her hair and tie it back with an old silk scarf. She took a cardigan out of a drawer, tied it round her shoulders, ran downstairs again.
He waited just as she had left him, but when she appeared, heaved himself to his feet.
“You look beautiful, my darling.”
“Oh, Papa, thank you.”
“On our way then, to inspect the Military.”
As soon as they were out of doors, she was glad that he had made her come, for it was a perfect afternoon, bright and blue with the tide in and the bay capped with scuds of white foam. Trevose Head was drowned in haze, but the breeze was cool and smelt salty. Reaching the main road, they crossed it and stood for a moment gazing out over the buttress-like wall that formed part of the cliff. They looked down onto roof-tops and steep gardens and crooked lanes which led to a small railway station and so down onto the beach. Before the war, in August the beach would have been crowded, but now it was almost deserted. The barbed-wire entanglements, which had been erected in 1940, still stood between the putting green and the sand, but there was an open gap in the middle, and through this a handful of families had made their way, with children running, screaming to paddle, and dogs chasing the gulls along the edge of the waves. Far below, out of the wind, a tiny walled garden revealed itself, where pink roses smothered an old apple tree and a palm rattled its dry leaves in the wind.
After a little, they sauntered on, down the slope of the hill. The road curved, and the White Caps Hotel was revealed, a detached stone house in a row of similar houses, with heavy sash windows facing out over the bay. It had stood empty and dilapidated for some time, but now they saw that it had been freshened up with white paint and looked startlingly trim. The tall iron railings which fronted the car-park had been painted too, and the car-park was full of khaki trucks and Jeeps. At the open gateway, a young Marine stood guard.
“Well, I never did,” Lawrence remarked. “Doris got it right for once.”
They drew closer. Saw the white flagstaff, the flag snapping in the wind. Newly scrubbed granite steps led up to the front door sparkling in the sunshine. They paused to stare. The young Marine, on guard at the pavement’s edge, stared back at them, impassive.
But before they could do this, there came a flurry of activity from inside the building. The inner glassed door was opened, and two uniformed figures appeared. A Major and a Sergeant. They ran down the steps with a fine military clatter of booted feet, crossed the gravel and got into one of the Jeeps. The Sergeant drove. He started the engine, backed, and turned. As they came through the gate, the young Marine on guard saluted and the Officer returned his salute. Emerging onto the main road, they paused for a second, but there was no traffic, and at once the Jeep turned out and down the hill in the direction of the town, at some speed and creating a good deal of din.
Penelope and her father watched it disappear beyond the curved terrace of quiet houses. When the sound of the Jeep engine had died away, “Come,” said Lawrence, “let’s get on.”
“Where are we going?”
“To see the landing craft, of course. And then the Gallery. We haven’t been for weeks.”
The Gallery. That meant goodbye to any plans for the rest of the afternoon. Ready with objections, Penelope turned towards him, but saw his dark eyes bright with the prospect of pleasure, and hadn’t the heart to spoil his fun.
She smiled, assenting, slipped her hand beneath his arm.
“All right. The landing craft, and then the Gallery. But let’s take our time. No point in getting exhausted.”
* * *
The Gallery, even in August, was always chill. The thick granite walls kept out the warmth of the sun, and the tall windows let in all the draughts. As well, the floor was slate-flagged, and there was no form of heating, and today the wind, gusting up from the North Beach, delivered from time to time great clouts upon the building, causing the framework of the northern skylight to shudder and rattle. Mrs. Trewey, who was on duty by the door, sat at an old card table piled with catalogues and picture postcards, with a rug around her shoulders and a small electric fire scorching her shins.
The Shell Seekers Page 39
