The Shell Seekers

by Rosamunde Pilcher

  She stopped. Penelope waited. “What couldn’t you bear?” she prompted.

  Doris’ reply came in an agitated whisper. “We’ve got a visitor.”

  The sun blanked out. A shadow lay across her supine body. She opened her eyes and saw, standing at her feet, the dark outline of a man’s form. In some panic, she sat up, rearranging her sprawled legs, reaching to re-button her shirt.…

  “I’m sorry,” said Richard. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “Where did you spring from?” She scrambled to her feet, dealt with the final button, and pushed her hair out of her face.

  “I came in by the top gate, across the garden.”

  Her heart was racing. She hoped she was not blushing. “I never heard you.”

  “Is this a bad time to call?”

  “Not a bit. We’re not doing anything.”

  “I’ve been stuck in an office all day, and suddenly I could bear it no longer. I thought, with a bit of luck, I’d find you here.” His eyes moved from Penelope to Doris, who sat in her chair as though mesmerized, the mending basket still in her lap, the threaded needle held aloft, like some sort of symbol. “I don’t think we’ve ever met. Richard Lomax. You must be Doris.”

  “That’s right.” They shook hands. Doris, mildly flustered, added, “Pleased to meet you, I’m sure.”

  “Penelope told me about you, and your two sons. Are they not around?”

  “No, they’ve gone swimming with their chums.”

  “Sensible fellows. You were out the other night when I came for dinner.”

  “Yes. I took the boys to The Mikado.”

  “Did they enjoy it?”

  “Oh, loved it. Ever such good tunes. And funny too. They didn’t half laugh.”

  “I’m glad.” He turned his attention to Nancy, who sat staring up at him, nonplussed by the arrival of this tall stranger into her life. “Is this your little girl?”

  Penelope nodded. “Yes. This is Nancy.”

  He squatted to her height. “Hello.” Nancy stared. “How old is she?”

  “Nearly three.”

  There was sand on Nancy’s face and the seat of her overalls was damp. “What are you doing?” Richard asked her. “Making sand-pies? Here, let me have a go.” He took up the little bucket and removed the wooden spoon from Nancy’s unresisting hand. He filled the bucket, pressed down the sand, and turned it out into a perfect sand-pie. Nancy instantly demolished it. He laughed and gave her back her toys. “She has all the right instincts,” he remarked, and settled himself on the grass, removing his beret and unbuttoning the tight collar of his khaki battledress.

  Penelope said, “You look hot.”

  “I am. It’s too warm to be dressed like this.” He undid the rest of the buttons and removed the offending garment, rolling up the sleeves of his cotton shirt and at once becoming quite human-looking and comfortable. Perhaps encouraged by this, Nancy clambered out of the sandpit and came to sit on Penelope’s knee, where she had a good view of the new arrival and could stare, unblinking, at his face.

  “I never can guess how old other people’s children are,” he said.

  “Do you have children of your own?” Doris asked innocently.

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Come again?”

  “I’m not married.”

  Penelope bent her head, laid her cheek against the silky fronds of Nancy’s hair. Richard leaned back on his elbows, turned his face up to the sun. “It’s as hot as midsummer, isn’t it? Where else should one be but sitting in a garden? Where’s your father?”

  “Having a sleep. He’s probably awake by now. In a moment, I’ll go and tell him you’re here. He’s longing to see you and have another game of backgammon.”

  Doris looked at her watch, stowed her needle, and set down the mending basket on the grass. She said, “It’s nearly four o’clock. Why don’t I go and make us all a cup of tea? You’d like one, wouldn’t you, Richard?”

  “I can’t think of anything I’d like more.”

  “I’ll tell your father, Penelope. He likes having tea in the garden.”

  She left them. They watched her go. Richard said, “What a nice girl.…”

  “Yes.”

  Penelope began to pick daisies, to fashion them into a chain for Nancy. “What have you been doing all this time?”

  “Scrambling on the cliffs. Bouncing around in the surf in those God-forsaken landing craft. Getting wet. Drafting orders, planning exercises, and writing long reports.”

  They fell silent. She added another daisy to the chain. After a bit, he said abruptly, “Do you know General Watson-Grant?”

  “Yes, of course. Why do you ask that?”

  “Colonel Mellaby and I have been asked to have a drink with him on Monday.”

  She smiled. “So have Papa and I. Mrs. Watson-Grant rang up this morning to invite us. Mr. Ridley, the grocer, came up with a couple of bottles of gin and they decided it was a good excuse to throw a little party.”

  “Where do they live?”

  “About a mile away; up the hill, out of the town.”

  “How will you get there?”

  “The General’s going to send his car for us. His old gardener can drive. He gets petrol, you see, because of being in the Home Guard. I’m sure it’s all dreadfully illegal, but it’s very kind of him, because otherwise we couldn’t go.”

  “I hoped you’d be there.”

  “Why?”

  “So that I’ll know somebody. And because I thought, afterwards, I could take you out for dinner.”

  The daisy chain had grown quite long. She held it out like a garland between her hands. She said, “Are you inviting Papa and me, or just me?”

  “Just you. But if your father wants to come…”

  “He won’t. He doesn’t like being out late.”

  “Will you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where shall we go?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “There’s the Sands Hotel…?”

  “That’s been requisitioned since the beginning of the war. Now, it’s full of convalescent wounded.”

  “Or the Castle?”

  The Castle. Her spirits sank at the very thought of the place. During Ambrose’s first unfortunate visit to Carn Cottage, Penelope, in desperation, and casting about for some way to amuse her husband, suggested that they go to the Castle for the Saturday night dinner-dance. The evening had been no more successful than the rest of the weekend. The chill and formal dining-room had been half empty, the food dull, and the other residents aged. From time to time a dispirited band had played a selection of out-of-date tunes, but they couldn’t even dance, because Penelope by then was so enormous that Ambrose could not get his arms around her.

  She said quickly, “No, don’t let’s go there. There are old waiters like tortoises, and most of the people staying are in wheelchairs. It’s dreadfully depressing.” She considered the question, and came up with a far more cheerful suggestion. “We could go to Gaston’s Bistro.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Just above the North Beach. It’s tiny, but the food’s not bad. Sometimes, on birthdays and things, Papa takes me and Doris there.”

  “Gaston’s Bistro. It sounds highly unexpected. Are they on the phone?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll ring and book a table.”

  * * *

  “Doris, he’s asked me out for dinner.”

  “Get away! When?”

  “On Monday. After the Watson-Grants’ party.”

  “Did you say you’d go?”

  “Yes. Why? Do you think I should have refused?”

  “Refused? You’d have needed your head examined. I think he’s lovely. I dunno, reminds me of Gregory Peck in a funny way.”

  “Oh, Doris, he’s not a bit like Gregory Peck.”

  “Not to look at, but he’s got that quiet way. You know what I mean. What are you going to wear?”

  “I haven’t thou
ght. I’ll find something.”

  Doris became exasperated. “You know, you drive me nuts sometimes. Go and get something new. You never spend a brass farthing on yourself. Go down the town to Madame Jolie and see what she’s got.”

  “I haven’t got any clothing coupons. I spent my last on horrible tea-towels and a warm dressing-gown for Nancy.”

  “For goodness’ sake, you only need seven. Surely between the six of us we can rustle up seven clothing coupons. And if we can’t, I know where I can buy Black Market ones.”

  “That’s against the law.”

  “Oh, to hell with the law. This is an occasion. Your first date for years. Live dangerously. On Monday morning, go down the town and buy yourself something pretty.”

  * * *

  She could not remember when she had last been inside a dress shop, but as Madame Jolie was really Mrs. Coles, the Coastguard’s wife, and fat and homely as anybody’s grandmother, there was no reason to feel intimidated.

  “My dear life, I haven’t seen you in here for years,” she remarked as Penelope came through the door.

  “I want a new dress,” Penelope told her, wasting no time.

  “I haven’t anything very special in stock, dear, most of it that Utility stuff. Can’t get anything else. But there is one pretty red that would fit you. Red was always your colour. Patterned in daisies this one is. It’s rayon, of course, but it’s got a nice silky feel.”

  She fetched it. Penelope, closeted into a minute curtained cubicle, pulled off her clothes and slipped the red dress over her head. It felt soft, and smelt excitingly new. Emerging from behind the modest curtain, she did up the buttons and buckled the red patent belt.

  “Oh, it’s perfect,” said Madame Jolie.

  She went to the long mirror and gazed at her reflection, trying to see herself with Richard’s eyes. The dress had a square neck and padded shoulders, and a skirt of flaring pleats. The wide belt made her waist appear tiny, and when she turned to inspect the back view, the skirt fanned out as she moved, and the effect was so feminine, so becoming, that she found herself filled with delight at her own appearance. No garment had ever given her such confidence. It was a bit like falling in love, and she knew that she had to possess it.

  “How much is it?”

  Madame Jolie groped down the back of her neck for the price ticket. “Seven pounds ten shillings. And seven coupons, I’m afraid.”

  “I’ll have it.”

  “You’ve made the right decision. Fancy that, the first dress you tried on. Thought of it the moment you walked in. Might have been made for you. What a stroke of luck.”

  * * *

  “Papa, do you like my new dress?” She took it out of the paper bag, shook it out of its folds, held it in front of her. In his chair, he took off his spectacles and leaned back on the cushions with half-closed eyes, the better to get the effect.

  “That’s a good colour for you … yes, I like that. But why have you suddenly bought yourself a new dress?”

  “Because we’re going for a drink with the Watson-Grants this evening. Had you forgotten?”

  “No, but I’ve forgotten how we’re getting there.”

  “The General’s sending his car for us.”

  “How kind.”

  “And someone will bring you back. Because I’m going out for dinner.”

  He put his spectacles on again and, for a long moment, surveyed his daughter over the top of them. Then he said, “With Richard Lomax,” and it wasn’t a question.

  “Yes.”

  He reached for his newspaper. “Good.”

  “Papa, listen. You think I should go?”

  “Why shouldn’t you?”

  “I’m a married lady.”

  “But not a bourgeois nitwit.”

  She hesitated. “Suppose I get involved.”

  “Is that likely?”

  “It might be.”

  “So. Get involved.”

  “You know something, Papa? I really like you.”

  “I am gratified. Why?”

  “A thousand reasons. But mostly because we’ve always been able to talk.”

  “It would be a disaster if we couldn’t. As for Richard Lomax, you are no longer a child. I don’t wish to see you hurt, but your mind is your own. You make your own decisions.”

  “I know,” she said. She did not say “I have.”

  * * *

  They were the last to arrive at the Watson-Grant’s party. This was because, by the time John Tonkins, the General’s old gardener, called to collect them, Penelope was still at her dressing-table, agonizing as to how to do her hair. She had finally decided to wear it up and then, at the last moment and in some exasperation, torn out all the pins and shaken it loose. After that, she had to find some sort of coat, for warmth, for the new dress was flimsy and the September evenings chill. She had no coat, only her tartan poncho, and that looked so terrible that more moments had to be wasted searching for an old cashmere shawl of Sophie’s. Clutching this, running downstairs in search of her father, she found him in the kitchen, having decided on the spur of the moment that he had to clean his shoes.

  “Papa. The car’s there. John’s waiting.”

  “I can’t help that. These are my good shoes and they haven’t been cleaned for four months.”

  “How do you know it’s four months?”

  “Because that was the last occasion we went to the Watson-Grants’.”

  “Oh, Papa.” His crippled hands struggled with the tin of boot polish. “Here. I’ll do them.”

  She accomplished this as swiftly as she could, wielding brushes and getting brown polish all over her hands. She washed her hands while he was putting on his shoes, and then knelt to tie the laces for him. At last, at Lawrence’s pace, they made their way out of the house and across the garden to the top gate, where John Tonkins and the old Rover awaited them.

  “I’m sorry we’ve kept you, John.”

  “Doesn’t matter to me, Mr. Stern.” He held the door open and Lawrence painfully inserted himself into the front seat. Penelope got into the back. John took his place at the wheel and they were off. But not very fast, for John Tonkins was wary of his employer’s car and drove as though it were a time bomb that might explode if he went faster than thirty miles an hour. Finally, at seven o’clock, they trundled up the drive of the General’s enviable garden, which burgeoned with rhododendron, azalea, camellias, and fuchsia, and drew to a crunching halt at the front door of the house. Three or four other cars were already parked on the gravel. Penelope recognized the Trubshots’ old Morris, but not the khaki staff car with its Royal Marine insignia. A young Marine driver sat behind the wheel, whiling away the time by reading Picture Post. Getting out of the Rover, she found herself secretly smiling.

  They went indoors. Before the war, a uniformed parlourmaid would have been waiting to let them in, but now, there was nobody. The hall was empty and a buzz of conversation led them across the sitting room to where, in the General’s conservatory, the party was already in full swing.

  It was a very large and elaborate conservatory, built by the Watson-Grants when the General had finally retired from the Army and they left India for good, and which they had furnished with potted palms, long rattan chairs, camel stools, tiger-skin rugs, and a brass gong slung between the ivory tusks of some long-defunct elephant.

  “Oh, there you are at last!” Mrs. Watson-Grant had spied them and came to greet them. She was a small, spare woman with shingled hair, tanned to leather by the cruel suns of India, a chain-smoker and an inveterate bridge player. In Quetta, if rumours were to be believed, she had spent most of her life on the back of a horse, and had once stood her ground in the face of a charging tiger and coolly shot it dead. Now, she was reduced to running the local Red Cross and Digging for Victory in her vegetable garden, but she missed the social whirl of the old days, and it was typical that, having laid her hands on a couple of bottles of gin, she instantly threw a party. “Late as usual,” she added
, for she had never been one for calling a spade anything but a spade. “What’ll you drink? Gin and orange, or gin and lime? And, of course, you know everybody. Except perhaps Colonel Mellaby and Major Lomax…”

  Penelope looked about her. Saw the Springburns from St. Enedoc and Mrs. Trubshot, tall and wraith-like, veiled in lilac chiffon and wearing an enormous hat with a velvet bow and a buckle. With Mrs. Trubshot was Miss Pawson, standing there four-square in a pair of lace-up shoes with rubber soles thick as tank-treads. She saw Colonel Trubshot, who had button holed the unknown Colonel Mellaby and was holding forth as usual, doubtless airing his opinions on the conduct of the war. The Royal Marine Colonel was a great deal taller than Colonel Trubshot, a handsome man with a bristling moustache and thinning hair, and he had to stoop slightly in order to hear what was being said. From the expression on his face of polite, attentive boredom, Penelope guessed that it was not fascinating. She saw Richard standing at the far side of the room, with his back to the garden. Miss Preedy was with him. Miss Preedy, wearing an embroidered Hungarian blouse and a folk-weave skirt and looking as though she were about to spring into a Gopak. He said something to her, and she burst into a gale of giggles, tucking her head demurely to one side, and he looked up, caught Penelope’s eye, and sent her just the ghost of a wink.

  “Penelope.” General Watson-Grant materialized at her elbow. “You’ve got a drink? Thank God you’re here. I was afraid you wouldn’t come.”

  “I know. We’re late. We kept poor John Tonkins waiting.”

  “No matter. I just felt a bit anxious for these Royal Marines. Poor chaps, invited to a party and then find themselves in a roomful of washed-up old odds and sods. I’d have asked more cheerful company for them, but I couldn’t think of any. Only you.”

  “I shouldn’t worry. They look quite happy.”

  “I’ll introduce you.”

  “We already know Major Lomax.”

  “Do you? When did you meet him?”

  “Papa got talking to him in the Gallery.”

  “They seem nice fellers.” The General’s eye, hostly, strayed. “I’m going to rescue Mellaby. He’s had ten minutes of undiluted Trubshot, and that’s enough for any man.”