The Shell Seekers

by Rosamunde Pilcher

  “Of course. I don’t mind anything now that you’re safely back again. I had terrifying visions of you being intrepid and getting killed or captured.”

  “You overestimate me.”

  “When you were away, it felt like for ever, but now you’re here again and I can actually look at you and touch you; it’s as though you’d never been away at all. And it wasn’t just me that missed you. It was Papa, too, pining for his backgammon.”

  “I’ll come up one evening and we’ll have a game.” He leaned forward and took her face in his hands. He said, “You are just as ravishingly beautiful as I remembered you.” His tired eyes crinkled up in amusement. “Perhaps more so.”

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You. Had you forgotten that you are wearing a most unbecoming paper hat?”

  He stayed only for a little while, long enough to drink the whisky Lawrence had brought him. After that, exhaustion took over and, swallowing yawns, he pulled himself to his feet, apologized for being such dull company, and said good night. Penelope saw him out. In the darkness beyond the open door, they kissed. Then he left her, making his way down the garden, headed for a hot shower, his bunk, and sleep.

  She came indoors and closed the door. She hesitated for a moment, needing time to collect her flying thoughts, and finally went into the dining room, found a tray, and started in on the tedious business of clearing up the remains of Nancy’s party.

  She was in the kitchen, washing up at the sink, when Doris joined her.

  “Nancy’s asleep already. Wanted to go to bed in her new dress.” She sighed. “I’m bushed. I thought that party was never going to end.” She flicked a towel from the rack, and came to dry. “Has Richard gone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thought he’d be taking you out for supper tonight.”

  “No. He’s gone back to catch up on his sleep.”

  Doris wiped and stacked a pile of plates. “Still, it was nice, him turning up like that. Expecting him, were you?”

  “No.”

  “Thought not.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I was watching you. You went all white in the face. All bright-eyed. Like you was going to faint.”

  “I was just surprised.”

  “Oh, come off it, Penelope. I’m not a fool. It’s like forked lightning when you two are together. I could see the way he looked at you. He’s potty about you. And by the looks of you, since he walked into your life, it’s mutual.”

  Penelope was washing a Peter Rabbit mug. She turned it over in her hands, in the soapy water. “I didn’t realize it showed so much.”

  “Well, don’t sound so miserable about it. Nothing to be ashamed of, having a fling with a handsome chap like Richard Lomax.”

  “I don’t think I’m just having a fling. I know I’m not. I’m in love with him.”

  “Get away.”

  “And I don’t exactly know what I’m going to do.…”

  “It’s as serious as that?”

  Penelope turned her head and looked at Doris. Their eyes met, and it occurred to her, at that moment, that they had become, over the years, very close. Sharing responsibilities, sorrows, frustrations, secrets, jokes, and laughter, they had built themselves a relationship that went beyond the bounds of mere friendship. In fact, as much as any person could, Doris … worldly, practical, and infinitely kind … had filled the aching void left by Sophie’s death. And so it was easy to confide.

  “Yes.”

  There was a pause. “Sleeping with him, are you?” asked Doris, marvellously casual.

  “Yes.”

  “How the hell did you manage that?”

  “Oh, Doris, it wasn’t very difficult.”

  “No … I mean … well, where?”

  “The studio.”

  “I’ll be buggered,” said Doris, who only swore when she found herself at a total loss for words.

  “Are you shocked?”

  “Why should I be shocked? It’s nothing to do with me.”

  “I’m married.”

  “Yes, you’re married, worse luck.”

  “Don’t you like Ambrose?”

  “You know I don’t. Never said as much, but a straight question deserves a straight answer. I think he’s a rotten husband and a rotten father. He scarcely ever comes to see you, and don’t tell me he doesn’t get leave. He hardly ever writes. And he doesn’t even send Nancy a birthday present. Honest, Penelope, he’s not worthy of you. Why you ever married the man is a mystery to me.”

  Penelope said hopelessly, “I was having Nancy.”

  “That’s a bloody reason if ever I heard one.”

  “I never thought you’d say that.”

  “What do you think I am? Some sort of a saint?”

  “Then you don’t disapprove of what I’m doing?”

  “No, I don’t. Richard Lomax is a real gentleman, head and shoulders over a twerp like Ambrose Keeling. And why shouldn’t you have some fun? You’re only twenty-four and, God knows, life’s been dull enough for you these past few years. I’m just surprised you haven’t gone off the rails before, the sort of woman you are. Except, let’s face it, before Richard came, we were a bit short of local talent.”

  Despite herself, despite everything, Penelope started to laugh. “Doris, I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “Lots of things, I expect. At least now I know which way the wind’s blowing. And I think it’s great.”

  “But how will it end?”

  “There’s a war on. We don’t know how anything’s going to end. We just have to grasp each fleeting moment of joy as it whizzes by. If he loves you and you love him, then you just go ahead. I’m right behind you both and I’ll do everything I can to help. Now, for God’s sake, let’s get these dishes out of the way before the boys get home and it’s time to start cooking the supper.”

  * * *

  It was December. Before they knew it, Christmas was upon them, with all its attendant trimmings. It was hard, in the denuded shops of Porthkerris, to buy anything suitable for anybody, but presents were somehow assembled and wrapped and hidden, just like any other year. Doris made a War Time Christmas Pudding from a Ministry of Food recipe, and Ernie promised to wring the neck of a likely fowl, in lieu of a turkey. General Watson-Grant provided, from his garden, a little spruce, and Penelope dug out the box of Christmas-tree decorations—the baubles and trinkets left over from her own childhood, the gilded fir-cones and paper stars and chains of tarnished tinsel.

  Richard had Christmas leave, but was going to London to spend a few days with his mother. Before he left, however, he came to Carn Cottage to deliver his gifts for them all. They were wrapped in brown paper and tied with red ribbon, and labelled with stickers bright with holly and robins. Penelope was deeply touched. She imagined him shopping, buying the ribbon; sitting, perhaps on his bed, in his austere cabin at the Royal Marine HQ, painstakingly wrapping, and tying bows. She tried to imagine Ambrose doing anything so personal and time-consuming, but failed.

  She had bought, for Richard, a scarlet lamb’s-wool muffler. It had cost not only money but precious clothing coupons as well, and probably he would think it hopelessly impractical, for it could not be worn with uniform and he was never in plain clothes. But so luxurious was it, so cheerful and Christmassy, that Penelope had been unable to resist. She wrapped it in tissue paper, and found a box for it, and, when Richard had piled his gifts beneath their tree, she gave him the package to take with him to London.

  He turned it over in his hands. “Why don’t I open it now?”

  She was horrified. “Oh, no, you mustn’t. You must keep it till Christmas morning.”

  “All right. If you say so.”

  She did not want to say goodbye. But, “Have a happy time,” she told him, smiling.

  He kissed her. “You too, my darling.” It was like being torn apart. “Happy Christmas.”

  * * *

  Christmas morning started early as ever, and wa
s the usual riot of excitement, with all six of them gathered in Lawrence’s bedroom, the grown-ups drinking mugs of tea, and the children bundled on his big bed to open their stockings. Trumpets tootled, and tricks were played and apples eaten, and Lawrence put on a false nose with a Hitler moustache, and everybody fell about with laughter. Breakfast came next, and then, traditionally, they all trooped into the sitting room and started in on the presents piled under the tree. Excitement rose. Soon the floor was piled with paper and tinselled string, the air filled with shrieks of glee and satisfaction. “Oh, thanks, Mum, it was just what I wanted. Look, Clark, a hooter for my bike.”

  Penelope had set Richard’s present aside, and left it to open last of all. The others were not so strong-minded. Doris tore the paper off hers and produced from the wrappings a silk scarf, of extravagant size and richness, and patterned in all the colours of the rainbow.

  “I’ve never had such a thing before!” she crowed, and proceeded to fold it into a triangle, toss it over her head, and knot it beneath her chin. “How do I look?”

  Ronald told her. “Like Princess Elizabeth on her pony.”

  “Ooh,” she was delighted. “Very la-di-da.”

  For Lawrence, there was a bottle of whisky; for the boys, proper lethal, professional catapults. For Nancy, a doll’s tea-set, white china, gold-rimmed, and painted with tiny flowers.

  “What’s he given you, Penelope?”

  “I haven’t opened it yet.”

  “Open it now.”

  She did so, with all their eyes upon her. Untied the bow and folded back the crisp brown paper. Inside was a white box, edged in black. Chanel No 5. She took the lid off the box and saw the square bottle set in folds of satin, the crystal stopper, the precious golden liquid contents.

  Doris was open-mouthed. “I’ve never seen such a size of a bottle. Not outside a shop, I haven’t. And Chanel No 5! You aren’t half going to smell good.”

  Inside the lid of the box was a tightly folded blue envelope. Surreptitiously, Penelope removed this and put it into the pocket of her cardigan. Later, when the others were clearing up the littered paper, she went upstairs to her room and opened the letter.

  My darling girl.

  Happy Christmas. This has come to you from across the Atlantic. A good friend of mine was in New York, where his cruiser was re-fitting, and he brought it back when they returned to England. To me, the scent of Chanel No. 5 evokes everything that is glamorous and sexy and light-hearted and fun. Lunch at the Berkeley; London in May with the lilac blossom out; laughter, and love; and you. You are never out of my thoughts. You are never out of my heart.

  Richard.

  It was the same dream. She thought of it as Richard’s country. Always the same. The long, wooded land, the house at the end of it, flat-roofed, a Mediterranean house. The swimming pool, and Sophie swimming there, and Papa at his easel, his face blanked out by the shadow cast by the brim of his hat. And then the empty beach, and the knowledge that she was seeking not for shells but for a person. He came, and she saw him coming, from far off, and was filled with joy. But before she could reach his side, the mist rolled in from the sea, a dark fog rising like a tide, so that at first he appeared to be wading in it, and then drowning.

  “Richard.”

  She awoke, reaching for him. But the dream dissolved and he was gone. Her hands felt only the cold sheets on the other side of the bed. She could hear the sea murmuring on the beach, but there was no wind. All was quiet and still. So what had disturbed her, what lay at the edge of consciousness? She opened her eyes. Darkness was fading and, beyond the open window, the sky pale with the coming dawn, the half-light making clear the details of her own familiar room. The brass rail at the end of the bed, her dressing table, the tilted mirror reflecting the sky. She saw the little armchair, the open suitcase on the floor beside it, already half-packed.…

  That was it. The suitcase. Today. I am going away today. On holiday; for seven days; and with Richard.

  She lay and thought about him for a bit, and then remembered that puzzling dream. Never altering. Always the same sequence. Nostalgic images of lost content; then the searching. The whole fading to uncertainty and that final sense of loss. But, on analysis, perhaps after all it was not so puzzling, for the dream had first invaded her sleep soon after Richard returned from London at the beginning of January, and had recurred at irregular intervals during the past two and a half months.

  Which had proved a time of the most painful frustration because, so occupied and involved had he become in his job, that she had scarcely seen him. The Training Exercise, in proportion to the bitter weather, had visibly intensified. This was made evident by the increasing number of troops and Army vehicles to be seen about the place. Convoys now frequently choked the narrow streets of the town and the harbour, and the Commando establishment on the North Pier seethed with military activity.

  Things, quite obviously, were hotting up. Helicopters hovered out at sea and, after the New Year, a company of sappers had appeared overnight, made their way out to the deserted moorland beyond the Boscarben Cliffs, and there set up a firing range. It looked sinister with barbed wire, red warning flags, and huge War Department signs warning the civilian population to keep out, and threatening death and destruction if they didn’t. When the wind was in the right direction, the sporadic sounds of gun-fire, day and night, could be clearly heard in Porthkerris. At night-time, it was particularly disquieting because, woken with a start and a pounding heart, you could never be quite sure exactly what was taking place.

  From time to time, Richard did appear, unheralded as always. His step in the hall, his raised voice never failed to fill her with joy. Usually these visits came after supper, when he would sit with herself and Papa, drink coffee, and later, play backgammon into the small hours. Once, telephoning and making the arrangement at the very last moment, he had taken her down to Gaston’s for dinner, where they drank a bottle of Gaston’s excellent wine and talked their way through weeks of absence from each other.

  “Tell me about Christmas, Richard. How was your Christmas?”

  “Quiet.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Took in concerts. Went to the Midnight Service at Westminster Abbey. Talked.”

  “Just you and your mother?”

  “A few friends dropped in. But most of the time just the two of us.”

  It sounded companionable. She was curious. “What did you talk about?”

  “Lots of things. You.”

  “Did you tell her about me?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  He reached across the table and took her hand. “That I’d found the only person in the world with whom I wanted to spend the rest of my life.”

  “Did you tell her that I’m married, and that I have a child?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was her reaction to that piece of news?”

  “Surprise. Then sympathy and understanding.”

  “She sounds nice.”

  He smiled. “I like her.”

  * * *

  Then, before they realized what was happening, the long winter was nearly over. In Cornwall, spring comes early. A scent in the air, a warmth in the sun makes itself evident, whilst the rest of the country continues to shiver. This year was no different. In the midst of warlike preparations, gun-fire, and hovering helicopters, migrating birds made their appearance in sheltered valleys. Despite the tall headlines in the newspapers, the speculation and rumours of the imminent invasion of Europe, the first of the balmy days stole up upon them, blue-skied, sweet-smelling, halcyon. Buds swelled on trees, the moor was misted green with young bracken, and the roadside banks starred with the creamy faces of wild primroses.

  On just such a day, Richard found himself free, without any pressing demands upon his time, and they were able, at last, to return to the studio. To light the fire and let it light their love; to inhabit once more their own private and secret world; to a
ssuage their separate needs and allow them to become a single, shining entity.

  Afterwards, “How long until we come here again?” she wanted to know.

  “I wish I knew.”

  “I am greedy. I always want more. I always want a tomorrow.”

  They sat by the window. Beyond, all was sunlit, the sands a dazzling white, the deep-blue sea dancing with sunpennies. Gulls, drifting on the wind, wheeled and screamed, and just below them, by a rock pool, two small boys searched for shrimps.

  “Right now, tomorrows are at a premium.”

  “You mean the war?”

  “Like birth and death, it is part of life.”

  She sighed. “I do try not to be selfish. I remind myself of the millions of women in the world who would give all they had to be in my shoes, safe and warm and fed and with all my family about me. But it isn’t any good. I just feel resentful because I can’t be with you all the time. And somehow what makes it worse is that you’re actually here. You’re not guarding Gibraltar, or fighting in the jungles of Burma, or on some destroyer in the Atlantic. You’re here. And yet the war comes between us, and keeps us apart. It’s just that, with everything boiling up, and endless talk of the invasion, I have this terrible feeling that time is slipping by. And all we can grab is a few stolen hours.”

  He said, “I have a week’s leave at the end of the month. Will you come away with me?”

  While she spoke, she had been watching the two boys and their shrimping nets. One of them had found something, deep in the green weed. He squatted to inspect it, soaking the seat of his trousers. A week’s leave. A week. She turned her head and looked at Richard, convinced that she had either misheard him, or that he was teasing her out of her dissatisfaction.

  He read the expression in her face, and smiled. “I really mean it,” he assured her.

  “A whole week?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

  “I was saving it. The best for the end.”

  A week. Away from everything; everybody. Just the two of them. “Where would we go?” she asked cautiously.

  “Anywhere you want. We could go to London. Stay at the Ritz and do the round of theatres and night-clubs.”