When they had finally departed, I had time to think it all over, and the next morning telephoned Mr. Roy Brookner of Boothby’s. He came down and saw the panels, and took them away with him. He has found me a private buyer, an American, who has offered me a hundred thousand pounds for the pair. This offer I have accepted.
There are many ways I could spend this sudden windfall but, right now, I am going to do what I have been wanting to do for a long time, and that is go back to Cornwall. As neither you nor Noel nor Nancy felt that you had the time or the desire to come with me, I have invited Antonia and Danus. Danus was at first hesitant about accepting my invitation. It did come rather out of the blue, and I think he was embarrassed, and perhaps felt I was being, in some way, sorry for him and a little patronizing. I think he is a very proud young man. But I finally persuaded him that he would be doing us a kindness; we need a strong male to deal with luggage, porters, and head waiters. In the end, he agreed to speak to his employer and see if he could get the week off. This he has done, and we leave tomorrow morning, Antonia and myself sharing the driving. We shall not stay with Doris as there is not space in her little house for three visitors, so I have booked in at The Sands Hotel, and we shall be there over Easter.
I chose The Sands because I remember it as being unpretentious and homely. When I was a child, whole families used to come from London for the summer holidays. They came year after year, and brought their children and their chauffeurs and their nannies and their dogs, and every summer the management organized a little tennis tournament, and there was a party in the evening, when the grown-ups foxtrotted in dinner jackets and the children danced Sir Roger de Coverley and were given balloons. During the war, it was turned into a hospital and filled with poor wounded boys tucked up in scarlet blankets; where they were taught how to make baskets by pretty VADs in white caps.
But when I told Danus where we were going, he looked a little astonished. Apparently, The Sands is now very up-market and grand, and I think he was concerned, in the nicest possible sort of way, about the expense. But, of course, it doesn’t matter what it costs. This is the first time in my life I have actually written that sentence. It gives me the most extraordinary sensation, and I feel as though I had suddenly become a totally different person. I do not object to this in the very least, and feel as excited as a child.
Yesterday, Antonia and I drove to Cheltenham and shopped. This new Penelope took over, and you would not have recognized your frugal mother, but I think would have approved. We went quite mad. Bought dresses for Antonia, and a delicious cream satin shirt, and jeans and cotton pullovers and a yellow oilskin and four pairs of shoes. Then she disappeared into a beauty shop to have her fringe trimmed, and I went off on my own and spent money on delightful, unnecessary necessities for my holiday. A new pair of canvas lace-ups, some talcum powder, a huge bottle of scent. Camera films and face cream, and a cashmere pullover the colour of violets. I bought a thermos flask, and a tartan rug (for picnics), and a pile of paperbacks to keep myself amused (including The Sun Also Rises—it’s years since I read Hemingway). I bought a book on British birds, and another lovely one full of maps.
When I had completed this orgy of extravagance, I called in at the bank, then treated myself to a cup of coffee, and went to collect Antonia. I found her looking quite unfamiliar and very beautiful. Not only had she had her hair trimmed, but her eyelashes dyed. It totally changes her appearance. At first she was a bit embarrassed about it, but by now has got used to the idea and can be observed, only every now and then, taking admiring glances at herself in the mirror. I have not been so happy for a long time.
Mrs. Plackett comes in tomorrow and will clean and lock up the house after we have left. We return on Wednesday the twenty-fifth.
There is just one more thing. The Shell Seekers has gone. I have given it, as a memorial to my father, to the Art Gallery in Porthkerris which Papa helped to found. In a strange way, I need it no longer, and I like to think that others—ordinary people—will be able to share the pleasure and delight that it has always given me. Mr. Brookner arranged for its transport to the West Country, and a van duly arrived and carted it away. The gap over the fireplace is very apparent, but one day I shall fill it with something else. Meantime, I look forward to seeing it hanging, for all the world to see, in its new home.
I have not written to Noel nor Nancy. They will find out about everything sooner or later, and will probably be extremely resentful and annoyed, but I can’t help that. I have given them all I can, and they always want more. Perhaps now they will stop pestering me, and get on with their own lives.
But you, I believe, will understand.
My love, as always,
Mumma
Nancy was feeling a little uncomfortable with herself. The reason for this was because she had not been in touch with her mother since that abortive Sunday when the terrible row over the paintings had blown up, and Penelope had rounded on the pair of them and given her and Noel such a distasteful and distressing piece of her mind.
It wasn’t that Nancy felt guilty. On the contrary, she had been deeply hurt. Mother had come out with accusations that could never be unsaid, and Nancy had allowed the days to pass in frigid noncommunication because she expected Penelope to make the first move. To telephone, if not to apologize, then to chat, to ask after the children, perhaps to suggest a meeting. To prove to Nancy that all was forgotten and relations between them once more on a normal footing.
Nothing, however, happened. No such call came through. At first Nancy remained resolutely offended, nursing her umbrage. She resented the sensation that she had been put in the doghouse. She had, after all, done nothing wrong. Simply spoken up, concerned for the good of them all.
But gradually, she became worried. It was not like Mother to sulk. Was it possible that she was unwell? She had worked herself up into a terrible state, and that surely could not be good for an elderly woman who had suffered a heart attack. Had this had its repercussions? She quailed at the thought, pushed the niggle of anxiety out of her mind. Surely not. Surely, if so, Antonia would have been in touch. She was young and probably irresponsible, but even she could not be as irresponsible as that.
Concern became an obsession that Nancy could not get out of her mind. During the last day or so, she had actually gone to the telephone more than once and picked it up, intending to dial the Podmore’s Thatch number, only to replace the receiver because she couldn’t think what she was going to say, and could dream up no reason for saying it. And then inspiration struck. Easter loomed. She would invite Mother and Antonia over to the old Vicarage for Easter lunch. This would involve no loss of face, and over roast lamb and new potatoes, they would all become reconciled.
She was engaged in the not very arduous task of dusting the dining room when this brilliant plan occurred to her. She set down the duster and the tin of polish and went straight to the kitchen and the telephone. She dialled the number and waited, smiling socially, all ready to put that smile into her voice. She heard the ringing sound. It was not answered. Her smile faded. She waited for a long time. Finally, feeling totally let down, she replaced the receiver.
She rang again at three in the afternoon and again at six. She rang Faults, and asked the man to check the line. “It’s ringing out,” he told her.
“I know it’s ringing out. I’ve been listening to it ringing out all day. There must be something wrong.”
“Are you certain the person you are calling is at home?”
“Of course she’s at home. She’s my mother. She’s always at home.”
“If you leave it with me, I’ll check and ring you back.”
“Thank you.”
She waited. He rang back. There was nothing wrong with the line. Mother, it seemed, was simply not there.
By now Nancy was not so much worried as thoroughly annoyed. She rang Olivia in London.
“Olivia.”
“Hello.”
“Nancy here…”
“Yes. I guessed.”
“Olivia, I’ve been trying to get hold of Mother, and there’s no reply from Podmore’s Thatch. Have you any idea what can have happened?”
“Of course there’s no reply. She’s gone to Cornwall.”
“To Cornwall?”
“Yes. She’s gone off for Easter. Taken the car, along with Antonia and Danus.”
“Antonia and Danus?”
“Don’t sound so horrified.” Olivia’s voice was filled with amusement. “Why shouldn’t she? She’s been wanting to go for months, and none of us would go with her, so she’s taken them for company.”
“But surely they’re not all staying with Doris Penberth? There wouldn’t be room.”
“Oh, no, not with Doris. They’re staying at The Sands.”
“The Sands?”
“Oh, Nancy, do stop repeating everything I say.”
“But The Sands is the best. One of the best hotels in the country. It’s written up everywhere. It costs the earth.”
“But haven’t you heard? Mother’s got the earth. She’s sold the panels to a millionaire American for a hundred thousand pounds.”
Nancy wondered if she was going to be sick, or faint. Probably faint. She could feel the blood pour from her cheeks. Her knees trembled. She reached for a chair.
“A hundred thousand pounds. It’s not possible. They couldn’t be worth that. Nothing’s worth a hundred thousand pounds.”
“Nothing’s worth anything unless somebody wants it. There’s the rarity value as well. I tried to explain all this to you that day we lunched at L’Escargot. Lawrence Sterns seldom come on the market, and this American, whoever he is, probably wants those panels more than anything else in the world. And doesn’t care what he pays for them. Luckily for Mumma. I couldn’t be more pleased for her.”
But Nancy’s mind still raced. A hundred thousand pounds. “When did all this happen?” she managed at last.
“Oh, I don’t know. Sometime quite recently.”
“How do you know about it?”
“She wrote me a long letter and told me everything. Told me about the row she’d had with you and Noel. You are dreadful. I’ve told you over and over to leave her alone, but you wouldn’t. Just nagged incessantly until she couldn’t stand it another moment. I guess that’s why she finally decided to sell the panels. Probably realized that that was the only way to stop your endless needling.”
“That’s totally unfair.”
“Oh, Nancy, stop pretending to me and stop pretending to yourself.”
“They’ve got a terrible hold on her.”
“Who have?”
“Danus and Antonia. You should never have sent the girl to live with Mother. And I don’t trust Danus further than I could throw him.”
“Neither does Noel.”
“Doesn’t that worry you?”
“Not in the least. I have great faith in Mumma’s judgement.”
“And what about the money she’s squandering on them? Right now. Living in luxury at The Sands Hotel. With her gardener.”
“Why shouldn’t she squander the money? It’s hers. And why shouldn’t she squander it on herself and two young people she happens to be fond of? Like I said, she asked us all to go with her and none of us would. We had our chance and we turned it down. We have no one to blame but ourselves.”
“When I was invited, The Sands Hotel was never mentioned. It was going to be bed-and-breakfast in Doris Penberth’s spare bedroom.”
“Is that what stopped you from accepting? The thought of pigging it with Doris? Would you have gone if The Sands Hotel had been dangled in front of your nose, like a carrot before a donkey?”
“You have no right to say that.”
“I have every right. I’m your sister, God help me. And there’s another thing you should know. Mumma’s gone to Porthkerris because she’s been yearning to for ages; but as well, she’s gone to see The Shell Seekers. She’s donated it to the Art Gallery there, in memory of her father, and she wants to look at it, hanging in its new home.”
“Donated it?” For a moment, Nancy thought she had misheard, or certainly misunderstood her sister. “You mean, she’s given it away?”
“Just that.”
“But it’s probably worth thousands. Hundreds of thousands.”
“I’m sure everybody concerned appreciates that.”
The Shell Seekers. Gone. The sense of injustice perpetrated upon her and her family left Nancy cold with rage. “She always told us,” she said bitterly, “that she couldn’t live without that picture. That it was part of her life.”
“It was. For years, it was. But I think now that she feels she can do without it. She wants to share it. She wants other people to enjoy it.”
Olivia, it was quite obvious, was on Mother’s side.
“And what about us? What about her family? Her grandchildren. Noel. Does Noel know about this?”
“I’ve no idea. I don’t suppose so. I haven’t seen nor heard of him since he took Antonia down to Podmore’s Thatch.”
“I shall tell him.” It was a threat.
“Do that,” said Olivia, and rang off.
Nancy slammed down the receiver. Damn Olivia. Damn her. She lifted the instrument once more and with shaking hands dialled Noel’s number. She could not remember when she had been so upset.
“Noel Keeling.”
“Nancy here.” She spoke grimly, feeling important, calling a family conference.
“Hi.” He did not sound enthusiastic.
“I’ve just been speaking to Olivia. I tried to ring Mother, but there was no reply, so I called Olivia to see if she knew what was going on. She did know, because Mother had written her a letter. She wrote to Olivia, but she never bothered to get in touch with either you or me.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Mother’s gone to Cornwall, and she’s taken Danus and Antonia with her.”
“Good God.”
“And they’re staying at The Sands Hotel.”
That caught his attention.
“The Sands? I thought she was going to stay with Doris. And how can she afford The Sands? It’s one of the most bloody expensive hotels in the country.”
“I can tell you how. Mother’s sold the panels. For a hundred thousand pounds. Without, I may say, discussing it with any of us. A hundred thousand pounds, Noel. Which, by the looks of it, she intends to squander. And that’s not all. She’s given The Shell Seekers away. Gifted the picture to the Art Gallery in Porthkerris, if you please. Simply handed it over, and heaven knows what it must be worth. I think she must be mad. I don’t believe she knows what she’s doing. I told Olivia what I believe. That those two young people, Antonia and Danus, have got a sinister hold on her. It happens, you know. You read about such things in the papers. It’s criminal. It shouldn’t be allowed. There must be something we can do to stop it. Noel. Noel? Are you still there?”
“Yes.”
“What do you say?”
Noel said “Shit” and rang off.
The Sands Hotel,
Porthkerris,
Cornwall.
Thursday, 19th April.
Darling Olivia,
Well, here we all are, and we’ve been here for a whole day. I cannot tell you how beautiful it all is. The weather is like high summer and there are flowers everywhere. And palm trees, and little cobbled streets, and the sea is the most wonderful blue. A greener blue than the Mediterranean, and then a very dark blue out on the horizon. It is like Ibiza, only better, because everything is green and lush, and in the evenings, when the sun has gone down, it’s all damp and smells leafy.
We had a wonderful trip down. I drove most of the way and then Penelope a bit, but Danus didn’t because he doesn’t drive. Once we’d got onto the motorway it didn’t take any time at all, and your mother couldn’t believe how fast we were going. When we got to Devon, we took the old road over Dartmoor, and ate our picnic on the top of a rock, with view
s in all directions, and there were small shaggy ponies who were pleased to consume the crusts of our sandwiches.
The hotel is out of this world. I’ve never stayed in an hotel before and I don’t think Penelope has either, so it’s all new experience. She kept telling us how comfortable and cosy it was all going to be, but when we finally came up the drive (between banks of hydrangeas) it was instantly obvious that we’d let ourselves in for a life of luxury. A Rolls and three Mercedes parked in the forecourt, and a uniformed porter to deal with our luggage. Danus calls it our matched luggage, because each of our suitcases is just as battered and disreputable as the others.
Penelope, however, has taken everything in her stride. By everything, I mean enormously thick carpets, swimming pools, Jacuzzis, private bathrooms, televisions by our beds, huge bowls of fresh fruit, and flowers everywhere. We have clean sheets and towels every day. Our rooms are all in the same corridor, and have adjoining balconies, looking out over the gardens and the sea. From time to time, we step out onto them and converse with each other. Just like Noel Coward’s Private Lives.
As for the dining room, it is like being taken out for dinner in the most expensive restaurant in London. I am sure I shall become quite blasé about oysters, lobsters, fresh strawberries, thick Cornish cream, and fillet steaks. It is splendid having Danus with us, because he gives much thought as to what we are to drink with this delicious food. He seems to know an awful lot about wines, but he never drinks himself. I don’t know why, any more than I don’t know why he doesn’t drive a car.
There is so much to do. This morning we went down into the town, and our first port of call was Carn Cottage, where your mother used to live. But it was sad because, like so many houses down here, it has been turned into an hotel, the lovely stone wall demolished, and most of the garden bulldozed into a car-park. But we went into what remains of the garden and the hotel lady brought us out a cup of coffee. And Penelope told us about how it used to be, and how her mother had planted all the old roses, and the wistaria, and then she told us about her being killed in London during the Blitz. I never knew about this. When she told us, I wanted to cry, but I didn’t, I just hugged her, because her eyes went all bright with tears, and somehow I couldn’t think of anything else to do.
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