The Shell Seekers (28 page)

"Was that all you were searching for?"

"Well, I did have a look around."

"For a folio of rough oil sketches."

"Something like that."

"But you didn't find them."

"Of course not. You couldn't find an elephant in all that clutter."

"Did Mumma know what you were looking for?"

"No."

"You are a despicable creep, Noel. Why do you always have to do everything the backhanded way?"

"Because she's no more idea what's in that loft than she knew what was up in the attics of Oakley Street."

"What is up there?"

"Everything. Old boxes; chests of clothes and bundles of letters. Dressmaker's dummies, toy perambulators, footstools, bags of tapestry wool, weighing machines, boxes of wooden blocks, piles of magazines tied together with string, knitting patterns, old picture frames . . . you name it, it's there. And like I said, it's all a hideous fire risk. The thatch does nothing to help. One spark on a windy day and the whole house would go up like a furnace. One simply hopes Ma will have time to fling herself from some window before she's incinerated. I say, this is a deli-cious quiche. Did you make it?"

"I never make anything. I buy it all from the supermarket." She pushed herself away from the mantelpiece and crossed the •room to the table behind him. He heard her pour a drink, and allowed himself a smile, because he knew that he had aroused her anxieties, and so caught her attention, and, hopefully, her sympathy. She came back to the fireside and sat on the sofa facing him, with the glass cradled in her hands.

"Noel, do you really think it's dangerous?"

"Yes. Honestly. Truthfully. I do."

"What do you think we should do?"

"Clear the whole place out."

"Mumma would never agree to that."

"All right, then, sort it out. But half of the junk up there is only fit for a bonfire, like the bundles of magazines and the knitting patterns and tapestry wool. ..."

"Why the tapestry wool?"

"It's alive with moth."

She said nothing to this. He had finished the quiche and now started in on the cheese, a particularly delicious wedge of Brie.

"Noel. You're not just blowing this all up just so that you've got a good excuse to go snooping? If you do find those rough sketches or anything else of value, remember that everything in that house belongs to Mumma."

He met her eye, assuming an expression of blameless innocence. "You surely don't think I'd steal them."

"I wouldn't put it past you."

He chose to ignore this. "If we found those rough sketches, have you any idea what they're worth? At least five thousand each."

"Why do you talk about them as if you know they're there?"

"I don't know they're there! I just suspect that they might be. But more important is that the loft is a potential fire risk and I think something should be done about it."

"Do you think we should get the whole house reassessed for insurance while we're about it?"

"George Chamberlain looked after all that when he bought the place for Ma. Perhaps you should have a word with him. And I'm not doing anything this weekend. I'll go down on Friday evening and tackle the Herculean task. I'll give Ma a ring, tell her I'm coming."

"Will you ask her about the sketches?"

"Do you think I should?"

Olivia did not answer at once. And then she said, "No, don't." He looked at her in some surprise. "I think it might fuss her, and I don't want her fussed. If they turn up, we can tell her, and if they aren't there, it makes no difference anyway. But, Noel, you're not to say another word to her about selling her pictures. They really are nothing to do with you."

He put his hand to his heart. "Scout's honour." He smiled. "You've come around to my way of thinking."

"You're a devious villain, and I shall never come round to your way of thinking."

He accepted this with equanimity, finished his supper in si- i lence, and then got to his feet and went to replenish his glass.

From behind him, she said, "Are you really going? To Podmore's Thatch, I mean."

"No reason not to." He returned to his chair. "Why?"

"You could do something for me."

"I could?"

"Do you know who I mean by Cosmo Hamilton?"

"Cosmo Hamilton? But of course. Lover boy from sunny Spain. Don't say he's come into your life again?"

"No, he hasn't come into my life. He's gone out of it. He's dead."

For once, Noel was truly startled and shocked. "Dead." Olivia's face was calm, but very pale and still, and he regretted his facetiousness. "Oh, I am sorry. But what happened?"

"I don't know. He died in hospital."

"When did you hear?"

"On Friday."

"But he was a young man."

"He was sixty."

"What a bloody thing to happen."

"Yes. I know. But the thing is, he has this young daughter, Antonia. She's arriving tomorrow at Heathrow from Ibiza, and she's going to stay here for a few days, and then go down to Podmore's Thatch and keep Mumma company for a bit."

"Does Ma know?"

"Of course. We fixed it on Saturday."

"She never said anything to me."

"I don't suppose she did."

"How old is this girl . . . Antonia?"

"Eighteen. I'd intended taking her myself and staying the weekend, but I've got tied up with a man. . . ."

Noel, himself again, raised an eyebrow. "Business or plea-sure?"

"Purely business. A French designer, queer as a coot, stay-ing at the Ritz, and I really want to spend some time with him."

"So?"

"So if you are going to Gloucestershire on Friday night, you'd do me a favour if you'd drive her down with you."

"Is she pretty?"

"Does your answer depend on it?"

"No, but I'd like to be told."

"At thirteen, she was charming."

"Not fat and spotty."

"Not in the least. When Mumma came out to stay with us in Ibiza, Antonia was there at the same time. They became tremendous friends. And since Mumma was ill, Nancy drones on about the fact that she shouldn't live alone. But if Antonia's with her, she won't be alone. I thought it was rather a good idea."

"You've got it all worked out, haven't you?"

Olivia ignored this gibe. "Will you take her?"

"Sure, I don't mind."

"When will you pick her up?"

Friday evening ... he considered. . . . "Six o'clock."

"I'll make a point of being back from the office. And, Noel. . . ." Suddenly she smiled. She had not smiled all evening, but she smiled now, and for an instant there was a fondness between them, a companionship. They might have been any affec-tionate brother and sister who had just spent a pleasant hour together. ". . . I'm grateful."

The next morning, from the office, Olivia rang Penelope. "Mumma."

"Olivia."

"Mumma, look, I've had to change my plans. I can't come down this weekend after all, I've got to do some business with a poncy Frenchman, and Saturday and Sunday are the only days he seems to be able to give me. I'm terribly sorry."

"But what about Antonia?"

"Noel's bringing her down. He hasn't phoned you yet?"

"Not a word."

"He will. He's coming down on Friday, and staying for a couple of days. We had a long family conference last night and decided you simply must have that loft of yours cleared out before the whole place goes up in smoke; I hadn't realized it was such a squirrel hoard. You are a naughty old thing."

"A family conference?" Penelope sounded surprised, as indeed she was. "You and Noel?"

"Yes, he dropped in yesterday evening and I gave him supper. He told me he'd been up to the loft to look for something, and that there's so much junk up there, it's a real fire risk. So we agreed that he should come down and clear it out. Don't worry, we're not really being overbearing, just concerned, and he's promised he won't throw anything away or burn it without your consent. I think it's rather kind of him. And he actually volunteered to do the job, so don't go all stuffy and say we're treating you like an idiot."

"I'm not being stuffy at all, and I think it's rather kind of Noel, too. I've been meaning to tidy it up myself, every winter for the past five years, but it's such a task, it was never difficult to find an excuse not to do it. Do you think Noel can manage on his own?"

"Antonia'll be there. She'd probably rather enjoy it. But don't you go humping anything."

Penelope was struck by a bright idea. "I could ask Danus to come for the day. Another pair of strong arms wouldn't come amiss, and he could be in charge of the bonfire."

"Who's Danus?"

"My new gardener."

"I forgot about him. What's he like?"

"A dear man. Has Antonia arrived yet?"

"No. I meet her off the plane this evening."

"Send her my love and say I can't wait to see her."

"I'll do that. And she and Noel will be with you on Friday evening, in time for dinner. I'm just sorry I'm not going to be there too."

"I shall miss you. But another time."

" 'Bye then, Mumma."

"Goodbye, my darling."

In the evening, Noel rang.

"Ma."

"Noel."

"How are you?"

"I'm splendid. I hear you're coming down for the weekend."

"Olivia's spoken to you?"

"This morning."

"She says I've got to come and empty the loft. She says she's having nightmares about you going up in smoke."

"I know, she told me. I think it's a good idea, and very kind of you."

"Well, that's a turn-up for the books; we thought you'd be livid."

"Then you thought wrong," Penelope retorted, a little weary of this new image of herself as a pigheaded, uncooperative old lady. "And I shall get Danus in for the day to help you. He's my new gardener, and I'm sure he won't mind. And he's terribly good at lighting bonfires."

Noel hesitated and then said, "Great."

"And you're bringing Antonia with you. I'll expect you then, on Friday evening. And don't drive too fast."

She was about to put the receiver down and cut him off, but he sensed this, and yelled "Ma," and she put it to her ear again.

"I thought we'd finished."

"I wanted to tell you about the sale. I went along to Booth-by's this afternoon. How much do you think
The Water Carriers
went for?"

"I've no idea."

"Two hundred and forty-five thousand, eight hundred pounds."

"Dear heaven. Who bought it?"

"An American art gallery. Denver, Colorado, I think."

She shook her head in wonder, as though he could see her.

"What a sum of money."

"Makes you sick, doesn't it?"

"It certainly," she told him, "makes you think."

Thursday. By the time Penelope had got herself out of bed and downstairs, the gardener was already at work. She had given him a key to the garage, so that he could gain access to the garden tools, and from her bedroom window he could be observed toiling in the vegetable garden. She did not disturb him, because, during that first day, she had been made to realize that he was not only hard-working, but a private sort of person, and would not relish her constantly appearing to give him the time of day, check on his activities, and generally make a nuisance of herself. If he needed anything, then he would come and ask her. If not, then he would simply get on with his task.

But still, at a quarter to twelve, with the sketchy housework accomplished, and a batch of bread proving on the Aga, she untied her apron and went down the garden to have a word, and remind him that she was expecting him, indoors, for lunch. It was warmer today, and there was quite a lot of blue sky. Not much heat in the sun, but still, she would lay the table in the conservatory, and they would eat their meal out there.

"Good morning."

He looked up and saw her, and straightened his back, leaning on the spade. The still morning air was filled with robust and heartening smells: freshly turned earth and the rotted compost mixed with a quantity of horse manure, which he had barrowed from her carefully nurtured heap.

"Good morning, Mrs. Keeling."

He had shed his jacket and sweater and worked in his shirtsleeves. His forearms were brown and knotted with lean muscle. As she watched him, he put up a hand and wiped a smear of mud from his chin with his wrist. The gesture caused a piercing sensation of deja vu, but now she was prepared for this, and it did not cause her heart to hiccup, but simply filled her with pleasure.

"You look warm," she told him.

He nodded. "It's warm work."

"Lunch will be ready at twelve."