The Shell Seekers (42 page)

The next morning he was up early, to cook himself a vast breakfast of bacon, egg, and sausage, four slices of toast, and a pot of black coffee. Eating this at the kitchen table, he watched the rain pour down the window-pane and was glad of it, because there could be no chance of his being seduced out into the garden and asked to perform some task for his mother. When he was onto his second cup of coffee and fully awake, she appeared in her dressing-gown, looking mildly surprised at his appearance, so early on a Saturday morning, and so spry.

"You won't make too much noise, will you, darling? I'd like Antonia to sleep as long as she can. Poor child, she must have been exhausted."

"I heard you gassing away into the small hours. What were you talking about?"

"Oh, just things." She poured herself some coffee. "Noel, you won't throw anything away, will you, without asking me first?"

"I'm not going to do anything except find out what you've got stashed away up there. The burning and destruction can wait until tomorrow. But you must be sensible. Old knitting patterns and wedding photographs circa 1910 are definitely for the chop."

"I dread to think what you're going to turn up."

"You never know," Noel told her, smiling wide-eyed into her face. "You simply never know."

He left her drinking coffee, and went upstairs. But before he could start work, one or two practical difficulties had to be ironed out. The loft had only one tiny window, set deep in the east gable, and the single light bulb, suspended from the centre beam of the thatched roof, was so weak and dim, it did little to supplement the small gleam of grey daylight. Noel went back downstairs and demanded of his mother a good strong bulb. She unearthed one from a box under the stairs, and he took this back to the loft and, balancing on a rickety chair, unscrewed the old bulb and screwed in the new. But, turning on the switch, he realized that even this did not give enough light to perform the careful investigation he had in mind. A lamp, that was what he needed. There was one right there, an old standard lamp with a crooked broken shade and a long, trailing flex, but no plug. This entailed a further journey downstairs. He took another strong bulb out of the cardboard box and asked his mother if she had a spare plug. 

She said that she hadn't. Noel said that he had to have one. She said, in that case, take one from some other appliance. He said that he would need a screwdriver. She told him that there was one in her useful drawer, and, beginning to look a little exasperated, she pointed it out to him.

"That one, Noel, in the dresser."

He opened the drawer to a tangle of picture wire, fuses, hammers, boxes of tacks, and flattened tubes of glue. Stirring around, he came upon a small screwdriver, and with this re-moved the plug from her iron. Upstairs again, he rewired, with some difficulty, the plug to the flex of the old lamp and, praying that it would be long enough, eased it down the stairs and plugged it into the socket on the landing. For what felt like the hundredth time, he went back up the stairs, pressed the switch of the lamp, and breathed a sigh of relief as the light went on. Easily discouraged by the smallest difficulty, he felt quite drained, but now all was illuminated, and he could, at last, begin.

By midday he had worked his way half down the length of the cluttered and dusty attic. Had gone through three trunks, a worm-eaten desk, a tea-chest, and two suitcases. He had found curtains and cushions, a number of wineglasses wrapped in news-paper, photo albums, massive in their sepia dullness, a doll's tea-set, and a pile of age-yellowed pillowcases, worn beyond repair. He had found leather-bound account books, the entries meticulous in faded copperplate handwriting; bundles of letters, tied in ribbon; half-finished tapestries stuck with rusty needles, and some instructions for operating the very latest invention, a knife-cleaning machine. Once, coming upon a large cardboard folder tied with tapes, hope had risen. With hands trembling with excitement, he had untied the tapes, only to be faced with a number of governessy water-colours depicting the Dolomites, and executed by God knows whom. The disappointment was tremendous, but he gathered up his energy and continued with his task. There were ostrich feathers, and silken shawls with long tangled fringes; embroidered table-cloths, yellowed at their folds; jigsaws, and some half-finished knitting. He found a chessboard, but no chess men; playing cards, a 1912 edition of
Burke's Landed Gentry
.

He did not find anything remotely resembling a work of Lawrence Stern.

Footsteps sounded on the stair. He was perched, dusty, and grimy, on a footstool, disconsolately reading a Household Hint on how to launder black woollen stockings, and, looking up, saw Antonia at the top of the stairs. She wore jeans and sneakers and a white sweater, and it crossed his mind that it was a pity about the pale eyelashes, because she had a quite sensational figure.

"Hello," she said; sounding shy and tentative, as though reluctant to disturb him.

"Hello there." He closed the battered book with a bang and dropped it on the floor at his feet. "When did you surface?"

"About eleven o'clock."

"I didn't wake you?"

"No. I didn't hear a thing." She moved towards him, edging through and stepping over the painfully sorted lumber. "How are you getting on?"

"Slowly. The general idea is to sort the wheat from the chaff. Try to get rid of anything that's a possible fire risk."

"I hadn't any idea it would be as bad as this." She stopped to look about her. "Where's it all come from?"

"You may well ask. The attics at Oakley Street. And other attics of other houses, going back through the centuries, by the look of things. It must be an inherited failing, this total inability ever to throw anything away."

Antonia stooped and picked up a scarlet silk shawl. "This is pretty." She draped it around her shoulders, arranging the tangled fringe. "How does it look?"

"Bizarre."

She removed the shawl, folding it with care. "Penelope sent me up to find out if you wanted something to eat."

Noel glanced at his watch and saw, with some surprise, that it was half past twelve. The day had not lightened, and so intent had he been on his task that he had lost all sense of time. He realized that he was not only hungry, but thirsty as well. He pulled himself off the footstool and onto his feet. "What I need more than anything else is a gin and tonic."

"Are you coming back this afternoon?"

"Have to. Otherwise it'll never get done."

"If you like, I'll come and help."

But he did not want her around . . . did not want any person watching. "That's sweet of you, but I'm better on my own, working at my own pace. Come on . . ." He shooed her in front of him, towards the stairs. "Let's go and see what Ma's got for lunch."

By half past six that evening, the long search was over, and Noel knew that he had drawn a blank. The attics of Podmore's Thatch were empty of treasure. Not so much as a single Lawrence Stem Sketch had turned up, and the entire project had been a total waste of time. Coming to terms with this bitter truth, he stood, with his hands in his pockets, and surveyed the trail of confusion which was all that he had achieved. Tired and dirty, with, hopes dashed, his gloom burnt to resentment. This was mostly directed against his mother, whose fault everything was. She had probably, at some time or other, destroyed the sketches, or sold them for a song, or even given them away. Her mindless generosity, along with her squirrel-like obsession with hoarding rubbish, had always maddened him, and now he let that fury flare, silently raging. His time was precious to him, and he had wasted a day going through the flotsam of God knew how many generations, simply because she had never got around to doing it for herself.

By now in a filthy temper, for a moment he actually contemplated abandoning ship and taking the escape route normally earmarked for One Star weekends, which was to remember suddenly a pressing engagement in London, make his goodbyes, and head for home.

But this was not possible, because he had gone too far and said too much. It was he who had initiated the exercise (house unsafe, fire risk, inadequate insurance, et cetera) and as well told Olivia about the possible existence of the sketches. Now, although he was pretty sure that they didn't exist, he could imagine Olivia's caustic remarks should he light out, leaving the job unfinished, and, thick-skinned as he was, he did not relish the prospect of a tongue-lashing from his clever sister.

There was nothing for it. He would have to stay. With some venom he kicked aside a broken doll's cot and, switching off the lights, took himself downstairs.

During the night, the rain ceased, the low clouds blown away and dispersed by a soft south-east wind. Sunday morning dawned clear-skied and tranquil, the stillness pierced only by a chorus of bird-song. It was this which awoke Antonia. The first rays of sunlight were slanting into her bedroom through the open window; these lay warm on the carpet, picked out the deep pink of the roses that patterned the curtains. She got out of bed and went to inspect the day, leaning bare forearms on the sill, smelling the damp and mossy-scented air. The thatch was so low that it tickled the top of her head, and she saw the dew glittering on the grass, and the two thrushes carolling away in the chestnut tree— the sweet mistiness of a perfect spring morning.

It was half past seven. All yesterday it had rained, and they had not emerged outdoors. Antonia, still unrecovered from traumas and travels, could have asked for nothing better than a house-bound day. She was left alone, snugged by the fire, with the raindrops streaming down the window-panes and the lights on because it was so grey and dark. She had found a book, an Elizabeth Jane Howard she had never read, and after lunch curled up on the sofa to lose herself in it. From time to time Penelope would appear to put a log on the fire, or search for her spectacles, and later she joined Antonia, not to chat, but to read the papers, and later still, bring tea. Up in the attic, Noel, on his own, had spent the long day, finally appearing in what was, obviously, a very bad temper.

This made Antonia a little uncomfortable. She and Penelope were now in the kitchen, companionably preparing dinner, and one look at Noel's expression was enough to bring on a feeling of doom, and a certainty that his disgruntlement was about to destroy the peaceful mood of the day.

To be honest, everything about Noel made her feel a little uncomfortable. He had all of Olivia's dark, quick-tongued vitality, but none of his sister's warmth. He made Antonia feel plain and gauche, and she found it difficult to think of things to say to him that were neither banal nor boring. When he came through the kitchen door, with a face black as thunder and a streak of dust down one side of his cheek, to pour himself a strong whisky and demand of his mother why the hell she'd brought all that clobber down to Gloucestershire from Oakley Street, Antonia's legs had quaked at the prospect of a scene, or, worse, an evening of silent sulks, but Penelope took it all in her stride, was unprovoked by his attack, and was obviously not about to be browbeaten by her son.

"Laziness, I suppose," she told Noel airily. "It was easier to pack it all into the removal van than to start deciding what to do with it. I'd enough on my plate without going through all those old books and letters."

"But who collected them all in the first place?"

"I've no idea."

Defeated, silenced by her good humour, he tossed the whisky down the back of his throat, and at once became a little more relaxed. He even managed a wry smile. "You are," he told his mother, "the most impossible woman."

She accepted this, as well. "Yes, I know, but we can't all be perfect. And just think how good I am at other things. Like cooking meals for you and always having the right sort of drink in the cupboard. Your father's mother, if you recall, never kept anything in her sideboard except bottles of sherry that tasted like raisins."

He screwed up his face in remembered distaste. "What is for dinner?"

"Baked trout with almonds, new potatoes, and raspberries and cream. No less than you deserve. And you can choose a suitable bottle of wine and then take your drink upstairs and have a bath." She smiled at her son, but her dark eyes were sharp. "I'm certain you need one, after all that hard labour."

And so, after all, it had been an easy evening. Tired, they had all gone to bed early and Antonia had slept through the night. Now, with the resilience of youth, and for the first time for days and days, she felt herself again. She wanted to be out of doors, running through grass, filling her lungs with cool fresh air. The spring morning waited for her and she knew that she must be part of it.

She dressed, went downstairs, took an apple from the bowl on the kitchen dresser, and let herself out through the conservatory and into the garden. Eating the apple, she crossed the lawn. The dew soaked through her canvas sneakers and they left a trail of footsteps on the damp grass. Under the chestnut tree and through the gap in the privet hedge, she found herself in the orchard. A rough path wound down through the unkept grass, already spiked by the daffodil shoots, past the remains of a bonfire, and around a newly trimmed hawthorn hedge. Beyond, she came upon the river, flowing deep and narrow between high banks. She followed this downstream, beneath an arch of willows, and then the willows thinned out and the river wound onwards through wide water meadows filled with grazing cattle; beyond these the gentle hills climbed to the sky. There were sheep on the upland pastures, and in the distance a man, with a dog at his heels, climbed the slope towards them.