The Shell Seekers (59 page)

Richard thought about this. He said, "My father had a small friend who did exactly the same thing. And when my father asked him why he hadn't chosen a female of his own size, he replied that if he had, they would always have been known as that funny little couple. Perhaps that's why Colonel Trubshot proposed to Mrs. Trubshot."

"Yes, perhaps it is. I never thought of that."

She led him towards the North Beach by the shortest route, through back lanes and cobbled squares, up an enormously steep hill, and then down a twisting, stepped alley-way. Emerging from this, they stepped out onto the curved, cobbled road that skirted the north shore. A row of long, whitewashed cottages faced out over the bay, the flood tide, and the long breakers.

He said, "I've seen this bay often enough from the sea, but I've never actually been here. . . ."

"I like it better than the other beach. It's always empty and wild, and somehow much more beautiful. Now, we're nearly there. It's that little cottage with the sign hanging out and the window-boxes."

"Who is Gaston?"

"A genuine Frenchman, from Brittany. He used to fish out of Newlyn, in a crabber. He married a Cornish girl, and then he lost his leg in a dreadful accident at sea. After that he couldn't go fishing any longer, so he and Grace, that's his wife, opened this place. They've been running it now for nearly five years." She hoped he was not thinking it all looked a bit humble. "Like I said, it's not very grand."

He smiled, reaching out to open the door. "I don't like grand places."

Overhead, a bell tinkled. They went inside to a flagged passageway, and were at once assailed by the smell of mouth-watering food, spiced with garlic and herbs, and the sound of muted music. A jinky accordion. Paris, and nostalgia. An open archway led into the little dining room, beamed and whitewashed, the tables set with red gingham cloths and folded white napkins. There were candles and mugs of fresh flowers on each table, and in a mammoth fireplace, driftwood sparked and flickered.

Two of the tables were already occupied. A white-faced young Flight Lieutenant and his girl-friend ... or perhaps his wife . . . and an elderly couple who looked as though they might well have strayed to Gaston's as a change from the tedium of the Castle Hotel. However, the best table, the one in the window, stood empty.

As they hesitated, Grace, who had heard the bell ring, appeared, with something of a flourish, through the swing-door at the back of the room.

"Good evening. Major Lomax, is it? You booked a table. I've put you in the window. Thought you'd like the view, and ..." Over his shoulder, she spied Penelope. Her freckled, sun-browned face, under its thatch of bleached hair, split into an astonished grin. "Hello. What are you doing here? I didn't know you were coming."

"No, I don't suppose you did. How are you, Grace?"

"Lovely. Hard-worked as ever, of course, but we don't talk about that. Brought your father, have you?"

"No, not this evening."

"Oh well, nice to get out on your own for a change." Her eyes strayed, with some interest, to Richard.

"You don't know Major Lomax."

"It's nice to meet you. Now, where do you want to sit? Facing the view? You might as well make the most of it, because we'll have to draw the dratted black-out in a moment. Want something to drink, do you, and then I'll get the menu and you can order."

"What can we have to drink?"

"Not much . . ." She wrinkled her nose. "There's some sherry, but it's South African and tastes of raisins." She leaned across Richard, making a play of rearranging his cutlery. "Like some wine?" she breathed into his ear. "We always keep a bottle or two for Mr. Stern when he comes. I'm sure he wouldn't object if you was to have one."

"But how splendid."

"Don't make too much of a song and dance about it, though. There are others present. I'll get Gaston to decant it, and then they won't see the label." She dropped a mammoth wink, pro-duced a menu, and left them to it.

When she had gone, Richard sat back in his chair and looked amazed. "What treatment. Does this always happen?"

"Usually. Gaston and Papa are tremendous friends. He doesn't ever come out of the kitchen, but when Papa's here and the other customers have all gone, he'll emerge with a bottle of brandy, and he and Papa'11 sit into the small hours, putting the world to rights. And the music is Grace's idea. She says the room is so small, it stops people listening to other people's conversations. I know just what she means. In the dining room at the Castle, all you can hear is whispering and knives and forks scratching on plates. I'd rather have music. It makes it feel a bit like being in a film."

"Does that appeal to you?"

"It creates an illusion."

"Do you like the cinema?"

"Love it. Doris and I go twice a week, sometimes, in the winter-time. Never miss a show. There's not much else to do in Porthkerris these days."

"But it was different before the war?"

"Oh, of course, everything was different. And we were never here during the winter because we always spent it in London. We had a house in Oakley Street. We still do, but we don't go there." She sighed. "You know, one of the things I most hate about this war is being stuck in one place. It's difficult enough getting out of Porthkerris with only one bus a day and no petrol for the car. I suppose that's the price you pay for having been brought up to a nomad's existence. Papa and Sophie never stayed long in any one place. On any excuse, without any warning, we used to pack up and head for France or Italy. It made life marvellously exciting."

"You were an only child?"

"Yes. And very spoiled."

"I don't believe that."

"It's true. I was always with grown-ups, and treated like an adult. My best friends were my parents' friends. But that doesn't sound so odd when you remember how young my mother was. More like a sister, really."

"And beautiful."

"You're thinking of her portrait. Yes, she was lovely. But more than that, she was warm and funny and loving. Hot-tem-pered one moment, and laughing the next. And she could make a home anywhere. She carried a sort of security about with her. I can't think of a single person who didn't love her. I still think about her every day of my life. Sometimes, she seems very dead. And other times, I can't believe that she isn't somewhere in the house and that a door won't open and she'll be there. We were dreadfully self-sufficient—selfish, I suppose. We never wanted, nor needed, other people. And yet, when I think about it, our houses constantly bulged with visitors, quite often stray acquaintances who simply didn't have anywhere else to go. But friends, too. And family. Aunt Ethel and the Cliffords used to come every summer."

"Aunt Ethel?"

"Papa's sister. She's a great character, mad as a hatter. But she hasn't been to Cam Cottage for ages, partly because Doris and Nancy have taken over her room, and partly because she's left London and gone to live in wild Wales with some potty friends who breed goats and do hand-looming. You can laugh but it's true. She always had the oddest chums."

"And the Cliffords?" he prompted, longing to hear more.

"That's not so funny. The Cliffords don't come because they're dead. They were killed by the same bomb that killed Sophie. ..."

"I'm sorry. I didn't realize."

"Why should you? They were Papa's dearest friends. They shared Oakley Street with us. When it happened, when he heard over the telephone, he changed. He became very old. Quite suddenly. In front of my eyes."

"He's a fantastic man."

"He is very strong."

"Is he lonely?"

"Yes. But then most old people are."

"He is fortunate to have you."

"I could never leave him, Richard."

They were interrupted by the arrival of Grace, bursting through the swing-doors with two carafes of white wine in her hands.

"There we are." She set them on the table, with another meaningful wink carefully concealed from the eyes of the other diners. "And now, I'm sorry but it's getting dark, and I'm going to have to do the blackout." She dealt deftly with the layers of curtains, tucking them in at the sides so that no gleam of light should penetrate. "Have you decided what you're going to eat?"

"We haven't even looked at the menu. What would you rec-ommend?"

"I'd have the mussel soup and then the fish pie. The meat's rotten this week. Tough as old bones and nothing but gristle."

"All right, we'll go for fish."

"And nice fresh broccoli and green beans? Lovely. Won't be a moment."

She took herself off, whisking empty plates from other tables as she went. Richard poured the wine. He raised his glass. "Good health."

"
Santi
."

The wine was light and cool and fresh. It tasted of France, and other summers, other times. Penelope set down her glass. "Papa would approve of that."

"Now, tell me more."

"What, about Aunt Ethel and her goats?"

"No, about you."

"That's boring."

"I don't find it so. Tell me about being in the Wrens."

"That's the last thing I want to talk about."

"Didn't you enjoy it?"

"I hated every moment."

"Then why did you join?"

"Oh, a stupid impulse. We were in London and . . . something happened. ..."

He waited. "What happened?"

She looked at him. She said, "You'll think I'm a fool."

"I doubt it."

"It's a long story."

"We have time."

And so she took a deep breath and began to tell him; starting with Peter and Elizabeth Clifford, and carrying on to that evening when she and Sophie had gone up to their flat for coffee and met, for the first time, the Friedmanns. "The Friedmanns were young. They were refugees from Munich. They were Jewish." Across the table, Richard listened, his eyes upon her, his face quiet. She realized that she was saying things that she had never been able to bring herself to tell to Ambrose. "And Willi Fried-mann started to talk about what was happening to the Jews in Nazi Germany. What people like the Cliffords had been trying to tell the world for years, but nobody wanted to listen. And for me, it made the war a personal thing. Horrifying; frightening; but personal. So the next day, I went out and walked into the first recruiting office I came to, and joined the Wrens. End of story. Pathetic, really."

"Not pathetic in the very least."

"It wouldn't have been if I hadn't almost instantly regretted it. I was homesick, and I didn't make any friends, and I hated having to live with a lot of strangers."

Richard was sympathetic. "You're not the only person to feel that way. Where did they send you?"

"Whale Island. The Royal Naval Gunnery School."

"Is that where you met your husband?"

"Yes." She looked down, picked up her fork, drew, with its prongs, a criss-cross pattern on the checked table-cloth. "He was a Sub Lieutenant, doing his courses."

"What's he called?"

"Ambrose Keeling. Why do you ask?"

"I thought I might have come across him, but I never have."

I don't suppose you would," she told him coolly. "He's much younger than you are. Oh, good ..." Her voice rose in relief. "Here's Grace with our soup." She added swiftly, "I've just realized how hungry I am," so that Richard would think that she was relieved because the soup had arrived, and not because there was now good reason to stop talking about Ambrose.

It was eleven o'clock before they finally set out for home, making their way through the lightless lanes of shuttered houses, climbing the hill. It had become much colder, and Penelope bundled herself in Sophie's shawl and was grateful for its scented comfort. High above, clouds sailed across a sky flung with stars, and as they ascended, leaving the crooked streets of Downalong far below them, the wind made itself felt, fresh and strong, blowing from the Atlantic.

They came at last to Grabney's Garage, and the last hill. Penelope paused, to push her hair out of her face, and gather the shawl more securely about her shoulders.

He said, "I'm sorry."

"Why?"

"Such a walk. I should have got a taxi."

"I'm not tired. I'm used to it. I do it two or three times a day."

He took her arm, lacing his fingers with hers, and they set off once more. He said, "I'm going to be fairly occupied during the next ten days, but when the opportunity presents itself, perhaps I can drop in and see you all. Have another game of backgammon."

"Any time," she told him. "Just appear. Papa would love to see you. And there's always some sort of a meal on the table, even if it's only soup and bread."

"That's kind."

"Not kind at all. You're the kind one. I haven't had such a lovely evening for years. ... I'd forgotten how it felt, being taken out for dinner."

"And after four years of Service life, I'd forgotten what it felt to be anywhere except a Mess, with a lot of other men who do nothing but talk shop. So perhaps we're doing each other a good turn."