The Shell Seekers (66 page)

"Then don't let's say it."

"I don't want it to be over."

"It's not over, my darling girl." He smiled. "It hasn't even begun."

"He has gone?"

She knitted. "Yes, Papa."

"He never said goodbye."

"But he came to see you; to bring you a bottle of whisky. He didn't want to say goodbye."

"Did he say goodbye to you?"

"No. He just walked away, down the garden. That was the way we planned it."

"When will he be back?"

She came to the end of her row, changed needles, started another. "I don't know."

"Are you being secretive?"

"No."

He fell silent. Sighed. "I shall miss him." Across the room, his dark, wise eyes rested upon his daughter. "But not, I think, as much as you will."

"I'm in love with him, Papa. We love each other."

"I know that. I've known it for months."

"We are lovers."

"I know that too. I've watched you bloom, become radiant. A shine on your hair. I've longed to be able to hold a brush, to paint that radiance and capture it forever. Also, . . ." He be-came prosaic. ". . . You don't go away for a week with a man and spend the time talking about the weather." She smiled at him, but said nothing. "What will become of you both?"

"I don't know."

"And Ambrose?"

She shrugged. "I don't know that either."

"You have problems."

"A marvellous understatement."

"I am sorry for you. I am sorry for you both. You deserve a better fortune than to find each other in the middle of a war."

"You . . . you like him, don't you, Papa?"

"I never liked a man so well. I should like him as a son. I think of him as a son."

Penelope, who never wept, all at once felt tears prick at the back of her eyes. But this was no time for sentiment. "You are a villain," she told her father. "I've said so many times before." The tears, mercifully, receded. "You shouldn't be condoning this. You should be cracking your horsewhip and grinding your teeth, and daring Richard Lomax to darken your doorstep ever again."

She was rewarded by a gleam of amusement. "You insult me," he told her.

Richard was gone, the vanguard of a general exodus. By the middle of April, it was clear to the inhabitants of Porthkerris that the Royal Marine Training Scheme, their own small involvement in the war, was over. The American Rangers and the Comman-dos—as quietly and inconspicuously as they had come—de-parted, and the narrow streets of the town were empty and strangely quiet, no longer ringing with the tramp of booted feet, or the din of military vehicles. The landing craft disappeared from the harbour, towed away one night under cover of darkness; barbed-wire barriers were removed from the North Pier; and the Commando Headquarters were de-requisitioned and handed back to the Salvation Army. Up on the hill, the temporary Nissen huts of the American Base stood forlorn and empty, and from the deserted ranges out at Boscarben no longer came the sound of gun-fire.

Finally, all that remained as evidence of the long winter's military activity was the Royal Marine Headquarters at the old White Caps Hotel. Here, the Globe and Laurel still snapped at the mast-head, the Jeeps stayed, parked in the forecourt, the sentry stood on duty by the gate, and Colonel Mellaby and his staff came and went. Their continued presence was a reminder, and gave credence, to everything that had taken place.

Richard was gone. Penelope learned to live without him, because there was no alternative. You couldn't say "I can't bear it" because if you didn't bear it, the only other thing to do was to stop the world and get off, and there did not seem any practical way to do this. To fill the void and occupy her hands and mind, she did what women, under stress and in times of anxiety, have been doing for centuries: immersed herself in domesticity and family life. Physical activity proved a mundane but comforting therapy. She cleaned the house from attic to cellar, washed blankets, dug the garden. It did not stop her from wanting Richard, but at least, at the end of it, she had a shining, sweet-smelling house and two rows of freshly planted young cabbages.

As well, she spent much time with the children. Theirs was a simpler world, their conversation basic and uncomplicated, and she was comforted by their company. Nancy, at three, had be-come a little person; engaging, single-minded, and determined; her remarks and pointed observations a source of constant wonder and amusement. But Clark and Ronald were growing up, and their arguments and opinions she found astonishingly mature. She gave them her full attention, helped them with their shell collections, listened to their problems, and answered their ques-tions. For the first time she saw them, nof simply as a pair of noisy little boys, with two hungry mouths that had to be fed, but equals. People in their own right. The future generation.

One Saturday, she took the three children to the beach. Re-turning to Cam Cottage, she found General Watson-Grant there, on the point of departure. He had come to see Lawrence. They had had a pleasant chat. Doris had given them tea. He was now on his way home.

Penelope walked with him to the gate. He paused, to touch with his stick, and admire, a clump of hostas, thick with quilted leaves and tall white spiky flowers. "Handsome things," he remarked. "Wonderful ground cover."

"I love them, too. They're so exotic." They moved on, by the escallonia hedge, which was already bursting with dark-pink buds. "I can't believe summer's here. Today, when the children and I were on the beach, we saw the old man with a face like a turnip, raking all the flotsam from the sands. And there are tents going up already, and the ice-cream parlour has opened. I suppose, before long, the first of the visitors will be arriving. Like swallows."

"Have you had news of your husband?"

". . . Ambrose? He's well, I think. I haven't heard from him for some time."

"Do you know where he is?"

"The Med."

"He'll miss this show, then."

Penelope frowned. "Sorry?"

"I said, he'll miss this show. Going into Europe. The invasion."

She said faintly, "Yes."

"Bloody bad luck on him. I tell you something, Penelope. I would give my right arm to be young again, and to be able to be in the thick of it. It's taken a long time to get this far. Too long. But now the whole country's ready and waiting to pounce."

"Yes. I know. The war has suddenly become terribly important again. Walking down a street in Porthkerris, you can listen to an entire news bulletin, from one house to the next. And people buy newspapers, and read them, then and there, on the pavement outside the paper shop. It's like it was at the time of Dunkirk, or the Battle of Britain, or El Alamein."

They had reached the gate. Once more they stopped, the General leaning on his stick.

"Good to see your father. Came on an impulse. Felt like a bit of a chin-wag."

"He needs company these days." She smiled. "He misses Richard Lomax and his backgammon."

"Yes. He told me." Their eyes met. His regard was kindly, and she found time to wonder just how much Lawrence had thought fit to tell his old friend. "To be honest, I hadn't realized young Lomax had gone. Have you heard from him?"

"Yes."

"How's he getting on?"

"He didn't really say."

"That follows. I don't suppose security's ever been so tight."

"I don't even know where he is. The address he gave me is nothing but initials and numbers. And the telephone might never have been invented."

"Oh, well. No doubt you'll hear from him soon." He opened the gate. "Now I must be on my way. Goodbye, my dear. Take care of your father."

"Thank you for coming."

"A pleasure." Suddenly, he raised his hat and leaned for-ward to give her a peck on the cheek. She was left wordless, for he had never in his life done such a thing before. She watched him go, stepping out briskly with his walking-stick.

The whole country's waiting. Waiting was the worst. Waiting for war; waiting for news; waiting for death. She shivered, closed the gate, and made her way slowly back up the garden.

Richard's letter arrived two days later. The first downstairs in the early morning, Penelope saw it lying where the postman had left it, on the hall chest. She saw the black italic writing, the bulky envelope. She took it into the sitting room, curled up in Papa's big chair, and opened it. There were four sheets of thin yellow paper, folded tight.

Somewhere in England 

May 20th, 1944 

My darling Penelope,

Over the past few weeks I have settled down a dozen times to write to you. On each occasion I have got no further than the first four lines, only to be interrupted by some telephone call, loud hailer, knock on the door, or urgent summons of one sort or another.

But at last has come a moment in this benighted place when I can be fairly certain of an hour of quiet. Your letters have all safely come, and are a source of joy. I carry them around like a lovesick schoolboy and read and reread them, time without number. If I cannot be with you, then I can listen to your voice.

Now, I have so much to say. In truth, it is difficult to know where to start, to remember what we spoke about and when we stayed silent. The unsaid is what this letter is about.

You never wanted to talk about Ambrose, and while we were at Tresillick, and inhabiting our own private world, there seemed little point. But, just lately, he has seldom been out of my mind, and it is clear that he is the only stumbling-block between us, and our even-tual happiness. This sounds appallingly selfish, but one cannot take another man's wife away from him and remain a saint. And so my mind, apparently of its own volition, plots ahead. To confrontation, admission, blame, lawyers, courts, and an eventual divorce.

There is always the possibility that Ambrose will be gentlemanly and allow you to divorce him. To be honest, I see no earthly reason why he should do this, and I am perfectly prepared to stand up in court as the guilty co-respondent and let him divorce you. If this happens, he must have access to Nancy, but that is a bridge we must cross when we reach it.

All that matters is that we should be together, and eventually—hopefully sooner than later—married. The war will, one day, be over. I shall be demobilized and returned, with thanks and a small gratuity, to civilian life. Can you deal with the prospect of being the wife of a schoolteacher? Because this is all I want to do. Where we shall go, where we shall live, and how it will be, I cannot tell, but if I have any choice, I should like to go back to the north, to be near the lakes and the mountains of the Peak district.

I know it all seems a long way off. A difficult road lies ahead, strewn with obstacles which, one by one, will have to be overcome. But thousand-mile journeys begin with the first step, and no expedition is the worse for a little thought.

On reading this through, it strikes me as the letter of a happy man who expects to live forever. For some reason, I have no fears that I will not survive the war. Death, the last enemy, still seems a long way off, beyond old age and infirmity. And I cannot bring myself to believe that fate, having brought us together, did not mean us to stay that way.

I think of you all at Cam Cottage, imagine what you are doing, and wish I were with you, sharing the laughter and domestic doings of what I have come to think of as my second home. All of it was good, in every sense of the word. And in this life, nothing good is truly lost. It stays part of a person, becomes part of their character. So part of you goes everywhere with me. And part of me is yours, forever. My love, my 'darling,

Richard.

On Tuesday, the sixth of June, the Allied Forces invaded Normandy. The Second Front had started, and the last long battle begun. The waiting was over.

The eleventh of June was a Sunday.

Doris, visited by a fit of religious zeal, had carted her boys off to church, and Nancy to Sunday school, leaving Penelope to cook the lunch. For once the butcher had turned up trumps and produced, from under his counter, a small leg of spring lamb. This was now in the oven, roasting and smelling delicious, and surrounded by crisping potatoes. The carrots simmered, the cabbage was shredded. For pudding, they would eat rhubarb and custard.

It was nearly twelve o'clock. She thought of mint sauce. Still wearing her cooking apron, she went out of the back door and made her way up the slope of the orchard. It was breezy. Doris had done a big wash and pegged it out on the line, and sheets and towels flapped and snapped in the wind like ill-set sails. The ducks and hens, penned into their run, saw Penelope coming and set up a great cackling, expecting food.

She found the mint, picked a sharply scented bunch of sprigs; but as she walked back through the long grass towards the house, she heard the sound of the bottom gate open and shut. It was too early for the church-goers' return, and so she went by way of the stone steps that led down onto the front lawn and stood there, waiting to see who was coming to call.

The visitor appeared, taking his time. A tall man, in uniform. A green beret. For the fraction of an instant, long enough for her heart to leap, she thought it was Richard, but at once saw that it was not. Colonel Mellaby reached the top of the path and paused. He raised his head and saw her watching him.