The Shell Seekers (74 page)

"Oh, everything. She seems to think I'm senile. That I neglected her as a child and am extravagant in my old age. That I'm secretive and irresponsible and I don't know how to choose my friends. I think it's all been festering for some time, but my bringing you and Danus with me to Porthkerris proved the last straw. It all boiled over and came out on top of me." She smiled. "Oh well. Better out than in, as my darling Papa used to say."

Antonia, however, remained indignant. "How
could
she upset you so much?"

"I didn't let her upset me. I got cross instead. Much more healthy. And let's face it, there is always a funny side to every situation. I hung up on her, and imagined her storming back to George in floods of unbecoming tears, unleashing onto him all the iniquities of her feckless mother. And George, taking refuge behind
The Times
, saying nothing. He's always been the most uncommunicative of men. Why Nancy chose to marry him in the first place is beyond all comprehension. No wonder their children are so miserably unattractive. Rupert with his mannerless ways, and Melanie with her baleful glare, always chewing the end of her pigtails."

"I don't think you're being very kind."

"No, I'm not. I'm being malicious. But I'm glad it's hap-pened, because it's helped me make up my mind. I'm going to give you a present." Her huge leather handbag stood on the bedside table. She reached for it, rummaged deep into its capacious interior. Her fingers found what they were looking for. She with- drew the worn leather jewel case. "Here," she said, and handed it to Antonia. "These are for you."

"For me?"

"Yes. I want you to have them. Take it. Open it."

Almost reluctantly, Antonia took the jewel case. Pressed the little catch and snapped it open. Penelope watched her face. Watched her eyes widen in disbelief, her mouth drop open with amazement.

"But . . . these aren't for me."

"They are. I am giving them to you. I want you to have them. Aunt Ethel's earrings. She left them to me when she died, and I brought them out to Ibiza that time I stayed with you all, and wore them to Cosmo and Olivia's party. Do you remember?"

"But of course I do. And you can't give them to me. I'm sure they're far too valuable."

"No more so than our friendship. No more so than the pleasure you have brought me."

"But they must be worth thousands."

"I think four thousand. I could never afford the insurance for them, so I had to keep them in the bank. I picked them up that day we went to Cheltenham. And I don't suppose you'll be able to afford the insurance either, so they'll probably have to go back to the bank. Poor things, they don't have much of a life, do they? But you can wear them now, this evening. Your ears are pierced, they won't drop out. Put them on, and let's see how they look."

But Antonia still hesitated. "Penelope, if they're worth so much, shouldn't you keep them for Olivia or Nancy? Or your granddaughter. Perhaps Melanie should have them."

"Olivia will want you to have the earrings, I know. They will remind her of Ibiza and Cosmo and she will agree with me that it's entirely appropriate that they should be yours. And Nancy has become so tediously greedy and materialistic that she doesn't deserve anything. And as for Melanie, I doubt that she would ever learn to appreciate their beauty. Now, put them on."

Antonia, still looking doubtful, did so, removing them one by one from the worn velvet and slipping the fine golden wires into the lobes of her ears. She pushed back her hair.

"How do they look?"

"Perfect. Exactly what you needed to finish off that pretty outfit. Go to the mirror and see for yourself."

Antonia did so, slipping off the bed and crossing the room to stand in front of the dressing-table. Penelope watched her reflection in the mirror, and thought she had never seen any girl look quite so sensational.

"They are totally right for you. You need to be tall to wear such lavish jewellery. And if ever you find yourself strapped for cash, you can always flog them or hock them to a pawnbroker. A nice little nest-egg for you to fall back on."

But Antonia remained silent, struck wordless by the magnificence of the gift. Then, after a little, she turned from the mirror and came back to Penelope's bedside. She shook her head, and said, "I'm bewildered. I can't think why you should be so kind to me."

"One day, when you're as old as I am, I think you'll find the answer to that."

"I'll make a deal with you. I'll wear them this evening, but tomorrow morning you may have had second thoughts, and if you have, I'll give them back."

"I shan't have second thoughts. Now that I've seen you wear them, I am more certain than ever that they should belong to you. Now, let's not talk about them any more. Sit down again and tell me about your day. Danus won't mind. He can wait another ten minutes. And I want to hear everything. Don't you love that south coast? So different from here, all woods and water. I spent a week there once, during the war. In a house with a garden that sloped down to a creek. There were wild daffodils everywhere, and kittiwakes sitting on the end of the jetty. I sometimes wonder what's happened to that old house, and who lives there now." But this was all beside the point. "Now. Where did you go? And who did you see? And was it fun?"

"Yes, it was lovely. A lovely drive. And interesting too. We saw this huge market garden; with glasshouses and propagating sheds and a shop where people can come and buy plants and watering cans and things. They grow tomatoes and early potatoes and all sorts of exotic vegetables like mange-tout peas."

"Who owns it?"

"Some people called Ashley. Everard Ashley was at Horticultural College with Danus. That's why we went."

She stopped, as though this were all there was to be said. Penelope waited for more, but Antonia fell silent. Such reticence was unexpected. She glanced sharply at Antonia, but she had dropped her eyes and her hands fiddled with the empty jewel case, opening the lid and snapping it shut again. Penelope felt the stirrings of unease. Something was awry. Gently, she prompted. "Where did you have lunch?"

"We had it with the Ashleys in the kitchen of their house."

Pleasant visions of an intimate pub lunch in some delectable inn faded and died.

"Is Everard married?"

"No. He lives with his parents. It's his father's farm. They run the place together."

"And Danus wants to do something on the same lines?"

"He says so."

"Have you discussed it with him?"

"Yes. Up to a point."

"Antonia. What is wrong?"

"I don't know."

"Have you had a quarrel?"

"No."

"But something has happened."

"Nothing has happened. That's what's wrong. I get so far, and then I get no further. I think I know him. I think I'm close to him, and then he puts up this reserve. It's like having a gate slammed shut in your face."

"You're fond of him, aren't you?"

"Oh, yes." A tear seeped from beneath the lowered lashes, began to slide down Antonia's cheek.

"In love with him, I think."

A long silence. Antonia nodded.

"But you think that he is not in love with you?"

The tears were falling fast now. Antonia put up a hand and wiped them away. "I don't know. He couldn't be. We've been together so much over these last few weeks . . . surely by now, he has to know, one way or another . . . there comes a sort of point of no return, and I think we've passed it."

Penelope said, "It's my fault. Here . . ." She reached out to the bedside table and handed Antonia a wad of tissues. Antonia lustily blew her nose. When she had done this, she asked, "Why should it be your fault?"

"Because I've been thinking only of myself. I wanted company, selfish old woman that I am. And so I asked you and Danus to come here with me. Perhaps, too, I was interfering a little. Matchmaking. It's always fatal. I thought I was being so clever. But perhaps it was all the most dreadful mistake."

Antonia looked despairing. "What
is
it about him, Penelope?"

"He's reserved."

"It's more than reserve."

"Pride, perhaps."

"Too proud to love?"

"Not that, exactly. But I think he has no money. He knows what he wants, but hasn't the cash to lay his hands on it. Any sort of a business needs massive capital these days. And so he has no prospects. Perhaps he feels he's in no position to become involved."

"Involvement wouldn't necessarily mean the responsibility of marriage."

"I think with a man like Danus, it probably would."

"I could just be with him. We would work something out together. We work well together. In every sort of way."

"Have you told him this?"

"I can't. I've tried, but I can't."

"Then I think you must try again. For both your sakes. Tell him how you feel. Lay your cards on the table. You're good friends, if nothing else. Surely you can be truthful with him?"

"You mean, tell him that I love him, and that I want to spend the rest of my life with him, and that I don't care if he hasn't a penny to his name, and I don't even care if he doesn't want to marry me?"

"Put like that, I admit it does sound a little crude. But . . . yes. I suppose that is what I mean."

"And if he tells me to go on my way?"

"You'll be hurt and bruised, but at least you'll know where you stand. And for some reason, I don't think he will tell you to go on your way. I think he'll be honest with you, and you'll find that the explanation for his attitude is something quite apart and separate from his relationship with you."

"How could it be?"

"I don't know. I wish I did. I would like to know why he neither drinks nor drives a car. It's none of my business, but I should like to be told. He's holding something back, of that I'm certain. But knowing him, I cannot believe it's anything shameful."

"I wouldn't really mind if it was." Antonia's tears had ceased. She blew her nose once more and said, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bawl like that."

"Sometimes it's better. Better out than in."

"It's just that he's the first man I've ever been really at-tracted to or close to. If there had been strings of others, I sup-pose I'd be better at coping. But I can't help the way I feel, and I don't think I can bear the thought of losing him. When I saw him first, at Podmore's Thatch, I knew he was special, knew he was going to be somebody very important in my life. And somehow, when we were there, it was all right. It was easy and natural, and we could talk together, and work together, and plant things, and there wasn't any tension. But here, it's different. It's turned into an unreal situation, something I don't seem to have any control over. . . ."

"Oh, my darling, it is my fault. I am sorry. I thought it would be romantic for you and special. Now you mustn't cry again. You'll ruin your pretty face and spoil the entire evening. . . ."

"I wish I wasn't me. . . ." Antonia blurted. "I wish I was Olivia. Olivia would never get into a mess like this."

"You're not Olivia. You're yourself. You're beautiful and you're young. You have everything before you. Never wish to be another person, not even Olivia."

"She's so strong. So wise."

"And .you will be too. You'll wash your face and comb your hair, and go downstairs and tell Danus that I'm having a quiet evening by myself, and then you'll have a drink with him, and go in to dinner, and over dinner you'll tell him everything that you've told me. You're not a child. You're neither of you chil-dren. This situation cannot continue, and I won't allow you to make yourself miserable. Danus is a kind man. Whatever hap-pens, whatever he says, he would never deliberately hurt you."

"No. I know that." They kissed. Antonia got off the bed and went through to the bathroom to wash her face. Emerging, she stood at the dressing-table and used Penelope's comb to tidy her hair.

"The earrings will bring you luck," Penelope told her. "And give you confidence. Now, quick, it's time you went. Danus will be wondering what has become of the pair of us. And remember, speak out and don't be afraid. Don't ever be afraid of being honest and truthful."

"I'll try not to."

"Goodnight, my darling."

"Goodnight."

13

DANUS

Penelope awoke to yet another clear-skied and pristine morning and to pleasant and recognized sounds—the sea, washing gently onto the beach far below; gulls calling, and a thrush, just below her window, making a great din about something or other; a car coming up the drive, changing gear, drawing to a halt on the gravel; a man whistling.

It was ten past eight. She had slept for twelve hours, right around the clock. She felt rested, filled with energy, enormously hungry. It was Tuesday. The last day of the holiday. This realization filled her with some dismay. Tomorrow morning, they must pack up and set off on the long drive back to Gloucestershire. She felt impelled by a sense of selfish urgency, because there were a number of things that she still hadn't done and which she wished to do. She lay making a mental list, for once putting her own priorities first. Danus and Antonia, and the dilemma in which they found themselves, must for the moment take second place.