The Shell Seekers (79 page)

She had intended catching the 4:15, but the traffic in the Marylebone Road had reached proportions so appalling that, by the time the taxi passed Madame Tussaud's, she was resigned to missing this and catching a later train. At Paddington, she peeled off notes to pay the enormous, inflated fare, checked on train times, and then found a phone booth and rang Antonia to tell her that she would be arriving in Cheltenham at a quarter to eight. Having done that, she bought herself a magazine, went into the Station Hotel, ordered a pot of tea, and sat down to wait.

The train journey, hot, crowded, and uncomfortable, took for ever, and the relief of finally arriving, alighting, knowing it was over, was enormous. Antonia was there on the platform as she stepped from the train, and it was bliss to be met, kissed, taken in hand, responsible for herself no longer. They went through the barrier and out into the station-yard, and Penelope looked up at the clear evening sky, smelled trees and grass and gratefully breathed, filling her lungs with the sweet fresh air.

"I feel," she told Antonia, "that I have been away for weeks."

Settled into her old Volvo, they headed for home.

"Did you have a good day?" Antonia asked.

"Yes, but I'm totally drained. I feel unwashed and ex-hausted, just like an old refugee. And I'd forgotten what a hassle London can be. Just getting from one place to another uses up most of the day. That's why I missed my train. And the one I caught was packed with commuters, and a man with the hugest bottom in the world chose to come and sit beside me."

"There's chicken fricassee for supper, but perhaps you don't feel like eating so late in the day."

"What I really want is a hot bath, and then my bed. . . ."

"In that case, as soon as we get back, that's what you shall have. And when you're in bed, I shall come and see if you'd like a little supper and, if you do, I shall bring it up on a tray, and you can eat it there."

"You are the dearest child."

"I'll tell you something. Podmore's Thatch feels funny without you."

"How did you spend your lonely day?"

"I cut the grass. I got the motor mower started and it looks terribly professional."

"Did Danus ring?"

"No. But then, I didn't really expect him to."

"Tomorrow's Tuesday. Another two days and we should be hearing from him."

Antonia said, "Yes." They fell silent. The road ahead wound its way up into the Cotswold countryside.

She thought that she would sleep, but she did not. True sleep eluded her; she dozed, and woke. Tossed, turned, dozed again. Half-dreams were devilled by voices, by words and scraps of con-versation that made no sense. Ambrose was there, and Dolly Keeling, rabbiting on about some room she was going to decorate in magnolia. And then Doris, chatting nineteen to the dozen, and cackling with her high-pitched laughter. Lalla Friedmann, young again. Young and frightened, because her husband Willi was going out of his mind.
You never gave me anything. You never gave us anything. You must be insane. They are taking advantage of you.
Antonia was getting into a train and going away for ever. She was trying to tell Penelope something, but the train whistle screamed and Penelope could only see her mouth opening and shutting, and became agitated because she knew that what Antonia was saying was of immense importance. And then the old dream; the empty beach and the blanketing fog and the desolation because there was no other person in the world except her.

The darkness was never-ending. From time to time, arousing herself, she turned on the light to look at her watch. Two o'clock. Half past three. A quarter past four. The sheets of her bed were twisted and rumpled, and there was no solace there for limbs heavy with uneasy fatigue. She longed for the light.

It came at last. She watched it come and was calmed. She dozed once more, then opened her eyes. Saw the first low shafts of sunlight, a pale sky clear of cloud; she heard the birds, calling and answering. And then the thrush from the chestnut tree.

The night was, thankfully, over. At seven, unrested, more strangely tired than ever, she climbed slowly from her bed, found her slippers and dressing-gown. Everything seemed the most enormous eflfort, so that even these simple actions took conscious thought and concentration. She went to the bathroom, washed her face and cleaned her teeth, moving with care, so as to make no sound and possibly disturb Antonia. Back in her room, she dressed, sat at her mirror, brushed and coiled and pinned her hair. She saw the smudges, like bruises, under her dark eyes, the pallor of her skin.

She went downstairs. She thought about making a cup of tea, and then decided against it. Instead, she went out, through the conservatory, unlocking the glass door and stepping into her garden. The air was cool and diamond-sharp. Its impact caused her to shiver and pull her cardigan around her, but it was refresh-ing too, as cold spring water is refreshing, or a plunge into an icy pool. The newly cut lawn glittered with dew, but the first warm rays of sunshine had touched one corner, and here the dew was melting and the grass showed a different shade of green.

Her spirits rose, comforted as always by the sight of grass, trees, borders ... her own sanctuary, which she had created herself by five years of hard and satisfying labour. All of today she would spend here. There was much to be done.

She reached the terrace, where stood the old wooden seat. In crannies between the slate flags were planted clumps of thyme and aubrietia (which, later in the year, would become fat cush-ions of white and purple flowers)—but also, inevitably, grew weeds. A brazen dandelion caught her eye and she stooped to tug it out, jerking at the stubborn, sturdy root. But it seemed that even this small physical effort was too much, for, as she straightened, she felt so strange, light-headed, and disorientated, that it occurred to her that she was about to faint. Instinctively, she reached for the back of the seat and, with this to steady her, managed to lower herself into a sitting position. Uncertain, she waited for what was going to happen next. It happened almost instantly. A pain, like a red-hot current, shot up her left arm, encircled her chest, and clamped shut, an ever-tightening band of steel. She could not breathe and she had never known such agony. She closed her eyes and opened her mouth to scream the pain away, but no sound came from her lips. Existence shrank to pain. To pain, and the fingers of her right hand, which were still clenched around the remains of the dandelion. For some reason, it was enormously important to keep holding on to it. She could feel the cold, damp earth that clung to its roots; smell the strong and pungent fragrance of that earth. Far away, and faintly, she heard the thrush singing.

And then, stealing up, came other scents and other sounds. The freshly cut grass of a long-ago lawn; a lawn that sloped to the water's edge, where grew the wild daffodils. The salt smell of a flood tide, rising to fill the creek. The kittiwakes calling. A man's footstep.

The ultimate luxury. She opened her eyes. The pain was gone. The sun was gone. Perhaps behind a cloud. It didn't mat-ter. Nothing mattered.

He was coming.

"Richard."

He was there.

At Ranfurly Road, at a quarter past nine on Tuesday morning, May the first, Olivia stood in her little kitchen, perking coffee, boiling an egg for her breakfast, and leafing through the morn-ing's mail. She had done her hair and her face, as was her custom, but was not yet dressed for the day's work. Amongst her mail, she found a highly coloured picture of Assisi, where one of the Art editors had gone for his holiday. She turned it over to read his facetious greeting, and as she did this, the telephone rang.

Still holding the postcard, she went across the living room to answer the call.

"Olivia Keeling."

"Miss Keeling?" A woman's voice, a country voice.

"Yes."

"Oh, I've caught you! I was so afraid you'd have left for your office. ..."

"No, I don't leave till half past nine. Who is this?"

"Mrs. Plackett. From Podmore's Thatch."

Mrs. Plackett. With painful care, as though its disposal were of the utmost importance, Olivia placed the gaudy postcard on the mantelpiece, propped against the gilt frame of the mirror. Her mouth was dry. "Is Mumma all right?" she somehow asked.

"Miss Keeling, I'm afraid . . . well, it's sad news. I am sorry. Your mother's died, Miss Keeling. This morning. Quite early, before any of us was here."

Assisi; under a sky quite impossibly blue. She had never been to Assisi. Mumma was dead. "How did it happen?"

"A heart attack. Quite sudden it must have been. In the garden. Antonia found her, just sitting there on the garden seat. She'd been weeding. There was an old dandelion in her hand. She must have had a bit of a warning to get to the seat. She ... she didn't look distressed, Miss Keeling."

"Has she been unwell?"

"Not unwell at all. Came back from Cornwall brown as a berry and just her usual self. But yesterday she was in London for the day. . . ."

"Mumma was in London? Why didn't she let me know?"

"I don't know, Miss Keeling. I don't know why she went. She took the train from Cheltenham, and when Antonia met her at the station in the evening, she said Mrs. Keeling was really tired. Had a bath and went to bed, soon as she got home, and Antonia gave her a little supper on a tray. But perhaps she'd overdone things."

Mumma, dead. The dreaded, the unimaginable had happened. Mumma was gone forever, and Olivia, who had loved her almost more than any other human being, could feel nothing except terribly cold. Her arms, in the loose sleeves of her dress-ing-gown, were covered with goose bumps. Mumma was dead. The tears and anguish and agonizing sense of loss were there, and yet not there, and she was grateful for this. Later, she told herself, I shall grieve. For the present, grief would be set aside, like a package to be opened at a more convenient time. It was the old ruse that she had learned from hard experience. The closing of the watertight compartment, the beaming in of all one's concentration onto the practical problem, the highest priority. First things first.

She said, "Tell me about it, Mrs. Plackett."

"Well. I got in this morning, eight o'clock. Don't usually come on Tuesdays, but yesterday was my grandson's birthday, so I changed my day. And came early, because I've got Mrs. Kitson to clean out as well on Tuesdays. Let myself in with my own key, and nobody around. Was just dealing with the boiler when Anto-nia came downstairs. Said where was Mrs. Keeling, because her bedroom door was open and her bed was empty. Well, we couldn't think. Then I saw the conservatory door was open, so I said to Antonia, 'She'll be out in the garden.' Antonia went to look. Then I heard her calling my name. And I went running. And I saw."

Olivia gratefully recognized in Mrs. Plackett's voice the tones of a countrywoman who had experienced such crises before. She was a lady of mature years. She had probably faced up to, and coped with, death many times over, and it held no fears or horrors for her.

"First thing I had to do was calm Antonia down. She was really shocked, weeping and crying and shivering like a kitten. But I gave her a cuddle, and set her down with a cup of tea, and she came out of it like a brave girl, and she's sitting here now, in the kitchen with me. Soon as she was all right, I rang the doctor in Pudley, and he came within ten minutes, and I took the liberty of calling Mr. Plackett as well. He's on the late shift just now at the electronics factory, so he was able to come over on his bicycle. He and the doctor, they carried Mrs. Keeling indoors and up the stairs to her room. She's there now, on her bed, decent and peaceful. You don't have to worry yourself about that."

"What did the doctor say?"

"He said a heart attack, Miss Keeling. Probably instant. And he signed the death certificate. Left it here with me. And then I said to Antonia, 'Better ring Mrs. Chamberlain', but she said to ring you first. I should maybe have got in touch earlier, but I didn't want you to think of your poor mother dead, and still out in the garden."

"That was very thoughtful of you, Mrs. Plackett. So nobody else has been told."

"No, Miss Keeling. Just you."

"Right." Olivia looked at her watch. "I'll let Mrs. Chamberlain know, and my brother as well. Then I'll drive down to Podmore's Thatch, just as soon as I've organized myself. I should be with you around lunch-time. Will you still be there?"

"Don't think about it, Miss Keeling. I'll be here as long as you want me to."

"I shall have to stay a few days. Perhaps you could make up a bed for me in the other spare bedroom. And make sure there's enough food in the house. If necessary, Antonia can take the car, and do some shopping in Pudley. It'll be good for her to have something to do." A thought occurred to her. "What about the young gardener—Danus? Is he around?"

"No, Miss Keeling. He's in Scotland. Went straight there from Cornwall. Had an appointment to keep."

"That's unfortunate. Never mind, it can't be helped. Give my love to Antonia."

"Do you want to speak to her?"

"No," said Olivia. "No. Not just now. It can wait."

"I'm sorry, Miss Keeling. I'm sorry to be the one to tell you."

"Somebody had to. And, Mrs. Plackett . . . thank you."

She rang off. She looked out of the window and saw, for the first time, that it was a beautiful day. It was a perfect May morning, and Mumma was dead.