The Shell Seekers (81 page)

It was marvellously quiet. The only sounds were in the bleating of the sheep and the rustle of the breeze in the beech branches overhead. Then, high in the blue, an aeroplane, tike a sleepy bee, hummed drowsily across the sky, but did nothing to disturb the peace.

For some time, they did not speak. Since their reunion, Olivia had spent all her time either making or receiving telephone calls (two of these, both quite pointless, were from Nancy), and there had been no chance to talk. Now she looked at Antonia, sitting there on the tussocky grass just a few feet away, in her faded jeans and her pink cotton shirt. Her sweater, discarded during the long hot climb up the hill, lay beside her, and her hair fell forward, hiding her face. Cosmo's Antonia. Despite her own battened-down misery, Olivia's heart went out to her. Eighteen was too young for so many awful things to be happening. But nothing could be changed, and Olivia knew that, with Penelope gone, Antonia had become, once more, her responsibility.

She said, breaking their silence, "What will you do?"

Antonia turned and looked at her. "How do you mean?"

"I mean, what will you do now? Now that Mumma's gone, you no longer have reason to stay at Podmore's Thatch. You'll have to start making decisions. Think about your future."

Antonia turned away again, drew up her knees, and rested her chin on them. "I have thought."

"Do you want to come to London? Take up that offer of mine?"

"Yes, if I may. I'd like to do that. But eventually. Not just now."

"I don't understand."

"I thought that perhaps ... it would be a good idea, if I just stayed here for a bit. I mean . . . what's going to happen to the house? Wffl it be sold?"

"I imagine so. I can't live here, and neither can Noel. And I don't suppose Nancy would want to move to Temple Pudley. It's not nearly grand enough for her and George."

"In that case, people will want to come and look around, won't they? And you're far more likely to get a good price for it if it's furnished, and there are flowers around the place, and the garden's looking nice. I thought perhaps I could stay and see to everything, and show prospective buyers around, and keep the grass cut. And then, when it is sold, and it's all over, perhaps then I could come back to London."

Olivia was surprised. "But, Antonia, you'd be all alone. By yourself, in the house. Wouldn't you mind that?"

"No. No, I wouldn't mind. It's not that sort of house. I don't think I'd ever really feel alone there."

Olivia considered this idea, and realized that it was, hi fact, a sound one. "Well, if you're sure, I think we'd all be enormously grateful to you. Because none of the family are going to be able to hang around, and Mrs. Plackett has other commitments. Of course, nothing has been decided yet, but I am certain that the house will be sold." She thought of something else. "However, I don't see why you should have to do the garden as well. Surely Danus Muirfield will be coming back to work."

Antonia said, "I don't know."

Olivia frowned. "I thought he'd simply gone to Edinburgh to keep an appointment?"

"Yes. With a doctor."

"Is he fflr

"He had epilepsy. He's an epaeptic."

Olivia was filled with horror. "An epaeptic? But how per-fectly ghastly. Did Mumma knowr

"No, neither of us knew. He didn't tell us until the very end of our holiday in Cornwall."

Olivia found herself intrigued. She had never set eyes on the young man, and yet all she had heard about him, from both her sister, her mother, and Antonia, only served to whet her interest "What a very secretive person he must be." Antonia made no comment to this. Olivia thought some more. "Mumma told me he didn't drink or drive, and you mentioned that, too, in your letter. I suppose this is why."

"Yes."

"And what happened in Edinburghr

"He saw the doctor and he had another brain-scan, but the computer in the hospital had broken down, so that he couldn't get the results of his tests. He rang us up to tell us this. Last Thursday, it was. And then he went off with a friend to fish for a week. He said that it was better than hanging around at home, kicking his heels."

"And when is he returning from this fishing trip?"

"On Thursday. The day after tomorrow."

"Will he know the result of the brain-scan then?"

"Yes."

"And after that, what happens? Is he coming back to Gloucestershire to work?"

"I don't know. I suppose it depends on how ill he is."

It all sounded rather sad and hopeless. And yet, on consideration, not totally surprising. As long as Olivia could remember, a succession of oddballs and lame ducks—like bees to honey—had found their way into Mumma's life. She had never failed to support and sustain them, and this generosity of energy—and sometimes hard cash—was one of the things about his mother that drove Noel up the wall. And was, perhaps, why he had taken such an instant dislike to Danus Muirfield.

She said, "Mumma liked him, didn't she?"

"Yes, I think she was very fond of him. And he was sweet with her. He looked after her."

"Was she very upset when he told her about his illness?"

"Yes. Not for herself, but for him. And it was a shock to be told. Something unimaginable. Cornwall was magic, and we were having such fun ... it was as though nothing bad could ever happen again. Just a week ago. When Cosmo died, I thought that was the worst. But I don't think any week's ever been so dreadful, or so long as this one."

"Oh, Antonia, I am sorry."

She feared that Antonia was about to succumb to tears, but now Antonia turned and looked at her, and Olivia saw with relief that her eyes were dry and her face, though serious, quite composed.

She said, "You mustn't be sorry. You've got to be glad that there was just time enough for her to go back to Cornwall before she died. She loved every moment of it. I think, for her, it was like being young again. She never ran out of energy or enthusiasm. Every day was filled. She didn't waste a single moment."

"She was very fond of you, Antonia. Having you with her must have doubled her pleasures."

Antonia said painfully, "That's another thing I have to tell you. She gave me the earrings. The earrings Aunt Ethel left her. I didn't want to take them, but she insisted. I've got them now, in my room at Podmore's Thatch. If you think I should give them back . . . ?"

"Why should you give them back?"

"Because they're very valuable. They're worth four thousand pounds. I feel they should go to you, or to Nancy, or to Nancy's daughter."

"If Mumma hadn't wanted you to have them, she wouldn't have given them to you." Olivia smiled. "And you didn't have to tell me about the earrings, because I already knew. She wrote me a letter to tell me what she'd done."

Antonia was puzzled. "Why did she do that, I wonder?"

"I suppose she was thinking of you and your good name. She wanted no person accusing you of pinching them out of her jewel box."

"But that's weird! She could have told you any time."

"These things are better in writing."

"You don't think she had some sort of premonition? That she knew that she was going to die?"

"We all know that we are going to die."

The Reverend Thomas Tillingham, vicar of Temple Pudley, called at Podmore's Thatch at eleven o'clock the next morning. Olivia did not look forward to the interview. Her acquaintance of vicars was slim and she was uncertain as to how they would deal with each other. Before his arrival, she endeavoured to prepare herself for all exigencies, but this was difficult to do because she had no idea what sort of a man he was going to be. Perhaps elderly and cadaverous, with a fluting voice and archaic views. Or young and trendy, favouring outlandish schemes for bringing religion up to date, inviting his congregation to shake hands with each other, and expecting them to sing newfangled and jolly hymns to the accompaniment of the local pop group. Either prospect was daunting. Her greatest dread, however, was that the vicar might suggest that, together, he and Olivia should kneel in prayer. She decided that, should such an horrific eventuality arise, she would cook up a little headache, plead ill health, and dash from 

the room.

But all her fears were, mercifully, unrealized. Mr. Tillingham was neither young nor old; simply a nice, ordinary, middle-aged man in a tweed jacket and a dog-collar. She could perfectly understand why Penelope had liked to ask him for dinner. She met him at the door and led him into the conservatory, which was the most cheerful place she could think of. This proved something of a brainwave for they discussed Penelope's pot plants, and then her garden, and the conversation thus natu-rally led itself to the matter in hand.

"We shall all miss Mrs. Keeling most dreadfully," Mr. Til-lingham said. He sounded truly sincere, and Olivia found it easy to believe that he wasn't referring wistfully to the delicious dinners that he would enjoy no longer. "She was immensely kind, and she added a great flavour to our village life."

"That's what Mr. Bedway said. He's such a nice man. And specially nice for me, because you see I've never had anything to do with a funeral before. I mean, I've never had to arrange one. But Mrs. Plackett and Mr. Bedway, between them, have kept me straight."

As though on cue, Mrs. Plackett now made her appearance, bearing a tray with two mugs of coffee and a plate of biscuits. Mr. Tillingham spooned a great deal of sugar into his mug and got down to churchly business. It did not take very long. Penelope's funeral would take place on Saturday, at three o'clock in the afternoon. They decided on the form of service and then came to the question of music.

"My wife is the organist," Mr. Tillingham told Olivia. "She would be very happy to play, if you would like her to."

"How kind, and I would like her to. But no mournful music. Something beautiful that people know. I'll leave it to her."

"And hymns?"

They decided on a hymn.

"And a lesson?"

Olivia hesitated. "Like I said, Mr. Tillingham, I'm a total novice at this sort of thing. Perhaps I could leave it all to you."

"But wouldn't your brother like to read the lesson?"

Olivia said, no, she didn't think that that was something that Noel would want to do.

Mr. Tillingham came up with one or two more details, which were swiftly dealt with. He then finished his coffee and rose to his feet. Olivia went with him, through the kitchen and out of the front door, to where his shabby Renault was parked on the gravel.

"Goodbye, Miss Keeling."

"Goodbye, Mr. Tillingham." They shook hands. She said, "You've been so kind." He smiled, a smile of unexpected charm and warmth. He hadn't really smiled before, but now his homely features were so transformed that all at once Olivia stopped thinking about him as a vicar and consequently found it quite easy to come out with something that had been lurking about at the back of her mind ever since he walked into the house. "I don't really understand why you should be so kind and accommodating. After all, we both know that my mother wasn't a regular church-goer. She wasn't ever very religious. And the idea of Resurrection and afterlife she found very hard to swallow."

"I know that. Once we discussed it, but we came to no agreement."

"I'm not even certain that she believed in God."

Mr. Tillingham, still smiling, shook his head, reached out his hand for the door handle of his car. "I wouldn't worry too much about that. She may not have believed in God, but I'm pretty certain God believed in her."

The house, bereft of its owner, was a dead house, the shell of a body, its heartbeat stopped. Desolate, strangely silent, it seemed to wait. The quiet was a physical thing, inescapable, pressing like a weight. No footstep, no voice, no rattling saucepans from the kitchen; no Vivaldi, no Brahms burbling in comforting fashion from the tape player on the kitchen dresser. Doors closed, stayed closed. Each time she climbed the narrow stairs, Antonia came face to face with the closed door of Penelope's bedroom. Before, it had always stood open, allowing glimpses of garments flung across a chair, gusts of air blowing from the open window, the sweet smell that was Penelope's own. Now, just a door.

Downstairs was no better. Her chair, empty by the sitting room fireplace. The fire unlit, the desk folded shut. No friendly clutter, no laughter, no more warm and spontaneous embraces. In the world where Penelope had lived, existed, breathed, listened, remembered, it had been possible to believe that nothing too dreadful could ever go wrong. Or if it did . . . and to Penelope it had . . . then there were ways of coping, of accepting, of refusing to admit defeat.

She was dead. On that ghastly morning, stepping from the conservatory out into the garden, seeing Penelope slumped there on the old wooden garden seat, with her long legs outstretched and her eyes closed, Antonia had told herself sharply that Penelope was simply resting for a moment; savouring the sharp, early air, the pale warmth of the early sun. The obvious was, for an insane instant, too horrifyingly final to contemplate. Existence without that source of constant delight, that rocklike security was unthinkable. But the unthinkable had happened. She was gone.

The worst was getting through each day. Days, which previously had never been long enough to contain their various activities, now stretched to eternity; an age ticked by between sunrise and darkness. Even the garden afforded no comfort, because Penelope was not there to bring it to life, and it took a real effort to go out of doors and find something there to do, like pulling weeds or picking an armful of daffodils, to be arranged in a jug and placed somewhere. Anywhere. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered any more.