The Shell Seekers (89 page)

Perhaps it was good to cry. She had not cried for Mumma when she died but she wept now. Privately, with no person to jeer at her weakness, she allowed the tears to fall unchecked. The tough and intimidating Miss Keeling, Editor-in-Chief of Venus, might never have existed. She was a schoolgirl again, bursting in through the door of that huge basement room in Oakley Street, calling "Mumma!" and knowing that, from somewhere, Mumma would answer. And as she wept, that armour which she had gathered about herself—that hard shell of self-control—broke up and disintegrated. Without that armour she could not have got through the first few days of living in a cold world where Mumma no longer existed. Now, released by grief, she was hu-man again and once more herself.

After a little, more or less recovered, she took up the final page of the letter, and read to its conclusion.

... I 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 ever 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.

Richard. She said the name aloud.
Part of me is yours forever
. She folded the letter and put it back, with the photograph, between the pages of
Autumn Journal
. She closed the book, and lay back on the pillows, and gazed at the ceiling, and thought, now I know it all. But knew that she did no such thing; just knew that she needed above all to learn every tiny detail of what had happened. How they had met; how he had come into her life; how they had fallen so inevitably and deeply in love; how he had been killed.

But who knew? Only one person. Doris Penberth. Doris and Mumma had lived all through the war together. There would have been no secrets between them. Excitedly, Olivia laid plans. Sometime . . . maybe in September when things at the office were usually quiet . . . Olivia would take a few days off from work and drive to Cornwall. First, she would write to Doris and suggest a visit. In all likelihood, Doris would invite Olivia to stay. And Doris would talk, and remember Penelope, and little by little she would bring Richard's name into the conversation, and eventually Olivia would know it all. But they wouldn't just talk. Doris would show Olivia Porthkerris, and all the places that had been so much part of Mumma's life, and which Olivia had never known. And she would take her to see the house where Mumma had once lived, and they would visit the little Art Gallery which Lawrence Stern had helped to start, and Olivia would see
The Shell Seekers
once more.

She thought of the fourteen sketches, executed by Lawrence Stern at the turn of the century and now the property of Danus. She remembered Noel, yesterday evening, saying goodbye.

Why did she leave them to that young man?

She was fond of him? Sorry for him? Wanted to help him?

There's something more to it than that.

Maybe. But I don't suppose we'll ever find out.

She had supposed wrong. Mumma had left the sketches to Danus for a number of reasons. Noel, with his endless needling, had driven her beyond the limits of patience, but in Danus she had found a person worth helping. While they were at Porthker-ris, she had watched his love for Antonia grow and flower, guessed that, in the fulness of time, he would probably marry the girl. They were special to her, and she was anxious to give them some sort of start in life. But, most important reason of all, Danus had reminded her of Richard. She must have noticed—the first time she laid eyes on him—the strong physical resemblance, and so felt an immediate and close affinity with the young man. Perhaps, through Danus and Antonia, she had felt she was being offered some sort of a second chance of happiness ... a vicarious identification with them. Whatever—they had rendered her last few weeks of life extremely happy, and for this she had thanked them, in her usual spectacular fashion.

Now, Olivia looked at her watch. It was nearly midday. In moments, Danus and Antonia would return from church. She got off the bed and went to close and latch the window for the last time. At the mirror she paused to check on her reflection and make certain that her face betrayed no trace of tears. Then she picked up the book, the letter and the photograph safe within its pages, and went out of the room, closing the door behind her. Downstairs in the deserted kitchen, she took up the heavy iron poker and used it to lift the lid from the boiler. A furnace heat flowed up, scorching her cheeks, and she dropped Mumma's secret into the heart of the glowing red coals and watched it burn.

It took only seconds, and then was gone forever.

16

HISS KEELING

The middle of June, and the summer was at its height. The warm and early spring had kept its promise, and the whole country basked in a heat wave. Olivia revelled in this. She relished the warmth and the sun-baked streets of London; the sight of crowds of tourists strolling, lightly clad; of striped umbrellas set up on the pavements outside pubs; of lovers lying supine, entwined, beneath the shade of the trees in the park. All conspired to create the sensation of living perpetually abroad, and where others wilted, her own vitality leaped. She was Miss Keeling once more, at her most dynamic, and
Venus
claimed all her attention.

She was grateful for the therapy of absorbing, satisfying work, and content, for the time being, to put the family, and all that had happened, out of her mind. Since Penelope's funeral, she had seen neither Nancy or Noel, although, from time to time, she had spoken to them on the telephone. Podmore's Thatch, put on the market, had been snapped up almost immediately, and for an inflated sum far beyond even Noel's wildest dreams. With this business concluded, and the contents of the house sold at auction, Danus and Antonia had departed. Danus had bought Mumma's old Volvo, and into this, they had packed their few possessions and taken off in the direction of the West Country to look for some place to set up a little nursery garden that they could call their own. They had telephoned Olivia to say goodbye, but that had been a month ago, and since then she had had no word of them.

Now, a Tuesday morning, and she sat at her desk. A new young Fashion Editor had joined her staff, and Olivia was reading the proofs of her first attempt at editorial copy.
Your Best Accessory Is You
. That was good. Instantly intriguing.
Forget about scarves, earrings, hats. Concentrate on eyes, glowing skin, the shine of sparkling health. . . .

The intercom buzzed. Without raising her eyes Olivia flipped the switch. "Yes?"

"Miss Keeling," her secretary said, "I have an outside call for you. Antonia's on the line. Will you speak to her?"

Antonia. Olivia hesitated, taking this in. Antonia was gone from her life, incarcerated somewhere in the West Country. Why should she telephone, out of the blue? What did she want to talk about? Olivia resented interruption. And what a time to ring. She sighed, removed her spectacles, and sat back in her chair. "All right, you'd better put her through." She reached for the telephone.

"Olivia?" The youthful, familiar voice.

"Where are you?"

"In London. Olivia, I know you're dreadfully busy, but you wouldn't be able to have lunch today, would you?"

"Today?" Olivia could not keep the dismay from her voice. Today, she knew, was packed with appointments, and she had planned a working lunch-hour, with a sandwich at her desk. "It's rather short notice."

"I know and I'm sorry but it's
really
important. Please say you will, if you possibly can."

Her voice rang with urgency. What on earth had happened now? Reluctantly, Olivia reached for her appointment diary. A session with the Chairman at half past eleven, and then a meeting with the Advertising Manager at two. She did a few swift calculations. The Chairman would probably not claim more than an hour of her time, but that did not leave . . .

"Oh, Olivia, please."

Reluctantly, she gave in. "All right. But it will have to be a fairly speedy lunch. I must be back here at two."

"You're a saint."

"Where shall we meet?"

"You say."

"L'Escargot, then."

"I'll book a table."

"No, I'll take care of that." Olivia had no intention of sitting at some undistinguished table next to the kitchen door. "I'll get my secretary to do it. One o'clock, and don't be late."

"I won't be. . . ."

"Antonia. Where is Danus?"

But Antonia had already rung off.

The taxi jerked its stow way through the midday traffic and the crowded, summery streets. In it Olivia sat, vaguely apprehensive. Antonia's voice over the telephone had betrayed a state of some agitation, and Olivia was not perfectly certain of what sort of reception she was about to receive. She imagined their reunion. Saw herself walking into L'Escargot and finding Antonia waiting for her. Antonia would be wearing her usual worn jeans and cotton shirt, and would look, in that costly venue of expense-account business men, totally out of place.
It's really important
. What could be so important that she had claimed an hour of Olivia's precious day, and would not take No for an answer? It was hard to believe that anything could possibly have gone wrong for Danus and Antonia, but it was always better to prepare oneself for the worst. Various eventualities presented themselves. They had been unable to find any suitable plot in which to raise their cabbages, and Antonia now wanted to discuss some alternative plan. They had found a plot but felt unenthusiastic about the house that went with it, and wished Olivia to travel to Devon, view it, and give her opinion. Antonia had started a baby. Or perhaps they had discovered that after all they had little in common, and so no future to share, and had decided to part.

Quailing from the prospect, Olivia prayed that this was not the case.

The taxi drew up outside the restaurant. She got out, paid off the driver, crossed the pavement, and went in through the door. Inside, as always, it was crowded and warm, bustling with activity. As always, it smelled of mouth-watering food, fresh coffee, and expensive cigars. The prosperous business men were there, lining the bar, and there, too, sitting at a small table, was Anto-nia. But she was not alone because Danus was at her side, and Olivia scarcely recognized them. For they were not wearing their usual casual, comfortable gear, but were dressed up to the nines. Antonia's shining hair was coiled up at the back of her head, and she wore Aunt Ethel's earrings and a delectable dress of Wedgwood blue, splashed with huge white flowers. And Danus was sleek and groomed as a racehorse, in a dark grey suit so smoothly cut as to fill Noel Keeling's heart with envy. They looked sensational; young, rich, and happy. They looked beautiful.

They spied Olivia at once, rose to their feet, and came to greet her.

"Oh, Olivia . . ."

Olivia, gawping, pulled herself together. She kissed Antonia, turned to Danus. "This is unexpected. For some reason I didn't think you were going to be here."

Antonia laughed. "That's what I wanted you to think. I wanted it to be a surprise."

"Wanted what to be a surprise?"

"This is our wedding lunch. That's why it was so important that you came. We got married this morning."

The party was on Danus. He had ordered champagne, and the bottle waited in a bucket of ice by their table. For once, Olivia, made reckless by celebration, broke her rule about not drinking at lunch-time, and it was she who raised her glass and toasted their happiness.

They talked. There was much to be told and much to hear. "When did you come to London?"

"Yesterday morning. We stayed last night at The Mayfair, and it's almost as grand as The Sands. And when we get back this afternoon, we're going to get into the car and drive to Edinburgh and have a couple of days with Danus' mother and father."

"How about the sketches?" Olivia asked Danus.

"We spent yesterday afternoon with Mr. Brookner at Booth-by's. It was the first time we'd actually seen them."

"Are you selling them?"

"Yes. They're going to be shipped to New York next month and auctioned there at the beginning of August. At least, thirteen of them are going. We're keeping one.
The Terrazzo Garden
. We felt we had to keep just one."

"Of course. And what about the nursery garden? Did you have any luck?"

They told her. After much searching, they had found, in Devon, what they were looking for. Three acres of land, once the walled garden of a large old house. The property included a small garden and sizeable glasshouses in good repair, and Danus had put in an offer, which had been accepted.

"That's wonderful! But where are you going to live?"

Oh, there was a cottage as well, not very large and very dilapidated. "But because of it being so grotty, well, that brought the price down and we were able to afford it."

"So what are you using for money until such time as the sketches are sold?"

"We got a bridging loan from the bank. And to save money, we'll do as much of the renovation work on the cottage as we can."