“We could go any time…” Penelope bit her lip. “… but how silly of me. Of course you can’t make sudden snap decisions.”
“Oh, Mumma, I’m sorry, but it is a bit difficult. I’m not due for a break until the summer, and I’m meant to be going to Greece with some friends. They’ve got a villa and a yacht.” This was not strictly true, as the tentative plan had not yet been finalized, but holidays were so precious, and Olivia longed for the sun. As soon as the words were out, however, she was filled with guilt, because she saw the momentary disappointment cloud Penelope’s face, to be instantly replaced with an understanding smile.
“Of course. I should have thought. It was just an idea. And I don’t have to have company.”
“It’s a long drive on your own.”
“I can perfectly easily go by train.”
“Take Lalla Friedmann. She’d love a trip to Cornwall.”
“Lalla. I never thought of her. Well, we’ll see.…” And abandoning the topic, Penelope turned to Hank. “Now, here we are chattering away, and this poor man hasn’t even got a drink. What would you like?”
Lunch was slow, leisurely, and delicious. As they consumed the delicate pink sirloin, which Hank had kindly carved, the crisp and nutty vegetables, the horse-radish sauce, the Yorkshire pudding, and rich brown gravy, Penelope bombarded him with questions. About America; about his home and his wife and his children. Not, Olivia knew, as she went around the table pouring wine, because she felt she had to be polite and make conversation, but because she was genuinely interested. People were her passion, particularly if they were strangers from a foreign shore, and even more specially if they happened to be both personable and charming.
“You live in Dalton, Georgia? I can’t imagine Dalton, Georgia. Do you live in an apartment, or do you have a house with a garden?”
“I have a house, and I have a garden, too, but we call it a yard.”
“I suppose, in such a climate, you can grow practically everything.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know that much about it. I employ a landscaper to keep the place neat. I have to admit that I don’t even cut my own grass.”
“That’s good sense. Nothing to be ashamed of.”
“And you, Mrs. Keeling?”
“Mumma’s never had any help,” Olivia told him. “All you see beyond the window is entirely her own creation.”
Hank was incredulous. “I can’t believe it. For one thing, there’s so much of it.”
Penelope laughed. “You mustn’t look so horrified. To me it’s not a tedious task, but a tremendous pleasure. However, one can’t go on indefinitely, so, on Monday morning, rattle of drums, fanfare of trumpets, I am starting to employ a gardener.”
Olivia’s jaw dropped. “You are? You really are?”
“I told you I was going to look around for someone.”
“Yes, but I scarcely believed you would.”
“There’s a very good firm in Pudley. Called Autogarden, which doesn’t seem to me to be a very imaginative name, but that’s beside the point. And they’re going to send a young man out three days a week. That should get the worst of the digging done, and if he’s amenable I’ll get him to do other things for me as well, like sawing logs and humping coal. Anyway, we’ll see how it goes. If they send a lazy lout or it costs too much, I can quite easily cancel the arrangement. Now, Hank, have another helping of beef.”
The mammoth luncheon took up most of the afternoon. When finally they rose from the table, it was nearly four o’clock. Olivia offered to do the dishes, but her mother refused to let her, and instead they all put on coats and went out into the garden for a bit of fresh air. They wandered around, inspecting things, and Hank helped Penelope to tie up a straying branch of clematis, and Olivia found a cluster of aconites beneath one of the apple trees and picked herself a tiny bunch to take back to London.
When it was time to say goodbye, Hank kissed Penelope.
“I can’t thank you enough. It’s been great.”
“You must come back.”
“Maybe. One day.”
“When do you return to America?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“What a short visit. How sad. But I have so enjoyed meeting you.”
“Me too.”
He went to the car and stood holding the door open for Olivia to get in.
“Goodbye, Mumma.”
“Oh, my darling.” They embraced. “And I’m sorry about Cosmo. But you mustn’t be sad. Just be grateful that you had that time with him. No looking back over your shoulder. No regrets.”
Olivia put on a brave smile. “No. No regrets.”
“And unless I hear to the contrary, I’ll expect you next weekend. With Antonia.”
“I’ll be in touch.”
“Goodbye, my darling.”
They had gone. She had gone. Olivia, in her beautiful chestnut-brown coat, with the mink collar turned up around her ears, and the little bunch of aconites clutched in her hand. Like a child. Penelope was filled with sadness for her. Your children never stopped being children. Even when they were thirty-eight and successful career women. You could bear anything for yourself, but seeing your children hurt was unendurable. Her heart went with Olivia, heading back to London; but her body, tired now and weary from the day’s activities, took her slowly back indoors.
The next morning the tiredness, the lassitude were still with her. She awoke feeling depressed and could not think why, and then remembered Cosmo. It was raining, and for once she expected no guests for Sunday lunch, and so she stayed in bed until half past ten, when she got up and dressed and walked down to the village to collect her Sunday newspapers, The church bells were tolling, and a handful of people made their way beneath the lych-gate for Morning Service. Not for the first time Penelope wished that she were truly religious. She believed, of course, and went to church at Christmas and Easter, because without something to believe in, life would be intolerable. But now, seeing the little procession of villagers filing up the gravel path between the ancient leaning gravestones, she thought it would be good to join them with the certainty of finding comfort. But she did not. It had never worked before and it was unlikely to work now. It was not God’s fault; just something to do with her own attitude of mind.
Home again, she lit the fire and read The Observer, and then assembled herself a small meal of cold roast beef, an apple, and a glass of wine. She ate this at the kitchen table and then went back into the sitting room and took a little nap. Awakening, she saw that the rain had stopped, so she pulled herself off the sofa, put on her boots and her old jacket, and went out into the garden. She had pruned her roses in the autumn and fed them well with compost, but there was still some dead wood around, and she plunged into the thicket of thorns and set to work.
As always when thus employed, she lost all sense of time, and her mind was full of nothing but her roses when, straightening to ease her aching back, she was startled to see two figures coming across the grass towards her; for she had not heard a car arrive and was not expecting visitors. A girl and a man. A tall and exceptionally handsome young man, with dark hair and blue eyes, his hands in his pockets. Ambrose. Her heart missed a beat, and she told herself not to be a fool, because it wasn’t Ambrose, coming at her out of the past, but her son Noel, who resembled his dead father so exactly that his unexpected appearances often gave her this uncanny turn.
Noel. With, naturally enough, a girl.
She pulled herself together, put a smile on her face, dropped her secateurs into her pocket, drew off her gloves, and edged herself out of the rose-bed.
“Hello, Ma.” Reaching her side, still with his hands in his pockets, he leaned forward to give her a peck on the cheek.
“What a surprise. Where have you sprung from?”
“We’ve been staying in Wiltshire. Thought we’d come by to see how you’re doing.” Wiltshire? Drop by from Wiltshire? They had come miles out of their way. “This is Amabel.”
“Ho
w do you do.”
“Hello,” said Amabel, making no move to shake hands. She was tiny as a child, with seaweedy hair and round, pale green eyes like two gooseberries. She wore an enormous ankle-length tweed coat that seemed familiar, and which, after a second look, Penelope recognized as an old one of Lawrence Stern’s, which had mysteriously disappeared during the move from Oakley Street.
She turned back to Noel.
“Staying in Wiltshire? Who have you been staying with?”
“Some people called Early, friends of Amabel’s. But we left after lunch, and I thought that as I hadn’t seen you since you were in hospital, I’d drop by and find out how you’re getting on.” He beamed upon her with his most delightful smile. “I must say, you’re looking fantastic. I thought I’d find you all pale and ailing with your feet up on the sofa.”
Mention of the hospital irritated Penelope.
“Just a stupid scare. There’s not a thing wrong with me. As usual, Nancy’s blown a mountain out of a molehill, and I hate being fussed over.” And then she felt remorseful, for really it was very kind of him to come all this way just to see her. “You’re sweet to be so concerned, and I’m splendidly well. And it’s lovely to see you both. What time is it? Heavens, nearly half past four. Would you like a cup of tea? Let’s go in and have one. You take Amabel in, Noel. There’s a good fire in the sitting room. I’ll join you in a moment, when I’ve dealt with my boots.”
He did this, ambling away from her across the grass towards the conservatory door. She watched them go and then went indoors herself by way of the garden room, where she changed into her shoes and hung up her coat, and then went upstairs, through the empty bedrooms, to her own room, where she washed her hands and tidied her hair. Down the other stairs, and in the kitchen, she put on the kettle and laid a tray. She found some fruitcake in a tin. Noel loved fruitcake, and the girl, Amabel, looked as though she could do with a bit of feeding up. Penelope wondered if she was anorexic. It would not be surprising. Noel found himself the most extraordinary girl-friends.
She made the tea and carried the tray through to the sitting room where Amabel, who had taken off Lawrence’s coat, crouched like a thin cat in the corner of the sofa, while Noel piled logs on the dying ashes in the grate. Penelope set down the tray, and Amabel said, “What a smashing house.”
Penelope tried to warm to her. “Yes. It’s friendly, isn’t it?”
The gooseberry eyes were turned on The Shell Seekers.
“That’s a smashing picture.”
“Everybody remarks on it.”
“Is it Cornwall?”
“Yes. Porthkerris.”
“I thought so. I went there once for a holiday, but it rained all the time.”
“Oh dear.” She could think of nothing else to say and filled in the ensuing pause with the business of pouring the tea. When this was done, cups handed round, and the fruitcake cut, she started the conversation up again.
“Now. Tell me about your weekend. Was it fun?”
Yes, they told her, it had been fun. A house party of ten, and a point-to-point on the Saturday, and then dinner at some other person’s house, and then a dance, and they hadn’t got to bed until four o’clock.
It sounded, to Penelope, inexpressibly awful, but she said, “How nice.”
That seemed to exhaust their news, so she started in on her own, and told them about Olivia’s visit with her American friend. Amabel stifled a yawn, and Noel, perched on a low stool by the fire, with his teacup on the floor by his side and his long legs folded like jack-knives, listened politely but, Penelope felt, without too much attention. She debated telling him about Cosmo, and then decided against it. She thought about telling him that Antonia was going to come and stay at Podmore’s Thatch, but decided against that, too. He had never known Cosmo, and was not much interested in the affairs of his family. He was, in truth, not much interested in anything but himself, for he resembled his father not only in looks but in character as well.
She was about to ask him about his work and how it was going, and had opened her mouth to do this, when he forestalled her by saying, “Ma, talking of Cornwall…” (had they been?) “… did you know that one of your father’s pictures is coming under the hammer at Boothby’s this week? The Water Carriers. Rumour has it that it’ll go for something like two hundred thousand. Be interesting to see if it does.”
“Yes, I did know. Olivia mentioned it during lunch yesterday.”
“You should make a trip to London. Be in at the kill. Ought to be amusing.”
“Are you going to go?”
“If I can get away from the office.”
“It’s extraordinary how fashionable those old works have become. And the prices people pay. Poor Papa would turn in his grave if he knew what they were going for.”
“Boothby’s must have made a fortune out of them. Did you see their advertisement in The Sunday Times?”
“I haven’t read The Times yet.”
It lay, folded, on the seat of her armchair. Noel reached for it, opened it, and finding what he looked for, turned back the pages, and handed it across. She saw, in the bottom corner, one of the regular advertisements inserted by Boothby’s, the Fine Art Dealers.
“Minor Work or Major Discovery?”
Her eyes moved to the small print. Apparently two small oil paintings had come on the market, in appearance and subject matter very similar. One had fetched three hundred and forty pounds, the other over sixteen thousand.
Aware of Noel’s eyes upon her, she read on.
Boothby’s sales have done much to inspire the recent reappraisal of this neglected Victorian period. Our experience and advice are at the disposal of potential clients. If you have a work of this period which you would like appraised, why not telephone our expert, Mr. Roy Brookner, who will be pleased to travel and offer advice, entirely free of charge.
There was the address and the telephone number and that was all.
Penelope folded the paper and laid it down. Noel waited. She raised her head and looked at him.
“Why did you want me to read this?”
“Just thought you’d be interested.”
“In having my pictures appraised?”
“Not all of them. Just the Lawrence Sterns.”
“For insurance purposes?” asked Penelope evenly.
“If you like. I don’t know how much you’ve got them insured for now. But don’t forget, the market’s at its peak just now. A Millais fetched eight hundred thousand the other day.”
“I don’t own a Millais.”
“You … wouldn’t consider selling?”
“Selling? My father’s pictures?”
“Not The Shell Seekers, of course. But maybe the panels?”
“They’re unfinished. They’re probably worth nothing.”
“That’s what you think. That’s why you should have them valued. Now. When you know what they’re worth, you might even change your mind. After all, hanging up there on the landing, nobody sees them, and you probably never even look at them. You’d never miss them.”
“How could you possibly know whether I would miss them or not?”
He shrugged. “Just taking a guess. It’s not as though they’re very good, and the subject matter is nauseous.”
“If that is how you feel about them, what a very good thing it is that you no longer have to live with them.” She turned from him. “Amabel, my dear, I wonder if you would like another cup of tea.”
Noel knew that when his mother became frosty and dignified, she was on the verge of losing her temper, and to continue to press his point would do more harm than good and simply reinforce her stubbornness. At least he had brought the subject up, and sown the seeds of his idea. Left alone, she might well come around to his way of thinking. And so, with his most delightful smile, and one of his disconcerting about-turns, he conceded defeat.
“All right. You win. I won’t talk about it any more.” He set down his cup, turned back his cuff, and
looked at his watch.
“Are you pressed for time?” his mother asked him.
“We oughtn’t to stay too long. We’ve got a long drive back to London and the traffic’ll be gruesome. Ma, do you know if my squash racket’s up in my room? I’ve got a game fixed up, and it doesn’t seem to be anywhere in the flat.”
Much relieved at the change of subject, “I don’t know,” Penelope’ said. His small room here at Podmore’s Thatch was stacked with his boxes and trunks and various pieces of sporting equipment, but as she went into it as little as possible, for he rarely spent a night in the place, she had no idea what lay amongst the muddle. “Why don’t you go and look?”
“I’ll do that.” He unfolded his long legs and stood up, said, “Shan’t be a moment,” and took himself off. They heard his footsteps go up the stairs. Amabel sat there, stifling another yawn, and looking like a disconsolate mermaid.
“Have you known Noel for long?” Penelope asked, despising herself for sounding both stilted and formal.
“About three months.”
“Do you live in London?”
“My parents live in Leicestershire, but I’ve got a flat in London.”
“Do you have a job?”
“Only when I have to.”
“Would you like another cup of tea?”
“No, but I’d love another slice of cake.”
Penelope gave her one. Amabel ate it. Penelope wondered if she would notice if Penelope picked up a newspaper and read it. She thought how charming the young could be, and how grossly uncharming, for Amabel, it seemed, had never been taught to eat with her mouth shut.
In the end, defeated, she stopped trying, picked up the teachings, and carried them out to the kitchen, leaving Amabel looking as though she were about to fall asleep. By the time she had washed up the cups and saucers, Noel had not reappeared. Presumably he was still hunting for the elusive squash racket. Thinking that she would help him, she went up the kitchen stairs and along, through the bedrooms, to his end of the house. The door to his room stood open, but he was not inside. Puzzled, she hesitated, and then heard cautious footsteps creaking above her. The loft? What was he doing in the loft?