Thursday was Mrs. Croftway’s day off, which meant that Nancy was in the kitchen when George returned from work. They were having fish cakes for dinner, which Mrs. Croftway had already concocted, but Croftway had brought in a basket of his horrible, overgrown, bitter Brussels sprouts, and Nancy stood at the sink, preparing these, hating the task and fairly sure that the children would refuse to eat them, as the sound of the car came up the drive. After a moment or two the back door opened and shut and her husband joined her, looking worn and unsubstantial in his sober clothes. She hoped that he had not had a tiresome day. When he had a tiresome day, he was inclined to take it out on her.
She looked up, and smiled firmly. George so seldom looked cheerful that it was important not to be depressed by his gloom, and to keep up the illusion—even if only she was taken in by it—of an affectionate and companionable relationship.
“Hello, darling. Had a good day?”
“All right.”
He dumped his brief-case on the table, and from it withdrew The Times. “Have a look at this.”
Nancy was amazed by such forthcomingness. Most evenings he simply grunted and took himself off to the library for a quiet hour or so before dinner. Something riveting must have happened. She hoped it was not an atomic bomb. She abandoned the sprouts, dried her hands, and went to stand beside him. He spread the paper out on the table, turned to the Arts Page, and pointed, with a long pale forefinger, to a specific column.
She peered hopelessly at the blur of print. She said, “I haven’t got my glasses.”
He sighed, resigned to her incompetence. “The Sale Room news, Nancy. Your grandfather’s picture was sold yesterday at Boothby’s.”
“Was it yesterday?” She had not forgotten about The Water Carriers. On the contrary, the conversation she had had with Olivia over lunch at L’Escargot had occupied her thoughts ever since, but so obsessed had she been with the probable value of the paintings that still hung at Podmore’s Thatch, that she had lost track of the days. She had never been very good at remembering dates.
“Do you know what it fetched?” Nancy, open-mouthed, shook her head. “Two hundred and forty-five thousand, eight hundred pounds.”
He spoke the magic words in measured tones, so that there was no possible chance of her mishearing him. Nancy felt quite faint. She laid her hand on the kitchen table in order to steady herself and continued to goggle at him.
“Bought by some American. Sickening the way anything of value always has to go out of the country.”
She found her voice at last. “And it was a terrible picture,” she told him.
George smiled chillily, and without a touch of humour. “Fortunately, for Boothby’s and for the previous owner, not everybody is of your opinion.”
But Nancy scarcely registered this dig. She said, “So Olivia wasn’t far wrong.”
“What does that mean?”
“We talked about it, that day we had lunch at L’Escargot. She guessed it would bring in something like that.” She looked at George. “And she guessed that The Shell Seekers, and the other two pictures Mother still has, are probably worth half a million. Perhaps she was right about that as well.”
George said, “No doubt. Our Olivia is scarcely ever wrong about anything. The sort of circles she moves in, she can keep that long nose of hers very close to the ground.”
Nancy reached for a chair and took the weight off her legs. She said, “George, do you suppose Mother realizes what they’re worth?”
“I shouldn’t suppose so.” He pursed his lips. “I’d better have a word. We should get the insurance premiums bumped up. Any person could walk into that house and simply lift them off the walls. As far as I can see, she’s never locked a door in her life.”
Nancy began to feel excited. She had not previously told George of her conversation with Olivia because George did not like her sister, and was patently disinterested in anything that she might have to say. But now that George had brought the subject up himself, it made everything much simpler.
She said, striking while the iron was hot, “Perhaps we should go and see Mother. Talk things over.”
“The insurance, you mean?”
“If the premiums go up too much, she may…” Nancy’s voice went rough. She cleared her throat. “… she may decide that it’s simpler to sell them. Olivia said the market’s at its peak just now for these old Victorian works…” (that sounded marvellously sophisticated and knowledgeable, and Nancy felt quite proud of herself) “… and it would be a pity to miss the opportunity.”
For once George seemed to be considering her point of view. He pursed his lips, read the paragraph once more, and then neatly, precisely, folded up the paper.
He said, “It’s up to you.”
“Oh, George. Half a million. I can hardly imagine so much money.”
“There’d be taxes, of course, to pay.”
“But even so! We must go. Anyway, I haven’t been to see her for far too long. It’s time I checked up on how things are going with her. And then I can bring up the subject. Tactfully.” George looked doubtful. They both knew that tact was not Nancy’s strongest point. “I’ll go right away and give her a ring.”
* * *
“Mother.”
“Nancy.”
“How are you?”
“Very well. And you?”
“Not doing too much?”
“Are you referring to me or you?”
“You, of course. Has the gardener started work?”
“Yes, he came on Monday, and again today.”
“I hope he’s satisfactory.”
“Well, he satisfies me.”
“And have you thought any more about having someone to live with you? I put an advertisement in our local paper, but I haven’t had any replies, I’m afraid. Not so much as a phone call.”
“Oh, you don’t need to worry about that any more. Antonia’s coming tomorrow evening, she’s going to stay with me for a bit.”
“Antonia? Who’s Antonia?”
“Antonia Hamilton. Oh dear, I suppose we’ve all forgotten to tell you. I thought Olivia might have given you the news.”
“No,” Nancy told her frostily. “Nobody’s told me anything.”
“Well, that nice friend of Olivia’s, the one she lived with when she was in Ibiza, it was so dreadfully sad; he died. And so his daughter’s going to come here for a bit just to pull herself together and give herself time to decide what she’s going to do next.”
Nancy was enraged. “Well, I must say, I do think somebody might have let me know. I wouldn’t have taken the trouble to put the advertisement in, if I’d known.”
“I’m so sorry, darling, but somehow with one thing and another, I’ve been so busy and I forgot. But anyway, it means that you don’t need to worry about me any longer.”
“But Mother, what sort of a girl is she?”
“I think, probably, very sweet.”
“How old?”
“Only eighteen. She’ll be splendid company for me.”
“When is she arriving?”
“I told you. Tomorrow evening. Noel’s bringing her down from London. He’s going to spend the weekend and clear out the attic. He and Olivia have decided that it’s a fire risk.” There was a pause in the conversation, and then she went on, “Why don’t you all come over and join us for lunch on Sunday. Bring the children. And then you can see Noel and meet Antonia.”
And bring up the subject of the pictures.
“Oh…” Nancy hesitated. “… I think that would be all right. Just wait a moment, till I have a word with George.…”
She left the receiver dangling and went in search of her husband. She did not have to search far. She found him, as she knew she would, deep in his armchair, concealed by The Times.
“George.” He lowered the paper. “She’s asked us all for lunch on Sunday.” She hissed this in a whisper, as though her mother could overhear, although the telephone was far out of earshot.
> “I can’t go,” said George instantly. “I have a Diocesan luncheon and meeting I have to attend.”
“In that case, I’ll take the children.”
“I thought the children were spending the day with the Wainwrights.…”
“So they are. I’d forgotten. Well, I’d better just go by myself.”
“It seems,” said George, “that you had.”
Nancy returned to the telephone.
“Mother?”
“Yes, I’m still here.”
“George and the children seem to be otherwise engaged on Sunday, but I’d love to come over if it’s all right by you.”
“On your own.” (Did Mother sound a little relieved? Nancy put the notion from her head.) “What a treat. Come about twelve and we can have a chat. I’ll see you then.”
Nancy replaced the receiver and went to tell George of the arrangement. She also told him, at some length, of the thoughtlessness and high-handedness of Olivia, who had found, with no difficulty at all, a companion for their mother, and had not even bothered to let Nancy know of the arrangement.
“… and she’s only eighteen. Probably some little flibbertigibbet who’ll lie in bed all day and expect to be waited on. Making more work for Mother. You would think, wouldn’t you, George, that Olivia might have let me know. At least talked it over. After all, I have taken on the responsibility of keeping an eye on Mother, and yet none of them ever even considers me. It does seem incredibly thoughtless … George?”
But George had switched off; stopped listening. Nancy sighed and left him, returning to the kitchen to work off her resentments on what remained of the Brussels sprouts.
* * *
Noel and Antonia did not arrive from London until nearly a quarter past nine in the evening, by which time Penelope had them both dead in a twisted mass of metal (the Jaguar) by the side of the motorway. It was a night of black rain, and she kept going to the kitchen window to peer hopefully through it in the general direction of the gate, and was just beginning to contemplate ringing the Police, when she heard the sound of the car engine racing down the road from the village, slowing up, changing gear, and turning—thank you, God—through the gates to draw up at the back door.
She took a second to compose herself. Nothing put Noel in a worse mood than to be fussed over, and after all, if they had not left London until six or after, it had been stupid to allow herself to get into such a state. She shed her anxieties, put a calm and smiling expression on her face, and went to turn on the outside light and open the door.
She saw the long, racy, slightly battered shape of Noel’s car. He was already climbing out of it, and going to open the other door. Out of this emerged Antonia, lugging some sort of haversack behind her. She heard Noel say, “You’d better run for cover,” and Antonia did just that, with her head down against the rain, scuttling for the shelter of the porch and straight into Penelope’s waiting arms.
She dropped the haversack on the doormat and they hugged, holding each other very tight, Penelope filled with relief and affection, and Antonia simply thankful to be here at last, safe and in the arms of just about the only person whom, at the moment, she wanted to be with.
“Antonia.” They drew apart, but Penelope still held her arm, drawing her through the inner door, away from the dark, cold, wet night, and into the warmth of the kitchen. “Oh, I thought you were never going to get here.”
“So did I.”
She looked the same, much as she had looked at thirteen. Taller, of course, but just as slender … she had a beautiful long-legged figure … and her face had grown to her mouth, but otherwise nothing much seemed to have changed. Still the freckles on her nose, the slanting, greenish eyes, the long, thick, fair eyelashes. Still the red-gold hair, shoulder-length, heavy and straight. Still, even, the same sort of clothes; blue jeans, and a white sweat-shirt with a man’s thick V-necked sweater pulled over it.
“It is so lovely to have you here. Did you have a good drive down? Was it dreadfully rainy?”
“Pretty bad.”
Antonia turned as Noel came through the door to join them, bearing, not only Antonia’s suitcase and his own bag, but the abandoned haversack as well.
“Oh, Noel.” He set down the cases. “What a perfectly dreadful night.”
“Let’s hope we don’t have rain the entire weekend, otherwise we won’t get a thing done.” He sniffed. “Something smells good.”
“Shepherd’s pie.”
“I’m ravenous.”
“No wonder. I’ll take Antonia up and show her her room, and then we’ll have dinner. Give yourself a drink. I’m sure you need one. We’ll be down in a moment. Come along, Antonia.…”
She picked up the haversack and Antonia carried her bag, and Penelope led the way upstairs, across a tiny landing, through the first bedroom and into the second.
“What a marvellous house,” said Antonia from behind her.
“It’s not for privacy. All the rooms lead into each other.”
“Like Ca’n D’alt.”
“It used to be two cottages. There are still two staircases and two doors. Now here we are.” She set down the haversack and glanced around the carefully prepared room, checking that she had forgotten nothing. It looked very nice. The white, closely fitted carpet was new, but all else dated back to Oakley Street. The twin beds, with their polished, wheel-back heads; the rose-flowered curtains that did not match the bedspreads. The little mahogany dressing-table, and the balloon-backed chairs. She had filled a lustre jug with polyanthus and turned down one of the beds to reveal crisp white linen and pink blankets. “This cupboard is the wardrobe, and through the other door is the bathroom. Noel’s room is just beyond and you’ll have to share the bathroom with him, but if he’s using it, you can come to the other end of the house and use mine. Now…” With all explained, she turned to Antonia. “What would you like to do? Have a bath? There’s plenty of time.”
“No. I’ll just wash my hands if I may. And then I’ll come down.”
There were shadows like smudges beneath her eyes. Penelope said, “You must be tired.”
“I am, rather. I think it’s a sort of jet lag. I haven’t quite caught up with myself yet.”
“Never mind, you’re here now. You don’t have to go anywhere else, not until you want to. Come down when you’re ready and Noel will give you a drink.”
She returned to the kitchen, where she found Noel, with a large, dark whisky and soda, sitting at the table and reading the paper. She closed the door behind her, and he looked up. “Everything okay?”
“Poor child, she looks drained.”
“Yes. She didn’t talk much on the way down. I thought she was sleeping, but she wasn’t.”
“She hasn’t changed in the very least. I think she was the most attractive child I ever knew.”
“You mustn’t put ideas into my head.”
She gave him a cautionary glance. “You behave yourself this weekend, Noel.”
He looked the picture of innocence. “Now what could you mean by that?”
“You know perfectly well what I mean.”
He grinned, still good-humoured, unabashed. “By the time I’ve finished harrowing all that rubbish out of your attic, I’ll be too shagged to do anything except pass out in my own little bunk.”
“I certainly hope so.”
“Oh, come off it, Ma, you must realize she’s not at all my type … white eyelashes have no appeal. Makes me think of rabbits. I’m starving. When are we going to eat?”
“When Antonia comes down.” She went to open the oven door and check on the shepherd’s pie to make certain that it was neither overcooked nor inedible. Which it wasn’t. She closed the door. Noel said, “What did you think about Wednesday’s sale? The Water Carriers.”
“I told you. Quite unbelievable.”
“Have you decided what you’re going to do?”
“Have I got to do anything?”
“You’re being obtuse. It went for a
lmost a quarter of a million! You own three Lawrence Sterns, and the financial responsibility, if nothing else, completely alters the situation. Do what I suggested the last time I was here. Get them professionally valued. If you still don’t want to sell them, then for God’s sake have them reinsured. Any cunning joker could walk into the house one day when you’re out in the rose-beds and simply walk off with them. Don’t be too stupid about it all.”
Across the table, she eyed him, torn between a sort of motherly gratitude for his concern and a nasty suspicion that her son—so like his father—was up to something. He met her eyes with a clear and open blue gaze, but she remained undecided.
She said at last, “All right, I’ll think about it. But I shall never sell my darling Shell Seekers, and I shall continue to get the utmost satisfaction and comfort from looking at it. It’s all I’ve got left of the old days, and being a child, and Cornwall and Porthkerris.”
He looked slightly alarmed. “Hey. Just listen to those sobbing violins. It’s not like you to start getting maudlin.”
“I’m not being maudlin. It’s just that, lately, I’ve developed this yearning to be there again. It’s something to do with the sea. I want to look at the sea again. And why not? There’s nothing to stop me going. Just for a few days.”
“Are you sure that’s wise? Isn’t it better to remember it as it was? Everything changes, and never for the better.”
“The sea doesn’t change,” Penelope told him stubbornly.
“You’d know nobody.”
“I know Doris. I could stay with her.”
“Doris?”
“She was our evacuee at the beginning of the war. Lived with us at Carn Cottage. She never went back to Hackney. She just stayed at Porthkerris. And we still correspond and she’s always asking me to go and visit her.…” She hesitated, and then, “Would you come with me?” she asked her son.