“If only you’d shared your problem, it mightn’t have felt so heavy.”
“I did eventually. I was forced into it. When I finished college, I managed to get the job with Autogarden in Pudley. I saw an advertisement in the paper, and applied and was accepted. I worked till Christmas and then I went home for a couple of weeks. Over New Year, I got flu. I was in bed for five days, and I ran out of drugs. I couldn’t go and get them for myself, so finally I had to ask my mother to go and pick them up, and then of course it all came out.”
“So she knows. Oh, thank heavens for that. She must have wanted to strangle you for being so secretive.”
“In an extraordinary way, I think she was relieved. She’d suspected something was up, and had imagined the very worst but had kept her fears to herself. That’s the trouble with my family, we’ve always kept things to ourselves. It’s something to do with being Scottish and independent, and not wanting to be thought a nuisance. That’s the way we were brought up. My mother was never demonstrative, never what you might call particularly cosy; but that day, after she’d shot off and got my pills from the chemist, she sat on my bed and we talked for hours. She even talked about Ian, which she’d never done before. And we remembered good times and we laughed. And then I told her that I’d always realized that I was second-best, and that I could never take Ian’s place, and, with that, she became her old brisk and businesslike self and told me not to be a blithering idiot; I was my own self and she didn’t want me any other way; all she wanted was to see me well again. Which meant another diagnosis and a second opinion. No sooner was I on my feet after the flu than I was sitting in an eminent neurosurgeon’s consulting room, being asked a thousand questions. There were more tests and an EEG … a brain-scan … but at the end of the day I was told that no accurate diagnosis could be made while I was taking drugs. So I was to go off them for three months and then go back for a second consultation. If I was careful, I should come to no harm, but under no circumstances was I to drink alcohol or drive a car.”
“And when is the three months up?”
“It’s overdue now. Two weeks overdue.”
“But that’s foolish. You must waste no more time.”
“That’s what Antonia told me.”
Antonia. Penelope had almost forgotten about Antonia. “Danus, what happened yesterday evening?”
“You know most of it. We met in the bar, and waited for you, and when you didn’t come, Antonia went upstairs to find you. And while I was on my own, I sat and made mental lists of every single thing I was going to tell her. And I imagined that it was going to be hideously difficult, and found myself searching for the right words, and composing ridiculously formal sentences. But then she came back, wearing the earrings that you had given her, and looking so sensationally adult and beautiful that all those carefully prepared phrases flew out of the window, and I just told her what was in my heart. And as I spoke, she started speaking too, and then we began to laugh, because we both realized that we were saying the same thing.”
“Oh, my dear boy.”
“What I’d been afraid of was hurting or distressing her. She’d always seemed to me so very young and so very vulnerable. But she was amazing. Immensely practical. And, like you, horrified to know that I’d let the weeks slide by without making that second appointment.”
“But now it’s made?”
“Yes. I called at nine o’clock this morning. I’m to see the neurosurgeon on Thursday, and have another EEG then. I should have the results almost at once.”
“You’ll ring us up at Podmore’s Thatch and let us know.”
“Of course.”
“If you’ve been three months without drugs and without a black-out, surely the prognosis is hopeful.”
“I can’t let myself think about it. I daren’t hope.”
“But you’ll come back to us?”
For the first time, Danus seemed uncertain of himself; he hesitated. “… I don’t know. The thing is, I may have to have some form of treatment. It may take months. I may have to stay in Edinburgh.…”
“And Antonia? What will happen to Antonia?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know what’s going to happen to me. Right now, I can see no prospect of being able ever to give her the good life she deserves. She’s eighteen. She could do anything with her life, have anybody. She only has to ring Olivia, and within months she’ll be on the front page of every glossy magazine in the country. I can’t allow her to commit herself to me until I can see some sort of a future for the both of us. There really is no alternative.”
Penelope sighed. But, against her better judgement, she respected his reasoning. “If you have to be parted for a while, it might be best for Antonia to go back to London and Olivia. She can’t simply hang around at Podmore’s Thatch with me. She’d die of boredom. She’ll be better with a job. New friends. New interests…”
“Will you be all right without her there with you?”
“Oh, of course.” She smiled. “Poor Danus, I am sorry for you. Illness is hateful, whatever form it takes. I am ill. I had a heart attack but would admit it to nobody. I walked out of the hospital and told my children that the doctors were idiots. I insisted that there was nothing wrong with me. But, of course, there is. If I get upset, my heart jumps up and down like a yo-yo, and I have to take a pill. At any moment, it might conk out altogether and I shall be left lying with my toes turned up. But until such time, I am really very much happier pretending that nothing at all has happened. And you and Antonia mustn’t worry about me being on my own. I have my dear Mrs. Plackett. But it’s no good pretending that I shan’t miss you both. We’ve had a good time. And this last week, I could have asked for no better companions. I do thank you for coming to this so special place.”
He shook his head in smiling bewilderment. “I’ll never know why you’ve always been so exceptionally kind to me.”
“That’s easily explained. I took to you right away because of the way you look. Quite uncannily like a man I knew during the war. It was as though, from the very first, I recognized you. Doris Penberth, too, remarked on the resemblance, that evening you and Antonia came to fetch me from her house. Doris and Ernie and I are the only people left who remember him. He was called Richard Lomax, and he was killed on D-Day at Omaha Beach. Saying that someone was the love of your life sounds the most banal cliché, but that’s what he was to me. When he died, something in me died as well. There was never anybody else.”
“But your husband?”
Penelope sighed, shrugged her shoulders. “I’m afraid ours was never a very satisfactory marriage. If Richard had survived the war, I should have left Ambrose, and taken Nancy and gone to live with Richard. As it was, I went back to Ambrose. It seemed the only thing to do. And I felt a little guilty about him. I was young and selfish when we married, and we were parted almost at once. The marriage had never had a chance. I felt I owed Ambrose that chance, if nothing else. As well, he was Nancy’s father. And I wanted more children. Finally, I knew that I would never, wholly, love again. There could never be another Richard. And it seemed the sensible thing, just to make the best of what I had. I have to admit that Ambrose and I didn’t make much of a success of our life together, but I had Nancy, and then I had Olivia, and then Noel. Little children, for all their tedious ways, can be a great comfort.”
“Have you ever spoken to your children about this other man?”
“No. I never told them, never spoke his name. For forty years I never spoke of him. Until the other day when I was with Doris, and she talked of Richard as though he’d just that moment walked out of the room. It was lovely. Not sad any longer. I lived with sadness for so long. And a loneliness that nothing and nobody could assuage. But, over the years, I came to terms with what had happened. I learned to live within myself, to grow flowers, to watch my children grow; to look at paintings and listen to music. The gentle powers. They are quite amazingly sustaining.”
“You’ll miss The Shell S
eekers.”
She was touched by his perception.
“No, Danus. Not any more. The Shell Seekers has gone, as Richard has gone. I shall probably never say his name again. And you will keep what I have told you to yourself, for ever.”
“I promise.”
“Good. Now, as we seem to have talked ourselves to a standstill, isn’t it time we thought about moving? Antonia will be thinking that we have disappeared for good.” Danus stood up and held out a hand to help her to her feet. These, she discovered, ached. “I am too tired to walk up the hill. We’ll ask that long-haired young man to phone for a taxi to take us back to the hotel. And I shall leave The Shell Seekers and all the memories of my past behind me. Right here; in this funny little Gallery, where they all started, and where it is entirely appropriate that they should end their days.”
14
PENELOPE
The hall porter of The Sands Hotel, resplendent in his dark green uniform, slammed the car door shut and wished them a safe journey. Antonia drove. The old Volvo moved forward, down the curve of the drive, between the banks of hydrangeas, and turned out into the road. Penelope did not look back.
It was a good day for leaving. The spell of perfect weather seemed, for the time being, to have broken. During the night a mist had rolled in from the sea and all was veiled in moisture, dispersing, to gather again, like smoke. Only once, just before they reached the motorway, did the fog clear, admitting a diffused gleam of sunlight, and the estuary was revealed. It was ebbtide. The mud-flats lay empty of life, save for the eternal, scavenging sea-birds, and in the distance could be glimpsed the white rollers of the Atlantic breaking in over the sand-bar. Then the steep embankment of the new road reared skywards, and all was gone.
So the leaving, the parting, was over. Penelope settled to the long drive. She thought about Podmore’s Thatch, and discovered that she longed to be home. With satisfaction, she anticipated arrival, entering her own house, inspecting her garden, unpacking, opening windows, reading her mail.…
Beside her, Antonia asked, “Are you all right?”
“Did you think I should be in tears?”
“No. But leaving somewhere you love is always painful. You waited so long to come back. And now we’re going away again.”
“I am fortunate. I have my heart in two places, so wherever I am, I am content.”
“Next year, you must come again. Stay with Doris and Ernie. That’ll give you something to look forward to. Cosmo always said that life wasn’t worth living unless you had something to look forward to.”
“Dear man, how right he was.” She thought about this. “I’m afraid, for the moment, your future looks a little bleak and lonely.”
“Only for the moment.”
“It’s better to be realistic, Antonia. If you steel yourself for the worst news of Danus, then anything better comes as a wonderful bonus.”
“I know that. And I don’t have any illusions about him. I realize that it may take a long time and, for him, I hate the prospect. But for me, selfishly, knowing about his being ill makes everything so much easier. We really do love each other and nothing else matters … that’s the most important thing of all, and that’s what I’m going to hang on to.”
“You’ve been very brave. Sensible and brave. Not that I expected anything else of you. I’m really very proud of you.”
“I’m not really brave. But nothing’s so bad if you can do something. On Monday, driving home from Manaccan, and neither of us saying a word, and knowing something was wrong, and with no idea of what it was … that was the worst. I felt that he was tired of me, that he wished I wasn’t there, that he’d gone to see his friend on his own. It was really horrible. Isn’t misunderstanding the most horrible thing in the world? I’ll never let it happen to me again. And I know it won’t ever happen again between Danus and me.”
“It was as much his fault as yours. But I think that painful reserve is inbred in him, inherited from his parents and very much part of the way he was brought up.”
“He told me that was what he loved so much about you. The way you were always more than ready to discuss anything. And, more important, to listen. He told me that, as a child, he never really talked to his parents, and never felt truly close to them. So sad, isn’t it? They probably adored him, but just never got around to telling him.”
“Antonia, if Danus has to stay in Edinburgh and undergo treatment, or even has to go to hospital for a while … have you thought what you want to do?”
“Yes. If I may, I’ll stay with you for another week or two. By then we should know which way the wind is going to blow. And if it’s a long-term thing, then I’ll ring Olivia and accept that offer of help. Not that I want to be a photographer’s model. There’s really no job I’d dislike more, but if I could earn some decent money doing it, I could put it by and save it up, and then when Danus is well again, at least we’d have the smallest beginnings of a start in life. And that’ll give me something to work for. I won’t feel I’m totally wasting my time.”
As they travelled up the backbone of the county and the coastline receded, the fog had melted and rolled away. On the high ground, sunshine washed over fields and farms and moorland, and the old engine houses of disused tin mines pointed to the cloudless spring sky, jagged as broken teeth.
Penelope sighed. She said, “So strange.”
“What’s so strange?”
“First it was my life. And then Olivia’s. And then Cosmo came. And then you. And now it’s your future we talk about. A strange progression.”
“Yes.” Antonia hesitated, and then went on. “One thing you don’t have to worry about. There’s not all that much wrong with Danus. I mean, he’s not impotent or anything.”
The significance of this observation took an instant to sink in. Penelope turned her head and looked at Antonia. Antonia’s charming profile was intent on the road ahead, but a faint blush warmed her cheeks.
She turned back to look out of the window, smiling secretly to herself. She said, “I am glad.”
* * *
The church clock of Temple Pudley struck five o’clock as they turned into the gate of Podmore’s Thatch and drew to a halt. The front door stood open, and smoke curled from a chimney. Mrs. Plackett was there, waiting for them. The kettle sang, and she had made a batch of scones. No home-coming could have been more welcome.
Mrs. Plackett was vociferous, torn between wanting to hear their news and to give them hers.
“Look at you, how brown you are! Must have had the same good weather as we have. Mr. Plackett’s had to water our vegetables, ground is so dry. And thanks for the postcard, Antonia. Was that your hotel with all the flags flying? Looked like a palace to me. Had vandals in the churchyard, broke all the flower vases and wrote disgusting words on the tombstones with spray paint. Got a few bits in for you; bread and butter and milk and a couple of chops for your supper. Have a good drive, did you?”
They were finally able to tell her that, yes, they had had a good drive, the roads had been clear, and they were dying for a cup of tea.
It was only then that it dawned on Mrs. Plackett that three people had set off for Cornwall and only two had returned.
“Where’s Danus? Drop him off at Sawcombe’s, did you?”
“No, he didn’t come with us. He had to go back to Scotland. He caught the train yesterday.”
“To Scotland? That was a bit unexpected, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. But it couldn’t be helped. And we had five wonderful days together.”
“That’s all that matters. Did you see your old friend?”
“Doris Penberth? Yes, of course. And I may tell you, Mrs. Plackett, that we talked ourselves dry.” Mrs. Plackett was making the tea. Penelope sat at the table and helped herself to a scone. “You are the dearest thing to be here to meet us.”
“Well, I said to Linda, thought I’d best come along. Get the house aired. Pick a few flowers. Know you don’t like the house without flowers. And that
’s another bit of news. Linda’s Darren’s started walking. Toddled clear across the kitchen the other day.” She poured tea. “It’s his birthday on Monday. Said I’d give Linda a hand, ask you if you’d mind if I came Tuesday instead. And I cleaned the windows, and put your mail on your desk.…” She drew out a chair and seated herself, her large, competent arms crossed on the table before her. “… a great pile there was, lying on the mat inside the door.…”
She went at last, pedalling homewards on her stately bicycle to give Mr. Plackett his tea. While they gossiped, Antonia had unloaded the car and carried their cases upstairs. She was, presumably, unpacking, for she had not reappeared, and so, as soon as Mrs. Plackett was gone, Penelope did what she had been wanting to do ever since she came through the door. The conservatory first. She filled a can and watered all the pot plants. Then picked up a pair of secateurs and went out into the garden. The grass needed cutting, the iris were out, and the far end of the border was a mass of red and yellow tulips. The first of the early rhododendrons had flowered, and she picked a single bloom and marvelled at its pale-pink perfection, collared in stiff dark-green leaves, and decided that no human hand could achieve such satisfying arrangement of petal and stamen. After a little, holding the flower, she wandered on down through the orchard, awash with fruit blossom, and through the gate to the riverbank. The Windrush flowed quietly by, slipping away beneath the overhanging branches of willow. There were cowslips out, and clumps of pale-mauve mallow, and, as she walked, a mallard emerged from a reedy thicket and proceeded to swim downstream, followed, to Penelope’s enchantment, by half a dozen fluffy ducklings. She walked as far as the wooden bridge, and then, having for the moment had her fill, made her way slowly back to the house. As she crossed the lawn, Antonia called from the upstairs window of her bedroom.