The Shell Seekers

  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 naturally led itself to the matter in hand.

  “We shall all miss Mrs. Keeling most dreadfully,” Mr. Tillingham 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.

  Being so alone was a terrifying experience. She had never known what it was to feel so alone. Before, there had always been someone. At first, Cosmo; and then, when Cosmo died, the comforting knowledge that Olivia was there. In London, maybe, and miles from Ibiza, but still there. At the end of a telephone call saying, “It’s all right, come to me, I will take care of you.” But Olivia, for the time being, was unapproachable. Practical, organized, making lists, speaking on the telephone—it seemed that she was never off the telephone. She had made it perfectly clear to Antonia, without actually saying so, that this was no time for long, intimate conversations, no time for confidences. Antonia had the wit to realize that, for the first time, she was seeing the other side of Olivia: the cool and competent business woman who had fought her way up the ladder of her career to become Editor of Venus, and, in the process, had schooled herself to be ruthless with human frailties and intolerant of sentimentality. The other Olivia, the Olivia that Antonia had first known in what she already thought of as the old days, was in all likelihood too vulnerable for exposure, and for the time being had shut herself away. Antonia understood and respected this, but it made nothing easier for herself.

  Because of this barrier that stood between them, and also because it was obvious that Olivia already had more than enough on her plate, Antonia had told her little about Danus. They had spoken of him casually, up on the windy hilltop while Mr. Bedway was doing the unimaginable things that he had to do at Podmore’s Thatch, but nothing important had been said. At least, nothing truly important. He has epilepsy, Antonia had told Olivia. He is an epileptic. But she had not said, I love him. He is the first man I have ever loved and he feels the same way about me. He loves me, and we have been to bed together, and it wasn’t frightening, the way I always thought it would be, it was just utterly right, and it was magic, all at the same time. I don’t care what the future holds for us, I don’t care about him not having any money. I want him to come back to me just as soon as he can, and if he is ill, I shall wait until he is well again, and I shall take care of him and we will live in the country and grow cabbages together.

  She had not said this because she knew that Olivia’s mind was on other things … there was, indeed, the likelihood that she might not even be interested and would not want to hear. Living together in the same house as Olivia was like sitting next to a stranger on a train. There was no real point of contact, and Antonia found herself isolated in her own unhappiness.

  Before, there had always been someone. Now there was not even Da
nus. He was away, far in the north of Sutherland, unreachable by telephone or telegram or any normal form of communication. She told herself that he could not have cut himself away from her more completely if he had decided to take a dugout canoe up the Amazon, or drive a team of huskies across the polar ice-cap. Not being able to get in touch with him was almost unbearable. Penelope was dead, and Antonia needed him. As though telepathy were some sort of a reliable radar system, she spent most of her waking hours sending him positive thought messages, urging him to receive them, to feel impelled to get in touch. To drive, if necessary, twenty miles to the nearest call-box, to dial the number of Podmore’s Thatch and so find out what was wrong.

  However, this did not happen, and Antonia was scarcely surprised. For comfort, he will ring on Thursday, she told herself. He gets back to Edinburgh on Thursday, and he will ring then, at the very first opportunity. He promised. He will ring to tell me … us?… the results of the brain-scan and the doctor’s prognosis. (How extraordinary that this now seemed of the lesser urgency.) And then I shall tell him that Penelope is dead, and he will come, by some means or other, and he will be here, and I shall be able to be strong again. Antonia needed that strength in order to endure the ordeal of Penelope’s funeral. Without Danus beside her, she was not certain that she was going to be able to cope.

  Slowly, slowly, the hours passed. Wednesday dragged by, and it was Thursday. Today he will ring. Thursday morning. Thursday midday. Thursday afternoon.

  No call came.

  At half past three, Olivia went out, to walk to the church and there meet the girl from Pudley who was going to do the flowers for the funeral service. Left alone, Antonia pottered aimlessly around the garden, achieving nothing, and then wandered down to the orchard to unpeg a line of tea-towels and pillowcases from the washing line. The church clock struck four o’clock, and all at once, like a revelation, she knew that she could not wait another moment. The time had come to take some positive action, and if she did not do so immediately, she would either have hysterics, or bolt down the slope to the banks of the Windrush and there drown herself. She abandoned the washing basket, walked up the garden, through the conservatory and into the kitchen, picked up the telephone and dialled the Edinburgh number.

  It was a warm, slumbrous afternoon. The palms of her hands were clammy, her mouth felt dry. The kitchen clock ticked away the seconds at a faster speed than the beating of her own heart. Waiting for some person to answer the call, she found herself undecided as to exactly what she was going to say. If Danus was not there, and his mother came to the telephone, then a message would have to be left for him. Mrs. Keeling has died. Please, can you tell Danus. And will you ask him to call me. Antonia Hamilton. He has the number. So far, so good. But would she have the nerve to go on and ask Mrs. Muirfield if there was news from the hospital, or would that be intrusive and enormously unfeeling? Supposing the diagnosis had come through and was unhopeful. Danus’ mother would scarcely relish sharing her natural distress with a total stranger, a disembodied voice calling from the depths of Gloucestershire. On the other hand …

  “Hello?”

  With thoughts flying in all directions, Antonia was taken unawares and almost dropped the receiver.

  “I … oh … is that Mrs. Muirfield?”

  “No. I’m sorry, but Mrs. Muirfield is not here at the moment.” The voice was female, very Scottish, and immensely refined.

  “Well … when will she be back?”

  “I’m sorry, but I have no idea. She went to a meeting of the Save the Children Fund, and then I think she’s going to tea with a friend.”

  “And Mr. Muirfield?”

  “Mr. Muirfield’s at his office.” The reply was brisk, as though Antonia’s query was a stupid one—and it was—and the answer obvious. “He’ll not be home until half past six.”

  “Who is that speaking?”

  “I’m Mrs. Muirfield’s help.” Antonia hesitated. The voice, whose owner perhaps wanted to get on with her dusting, became impatient. “Do you want me to take a message?”

  In some desperation, “Danus isn’t there, is he?” Antonia asked.

  “Danus is away fishing.”

  “I know. But he was meant to be coming back today and I thought he might have arrived.”

  “No. He’s not come and I’ve no idea when he’s expected.”

  “Well, perhaps…” There was no alternative. “… could you take a message?”

  “You’ll have to wait till I get the paper and pencil.” Antonia waited. Some time passed. “Ready now.”

  “Just say Antonia called. Antonia Hamilton.”

  “Give me a moment till I write it down. An-Ton-Ia Ham-Il-Ton.”

  “Yes, that’s right. Just say … tell him … Mrs. Keeling died on Tuesday morning. And the funeral is at Temple Pudley, at three o’clock on Saturday afternoon. He’ll understand. He’ll maybe,” she said, praying that he would be able to make it, that he would be there. “he’ll maybe want to come.”

  * * *

  At Podmore’s Thatch, on Friday morning at ten o’clock, the telephone rang. It was the fourth telephone call since breakfast, and all of them had been answered by Antonia, flying from wherever she was in order to be the first person to pick up the receiver. But right now Antonia was out, gone to the village to pick up the daily newspapers and the milk, and so it was Olivia, sitting at the kitchen table, who rose to her feet and took the call.

  “Podmore’s Thatch.”

  “Miss Keeling?”

  “Speaking.”

  “Charles Enderby here, of Enderby, Looseby and Thring.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Enderby.”

  He did not offer the usual condolences, because he had already done this when Olivia had spoken to him to tell him formally, as Penelope’s solicitor, that her mother had died.

  “Miss Keeling, I am of course making the journey to Gloucestershire on Saturday in order to attend Mrs. Keeling’s funeral, but it’s occurred to me that perhaps, if it is convenient to you all, that I might, when it is over, have a meeting with yourself and your brother and sister; just to go over the points of your mother’s will that might need explaining, and to put you all in the picture. It seems, perhaps, a little precipitous, and of course you are at perfect liberty to suggest an alternative date, but it does seem a good opportunity when all the family will be under one roof. It shouldn’t take more than half an hour.”

  Olivia considered the suggestion. “I can’t think why we shouldn’t. The sooner the better, and it’s not often that the three of us are together.”

  “Would you suggest a time?”

  “Well, the service starts at three, and there’ll be a cup of tea here afterwards for anybody who wants to come back to the house. I suppose by five o’clock it should all be over. How about five o’clock?”

  “Splendid. I’ll make a note of that. And will you let Mrs. Chamberlain and your brother know?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  * * *

  She rang the old Vicavage.

  “Nancy. Olivia here.”

  “Oh, Olivia, I was just about to ring you. How are you? How is everything going? Do you need me at Podmore’s Thatch? I can easily come over. I can’t tell you how useless I feel, and…”

  Olivia interrupted, cutting her sister short. “Nancy, Mr. Enderby’s been on the phone. He wants a family meeting after Mumma’s funeral, to get her will sorted out. Five o’clock. Can you be here?”

  “Five o’clock?” Nancy’s voice was shrill with alarm. Olivia might have suggested some clandestine and suspicious assignment. “Oh, no, not five o’clock. I can’t.”

  “For heaven’s sake, why not?”

  “George has a meeting with the vicar and the Archdeacon. It’s about the curate’s stipend. Terribly important. We’ll have to come straight home after the funeral.…”

  “This is important too. Tell him to put the meeting off.”

  “Olivia, I couldn’t do that.”

  “In t
hat case, you’ll have to come to the funeral in two cars, and you’ll have to drive yourself home. You’ve got to be there.…”

  “Can’t we meet Mr. Enderby another time?”

  “Yes, of course we can, but it won’t be nearly so convenient. And I’ve already told Mr. Enderby that we will be here, so you really have no alternative.” Olivia’s voice, even to herself, sounded dictatorial and sharp. She added in kinder tones, “If you don’t want to drive yourself home that evening, then you can stay the night, and go back the next morning. But you must be there.”

  “Oh, all right.” Nancy gave in, but grudgingly. “But I won’t stay the night, thank you all the same. It’s Mrs. Croftway’s day off and I’ll have to cook the children their supper.”

  Bugger Mrs. Croftway. Olivia stopped trying to be kind. “In that case, will you ring Noel and tell him he’s got to be there too. It will be one less thing for me to do, and hopefully will stop you from feeling so useless.”

  * * *

  After a long spell of dry weather, during which the level of the river had dropped disastrously and the salmon pools lay shallow and still, the rains came to Sutherland. These were blown in on fat grey clouds, rolling from the west, blotting out sky and sunshine, settling on the tops of the hills, sinking into the glens, turning to mist, to the light patter of falling raindrops. The heather, burned dry as tinder, drank in the moisture, absorbed it, spilled the excess off into peaty crannies that dribbled into tiny burns, and so into larger burns, and so on down the hillsides into the river itself. A solid day of rain was enough to revitalize the flow of water. It swelled, gathered force, spewed whitely over into deep pools, plunged on, down the gentle slope of the glen, headed for the open sea. By Thursday morning, the prospect of fishing, which up to now had proved totally unproductive, was all at once rife with exciting possibilities.