The Shell Seekers

  Thursday was the day that the two young men had planned to return to Edinburgh. Now they stood in the open doorway of the desolate croft, watching the rain, and discussing the situation. After a week of indifferent sport, the temptation to postpone their return was one that was hard to resist. But there were, of course, obstacles to this course of action.

  Eventually, “I don’t have to be in the office until Monday,” Roddy said. “So far as I’m concerned, it’s neither here nor there. The decision’s up to you, old chum. You’re the one who wants to get home and find out what the bloody doctors have decided. If you can’t wait another day to hear their verdict, then we’ll pack up and leave now. But it seems to me that you’ve waited so long, you might as well wait another day and enjoy yourself in the process. And I don’t suppose your mother will get her knickers in a twist if you don’t show up this evening. You’re a big boy now, and if she listens to the weather forecasts, she’ll guess what’s happened.”

  Danus smiled. The casual fashion in which Roddy came straight to the nub of his dilemma filled him with gratitude. They had been friends for years, but over the last few days, with only each other for company, had become immensely close. Here, in this remote and inaccessible part of the world, there were few diversions, and in the evenings, once they had cooked their supper and built up the peat fire, there was nothing to do but talk. It was good for Danus to talk, good to come out with everything that he had miserably, ashamedly kept to himself for far too long. He told Roddy about America, and the sudden onset of his illness, and, brought out into the open, his experiences lost much of their terror. With all this out of the way, he was able to confide further. To explain his decision to switch careers; and to outline his plans for the future. He told Roddy about going to work for Penelope Keeling at Podmore’s Thatch. He described the idyllic week in Cornwall. Finally, he told him about Antonia.

  “Marry the girl,” had been Roddy’s advice.

  “I want to. One day. But I have to get myself sorted out first.”

  “What is there to sort out?”

  “If we married, we’d have children. I don’t know if epilepsy is hereditary.”

  “Oh, balls, of course it isn’t.”

  “And my work isn’t exactly lucrative. In fact, I haven’t got two brass farthings to rub together.”

  “Get a loan from your old man. He can’t be strapped for cash.”

  “I could, of course, but I’d rather not.”

  “Pride will get you nowhere, sport.”

  “I suppose not.” He thought about it, but would not commit himself. “I’ll see” was all he would promise.

  Now, he turned up his face to the dripping skies and thought about getting home, and the vital verdict, lying in wait for his arrival. He thought about Antonia, filling in the days at Podmore’s Thatch, listening for the telephone, waiting for his call.

  He said, “I promised Antonia I’d ring today, as soon as I got back to Edinburgh.”

  “You can do that tomorrow. If she’s the girl I think she is, she’ll understand.” The river, by now, would be in spate. In imagination, Danus felt the weight and pleasing balance of his salmon rod, as yet unused. Heard the spin of the reel, felt the tug of a bite. There was a certain pool where the big fish lurked. Roddy grew impatient. “Come on, make up your mind. Let’s live dangerously and give ourselves another day. So far, we’ve caught nothing but trout and we’ve eaten those. The salmon are down there waiting for us. We owe it to them to give them a sporting chance.”

  He was, quite obviously, itching to go. Danus turned his head and looked at his friend. Roddy’s ruddy features held the expression of a small boy yearning for the treat of a lifetime, and Danus knew that he hadn’t the heart to deny him.

  He grinned, gave in. “Okay. We’ll stay.”

  * * *

  The next day, early, they set off to drive south. The back of Roddy’s car was laden with bags, rods, gaffs, waders, creels, and, as well, the two hefty salmon they had landed during the course of the previous afternoon, for the decision to stay on had proved more than worthwhile. The little croft, cleaned, cleared, and safely shuttered, disappeared into the hills behind them. Ahead lay the long narrow road, winding and dipping across the desolate moor of Sutherland. The rain had ceased, but the sky was still smudged by watery clouds, and the shadows of these drifted across the endless miles of bog and heather. With the moor finally traversed, they dropped down into Lairg, crossed the river at Bonar Bridge, and rounded the blue waters of the Dornoch Firth. Then up and over the winding, precipitous slopes of Struie and so to the Black Isle. Now the road was wide and fast and they were able to pick up speed. Old landmarks raced in upon each other, were reached and passed at an alarming rate. Inverness, Culloden, Carrbridge, Aviemore, and then the road curved south from Dalwhinnie, to climb the Cairngorms by the bleak hills of Glengarrie. By eleven o’clock, they had bypassed Perth, and were onto the motorway, slicing through Fife like a surgeon’s knife, and the two great bridges that span the Forth revealed themselves, glittering in the bright morning light and looking as though they had been constructed of wire. Across the river, and they were on the approach road to Edinburgh. Observed from a distance, the spires and towers of the ancient city, the crag and bulk of the Castle with its flag snapping at the masthead presented, as always, a silhouette timeless and unchanging as an old print.

  The motorway ended. The car slowed down to forty, then thirty miles an hour. The traffic thickened. They came to houses, shops, hotels, traffic lights. They had scarcely spoken during the entire journey. Now Roddy broke the silence.

  “It’s been great,” he said. “We’ll do it again sometime.”

  “Yes. Some time. I can’t thank you enough.”

  Roddy tapped out a tattoo on the steering wheel with his fingernails. “How do you feel?”

  “Okay.”

  “Apprehensive?”

  “Not really. Just realistic. If I have to live with this thing for the rest of my life, then that’s what I’ll have to do.”

  “You never know.” The lights turned green. The car moved forward. “It might be good news.”

  “I’m not thinking about it. I’d rather expect the worst and be ready to cope with it.”

  “Whatever it is … whatever they’ve found out … you won’t let it get you down, will you? I mean, if things look pretty black, don’t keep it to yourself. If there’s no one else you feel you can talk to, there’s always me, ready and available.”

  “How do you feel about hospital visiting?”

  “A cinch, old boy. Always had an eye for a pretty nurse. I’ll bring you grapes and eat them all myself.”

  Queensferry road; the Dean Bridge. Now they were into the wide streets and perfectly proportioned terraces of the New Town. Freshly cleaned, washed in sunshine, their stonework was the colour of honey; in Moray Place the trees were misty with fresh green foliage, and flowering cherries hung heavy with blossom.

  Heriot Row. The tall, narrow house that was home. Roddy drew up at the pavement’s edge and switched off the engine. They got out and unloaded Danus’ belongings, including the creel which contained his precious fish, and piled it all on the doorstep.

  With this accomplished, “That’s it then,” said Roddy, but still hesitated, as though reluctant to abandon his old friend. “Want me to come in with you?”

  “No,” Danus told him. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Ring me at the flat this evening.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  Roddy delivered an affectionate thump on Danus’ shoulder. “Adiós, then, old sport.”

  “It’s been great, Roddy.”

  “And good luck.”

  He got back into his car and drove away. Danus watched him go, then reached into the pocket of his jeans for the latchkey and opened the massive black-painted door. It swung inwards. He saw the long-familiar hallway, the graceful curved staircase. All was immaculate and orderly, the silence broken only by the ticking of the ta
ll clock which had once belonged to Danus’ great-grandfather. Furniture gleamed with polish and years of care, and a bowl of hyacinths stood on the chest by the telephone, filling the air with their heavy and sensuous scent.

  He hesitated. Upstairs a door opened and shut. Footsteps. He looked up as his mother appeared at the head of the stair.

  “Danus.”

  He said, “The fishing turned good. I stayed an extra day.”

  “Oh, Danus…”

  She looked just as she usually did, neat and elegant, wearing a smooth tweed skirt and a lamb’s-wool sweater, and without a hair of her grey head out of place. And yet she looked different. She was coming down the stairs towards him … running down the stairs, which in itself was extraordinary. He stared at her. On the bottom step she stopped, her eyes on a level with his, her hand closed over the polished newel post at the foot of the bannister.

  She said, “You’re all right.” She wasn’t crying, but her blue eyes were brilliant as though with unshed tears. He had never before seen her in such a state of emotional excitement. “Oh, Danus, it’s all right. There’s nothing wrong with you. There never has been. They rang yesterday evening, and I had a long chat with the specialist. That diagnosis you had in America was totally wrong. All these years … and you’ve never had epilepsy at all. You’ve never been an epileptic.”

  He could not say anything. His brain had stopped working, had turned to cotton wool, and he could think no coherent thought. And then, only one thought. “But…” It took effort even to speak, and the sound of his voice came out in a croak. He swallowed and started again. “But the black-outs?”

  “Caused by the virus you contracted and your very, very high temperature. Apparently that can happen. And it happened to you. But it’s not epilepsy. It never was. And if only you hadn’t been such a stupid clunk and kept it all to yourself, you would have saved yourself all these years of anguish.”

  “I didn’t want you to be worried. I was thinking of Ian. I didn’t want you to go through it all a second time.”

  “I’d go through hell-fire and brimstone rather than have you make yourself miserable. And it was all for nothing. For no reason. You’re all right.”

  All right. Never epilepsy. It had never happened. Like a bad dream, and as terrifying, but it had never really happened. He was all right. No more pills, no more uncertainty. Relief rendered him weightless, as though at any moment he might take off and float to the ceiling. Now, he could do anything. Everything. He could marry Antonia. Oh dear God, I can marry Antonia and we can have children, and I simply can’t thank you enough. Thank you for this miracle. I’m so grateful. I shall never stop being grateful. I shall never forget I promise you that I shall never forget. I …

  “Oh, Danus, don’t stand there looking like a pudding. Don’t you understand?”

  He said, “Yes.” And then he said, “I love you.” Although it was true, and had always been true, he could not remember ever before having said such a thing to her. His mother promptly burst into tears, which was another new experience, and Danus put his arms around her and held her so tightly that after a bit she stopped crying and started sniffing instead, and feeling around for her handkerchief. Finally, they drew apart and she blew her nose and wiped her eyes, and touched her hair, settling it back into place.

  “So stupid,” she told him. “The last thing I meant to do was weep. But it was such wonderful news to have, and your father and I have been sick with frustration, not being able to get hold of you and share it with you, and put your mind at rest. But now I have told you, there’s something else I think you should know. A phone message came through for you yesterday afternoon. I was out, but Mrs. Cooper took it down and left it for me to find. I’m afraid it might be rather distressing news, but I hope you won’t be too upset.…”

  Already, before his eyes, she was reverting once more to her usual practical manner. Demonstrations of emotion and affection were, for the time being, over. Tucking her handkerchief up her sleeve, she pushed Danus gently out of the way and went to the chest where stood the telephone, to pick up the message pad that lived by the instrument. She leafed over the pages.

  “Here it is. From somebody called Antonia Hamilton. You’d better read it for yourself.”

  Antonia.

  He took the pad, saw Mrs. Cooper’s pencilled, loopy handwriting.

  Antonia Hamilton rang 4 o’clock Thurs says Mrs Keeling died Tues funeral 3 o’clock Temple Pudley Sat afternoon thinks you might like to be there hope I’ve got it right. L Cooper.

  The family gathered for their mother’s funeral. The Chamberlains were the first to arrive, Nancy in her own car, and George driving his stodgy and elderly Rover. Nancy wore a navy-blue coat and skirt and a felt hat of quite startling unbecomingness. Her features, beneath its jutting brim, were sternly set and brave.

  Olivia, dressed, for courage and composure, in her favourite dark grey Jean Muir, greeted and kissed them both. Kissing George felt like kissing a knuckle-bone, and he smelt of mothballs and faintly antiseptic, like a dentist. As though they were guests and strangers, she led them through to the warm and flowery sitting room. And, as though they were guests, she found herself making conversation, apologizing.

  “I am sorry I couldn’t ask you both for lunch. But as you probably saw, Mrs. Plackett’s laid the dining room table for tea, and pushed back all the chairs, and Antonia and I have spent the morning making sandwiches. We lunched off the crusts.”

  “Don’t worry. We had a bite in a pub on the way.” Nancy settled herself, with a sigh of relief, in Mumma’s chair. “Mrs. Croftway’s out for the day, so we had to dump the children with friends in the village. We left Melanie in tears. She’s dreadfully cut up about her Granny Pen. Poor child, the first time she’s experienced death. Face to face, as it were.” Olivia could think of nothing to say to this. Nancy drew off her black gloves. “Where’s Antonia?”

  “Upstairs. Changing.”

  George looked at his watch. “She’d better get a move on. It’s twenty-five to three already.”

  “George, it takes exactly five minutes to walk from here to the church.”

  “Maybe. But we don’t want to be rushing in at the last moment. Most unseemly.”

  “And Mother?” Nancy’s voice was hushed. “Where is Mother?”

  “She’s there, in the church, ready and waiting for us,” Olivia told her briskly. “Mr. Bedway suggested a family procession from the house, but somehow I jibbed at the prospect. I do hope you both agree.”

  “And when does Noel arrive?”

  “Any moment now, I hope. He’s driving from London.”

  “The traffic on a Saturday is always heavy,” George pronounced. “He’ll probably be late.”

  But his gloomy prophecy proved unfounded, for five minutes later, the country quiet was shattered by the familiar sounds of their brother’s arrival: the roar of the Jaguar’s engine, the grinding of tyre on gravel as he braked to a halt, the slam of a car door. A moment or so later he had joined them, looking immensely tall and dark and elegant in a grey suit which had no doubt been tailored for him with expensive business lunches in mind, and was somehow too ostentatious for a small-country funeral.

  No matter, he was here. Nancy and George sat and looked at him, but Olivia rose to her feet and went to give him a kiss. He smelt of Eau Sauvage, and not disinfectant, and for this small mercy she was grateful.

  “What sort of a drive did you have?”

  “Not too bad, but the traffic was hellish. Hello, Nancy. Hi, George. Olivia, who’s the old boy in the blue suit hovering around the garage?”

  “Oh, that’ll be Mr. Plackett. He’s going to come and house-sit while we’re all in the church.”

  Noel raised his eyebrows. “Are we expecting bandits?”

  “No, but it’s the local custom. Mrs. Plackett insisted. It’s either bad luck or not comme il faut to leave the house empty during a funeral service. So she fixed for Mr. Plackett to stay, and he’s been to
ld to keep the fires going, and put kettles on the boil, and such.”

  “How very well organized.”

  George once more looked at his watch. He was getting restive. “I really think we should leave. Come along, Nancy.”

  Nancy stood, and went to the mirror that hung over Mumma’s desk, in order to check the angle of her dreadful hat. This done, she drew on her gloves. “What about Antonia?”

  “I’ll call her,” said Olivia, but Antonia was already downstairs, waiting for them in the kitchen, sitting on the scrubbed wooden table and talking to Mr. Plackett, who had made his way indoors and taken up his post as caretaker. As they came through the kitchen door, she got off the table and smiled politely. She wore a navy-and-white-striped cotton skirt and a white shirt with a frilled collar, over which she had pulled a navy-blue cardigan. Her bright and shining hair was drawn back into a pony-tail and tied with a navy-blue ribbon. She looked young as a schoolgirl, and as diffident, and quite dreadfully pale.

  “Are you all right?” Olivia asked her.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “George says it’s time we went…”

  “I’m ready.”

  Olivia led the way, out through the porch, stepping into the pale, clear sunshine. The others followed, a small and sombre party. As they set out across the gravel, a new sound began. The church bell, tolling gravely. Measured peals rang out over the tranquil countryside, and rooks, disturbed, scattered, cawing from the tree-tops. They’re ringing the bell for Mumma, Olivia told herself, and all at once, everything was coldly real. She paused, waiting for Nancy to catch up with her, to walk by her side. And doing this, turning back, she caught sight of Antonia suddenly stopping dead in her tracks. She had been pale before, but now she was as white as a sheet.

  “Antonia, what is it?”