The Shell Seekers

by Rosamunde Pilcher

war, which I had never done. By then, memories had become enormously important, and a new generation was growing up who had never known those years when Britain, rich and powerful, basked in a social climate that we imagined was high noon—but was, in fact, twilight, the sun sinking as the nation faced, with some resolution, the frightening might of Hitler’s Third Reich.

Olivia, waiting for her, stayed where she was, sitting on the bed, feeling herself filled with gratitude for Penelope’s calm and practical acceptance of the situation. She thought about having another sort of mother, avid with curiosity and romantic images, linking Olivia with Cosmo, imagining her daughter standing at some altar in a white dress designed to look well from the back. The very idea made her laugh and shudder all at the same time.

This, then, was the meaning of the word WAR. It wasn’t just having to carry your gas mask, and do the black-out, and giggle at Miss Pawson,

and paint the attic for the evacuees; but a nightmare infinitely more terrible, from which there could be no grateful awakening. It had to be endured, and this could only be done, not by running away, or putting your head under the blankets, but by picking up a sword and going to meet it.

“He’s come, then,” said Mrs. Plackett as she appeared through the door, for all the world like a ship in full sail.

“What a happy woman I am, living in a garden, with books, babies, birds and flowers and plenty of leisure to enjoy them.”

Penelope took it all in her stride, was unprovoked by his attack, and was obviously not about to be browbeaten by her son.

Just being with Penelope made you feel calm and safe and secure, and as though life—lately so unbearably dreadful and sad—was still something exciting and filled with future joys.

Grief was like a terrible burden, but at least you could lay it down by the side of the road and walk away from it. Antonia had come only a few paces, but already she could turn and look back and not weep. It wasn’t anything to do with forgetting. It was just accepting. Nothing was ever so bad once you had accepted it.

Self-reliance. That was the keyword, the one thing that could pull you through any crisis fate chose to hurl at you. To be yourself. Independent. Not witless. Still able to make my own decisions and plot the course of what remains of my life. I do not need my children. Knowing their faults, recognizing their shortcomings, I love them all, but I do not need them.

It was good. And nothing good is ever lost. It stays part of a person, becomes part of one’s character.

He was his father all over again. Perpetually dissatisfied with his lot, envious of others, materialistic and ambitious, and unshakeable in his belief that the world owed him a living.

The greatest gift a parent can leave a child is that parent’s own independence.

Because, one day, they will come. As we came. Young men with bright visions and deep perceptions and tremendous talent. They will come, not to paint the bay and the sea and the boats and the moors, but the warmth of the sun and the colour of the wind.

Outside, the garden was drowned in a blue light, heavy with the scent of stock. An eyelash of a moon hung in the sky. Far below, on the beach, the sea whispered.

My darling girl. Happy Christmas. This has come to you from across the Atlantic. A good friend of mine was in New York, where his cruiser was re-fitting, and he brought it back when they returned to England. To me, the scent of Chanel No. 5 evokes everything that is glamorous and sexy and light-hearted and fun. Lunch at the Berkeley; London in May with the lilac blossom out; laughter, and love; and you. You are never out of my thoughts. You are never out of my heart.

“Luxury, I think, is the total fulfilment of all five senses at once.

think of you all at Carn Cottage, imagine what you are doing, and wish I were with you, sharing the laughter and domestic doings of what I have come to think of as my second home. All of it was good, in every sense of the word. And in this life, nothing good is truly lost. It stays part of a person, becomes part of their

character. So part of you goes everywhere with me. And part of me is yours, forever. My love, my darling,

Now she had come to the end. The play was over. The illusion of theatre was strong. Footlights dimmed, and in the dying light the actors turned to make their way from the stage. Doris and Ernie, young as they would never be young again. And the old Penberths and the Trubshots, and the Watson-Grants. And Papa. All dead. Long dead. Last of all went Richard. She remembered him smiling, and realized that time, that great old healer, had finally accomplished its work, and now, across the years, the face of love no longer stirred up agonies of grief and bitterness. Rather, one was

left feeling simply grateful. For how unimaginably empty the past would be without him to remember. Better to have loved and lost, she told herself, than never to have loved at all. And know that it was true.

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.”

As long as Mumma was alive, she knew that some small part of herself had remained a child, cherished and adored. Perhaps you never completely grew up until your mother died.