The Shell Seekers

by Rosamunde Pilcher

She had given Nancy what she had given all her children. A home, security, comfort, interest, a place to bring their friends, a stout front door to keep them safe from the outside world. She thought of the big basement in Oakley Street, smelling of garlic and herbs, and warm from the big stove and the open fire. She remembered them all, chattering like sparrows and hungry as hunters, pouring in on dark winter evenings from school; to drop their satchels, tear off their coats, and settle down to consume vast quantities of sausages, pasta, fish cakes, hot buttered toast, plum cake, and cocoa. She remembered that marvellous room at Christmas time, with the sprucy smell of the tree and Christmas cards strung everywhere, like washing, on lines of red ribbon. She thought of the summers, the French windows open to the garden beyond, the shade of the trees, the scent of tobacco plants and the wallflowers. She thought of the children who had played, screaming aimlessly, in that garden.