The Shell Seekers

by Rosamunde Pilcher

Nancy’s mother, Penelope Keeling, had practically lived in the old kitchen in the basement of the big house in Oakley Street, cooking and serving enormous meals at the great scrubbed table; writing letters, bringing up her children, mending clothes, and even entertaining her endless guests.

The constant astonishment was that any woman as normal as Nancy should have sprung from the loins of such an extraordinary family.

Five minutes later she was indulging in the most comfortable occupation she knew, which was to lie in a hot bath and drink cold whisky at the same time.

“For heaven’s sake, what is there to discuss? It has nothing to do with any person but Mumma. Honestly, Nancy, you and George treat her as though she were senile; she’s sixty-four, in the prime of life, strong as an ox and as independent as she’s ever been. Stop interfering.”

I do wish Nancy’s children could be half as companionable and well-mannered. Heaven only knows what sin I committed to be landed with such a pair for grandchildren.…”

He felt that she should at least have the decency to show a little nostalgia for the good old days when they had lived together, but she didn’t seem to miss him in the least. He found this hard to understand because he missed her very much.

you couldn’t change the name of a house any more than you could change the name of a person.

This was not frightening, for she had never been afraid of death, but it had honed her perceptions, and reminded her sharply of what the Church calls the sins of omission.

Not for the first time Penelope wished that she were truly religious. She believed, of course, and went to church at Christmas and Easter, because without something to believe in, life would be intolerable. But now, seeing the little procession of villagers filing up the gravel path between the ancient leaning gravestones, she thought it would be good to join them with the certainty of finding comfort. But she did not. It had never worked before and it was unlikely to work now. It was not God’s fault; just something to do with her own attitude of mind.

Elizabeth made a pot of tea and a stack of hot cinnamon toast.

“Don’t forget those things,” Sophie told her. “They are all part of the person that he was. It is good to remember the bad times as well as the good. After all, that is what life is all about.”

What had gone wrong? What had become of the babies she had borne and loved and brought up and educated and generally cared for? The answer was, perhaps, that she had not expected enough of them. But she had learned the hard way, in the London years after the war, not to expect anything of any person except herself.

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.

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.

But now, all at once, things were different. There was not simply a past, but a future as well. Plans to be made, delights in store, a whole new prospect ahead. Besides, she was sixty-four. There weren’t that number of years left to be wasted, gazing nostalgically back over her shoulder.

“Luxury, I think, is the total fulfilment of all five senses at once. Luxury is now. I feel warm; and, if I wish, I can reach out and touch your hand. I smell the sea and, as well, somebody inside the hotel is frying onions. Delicious. I am tasting cold beer, and I can hear gulls, and water lapping, and the fishing boat’s engine going chug-chug-chug in the most satisfactory sort of way.”

With that last quarrel lying sour between them all, they had simply taken themselves off and remained apart from their mother and resolutely incommunicado. This bothered her a good deal less than her children probably imagined.

And remember, speak out and don’t be afraid. Don’t ever be afraid of being honest and truthful.”

you love each other, and you want to spend the rest of your lives together. You must snatch at happiness, hold it tight and never let it go. To do anything else is morally wrong. Such chances never come again. What does it matter if you have to manage on a shoe-string?

“I’m not really brave. But nothing’s so bad if you can do something.

“I wouldn’t worry too much about that. She may not have believed in God, but I’m pretty certain God believed in her.”

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.