A Place of Hiding

What she did see at a dogleg was the Shell House. As Adrian had suggested, only a blind man could have missed it. The building itself was of stucco painted yellow. The shells from which it took its name served as decoration along the drive, topping the boundary wall, and within the large front garden.

It was the most tasteless display Margaret could ever recall seeing, something that looked assembled by a madman. Conch shells, ormer shells, scallop shells, and the occasional abalone shell formed borders, first. They stood alongside flowerbeds in which more shells—glued onto twigs and branches and flexible metal—comprised the flowers. In the middle of the lawn a shallow shell-embedded pond raised its shell-embedded sides and provided an environment for—mercifully—non-shelled goldfish. But all round this pond stood shell-encrusted pedestals on which shell-formed idols posed for purposes of adoration. Two full-sized shell lawn tables and their appropriate shell chairs each held tea services of shell and shell food on their sandwich plates. And along the front wall ran a miniature firestation, a school, a barn, and a church, all of them glinting white from the molluscs that had given their lives to fashion them. It was, Margaret thought as she climbed out of the Range Rover, enough to put one off bouillabaisse forever.

She shuddered at such a monument to vulgarity. It brought back too many unpleasant memories: childhood summer holidays on the coast of Essex, all those aitches dropped, all those greasy chips consumed, all that doughy flesh so hideously reddened in order to proclaim to one and all that enough money had been saved for a holiday at the sea. Margaret shoved aside the thought of it, the remembered sight of her parents on the steps of a hired beach hut, arms slung round each other, bottled beer in their hands. Their sloppy kisses and then her mother’s giggles and what followed the giggles. Enough, Margaret thought. She advanced determinedly up the drive. She called out a confident hello, then a second and a third. No one came out of the house. There were gardening tools arrayed on the front walk, however, although God only knew to what purpose anyone intended to put them in this environment. Nonetheless, they suggested someone was at home and at work in the garden, so she approached the front door. As she did so, a man came round the side of the house, carrying a shovel. He was grubbily clad in blue jeans so dirty that they might have stood up on their own had he not been wearing them. Despite the cold, no jacket protected him, just a faded blue work shirt on which someone had embroidered Moullin Glass in red. The theme of climatic indifference was one that the man carried down to his feet, on which he wore sandals only, although he also had on socks. These, however, displayed more than one hole and his right big toe protruded from one of them. He saw Margaret and stopped, saying nothing. She was surprised to realise that she recognised him: the overnourished Heathcliff she’d seen at Guy’s funeral reception. Close up, she saw that the darkness of his skin was due to his face being weathered to the condition of unsoaped leather. His eyes were hostile observing her, and his hands were covered with myriad healed and unhealed cuts. Margaret might have been intimidated by the level of animosity coming from him, but she already felt her own animosity, and even if that had not been the case, she was not a woman who was easily alarmed.

“I’m looking for Cynthia Moullin,” she told the man as pleasantly as she could. “Can you tell me where I might find her, please?”

“Why?” He carried the shovel onto the lawn, where he began digging round the base of one of the trees.

Margaret bristled. She was used to people hearing her voice—God knew she’d spent years enough developing it—and jumping to at once. She said, “I believe it’s either yes or no. You can or you can’t help me find her. Have you a problem understanding me?”

“I’ve a problem caring one way or t’other.” His accent was so thick with what Margaret assumed was island patois that he sounded like someone from a costume drama. She said, “I need to speak to her. It’s essential I speak to her. I’ve been told by my son that she lives in this place”—she tried to make this place not sound like this rubbish tip, but she decided she could be forgiven if she failed—“but if he’s wrong, I’d appreciate your telling me. And then I’ll be happy to get out of your hair.” Not, Margaret thought, that she wanted to be in his hair which, albeit thick, looked unwashed and lousy. He said, “Your son? Who mightee be?”

“Adrian Brouard. Guy Brouard was his father. I expect you know who he is, don’t you? Guy Brouard? I saw you at his funeral reception.”