
Someone wrote in a comment that she used this book as “comfort food”, not too challenging, but comfortable and easy reading. I hate to disagree with any of my esteemed readers, but I found it not comforting, but disturbing.
The Shell Seekers is set in about the time it was published, 1987, with flashbacks to WW2 and its aftermath. The story takes place in England. The central character is Penelope Keeling, an elderly widow who has just been released from the hospital after a near-heart attack. Her two daughters and her son are worried to varying degrees about how she will take care of herself and whether she will continue to be able to live alone. Actually, the oldest daughter, Nancy, and the son, Noel, are more concerned about how Penelope will be able to take care of her financial assets, which include a painting by her famous artist father called The Shell Seekers.
The plot of the novel, such as it is, wanders about, changing its point of view, always coming back to Penelope. The characters are meant to be sympathetic, especially daughter Olivia and Penelope herself, and they would be, I suppose, if I could believe in them. However, they are both really selfish people interested mostly in their own comfort and their own independence, and they both engage in extra-marital affairs without any emotional or physical consequences. The bohemian, selfish life is presented as the ideal, no lasting commitments, and no guilt or regrets. Maybe I’ve led a sheltered life, but I just find it difficult to believe that people actually live this way. For example, Olivia meets a man while she is on vacation, moves in with him, and plans to stay for just one year, a sort of sabbatical from her high-pressure career in magazine publishing. At the end of the year, she returns to her career and never looks back. Can real people, not paper dolls in books, have such an uncomplicated, yet, of course, deeply loving, relationship?
The moral of the story, if it can be called that, is: grab life while you can, be generous, and follow your feelings. Happiness consists of listening to your own desires and keeping yourself independent. Oh, and you can have it all: independence and true love, especially if your lover is accommodating enough to die young before your husband returns from the war and finds out about the affair.
Oscar Wilde once wrote: “The good ended happily, and the bad unhappily. That is what fiction means.” In this book the bad end, as they began, unhappily, and the not-so-moral-either end happily, and the whole book just doesn’t ring True. It’s a good story, irreparably flawed by its moral outlook, and that is not what I’m looking for in fiction.