The Path to the Sea

by Liz Fenwick

  ‘My darling Lottie, not to worry. You are here. That’s all that matters.’ His smile couldn’t have been wider, but he looked like he would break. He was eighty-eight, his birthday just last month, but how could he have become so fragile so quickly?

  ‘Gran?’ She studied his face for signs of hope. There were none.

  ‘Sleeping.’ He sighed.

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘Still upstairs, I believe.’ He shook his head and the smile slipped from his face. ‘I haven’t seen her yet.’ His weariness broke her heart and she wanted to wrap him in her arms again. When she was last here, she’d had Paul with her and maybe that was why she hadn’t seen their frailty. She’d been too bloody focused on making sure Paul had a good time. But he hadn’t. He’d hated Cornwall. It had rained like they needed an ark. Maybe Cornwall had hated him, or it had simply been giving her a sign which she’d ignored. God, she’d wished she’d listened. Since then Gramps had shrunk. He had never been a big man, but he’d been fit for his age. He stood in front of her now looking old, really old.

  ‘You must be desperate for tea. It’s such a beastly journey.’ His voice was still strong and distinctive with that peculiar mix of English vocabulary and American twang. It reminded her a bit of JFK in old documentaries.

  ‘Is it OK if I just go see Gran and then have some tea?’

  He nodded.

  ‘I promise I won’t wake her.’

  ‘Go.’ He smiled at her.

  She hesitated. Should she stay with him a bit longer? But she might not have much time with Gran. She raced up to Gran’s room. She was through the door, breathless, then stopped abruptly. Gran was asleep in a big armchair. Her beautiful skin was thin and slightly yellow with her white hair flat against her head. Lottie reached out to it. She could fix that for her. Even combing it would make Gran look more like Gran. That and a touch of pink lipstick.

  An oxygen tube rested against her grandmother’s sunken cheeks. Just six months ago she was working in the garden. The camellias were about to kick into full glory and Gran had held up one, and said, ‘The red camellia represents love, passion and desire.’ She’d tucked a bloom behind Lottie’s ear and said, ‘You’ll know when you’ve found it and it will happen when you least expect it.’ Lottie had thought it had been a sign, but if it had she’d misread it, thinking that Paul had been what she’d been looking for. A white bloom had fallen at Gran’s feet. Lottie had picked it up and given it to her. Gran had smiled but there was sadness in her eyes. ‘The white camellia can mean good luck, perfection and loveliness but in Japan it means death and bad luck.’

  Lottie glanced around the room now. There were no flowers and that was wrong. She was sure the garden would be full of them. Gran always had flowers in her room and in the house. Even in the depths of winter. There was one particularly fragrant tree that should be in bloom now if she remembered correctly. Flowers would help somehow, even if they provided mixed messages.

  She leaned down and kissed Gran’s cheek. ‘I love you,’ she whispered. Gran didn’t move, and Lottie backed out of the room with a heavy heart, but then Gran opened her eyes and smiled.

  ‘Lottie, my love.’

  Lottie returned to her side.

  ‘I’m so pleased you’re here.’ She looked towards the door. ‘Did you bring your young man?’

  Looking away Lottie reminded herself to simply answer the question asked. ‘No.’ She turned to Gran. ‘He’s gone.’

  ‘Ah.’ Gran stared at her before putting out her hand to hold Lottie’s. ‘I thought I heard your mother’s voice.’

  ‘She’s here but I haven’t seen her.’

  Gran nodded, and her eyes closed.

  ‘Can I get you anything?’

  She looked up and smiled. ‘Nothing darling. I’m just tired . . . forgive me.’

  ‘Rest and I’ll find some flowers.’

  Without opening her eyes, she said, ‘That will be lovely. Thank you.’ Taking a last glance at her grandmother, Lottie held back tears. How had she not known Gran was ill? Because she’d been wrapped up in her own life and what a bloody mess that was.

  Downstairs the smell of the sea, low tide in particular, rushed in through the office window. God, she loved it here. Even though everything else was wrong, being here was right. She nipped out to the car to get her phone.

  Three messages all from Sally, her solicitor and best friend.

  Jamie Sharp, a private investigator, will be in touch. I told him all. Sxx

  Lottie swallowed thinking of the cost. She opened the next message.

  Don’t worry about the cost. He owes me a favour. Sxx

  Looking out to the bay, she didn’t think this Jamie Sharp would be able to help. The police didn’t know where Paul was nor did his mother. She opened the last message.

  He’s just pinged me to say he’s found something. Love this guy. He’ll be in touch. Hugs and send your grandparents my love. Sxx

  Typing quickly, she replied.

  Arrived. Gran not good. Gramps holding up. Thanks for all the help. Don’t know what I’d do without you. Lxx

  Even if they tracked Paul down it would all be too late. She sighed and grabbed her handbag, leaving everything else for later. She’d store her stuff out of sight. The last thing she wanted was for her current situation to be known and for it to become a concern. She was twenty-eight and she would fix her own problems.

  Stopping in the entrance vestibule, she took a deep breath. Boskenna was unchanged, but she was altered since she had last removed her boots here. The Chinese vase still stood in the corner with enough brollies and walking sticks to equip an army. Under the large mirror, the bowl filled with sea glass was covered in a fine layer of dust, as was the table it sat on. Lottie ran her fingers over a cloudy aquamarine cabochon of the sea. It was pitted and rolled to the perfect shape. Her fingers turned it over trying to feel her grandmother who would have found this on one of her morning strolls. Those treasures of the beach had inspired Lottie’s career. As a child, she’d used old bits of garden wire to form jewellery. Maybe she should have stuck with beach debris and string. She wouldn’t be broke, if she had.

  Through the glass doors into the hall, delicate flower-covered china plates still adorned the upper reaches of the wall in the 1840s addition to the house. Here the ceiling was high, and the white wooden panels covered the walls to six foot. Off to her right the drawing room beckoned, with the grand piano and family portraits, but rather than turning in there towards the view she walked through the arch that had marked the beginning of the original building. The afternoon sunlight streamed through the south-facing window, warming the wide wooden floor boards. Instantly the house closed around her with its lower ceilings. It felt like a much-needed hug. Clearly she was not the only one who felt welcomed. A spider web extended across from the ceiling light to the tall clock. A feather duster would tackle that later. She made a mental list . . . paint the fence, dust the hall. Other signs of things slipping appeared with each glance. Was their daily help on holiday? If that was the case Lottie didn’t think there could be a worse time.

  In the small sitting room, otherwise known as the snug, the tea things were laid out and the sight of a Battenberg cake set her stomach rumbling. Gran was dying but life here at Boskenna went through the motions as it always had.

  Gramps hobbled towards her clutching the teapot at a dangerous angle. She rescued it from him. How was he managing? Had he brought the tea things in one item at a time?

  ‘Did you stop for lunch?’ He studied her, and she looked away, shaking her head. He’d been her confidant for as long as she could remember, especially when she couldn’t talk to Gran or Mum. Now she hadn’t the heart to tell him she couldn’t have afforded to stop for lunch. It would require an explanation and that was one thing she didn’t want to give. He had taken against Paul on that visit. It had been mutual, and it was one of the reasons she hadn’t seen her grandparents or her beloved Boskenna since that wet February weekend. She shou
ld have listened to Gramps. But hindsight was a wonderful thing.

  He frowned as he manoeuvred into his favourite chair by the fireplace. ‘Will you be mother?’

  She poured the tea and put a small spoonful of sugar into his cup. ‘Shall I cut you a slice of cake?’

  He looked at her as if he was surprised to see her there. ‘Yes, thank you, just a small one, please.’

  The silver handle of the cake slice was tarnished. Another job she could sort out for them. She had no idea how long she would be here, but the up-side of her situation was that she could be of use. She cut herself a big slice. This cake represented her childhood. Her life then had been divided into squares, time with Mum, time at school, time at Boskenna and time at friends’. The only misrepresentation was the size of the squares. The school and Boskenna squares should be larger. Now of course her life in cake would be far from neat. It would have a soggy bottom certainly and only one flavour.

  Her mouth watered as she used the dainty cake fork. At least these were pristine. The explosion of sugar took moments to hit as it reached her empty stomach and blended with the caffeine. Over Gramps’ shoulder she could see dust collecting in the corners of the bookshelves. Mixed among the local history books behind him were some of her favourite children’s books. The cake dried in her mouth as she thought of her grandmother in bed upstairs.

  ‘Tell me about Gran.’

  He picked up his cup. ‘It’s not good.’

  There was nothing Lottie could say. Gramps looked into his coffee. His hand shook.

  ‘Doctor doesn’t say much.’ He turned to the view. ‘She’s eighty-five . . .’ Out of the window she could see Gribben Head basking in the sun. Lottie had never known a summer like it. The atmosphere in London had been so close, but here the air was fresh with the scent of the sea.

  ‘But she seemed fine a few months ago.’

  ‘True.’ His voice was wistful, and Lottie leapt to her feet.

  She knelt at his side. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Me too. Me too.’ He patted her hand.

  Her mother walked past the door without looking in the snug. Lottie stood.

  ‘I hope she’s OK.’ He gave her hand a squeeze. ‘Go to her.’ His voice was gentle, but Lottie understood. Gramps knew things weren’t easy with her and her mother, or for that matter between her mother and Gran. He was very intuitive. He’d read people well, especially Lottie.

  ‘Don’t worry about me. I’m fine. I’m just going to check on your grandmother. The nurse won’t be in for a bit,’ he said, pushing himself out of the chair then giving her an encouraging hug to send her on her way.

  5

  Lottie

  3 August 2018, 4.30 p.m.

  Walking out the front door, Lottie noted a sea mist creeping across the lawn. Gribben Head had disappeared, the wind had dropped, and the air was still. In the past, she’d always felt that the world stopped when this happened, but looking ahead her mother hadn’t. She stole through the gates and down the lane. Lottie raced after her.

  ‘Mum?’

  She glanced over her shoulder at Lottie, nodded, but didn’t speak. Even at a distance Lottie noted the shadows under her dark eyes. Where had her mother been recently? It always took her time to decompress after each assignment. Lottie knew enough not to speak. She was simply grateful her mother was here too. Her feet slowed, expecting her mother to turn towards the beach, but she continued up the lane towards St Levan’s Church.

  She went straight to the small graveyard at the side of the building. There weren’t many graves. For years it had been a private chapel to the big estate. She stopped in front of a plain granite stone.

  Allan Edward Charles Trewin

  Born 4 August 1926

  Died 5 August 1962

  Loving husband and father.

  Thirty-six, just. So young. Allan Trewin was her grandfather and she had been to the grave before, but this was the first time with her mother. That fact felt wrong, but she could count on one hand the number of times that her mother had been to Boskenna. She closed her eyes. Now was not the time to dwell on the past, but that was challenging in a graveyard filling with mist. It had covered Porthpean and was now depositing minuscule drops of water on everything around them. They softened each surface, including her mother who appeared out of focus.

  She turned to Lottie. ‘Who put these flowers here?’

  Lottie shrugged. Fresh flowers were always here, from what she remembered. Today they were bright blue hydrangeas with spiky red crocosmia. The one thing she was certain of was that it couldn’t have been Gran. It wouldn’t be Gramps. Why would he put flowers on the grave of his wife’s first husband? People were weird but not that weird.

  ‘Lottie?’

  She blinked. ‘I don’t know.’

  Her mother turned back to the grave.

  ‘Why are we here, Mum?’

  Her mother sighed and said, ‘It’s almost the anniversary of his death.’ She traced her father’s name then the dates. It must have been awful to have lost her father when she was eight, but at least she’d had him. Lottie had never had a father. Well, there had to have been one in the picture in some form or another but not one that her mother had chosen to share with her. Foolish, but Lottie was jealous her mother had a gravestone to acknowledge that she’d had a father. In fact, although her mother didn’t like Gramps, she had a stepfather too. Lottie loved Gramps, but her mother didn’t care for him. Well, that was the polite way to describe her attitude. Lottie had never figured out why. From what she knew, Gran had been a widow for thirteen years before she remarried. Lottie’s mother was twenty-one then and no longer a child. But, maybe, for some things everyone was forever a child.

  She peered through the mist at her mother who was still focused on the gravestone. Nothing made sense, especially being here now. Gran was dying, and her mother was standing in a damp churchyard touching a moss-covered stone. Lottie cleared her throat.

  Her mother looked up, her eyes guarded. Lottie had seen that expression before. It was when she would lock things away inside, like all the horror she saw in the course of her work. She reached out and touched her mother’s hand.

  ‘Some things never leave you.’ Her mother’s voice was strangled. ‘Everything changed.’

  Lottie clutched her mother’s long elegant fingers, so unlike her own small ones. As her mother glanced at her, Lottie caught pain in her eyes before she hid it again.

  ‘I’ve looked into the past and I see so little.’

  ‘Oh, Mum.’ She took a step closer to her. ‘Have you asked Gran?’

  She nodded. ‘She won’t talk about it.’

  ‘It must be painful for her.’ Lottie pictured the frail woman upstairs in Boskenna now, who looked nothing like the vibrant woman in the black and white photographs in the house, with hair swept up, revealing a classic face. The clothes were elegant, and the makeup was so Sixties and Seventies. There were no pictures of Allan Trewin that Lottie had ever seen. His death must have been awful for Gran and her mother. Gramps didn’t seem the sort to fuss about pictures of his predecessor being around. He was just Gramps, so easy. She swallowed the smile that came to her at the thought of him.

  ‘I can look at this,’ her mother pointed at the carved slate. ‘With clear-sighted adult eyes and know my father died in a tragic accident.’ She took a deep breath. ‘But something eats at me.’

  ‘What are you saying, Mum?’

  She shook her head and glanced at the grave. ‘I have only one strong memory.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  She smiled, and her face became younger, lighter, happier. ‘You know. I’ve told the pirate story many times.’ She turned away from the gravestone. ‘I can’t picture any more than that, and that bothers me.’

  Lottie looked down at her hand holding her mother’s. Lottie’s skin a smooth olive and her mother’s an embattled English rose. Lottie’s appearance spoke of somewhere else, but she didn’t know where. Her father had never
appeared, no matter how much she wished he would.

  6

  Joan

  3 August 1962, 4.35 p.m.

  The flowers are arranged, and I’d reviewed bedrooms for the final time with our housekeeper, Mrs Hoskine, and still Allan and Diana aren’t back. Sighing I walk to the end of the garden and stand by the gate to beach path. Below Diana is skimming stones with Allan laughing beside her. She picks up a pebble and holds it out to him. He examines it carefully before handing it back and watches her form as she throws. It bounces twice then drops out of sight. He turns to the American woman, Beth, and her husband speaks to Diana, touching her shoulder. I frown. Allan isn’t paying attention and he should be. He’s become engrossed in conversation with Beth and his smile gleams. Something twists inside me. Why did he bring these strays into our world? Is he just filling the void again?

  ‘Joan, that’s a fierce look.’

  At the sound of a familiar voice, I look up through my eyelashes and my stomach tightens. ‘Tom.’ I grin. ‘You’re early.’ I kiss his cheek and step back to study him.

  ‘Problem?’ He raises an eyebrow.

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Good.’ He studies my face. ‘Not sleeping?’

  I touch my cheeks. The powder I applied this morning must require another application. ‘Can’t fool you?’ I turn back to the view.

  ‘I should hope not.’ He laughs then asks, ‘New friends?’ He opens his cigarette case, the one I gave him for his thirtieth birthday. It’s inscribed with one word, Always. That was years ago and the feeling hasn’t changed. Never have we ever crossed that line, but I don’t know if that is true of Tom and Allan.

  He lights a cigarette and hands it to me. I take it while he lights one for himself then squints into the distance. ‘They don’t look local,’ he says.

  Exhaling, I watch the smoke swirl. ‘American.’ I turn to him, noting the tell-tale darkness under his eyes. It only serves to enhance the blue of his irises. They remind me of a Cornish sky on a perfect summer day.