by Liz Fenwick
‘Interesting.’
‘Indeed, they are joining us for dinner tomorrow, so you can discover for yourself.’
He frowns. ‘George Russell arrives tomorrow around noon.’
‘Everyone will hopefully be out enjoying the sun they are promising.’ I look at the darkening clouds. ‘Which should give us some time alone.’
‘It will be like old times.’ He rubs his chin and a boyish grin appears.
‘Yes.’ I take his arm and we walk together towards the house. However it could never be like old times and we both know that.
We reach the front door where he picks up his bag asking, ‘Usual room?’
I nod with my mind on the Venns then what he’d said sinks in. ‘Sorry, Tom, not the usual room. Due to numbers I’ve had to move you into the little one by my parents’ old room.’
He smiles. ‘Downgraded, eh?’
‘Sorry.’ I raise my shoulders.
‘How many guests?’
I shake my head. ‘Too many.’
‘Allan?’ He holds out an arm directing me to enter first.
‘Yes, ever the host.’ I check my watch.
‘Some things never change.’
‘True.’ I chuckle. ‘Shall I show you up?’
‘No need, you are tight on time. I’ll see you,’ he pauses, ‘just before drinks?’
‘Diana,’ I say. ‘She comes to tell me about her day’s activities then.’
‘Ah, yes.’ He turns away. ‘A bit later then.’
He walks through the dining room to the far staircase and I remember the past. Things could have been so different. The scent of the roses in my trug catches the breeze. I pick up a bright red bloom and bring it to my nose. Its fragrance is a heady damask touched with spices. Arabia. Rose water. Souks. Innocence. A thorn pierces my index finger and I squeal, dropping the flower. Pulling the thorn out, I watch the blood pool then drip into the basket before I put my finger into my mouth. The blood tastes metallic. Memories . . . sailing and catching my finger on a splinter, Tom coming to the rescue, removing the bit of wood and placing my finger in my mouth. As I did that, he stared at me with such intensity, I shiver even now. Those intelligent blue eyes have haunted me ever since. I shake my head and dismiss the past, I have work to do.
7
Lottie
3 August 2018, 5.00 p.m.
Just as they went through the gates and onto the gravel parking area, her mother’s phone rang. It sounded important. Lottie prayed it wasn’t some world crisis that needed her mother’s award-winning reporting. Her mother veered back towards the gates where the phone signal was stronger. Inside the house Lottie checked downstairs for Gramps, but there was no sign of him. He must be with Gran or maybe taking a walk in the garden but she doubted that, with the fog. She couldn’t see past the end of the lawn.
In the snug she found an old wooden tray resting against Gramps’ chair and loaded all the tea stuff onto it. The small kitchen revealed more evidence of the neglect she’d noticed earlier, and her heart sank. She had been so bloody self-involved she hadn’t realized what was happening here. Rerunning the phone calls in her head, the conversations followed a normal course . . . the garden here, the weather, but mostly it had been about the collection she had been putting together for exhibition of young designers at the V&A. They were both so proud of her and had planned to come to London for the opening of the exhibition in the new year. She held her breath for a moment as a sharp pain pierced her temples. There was no sense in dwelling on what was lost. In all those calls they never mentioned Gran’s health, but there were things she’d never said either. She checked her phone: nothing.
But looking around there were signs of distress. Dishes and pans were washed but not put away. It wasn’t just breakfast things either but items from the night before. Opening the fridge, she saw ready meals. This wasn’t how her grandparents lived. Her heart sank further; she should have been here, no excuses.
After washing and clearing, she glanced out of the kitchen window towards the small walled garden. She would cut some flowers for Gran and the rest of the house. It might give her an indication of the amount of time her grandmother had really been ill. She knew Gramps wouldn’t tell her. He might be American, but through Gran or maybe just his own nature, he did the stiff upper lip thing rather well.
Both her grandparents adored the garden, be it the special camellias or the vegetables. They grew most of their own produce so if the vegetable patch wasn’t in good shape then they had been keeping Gran’s illness from her for a while.
Out in the courtyard, the mist swirled across the cobbles – blazing sun to impenetrable fog in the same day. She smiled, pushing open the gate and thinking of all the happy hours spent here with both of them. Vegetables, roses, and in the glass-houses, peaches and tomatoes. Her nose twitched anticipating the smell.
Hearing a noise, she looked to the nearest glass-house and gasped. She had been prepared for anything but what she saw. Alex Hoskine, her first love, stood with hose in hand watering the tomatoes. She hadn’t conjured him out of her memories earlier. It had been ten years almost to the day since she’d last seen him. And during those years he’d haunted her dreams and she woke wanting to say so many things. Now she was standing here with her mouth open and her vocal chords seemingly disabled. Memories raced around in her head, from their first kiss to the last angry words she said to him.
He looked up and squinted at her. Damn. This wasn’t going to be easy. She needed to apologise, but she also wanted to know what the hell he was doing here at Boskenna working in the kitchen garden. Where to start?
‘Lottie.’ His voice had become deeper since she’d last seen him. Back then he’d been twenty, lean and fit as hell, but now the promise of youth had been fulfilled and then some. Her mouth dried. She couldn’t still be attracted to him, not after all this time, but her body was telling her years made no difference. She was standing in front of her first love and her body remembered each and every caress, whether she wanted it to or not. This was not convenient. Her focus must be on Gran and Gramps not on her romantic history.
He turned the tap off and put the hose down. ‘Your grandfather mentioned he’d called you.’ He walked towards her but stopped just short. This was awkward. How did she greet him after all these years . . . a handshake?
‘Yes, this morning.’ She looked down.
‘She’s been ill for a while.’ He turned from her, giving her his back.
That said it all. She’d been too self-absorbed. ‘How long?’
‘There’s been a sharp decline these past few weeks, but it’s been months.’
She should have known. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath, trying to think clearly.
He picked up the watering can. ‘Where have you been? They needed you.’
‘I didn’t know.’ She clenched her fist.
He looked up with a dismissive glance. ‘You haven’t changed then?’
That wasn’t fair. Alex gave her one last look then walked away. She found her voice. ‘What are you doing here?’
He looked over his shoulder. ‘I would have thought that was obvious.’
‘Yes, that might be, but why isn’t?’
‘I moved back and one of the first things I did was visit them.’ He pulled out a weed. ‘It was clear they needed help, so I moved into the caretaker’s cottage to be close at hand.’
Ouch. There was no reply to that, so she took a step back. She should have known this, but she hadn’t. She held her breath for a moment then fled before he could say anymore. Yet again she was at fault, but then she was always misjudging things.
8
Diana
3 August 1962, 5.15 p.m.
The sun had disappeared, and her stomach growled loudly. Diana hoped Daddy heard it. He’d said he’d help Mr and Mrs Venn set off then he would come up to the house with her. But they’d been here ages and Daddy was just holding the Venn’s boat and talking and talking. She was tired of the
Venns and she wanted time with Daddy on her own. She’d had to share him with them every day for over a week and now they were taking him all to themselves again. It wasn’t fair.
She picked up a mussel shell and moved it so the colours inside changed. Every so often she heard a word. Meeting. Deliver. Urgent. They were almost whispering but the breeze brought their secrets to her. She loved secrets. Mummy and Diana played the secret game all the time. Mummy said living in Moscow made secrets important. Things had to be kept tucked away, just like the little Russian dolls hidden inside the biggest one. She’d brought her dolls with her to Cornwall and had set them on her windowsill so they could see the sea. They had never seen it before, only the Moskva. Diana liked saying Moskva. It rolled off her tongue like when she said her piano teacher’s name, Madame Roscova. She could roll her Rs but Daddy couldn’t. Mummy was very good at hers. Diana had heard her reading aloud from a Russian book. It was called War and Peace.
‘Rrrrrrrrrrrr.’ She dropped the shell and picked up a piece of sea glass. It was strange to find one so high up the beach. Normally she found them in the wet sand. She looked out to the point and there was a cormorant drying its wings. ‘Rrrrrrrr.’ She loved the way her tongue vibrated and tingled a bit when she did it.
‘Diana, what on earth are you doing?’ Daddy looked over his shoulder. Mr Venn put his hand on Daddy’s as a wave rocked the boat. She frowned. The wind was turning, which was good. They wouldn’t have to row out into the bay – they could sail. They weren’t very good at sailing, but they were worse at rowing. She just wanted them to leave. She and Daddy couldn’t be pirates when they were here. Daddy became all serious with them around.
‘Rrrrrrrrr.’ She spun around looking up at the grey clouds. The gull’s wings seemed to become part of the sky at the tips. But mizzle was beginning to fall. She liked the word mizzle but didn’t like the actual thing.
‘Diana.’ Daddy spoke crossly.
She didn’t know what she’d done wrong, but she heard Mr Venn say, ‘See you tomorrow,’ and to ‘get’ something. She fell to the sand and watched the Venns’ sail flap until it caught some wind. It did and they frowned. They did that a lot when they didn’t think they were being watched but Diana watched everything. Even when he was frowning, Mr Venn looked like a movie star, but Mrs Venn didn’t. Diana didn’t like her. She kept sending Diana on silly errands to get things the adults didn’t need.
Daddy took her hand and pulled her to her feet. ‘Let’s see if Mrs Hoskine has anything you can nibble, as that tummy of yours is noisy enough.’
She smiled up at him and moved closer as they climbed up to the house. He kept looking over his shoulder. She wasn’t surprised that he kept checking on the Venns. They were terrible on the water, but they didn’t know that. Diana had noticed Daddy retying all their knots yesterday when they had been on the big sailing boat. They said they were from the Midwest in America and Diana knew from her geography lessons that there wasn’t a sea there so that must be why they were so bad. She liked geography and maps. Uncle Tom had given her an atlas for Christmas last year. He had spent hours with her telling her about places and the people he’d met in them. She loved Uncle Tom. Mummy and Daddy did too.
‘Daddy, why do you like the Venns so much?’
He stopped walking and looked at her. ‘Why do you ask?’
Diana wrinkled her nose. ‘’Cause we’ve spent so much time with them.’
A smile spread across his face and his eyes smiled too. ‘Well, they are new to Cornwall and I want them to feel welcome.’
She frowned. ‘Why hasn’t Mummy come along to make them welcome? She’s good at that.’
‘She is, but she’s been busy with Boskenna.’
Diana looked to the big house. This was the place she loved most in the world, with its round ends and secret floor. It wasn’t secret really, but it was easy to miss because everyone looked at the ends and the big windows. The second floor wasn’t often used but Mummy had Mrs Hoskine airing out a room above hers for some American arriving tomorrow. The window was still open so the room must be very short of breath.
‘Does Boskenna need Mummy?’ They walked along the gravel path framing the lawn. They had played croquet yesterday before the rain, but Mr Hoskine had put the croquet set away.
‘Yes, because the old dame has damp and the roof needs attention.’
‘Is dame another word for house? What sort of attention does the roof need and is Mummy wiping the damp up?’
‘Something like that.’ Daddy laughed, and she joined him. She liked it when Daddy laughed, and he hadn’t been doing it enough lately. Even Mummy said that. Diana had overheard them talking when they’d arrived. She had hidden in her favourite spot under the small table just outside the dining room. Mummy was worried about him. Daddy had said he was just tired, but Mummy had given him one of her looks. Diana knew those looks too well.
9
Lottie
3 August 2018, 5.20 p.m.
With secateurs in hand and her grandmother’s flower trug on her arm, Lottie walked out through the French windows in the smoking room. The name amused her as no one in the house smoked any more. It harked back to a time when men would have port and a cigar after dinner. She had no trouble picturing Boskenna then. Evening gowns, dinner jackets and household help. It was so far from today’s casual world. It was easier now but some of the world’s beauty had been lost with it. She rarely designed a formal piece of jewellery. Those rare pieces she did create were normally by special order for the Middle East. Fun, but she couldn’t imagine anyone apart from a royal or a celebrity wearing those designs. Up until two weeks ago when she had to cease trading because she had nothing left to sell, most of her work was being sold through a few outlets and her website. She specialised in making wearable pieces featuring semi-precious gems with gold, silver and other metal. She’d only used precious gems for special commissions and for the pieces that were supposed to go in the exhibition at the V&A in the new year.
Stopping at the flowerbed beside the house, she snipped the stem of a white Japanese anemone with rather more force than was necessary. She couldn’t undo the past, she knew that. But what brought the bile to her mouth was her own stupidity and gullibility. How had she missed the signs? Had she been so desperate for love that she’d been blind to Paul’s faults? She’d worked with him for five years and he’d been her mentor. Cutting another anemone, this time she took more care. She had landed herself in a huge mess and it would take time to fix. Somehow, though, she would find a way out and more importantly, a way forward.
The mist had deposited tiny drops of water on the petals of a pale pink rose. Here and there they had merged into large drops that magnified parts of the petal. She saw the fine lines that ran through it turned ever so slightly darker. With the bloom close to her nose, the fragrance was at first delicate but then musky overtones developed.
Towards the end of her degree course she had worked with pearls this subtle shade of pink. The rose, the pearls and the finished piece spoke of innocence. She cut the stem, watching out for the thorns. She hadn’t been innocent for a long time, ten years in fact. Dropping the stem into the basket, she scanned the flowers at the front of the house. The agapanthus were at their best, but she wouldn’t cut those. If she did there wouldn’t be anything in flower visible from the front windows. Of course, the view outshone even the agapanthus.
Light showed in Gran’s bedroom window and the snug, welcoming her. She loved the way the north and south ends of the house bowed out towards the sea. There was a satisfying symmetry about it. Although she knew they weren’t built at the same time, she was pleased they had balanced the building when money had allowed. Of course, it did mean ceiling heights varied greatly throughout the house. As a child she had loved discovering all its nooks and crannies, dancing up and down the many sets of steps on the first floor and up to the attic rooms. Boskenna was a place of endless delight, or had been then. She had brought an end to her carefree
days here and she had to live with that.
Raiding a few other beds and some hydrangeas, she went to the kitchen to sort the flowers for her grandmother. Once happy with the arrangement, she climbed the front staircase, carrying her overnight bag along with the vase. August was a tough month for blooms in the garden. Things were well past their summer glory. But Gran had always made use of the most interesting shrubs at this time of year. They provided the architecture for the agapanthus and annuals in flower. Some of the roses should be on a second display by now but she had seen so few. The kitchen garden may have had more but because of Alex she hadn’t paid attention to anything there but him. It had been that way from the first moment she’d seen him, years before he’d become her boyfriend. He’d put her off her agenda then and now he’d unsettled her again, bringing the past to the surface. She sighed, resting the vase on the table outside her room before she went in to deposit her bag.
It was the smallest bedroom in the house, but it was the best. The single bed just fitted and from it she could look out of the window to the view. A view that never bored her even in the rain, or at the moment, fog. Placing her bag on the old chair, she saw nothing had changed from the Russian doll on the windowsill to her old books on the shelves. The dust on the chest of drawers told the same story of neglect she’d seen downstairs. Lottie was surprised to find the bed unmade, too. She’d sort that in a minute once she’d taken the flowers to Gran.
Out on the lawn, she could see Alex collecting the cushions from the garden chairs. Why had he come back to Cornwall? In the immediate aftermath of ten years ago, she hadn’t wanted to hear about him, or Cornwall, or what people were saying about her. It had been a terrible tragedy and she was part of it. Her life altered that day, everything had.
Weary after the journey – hell, just weary from life – she closed her eyes for a moment, letting the sound of the sea soothe her, along with the distant sound of Gramps snoring downstairs. But it could be no more than a moment for time was precious. Eyes now wide open so as not to miss a thing, she grabbed the vase and headed down the hall and up the steps to Gran’s room, listening for sounds of Mum chatting to her, but it was quiet. Sticking her head through the bedroom doorway, she found Gran sleeping in the chair and no sign of her mother. Lottie placed the vase on a table then walked back to the chair. She stroked Gran’s forehead and Gran mumbled a few words. They weren’t in English. She leaned closer to try and decipher the language. It sounded like Russian.
