by Liz Fenwick
Lottie stepped back. They had lived in Russia so it shouldn’t be a surprise that Gran could speak it. Years ago, at the back of the garden shed behind an old terracotta plant pot, Lottie had found the matryoshka doll that sat on her windowsill. When she’d asked about it, a sad smile had crossed Gran’s face. She had wiped the grime off the outer doll and wriggled it until she could open it. To Lottie’s delight she released the next then the baby doll inside. Gran had explained it had belonged to her mother from their time in Moscow. She’d put it all back together for her and said she’d thought it had been long since lost. Lottie could still remember holding it and feeling connected to her mother, who was then in Kosovo. There were three dolls . . . one for each of them.
Whatever Gran was saying now, her voice was too weak for Lottie to hear properly. She seemed to be in a fitful sleep. Lottie kissed her forehead and she stilled. Her eyes opened. ‘Lottie.’ Her smile filled Lottie’s heart. ‘Your mother?’ Her voice was thin, like her frail body.
‘She’s downstairs I think, maybe with Gramps.’
‘Help her to be kind to him.’
Lottie nodded. That would be a challenge. Without Gran, Lottie wasn’t sure that her mother would give him the time of day. ‘I’ll look after him.’
‘I know, dear one. He has loved me when no one else could.’ She took a deep breath and closed her eyes for a moment. ‘He has understood when no one could.’
‘Gramps is wonderful.’ Just thinking about him, Lottie grinned. He’d been more than a grandfather. He’d been a father figure, teaching her to ride a bike and fly a kite. He’d been there to listen.
‘Yes, he is. But your mother has never seen that.’ She coughed at first softly. ‘She needs to be kind to him and . . . to forgive him.’
Lottie frowned. Kind, yes. Why “forgive”?’
Gran coughed again and her whole body, what there was of it, rattled. The effort took everything out of her, then she closed her eyes and her breathing settled. Lottie adjusted the blanket around her. Why did her grandmother want her mother to forgive Gramps? For marrying Gran and taking her father’s place? Did Gran know that Mum didn’t remember much of Allan?
‘Lottie.’ Gran was watching her.
‘I’m here. I was just wondering if you’d like to come downstairs and join us?’
Gran frowned. ‘Is Alex around?’
‘I’m not sure, why?’ She tilted her head.
‘He could carry me down.’
Lottie paused for a moment. ‘I’m happy to go and find him.’
Gran looked out of the window. ‘It might be nice.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
‘Thank you, my darling.’
She looked brighter and it was the right thing to find Alex. She could do this for Gran, Lottie thought.
On the way downstairs, she stopped in her room to pick up a sweater as the dampness from the fog had given her a chill. Her mother stood at the window holding the matryoshka doll in one hand with her other on the clouded window pane. The weather had set in and the visibility didn’t extend to the end of the garden let alone Black Head.
Her mother turned to her.
‘Travelling down memory lane?’ Lottie smiled.
Her mother shook her head. ‘No. I don’t really remember Moscow from my childhood or rather I can’t separate it from my visits as a journalist.’ She frowned.
‘Was Gran awake when you went in?’ Lottie picked up a hoodie from the back of the chair. ‘She’s been asking for you.’
‘Yes.’ Her mother twisted the outer doll open, revealing the brighter smaller one. With a shaky hand she placed the smaller one down and put the largest one back together.
‘How was she? Did she speak?’
Her mother twisted the middle one until it popped open and the baby fell out onto the floor. Looking up to Lottie before bending down she said, ‘Yes.’
‘Is that all you can say?’
She nodded and arranged the three painted figures in order on the windowsill before she turned back to Lottie. She pointed to the window. ‘It’s a bit like right now. I know the bay, Gribben and Black Head are there but I can’t see them because of the fog. I know I must have memories of those eight years with my father but . . .’ Her voice trailed away, and she picked up the smallest doll.
‘Shouldn’t you be focusing on Gran?’
‘You’re right, I should be but . . .’ She sighed. ‘I need a drink.’ She walked to the door.
‘I’m sure Gramps is already organising that. I’ll join you in a moment.’
Her mother disappeared down the stairs and Lottie pulled on her hoodie. She went to the old dolls and nested them again. The Cornish sunlight had faded the vivid colours on the mother doll over the years. They too would fade if left exposed.
10
Diana
3 August 2018, 5.40 p.m.
Diana hurried downstairs on unstable legs. She had forgotten those dolls. Her father had chosen them with her. They had been beside the Moskva and the sun had shone brightly while the air was filled with . . . fluff. It floated like snow, but it was spring and hot. The memory was so clear she could almost taste it. She stopped on the bottom step. How could she justify being drawn to discover more about her father when as Lottie had quite rightly said, Diana should be focused on her mother. Her hands shook as she tucked her short hair behind her ears.
George emerged from the kitchen with the ice bucket in one hand. He looked up, a smile hovering on his mouth. She pressed her lips together before forcing herself to respond in kind. She was no longer a child, she could be gracious. ‘Can I help?’
‘I’ve sliced some lemon for your gin, but I’m afraid I can’t manage that as well with the stick.’ He raised it off the floor. ‘Can’t carry too many things at once.’
‘I’ll grab the lemon.’ She watched him head to the drawing room then went into the small kitchen. For twenty-eight years since his retirement George and her mother had rattled around in this huge house. She’d never understood why they hadn’t sold it years ago. They lived in such a small part of it, especially in winter. Four rooms out of twenty-four, if she had remembered them all – plus the caretaker’s cottage, the lodge, the stables and a few barns. It was all too much for them and had been for a very long time. But her mother would never discuss it, so Diana had let it drop.
The lemon slices were in a shallow crystal bowl. Living here they had managed to hold onto the gracious past. How George would cope in Boskenna on his own was a mystery. For once, she felt sorry for him and that was a real change.
He’d entered her mother’s life and had taken it over. She’d been twenty-one when they had married. It bothered her, he irritated her even now, which was ridiculous. Her feelings hadn’t dulled with time as they should have. How could her mother replace Diana’s father with him? Back then she had seen nothing of value in George Russell, but looking again at the lemons he sliced for her, she could now admit he wasn’t so bad. He was thoughtful and he’d shown this in the past, but she hadn’t wanted to see it.
Lottie hadn’t appeared yet and George was free-pouring the gin into a glass as she walked into the drawing room. The size of his measure hadn’t changed either. It had been a hot June evening in the small flat in Chelsea when her mother had dropped the bomb that she was marrying him the following day. Speechless couldn’t begin to describe how Diana felt. George, sensing her anger, had immediately poured drinks – large ones – so that at the register office wedding the next day, Diana had a terrible hangover that had soured an already frightful situation. She’d been a right cow to her mother. But her inner child had been striking out. Looking back, she saw that her mother’s marriage meant that she would have even less of her than she’d had before, which hadn’t been much.
George took the lemons now and added a slice to her drink.
‘Thanks.’ Her hand wasn’t as stable as she would have liked. Being here was getting to her. It was a place that should feel welcoming, but ever
ything annoyed her because it wasn’t familiar in the way it should be, despite her repeated dreams. A room like this spoke of family gatherings, Christmas carols around the piano and shared history with the portraits on the walls. Maybe they had had that once, but she couldn’t recall. All she had was a sensation like something she might have witnessed on television and not in person. Among her old diaries and journals, she still had a letter from Mrs Hoskine, the housekeeper, saying how much she missed her, and that she understood how hard it must be for Diana not to come home to Boskenna. That implied that she had loved this place once.
‘So, George, how long has my mother been ill?’
He looked up from his whisky, startled. ‘I would imagine the cancer has been there silently for years.’
‘She’s done nothing?’ The first sip of the drink tasted mostly of gin. The alcohol hit the back of her throat and her eyes watered.
‘No.’
Part of her rebelled at this news but another part respected it. ‘Hospice care here at Boskenna?’
‘Yes.’ His shoulders fell.
George and her mother had been married for forty-two years. He would be, and probably was already, devastated. Grieving could start before the loss. This she knew too well.
‘How often do the nurses come?’
‘Mostly twice a day now.’ He looked out to the garden.
In the infrequent phone calls with her mother, George’s devotion to the garden, and especially his passion for the camellias, always came up. Diana recalled he’d cultivated a few new ones.
‘Have they said how long?’ She glanced at him regretting she had phrased the question that way. He wasn’t a warlord but a frail old man.
‘I haven’t asked.’ His hand clenched the silver fox head on his cane. His knuckles went white.
‘What will you do?’
Sad eyes looked at her and despite her dislike, her heart reached out to him.
‘I don’t know, I honestly don’t know what I’ll do without her.’
Diana swallowed and looked away. She didn’t want to feel for him. She didn’t want to care. She had done that once before. Not caring was the only way to cope.
11
Joan
3 August 1962, 5.45 p.m.
Below on the edge of the lawn, Tom and Allan are side by side, their stance so similar. Allan’s hair is darker with more wave than Tom’s mid-brown straight fringe which falls onto his forehead if he hasn’t tamed it with hair crème. Both still whippet-thin, not yet touched with the fullness of middle age, unlike many of their peers. Allan is the more handsome of the two, also the more charming. But Tom’s eyes, their deep Cornish sky blue, are the more compelling. They take a step away from each other. Discord. In the past they had moved in unison and I was the third wheel, or so I felt. But now Tom plays that role happily, maybe even more comfortably.
He opens his cigarette case and Allan leans in to offer him a light. Allan’s fingers brush Tom’s. There is still a look in Allan’s eyes when he watches Tom. I’m sure Tom was his first love, as he was mine. My passion for Tom was years ago and yet it lives under the surface of our friendship giving it an edge. But Allan was never one to be held in check, and Diana was the result. The memory of our first kiss still stirs me. I stand here loving two men, differently . . . one always from a distance.
As they turn to look at the view their faces are no longer visible, just their broad shoulders. A hunger creeps across my skin as Tom shifts his weight from one foot to the other and Allan mimics him. It has always been this way since the first time I saw them together. I’m not sure what I will do if Tom finds love and marries. I’m a strange creature, loving what I can’t have. But my heart is filled with love for Allan and that is enough.
My husband’s hands caress the air. What are they discussing? Both look solemn, with none of Allan’s boyish charm on display. Diana runs up to them and Allan scoops her into his arms and Tom hands her a package. Even from here I can hear her delighted whoop of joy. She is a blessing and I never believed that would be the case. How wrong I was.
Turning from them, I walk to the dress hanging on the outside of the wardrobe. People will be arriving soon so I can’t slip downstairs and join Tom and Allan. Hopefully there will be an opportune lull in the evening when I can talk with Tom. There is so much that I don’t know, and my imagination is making things worse.
I pull the sleeveless shift dress over my head and the green silk reminds me of shallow waters on a bright summer’s day. Like the ones when Tom, Allan and I sailed. I was nineteen and – against my mother’s wishes – I had joined them sailing to the Scilly Isles. I was free as I never had been before. No school mistresses, no hovering mother or aunt. Simply me and two beautiful men in love. Innocent and free. Well, that will never happen again but at least I have those memories.
As I try to pull the zip up, I recall that it was then it was decided by the three of us that I should apply to a vacant secretarial post at the embassy in Aden. Tom thought I would be a shoo-in with my language skills, and of course the fact that Daddy was an ambassador wouldn’t hurt either. I knew the ropes already, so to speak. I had completed finishing school the month before and Mummy wanted me to marry right away. The problem, aside from the fact that there were no candidates, was that getting married was last on my list of things to do. I wouldn’t follow in her shoes. Somehow, I would find a way to a career and not simply become someone’s accomplished wife.
Smiling, I look around the bedroom at all the accoutrements of just that. Mummy was accomplished, accomplished at keeping her drinking hidden. She was the life and soul of the party. I pause, looking at myself in the mirror with her pearls about my neck, in her house which is now mine. If she knew, she would approve. Allan is the political attaché in Moscow and I am the ultimate hostess. But looks can be very deceiving and a smile spreads across my mouth.
‘What’s so amusing?’ Allan walks through the door and comes to stand beside me. He runs a hand down my bare arm. It is the only contact we’ve had in days. He hasn’t been sleeping and I hear his footsteps in the darkness as he paces by the windows. After wearing the carpet out, he heads downstairs then outside where he lights up a cigarette. The smoke makes its way into the bedroom and I lie awake until he returns just before dawn.
‘Nothing important.’
He pulls the zip on my dress up the final inch, running his finger along the base of my neck. ‘You’ve gone a delicious brown.’
My skin glows, from the Cornish air if not the blazing sun. My dark hair is highlighted from a week here. I look like my younger self, more like the woman he knew as a teenager – long and leggy.
‘It’s all the gardening of late.’ I look down at his hand as he links his fingers through mine. ‘You’ve gone brown yourself.’
‘Not sure how, with the dismal weather. Here’s hoping for some sun this weekend.’
But I knew that being on the sea brought colour even if the sun wasn’t bright. He’s been sailing every day and spending time with the Americans. Diana has loved being on the water, so I haven’t commented on the excessive amount of time he’s spent with them. Allan is like that. Making fast new friends and cutting out the rest of the world until it drags him back. Mostly I haven’t minded and many times it has helped. But I can’t quite put my finger on what is troubling him.
He yawns and pulls his hand from mine.
‘Tired?’
‘Just the fresh air.’ He laughs and turns away. ‘I’ll have a quick bath to freshen up.’ He runs his fingers through his hair. Even though we’ve been here just a week a few freckles have appeared across his cheeks adding to his youthful look, but there is a slight greyness under that tan which is new. He strips off, desire fills me and he sends me a knowing smile, as he grabs his dressing gown then leaves the bedroom before I can act on my need or ask about the sleeplessness. He knows I know.
Eventually he will tell me. He always does.
12
Diana
&
nbsp; 3 August 1962, 5.50 p.m.
Diana watched Daddy go into the house. Uncle Tom was already dressed for dinner and he stood beside her. ‘Shall we take a short walk?’
‘Yes, please, and thank you for my book.’
‘A pleasure. Have you had a diary before?’ Uncle Tom put his hands in his pockets which pushed his jacket out of place.
They cut across the lawn and walked up the long path.
‘No. What do I put in it?’ She turned the red book over in her hands. It was beautiful.
‘Your thoughts and what you did during the day.’
Diana frowned. ‘Do I only write in it once a day?’
‘That is entirely up to you.’ He stopped to sniff a flowering tree. ‘At your age you are already good with words, so you may want to write stories as well as what happened during the day.’
‘Oh.’ Diana stood straighter. She liked words a lot. ‘Does being good with words mean that I’ll be a writer when I grow up?’
‘Possibly or maybe a journalist for a newspaper,’ he paused and studied her.
‘I like that idea. They write stories.’
He laughed. ‘Technically they report events, but I do believe sometimes it is more storytelling.’
‘Report events?’ Diana decided to try to do that in her head. They passed the magnolia tree that was in bloom, it smelled lovely. She’d been told by the gardener that it was special, but she didn’t remember why. ‘I think I would like that.’
As the path rose the trees became taller and the camellia bushes bigger.
