by Liz Fenwick
‘It’s an important job,’ Tom continued. ‘Think of all the people who read newspapers every day to discover what is happening in the world.’
She nodded. Mummy and Daddy did that, then they would discuss parts of what they’d read. ‘So, I should read the paper to discover how to report?’
‘You are a very clever soul, Diana.’
‘Am I?’ She stood straighter and took a bigger step forward.
‘Yes, you are and I think you would be a very good journalist.’
‘Thank you.’ Diana looked up to the big Monterey pine tree and saw the birds gathering there. They must have a wonderful view of the bay. She was jealous of their lookout. To see further she frequently went up to the attic rooms of Boskenna. From the one above her bedroom she could see over the trees and onto Carrot Hole. No, Mummy would correct her: Carrickowel Point.
She turned and looked up at Tom. He was so handsome. Not as handsome as Daddy, though. ‘What do you do, Uncle Tom?’ She thought she must have asked once before but she couldn’t remember. ‘You are good with words, too.’
‘I love words and history. But I look after people.’
Diana picked up a stone from the path. ‘Are you a nurse or a teacher?’
He chuckled. ‘A bit of both, to be honest.’
‘Oh.’ She wanted to ask more but wasn’t sure what to ask because she couldn’t think what job would be both nurse and teacher. Walking down the path towards them was Mr Carew. He limped ever so slightly, and Mummy had told her that he’d lost his leg in the war, but they had found him a new one when he came home to England. Diana had asked if they kept spare legs in England to replace lost ones. Once Mummy had stopped laughing, she explained it was made of wood and held in place with leather. Diana wanted to see it but hadn’t yet worked up the courage to ask. Maybe this weekend she would.
‘Hello, you two.’ Mr Carew held out his hand to Uncle Tom then took hers and bowed over it slightly. ‘I see as usual, Tom, you are escorting the most beautiful woman.’
Uncle Tom grinned. ‘Always.’
In the distance Diana heard Mrs Hoskine calling her. She looked up and said, ‘If you’ll excuse me, please.’
‘Of course.’ Uncle Tom smiled then continued walking with Mr Carew.
Diana raced to the house hoping that Mrs Hoskine was going to ask her to help with the final touches for the silverbelle, Diana’s favourite chocolate pudding, for tomorrow’s special birthday dinner for Daddy. Diana loved chocolate and so did Daddy.
13
Lottie
3 August 2018, 6.00 p.m.
Stopping at the bottom of the stairs, Lottie was greeted by the voice of Bobby Darin. ‘Somewhere Beyond the Sea’. Gramps had taught her to dance to this while Gran taught Alex. They had been invited to a big black-tie party at Eddie Carew’s house for his eightieth. Neither Lottie nor Alex had known how to dance properly so the week before the party the drawing room rug had been rolled up and every night, just after cocktails, it had been like a session of Strictly for the hopeless. But by the time the party had arrived, both Lottie and Alex could dance. Even now she could remember how handsome he’d been in his borrowed dinner jacket and the feel of his arms around her. It had been a magical evening of dancing under the stars. A few days later it was over.
She couldn’t fix the past, but she could make sure she didn’t mess up any more of the future. Hopefully now she had learned to let no one in and to trust no one. That would be key to going forward.
In the courtyard she tapped on the cottage door. Alex opened it, dressed only in a towel. She looked at the top of his head for fear of staring.
‘Sorry to disturb you but Gran would like to come downstairs and she said you’d help.’
‘Of course.’
‘Thanks.’
‘I’ll be there in a few minutes.’
‘Do you need help?’ She looked down at his bare feet.
‘I can get dressed on my own.’
‘Right.’ She risked a quick glance up but wished she hadn’t. He was amused but she felt an idiot. Exiting swiftly, she set a smile on her face and walked back to the house and into the drawing room with her head held high. No one here knew what a mess her life was at the moment and it would stay that way. It would cause Gramps so much pain and her mother would be disappointed yet again.
‘Lottie, my dear. Gin?’ Gramps asked, putting his hands on the arms of the chair.
‘I’ll get it, Gramps. You stay seated.’ She walked to the end of the piano where the trolley sat and made herself a weak drink, tempting though it was to let the gin relax her. She couldn’t afford to let her guard down. She turned back to the room and surveyed it. It felt too big and at the same time not large enough for the three of them.
Gramps was in his armchair because the sofa was now just too low for him to use without help. He didn’t want assistance, as she’d discovered in February when Paul had taken the armchair. Gran had called him a stubborn old mule when he wouldn’t be helped out of it and said to leave him to it. She hadn’t been herself then, now Lottie thought about it. She had been quieter and greyer. She must have known but hadn’t said anything. How could she have when Lottie had spent the weekend trying to get Paul to see Cornwall, Boskenna and her grandparents for the wonders they were. She shouldn’t have wasted her breath for he was a liar and a thief.
Her mother, gin in hand, paced in front of the French windows, looking out to the sea fret. She had been refreshing hers and Gramps’ drinks with ice when Lottie had walked into the silence.
‘Alex is going to bring Gran.’ Lottie perched on the arm of the sofa halfway between the two of them.
‘Alex?’ Her mother turned. Lottie braced herself. A decade ago her mother had forbidden her from ever getting in touch with him again. Lottie hadn’t blamed her. But Alex hadn’t been the problem – she had. She was the one who had lied to her mother. True, it was because of Alex that she hadn’t taken the internship her mother had arranged – but it was Lottie’s decision, not his.
‘Yes, Alex Hoskine has been a godsend to Joan and me.’
Lottie jumped to her feet. ‘Is there anything I can get for her?’
‘The nurse will be here shortly.’ Her mother turned to look at her.
‘Oh.’ Gramps and her mother obviously had a chat. This was good, progress even. ‘Should she stay upstairs?’
‘No, if she feels up to joining us, that is wonderful.’ He gave her a brave smile.
‘How often does the nurse come?’ Lottie asked, looking at Gramps’ face. She saw him trying to hold it all together.
‘Morning and evening.’ He took a sip of whisky. ‘Or more frequently if needed.’
Her heart sank. No wonder Alex had started helping.
‘She should be in a hospice. Not here.’ Her mother sighed and turned from the windows.
‘She is where she wants to be.’ He spoke with quiet determination.
‘Mum,’ Lottie stood.
‘The place is a wreck, a relic even.’ Her mother waved her hand. ‘The upstairs windows are coated in salt and the woodwork is rotting from the constant assault of the weather while two people rattle about in a few rooms.’
Gramps put his drink down. ‘Joan loves it.’
‘Does she? Does she really?’ Her mother shook her head. ‘I can’t see how.’ She walked towards Gramps. ‘I don’t know how you can stand it, living in the house that they lived in together.’
‘Mum.’ Lottie moved towards her then stopped. Where was this anger coming from?
‘We are all grown-ups here. No need to mince words.’ She topped up her drink and Lottie raised an eyebrow. Her mother wasn’t a big drinker.
‘Why did she come back to Boskenna after so long?’
‘What do you mean, “come back”?’ Lottie frowned. This was Gran’s home.
‘Boskenna was let out until George retired.’ Her mother sat on the sofa.
‘It was.’ Gramps relaxed.
‘Why did you c
ome here? Why not Cape Cod, where your family were?’
Lottie held her breath. Her mother had shifted into reporter mode – forgetting that, like him or not, Gramps was her stepfather and an old man. How could she snap her out of it?
Gramps put his fingertips together, making an arch with them like the childhood game he used to play with her. Here is the church, here is the steeple, open it up, see all the people. But this wasn’t a game. Gran was dying and her mother, possibly as a way to distance herself, was interviewing Gramps.
‘She wanted to. It’s her home.’
Mum shook her head and pressed her lips together.
Just then, Alex arrived at the door – carrying Gran as if she was a child. With care, he placed her on the sofa and Lottie arranged some cushions behind her.
‘Can I get you a drink?’ Alex asked.
‘I’d love the smallest taste of whisky, well-watered, please.’
‘Of course,’ he smiled, and Lottie caught his eye and mouthed thanks. ‘George, does your drink need refreshing?’ Diana?’ He glanced around.
She held her breath again. Her mother stared at him and everything in Lottie tensed.
‘I’m fine, thank you.’ Her mother turned and walked to the fireplace then turned back again as he handed Gran her drink.
Lottie watched her mother open her mouth, but Gran raised her glass. ‘Thank you for coming.’ She coughed.
The doorbell rang and Alex leapt to answer it. She couldn’t blame him. Lottie’s shoulders were around her ears. The atmosphere in the room was fraught.
The nurse came in and her mother glared at Alex before she left the room. That wasn’t fair. Her mother had had every right to be angry with Lottie even now, because she’d believed Lottie had been in London all summer doing an internship when she’d been falling in love. It was never Alex’s fault. It had been – and always would be – Lottie’s fault.
14
Joan
3 August 1962, 6.10 p.m.
Diana sits cross-legged on the bed watching me while I clip on my earrings. Thus far today hasn’t gone as planned and now I am faced with a handful of guests gathering in the drawing room for drinks. Tom would be among them of course, but there would be eight others. It is paramount that I find time alone with him before tomorrow afternoon.
‘Mummy?’
I turn to her. She wears her serious look as she clutches the present that Tom has given her.
‘Yes?’
She holds a leather-bound book aloft. ‘Uncle Tom said this is a diary or a journal.’
I nod and perch beside her, taking the book from her hands. Flipping through the lined pages, it is apparent it was not made in England. At a guess the leatherwork indicated the Middle East, or possibly Spain at a stretch.
She looks up from under her long dark lashes so like Allan’s. ‘I can write things down . . . like what I do every day.’
‘Indeed, your thoughts about all sorts of things, too.’ I hand the book back to her. ‘Or even sketches.’
‘But there are lines on the page.’ She runs her finger over one.
‘True.’ Trust her to worry about that. ‘You could slip your drawings into the book.’
She frowns. ‘No, this isn’t a book for my drawings, I don’t think.’
‘OK, then you could write to it like it is your best friend.’
‘But that’s Maria.’
‘Your next best friend then. But do remember that some things must never be written down.’
She looks at me as if she despairs of me.
‘Of course, Mummy. I know all about secrets.’ She wrinkles her nose and I hide my smile. She is so like Allan. Quick, mercurial and ever so clever. ‘Uncle Tom said I was good with words.’
‘Did he?’ Turning, I look at her closely.
‘Yes, he said I might become a writer or even a newspaper journalist when I’m older.’
‘Very perceptive.’
‘Perceptive?’ she asks, tilting her head.
‘He sees things well.’ I stick another hairpin through the French twist in my hair. ‘Did he say where it was from?’
‘Beirut.’
Memories of 1955 in that glamorous city fill my mind. Dancing, laughing, loving.
‘They speak Arabic there don’t they?’ She turns the book over.
‘Yes.’
‘Isn’t that written back to front?’ She peers at me and I love watching her thought process. My darling girl is so intelligent it scares me sometimes.
I stand and smooth my dress. ‘You’re a clever soul.’
‘Thank you, Mummy.’ She jumps up clutching the book. ‘Maybe I’ll begin writing my diary from the last page.’
I chuckle. ‘That’s a super idea. Make sure you tell Uncle Tom your plan.’ I stroke her dark hair, loving its thickness. ‘He’ll be pleased.’
She stares at me. ‘I think I’ll become a journalist because I like to ask so many questions.’
‘You’d be a very good one.’
‘Would I, Mummy?’ She takes my hand.
‘Absolutely, you’re curious and very good with words.’
‘I like knowing the truth.’ Her bright smile disappears and her eyes narrow.
‘The truth is very important,’ I say, but I know that much of the time it’s best hidden. The truth can hurt.
We walk hand in hand into the hallway. Someone is warming up on the piano and begins playing the latest Bobby Darin song, ‘Things’. Diana starts singing and dancing. Joining her until we reach the top of the stairs, I give her a twirl and her laughter lifts me. All will be fine. My concerns are unfounded. The scrutiny of living in the fishbowl of Moscow is intense and life here should be a balm. Sadly, this weekend has brought the world of work into my refuge. I laugh, remembering that it was years ago that the world of work invaded Boskenna, and maybe it had always been here. Daddy and his guests who visited here during our leave changed the carefree atmosphere.
‘Mummy, what’s funny?’
‘Nothing important.’
‘Funny is always important.’ She gives me a piercing look. I make no sense to her, for I am intuitive and she is logical like Allan.
‘I’m going to start my diary now.’ She races to her room, which used to be mine. Twelve years ago I looked out of that same window and saw Allan for the first time. My heart missed a beat then and still does now as I begin down the stairs. The object of my thoughts is looking more handsome now than he had then. I had been eighteen and he twenty-four. My parents were celebrating their twentieth wedding anniversary. They never made it to their twenty-fifth.
‘Darling.’ Allan waits with a smile lighting up his face. The man is too handsome for his own good. He holds out a hand. Reaching the bottom step, I take it and he twines his fingers through mine. I shiver, loving his touch and yearning to take him upstairs, but instead we walk through to the drawing room, the picture of a golden couple.
Allan releases my hand, heading to the drinks table, and I move towards Lady Fox, Allan’s aunt.
‘Is everything in your room as it should be?’
‘Of course, my dear.’ She smiles. ‘Thank you for giving us your parents’ room looking out to Black Head. Mesmerizing. Despite the weather, I was so riveted by the view it’s a wonder I managed to apply my lipstick properly.’
‘True, it is a distraction.’
Outside, rain hits the windows obscuring everything but the sound of the sea, ever present. Tonight because of the weather, the windows are shut yet I can still hear the sea when the music pauses. The tide is high and the wind has picked up. Thinking of the beach brings the Americans to mind. They wouldn’t have enjoyed this evening, despite the fact that many of the people they should meet locally are here. I can’t see Lady Fox enjoying their company and with only ten tonight she couldn’t have avoided them. Tomorrow it will be easier with more people, more distraction.
‘Not sure how you can bear to leave Boskenna.’
My glance strays to Allan making
a gin and tonic.
‘Ah, yes, the things we do for love.’ She picks up a devilled egg. Mrs Hoskine has done a marvellous job with the canapes and I take a deep breath. Life is about being flexible.
‘I do admire you, dear, following Allan all over the world. How long have you been in Moscow now?’
I force a smile. ‘Nearly two years.’
‘Fascinating place to be living at the moment, I should imagine.’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you expect to be there much longer?’
I look down at the bracelet on my wrist. If I didn’t know better, I would think I’m being pumped for information, but this is his aunt who I’ve known since childhood and this isn’t Moscow. She, of all the people here this weekend, has nothing to do with the diplomatic world. She belongs to the gardening one, competing against Boskenna every year at the flower show. Each year Pengarrock, Boconnoc, Caerhays, or Boskenna would win. Of course, those gardens are far larger and Boskenna being so close to the sea with little protection from the east winds, faced different challenges.
‘Here’s your drink, darling.’ Allan hands me the glass, looking up at his aunt. ‘Have you seen the agapanthus this year?’ he asks, leading her towards the windows. ‘It’s a wonder with all this rain this summer that anything blooms.’
I make my way across the room towards Tom. He is chatting to Eddie Carew and gives me a quick smile before replying to him. Again, I can see how drawn he has become but a few days here and he’ll perk up. Despite being only thirty-six he is greying at the temples. Rather than making him unattractive, it adds to his appeal if one goes for the scholarly variety.
‘Joan, how kind of you to invite me for the weekend.’ Eddie beams while he taps his cigarette ash into the fireplace. Tonight a fire is roaring to keep the evening’s dampness at bay.
‘Always a pleasure.’ I say, studying his face. He is such a dear man.
‘I was just catching up with what Tom’s been up to. It’s hard to believe it was twelve years ago that I last saw him here.’
‘At my parents’ anniversary party.’ It had been a momentous night in many ways. Aside from meeting Allan for the first time, my mother’s drink problem became public which might have been caused by my father’s mistress attending the evening as well. I’d fled to the watchtower to escape and Allan had followed me, concerned even though he’d only just met me. Years later he confessed that Tom had gone looking for me on the beach. But that had been the beginning. He’d asked me the following day to join him and Tom sailing. I’d escaped with two beautiful young men, leaving my mother to her bottle and my father to his mistress.
