by Liz Fenwick
26
Diana
4 August, 1962 7.10 a.m.
‘Good morning, my gorgeous girl.’ Daddy sat down on the piano bench with Diana after kissing her head.
‘Morning, Daddy.’ Diana began playing ‘Happy Birthday’. She sang as loud as she could while trying to get her fingers in the right position and hit the keys with enough force. Daddy placed his hand over hers lightly.
‘Thank you, my darling one.’ He kissed her hand. ‘Maybe leave this, and even your practice, until later.’
She frowned and looked at him. His hair was all a mess, his breath smelled of cigarettes and there were dark shadows under his eyes. ‘Why?’
‘Because I think some of our guests might be a bit tired this morning and need a little more sleep before we head out sailing.’ He smiled and reached into his dressing gown pocket for his cigarettes. She watched him light one.
‘Can I play quietly?’
‘Of course.’ He put his cigarette down in the ashtray on the top of the piano. ‘We could play together, if we’re extra careful.’
‘Oh, yes please, Daddy. ‘Chopsticks’?’
‘Of course.’ He shuffled closer to her on the bench and they began by hitting the keys very quietly, but she began to giggle, and Daddy started to play with force until they both collapsed into a heap, laughing.
‘That didn’t work, did it?’ He tickled her and she giggled and squirmed. ‘Shall we go for a walk in the garden and see how the wind is doing?’
She nodded and grabbed his hand as they opened the French windows and stepped into the sunshine. Even without the flag up, she could tell there was no wind. But the sun was hot.
‘It will improve later when the tide changes.’ He scanned the horizon. ‘No matter what, we have to be out of the house today so that Mummy can get everything ready for tonight.’
‘But it’s a secret.’ She tugged on his arm.
He winked. ‘You won’t tell her I know.’
‘Of course not.’ She shook her head. Did he know about the cake? She hoped not. That was special. For the past few days Mrs Hoskine and Diana had been making copies of her matryoshka dolls in marzipan and Diana had created the gold domed churches too. On the sides of the cake they would apply eggs, like the small jewelled one Mummy had from her cousin. The little egg was made by someone important, but Diana couldn’t remember the name. However, she loved the way it opened up to reveal a small boat. One day it would be hers, Mummy had said. Diana couldn’t wait.
‘Daddy, why is a goat called imperialism, and what does “imperialism” mean?’
He stopped walking. ‘What a funny old question.’
‘Why is it funny?’
‘Because it’s coming from you.’ He dropped his cigarette on the ground and crushed it with his slipper. She was barefoot and could feel the damp ground beneath her feet and the blades of grass that covered her toes. She took his hand as they walked to the front door where she stopped to scrape her feet on the mat so Mrs Hoskine wouldn’t be cross.
‘Good morning, Mr Trewin and happy birthday.’ Mrs Hoskine was walking out of the drawing room carrying Diana’s diary. Diana raced forward. She had forgotten she’d left it sitting on the piano. She would have to be more careful.
‘There’s fresh tea and coffee in the dining room,’ she paused, and held out the diary, ‘and this, young lady, is yours – although it took me a while to discover that, as you wrote your name in the back and not the front.’ Diana thought about this. Maybe she needed to write it in the front, too.
Diana took it and said, ‘Thank you, Mrs Hoskine.’
‘Should I bring coffee upstairs to Mrs Trewin?’
Daddy smiled. ‘I think she’ll be down shortly.’ He picked up the papers and walked into the dining room. He hadn’t answered Diana’s question. She would ask again later.
She went into the office, put her diary on the big leather covered desk and pulled out the chair.
Morning Diary,
The house was so quiet when I came downstairs. Just the old long clock ticking in the hall. I’m in the office now. The sun is filling the room and I have to squint as I write, it’s so bright. In the distance I can see Mr Hoskine raising the flag on the front lawn. The flag doesn’t flutter. I hope Daddy is right about the wind.
I will need to practise the piano more later. Madame Roscova will be cross with me if I haven’t practised. It was fun playing with Daddy. He can be so silly and I love him so much.
Uncle Tom is walking in the garden with his hair all pushed up like he has been running his hand through it. Daddy has joined him outside. They looked serious. It must be because of the lack of wind.
I smell bacon cooking and I’m hungry again. I’ll write more later, Diary.
27
Lottie
4 August 2018, 7.15 a.m.
While she waited for the coffee to brew, Lottie tackled the cobwebs in the hallway with a feather duster. At least the entrance no longer looked like a set for a Halloween film. With the warm dry weather and the missing daily help, the spiders were having a great time. After she delivered the coffee to her mother, she would tackle some hoovering. With a minimum of effort, Boskenna would be back to how her grandmother liked it. She could do that. It wasn’t much but it was something.
She checked to see if Gramps was in the snug, but there was no sign of him. He must be in the garden somewhere. Although it was ten degrees cooler than in London, the air blowing through the open front door was already warm. She pulled off her fuzzy dressing gown and put it on the bottom of the stairs to take up to her room later.
All her summer memories were tinged with the feel of the sun and scent of the sea, yet when she looked through photographs many were of her in an old cagoule or Guernsey, braving the wind and the rain. Who was she fooling? Her memories centred on her summer with Alex. The heat of the sun, the warmth of their bodies and the soundtrack of Gramps’ old vinyl records and the endless repeat of Sam Sparro’s ‘Black and Gold’ on the radio as they drove to the north coast for the surf.
The aroma of coffee greeted her as she walked into the small kitchen and found Alex there.
‘Morning.’ His voice was deep and husky, like he hadn’t long been out of bed. In fact, with his hair askew that was what it looked like. Desire filled her as he plunged the coffee then pushed the door open on the cabinet that covered the north wall. ‘Your mother up?’
‘Yes, sitting with Gran.’
He raised an eyebrow then pulled out three mugs. ‘And how’s that going?’
She laughed. ‘Gran’s sleeping.’
During that summer, cocooned in an old blanket on the beach, they had talked about her mother and her grandmother. Heck, they had talked about everything, even her father – or lack of one. He understood the hole in her life because he’d lost his dad when he was fifteen. That was when he came to live in Porthpean to be near his grandmother. He handed her a mug.
‘Thanks.’ Her gaze narrowed. He looked too bloody good. Better at thirty than at twenty. Why couldn’t he have lost his charm in the last ten years? She pushed her hair back. His shirt had only one button done leaving an expanse of chest on display. Her fingers twitched, and she clenched her fists. They remembered the feel of him, even if she didn’t want to. Hawaiian Tropic. She smelt it now. Was she imagining it? She must be. Having Alex here was wrong because she was still so damn attracted to him. Too much time had passed, and it didn’t feel right. Plus she was still technically married even if she didn’t want anyone to know and she had no clue where her husband was.
‘How long are you here for?’ He popped some bread into the toaster.
She opened her eyes wide. That was a question she didn’t want to answer. She had no place else to go. But saying that would invite further questions. ‘Don’t know.’
He lifted his head and smiled. There were lines on his face that hadn’t been there before, but instead of making him less appealing they did the opposite. There was knowledge be
hind the smile and laughter behind the lines. Who had helped him to gain the knowledge and who had made him laugh? Lottie looked into her coffee. She had no right to be jealous, but she was. Standing here so close, so casually dressed in a strappy top and silky shorts, everything between them felt incomplete. But it was over years ago. They were kids and now they were adults. She knew nothing of Alex Hoskine now and he knew nothing of her. For this she was grateful, and she needed it to stay that way.
‘Depending on how things are with your grandmother, maybe we could go for a drink tonight?’ He gave her a lopsided look.
Lottie cradled her mug, telling herself there was no harm in having a drink with him. She wanted to. Even just to remember the good times . . . but accepting would be wrong. There was an invitation in his eyes. It spoke of unfinished business and of longing. She felt it all, but she had to keep her distance.
Gramps appeared at the kitchen door. ‘Sorry to interrupt.’ He took the two steps down into the kitchen with care.
‘Perfect timing. Would you like a coffee?’ Alex asked.
‘Oh, no, far too early.’ He looked between them. ‘Joan?’
‘Sleeping – and Mum is sitting with her.’
He gave her a sideways glance.
‘I’ve told her to behave and I’m bringing coffee up now.’ She picked up the mug Alex had poured for her mother.
‘Fine.’
There was that word again. Nothing about this whole situation was fine. It was far from it.
28
Diana
4 August 2018, 7.20 a.m.
The sun beat down on her back as Diana traced her childish handwriting inside the front cover of To Kill a Mockingbird. She had been cheeky to do it. It hadn’t been hers and if Lottie had done it to one of her books she would have been livid.
Diana Trewin of Boskenna
Not of anywhere else, not of Moscow, not London where they had a flat, but Boskenna. At first, she hadn’t run from the house, but had been taken from it. How had she felt then? The words in front of her spoke of belonging but she didn’t belong anywhere. Her flat in London was only personalised by books and they could be packed into a few boxes. She hadn’t created a welcoming environment for Lottie . . . not like Boskenna. The house dripped in history and warmth, with silver picture frames speaking of happier times. But there were no displayed pictures of Diana’s childhood. Those had been locked away. Why? She shivered despite the warm breeze.
Reviewing the past sixty-four years she could see that she had done everything in later life to not be here and yet she returned in her dreams, pulled back by her sub-conscious when she wasn’t in control. What was she afraid of? She had faced terrorists with no fear of death. She’d watched the man she loved die for her. Die for the child he knew she was expecting, even though she hadn’t yet known. He had been so much more attuned to life than she ever would or could be. He died to set her free. Diana had felt more at home in the hovel that was her prison than she did here. She took a deep breath.
Here was alien, yet she knew it intimately. However, in her dreams the rooms had altered and this one she never entered. Looking around from the big wardrobe to the dressing table to the bed – nothing was familiar. Had she not found her father because her dreams never took her here? The only person who could tell her more was her mother.
She sat motionless except for a periodic rasp. Diana knew the facts of her mother’s life, but she didn’t like her or what she stood for. Joan Trewin Russell was a woman of the past, subservient. Yes, she’d had a career of sorts but once she had remarried, she’d thrown it in and become a housewife again. It was a wonder she had waited so long between husbands. Even now, she was beautiful. She would have been a ‘prize’ for any man, but she had chosen George Russell, a neat American. Diana had never seen the appeal. Her mother’s remarriage had pushed them even further apart, and Diana hadn’t thought that possible.
They must have been close once, though. The pictures showed it, but she felt nothing but distance. Diana stood and cleared her throat. ‘Look, Mum, I know you can hear me. I’m not good at this talking lark unless it’s scripted, and I haven’t had time to write this one – although I have a lifetime of questions in my head.’ She walked closer to the bed. Her mother’s eyes moved under the thin lids so she pressed on, ‘Now that there is so little time, words and questions desert me.’ She paced the room glancing back at her. ‘God, Mum, what happened to us?’
She picked up the box of photos and moved towards the bed. Her mother opened her eyes and Diana held up a photo of the three of them in front of St Basil’s. ‘We were happy but I don’t remember it.’
She pulled out the picture of her taking her first steps and held it up. ‘Why don’t I remember him?’ Diana knew all the facts. Allan Trewin had been drunk and had fallen from the cliff. She’d been through the police reports years ago. Her father’s alcohol levels were high. Her mother had mentioned her last sight of Allan had been of him clutching a cognac bottle and heading into the garden. She had kissed him, she said. It had been noted in the report that he’d remnants of lipstick on his lips and cheek consistent with being kissed, being loved.
Diana moved closer to her. ‘Please tell me what happened. Tell me he loved me. You loved me.’ Her mother clenched her hand. The blanket crinkled under her fingers. Diana stepped closer to the bed.
‘Mum, each year, each day you and I have pulled further and further away from each other.’ She sat at the end of the bed. ‘Why?’
There was no answer, but her mother’s hand remained clenched.
‘Through all the therapy sessions, I’ve asked why my memories begin at boarding school.’ She lifted the box of photos and plucked out a few. Holding up a black and white picture of her father, her mother, a dog and her, she said, ‘This picture speaks of happiness and love. On the back it is dated, ‘1961, Patriarchy Ponds.’ They were all smiling, including the dog. ‘I was seven. I should remember this, but no. All I recall is crying my eyes out in matron’s office a year later.’
Diana watched her mother’s eyes focus on her, then the pupils shrunk in the bright morning light.
‘All these years I have been haunted. Did my father kill himself?’ A lump loaded in her throat.
Her mother looked down and that simple glance told Diana that she thought the same.
‘Mum.’ She picked up her hand and placed the photo of the three of them and the dog in it. The thin fingers barely had the strength to hold the photo this morning.
‘Did he love me?’
‘Yes.’ The word was strangled, and her hand shook so much the picture fell from her grasp onto the bed. ‘He . . . loved . . . you.’
‘Then why did he commit suicide?’ Diana twisted her hands together. She had to ask otherwise she would never know the truth. ‘Why did he leave me?’
‘He didn’t.’ She looked out to the bay and not at Diana.
She was lying, Diana was convinced. Turning towards her, her mother opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’ Her eyelids closed, shutting down any chance Diana had of reading what she couldn’t or wouldn’t say. Her hand fell limp on the blanket and Diana pulled the photo out from under it. She didn’t stir. Placing the snapshot back in the box, she fought the urge to upend the box and bury her in the photographs. She left the box on the bed, but then swung back and tossed a few more of them at her. It was petty. Diana knew that, but something inside her raged. She was being lied to.
Her mother dozed on, undisturbed by the patchwork of faded photos covering her. When she next opened her eyes maybe she would take some pleasure from the memories or maybe she wouldn’t. Diana paused. Had her mother felt as betrayed by his death as she had? Was the pain still as raw? Those photographs spoke of love. She had loved him and he betrayed her too by killing himself. All these years her father’s death had stood between them. She should have asked sooner.
29
Lottie
&
nbsp; 4 August 2018, 7.30 a.m.
Her mother wasn’t in the room when Lottie brought her coffee. But her grandmother was awake and looking at photos strewn across her chest. Lottie’s heart contracted. Gran didn’t look at her but stared at the photo in her hand. Her other hand flailed around on the side table knocking a book off. Her reading glasses were just out of her reach. Lottie handed them to her. She glanced at Lottie then with her glasses on said, ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Gran, you don’t have anything to apologise to me for.’
Her grandmother had been the best . . . kind, loving, and understanding.
‘Lottie.’
‘Yes.’ She sat and tried to see the picture, but it was turned away.
‘My wedding, my first wedding.’ Her voice stuck on the words.
‘May I see?’ Lottie held out her hand.
‘We fooled no one.’ Her grandmother laughed.
‘Why were you trying to fool anyone?’ she asked, as her grandmother finally let the picture turn towards her. Seeing the photo, she was instantly transported far away from Boskenna. The ground in front of the church in the picture almost shimmered in the heat and the dust. Her grandmother held a bouquet of roses in front of her and then Lottie realized what she was saying. She had been pregnant. Despite the flowers, the angle of the photograph caught the swelling of her stomach. Allan Trewin stood straight and smiled directly at the photographer.
‘You look beautiful.’ Lottie turned to Gran. Those high cheek bones were still in evidence.
‘Thank you.’ Gran touched her hair.
‘Who took the photograph?’
She beamed. ‘Tom.’
Lottie frowned. ‘Do I know him?’
