by Liz Fenwick
Rolling her neck from side to side her heart contracted, remembering the taxis that waited at the end of term. While other girls ran into their parents’ arms, she was piling her kit into the back of an anonymous car. The upside had been Boskenna. If her mother hadn’t been home, which had been most of the time, then Lottie had come here.
‘Oh, you’re making lunch.’ Gramps sounded startled to see her. He grabbed the back of a kitchen chair. ‘The nurse has popped back in.’
‘All OK?’
‘My darling girl, I wish I could say it was. I called them.’ He shook his head. ‘She seemed so distressed.’
Lottie dried her hands before hugging him. His weight, not that there was much of it, settled against her and he cleared his throat.
‘I don’t think we have her for long.’
Swallowing hard, she said, ‘I know Gramps, I know.’ She pulled him closer for a moment then rescued the eggs from boiling over. ‘Shall I bring lunch up to you or would you like it in the garden?’
He looked at her, but she knew he wasn’t with her in the here and now. She only hoped his thoughts had taken him to a happier time and allowed him to escape for a moment.
‘She won’t take any real pain relief,’ he said turning back to her.
‘Why not?’ She didn’t know much about lung cancer or any cancer, for that matter, but Gran must be in terrible pain.
‘She doesn’t want to lose control over her mind, her thoughts, her emotions . . .’ His shoulders sagged. ‘She wants to be conscious until the end.’
‘Oh Gramps.’ Lottie threw an arm around his shoulders and helped him up the three steps to the courtyard. ‘Take some fresh air and grab me a few cucumbers if there are any ripe ones.’
‘I will.’ He squeezed her hand.
She kissed his cheek and watched him enter the walled garden. Once he was out of sight, she raced upstairs to try to catch the nurses. They might not tell her much, but she needed to know how she could help. There was no reason for Gran to suffer for the sake of suffering.
40
Joan
4 August 1962, 12.30 p.m.
Opening my notebook, I glance up at Mrs Hoskine then back to the menu and the seating plan, so carefully wrought but now in ruins. Everything had been as it should have been, but no longer. Tapping my pen on the page, I don’t need this right now. I would rather be sailing with Allan and Diana. Instead I am sitting here chewing my lower lip and tasting the remnants of my lipstick, waxy and unpleasant.
I flip back to last year when the menu differed, but the guests – bar the Venns and Eddie Carew – had been the same. Now I am stuck trying to fit these newcomers into the seating plan. At least I know I have never served these dishes to them. Of all our guests tonight only Tom has had a repeat of any of the food. The pudding is the exception. Since Diana had been old enough to express an opinion, she has chosen silverbelle, a chocolate charlotte. Her thinking is beautiful. It is her favourite and therefore it must be her father’s. Of course, she is right. Allan loves anything chocolate, just like his daughter.
Last year I wore a navy strapless gown with my cousin’s aquamarine eternity brooch on a choker. This year I plan to wear a sea-coloured silk gown with an empire waist and a bow just under the bust like the one I’d seen on a photo of the U.S. president’s wife. It is a favourite and I always have a wonderful evening when I wear it. It will give me confidence like a suit of armour. I’m on edge and feeling uncertain and it isn’t just because of the ruined seating plan. Allan’s restlessness, Tom’s unease and George Russell arriving are all playing havoc with my calm.
Mrs Hoskine hums along with the wireless. Last night she did a superb job with the adapted bouillabaisse. I flip to my recipes. Between the two of us, over the years we have altered it to Cornish fish and English tastes. When she’s not looking, I add my secret supply of dry chilli flakes given to me by the Italian ambassador’s wife. Despite her collection of Robert Carrier’s recipe cards from The Times, she looks on most spice with reluctance. She will not have foreign flavours ruining good Cornish fish. It tastes best simple, she says. I can’t argue but I can’t serve steamed fish to my guests for dinner either. We had planned to have a relaxed dinner last night, barbecuing, however the weather had other ideas.
Looking back down at the seating plan that had worked perfectly, I say, ‘Allan has invited the Venns to join us for dinner tonight.’ I pick up a pencil and pull a clean sheet from the back of the ring-binder.
‘Two more to feed.’ She puts all the tomatoes on the table. The aroma is earthy and my mouth waters. I long for fresh bread, salted butter and sliced tomato.
‘Indeed.’ The feeding is the least of my worries as I sketch the table again and mark it with twenty place settings. With eighteen it had worked. I’d made sure the vicar – who was hard of hearing in his right ear –was seated next to Allan’s godmother, as she spoke as if she were controlling fractious children in the nursery. I suspect she regards us all as children in one way or another. On my left I’d placed the lovely Eddie Carew to make sure the conversation flowed at the end of the table. Now I am faced with placing these two strangers, not knowing a thing about them except that Allan has taken a shine to them and they are from the Midwest. I nibble the top of the pencil and Mrs Hoskine gives me one of her looks. Although younger than me, she is wiser and so like her mother. Her mother’s death at the same time as mine hit me much harder than my own had. I put the pencil down and she resumes sorting the vegetables.
The Venns. I close my eyes thinking about them. Something isn’t right. Their accent possibly? The wife of the political attaché at the US Embassy was from Chicago, born and bred, and there was no resemblance to the Venns’ pronunciation of the most basic of words. Shutting down that train of thought, I return to focusing on balancing the needs of my guests that I do know. But it just wouldn’t come. I glance up. ‘Mrs Hoskine, have you heard anything about the people who rented Penweathers?’
She dries her hands on a tea-towel before she speaks. ‘No, but I had heard that the place was rented, and it all happened very quickly.’ She looks at the notebook, running a finger over their names. ‘Venns, you say? English?’
‘No, American.’
She raises her brows. ‘Interesting. I did hear that they weren’t looking for any help, which is odd.’
Sitting back in the chair, I tilt my head to the side.
‘Don’t seem right, not with a house of that size and with no one having lived in it since the war.’
I shudder. Wood lice, spiders, damp . . . a house so close to the sea needs more attention, not less. I know this. Ever since my mother died and Boskenna came to me, it has been a constant battle to stay ahead of repairs brought on by the position, the weather and the age of the house.
‘What do they look like?’
I snort. ‘Tall, handsome, athletic and entirely too clean.’
‘Sounds about right, thinking of the GIs we had here abouts.’
‘True, but this couple aren’t like the troops, not at all.’ I still can’t quite pinpoint what it is that makes the Venns different but there is something. Normally reading people is easy for me. Sleep deprivation is clouding my thinking.
‘Sit him next to Mr Trewin’s godmother and her next to the vicar.’
I laugh. ‘You’re a genius, an absolute genius.’
‘I wouldn’t be so rash, but I’m not a bad cook and I’ll need to talk to Jacob to get more fish. I think we have enough of everything else.’
I ran my finger down the menu. Chilled vichyssoise followed by sole meunière, dependant on today’s catch, cheese, then silverbelle plus birthday cake. We would have drinks in the garden then dinner followed by dancing. The smoking room would be cleared and the carpet rolled up. It would all be fine, and I am seeing problems where there are none. There is nothing to be concerned about at all. Allan is always bringing home unexpected guests and this is something fun. I am tired, that is all.
Carrying the
notebook into the office, I take a seat at the desk and review the details for this weekend. Making sure my writing is clear as it should be, I enter in the extra guests and finalize the seating plan. My pen rests a moment too long on the name of Ralf Venn, thinking of the camera he presented to Diana. The ink feeds out into the thick paper. I withdraw it before more damage is done. Most people looking at the book wouldn’t notice the extra ink on the end of the N, but it jumps out at me. Ralf Venn is marked. All the other names, even George Russell, are uniform.
I shake my head and look out at the garden. An agapanthus head, big and blue, is in my line of sight then a big stretch of the lawn before the sea. Boskenna is so connected to the sea. What is that poem I loved as a child? ‘Sea-Fever’.
Boskenna, the sea and my gypsy life moving from one country to another. The poem captures it all. I smile thinking of my merry fellow rovers, Diana and Allan. I can almost hear their laughter carrying in on the breeze, but it must be other happy souls playing on the beach. Boskenna grounds us and returning here reminds me that life can be normal.
I glance down at my notebook. Real life. This is it. Each event, whether attended or hosted, is here in detail. This weekend is no exception, but I wish it could be. Everything must be the same as before. All anyone reading this strange record of my life since I’d married Allan would see is a woman obsessed with perfection in entertaining. The irony isn’t lost on me. My mother had kept a similar notebook, but not as detailed. It is one useful thing she had taught me. Not to mix my drinks is another.
I close the notebook. All will run like clockwork. Mrs Hoskine is a saint, and with fresh food the meals will succeed. I won’t let two incomers ruin it and this George Russell will be fine. He knows the drill as a Harvard boy with the right credentials. I’ve met his type before and to my surprise have enjoyed their company. It won’t be long before I know what I think about Mr Russell. Anything will be better than my feelings about the Venns.
On the blotting paper, I see the impression of Allan’s writing. Taking a sheet of paper and pencil from the bottom draw I shade in the white sheet until I can see what was written. He must have used a ballpoint pen for it to be this clear. It was not like him, but it was his writing.
4 August
Meet me tonight as agreed.
My heart stops and I look over my shoulder in case someone is around and then methodically I go through the desk. Who? Why? Finding nothing else, I dash upstairs to go through Allan’s things. But aside from a missing cufflink, there is nothing out of place. Walking to the window I wrap my arms around myself. The sun shines relentlessly and I am slowly freezing from within as dread runs through me.
41
Diana
4 August 2018, 1.10 p.m.
Diana had whizzed through the shopping on Lottie’s list and was in the library sitting at an empty computer in less than a half hour. It didn’t take long to research her father’s death. She’d gone over the main facts many times before. The local news had been full of it, but the key fact she needed now, the name of the local policeman first on the scene – Pat Treneer – took a bit more digging. A few more searches confirmed he was still alive and living here in St Austell.
Leaning back in the chair, she listened to the librarian chat to a woman about the wonderful weather and hadn’t the rain a few days ago been a blessing. Diana couldn’t remember the last time she’d spoken about the weather unless it was in regard to safety. It only interested her if it caused a famine or flood. By trying to raise awareness of people’s plight, she had shut off her own needs. Sitting in St Austell public library was not the time to have an existential crisis. Her work had given her life meaning. Nothing else mattered in the end. And yet her mother, nearing her death, had asked for forgiveness.
Diana wrote down Pat Treneer’s phone number and cleared her searches from the computer. She was certain that with just a bit more information she would piece together this puzzle and finally resolve the question in her mind regarding her father’s death. Logically, she knew that it was history and it didn’t matter if he had fallen from the cliff or jumped. But part of her was still a child and that child wanted to know her father hadn’t willingly left her. It shouldn’t matter but it did.
Leaving the library, she dialled Pat’s number.
‘Hello.’ A man answered.
‘Is that Pat Treneer?’ She unlocked her car.
‘It is, who’s asking?’
‘I’m Diana Trewin.’ The sun beat down on her. She found it hard that the weather was so beautiful while inside her thoughts darkened.
‘Of Boskenna?’
She leaned against the car and laughed silently. Not Diana Trewin from the television. ‘Yes.’
‘How can I help you?’
‘I was wondering if you could talk to me about my father’s death.’
‘Ah.’
‘Mr Treneer?’ she asked, opening the car door and placing her bag on the seat.
‘Yes, I remember it well.’
She straightened. ‘How well?’
‘What do you want to know?’
Looking at the box of photos on the passenger seat, she had put them in chronological order. If nothing else, they would give her a visual map to help her to find her way forward. ‘I can’t remember much about it.’ She slid into the car.
‘You were young and very broken up about it.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Are you in St Austell?’
‘Yes.’
‘Come round now, if you like.’
She put the key in the ignition. ‘I’ll be there in ten minutes.’
‘You know where I am?’ he said.
She clicked on her seatbelt. ‘Yes.’
‘Bleddy internet, I bet.’
She laughed.
‘Would have made my job a lot easier back in the day. See you soon. I’ll put the kettle on.’
Diana hung up, smiling. Finally, she was getting somewhere – but she didn’t know where it would lead.
42
Lottie
4 August 2018, 2.00 p.m.
Gramps had his lunch on a tray upstairs with Gran. Lottie didn’t feel hungry, but she knew that she needed to eat.
Alex stood by the door to the courtyard. ‘Hi, any spare?’
She smiled. ‘Yes, come join me.’ Grabbing another bowl out of the cupboard, she handed it to him.
‘Thanks.’
She sat down and passed the salad. ‘Must be hard not to have a kitchen.’
He grinned. ‘Not really, with two in this house.’
‘True.’ She laughed. Boskenna was big and so much of it not in use, like that old pantry next door. She had no idea when someone had last ventured in there. It could have been her and Alex looking for chutney. They’d never found it but had spent a long time kissing in the dark before Gran had come to look for herself. She grinned.
‘Good memory.’
She lifted her eyes. ‘Yes, it was.’
‘Share?’
She tilted her head to one side and said, ‘Relish.’
‘Oh, that one.’ He blushed, and she laughed again. He’d been much more embarrassed being caught kissing than Lottie had been.
‘Yes, that one.’ It had been one of many and looking at him now she wanted to do it all over again . . . but have it end differently.
‘About that drink tonight?’
She took a deep breath. ‘Gran.’
He nodded.
She stood and put the kettle on. She should just tell him she wasn’t free. Gran wasn’t good, but Paul was the real reason she couldn’t and shouldn’t have a drink with him. She’d hurt Alex once, she wouldn’t do it again. She turned around and bumped into him.
‘Lottie,’ he said, standing so close she could have stood on tiptoe and kissed him, but she stepped back – just as her mother walked in with groceries in her hands. Alex’s grandmother, Mrs Hoskine, followed close behind. When Lottie was little, she’d been still doing occasional work for her grandparents but she had re
tired years ago.
‘Look at you, all grown up.’ The depth of her smile caused her merry eyes to disappear almost completely.
‘How lovely to see you, Mrs Hoskine. It’s been years.’
‘It has, my love, it has. I was heading this way because young Alex told me Mrs Russell is not well.’ She looked to her grandson.
Lottie nodded, wishing ‘not well’ was all it was.
‘Your mother found me walking down the lane.’ Lottie sent her mother a questioning look. So Mrs Hoskine hadn’t been the cause of her delay. Where the hell had she been? It didn’t take two hours to shop, even on an August Saturday.
‘Would you like to see her?’
‘Yes, dear I would.’ She stepped forward and Lottie let Mrs Hoskine set the pace. She was pleased to see that, although nearly the same age as her grandmother, she was still fit and able, climbing the stairs well.
‘The house hasn’t changed at all.’ She looked around. And it hadn’t, in essence. But Lottie had never seen the house look so tired, not even back in February.
‘She’s still in her room?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. She loved the view.’ Mrs Hoskine stopped on the threshold. Gramps wasn’t there and Gran was restless. Lottie had spoken with the nurse. Morphine would ease her breathing and reduce her stress, but Gran wasn’t having any of it and Gramps wouldn’t overrule her.
‘Oh dear.’ Mrs Hoskine took small steps to the bed. She cast a glance over her shoulder at Lottie. Her happy expression slipped away. ‘Oh, my dear.’ She picked up Gran’s hand. ‘There’s no rest for you, is there?’
Lottie frowned as she thought she’d misheard the softly spoken words.
‘I had no choice. I had no choice.’
‘We always have a choice my love, always.’ She straightened the covers on the bed then rested her hand on Gran’s shoulder. ‘You were wonderful to me and I hate to see you suffering like this.’ She turned to Lottie. ‘Can we do anything?’
