by Liz Fenwick
‘Sadly no. She’s refused all but the most basic relief.’
She shook her head. ‘There’s no need to suffer like this. It won’t change things.’
Lottie frowned. What was she on about? Gran didn’t need to suffer but she did seem determined to.
Mrs Hoskine walked to the window. ‘So much sadness.’
‘Do you mean when my grandfather died?’
She nodded. ‘Everything changed.’
‘How?’
‘Well, once your grandfather was buried your grandmother let out the house.’ She sighed. ‘Under her instruction I put all personal items except the books away in the closets in the hallway and locked them up.’
‘Ah, that explains it.’
Mrs Hoskine turned towards Lottie. ‘What?’
‘Mum found pictures of her childhood last night.’
‘I asked about those, but your grandmother wanted it all locked away.’ She turned and looked at Gran. ‘I went against her wishes and sent my favourite picture of Mr Trewin and Diana together to the mite at school.’
Lottie swallowed, the diary.
‘I know that your grandmother was trying to make everything less painful . . .’ she paused, ‘but I’m sure it did the opposite. A soul needs to grieve properly.’
‘I found some of Mum’s old thing in the stables, too.’
Mrs Hoskine frowned then smiled. ‘Is that where they ended up?’
Lottie nodded.
‘I was going to post them to her, but we had the new tenants due and they arrived early.’ She shook her head. ‘I must have put them in there thinking I’d come back to them later and never did.’
‘How quickly did Mum and Gran leave?’ Lottie glanced at Gran, wondering if she was listening.
‘Just days after.’ Mrs Hoskine turned to her. ‘She came back down briefly for the inquest, the funeral and to hand over the keys to the agent.’
‘What did you do?’
‘Ah, Pete and I stayed on in the cottage as caretakers. Pete kept on gardening and I made sure no real damage was done to the house by the various tenants who lived here.’
‘Mrs Hoskine?’ Lottie glanced again at Gran.
‘Yes, my love?’
‘Did my mother ask you any questions?’
She laughed silently. ‘Pretty much the same ones you have.’
‘Ah.’ Her mother was still digging. She didn’t know how to not be a journalist.
‘Diana doesn’t seem peaceful.’ Mrs Hoskine made a clucking noise which sent Lottie straight back to her childhood. It was such a gentle reprimand and sign of disapproval.
‘That’s true.’
‘Your mother says she doesn’t remember her father or much of those years, which is a pity. She was so loved, adored by both Mr and Mrs.’ She walked to the bed. ‘They were a beautiful family and then it was gone. Mrs gone back to work overseas and Diana off to boarding school at only eight.’
She picked up Gran’s hand. ‘I think this is goodbye, Mrs Russell. May peaceful sleep find you. Rest.’
Gran’s breathing stopped, and Lottie’s did too, but then the raspy sound began again.
‘It won’t be long, Lottie.’
‘How do you know?’
‘It’s all in the breath. I learned it being with too many people as they took their last one.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’
‘Nothing to be sorry about. It’s a blessing and curse to be gifted with it. It’s something you never forget.’
‘Now, Mrs Russell be peaceful. If the good Lord is ready so must you be.’ She put Gran’s hand down and wiped Lottie’s cheeks with her hankie. The good Lord may be ready, Gran might even be, but Lottie wasn’t. Mrs Hoskine gave her a bear hug.
‘I didn’t mean to, I didn’t mean to. I had to.’ Gran’s voice croaked.
Lottie went to her. ‘Gran, it’s me Lottie.’
‘I had to. I had no choice.’ Gran repeated.
‘Shall I call your mother?’ Mrs Hoskine bustled through the doorway.
Lottie nodded. ‘Oh, Gran, please don’t be so upset.’
‘I didn’t mean to. I had no choice.’
In the hallway, Lottie heard Alex chatting to his grandmother.
‘Rest, Gran,’ she said wanting to help somehow but not sure what to do.
Her grandmother opened her eyes.
‘I love you.’ Lottie took her hand in hers. It was icy. Lottie froze.
Gran turned her head and focused on Lottie. ‘I had no choice, no choice.’ Each word took so much effort, Lottie hurt watching her. She looked around and Alex came up to her and took her hand in his. There had to be something she could do. Something to stop Gran leaving her.
‘Sssh, it’s OK. You had no choice, I understand.’
‘You do?’ She looked directly at her.
‘Yes, you had no choice, it’s OK.’ Lottie touched her cheek. She would do anything right now to erase the anguish in Gran’s eyes.
‘I had no choice because of Diana.’
Cold air ran down Lottie’s back as she thought of her mother’s diary. ‘What?’ She looked up and her glance met Alex’s as Gran dragged air in, her whole body shaking with the effort.
‘I couldn’t, I couldn’t let him.’
Lottie’s mind ran to places that she didn’t want it to go with that phrase. Was this why her mother didn’t remember him? If he had interfered with her in some way, it began to make more sense. Her skin crawled at the thought. Her poor mother. No wonder she didn’t trust anyone. ‘Couldn’t let him what, Gran?’
Alex put his finger to his mouth and she frowned at him. Lottie wasn’t stopping – she needed to know. Her mother needed to know.
Gran looked her in the eyes. ‘I had no choice, I killed him.’
Lottie froze.
‘I had to.’ Her head thrashed. ‘Forgive me.’
Lottie had to do something. ‘Gran?’
Her eyes closed. Air escaped from her mouth and Lottie wanted to scream. She stared, praying this wasn’t the end. Gran’s chest began to move. She hadn’t left her yet, but it wouldn’t be long.
‘You OK?’ Alex picked up her hand.
Lottie gave him a look to tell him he was insane then whispered, ‘No, how could I be? My grandmother has just told me she killed my grandfather.’
‘Don’t jump to that conclusion.’ He spoke to her as if she was a child who couldn’t understand a concept. ‘She didn’t say that.’
‘Alex don’t play games with me.’
‘I’m not but all she said is she had no choice and she killed him. It could be talking about the family dog, for all we know.’
Lottie wanted to hit him and hug him at the same time. But would Gran be that upset about a dog? She rose to her feet shaking. He pulled her into his arms and she closed her eyes and let herself feel protected for a moment. That sense returned that all was OK when she was in his arms, but it was an illusion. She opened her eyes and looked down on Gran, forcing her brain to accept what it didn’t want to. Gran was leaving – and leaving Lottie holding her guilt.
Her mother burst through the door. Alex looked at Lottie and she nodded. She wouldn’t say a word, not yet anyway. Not until she understood more. But if there was a way she could help her mother, she would.
CROSSROADS
43
Lottie
4 August 2018, 3.00 p.m.
Lottie walked in circles. In her mind, the blue of the sea merged with the green of the lawn and the white walls of the drawing room. All of this was dotted with blurred ancestral portraits. Each step she took didn’t clear her thoughts, in fact, quite the opposite. Gran had killed someone. Someone who was a threat to her mother.
‘Stop that infernal pacing.’ Her mother slumped into the sofa. Gramps was sitting upstairs with Gran, and Lottie wasn’t sure where Alex had gone. Hiding possibly, Lottie would if she could. She wanted to unhear what Gran had said. How was she going to avoid telling her mother? Her stomach clenched. Her mother
’s childish words on the page and her grandmother’s words chased each other in her brain.
‘Did she say anything else? Did she speak?’
Lottie swallowed, stopped pacing, and looked out of the French windows. What should she say? Best to not say anything.
‘Did you hear me?’ Her mother came up to her.
Lottie avoided her gaze. ‘Sorry, Mum, I was lost in my own thoughts.’
‘Did my mother say anything? Did she come back to consciousness?’
Lottie’s glance darted about the room looking for escape. ‘Nothing new.’
She crossed her arms. ‘What does that mean?’
‘I couldn’t make out her words.’ She looked down at the carpet. ‘I think they were Persian, maybe.’
‘Persian? She was never posted to Iran. Makes no sense.’ She strode to the fireplace. Picking up the porcelain dog that sat there, she turned it in her hands, feeling the weight of it and the detail. Lottie held her breath, waiting for the smash that she was sure to follow.
‘Well, that’s what I thought. The other day she was speaking Russian and then some Arabic.’ Why had she said Persian? Almost any other language would have been better.
‘The last two make sense but not Persian.’ She put the ornament down.
‘Were you expecting her to say something?’ Lottie took a step towards her then thought better of it.
‘I’d hoped.’ She adjusted the dog on the mantle.
‘Did you have a dog?’
Her mother swung around. ‘What does that have to do with anything?’
‘I don’t know.’ Lottie glanced towards the fireplace and saw the ornament. ‘You were looking at that thing so intently.’ She took a deep breath.
‘The pictures show me with a dog in Moscow but I don’t remember.’
‘What type was it?’
‘It looked like a Cavalier King Charles.’
‘Oh.’ That was not the type of animal that would be a threat to a child.
‘You’re behaving really oddly.’
Lottie tilted her head and gave her mother a hard stare. ‘My grandmother is dying.’ She paused. ‘I’m not really myself.’
‘Fair enough.’ Her mother turned and walked out of the room and Lottie wasn’t sure if she was relieved or lost. She wanted to hold her mother and to be held, but if anything with Gran leaving, her mother felt further away. She wrapped her arms around herself trying to keep everything together. She rocked back and forth looking at the increasing cloud covering the bay. It felt right somehow.
Alex stood in the doorway. ‘You OK?’
She shook her head as he walked up to her.
‘Do you want to talk?’ He brought his hand to her chin lifting it, so she had to look at him even though she didn’t want to.
‘About what?’ His eyes were so intense and so honest.
He raised an eyebrow. ‘The elephant in the room.’
She turned away. ‘It wasn’t a dog.’ Walking to the fireplace she put the china dog in its correct position.
He frowned.
‘They had a spaniel.’
‘Right.’ He came to her side. It was hard to focus but she needed to.
‘My grandmother killed someone, and it is clearly distressing her.’ It just didn’t fit the grandmother she knew. Beautiful flower arrangements and superb meals fitted Gran, not killing someone . . . not someone . . . him.
‘It’s in the past.’ He threaded his fingers through hers. It was so tempting to let it go but she wasn’t going to. Gran felt it was important enough to use what might be her last words confessing it.
‘It won’t help anyone.’
She cocked her head to the side. ‘Look, it’s not really your business, Alex.’
‘I heard her too.’ He stepped back.
Taking a breath, she said, ‘I know but she wasn’t talking to you, but to me.’
‘It could have been drug induced.’
‘It wasn’t. She’s refused drugs.’ Lottie shuddered.
He sighed. ‘She was confused.’
‘No, she wasn’t.’ Lottie huffed. ‘This isn’t your problem.’ She left him there and walked through to the hallway. She should be grateful for his help and not cross with him, but she was. Her grandmother had just confessed to killing someone and he was trying to tell her what to do. Why on earth should she listen to him? She should call the police. She stopped, closing her eyes. No, she wouldn’t do that. That wouldn’t help anything or anyone right now. But she had to do something.
Opening her eyes, she bolted up the stairs and went straight to the closet where Mrs Hoskine had said she had put all the personal things. Lottie had no idea what she might find in there, but anything would be a start.
44
Joan
4 August 1962, 4.00 p.m.
Tom walks across the lawn and takes the path to the sea. The others will be dropped off any time now. I have watched the yacht make its way into the bay. Picking up my father’s old binoculars, I make out Diana at the helm. It takes me a while to locate Allan. He’s stripped to the waist and leaning over the American, Beth Venn, handing something to her husband, Ralf. They are all too close together. My breathing quickens, and I put the binoculars down, racing out the door towards the path. In moments I have caught up with Tom. Glancing back at the house, I see George standing at the window in his room, watching.
Slipping my arm through Tom’s, I ache for the innocence of earlier days when all I wanted was to marry him and live in Cornwall, sailing, reading, and ignoring the world. A bitter laugh escapes me. Today of all days, innocence is a thing of the past and my heart aches.
‘Are you OK?’ He stares at me as he unbolts the gate.
‘Yes.’ I force a bright smile.
‘Liar.’
‘Never.’
He strokes my cheek, saying, ‘I’m sorry.’
‘For what?’
‘Bringing you into this game.’
I take a deep breath. ‘I went in with my eyes open.’
‘Hmm.’ He drops his hand. ‘You did it because you were in love with me.’
I gasp.
‘Of course I knew.’ He turns to me.
‘But . . .’
‘Joan, if I could have loved anyone it would have been you.’
‘But . . .’
‘No buts. What is, is.’ He strides down the last few steps onto the sand. The tide covers most of it and in the distance an over-full tender is making its way to the beach.
Clenching my fists, I catch up to him again. He is focused on the boat. ‘What do you know about George?’
‘Harvard. Likes his Scotch with three ice cubes and has a real taste for Cuban cigars. A straight-shooting American. No dark underside, or one that’s so well hidden he’s forgotten it.’
‘That tells me nothing.’ My nails dig into my palms.
‘Which tells you a great deal.’
I uncurl my hands. No information. No one to trust. Just me. Maybe my mother’s life wasn’t as dull as I thought. All I know, as I look at Allan pressed up against the American in the dinghy, is that I want to keep my husband and above all, to keep my daughter safe. Nothing else matters. Not Tom, not George and not Victor.
I shake my head. I am a cog in the wheel and not important at all. I must remember that. Diana scrambles over the side of the tender and runs to me, covering me in kisses. ‘Mummy I missed you.’ I search her little face, all serious. The sail has not gone well from her point of view. Over her head I watch the American woman place a possessive hand on Allan’s arm. He’s only known them a week, but that is the familiar action of an old friend or a lover. Tom’s glance meets mine.
‘You missed a brilliant day.’ Allan walks up to me and kisses me on the mouth. My eyes narrow as he scoops up Diana. ‘Wasn’t it wonderful, Diana?’
She nods but I know my daughter only too well.
‘How’s the head, old man?’ Allan turns his attention to Tom. ‘Or was it an excuse to lose yourself i
n a book?’
‘After all the travel of late, I spent the day resting.’
Allan cast him a look. ‘Good, then you’ll be on form for a long night of celebration.’
‘Of course.’ Tom smiles and his eyes dance. I know a party is the last thing he wants. He’s been made impotent by the mole and his clever brain will be assessing his options. The real question is, what are mine? I look back to the house, but George is no longer at the window.
45
Diana
4 August 2018, 4.15 p.m.
A young woman with her blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail was putting a large bouquet of flowers on her father’s grave. Diana watched her. She was young, early twenties at a guess. Her clothes didn’t give much away. She wore cropped jeans with white trainers and when she turned around Diana saw David Bowie on her t-shirt.
‘Hi,’ she said, smiling as she walked past me to the gate.
‘Who are you and why are you putting flowers on my father’s grave?’
The woman stopped. ‘He belongs to you?’
Diana nodded.
‘Oh.’ She took a few steps towards Diana. Her face was open. ‘I’m Hannah Hollis and I come here once a year – normally on the fifth – but I’m heading up to London to begin a job on Monday, so I hoped no one would mind if I did this a day early.’
‘Should I know you?’
She grinned. She had an open face. ‘No, I doubt it. I only met Old Tom in 2011 and I made my first visit here in 2012.’
‘Old Tom?’ Something stirred inside Diana.
‘Sorry, Tom Martin.’
Tom Martin. She knew it. ‘Are you related? His granddaughter, maybe?’
‘No, just a friend.’
Diana’s eye’s narrowed.
‘Sounds weird but he befriended me when I moved to Cornwall.’ Her smiled widened. ‘He saw something worthwhile in me when I sure as hell couldn’t, and I’m not sure anyone else could.’
‘Oh.’ Diana looked at the roses and the lilies resting against the gravestone. ‘The bouquet?’
‘Old Tom brought flowers here all the time when he was alive and made provision in his will for someone to continue.’ She peered at her. ‘I gather they were long-time friends and had been to school together. I only come once a year. But I feel it was important to him if he wanted someone to be tending the grave even after he couldn’t do it.’
