The Path to the Sea

by Liz Fenwick

  ‘They were friends.’ As Diana said those words, an image flashed in her head.

  ‘I’ve never seen anyone here before – not that I’ve been here loads.’

  ‘No, I shouldn’t think my father has many visitors.’ She sighed. She should have come but even now a kind of fury filled her.

  Hannah looked at her closely. ‘I don’t visit my own father’s grave.’ She paused. ‘It hurts too much and to be honest I’m still angry with him.’ She shrugged. ‘But every time I’m home in Cornwall I spend a lot of time at Old Tom’s grave.’

  Diana frowned.

  ‘I know it’s weird, but I find peace or maybe as he would have said, solace from it.’

  ‘You loved him.’

  She nodded. ‘He loved me and taught me that love is worth having. And importantly you show your love by what you do.’ She laughed. ‘If anyone else had tried to teach me that I would have sworn at them then stormed off – in fact I did do just that many times.’

  ‘Thank you for the flowers.’

  ‘A pleasure.’ She took a breath. ‘I feel connected to Old Tom when I do this.’ She held out her hand. ‘It’s been lovely to meet you.’

  Diana took her hand and held it for a moment. ‘Good luck with your new job.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she said as she set off then turned and walked back. Out of her bag she pulled out a silver cigarette case.

  Diana’s breath caught. She hadn’t seen one since she was a child. Opening it, Hannah pulled out a card. Diana smiled and noted that the case was engraved on the inside with one word: Always. ‘That’s beautiful and it makes good use of something that has gone out of fashion.’

  Hannah grinned. ‘Yes, it was Old Tom’s and I keep it with me.’ She stroked it. ‘Even though he smoked a pipe when I knew him, this was in his pocket.’ She handed Diana the card. ‘If you want to reach me about the flowers . . . for any reason.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Diana watched her go then went to the gravestone. Picking up the bouquet, she breathed in the scent of the lilies and the roses. Her tears pooled on the petals. Someone had loved her father.

  46

  Lottie

  4 August 2018, 4.30 p.m.

  Shoebox by shoebox, Lottie began going through Gran’s things. Black silk court shoes, flat ballet pumps with a ribbon bow, penny loafers, white sandals. All immaculate. But no more hidden photographs, lost letters or dinner party diaries. Aside from some truly beautiful shoes, there was nothing of interest. Lottie slipped on the silk court shoes. They fitted her perfectly. No doubt the gown they had been worn with was hanging protected in a garment bag. Had she waltzed in a Moscow ballroom under crystal chandeliers, whispering about diplomatic scandals?

  She stood and began going through the garment bags. There would be nothing here that would tell her what Gran had done, or more importantly why she had killed someone – or who. However as she ran her hand over the fabrics, Lottie sensed her. Looking over her shoulder she expected to find Gran there with a quick smile on her face and questions at the ready. What would she be saying to Lottie right now as she held an evening gown of sea-coloured aqua silk? The tailoring was immaculate with darts on the bodice and fine stitching around the neckline. The colour would have set off her dark hair. Had she swept her hair up or left it down the last time she wore it? Turning, Lottie was about to ask her when it hit her that it was unlikely that her grandmother would utter another word. She looked up the hallway towards the bedroom and swallowed down the taste of loss.

  Checking the clothing bags, she had some sense of her grandmother’s life, elegant and glamorous from the Chanel suits to the silk gowns, but these were not the details she was looking for. The hatboxes yielded nothing more. They were pillbox style and so typical of how she pictured the early Sixties.

  Strangely defeated by the process, Lottie went downstairs. Her foot still ached and she needed to take more paracetamol. She longed to see all the photographs that her mother had found. There had to be more information somewhere about Allan’s death. The internet would be the best place to begin, after she had put together the ingredients for soup. The dinner party notebook wouldn’t be any help for such a basic vegetable creation, but this soup was one she had learned at her grandmother’s hip. The image of her cutting carrots from the garden didn’t fit with the gowns upstairs nor her words in the bedroom.

  Once the soup was cooking, Lottie went into the office. It took minutes for the ancient desktop PC to come to life. She typed ‘Allan Trewin’ into Google. A short Wikipedia entry on him was the first listing. It stated his education – Eton and Oxford – RAF flight lieutenant, and his diplomatic service, last post: political attaché in Moscow. Scrolling down the page there was one sentence regarding his accidental death on 5 August 1962.

  In the citations at the bottom, she clicked on the link to the newspaper article reporting his death. It was sparse on detail as well. A fisherman discovered the body on the beach at the base of the cliffs. At the inquest the corner had declared it a tragic accident. There was a picture of him looking very . . . debonair. Funny word that, but it described him perfectly. She touched the screen tracing the outline of his face. Her mother looked like him, but it was the angle of his head that most reminded Lottie of her.

  All in all, it told her very little. Further searching brought up an obituary in The Times which included a very glamorous photo of Gran with him. They were the model golden couple. But despite more family history it shed no further light. She shut the computer down. She needed to check on Gramps and Gran.

  He wasn’t with Gran in the bedroom, but the nurse was there. Lottie found him asleep in the snug.

  ‘Gramps?’ She whispered. His eyelids fluttered. ‘Thought you might like to eat a little something.’

  His eyes opened, and he stared at her blankly then shook his head. He pushed himself up. ‘I just needed a little nap. I’ll head upstairs now.’

  ‘The nurse is there.’

  He nodded. ‘I don’t think she will wake again. It’s just a matter of time.’ He held out his hand. ‘I must let her go.’

  ‘Oh Gramps.’

  ‘We’ve had a good life. I’m not complaining.’

  Her heart broke as she watched him walk away. What would he say if he had heard what she’d said? Collapsing into a chair at the kitchen table, she knew these thoughts were wasted. It didn’t matter. Maybe she should forget what Gran said. Following it up would only lead to pain. She knew that, even an idiot would. But then she was good at doing idiotic things.

  But Gran hadn’t said she’d told a lie or stolen some jewels. No, she’d confessed that she had killed someone. That she’d had no choice. Maybe she had been delusional, but Lottie couldn’t convince herself of that. Her eyes had been clear and focused. Gran had known exactly what she had said. She hadn’t wanted to say it. It had come unwillingly. It came with the desire for forgiveness. But Lottie might be reading more into it than she should. Maybe it all meant nothing? Gran was in pain.

  Her mother’s cheeks were red and blotchy as she entered the kitchen. She didn’t do tears. Never. Her mother faced the most horrendous things and never cried.

  She stopped by the table. ‘George killed him.’

  ‘What? Who?’ Lottie jumped up as her mother blew her nose.

  ‘It makes sense.’ She focused on Lottie.

  ‘You don’t make any.’ Lottie spoke with a calmness she didn’t feel. She hated this sensation. Everything felt like her fault. She shook it off. Her mother was struggling with grief like Lottie was.

  She looked at her, puzzled. ‘George killed my father.’

  ‘Mum . . .’

  ‘I’m serious. He was here but denies it, yet there is proof in the notebook and the police reports.’

  ‘It only proves that a George Russell was here.’ Lottie took a step towards her wanting to help somehow. Gramps couldn’t have and wouldn’t have killed Allan Trewin.

  ‘I don’t believe in coincidences. It was him.’ She pulled out
her phone.

  ‘Did you ask Gran?’

  ‘No. I didn’t have the chance, she fell asleep.’ She rocked from one foot to another. ‘She wanted forgiveness. She kept asking for it.’ Her mother ground the words out.

  ‘Did you give it?’ Lottie walked closer, taking in the wild look in her mother’s eyes. Where was the tight control of the past? Her mother nodded. That was a relief.

  Lottie’s phone rang. It was the private investigator. ‘I need to take this.’ She walked out into the courtyard.

  ‘Hello,’ she said.

  ‘Lottie?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s Jamie Sharp. Sorry to disturb you with your grandmother being so ill, but I just wanted to touch base.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Lottie looked around. ‘I don’t suppose Paul’s ex had any idea where he is?’

  ‘Yes, she did. He’s in Thailand.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She postponed our meeting but confirmed that’s where he was.’

  ‘Great.’ Lottie rolled her eyes.

  ‘I’ll be in touch when I have more news.’

  ‘Thanks.’ The phone clicked. She was trapped in a mess of her own making.

  47

  Diana

  4 August 1962, 4.35 p.m.

  Diana drank the milk down in one gulp. Sailing back had been fun but the rest of the day had been boring. Someone had been ill. Daddy became cross and Mrs Venn fussed over Diana’s skin again. She also kept trying to read Diana’s diary, and when Diana had gone to help fix a sail she’d come back to find Mrs Venn doing just that. It just wasn’t right, and she’d told Mrs Venn it was private. The woman had laughed. Every time Mrs Venn had turned her back, Diana had stuck her tongue out. Daddy had seen her and they had had words. It wasn’t right that the woman was trying to read her diary. It was private.

  Mrs Hoskine handed Diana a scone with jam and clotted cream. ‘Are you all right?’

  She nodded. ‘Thank you.’ She tucked her diary under her on the chair. She would be very careful with it. At the end of the kitchen table was the camera that she’d been given. She didn’t want it. She didn’t want anything from the Venns.

  Uncle Tom walked into the kitchen. He smiled and Diana felt better. ‘New?’ He held up the camera.

  She nodded.

  ‘From the United States?’

  ‘I think so. Mr Venn gave it to me.’

  ‘Did he?’ He raised an eyebrow then he studied the camera. ‘Did they give you film for it?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Hmmm.’ He put it back down the on the table. ‘I suppose you could use it to take some photographs of the party for your father.’

  She grinned. ‘I could make a book for Daddy.’

  ‘You could.’ Uncle Tom pinched a scone that Mrs Hoskine had just unpacked. ‘May I?’ He said, and she smiled at him. Everyone liked Uncle Tom. He walked out into the courtyard with his scone.

  She pulled out her diary and looked at what she had written.

  Dear Diary,

  I am sitting at the front of the boat as I write this. This is the best day we have had, and I’m bored. There is the smell of sick coming up from below and it makes me feel ill. Adults are strange. The sailing was fun, but Mrs Hesketh got seasick, and everyone thought it was funny and spoke about the wine. She looked too white, but no one took much notice of her and the smell was disgusting.

  She pulled the pencil from her bag then took another bite of scone. The jam and the clotted cream stuck to her lips. Mrs Hoskine laughed when she looked at her. ‘I don’t know where you put all the food, but you have grown since you arrived.’

  ‘Have I?’ Diana sat straighter then began to write but stopped. Out of the window Uncle Tom talked to a man she didn’t know. Uncle Tom looked unhappy. She hoped she was wrong, but she felt sad just looking at him.

  48

  Lottie

  4 August 2018, 4.45 p.m.

  The beach was huge with the tide almost fully out. Kids were crabbing in the pools between the rocks to her right. Lottie walked along the firm sand keeping her flip flops on. Her foot felt almost normal. Around her some families were beginning to call it a day, packing up their things. She looked down at a piece of seaweed. It was rippled and in the ripples were drops of water and her fingers twitched. She wanted a pencil and paper to sketch the design. She pictured silver and gold bent and twisted to look like the seaweed and gems acting as the water drops.

  She sighed. It was good to know the desire was still there. After the debacle with the theft, she couldn’t work. It wasn’t just that her raw materials were gone but when Paul stole it all, he took the desire with it. She had collapsed. Everything that saw beauty in the world had left her.

  Now was not the time to think about that, she had other concerns. She looked up to the watchtower. Gran. Allan Trewin. Mum. Her hand went to her mouth. No wonder Gran had been so quiet ten years ago when Lottie’s world had broken wide open.

  ‘It’s history.’ Alex said, and she jumped.

  He held two ice creams and handed one to her. ‘I thought you could use some bolstering.’

  She laughed and took it. ‘Thanks.’ They walked to the wall together and sat. Lottie stared out to the point thinking about John.

  ‘It’s best to leave things in the past.’

  ‘Easier said than done.’ She licked the ice cream around the cone before biting the flake. ‘If I hadn’t been a needy idiot all those years ago, John would be alive.’

  ‘No, you can’t think that way.’

  ‘But I led him on and he followed me.’ Seagulls darted out from their nests along the cliff.

  ‘Because I was a dick.’ He stared at a dinghy coming in to the beach.

  ‘No you weren’t.’ She bit the ice cream and regretted it. Her teeth ached.

  ‘I was. I was so afraid of losing you.’ He shook his head. ‘So I pushed you away.’

  ‘No, it was me. I was so insecure.’ Her ice cream dripped, and she licked her hand attempting to clean up. ‘I was trying . . .’

  He placed a hand on hers. ‘Lottie, I know you. You were, and I think still are, trying to do the right thing, to please everyone.’ He looked at her. ‘I was jealous as hell.’

  She frowned.

  ‘Yes, they had it all – especially John.’ He finished his ice cream. ‘I hate what happened, but by the time that dinner had ended I had heard enough of his success at rugby, the cars, the holidays and the way he was looking at you.’ He picked up her hand. ‘I was so envious . . . so jealous and I’m not proud of the role I played in what happened.’

  ‘It wasn’t your fault and for the record you had no reason to be jealous.’ She took a deep breath. ‘There was only ever you.’ She dropped her eyes, rushing on, ‘I’m responsible from start to finish. I said they could come and stay before the festival. I wanted to be liked by the in-crowd.’

  ‘Everyone makes mistakes.’

  ‘Yeah, they do, but not so big nor so deadly. If I hadn’t flirted, John wouldn’t have followed me and . . .’

  ‘Stop. You didn’t push him over the cliff. He was drunk, and he stumbled.’

  A cormorant landed on a rock at the end of the point. He spread out his wings to dry them. ‘I pushed him off me and left him. He didn’t know the headland.’

  Her hand shook, and her ice cream dripped on to her wrist. She tried to lick it off but ended up with ice cream on her nose.

  ‘Lottie, look at me.’

  She stared at the sea. It was all her fault. He placed a finger under her chin and turned her head. ‘It wasn’t your fault. You don’t have to carry this.’

  She blinked. He wiped the ice cream off the tip of her nose with his thumb. ‘Sorry I don’t have a napkin.’

  She smiled, and a tear fell down her face.

  He dropped his hand. ‘It was a terrible tragedy but not your fault.’

  ‘You really think that?’

  He nodded. ‘And I think that might be what your grandmother
meant.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘You’ve blamed yourself for the past ten years. I can tell you, hand on heart, John’s death wasn’t your fault.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘Your grandfather fell from that cliff many years ago. Who knows, they may have had a fight and he stormed off with a bottle of brandy and got stinking drunk then missed his footing when he went to come home.’

  She opened her eyes wide. ‘You think that’s what happened?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘But she said she had no choice.’

  ‘Who knows what he’d done? Maybe he’d kissed another woman in front of your mother. Any number of things – but she has held onto to it all this time and blamed herself like you have.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Are you going to just let that melt?’ He pointed to her ice cream.

  ‘No.’ Lottie smiled. ‘Thanks.’ He stood and offered her a hand. She took it and finished the rest of her ice cream as they walked back to the house.

  49

  Joan

  5 August 1962, 5.10 p.m.

  Afternoon light falls through the window, hitting the wooden floor and picking out the colours in the carpet. This one is from Turkmenistan. The intricate pattern tells a story in repeat. A bit like my life. The fear that tightens my chest at the moment is not the first time it has happened. It was Cairo. My nostrils flare as I force myself to breathe. This morning’s actions are a cover. He doesn’t want me – or if he does, it is in addition to, not as the main course.

  I pace the hallway. I can do this. He loves me. He loves Diana. Breathe. My father loved my mother despite his mistresses. He said he had, and he had been devasted by her death. It will be fine. When I was pregnant with Diana, Allan roamed. We recovered. I forgave him for his weakness. I close my eyes and let my love fill me.

  Guests are in their rooms preparing and here I am wasting time. The hall clock chimes the quarter hour. Everything is ready except for me. The ground floor is empty with only Mrs Hoskine in the kitchen. I climb the stairs slowly, listening to the sound of the radio in Diana’s room. From the vibrations of the floorboards I know she is dancing. A smile spreads across my face and I tap on her door before putting my head around it. She jumps, holding her hand out and I join her swaying to the sound of Bobby Darin singing ‘Things’.