by Liz Fenwick
I am still humming the song when I walk into my bedroom. Allan stands in a towel and I catch my breath. A slow smile spreads across his face.
‘Hello darling.’ He drops his towel and walks toward me. ‘There’s no reason to wait until later.’
The lines from the song run through my mind . . . the things we used to do.
‘This is superb timing.’ He releases my belt while kissing my neck. Timing. We don’t have time, but I don’t care. It has been too long to wait another moment. This is exactly what I need.
50
Diana
4 August 2018, 5.15 p.m.
Diana sat on the bed rocking back and forth clutching Ben, the bear, and the Guernsey. The ancient motion of soothing she’d seen the world over as mothers who had nothing left to give rocked to try and provide solace. Not sure what to feel but feeling it anyway, her fingers worried Ben’s ears and she recalled sitting on a bed reading to him with a call to prayer in the background. She must have been very young, but now the memory was sharp and it cut, leaving a gash and allowing tears to find their exit.
For years she’d tried so hard to remember and when nothing appeared, she’d convinced herself it was unimportant. She didn’t need her past, her mother, or Boskenna – but at this moment she wanted her mother in a way that ripped through her.
Taking Ben, Diana walked down the hall seeing the peeling paint. She stopped, seeking a map that wasn’t there. She touched the wall looking for evidence that the old map of Cornwall wasn’t purely from her imagination. Opening another bedroom door along the hall to allow the early evening light to flood in, she ran her free hand over the wall. There was an empty nail hole. A vision flashed. She saw the map and she’d held her father’s hand. Closing her eyes, she prayed this was true, not a creation of her imagination because she’d seen the old snapshots. But there had been no picture taken in this hallway. Last night she had gone through each and every photograph trying to create a past from them. But it hadn’t worked for she didn’t have the stories that went with them.
Walking to her mother’s room, Diana longed for the stories but her mother lay on the bed, eyes closed, barely breathing. She stared. With the life force leaving her, the body only vaguely resembled the woman Diana had known. Her eyebrows were so like Lottie’s but other than that, her daughter’s appearance reflected her father’s genes. This had made her striking, but every time Diana looked at her daughter, she saw the man who held her captive in so many ways. That wasn’t Lottie’s fault, but Diana blamed her anyway.
She sat beside her mother and picked up her waxy hand. The fingers were elegant. A platinum wedding band encircled her ring finger. Would George remove it? Would she be buried or cremated? A funny thing to think about but she was sitting here facing her mother’s death and Diana didn’t know what her wishes were, and she should. Today her mother had said she was sorry and that had to be enough. It must be, but it wasn’t. It was unfinished and yet looking at her, Diana accepted the time for words had gone. She was surprised she was still alive. In fact, she would say she wasn’t. It felt as if her soul had left. Was her mother dancing with her father now?
In front of Diana the ghost of an image hovered. It was of her young self sitting on the bed in this room watching her mother dress. She could almost touch it. The hint of her perfume, Chanel No. 5, and hairspray filled her nose. Her mother was putting on earrings. They were diamonds and pearls. She had jewels, many of them. Diana had played with them and they had laughed together. Looking at her now she wanted to tell her she had remembered something good, but the words died on her lips.
Where were her jewels? Diana hadn’t seen them in years. Had she sold them? Lottie would have loved them. Her fingers twitched, and the bald fabric on Ben’s ears scratched her skin. Diamonds and bright colours. She looked at her mother. She hadn’t really known her at all and now she never would. She was an orphan before she’d enjoyed being a daughter.
51
Lottie
4 August 2018, 6.00 p.m.
Lottie’s shoulders slumped. Her mother was tricky at the best of times, but right now she was a nightmare, thinking that Gramps had killed Allan. Lottie needed to know the truth. With the diary out again, she reread the last page. Why would her mother think it was her fault and why had Gran said she had killed him? She didn’t believe either of them. There was one person who might be able to help – Mrs Hoskine.
It was a short walk to the cottage where she lived and as she passed the church, she glanced towards Allan Trewin’s grave. New flowers had replaced the previous ones. Maybe it was her mother this time. A crow swept down from a tree with a deep mournful cry. Soon Gran would be joining him. She paused. She’d made that assumption, but she hadn’t checked it with Gramps. He might want something different. Gran might have told him what she wanted. There were so many questions she was afraid to ask.
As she left, Alex had been sitting with Gramps watching Gran. Death watch. She should be there too, but restless energy filled her. Walking on, she listened to the rooks in the trees above. What was it about this time of day? They lined up on rooftops, trees and telephone wires . . . watching and chatting. What had they seen? What could they tell her of the past?
Lottie looked back over her shoulder. The bay glistened and Gribben Head was golden in the evening sun. Her grandfather had fallen to his death on this weekend fifty-eight years ago. Her mother was just eight. Her grandmother was glamorous and by the evidence in her notebook an accomplished hostess . . . and by her admission a murderer. What Alex had said made sense but seeing her mother’s words in the diary had put doubt in her mind. She clearly felt she was at fault, just as her grandmother did. What could an eight-year-old child have done to even think that? Lottie just couldn’t imagine. Was that why her mother’s memories were so sketchy?
She reached Mrs Hoskine’s bungalow. The front door was open, and she could see her in the kitchen.
Lottie knocked on the door frame and called, ‘Hello.’
‘Who’s there?’ Mrs Hoskine turned, wiping her hand on her apron, bringing with her the scent of freshly baked scones as she walked down the short hallway.
‘It’s Lottie Trewin.’ She smiled.
‘Ah, Lottie,’ she said, steering Lottie towards the kitchen. ‘I thought you might come visiting.’
‘You did?’
She nodded. ‘Tea?’
‘Yes, thanks.’ Lottie followed her into the kitchen, remembering the warm and welcoming space with the old Cornish range. The sunlight streamed in through the back door which looked out on to a well-stocked garden. Nothing had changed. As Mrs Hoskine put the kettle on, Lottie noticed the photos tucked among the plates, cups and jugs on the old pine dresser. Lottie frowned as among the pictures of Alex growing up there was one of him in a naval uniform. How had she not heard he’d been in the Navy? There was also one of Alex and Lottie together, looking suntanned and relaxed and so young. It had been taken the weekend before everything had gone wrong.
‘Sadly the scones are too hot to eat but I have a sponge.’
‘I had an ice cream not long ago.’
‘You always had room for cake.’
‘Can’t lie.’ Lottie grinned. ‘I do always have room, especially for yours. What can I do?’
‘Grab the milk and some cups and take them out to the table by the rose arch.’
In the garden Lottie caught the scent of sweet peas and watched the bees loving the agapanthus. She put the things down and dashed to take the tray from Mrs Hoskine’s hands.
‘Thank you, dear.’ She sat in the old iron chair. It had had a new coat of paint since Lottie had last visited the garden years ago. Back then it was blue and flaking. Now it was black and shiny. ‘What do you want to ask my lovely?’
Lottie sighed. ‘Tell me about my grandfather’s death, please.’
‘It was terrible.’ She poured the tea. ‘Jacob, the fisherman, found the body and your poor grandmother was with Tom Martin looking for him, as were
my Pete and your mother. They came to the beach and they found him. My Pete told me he and Diana were laughing as they walked the path to the beach not expecting anything untoward and then the poor mite saw him.’ She shook her head. ‘She went all quiet.’
‘No.’ Lottie shook.
Mrs Hoskine nodded her head with a sad expression on her face.
No wonder her mother didn’t remember, but why would she think it was her fault?
‘The whole affair was all a bit odd, if you ask me.’ Mrs Hoskine took a sip of tea. ‘Your grandmother came downstairs that morning looking for him and he wasn’t in the house. We all assumed he’d fallen asleep somewhere.’
‘Really?’
‘Well, it had been his birthday party and there was a great deal of alcohol consumed, judging by the empty bottles the following morning.’
‘His birthday?’ She had forgotten that.
‘Yes, they made sure they were at Boskenna for his birthday every year.’ She poured more tea. ‘Your grandmother threw the most elaborate parties for him and the house was filled with friends.’
She took a sip of tea. Gramps. Lottie had to ask about him for her mother, but maybe she had asked already. ‘Do you recall all the guests that were here then?’
‘That weekend is still so clear to me, unlike yesterday.’ She shook her head as she added a drop of milk to her tea.
‘I found Gran’s hostess notebook.’
‘Ah, yes, her bible of entertaining.’ She pulled the cake closer and picked up a knife. ‘She was religious about it.’
‘It has George Russell down as a guest.’
The knife stopped halfway through the cake as if it had hit stone. Mrs Hoskine’s hand fell away. ‘I . . .’ She blinked then rubbed her eyes. ‘I . . . yes, I think he was.’
‘Are you sure?’
She nodded. ‘He was younger and fitter and didn’t stay long.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Once he was interviewed on the Sunday he left. Some of their friends stayed on until the Monday.’ She resumed cutting the cake.
‘You’re sure it was him?’
‘Thinking about it now, yes. He hadn’t been before. He was in the attic bedroom.’
Lottie nodded and took the slice of sponge Mrs Hoskine held out to her.
‘It’s all coming back to me now. He arrived in the early afternoon on Saturday.’ She cut herself a slice. ‘From Penzance, I think. Something about a relative.’ She took a forkful of cake. ‘Yes, that explains why he always looked a bit familiar, but I could never place why.’
‘Oh.’ So, Gramps had lied. He wouldn’t have forgotten being here when Allan died. He and Gran must have decided that it would have upset her mother. That made sense.
‘It was all so awful.’ Mrs Hoskine stared off into the distance. ‘Everything changed.’
Lottie frowned. ‘How exactly?’
‘Well, renting out the house. Your mother going from the happiest little mite to the quietest and then your grandmother going back to work.’
‘What did Gran do at the time?’
‘She’d always had a knack for languages, so she went back to work for the Foreign Office.’ She sipped her tea. ‘I’d secretly hoped that she would find her way to Tom Martin.’
‘Oh.’ Lottie remembered the pictures Gran had showed her.
‘Tom Martin was a great friend to both your grandmother and to Mr Trewin. Lovely man. Never married.’ She smoothed down her skirt. ‘I always thought your grandmother and he would make a good match.’
‘Oh.’ Lottie put her fork down. ‘Is Mr Martin still around?’
‘Oh no, dear. He passed away a good few years ago. I went down to the funeral in St Martin church in the Meneage. Such a lovely man. Mr Trewin’s death shook him up badly.’
‘How did my grandmother react?”
‘Bless her, she kept her head, kept cool. Kept everything moving, handling everything. I thought she would crack but it’s not the way she was brought up. Poor thing hadn’t seen much of her parents. Those two were colder than fish in winter. Never once showed any warmth to her. But she wasn’t like that with Diana . . .’ she trailed off and picked up her cup.
‘But Mum and Gran don’t have a very good relationship.’
‘I know. I saw that when you were born. Made no sense but I hadn’t seen them in the years in between.’
‘Hello.’ Alex’s voice carried across the parched lawn. He stood in the kitchen doorway. ‘Shall I bring some more hot water?’
‘Yes.’ Mrs Hoskine beamed, watching him head back into the kitchen and Lottie wrenched her thoughts away from how the sunlight had caught the highlights in his hair.
‘He’s a good lad.’
‘Why isn’t he staying here with you?’ Lottie took a bite of the cake.
‘I can’t be doing with anyone under my feet, even my own grandson.’ She chuckled. ‘I’m just surprised no one has scooped him up yet.’ Her glance narrowed as she looked at her. ‘He was mighty keen on you once.’
Lottie swallowed. ‘It was mutual, but a long time ago.’
‘Time means nothing to love.’ She gave her a hard stare.
Alex strode up the garden with the kettle and cup. After topping up the teapot with hot water, Alex wedged himself beside her on the bench, making sure all Lottie could think about was his proximity.
52
Joan
4 August 1962, 6.10 p.m.
My skin smells of Allan’s aftershave and I haven’t time to take a bath. Adding my own scent would make me smell like a bordello. What the hell is happening? I yank my gown over my head. No sex for months then a delicious quickie. It is like we have started over. We need to. The stress of our life outside is eating into family life. Allan is always travelling and has so little time for Diana. She needs him. I know exactly what having a distant father does to a daughter.
I wriggle in order to get my zip up. Teasing the front of my hair to achieve a lift, I sweep my hair into a French twist, securing it with a few pins and a diamond clip that had been my mother’s. I look like her, but act nothing like her. She had been typical of women of her day. Well-read but under educated. Like the clip that adorned my hair, she adorned my father’s arm until her end. No, I am not like her at all. In fact, I am more my father, wily and evasive. He gave nothing away, not even love.
In the bottom of the wardrobe, I pull out my jewel case and run my fingers over the pearls, but my fingers settle on the diamond necklace that Allan had given me for the birth of Diana. He’d never expected to become a father and his delight had surprised us both. It was never meant to happen, Allan and me. We were both letting our hair down. A tense operation finished. We were alive and before we knew it, we were making love. The following morning, we had laughed while smoking in bed listening to the muezzin recite the adhan. We would say no more about it. These things happen and all that.
A month later a decision had to be made. But due to work I could not travel. Rage ensued. This was not the plan. Allan and I married, sealing my fate and providing me with a different cover. Diana arrived not quite eight months later. She changed me in ways I’d never expected. Love was one of them.
The diamonds catch the light as I lift the necklace and place it around my neck. It is Cartier. Memories. When Allan had presented it to me, I recalled wearing it and nothing else. Looking at myself now, that carefree abandon feels very far away from here.
It is funny how the evenings are drawing in already or is that just my imagination? When we go back to Moscow next week, I will feel the winter even though autumn is weeks away. As I clip my earrings on, the glint of yellow gold reminds me of the churches with glistening domes. What had Diana called them? Castles of gold. That was two years ago. Diana had been six. Time is flying.
Glancing in the mirror, I adjust my bra strap before pulling on my gloves. The sound of our guests gathering on the lawn below my bedroom window mixes with the music coming from Diana’s room. It was Elvis Presley now. Diana
was singing at full volume and no doubt my guests are enjoying her rendition of ‘Good Luck Charm’.
The quartet isn’t due to begin playing until after dinner. Last year we were still dancing as dawn broke behind Gribben Head. Instead of sensibly heading to bed, ten of us went swimming and Mrs Hoskine had provided breakfast and Bloody Marys on the beach.
It will be a wonderful party tonight and I will enjoy being in Allan’s arms again later on. His laughter carries above the hum of conversation below. He is in his element. How he loves to be at the centre of everything.
A final check of my appearance in the mirror and I see I’ve forgotten my lipstick. Slipping off my glove, I take care applying the pale pink. It shows off my tanned skin as does the wonderful watery aqua silk of the dress. Outside, the Venns’ voices rise above the rest of the guests. No, that isn’t quite right. They aren’t actually louder, but their accent stands out. I pull my bedroom door to, noting the sun catching the sailing boats in the bay. It is a glorious evening for a bank holiday weekend and I will enjoy all of it. I am determined, and I head down to greet my guests.
‘There you are.’ Tom smiles.
I turn at the bottom of the staircase to see him.
‘Looking breathtaking as always.’
I kiss his cheek and put my arm through his. ‘Has no one given you a drink?’
‘Pacing myself.’
‘Hmmm. You are off-duty now.’ I whisper, arching an eyebrow as we walk through the drawing room out to the lawn.
‘One never knows.’ He gives my arm a squeeze and I wonder if I am ever able to let my hair down, to be Joan Trewin. I don’t know quite who she is or how I feel about her at the moment.
