The Path to the Sea

by Liz Fenwick

  ‘Then I don’t think he would have landed where he did.’

  ‘Oh, but that doesn’t mean he was murdered, does it?’ Her grandmother’s words echoed in her mind as she turned around. Alex was pacing in front of Gramps outside now.

  ‘There were other footprints there.’ He coughed.

  ‘I’m sure it was a popular place.’ She looked at the framed pictures of her as a child on the desk.

  ‘Yes and no . . .’

  She took a deep breath.

  ‘But that wasn’t what I remembered.’

  She frowned, looking at the shelves lining the north wall. So many books on camellias and gardening in general. ‘What was it?’

  ‘Jacob, the fisherman, said Mr Trewin was clutching a silk bow in his hands when he found him.’

  ‘A tie?’

  ‘No, like it came off a woman’s dress.’

  She went cold. ‘What colour?’

  ‘Like the blue of the sea on a perfect summer’s day.’

  ‘That’s rather poetic,’ She said, thinking of the beautiful aqua silk dress she’d seen in the closet.

  ‘Well, that’s how Jacob described it.’

  ‘What happened to it?’

  ‘It had disappeared by the time the body was taken from the beach.’

  Lottie let that sink in and didn’t like where her thoughts were heading. ‘Was it ever found?’

  ‘No and they had to dismiss it because Jacob couldn’t be certain.’ He coughed again. ‘Now tell your mother what I remembered.’

  ‘I will, but just one more question if you don’t mind?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Was my mother interviewed?’ She ran her fingers over the battered leather on the desk top.

  ‘Yes, yes she was. She was very distressed, poor thing.’

  ‘Understandable. Thank you, Mr Treneer.’

  She put the phone down then headed outside to Gramps and Alex. As she approached, they stopped talking. She slowed her steps waiting for them to resume but they didn’t. ‘Where’s Mum gone?’

  ‘She wanted a walk.’

  ‘Really?’ The sky was dark, and a few stars shone above.

  ‘We were thinking of a cognac,’ Alex stood.

  ‘Gran loved it.’ Lottie sat next to her grandfather.

  ‘Yes.’ Gramps half smiled.

  ‘It doesn’t feel real that we’re losing her.’ She took his hand in hers.

  ‘I wish it wasn’t happening.’ His voice wavered. ‘I always thought I would go first.’

  ‘I’ll grab some glasses and the bottle.’ Alex said as he went towards the house.

  ‘Gramps?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Gran said something . . . odd today.’

  He took a deep breath and his chest wheezed. ‘My darling girl, she isn’t very well, I don’t think we can rely on her words any more.’

  ‘I know but it was troubling her.’

  He looked out to the sea. The half-moon hung low in the sky and nearby an owl called.

  ‘Gramps, she said she . . .’

  Alex returned. He placed the glasses and the bottle down on the teak side-table.

  Gramps reached out and squeezed her hand. He whispered, ‘Whatever she said, it doesn’t matter.’

  Alex handed her a glass and she inhaled the sweet yet burning scent as he sat down beside her. Gramps’ hand shook has he held his glass aloft and looked to the bedroom window. The silhouette of the nurse moved about the room.

  Lottie sighed, and Alex placed an arm around her shoulder. She leaned into him for a moment.

  ‘Thank you both for your help.’ Gramps took a sip.

  Alex nodded and raised his glass. ‘Thank you for believing in me.’

  Lottie welled up and snuffled. This was all too much, and she searched the darkness looking for her mother. It would have been good to have her here with them.

  61

  Joan

  4 August 1962, 10.15 p.m.

  After cheese and port, I am surprised that any of us can move but the musicians are playing in the smoking room. A glance down at my stomach confirms my fears are unfounded. It isn’t bulging. There is no sign of over-indulgence on show. I noticed the vicar’s wife discretely burping into her napkin as she places it on the table. Allan walks past me, running his fingers along my upper arm. I shiver, watching him head out of the opened French windows into the garden, picking up a box of cigars. Several of the men of the party follow immediately, but I head to my bedroom to replace my gloves. I have another pair and if I rinse these now the stain will come out, but if I leave it until the morning, its shadow mark will be there always, ruining them. Then they would only be fit for Diana’s dressing up box.

  The light in the bathroom colours my skin sallow. Where has the healthy glow from the sun and the sea gone? Dark circles are highlighted, and I look older than my thirty years. Sighing, I turn the cold tap on, wet my glove and rub a bit of soap on the spot. Despite my diligent work, the stain doesn’t want to lift. I shut the tap off and wring the gloves out. It will require bleach.

  Locating the second pair, I bring the soiled ones downstairs via the far stairway. If I leave them by the sink in the kitchen, I will remember to deal with them tomorrow. Muffled footsteps sound on the path outside by the woodshed. I glance up to see someone in a pair of black trousers walking away. Dropping the gloves, I head to the back door and slip off my shoes. A squeak comes from the larder behind me. Diana is standing rigid, pressed against the counter. I put my finger to my lips, she nods, and I point up. She races off. Only then do I head out the back door. Something isn’t right.

  The faint scent of cigar smoke fills the air. The grass is already damp with dew as I walk on the edge of the path. I’m not sure what I’m looking for. But it didn’t seem right that someone, or probably more than one person, had walked out of this door of the house. Most of my guests are standing on the lawn at the front or dancing in the smoking room.

  It is said that curiosity killed the cat and I have no intention of getting killed but I am questioning and unsettled. I know why Diana was in the larder. She had chocolate all over her face but why was her face ashen under the mess? I should have asked what she’d seen, but sound carries and that would have alerted whoever it was to our presence. And I knew in my gut that I didn’t want anyone to know that Diana had seen anything. As always, the fewer people who knew, the better.

  My eyes adjust to the darkness and the small amount of light from the young moon helps me to pick my way through the garden. The sound of the footsteps continues along the top path and I catch sight of two shadows close together. I hide behind a tree, grateful I’m not wearing white unlike the dinner jacket on the American. He is one of the men, for I am certain now it is two men.

  They turn and head to the gate that leads out onto the coastal path. I wait, listening but other than the scrape of the bolt on the gate, I hear nothing for they aren’t talking. My heartbeat sounds loud in my ears, vying with the waves reaching the beach below. Once the gate is closed, I dash and try to see which direction they went. This is not normal behaviour. If this American wants to talk business, there is no need to slope off out the back door. My mouth dries. Trust your instincts, I tell myself because as of today, there is no one else I can trust.

  On the footpath, I assume they would have turned to the beach. The sound of the sea would cover any voices. Yet as I pick my way down, I don’t see the white jacket, so I retrace my steps and make my way to the old watchtower, keeping myself hidden. From the sounds I can tell what is happening and my stomach turns. The outline of Beth Venn’s pale pink dress shimmers ten feet from me. She is watching, she must have been waiting here for them. A honey trap, but not as I’d expected it. I remain glued to the spot behind the trunk of a fir tree. Hoping that I am wrong, praying. But then I hear my husband’s voice as he climaxes. I sink to the ground covering my mouth. My stomach threatens to revolt while my mind puts everything together. His role is hardly a secret bu
t mine is. It has to stay that way.

  First Ralf Venn leaves and walks towards the beach. Then Allan goes through the gate to the garden. Beth is last. The moonlight catches the metal object in her hand. My heart falls further. I hear another set of footsteps behind me. I run before I am seen.

  62

  Diana

  4 August 1962, 10.20 p.m.

  Diana shook as she crept upstairs. The music was loud so no one would hear her, but she might be seen. Her right hand was covered in chocolate up to her wrist. When she had seen Daddy, she had leaned back and her hand went to the bottom of the glass dish. Even now her stomach turned as she reached the bathroom in the hallway. At the sink she ran the tap, trying to get the chocolate off her fingers.

  ‘I’ll be down in a minute,’ a woman’s voice said. Diana turned the tap off and grabbed the hand towel, wiping her fingers and her face. Chocolate covered the white surface. It looked awful. She held it tight as she raced back to her room before she could be found out.

  Closing her bedroom door, she leaned against it. Her heart beat so hard she could hardly breathe. Her head felt wrong, all swimmy. Tucking the hand towel into her dirty clothes pile, she tried to hide it. But the stained white kept peering out at her.

  She turned out her bedside light and walked to the window. Below, light from the rooms fell onto the garden. The noise was loud but the sound of her heart beat was louder still. What had she seen? Where was Mummy? What would she do? She rested her head on the glass and turned her dolls around. She didn’t want them to see what was outside.

  Daddy had kissed Mr Venn. Or maybe it happened the other way. Where had they gone? What would Mummy do? She didn’t know what to think but her tummy didn’t feel good. She crawled into bed and her head hit her diary.

  Pulling it out, she decided to report what had happened. Opening the pages, her fingers left marks. They showed her guilt. She shouldn’t have gone downstairs for more silverbelle. She’d been greedy. Gluttony was one of the seven deadly sins. Her stomach rolled like she was going to be sick. If she hadn’t been greedy then she wouldn’t have seen anything. Her head began to hurt. She was confused.

  Dear Diary,

  I’m sorry my fingers are leaving chocolate prints on the pages as I write. I was in the larder when I heard Daddy’s voice in the kitchen. He was talking to someone. Talking about being quiet. I leaned against the shelves because I knew I shouldn’t be up. The party was noisy and I couldn’t sleep and my tummy growled. Daddy and Mr Venn stood by the back door. Daddy looked around and even in the larder. I held my breath waiting to be scolded or maybe just told to go to bed.

  But he hadn’t seen me. He opened the door then he took the man’s hand. The man leaned forward and kissed Daddy. Daddy didn’t pull away but looked around again. It didn’t make sense. Daddy only kisses Mummy and me. He might kiss his godmother’s cheek but that is all.

  Diary, I pushed back further, sticking my hand in the silverbelle, trying to become invisible. I don’t know what was happening but I’m afraid. I feel sick in the tummy. Why was Daddy holding the American’s hand and letting him kiss him? What will Mummy do when she finds them? Diary, I’m scared.

  63

  Joan

  4 August 1962 10.40 p.m.

  I slip into Diana’s room and as I suspect she is reading under her blanket. I pray she hasn’t witnessed anything. She loves Allan. She is too young to understand. How can I explain?

  ‘Hello darling, are you all right?’

  I push her hair off her face and she looks so sad. I know then what she may have seen.

  ‘Tell me what’s wrong.’

  She crunches up her nose. ‘Nothing, Mummy.’

  I sit down on the side of her bed and she looks at the book in her hands, To Kill a Mockingbird.

  ‘How was the second or was it the third serving of the silverbelle?’

  She smiles but her eyes don’t. ‘It was yummy.’ She rubs her stomach.

  ‘Was it?’ I watch her swallow and her thinking is almost visible.

  ‘Well . . . my tummy hurts right now.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Mummy?’ She looks at me and her confusion is apparent.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why would Daddy hold Mr Venn’s hand?’ She frowns. ‘He’s not blind. He can walk without help.’

  I swallow. ‘Maybe he stumbled, darling.’

  My poor child has been here trying to make sense of it. But there is no sense in it. The most important thing is that she hasn’t told anyone. Maybe I can contain this.

  ‘But he didn’t, Mummy.’

  I took a deep breath. If Allan were here now, I would strangle him. But if he saw his beloved Diana right at this moment with her face ashen, her brow creased, and her rosebud mouth chewed I wouldn’t have to. He would kill himself. ‘I don’t know then, darling. Just don’t think about it. Put it from your mind and never tell anyone what you saw.’

  Her eyes are wide open. ‘You mean lie?’

  I take a deep breath. ‘You know how I ask you not to repeat things you might hear or see to anyone when we are in Moscow?’

  She nods.

  ‘This is the same.’

  ‘But Mummy what was Daddy doing?’ She gulps. ‘When they stepped outside, Mr Venn kissed Daddy.’

  ‘Darling, I’m sure they were whispering.’

  Her little face is serious, and I can see her replaying what she saw in her mind. She must forget it, or I must convince her she saw something else entirely. But first I need to know everything. ‘Did they see you?’

  ‘No.’ She shakes her head.

  That is something I can be grateful for at least. ‘Just forget all about it and I’ll talk to Daddy. There’s nothing for you to worry about. Try and get to sleep.’

  She nods. ‘Can I read a few more pages?’

  I kiss her cheek. ‘Yes, just five though.’

  She snuggles down into the bed and pulls the blanket up over her head. I stand, walk to the window and pull the curtains closed. Below, my guests are drinking, dancing and smoking. My husband stands clutching a cognac in his hands seemingly unaware of the damage he has done. I have only one thought and that is to talk to Tom. But today has taught me one thing. I am truly alone.

  64

  Joan

  4 August 1962, 11.30 p.m.

  Eddie Carew is playing the piano and George Russell sits on the fire fender, his foot tapping to the Cole Porter tune. I study his shoes. But as with anyone who has been in the garden, they are damp on the bottom and have bits of grass stuck to them. I don’t know why I feel he could have been out there too, but I do. His glance meets mine and I turn away.

  Tom is dancing with the vicar’s wife and I watch Allan pour another brandy. The Venns are nowhere in sight in the drawing room, the smoking room or on the lawn. However, the house is big and the garden bigger. I run through all I know about them and it’s not much. They are not a couple from the Midwest of America who like to swing, but something far more sinister.

  I leave the drawing room and stick my head into the small kitchen. It is spotless with things ready for breakfast tomorrow. The lights in the keeper’s cottage are off. Hopefully the Hoskines are sound asleep and haven’t witnessed any unusual activity. The dining room is deserted so I head again to the smoking room. Lord and Lady Fox are dancing and the Vicar is availing himself of the drinks tray. Stepping out through the French windows, I begin a head-count. Most of the guests are staying over but the Venns aren’t.

  ‘As always a fabulous celebration.’ Anthea yawns. ‘I’m going to call it a night.’ She kisses my cheek. ‘If you see my husband, tell him where to find me.’

  I chuckle. ‘Not expecting him to wander into someone else’s room, are you?’

  ‘Not after the quantity of wine and the other delights he’s consumed.’ She waves. ‘No one would want him. Believe me.’ She walks through the dining room and I lose sight of her. I know that Anthea’s husband, Rupert, has wandered in the past, and Anth
ea has as well. It doesn’t matter to them, and in my heart, I could dismiss Allan’s wandering if we were normal – but we aren’t normal.

  By the time I reach the drawing room via the garden I have a head-count of seventeen. No sign of the Venns. Allan is by the piano, singing. I take a deep breath, grab a glass and pour myself a single malt.

  ‘That sort of night?’ Tom asks as he walks up to me.

  ‘Yes.’

  He stares at me. ‘You look a bit peaky,’

  I smile. ‘The whisky will help.’

  ‘If you think so.’ He raises an eyebrow.

  I glance down at his shoes. Could he have been out there? Old habits die hard.

  ‘A good night’s sleep might be better.’ He looks pointedly at the generous measure I have poured.

  ‘Indeed, my friend, but you know I will not disappear until all my guests have.’

  ‘Not much hope of that for a while.’ He smiles.

  ‘Thus far I seem to be down three.’

  He scans the room. ‘Doing your sheepdog impression?’

  ‘Of course.’ I turn to him and kiss his cheek. ‘You haven’t seen the Venns, by any chance?’

  ‘As it happens, I noticed them setting off in their tender about twenty minutes ago.’

  ‘Hmm.’ I raise my glass to my lips. Their deed done, no need for the politeness of saying goodnight to your hostess.

  ‘Not a wise thing to do without running lights and knowledge of the waters.’

  ‘Somehow, I think they’ll make it.’ But in my heart, I wish them dead.

  ‘You don’t sound pleased.’

  I smile and move on. It would be so easy to confide in Tom but I mustn’t. Allan slips away from the piano and I walk across the room to see where he is heading. From the bottom of the stairs I watch him enter Diana’s room. I hope she’ll be asleep by now. But no matter what he may be or may have done he has always been brilliant at convincing her to close her eyes and dream.