by Liz Fenwick
‘It might not have been your grandmother’s. He could have picked it up because he’d found it on the ground.’ He ran a hand through his hair.
‘I found the dress last night and the fabric was ripped.’
She waited for a comeback but there was none.
71
Joan
5 August 1962, 6.15 a.m.
Sunlight burns directly in my eyes. I hadn’t closed the curtains last night nor had I made it to the bed. I am on the floor where I had cried myself to sleep. Everything hurts but nothing more than the empty feeling inside. I killed my husband. Looking in the long mirror, water stains mark the silk at the bottom of my dress. Slowly I let my glance rise, expecting to see something different in my face. But what looks back at me are large bloodshot eyes and dishevelled hair, the diamond clip at a perilous angle. The only thing sitting perfectly as it should is the damn necklace. I have looked this way before, having enjoyed a party too much. It feels wrong to even think that.
Pulling the clip from my hair, it tumbles down, and I wiggle until I can loosen the zip on my dress. The silk pools at my feet while the diamonds at my neck gleam in the morning light, damning me. I pull at them then stop. With shaky fingers I release the clasp, then store it with my mother’s clip and my earrings in the case. I place them in the space beneath the false bottom of the wardrobe.
Thinking about what I would normally do, I drape the dress over the chair. My nightgown is laid out on the bottom of the bed. I remove my undergarments and put it on. The silk is cold against my skin and I shiver. For some reason I think of Allan touching me, but then coldness fills me. I need to keep focused and cannot let my thoughts wander. Pain, regrets, grief are for later. Now is for shock, horror and surprise.
In a moment I need to raise the alarm. Not a big alarm. I will wander downstairs in my dressing gown looking for Allan, expecting to find him asleep on a chair in the drawing room. It will be light and humorous. I slap my hand to my mouth smothering a scream. Diana. My poor girl is fatherless now.
I tear away the bed clothes, trying to make it look like I have slept here. Laying down for a moment, I begin to toss and turn. My thoughts aren’t clear, but instincts kicks in, and I will make this look right. Today and the days that follow will be the performance of my life. No one must know the truth, most especially Diana.
The sound of scales being softly played rises from the room below. Damn Madame Roscova. My poor darling girl. I sit up and take a last look about the room, knowing the police will be all over it soon and Diana’s world will be broken. I will be strong for her. Everything has been for her. I pull on my dressing gown and head downstairs.
Popping my head into the small kitchen, Mrs Hoskine is not there and the smell of coffee turns my stomach. The soft sound of Mozart fills the hallway. There is no sign of anyone else. But The Times is laying open on the hallway table. My glance falls to the article entitled ‘Russia Begins New Nuclear Tests . . . Forty Megaton Blast Reported.’
I have done the right thing, but knowing that doesn’t make me feel any better. I close the paper. Who is up aside from Diana? George? Would he have left the paper open for me?
The music changes to ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star’. I have to go to her, but once she knows I don’t think I will be able to face her grief. The hall clock chimes the half hour. It is half past six. Just a few hours ago I pushed my husband over the cliff and now he will be lying on the rocks as the tide comes in. I need to act. If he is swept away it will draw more attention to the problem. God, it isn’t a problem. It is . . . I don’t know, but whatever it is, I am the cause.
Forcing my feet to move, I look in the snug in case anyone is watching. It is empty. I then make my way to the drawing room. Her back is straight. Her ballet mistress would be proud. She plays ‘Frère Jacques’ with growing intensity. She is having a little joke with us after yesterday morning, no doubt. I swallow and sit on the bench next to her.
‘Morning, Mummy.’ She smiles. ‘Thought this might bring Daddy downstairs. It’s such a glorious morning, I’d like to go for a swim.’
I draw in a sharp breath. She mustn’t go to the beach. ‘What a lovely idea, but I’m not sure where Daddy is.’ I glance about the room.
‘Surely he’s in your room.’
‘No, I woke up and he wasn’t there. I thought he might be asleep down here.’
She giggles. ‘He does that sometimes, doesn’t he?’
I nod, stand and look about the room. Mrs Hoskine has already been through and gathered all the glasses.
Diana jumps up. ‘I’ll help you find him.’ She grabs my hand. ‘You look very tired, Mummy.’
I run my free hand through my hair, still sticky with hair spray. ‘I’m not surprised. It was quite a party last night.’
She nods. ‘I heard someone singing rude songs at one point.’
I glance down at her. ‘Sorry.’
‘I was awake anyway.’
Searching my mind, I try to remember when Simon Heskith was singing rugby songs. It must have been about 1.30. I need to cement the whole evening in my mind. It won’t be long before the police are here. We begin walking into the hallway then I stop. What if someone else finds the body? It is a holiday weekend. The sun is shining, and people will be heading to the beach. The one thing I know is that I don’t want a child to find him. No one else needs to be haunted by what I’ve done.
Diana leads me into the little office. ‘He’s not here.’
Pulling me through to the dining room, she is quietly singing ‘Frère Jacques’. The table is laid for breakfast. It just seems wrong knowing what I know. Instead of laughter and heavy heads, this room will be filled with silence and disbelief shortly.
Diana pulls away and looks around the smoking room. ‘He’s not here.’ She frowned. ‘Maybe he’s in the garden. It would be a funny place to fall asleep but that must be where he is.’
She comes back to me and pulls me down so she can whisper in my ear. ‘Mummy, Daddy wouldn’t be with Mr Venn, would he?’
My heart stops. She is too astute. I fix a smile on my face. ‘Definitely not. The Venns left by boat quite early in the evening.’
‘Good.’ She kisses my cheek and my heart breaks. ‘He loves you, you know.’
I close my eyes for a moment.
‘He told me last night.’ Her breath tickles my cheek.
‘Thank you my darling. I kn—know he does.’ I stand upright.
‘Morning.’ Tom pauses in the doorway.
‘Have you seen Daddy?’ Diana grins at him.
He shook his head. ‘Have you lost him?’
‘Yes.’ I pause. I must get this right. ‘I left him about three o’clock and he was heading out into the garden.’
‘On his own?’ He raises an eyebrow.
‘Yes, everyone had gone to bed and I couldn’t keep my eyes open.’ I yawn.
‘Looks like yet again you haven’t had enough sleep.’
I give him a lopsided smile. ‘Diana, why don’t you find Mr Hoskine and see if the two of you can have a look around the garden.’
‘OK.’ She dances off to the back of the house like she is playing hide and seek. If only it could be so innocent. I think about George. When will he appear?
‘Shall I go and have a look on the beach?’ Tom walks towards me. I swallow hard. He shouldn’t find the body alone.
‘I’ll throw some clothes on and come with you.’ Forcing a bright smile, I say, ‘The fresh air will blow the cobwebs away.’ I dash away, digging my nails into my palms.
72
Lottie
5 August 2018, 6.30 a.m.
‘What a delightful surprise before seven a.m.’ Mrs Hoskine smiled but Lottie could see the question in her eyes. Why was she at her house with her grandson at this early hour? ‘Is it coffee we are wanting or a good cup of breakfast tea?’
‘I think I need coffee.’ Lottie smiled.
‘You don’t look like you’ve had a wink of sleep.’
<
br /> She half laughed and fought the urge to cry. Why was she doing this? Gramps didn’t need to have the memory of his beloved wife destroyed. Her mother didn’t need to know. Lottie bit her lip. That might not be true. But her mother had finally found some peace. Yet Lottie was sitting at Mrs Hoskine’s kitchen table, with her brain in a muddle from questions and lack of sleep, wanting to know more. Gran wasn’t a murderer. She was a kind, loving woman who saved the bloody baby rabbits who ate her plants from the neighbour’s cat. Lottie had to find out why she did it. Did she mean to do it? Gran’s faint voice saying, ‘I had no choice I had to,’ kept mixing with all Lottie’s memories of this elegant loving woman. She had never once raised her voice with Lottie, let alone lost her temper – even when John died and the police called her from the station looking for Lottie.
‘Drink that down and I’ll make you some breakfast.’
‘No need.’ Lottie smiled.
‘Lovely, you haven’t seen yourself.’ She laughed. ‘Alex, pick me a few tomatoes, please.’
He cast her a funny look but did as his grandmother asked. Lottie guessed the Navy had made sure he was good at following orders.
‘Now what brought you to me this morning?’
Lottie sighed then said, ‘My grandmother had a sea-blue silk dress.’
‘Yes, I recall it. It was Mrs Russell’s favourite.’
She cleared her throat. ‘I found it this morning. It has . . .’
‘It’s missing a bow.’
‘You remember?’ Lottie opened her eyes wide. ‘This all happened fifty-six years ago.’
‘She was upset about it. I found her about to burn the dress.’
Lottie choked on the coffee in her mouth.
‘She was so distressed and wasn’t thinking straight in the hours after Allan’s death.’ She shook her head. ‘On one hand she was cool-headed, holding it all together, but then I found her doing strange things.’
‘Like what?’
‘Throwing out her plimsoles and grinding the soles of another pair.’
Lottie cradled the mug in her hands. ‘Did you ask her about it?’
‘No, we do funny things when we grieve.’ She gave Lottie a quick look and her glance darted away to the dresser.
‘What about the dress?’
‘I took it from her.’ She turned back to the hob. ‘I think she had a breakdown.’
‘And the police, were they . . . ?’ Lottie didn’t know what to say.
‘Are you talking about Pat?’
She nodded.
‘He was young.’ Mrs Hoskine grinned. ‘And keen. It was his first big case. He was sure Mr Trewin had been murdered.’ She drew her brows together. ‘There was something funny.’
‘What was that?’ Lottie thought about the bow again.
‘The American couple. The police interviewed them then they were never seen again. That always troubled me because they had rented Penweathers for the year.’
Alex returned with the tomatoes. ‘Gran, I fixed the tap. Why didn’t you tell me it was broken?’
‘Was it? I forget these things. Anyway, the American couple were the Venns.’ She washed the tomatoes, sliced them thinly and tossed them into the pan with the bacon.
‘What Americans?’ Alex asked.
‘Ones Mrs Russell didn’t care for, but they’d been sailing all that week with Diana and Mr Trewin.’ Mrs Hoskine looked at Lottie over her shoulder.
‘Now eat.’ She put the plate down in front of her. ‘You need energy.’ Lottie didn’t argue. ‘While I think about it, your poor grandmother was quite tired out having had the miscarriage just before they came home.’ She shook her head. ‘Stressful life in Moscow is what she put it down to, but I knew it wasn’t the first baby they had lost.’
As Lottie ate her breakfast, she added this to the information that Allan was having an affair with a man. ‘Was it a good marriage?’
‘Oh yes, even if it happened because of Diana.’
‘Gran had mentioned it.’
She laughed. ‘It was a bit of a surprise because I knew she had been keen on Tom Martin.’
‘You mentioned that the other day.’
‘Yes, well she followed him out to Yemen to be his secretary. I fully expected that we’d hear of an engagement in months. But we didn’t and suddenly she had been transferred to Damascus and then swiftly married.’ She topped up her coffee cup. ‘When they came home for leave and she had Diana, Joan was so happy.’
‘And Allan?’
‘He was a doting father. Loved that baby to bits. We fully expected a second one when they were next back for leave.’ Mrs Hoskine sat down. ‘Poor Joan.’
‘How so?’
‘She was like my sister. Managed to keep the first one, but lost the rest.’ She sighed. ‘Each loss chipped more of her heart away.’
‘And Gran?’
‘Well, she devoted herself to Diana. Teaching her. That little girl was destined for Cambridge by the time she was three. So good with words she was. And look at her now. Everyone knows her, a household name.’
Lottie nodded. She knew all about that, remembering the tabloid headline, ‘Public school boy dies in cliff fall. Diana Trewin’s daughter being interviewed’.
She cleared her throat, then said, ‘This Tom . . .’
‘He was devastated when Allan died. They’d been best friends all through school, served in the RAF together.’
Lottie made a mental note to google Tom Martin. While Mrs Hoskine chattered on, Alex was silent and her brain was racing with the help of coffee, but kept returning to Gramps. He had been here that weekend too. She would have a gentle chat. He’d always been a confidant. He was the missing key to unlock Gran’s actions. She was sure of it.
‘You mentioned that Gran seemed to be having a bit of a breakdown.’ Her grandmother must have been destroying evidence.
Mrs Hoskine stood. ‘I’ve held my thoughts close to myself these years but maybe this will help.’ She walked to the dresser. ‘It can’t hurt now, when she’s so close to leaving us.’
Lottie’s mouth dried. Mrs Hoskine pulled out the drawer and turned it over on the table, emptying the contents. From the bottom of it she pulled out a few sheets of paper stapled together with a black and white snapshot of a birthday cake with three Russian dolls on the top of it. Lottie’s hand shook as she opened the handmade book emblazoned with the words, Happy Birthday Daddy in her mother’s childish hand. The cake, the table, the guest, the bay. Her grandmother flanked by George and another handsome man. ‘Who is this?’
‘That would be Mr Carew.’
The next photo showed Allan chatting to some woman, but as Lottie studied the picture she saw a man in a white dinner jacket with his hand on Allan’s bottom. Lottie looked up and Mrs Hoskine’s mouth was pressed into a straight line. It wasn’t an accidental motion caught by the camera. It was deliberate. It was sexual. Lottie looked up and swallowed before saying, ‘Did you know?’
Mrs Hoskine frowned. ‘I had my suspicions but when I looked through Diana’s book, I knew.’ She picked up a cloth and wiped the clean table. ‘I went up to her room and took the book.’
‘Why?’ Lottie’s eyes narrowed.
‘I didn’t want the police to find it and ask questions that your grandmother didn’t need to face.’
Lottie turned to Alex and handed him the book. Had Gran killed Allan to protect Diana from the scandal of Allan’s homosexuality? No, that wasn’t Gran at all. Divorce, yes. Murder, no.
‘May I keep it?’
Mrs Hoskine nodded. ‘Will you show your mother?’
Lottie looked through the book again. ‘I don’t know.’ She put the book on the table. Maybe it was best to leave it here for the moment.
73
Joan
5 August 1962, 7.00 a.m.
Tom is reading the paper when I come back down the stairs.
‘This isn’t good. Khrushchev’s build-up in Cuba is nothing but provocation. I hope Kennedy will hold h
is nerve.’ He folds it and puts it on the table.
‘Me too.’ We head to the front door and walk the gravel path at the edge of the lawn. The bay glistens blue below us. It is another beautiful day. This is wrong. I know what we will find on the beach. I want clouds, big and threatening.
‘I don’t know what I’m going to do now.’ He pulls his jumper off and throws it on his shoulders.
I study him, looking for signs, but he doesn’t know. I breathe. ‘With your mind, maybe . . . analysis?’ I scan the horizon. Gribben Head is softened by a distant haze that will burn off in the growing sunlight.
He shook his head and says, ‘Doesn’t appeal.’
‘Boring after the excitement of the field.’
‘Something like that.’ He chuckles.
There is a light easterly breeze coming off the sea as we walk the path down to the beach and I shiver. As I release the bolt on the gate, I pray somehow that these next few minutes will be different. That last night hadn’t happened.
We step onto the walkway and the most perfect summer’s day sight meets us. The tide is almost in. The sea is bluer than the cloudless sky above, and a child and his mother are playing with a bucket and spade. I swallow.
Raising my hand, I shade my eyes and scan the sweep of beach.
Tom takes the last of the steps down onto the sand and says, ‘If he’s down here he’d be sleeping over on the rocks.’ He points to the cliffs. ‘God, I remember getting so pissed with him one night, and both of us passed out on the beach, waking only when the tide reached our feet.’ He laughs.
I force a smile wishing I was so carefree, but I can’t speak as my chest compresses. I follow him, not sure whether to rush ahead or hang behind. I’ve seen dead bodies before. I found my mother. She had died in bed and looked peaceful. But I knew what waited up ahead wouldn’t be a peaceful face. Just the thought of his handsome features smashed stops me.
‘You OK?’ Tom calls over his shoulder.
‘Yes, just a little bit hungover if I’m honest.’
He laughs. ‘Well, you were hitting it a bit harder than normal last night.’ He pauses. ‘I did mention it.’
