The Path to the Sea

by Liz Fenwick

  77

  Lottie

  5 August 2018, 8.15 a.m.

  Lottie opened the door to her bedroom. Her mother was sitting on the bed with the diary in her hands. Lottie braced herself. Had she been so tired this morning that she’d left it out? How was she going to explain this?

  ‘When were you going to tell me?’ She held up the book. ‘Why were you keeping this from me?’

  Lottie sat beside her on the bed. ‘I’m not sure you want to read it.’

  ‘Too late.’ Her mother’s shoulders dropped.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘No.’

  Looking closely Lottie could see how pale she was. Her hand fell shaking onto the diary. It was open to the damning page. ‘I killed my father. That’s why I don’t remember him. That’s why my mother found it so hard to love me, ran away from me.’

  Lottie swallowed. ‘Mum, you can’t believe that. You were an eight-year-old child.’

  ‘It makes sense. It makes sense of all of it now.’ Her head hung over the book. She ran her fingers over her words. ‘Why we didn’t come back here. Why there were no photos.’ Tears collected in her mother’s eyes.

  Lottie knew the truth. She opened her mouth and closed it again. Gran. ‘Mum.’ She put her hand on her mother’s.

  ‘What do I do?’ She looked up with such a tormented expression.

  ‘Mum, stop.’

  ‘Lottie. I killed my father.’ She rocked back and forth.

  ‘Look at me, Mum.’ She turned her mother’s head gently towards her. ‘You didn’t kill your father. You were eight. You didn’t kill him.’

  She stabbed the page. ‘I did.’

  ‘No, you didn’t.’ She took a breath. ‘What you’ve written is normal. It’s what kids do . . . they think they caused everything.’

  Her mother took a deep breath. ‘I did something that caused his death. I can almost remember.’

  ‘Mum, you need to listen to me.’

  ‘No, I need to take responsibility for my actions. I need to accept what I’ve done. Accept my blame in the failure of the relationship between my mother and me. What I did to her, to us.’

  ‘No.’ Lottie jumped to her feet. This was terrible. ‘Stop.’

  ‘Lottie, don’t try to smooth over this.’

  ‘I’m not.’ The truth would certainly destroy the peace that Gran and her mother had achieved.

  ‘You are.’ Her mother chewed her lip. ‘I appreciate it.’ She smiled at Lottie. ‘Thank you for trying . . . it means a great deal.’

  Lottie could barely breathe.

  ‘I know it’s nearly too late, but I will go and apologise to my mother and then I need to contact the police.’

  ‘No, you can’t do that.’ Lottie looked at the dolls on the windowsill. The outer doll was faded and worn. The two dolls inside were bright and shiny. Gran had protected them. She had borne the guilt. Lottie swallowed. She had to choose.

  Her mother walked to the door. ‘I’m going to talk to her.’

  Lottie took a deep breath and said, ‘Stop, I know what happened.’

  Her mother shook her head. ‘I remember. It’s time that I faced up to it.’

  Lottie’s legs gave way and she leaned against the chest of drawers. ‘It was fifty-six years ago. You haven’t remembered for all that time, so how can you know what you recall at this moment is the truth? Memory is a tricky thing at best.’

  She stared at her. ‘What do you know?’

  Lottie took a deep breath. Would knowing her mother killed her father help? What would her mother do with the information? Contact the police? Gran was dying but Gramps . . .

  Her mother tilted her head and said, ‘Thanks for trying to make this easier but I’ve read the diary and I’ve read in between the lines.’

  ‘Your father was a spy.’ Lottie winced as she said it.

  She nodded. ‘He was a political attaché and he was bisexual.’

  ‘Yes.’ Lottie moved to the window and picked up the dolls.

  ‘But I was the one who leaked the information.’

  Lottie turned. ‘You were a child.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter.’ She grabbed the diary. ‘I was the source.’

  Lottie twisted the doll in her hands and the middle one dropped to the floor. Her hand shook as she picked it up and put it back on the windowsill and whispered, ‘Gran was a spy, too.’ She glanced at the door, half expecting Alex or Gramps to appear.

  ‘What?’ Her mother stood.

  ‘Yes.’ Lottie put the doll down.

  Her mother put her hand against the doorframe. ‘No, I would have known that.’

  ‘Why would you know? You were young.’

  Lottie closed her eyes, she was about to betray Gran. ‘She was a spy and she had no choice.’

  ‘My mother was a spy?’ She turned and walked to the window. The very end of Carrickowel was visible. Her mother picked up the middle Russian doll and opened it revealing the smaller one. She turned around. Her expression was thunderous. ‘She had to do it . . .’

  Lottie steadied herself as her mother took two steps towards her.

  ‘My mother killed my father.’

  Lottie nodded. ‘And I think it killed part of her.’

  ‘Surely he couldn’t have been that important?’

  Lottie twisted her hands. ‘It was the Cold War. You were living in Moscow.’

  ‘Christ.’ Her mother sank down on the bed. ‘She’s asked me to forgive her.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But I bet she can’t forgive herself.’ She put the smallest doll down and walked to the door.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Lottie tried not to wince as she said this.

  ‘I don’t know.’ She rubbed the back of her neck. ‘I should call the police.’

  ‘Mum.’ The word stuck in Lottie’s mouth and came out more like a stutter. Gran was going to die without forgiveness – with the secret she’d held until her deathbed exposed to the world – and it was her fault.

  ‘What a bloody mess.’ Her mother sucked in air in gulps. ‘What a waste of lives.’

  Lottie reached out to her, but her mother walked out of the door. As Lottie closed her eyes, she saw the three Russian dolls glowing in the afternoon sunlight.

  78

  Joan

  5 August 1962, 9.00 a.m.

  Eddie Carew, dapper in his panama hat and cravat, is lighting a cigarette for Anthea. She looks like she has the hangover from hell. Her husband has gone back to bed. A week ago, I had planned the events for today. Croquet, a walk to the pub in Charlestown, and a picnic on Silvermine Beach. The weather is ideal for these events, for once. But now my guests wander without a purpose until the detective inspector arrives. George went for a walk. No doubt to the phone box to report. He has said no more than the required words to me. I know this is right, but I am lost.

  ‘Go and take a bath. You’ll feel better for it.’ Mrs Hoskine gives me a piercing look. ‘You don’t look at all right.’

  I glance back at her. Did she know?

  ‘I’ve washed your gloves for you.’

  My eyes open wide. I’d forgotten them. ‘Thank you. I’d foolishly spilled red wine on them.’

  ‘I saw.’ She turns away.

  Taking a deep breath, my mouth tastes grainy from all the sugar in the tea I held. The large amount of milk in it has furred my taste buds, too. I’m not myself. I am a killer. That thought keeps repeating in my mind and I must stop thinking it or it will come out. It has to be buried so deep within that it can never escape.

  ‘You’re right. It will make me feel better.’

  ‘Yes.’ She peers at me briefly and then sets about making lunch for my guests.

  ‘I’ll check on Diana.’

  ‘Good.’ She smiles then returns to the kitchen.

  After a quick phone call to my doctor earlier, he’d said it would be safe to give her a half of one of my sleeping pills. She hadn’t wanted to take it, but she wouldn’t be consoled, an
d I can’t blame her. The light of her life has gone, and I am responsible.

  Opening her bedroom door with care, I creep to her bedside. She is wrapped around her father’s old bear, Ben. Her long dark hair covers most of her face, but the redness of her cheeks is still visible.

  God, what have I done? Last night it seemed the only way to protect her, to protect Victor. For them, I pushed the man I loved – the father of my child – over the cliff. It had all been so clear. Despite the bright sunshine breaking through Diana’s curtains, nothing is clear now. I cover my mouth as a sob threatens and I long to hold my beautiful girl, but it feels wrong. I am the cause of her sorrows so how can I soothe them? How can I comfort her? I can’t and I flee from her room.

  Tom is walking down the stairs. He stops and looks at me. His glance is filled with a message, but I can’t decipher it. ‘I’ve called Allan’s brother for you.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I turn away. I’d forgotten him.

  ‘And the rest of the family.’

  I nod. This I understand.

  ‘Can I do anything else for you?’

  I step towards him but stop. ‘No.’ I shake my head.

  ‘A walk?’

  I open my mouth to say yes but pause. ‘No, I need to clean myself up.’

  He nods. ‘Later, perhaps.’

  ‘Yes.’ But I know that walk will not take place. It can’t. He continues down the stairs and I have lost Tom too.

  79

  Lottie

  5 August 2018, 12.30 p.m.

  Lottie couldn’t find her mother in the house and she stood in the hallway unsure what to do. Had her mother already confronted Gran? If she had, would Gran have heard her? The nurse came downstairs and Lottie asked, ‘How is she?’

  The nurse shook her head. ‘It won’t be long now.’ She touched Lottie’s arm. ‘I left Mr Russell with her. They’re listening to music.’

  ‘Thank you for all your help.’ Lottie headed up the stairs and stood in the doorway for a moment. Alex came to stand beside her.

  ‘My darling,’ Gramps said, taking Gran’s hand in his. He looked up and saw Lottie and Alex.

  ‘Do you want to be alone?’ she asked.

  ‘No.’ Gramps looked at Gran. Alex went to the window as she sat on the far side of the bed, picking up Gran’s other hand. She looked to Alex. ‘Can you see Mum?’

  He shook his head and she let go of the breath she was holding.

  She turned to Gramps and asked, ‘Has she been to see Gran?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware.’ He caught her eye and she nodded. He sighed, shaking his head.

  Lottie took a deep breath then said, ‘Gran, I love you and thank you for everything.’ Her grandmother opened her eyes. Her eyes said so much that Lottie found it hard to breathe. ‘I know Gran, and I forgive you. You had no choice.’

  A tear slipped from the corner of Gran’s eye as she closed her eyes.

  ‘I’m here, my darling one.’ Gramps stroked her hand and she turned to him. ‘It’s OK to go.’

  She opened her eyes again and Lottie held her breath.

  ‘It’s a beautiful day. It reminds me of our trip to Maine.’ He ran a finger down her cheek. ‘We argued over the lobster. You said Cornwall’s were best, but I held my ground.’ He laughed. ‘You conceded, but I knew you were only letting me win.’ He sighed. ‘You were good at that.’

  The song changed. Lottie’s glance met Alex’s for a moment.

  ‘Do you hear the music, my love? “Night and Day”.’ He swallowed. ‘Dancing. Cairo.’ He closed his eyes. ‘Can you smell the night scented jasmine? I proposed, and you accepted, making me the happiest man alive.’

  Lottie turned to the window where Alex was looking at the bay. Gribben Head glowed in the midday sun.

  ‘How we would dance, my love.’ He looked heavenward. ‘Dance on, my darling.’

  Tears pooled in Lottie’s eyes, but she wouldn’t let them fall.

  He picked up Gran’s hand and held it to his lips. ‘I love you, Joan.

  Gran looked at him then her eyes closed. ‘Always,’ she said. Her breathing faltered then she didn’t take another breath. Lottie waited, holding hers, willing her to take in more air.

  She sank to her knees. ‘Gran.’

  Her grandmother’s mouth fell open and stayed that way. Despite what seemed like another gasp, she was gone. In that moment, Lottie knew what Mrs Hoskine had meant. Lottie blinked then looked up. Gramps sat still holding Gran’s hand. She couldn’t watch. His pain, his loss, it hurt too much. He loved Gran so much and now he was alone.

  ‘Gramps?’

  He looked up. ‘It’s OK.’ His cheeks were damp. ‘It’s OK.’

  Lottie shook her head. It was anything but OK. She went to him and rested her cheek against his.

  ‘It’s fine. She went with love.’

  Lottie frowned but didn’t ask him what he meant. He cleared his throat. ‘I’m just going to sit here for a while.’

  ‘Do you want me to stay too?’

  He shook his head and gave her hand a squeeze. ‘No, my darling girl.’

  She kissed him, and Alex appeared at her side. He took her hand and together they walked down the stairs. The sound of Nat King Cole’s voice followed them as he led her into the drawing room and poured her a brandy. ‘You might need this.’

  She nodded taking the glass from him. Her hands were steadier than she expected. She knocked it back, flinching. Placing the glass down, she closed her eyes and she let the music from upstairs sooth her. Alex wrapped his arms around her, singing along to ‘Just the Way You Look Tonight’. They had danced to this. Her heart broke again, picturing Gran and Gramps moving across this floor and their laughter.

  ‘Thank you.’ She pulled away.

  He gave her a searching look.

  ‘I need to find Mum and tell her,’ she said.

  He nodded. ‘Do you want help?’

  ‘I think I’d better do this myself.’

  ‘I’ll be here and checking on George.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She gave him a wobbly smile and set out into the garden. The day could not have been more beautiful and somehow that made it hurt all the more. But she wouldn’t cry. Tears wouldn’t help anything. Lottie needed to be in control to tell her mother. She just didn’t know how she would take the news.

  80

  Diana

  5 August 2018, 1.00 p.m.

  Diana sat on the platform of the watchtower, staring out onto the bay and letting the sound of the sea soothe her. Her mother killed her father. Her first response had been anger as she marched into the bedroom where she stopped, seeing her mother on the bed. Rage still flooded through her. She had stood there asking, ‘How could you do that? How could you kill him? I loved him?’

  Her mother had opened her eyes and sorrow filled them.

  ‘How could you ask me to forgive you? You killed him.’ Diana had stood there with her stomach in knots. ‘How can you say you loved me? How could you?’ Her mother had closed her eyes and that was it.

  The fight had left Diana and she turned away, walking out of there. She should go back. The last words her mother heard from her shouldn’t be angry ones. Her mother had done her duty. Her father was a traitor, he had betrayed them all.

  She looked down as she heard Lottie climbing the steps. Her heart tightened seeing the solemn look on her daughter’s face. Diana had left it too late to go and speak to her mother again. It was hard to breathe.

  ‘She’s gone, isn’t she?’

  Lottie nodded. ‘Did you speak to her?’

  ‘Yes.’ Glancing down at her clenched hands she wished she hadn’t. It would have been better if she hadn’t known the truth.

  ‘Did she speak to you?’ Lottie came up to her and sat beside her.

  ‘No.’ She wished she had. She wished she had defended herself but all she had done was to look at Diana with sorrow and . . . love. Her mother had loved her. She swallowed before she asked, ‘Did she speak again?’


  Lottie nodded. ‘One word: always.’

  ‘Always?’ Diana raised her eyebrows. She’d seen that word somewhere unusual recently but couldn’t recall where. ‘George?’

  ‘He was with her and so was I . . . and Alex.’

  Diana closed her eyes. She hadn’t been there. She had managed to put even more distance between them by confronting her, by acting out. There was nothing she could do now. ‘I’m pleased she wasn’t alone, she was surrounded by love.’

  Lottie grabbed her hand. ‘I love you.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She turned to her. ‘I love you.’ She stood, releasing Lottie’s hand. ‘I need to go and see her even though it’s too late to put things right.’

  Lottie nodded. ‘I’m going to stay here for a bit.’

  Diana stroked her daughter’s head. ‘It’s peaceful.’ She left and strolled slowly back to the house. Things didn’t feel real. Her mother had been alive when she left the house and now she was gone.

  Stopping on the path as soon as the house came into view, she smiled. It was beautiful, and its position couldn’t be better. There had been love here and she had to hold on to that. Inside, the newspapers were on the hallway table and the flowers that Lottie had put there looked magnificent in the afternoon light. All was as it should be, except her mother was dead. She walked up the stairs slowly, trying to remember her eight-year-old self who had realized she’d played a role in her father’s death. That hadn’t changed. Her mother may have killed him, but she was partially responsible. God how she wished her mother was alive now, so she could ask for her forgiveness.

  ‘George?’ Diana tapped on the bedroom door. He was standing by the window looking out at the bay.

  ‘I can’t believe she’s gone.’ He turned, shaking his head.

  ‘I feel the same.’ She took a few steps in, still not looking at her mother on the bed yet feeling her presence. ‘What will you do?’ ‘Do you want me to leave?’ he asked, leaning heavily on his cane.

  She looked at the frail old man standing in front of her, offering to leave his home. ‘Not unless you want to.’

  He shook his head. ‘I arrived at Boskenna for the first time fifty-six years ago. I saw your mother and fell in love with her and the house at the same time.’