by Liz Fenwick
She smiled, picturing her mother then. She would imagine his wasn’t the only heart she had stolen.
‘It took me thirteen years to convince her to even consider me and once she said yes, I didn’t give her a chance to change her mind.’
She walked closer to him and held out a hand. ‘Sorry I was such a cow.’
He laughed. ‘Well, I understood and so did your mother.’
She squinted into the distance, seeing the beauty in front of her. ‘Not sure I deserved it.’
‘You did.’ He took her hand and gave it a squeeze.
‘But you want to stay here?’
He looked around the room then his gaze stopped on her mother. ‘I do. She loved this place.’
Diana nodded. ‘I think I did once, too.’
‘You did.’
Today was another beautiful day in a summer filled with beautiful ones yet it was different. Out the window Lottie was marching up the lawn with Alex not far behind. ‘Lottie loves it here and she loved my mother.’
‘True on both counts.’ He smiled gently.
‘I don’t feel like I knew her at all.’
He closed his eyes for a moment then said, ‘Not many of us did.’
‘Would you mind if I spent a few minutes alone with her and maybe went through her things? I’ve been through everything in the hallway closets.’
‘Of course. Are you looking for something in particular?’ He walked to the door.
‘Yes – my mother, if I’m honest.’
He nodded. ‘Of course.’
She watched him leave then turned to the bed. Her mother looked peaceful. She could be sleeping except for the stillness. Someone had taken off the oxygen tube and combed her hair. Diana went to the bed and picked up her mother’s hand, wishing she was still here.
‘I’m sorry, Mum.’ There was so much more she could say, but that was the most important and she’d left it too late. A tear rolled down her cheek and Diana brushed it away. She could no longer do anything to fix this relationship, but she could do something about hers with Lottie. That would be how she would show her mother, wherever she was, that she had learned something. Carefully placing her mother’s hand down, she stood then kissed her cheek. ‘I promise you I won’t waste any more years with Lottie.’
Turning from her, Diana looked at the big wardrobe. Would she find Narnia in there or would she discover a bunch of cashmere sweaters wrapped in dried lavender? Pulling the door open, she was enveloped in her mother’s scent. In order of length were five dresses which would cover any occasion she had been to in recent years. So different from the rich silks and bright colours of her past wardrobe. There were four skirts, and four pairs of trousers plus five jackets and six white blouses of different fabrics. The other side of the wardrobe was as neat with folded t-shirts, jumpers, shorts and jeans.
Opening the drawers, everything was in place. It was nothing more than a larger version of Diana’s capsule wardrobe for travelling. The only colour to be found was in the collection of Hermes scarves. She felt around in the knicker drawer and came across all the letters she had written from boarding school. They were in date order. The older she became, the fewer the letters. That told a story in itself.
She sank onto the bed looking at the handwriting on the envelopes. It would take more strength than she had to open them now. She put them aside and looked at the handbags on the bottom of the wardrobe under the hanging clothes. They were simple and elegant. Inside each she found no more than a folded hanky.
Nothing. There was no story to tell or to find here. Diana began putting the bags back when a memory returned. She bent down and ran her hand along the bottom of the wardrobe. A piece of wood shifted, and her hands touched leather. She pulled out a case that was instantly recognisable in royal blue leather with her mother’s initials in gold on the top. It was thick with dust and she used one of the hankies to wipe it before she opened it. Lottie would love this, so she picked it up and went in search of her daughter.
81
Joan
5 August 1962, 1.15 p.m.
As I walk into the kitchen, I sense the change in atmosphere. The local policeman, Pat Treneer, is seated with a notepad open and Tom has his head in his hands. How long before London will be brought in? I glance at my wrist. It is one o’clock. No doubt someone is on their way by now. A phone call would have been made, if not by Tom then by George or both.
‘Mrs Trewin.’ Pat Treneer stands.
‘Hello Sergeant.’
‘I’m afraid I need to ask a few questions . . .’ He turned to the doorway. ‘We’ll need to take a look at your bedroom.’
‘Of course.’ I bow my head slightly. Everything was as it should be in there. ‘I’m afraid it’s a bit untidy.’
‘Not to concern yourself about that.’ He picks up his notepad. ‘Could we go someplace more private?’
‘Yes, of course.’ I glance at Tom. His skin is pale and there is a haunted look in his eyes. Mrs Hoskine fusses about the kitchen. I haven’t really seen anyone except Tom and George in passing. Tom reaches out and grabs my hand and he gives it a squeeze. I close my eyes for a moment then pull away.
‘Follow me.’ I walk instinctively to my father’s study. Even though Allan had been using it as his since my mother died, it still carries my father’s imprint on it. Many of the books lining one wall are his and not Allan’s. I stop at the desk, realising that aside from the teddy bear in my daughter’s arms and the clothes in the cupboard, Allan has not left an imprint on Boskenna. How could I have been married to him for eight years and find our home so untouched by him?
Sitting in the chair beside the desk, I indicate that Pat should take the one at the desk. He sits and opens his pad, tapping his pencil. His eyes dart around, and his discomfort amuses me. It shouldn’t. It is completely the wrong emotion to have. ‘How can I help?’ I cross my legs at the ankles and fold my hands on my lap, as demure as I can be. I must put him at ease and make him feel in control.
‘Sorry to have to go through this.’ He clears his throat and twiddles the pencil, and I suppress the urge to slap it out of his hand.
Giving my head a quick shake, I say, ‘It’s your job and it’s necessary.’
‘Thank you for your understanding.’ He twists the pencil in his hands again. ‘Now, could you tell me about last night?’
‘Well.’ I take a deep breath. ‘We had a dinner party for Allan’s birthday.’
‘Were all the guests staying at the house?’
I nod then stop. ‘No, sorry. The Venns, an American couple who have rented Penweathers, were here last night for the party.’ I swallow. I don’t need them questioned. ‘They left the party via their tender not too long after we finished dinner. I think it was certainly before midnight.’
‘Can you be more precise?’ He looks up at me and if he twists the pencil again, I won’t be responsible for my actions.
Giving him a small smile, I say, ‘Well, I was checking on Diana who I discovered awake and reading. So, by the time I’d settled her and returned to the party they had gone.’
‘I see.’
‘Other than the Venns, everyone was here. The first to retire was Anthea and her husband, Rupert, and everyone bar myself and Allan had gone to bed by two thirty.’ Silence falls while he jots that information down and I wonder how he will phrase the next question.
‘So you went to . . . you retired together?’
I shake my head. ‘I left Allan downstairs about three o’clock. He wanted another cigar and another cognac.’ I close my eyes, picturing it. It is the truth. ‘I kissed him goodnight and watched him head out into the garden. I couldn’t keep my eyes open.’
‘I see. How did he seem to you?’
‘A bit worse for wear but it had been his party.’ I play with my hands. ‘I wish I had stayed with him.’
‘From what we’ve gathered, he must have gone to the watchtower.’
I let a brief smile hover on my lips. ‘We often
went there after a long evening. Normally we would sit together have a drink and do a post-mortem on the party.’ I frown. ‘Sorry, that’s a bad choice of words.
‘Are you certain that you didn’t go with him?’
‘Yes.’ My stomach clenches.
‘It’s just that there are a woman’s footprints up there.’
‘Oh. Well I was up there earlier in the day.’
‘Why?’
‘Most of my guests were out sailing. I went there to see if I could catch sight of them so that I would have a better feel for timing.’
He stares at me.
‘I also go there to think and have a cigarette.’
‘I see.’
But I am sure he doesn’t.
He taps the pencil on the pad. ‘When did you realize that your husband was missing?’
‘When I woke up to Diana practising the piano this morning.’
‘Were you concerned that he wasn’t with you?’
‘To be honest, not unduly. He’s been known to fall asleep in a chair when he’s had a few too many.’ I look down at my hands. The diamonds in my wedding ring catches the sunlight. I spin it round.
‘So what did you do?’
‘I came downstairs and began to look for him, but he wasn’t in the usual spots as Diana and I checked the house.’
‘Did you think he might be with another guest?’
I raise an eyebrow. ‘I’m not sure what you think of us but there was no bedroom hopping here last night.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘Large quantities of gin, wine, champagne, port and cognac put paid to even the most ardent of ventures.’
‘Fair point. Everyone drank heavily last night?’
‘Yes, no one except Diana and the Hoskines would have been sober.’
‘The Venns?’ he asks.
‘They weren’t either.’ I don’t want to think about them in any way, but I know I will have questions of another sort to answer soon.
‘They drove?’
‘No, they took their tender.’
He taps his pencil on the paper again. ‘What do you know about them?’
‘Not much at all. Allan and Diana met them a day or two after we arrived on holiday.’
He runs his finger down his notes before looking at me. ‘What made you check the beach this morning?’
‘Well, I had sent Diana with Pete Hoskine to search the garden and I thought we might find Allan asleep on the beach.’
‘Why?’
‘Habit. Along with the watchtower he would head to the beach in the small hours of the morning to think.’
‘Had he been doing that recently?’
I pause. ‘Yes, actually quite a bit.’
‘Would you say he hadn’t been himself?’
I furrow my brows, knowing the truth. ‘No, he was on good form and loving the holiday despite the awful weather we’ve had until yesterday.’ I glance out the window towards the sea. ‘You’re not suggesting that he killed himself?’
‘It has to be looked at.’
I place a hand at my throat.
‘Sorry to distress you but it could be that he was drunk and went too close to the edge or he might have done it deliberately.’
‘Dear God.’ I pause, taking a breath. ‘I hadn’t considered that.’
I stood. ‘Can you keep this possibility far away from Diana?’
He remains silent.
‘She will have enough to deal with without thinking that her father chose to leave her.’
‘I see your point.’
I run my hand over the edge of the desk. ‘I will appreciate your discretion on this matter, for Diana’s sake.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
‘Thank you.’ I smile.
‘We will need to speak with her.’ He rose to his feet.
I straighten a picture frame on top of the revolving bookcase. ‘If you must.’
‘I must, especially as Thomas Martin said he saw Mr Trewin coming out of Diana’s room looking worried at about midnight.’
If Tom were with me right now, I would hit him. ‘I see. Well, I gave her a half a sleeping tablet a little while ago so I’m not sure when she’ll wake. The doctor will need to see her, and I will need to be with Diana when you speak with her.’
‘Of course. There is no rush.’
‘Thank you. Do you have any further questions?’ I stand with one foot slightly in front of the other and clasp my hands as I was taught at finishing school. Poise, it had taught me poise and that was exactly what I need at the moment.
‘None for the moment.’
‘Very well.’ I nod and leave him in the office. How am I going to survive this? And what of my poor child?
82
Lottie
5 August 2018, 1.45 p.m.
Lottie walked up the stairs to her room, her heart heavy. Despite the strong coffee at Mrs Hoskine’s this morning, she was wiped out. She needed to close her eyes for a few moments and gather her thoughts.
At the top of the stairs her mother walked towards her carrying a blue leather box.
‘What’s that?’ Lottie frowned.
‘Your grandmother’s jewels, I think.’ She smiled. ‘I thought they might inspire you for your upcoming exhibition.’ She stopped in front of Lottie. ‘Because of everything that has happened, I haven’t had a chance to congratulate you on being chosen.’
The colour drained from Lottie’s face. What should she say? She could just accept the congratulations and move on, postponing the inevitable problem, or come clean.
‘Are you feeling OK?’ Her mother tilted her head.
‘Mum . . .’ Lottie began but stopped. ‘Mum, I won’t be exhibiting.’
‘What?’ Her mother leaned against the wall. ‘You were selected.’
‘True. I was but there is a problem.’
Her mother’s eyes narrowed.
Lottie coached herself to just say what happened. It would all come out eventually. ‘Look, I trusted Paul, he . . .’
‘He what?’
‘He walked off with all my finished pieces and all my materials and designs.’
‘How did you let that happen?’
Lottie closed her eyes. The whole situation was far worse. ‘Because we worked together, he knew the safe codes.’ And he was my husband, she added silently.
‘You told the police?’
She nodded. ‘But because he knew the codes there was no theft, so to speak, or at least as far as my insurance goes.’
‘But you have time to remake the work?’
‘True but that would take a lot of money.’
‘Re-mortgage your flat.’
‘I’d extended my mortgage already to give him a loan.’
‘You what?’
‘I know. I was stupid and gullible yet again. But he’d been helpful to me, nurturing my talent.’
‘He was jealous of your talent.’
Lottie flinched. ‘So when he asked for my help, I gave it to him. But now he’s gone, and my flat is sold, and my debts will be paid.’
Her mother shook her head. ‘I never thought much of him and this proves I was right.’ She huffed. ‘You’re too bloody trusting.’ She paused then asked, ‘Did you say you’ve lost your flat?’
Lottie nodded.
‘Have you told your grandfather?’
Lottie looked through the nearest bedroom window to the sea. This was what she was dreading most. The deposit had been his gift to her. ‘Not yet.’
‘I see.’ She pressed her lips together and Lottie watched the thought process and prepared herself. ‘When were you going to tell me?’ She leaned closer and Lottie sympathised with all the people she’d interviewed.
‘You don’t make it easy.’ Lottie crossed her arms. ‘And there’s nothing that can be done now. There was no point mentioning it with everything going on.’
‘It’s your life. You should know better.’ Her mother put the box on the table next to the
flowers Lottie had brought in on Friday. Could today only be Sunday?
‘One of the reasons I didn’t rush to tell you was just this.’ She took a deep breath. ‘You always take me apart. It’s not something I was proud of but it’s a fact.’
‘Since when has pride come into the equation? You’ve lied.’
Lottie swallowed. It always came back to this. ‘I didn’t lie, I just didn’t tell you.’
‘There are such a thing as lies by omission.’ Her mother flattened her mouth into a straight line.
Lottie sighed. ‘Trust you to know about different types of lies.’
‘There are at least seven types, but you always favour lies by omission.’
‘Look, Mum, that isn’t the point here.’
‘No, but telling the truth makes things better.’
Lottie shook her head ‘Does it? I don’t agree. Sometimes lying protects people.’
‘Hardly ever and I don’t believe it.’
‘Don’t tell me you haven’t lied, or that you’ve neglected to mention you were a journalist.’
Her mother frowned.
‘Look this isn’t about lying. It isn’t important.’
‘I thought after ten years you’d learned your lesson. You promised you wouldn’t lie to me.’
‘I didn’t.’
‘You did.’ She fixed Lottie with that look. ‘The truth is always better. I may be angry but not as angry as when I’m lied to.’
‘Fine. I’m broke. I have to inform the V&A tomorrow that I won’t be one of their rising stars.’ She dropped her hands to her sides and stretched her fingers flat. ‘That’s the whole truth and nothing but the truth . . .’ She looked away knowing this time she was actually lying. It wasn’t the whole truth. She just couldn’t add in the last bit. It was too awful and her mother’s opinion of her would hit rock bottom.
Her mother sighed and shook her head. Angry words would have been better. ‘What hurts more than the lie is that you didn’t trust me enough to tell me.’
‘Mum, it’s not trust. I didn’t want to appear even less than I already do in your eyes.’
Her mother opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Lottie had rarely seen her speechless.
‘I’m sorry that I’ve given you that impression.’ She picked up Lottie’s hand. ‘It’s not what I intended.’
