by Liz Fenwick
‘Mum, you’re so accomplished. Double first at Cambridge, a top war correspondent, awarded an MBE and you are a champion of oppressed women without voices of their own. There is nothing I could ever do that would reach that. My goal has just been not to let your opinion of me drop lower.’ Lottie took a breath. ‘I knew what happened with Paul would do that.’
‘Oh, God, I never knew you felt that way.’
Lottie nodded.
‘I’m angry at the moment because I could have and should have helped.’
‘Mum, I made this mess and I need to fix it.’ Lottie looked away. She felt so vulnerable, like a crab in transition. She needed that new shell in place fast.
Her mother ran her fingers over the initials on the box. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Thank you. We all have our secrets . . .’
Her mother looked up.
‘Well, you have never told me anything about my father.’
Her mother picked up the leather case. ‘Let’s look through these and see if we can salvage your career with them.’
‘Mum?’
Her mother didn’t respond but opened the box. She pushed aside a silk bow. Lottie swayed.
Her mother grabbed her. ‘Are you OK? I know the jewels are impressive.’ She lifted a diamond necklace that part of Lottie’s mind registered was classic Cartier. ‘But what is truly interesting is that many of these pieces are Russian, possibly Fabergé.’ She dug down and pulled out a yellow sheet of paper. ‘Countess Elena was a cousin and she left them to my mother.’
She turned to Lottie. ‘I think you need to sit down.’
Lottie picked up the bow.
‘Funny thing to have in your jewellery case.’
Lottie nodded.
‘It must have fallen off one of her dresses.’ Her mother picked up an enamelled locket. ‘I remember her wearing this.’ She pressed the clasp and opened it. ‘Me as a baby and . . .’ She ran her finger over the other picture. ‘My mother with my father and Tom Martin.’
Lottie held fast to the silk bow and looked at the locket. The photos were lovely and the locket itself exquisite, from the white enamel to the sapphires picking out the details on the diamond ribbon bow at the top. Glancing down into the case it was more like a treasure chest overflowing pearls, diamonds, rubies . . .
‘Mum where did you find this?’
‘In the false bottom in the big wardrobe.’ She looked at Lottie. ‘I think my mother put it away fifty-six years ago and then forgot it.’
Lottie nodded but she knew her grandmother had not forgotten it. She had buried it.
83
Diana
5 August 2018, 3.00 p.m.
Diana studied her daughter as if she’d never seen her before. Those grey eyes were serious and, right at this moment, full of sorrow. Diana had seen that look before on Lottie’s father’s face. A few hours ago, Lottie had asked her about her father, Arash. Diana hadn’t allowed herself to even think his name for years but looking at Lottie this morning she couldn’t deny her this anymore.
‘Mum, I have a question.’ Lottie hesitated as she spoke. Her eyes downcast one moment and fearful the next.
‘Fire away.’ Diana smiled, hoping she was wrong about what was coming next.
She took a deep breath. ‘I want to ask you about my father.’
‘What father?’ Diana sat down on the sofa. She had dreaded the very idea of this conversation for so long.
‘Exactly.’ She huffed. ‘One of the last things Paul said to me is that he had located my father.’
‘That’s how he got to you.’
‘Probably. My father has always been my weak spot.’ She rocked from one foot to the other.
‘So, what did he say?’
‘Afghanistan.’
‘I’m sure you worked that out yourself.’
She nodded.
‘And you have probably made some guesses about how you came to be.’
‘Well you were held hostage.’
Diana nodded. She didn’t want to talk about it, but Lottie had a right to know.
‘Your father’s name was Arash, he was my guard.’
‘He took advan . . .’ Lottie’s voice faded away.
‘No, not at all. He was my guardian angel.’ Diana’s throat tightened. Even now after so many years, different emotions warred within her. Fear, hatred but mostly it was love. A longing and loss both so deep that to look back would make looking forward impossible.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I suppose in a way through our enforced proximity, eventually we fell in love, deeply in love, which in turn lead to marriage.’
‘What? How?’ Lottie stood then sat again. ‘Married?’
‘Not one that would be recognised outside of Afghanistan.’
‘You loved him?’
She nodded. That didn’t say enough. The word didn’t capture the emotion, the need. ‘We made plans for me to stay.’
Lottie’s eyes widened, her shock evident.
‘But things changed, and it wasn’t safe. There was money offered for me to be killed.’
Lottie gasped.
‘Arash risked everything to get me to safety.’ Diana’s hand went to her throat.
‘Oh God . . .’ Lottie walked over and sat beside her. ‘Did he know about me?’
She shook her head. ‘I think he did, but I didn’t.’
Lottie frowned.
‘I lost track of time and food was in short supply.’ Diana closed her eyes and she could still see the hills. The hills that acted as a natural prison and the hills they crossed risking everything. ‘I didn’t know until I was examined by a doctor. But Arash was more attuned to life.’
‘Oh Mum.’
Her eyes were his and her kindness was his. ‘What happened to him?’
‘He was killed saving me.’ His eyes looked at Diana now. With her heart wide open, Diana could see him.
‘I’m so sorry.’ Lottie picked up her hands.
‘No, I’m the one who is sorry. You are so like him.’
‘And you couldn’t bear it.’
Diana nodded for there were no words that could express the pain in her heart. ‘Forgive me.’
‘I love you, Mum. I always have.’
‘I know and that’s been the hardest part.’ Diana never should have pushed her away. She would have had him with her the whole time. It was the last thing he would have wanted. Diana pulled her daughter into her arms, allowing herself to love her.
84
Lottie
5 August 2018, 3.30 p.m
Gramps hobbled into the drawing room where Lottie sat making a list, and he smiled at her. She fought the urge to cry again. She had just pulled herself together but there were too many things to process while she wrote a list that included call vicar, call funeral director, call lawyer, call the private investigator and call the V&A. She reached for her phone but it wasn’t in her pocket. She must have left it somewhere.
‘My darling girl.’ He held out his hand to her. She stood and went to his side.
‘Oh Gramps.’
‘What is it?’ He gave her an encouraging smile.
‘I need to tell you something.’ She looked down.
He took her hand. ‘Nothing can be that bad.’ He gave it a squeeze. ‘You are here with me.’
She snuffled. ‘True but I’m afraid I’ve made a real mess of things.’
‘It’s not that bad.’ He pulled her close to him.
‘It’s not good.’ She took a deep breath, thinking of Paul and the mess she’d made of her life and her career. ‘Because of some bad decisions and terrible judgement . . . I’ve lost the flat.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘What happened?’
‘Paul asked for a short-term loan to enlarge his workshop and buy the materials for a new contract.’ She shook her head. ‘I believed him and extended my mortgage by . . . £20,000.’ She swallowed.
‘And he blew it?’
‘I’m not sure be
cause it’s worse than just that. We shared a workshop and he took all my designs, creations and raw materials from the safe.’
‘I see.’
‘It was everything I’d done in preparation for the young designers’ exhibition and I can’t claim on insurance because there has been no break-in.’
‘And the culprit?’
‘Gone. Vanished.’ She choked on the last word. ‘My career up in smoke and the flat sold to pay the debts.’
‘And has it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good.’
‘You’re not upset?’ She frowned.
‘You are well and as I said at the start, you are with me.’ He placed a hand under her chin. ‘No one died.’
She flinched. ‘True.’
‘It can be fixed.’ He gave her a little smile.
‘Yes.’ But she wasn’t sure how.
‘I wished you’d asked for my help.’ He led them to the sofa.
‘I couldn’t.’
He shook his head. ‘Everything is easier when it’s shared.’
‘You and Gran.’
They sat side by side.
‘I miss her.’ His voice wobbled.
‘You two had such great love.’
‘We did.’
‘Bonded through shared experience.’ He looked down.
She wrapped her arm around him. ‘I’m so grateful she had you and I have too.’
‘Thank you, Lottie.’ He wiped the tears from his cheeks with his hankie. Mrs Hoskine’s words about Gran finding peace came to her. Her mother needed to find peace. She hoped she could.
Gramps’ eyes closed. His exhaustion was deep, and Lottie felt it in her bones.
Alex walked into the snug, holding her phone as if it was poisonous. ‘This has been ringing non-stop.’ As she took it, the screen flashed with a text.
Have located your husband Paul. All is not lost, he’s not in Thailand but Birmingham. Call me ASAP.
Lottie dared to glance at Alex. His expression was neutral, and he avoided her gaze.
‘So, he’s not your boyfriend but your husband.’ Alex’s voice was quiet, but Gramps heard him.
‘Lottie?’
‘I’m sorry, Gramps.’
He shook his head and sank into his chair. ‘Why didn’t you say?’
‘Why didn’t she say what?’ Her mother came into the room.
Lottie’s heart sank further but she pulled her shoulders back. ‘I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you all that I married Paul in Vegas in April.’
‘What?’ Her mother stopped walking in mid-step. ‘You’ve been married for months and you didn’t tell me?’
‘We were drunk, and it seemed a good idea at the time.’ Lottie looked at the floor. She’d known the next day that she’d made a huge mistake. Even now her stupidity made her stomach sour.
‘Oh Lottie.’ Her mother went to her just as Lottie’s phone rang again.
‘It’s the private investigator. I need to take this.’ With her head down, Lottie walked out the front. She should be happy. Paul had been found and if nothing else, it would make the divorce easier if not swifter.
85
Joan
5 August 1962, 4.00 p.m.
I sit watching Diana sleep with her arms still tight around Ben. Reaching out, I brush the hair from her face. My hands shake. They are the same hands that pushed her father to his death. My stomach turns. This game seemed so simple when it was going well. But now I have crossed a border. It isn’t a game and I have taken a father from my child. There will be no more happy moments watching him sit with her while she practises. No more bedtime stories. I close my eyes and wish it had been me who had gone over the cliff.
‘Mummy.’ Diana looks at me. ‘Mummy, please. Please don’t cry.’
I can’t stop the tears. Diana sits and throws her arms around me. I shake with the sobs that come from deep within.
‘Here, take Ben.’ She thrusts the old bear at me. ‘He’s held me like Daddy did.’
I cry out. My pain has no place to go as my daughter wraps her small arms around me and the bear. ‘Shush, Mummy, shush.’ She kisses my forehead. ‘I love you,’ she says as she tries to rock me like she was soothing a baby.
‘Daddy loved you.’
I suck in air.
‘He didn’t love Mr Venn.’
My hand flies to my mouth. No.
‘Daddy . . .’
I interrupt her. ‘Darling, you must never mention Mr Venn again.’
‘But Mummy—’
I take her hands in mine. ‘Look at me. You must forget what you saw.’ I swallow hard. ‘It never happened.’
‘But it did.’
Shaking my head violently, I try not to squeeze her hands too tightly. ‘Please, Diana, do not ever speak of what you saw to anyone.’
She frowns.
‘Promise me.’
I can see the questions running through her mind.
‘What if someone asks me?’
‘Then you must lie.’ Her eyes are wide and there is an expression of pleading. They don’t understand.
‘But . . .’
‘No buts. You must lie.’
‘But you’ve told me not to.’
I take a deep breath in. She’s eight, so young in so many ways and yet so clever beyond her years. ‘The best thing to do is to forget it.’
‘But how? How do you forget?’
Pulling her into my arms, I say, ‘I don’t know, darling, but somehow we must try.’ The sun streams through the window and the sound of the sea vies with the happy squeals of delight as families enjoy their holidays. We will never forget while we are here. We must leave Boskenna.
DESIRE LINES
86
Joan
6 August 1962, 12.30 p.m.
‘You’ve got to eat something.’ Mrs Hoskine stands with her hands on her hips. She peers at me as if she is trying to see what is inside and that is the last thing that I want anyone to see. Inside is black and it is withering. I can’t believe that I was so sloppy, and she caught me with the gown.
‘I just can’t face food.’
‘Diana needs to see you eating.’ Her glance pierces me with its intensity.
‘I see.’
‘Do you?’
I nod and pick up the piece of bread on the table. Outside rain pelts down. It is the bank holiday so of course there is rain. I had longed for it yesterday but today sun would help. Now we are trapped in the house in more ways than one. The chief inspector arrived yesterday, late afternoon.
I feel like I’m caught in a detective novel. But worse than that is that I know who the killer was, and so does George. He has kept his distance. There is so much at stake. What about the next drop? I now have no cover story, no reason to go back to Moscow except to pack up our things. I’ve already had a phone call from the ambassador. The news of Allan’s death has spread quickly. Mrs Hoskine and Tom are taking all the phone calls. But Tom, I am concerned about him. Haunted is the only word I can use and I haven’t had time for him. Diana needs me. She is inconsolable and trying to be brave for me.
I wash the dry crumbs of the toast down with cold tea. I have to pull myself together for Diana. They are going to question her shortly. I put the cup on the table. ‘Thank you, Mrs Hoskine.’
She nods, and the force of her look leaves me reprimanded. Her stare doesn’t leave me and I begin to wonder if somehow she knows. But the logical part of my mind has been over the evening repeatedly. No one was awake in the house and there had been no lights on in the cottage. I’d been careful. I’d even cleaned my plimsoles when I’d returned. Nothing should give away my part. Nothing. But of course, I am guilty and I have never needed to look less guilty in my life. Last night in bed I rolled over and could still smell his cologne on the pillow. I hugged it to me and let the tears come. Only in the dark hours could I let go, but I didn’t know what I was crying for. It worried me that I was not so much grieving for Allan, as the me that had existed jus
t a few days ago.
Climbing the stairs to Diana’s room, I find her sitting by the window with her finger tracing the raindrops as they race down the glass. Her cheeks are blotchy and wet from tears. My heart contracts as I go to her and place a hand on her shoulder. She turns and looks up. I could drown in the despair in her eyes.
‘My girl.’ I open my arms and she rests her head against my stomach as I hold her tight. She is now the only child I will ever have, which only days ago was just what I’d wanted. But I had wanted us to be a complete family, Allan, Diana and me.
‘Mummy, do I have to talk to the policeman?’
I nod.
‘But how can I?’
I see her holding back words and I know the effort it is taking. ‘Just answer the questions they ask as best as you can.’
‘But Mummy, Daddy said something when he tucked me in.’
I hug her tighter. ‘That he loved you.’
She sniffed. ‘He did say that but . . .’
‘That’s all you need to remember.’
‘But Mummy he said he was dead already.’
I freeze. ‘Forget that. I’m sure he meant something else.’ I stroke her hair. ‘It was just a tragic accident.’
‘Are you sure?’
Meeting her glance, I say, ‘Yes, and remember you promised me.’
She nods. ‘But why?’
‘Because it would confuse things.’
‘I must lie.’ Her eyes are wide and tear-filled.
‘It’s just not saying. It’s just forgetting.’ I watch her beautiful face. Her thoughts are so clear. ‘It’s just not important. Let it go.’
‘But . . .’
I pull her tight against me. ‘Just forget what you saw. It is unimportant.’
‘If you say so, Mummy.’ She picks up her dolls from the windowsill and nests them.
‘I do. Now promise me.’
‘I promise.’ She puts the dolls down again then pushes them from her.
Kissing her forehead, I pray. She is such an honest child, but I know she can do this. I’m not asking too much of her. I can’t be. She has to lie.
‘Mummy, when you followed them, what did you see?’
