by Liz Fenwick
‘Because of your background—’
‘In naval intelligence, yes.’
‘I see.’ The sun was catching the ripples in the water, creating sparkling explosions. It was blinding. She thought of Gran’s jewels, her work, her non-existent flat and she wondered what the hell was she going to do now.
‘Penny for them.’
‘Thinking about the disaster zone that is my personal life.’
‘Ah, you were keeping that a secret.’
‘Wouldn’t you?’ She shook her head. ‘I’d made such a mess of things again.’
‘But it’s not so bad now.’
‘True.’ She laughed and began to stroll with his hand still in hers. ‘I need to make a new start. Tomorrow I have to try to sort things out with the V&A, if I can, and once that’s done, I need to find a job and a place to live.’
‘What do you want to do?’
She looked around and saw his cousin closing the café. That bracelet. The mussel shell. The sea glass. ‘Maybe I want to create jewellery inspired by the beach and by Cornwall.’
‘Not grand designs?’
She laughed. ‘Don’t get me wrong. I enjoy that, but a bit like Gran’s jewels, they don’t get worn but sit in a box most of the time. It would be good to make more affordable pieces.’ There had been one thing she’d glimpsed among Gran’s jewels that had stirred her imagination. It was a brooch with a large central aquamarine encircled in ribbon-like threads of silver studded with small crystals. The colour of the stone had brought the sea glass cabochon in the entrance hall of Boskenna to mind. With sea glass, she could create pieces that could be worn every day and enjoyed.
‘Then why don’t you do it?’
‘Easier said than done.’
‘Well, there is more than enough space here at Boskenna for a workshop or four.’
She smiled.
‘In fact, you could run jewellery-making workshops, you could even host weekend courses using the house to put people up.’
She turned to look up to the house. ‘Gramps . . .’
‘I don’t think he’d object. He’d love the company.’ He smiled.
‘Maybe, but of course . . .’
‘What?’ He gave her a sideways glance.
‘The house now belongs to Mum.’
‘Oh.’
‘She’s keen on the V&A exhibition launching me again.’
‘That’s not a bad idea. Then you could begin your business again with that on your CV.’
‘You make it all sound simple.’
‘Nothing worthwhile is ever simple, but that doesn’t mean it’s impossible.’
She laughed and looked up at the cloudless sky. ‘I’ll think about it.’
‘That’s definitely a start. And you’re not tied down to anyone.’
‘No.’ The relief was still overwhelming, but she felt lighter.
‘So, a new beginning?’
‘Possibly.’ She took a step towards him and kissed him. He stilled, and regret ran over her like the sea over her feet at that very moment. But then she felt him smile against her lips and his arms wrap around her.
‘I’ve been longing for this for years,’ he whispered.
‘Me too.’ She smiled. ‘I’ve dreamed of it.’
‘A kiss to build a dream on . . .’ he said before he kissed her again.
90
Diana
6 August 1962, 6.30 p.m.
Dragging her feet, Diana went into the garden shed to find a small spade. She put the Russian dolls down on a shelf and looked through the various tools.
‘There you are.’ Mrs Hoskine stood at the door. ‘Your mother is already in the car. We haven’t been able to find you anywhere.’ She shook her head and said, ‘I never would have thought to find you in here.’ She laughed and held open her arms. ‘Come and give me a big hug, my lovely.’
Diana raced to her and breathed in the smell of fresh-baked scones. ‘I’m going to miss you, little one.’ She held her at a distance and Diana felt that Mrs Hoskine was trying to memorize every detail of her. Diana tried to do the same. Mrs Hoskine picked up her hand and they walked the gravel path beside the grass. Light rain fell. Boskenna was crying because they were leaving but Diana had to be brave. Mummy needed her to be because Mummy was sad.
She waited by the car under an umbrella and she wasn’t smiling. More than almost anything, Diana wanted to see Mummy smile and laugh again. It was all Diana’s fault.
‘Be a good little thing.’ Mrs Hoskine let her hand go and wiped her eyes with a hankie. ‘I’m going to miss you but the good Lord willing, it won’t be too long until you’re back.’
Diana nodded and wrapped her arms around her. She didn’t want to leave. But this was all because of her so she had to be good. Mummy handed Mrs Hoskine the umbrella then took Diana’s hand, and they climbed into the back seat. Mr Hoskine drove and they went slowly through the gate. Diana rubbed a fist against her eyes, she would not cry. Mummy looked out of the window while Diana twisted around to watch until she couldn’t see the gates anymore.
‘Mummy!’
‘Yes.’ She looked at Diana.
‘I left Ben on the bed, and my diary.’
Mummy turned her wrist over and looked at her watch. ‘I’m afraid we haven’t got time to go back and pick them up before our train. I’ll have Mrs Hoskine send them.’ She wrapped an arm around Diana and pulled her close, kissing the top of her head. ‘This is all very hard, but we will be OK.’ She smiled but her eyes didn’t.
‘Thank you, Mummy.’ Diana twisted around again and through the back window she saw the last glimpse of St Austell Bay. She hoped she’d be home soon, and it wouldn’t take too long for Mrs Hoskine to send Ben and the diary to her in London. Boskenna was hers and Mummy’s home and she wanted with all her heart to be back there.
91
Diana
6 August 2018, 6.45 p.m.
Diana sat at the desk and stared out of the window. Scattered in front of her were all the photographs of her early life. Boskenna had kept them safe. They were not faded or water damaged, but had been waiting. The question now was what to do with Boskenna? In her heart she didn’t think that George would last long without her mother. His role was finished, he was no longer anchored to this earth.
Outside, Lottie and Alex were walking hand in hand, their heads close together and conspiratorial. Love, quite possibly. Memories of that feeling stirred. Arash. What would he have done?
Playing with her mother’s enamelled locket around her neck, she stood and studied the books on the shelves, the gardening tomes and the photographs of Lottie. Although her heart ached for Arash and the missed years with her daughter, Diana had time, unlike her mother. Both she and Diana had travelled the world searching for something, but her mother had willingly come home to Boskenna. It had called to her. Was that what Diana’s dreams had been doing?
Leaving the office, she walked through the house, wandering from room to room. She had loved it once. Could she now? George’s snores drifted into the hallway. She smiled, looking at her watch. It was not like him to have missed cocktail hour. Turning, she strolled into the dining room. If she wanted to, she would have time to look at, if not read, every one of these books. What would they tell her about the people who had placed them here? She ran her fingers over the titles but didn’t pull any off the shelves. Her glance was drawn to the far staircase. Somehow, she was certain this had been her favourite spot in the house as a child. She climbed to the halfway landing and looked up at the lantern light. The sky was blue and cloudless. Sitting on the step, she remembered she’d been happy here.
Lottie’s voice carried through the house as she spoke to George and Alex. It was tinged with joy. This was a place of magic, Diana’s father had told her years before. Closing her eyes, she saw her mother dancing in her father’s arms laughing. Love encircled her. It was time to stop running. She stood, looked heavenward, and said a silent thank you before she walked to find the other
s.
In the drawing room, she lifted the piano lid and touched the keys. She hadn’t played piano since she’d left, but now her fingers moved of their own accord, picking out ‘Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star’. She would learn again, and she would play a new song. Closing the lid, she walked out of the French windows to join the others on the lawn. Alex was opening a bottle of champagne. The time had come to raise a toast to her mother and to Boskenna, her home.
Acknowledgements
I can’t believe this is my seventh book. My first novel, The Cornish House, was published in 2012 and it fulfilled a lifelong dream. I am still pinching myself that people enjoy reading my stories. The Path to the Sea wouldn’t have been written without my readers. I am so grateful for each and every person who has read and loved my books. Thank you.
There were many people who played a part in making this book happen but the first thanks go to my mother-in-law. In the 60s and 70s she kept a hostess diary chronicling her entertaining. It provided the first spark for the story and an insight into a very different world.
Porthpean House owned by the Petherick family is the inspiration for Boskenna. Martin Petherick has been gracious sharing his knowledge of the garden, the area and the history of the house. I could spend the rest of my days reading all the books on Cornwall contained in the library/dining room of the house.
As is always the way with me, the book takes many different paths until it finds the right road. David Blanning and Michael Wierenga, both retired policemen, set me straight on what would happen in 1962 and in 2008 if a death occurred from a cliff fall. All mistakes are my own. Chris Newman willingly subjected himself to my questions about the Navy . . . again all mistakes are my own.
The character of Ralf Venn was named by Nick Jacobs in honour of his dog, Ralf, after winning the auction at the Helford Village Regatta. The money raised went to support the RNLI and St John’s Ambulance.
When I was having a dark night of the soul over this book and not sure where this story was going, Clare Maycock read and reread the story and helped me to keep my sanity intact! Thank you, thank you, thank you!!
Brigid Coady has brainstormed, plot-walked and drunk sherry in the service of this book. She deserves a medal for surviving my doubt. Julia Hayward has cast her exacting glance over the early portions and, as usual, set me straight on a few things. Wonderful fellow Cornish author Mandy James, put me in touch with her brother Martin White, a jewellery designer. He talked me through the training and degree course that Lottie would have done. Kit Falconer checked my Russian translation to make sure Google hadn’t provided me with completely the wrong meaning. And for the curious, ‘У меня не было выбора’ means ‘I had no choice’ and ‘Я не могла поступить иначе’ means ‘I couldn’t do otherwise’.
I am so grateful for the support and sound advice of Luigi and Alison Bonomi.
Kate Mills has yet again pulled the best story out of me. It never ceases to amaze me. Huge thanks to Genevieve Pegg for her keen eye on the copyedits, to Victoria Moynes for her patience, and to the whole team at HQ for their hard work and enthusiasm.
For research, I subjected my whole extended family and friends to 1960s food and a black-tie evening at Porthpean House. They all went along with my crazy requests, while Clay Roberts played the piano until well after three in the morning and we all sang (badly), danced (badly), and generally had far too much fun. The family tolerated all my questions over dinner, breakfast and lunch of how a body would fall if pushed from a cliff as opposed to if it simply fell . . . and they didn’t book me into the nearest asylum. Chris, Dom, Andrew and Sasha are all the best, the most tolerant, and the most fun family anyone could ask for . . . I love them all and am grateful everyday they are mine.
About the Publisher
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