LIZ FENWICK was born in Massachusetts and after ten international moves she’s back in the United Kingdom with her husband and two mad cats. She made her first trip to Cornwall in 1989 and bought her home there seven years later. She’s a bit of a global nomad but her heart forever remains in Cornwall. For more information visit lizfenwick.com. Or find her procrastinating on Twitter @liz_fenwick

Also by Liz Fenwick

The Cornish House

A Cornish Affair

A Cornish Stranger

Under a Cornish Sky

A Cornish Christmas Carol

The Returning Tide

One Cornish Summer

Copyright

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019

Copyright © Liz Fenwick 2019

Liz Fenwick asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © June 2019 ISBN: 9780008290511

PRAISE FOR LIZ FENWICK

‘The queen of the contemporary Cornish novel’

The Guardian

‘Full of warmth, wisdom and compassion . . . Liz Fenwick’s writing is vivid, satisfying and descriptive’

Daily Express

‘Engrossing and romantic – a perfect holiday read’

Rachel Hore

‘Wonderfully intriguing and compelling . . . Together with Liz’s usual beautiful evocation of the Cornish scenery this was a brilliant read’

Barbara Erskine

‘Authentic and compelling . . . I loved it’

Rosanna Ley

‘As heartbreaking as it is absorbing . . . I read it in one day’

Kate Riordan

‘Intriguing, deeply felt and poignant’

Elizabeth Buchan

For the friend who has travelled the journey of my life, filling it with laughter, sharing the tears and the secrets, saving the memories and being an anchor when the waves of grief threatened to set me adrift.

Although we have chosen different paths, you remind me of the starting point and how far we have travelled. Great friendship doesn’t require proximity, just great love.

Thank you Christine.

Two roads diverge in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

Robert Frost, ‘The Road Not Taken’

Contents

Cover

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

PRAISE

Dedication

THE WAYMARKER

1. Lottie

SEA ROADS

2. Diana

3. Joan

4. Lottie

5. Lottie

6. Joan

7. Lottie

8. Diana

9. Lottie

10. Diana

11. Joan

12. Diana

13. Lottie

14. Joan

15. Lottie

16. Diana

17. Lottie

18. Diana

19. Lottie

20. Joan

21. Lottie

22. Diana

MILESTONE

23. Joan

24. Lottie

25. Diana

26. Diana

27. Lottie

28. Diana

29. Lottie

30. Joan

31. Lottie

32. Diana

33. Joan

34. Lottie

35. Diana

36. Diana

37. Joan

38. Diana

39. Lottie

40. Joan

41. Diana

42. Lottie

CROSSROADS

43. Lottie

44. Joan

45. Diana

46. Lottie

47. Diana

48. Lottie

49. Joan

50. Diana

51. Lottie

52. Joan

53. Diana

54. Lottie

55. Lottie

56. Joan

57. Lottie

58. Lottie

59. Diana

60. Lottie

61. Joan

62. Diana

63. Joan

64. Joan

65. Diana

THE CAUSEWAY

66. Lottie

67. Lottie

68. Joan

69. Joan

70. Lottie

71. Joan

72. Lottie

73. Joan

74. Diana

75. Lottie

76. Joan

77. Lottie

78. Joan

79. Lottie

80. Diana

81. Joan

82. Lottie

83. Diana

84. Lottie

85. Joan

DESIRE LINES

86. Joan

87. Lottie

88. Joan

89. Lottie

90. Diana

91. Diana

Acknowledgements

About the Publisher

THE WAYMARKER

1

Lottie

3 August 2008, 11.30 p.m.

All was silent except for the sound of the waves reaching the beach. ‘Happy anniversary,’ he said.

Lottie frowned. ‘Anniversary?’ Turning, she tried to see his expression. ‘Are you taking the piss?’

He traced her mouth with his finger. ‘Would I do that?’

‘Yes.’

She felt rather than heard his laugh as his body was stretched out next to hers, thigh to thigh, hip to hip.

‘We’ve been together for a month and a half.’

‘So, we’re celebrating half months as well as months?’

He kissed her long and slow and she wasn’t sure what they had been talking about as his hand ran across the skin of her back, just above her jeans.

‘I celebrate every day, every minute, every second that you are mine.’

Her breath caught and held, and she looked up to the sky. The milky way stretched above, vast and mystical. She was captivated. The universe and all its glory filled her. Here on this beach, wrapped in his arms, was where she wanted to be always. It could happen if they wanted it enough and she believed they did.

‘Alex?’

‘Yes?’ His arm tightened around her.

‘Will . . .’ Just then a shooting star sped across the sky and seemed to fall into the sea. She wished with all her heart that she could be in Alex’s arms for the rest of her life. She rolled onto him. ‘Did you see it too?’

‘The shooting star?’

‘Yes.’ He kissed her.

‘Did you make a wish?’

He nodded and pushed her hair back, tucking it behind her ears. ‘I did.’

‘I wonder if it was the same thing?’

‘I hope so,’ he whispered against her ear.

She brought her mouth to his, praying that he would be hers forever. ‘Tell me.’

‘No, because if I do it won’t come true.’ He pulled her even closer to him.

‘You are all my dreams come true,’ she said, wrapping her arms around him.

He hummed Gramps’ favourite song, ‘A Kiss to Build a Dream On’, and she knew then they would make it happen . . . Alex and her and Cornwall forever.

SEA ROADS

2

Diana

3 August 2018, 12.00 p.m.

St Austell Bay gleamed in the distance as Diana Trewin turned left towards Porthpean and Boskenna. Once she had longed for Boskenna with everything that was in her. Every night she would clutch her pillow to her chest and pretend she could hear the sea, then she would dream. In those dreams she wandered sunlit rooms, seeing glamour and hearing the echoes of music and laughter. She would discover new rooms and new treasures then she would wake and the world around wasn’t as bright or as beautiful. Those dreams still came to her, mostly at times of stress. She escaped to those visions of blue sea and sky, big lawns and a library filled with every book she could want. No real house could live up to what her mind had created.

Last night she’d had that dream again. She’d walked Boskenna’s halls, seen the views and discovered new rooms. It was achingly familiar and yet entirely new. Something was forever just out of reach. She had always assumed that it was her father. If Diana found one more room, or the right book on the correct shelf then a secret door would open and her lost childhood with her father would appear. He would tell her that he’d just been playing hide and seek. She was his fierce huntress and she had found him. But no book, or panel or secret door would reveal her father, Allan Trewin. The morning light always showed the truth. Boskenna wasn’t a palace of delights but a big draughty dwelling, housing two old people.

Now she was just moments away and the lane narrowed, funnelling her towards the beach. A sharp turn and she was through the gates. Yesterday the call that every adult child expects and dreads when their parents reach a certain age had come. ‘Your mother’s dying,’ George Russell, her mother’s second husband, had said. She wasn’t sure how she felt about returning to Boskenna or about her mother. But that didn’t matter. Some things have to be done.

She parked next to George’s old Jag and grabbed her overnight bag. A shiver of recognition and homecoming covered her skin as she walked across the gravelled drive towards the house. She’d only been back to Boskenna a few times since she’d left it as an eight-year-old. Her heart had broken then – and a few more times since – and now it was whole, if patched. It performed its job a bit like the roof on the caretaker’s cottage to her left where a bit of blue tarpaulin covered an eave.

Outside the front door she stopped and turned to the bay. The heat of the sun beat down on her and the happy cries rose up from the beach. The world went on, while somewhere inside her mother was dying. She paused, feeling that sharp contrast between life and death, between the holiday world on the beach below and the everyday life in Boskenna. Even back in 1962 when she had spent her last summer holiday here, Boskenna existed on a different plain. She had tripped lightly among the intelligent and interesting, the suntanned and the salt-encrusted. That was all she remembered because tears had erased the important bits.

A seagull landed on the lawn and peered at her. The tilt of his head asked her why she was here. Duty she guessed. She pushed a piece of gravel with her toe. Diana and her mother, Joan Trewin Russell, had nothing to say to each other. They hadn’t for years. If Diana were honest this was a sadness she had sought to lose in her work. Travelling the world as a war correspondent had filled the void for years, but now she was slowing down and that left gaps. Unwanted thoughts and questions had begun to seep into the spaces.

Looking at the lawn, a memory of playing tag with her mother flashed in Diana’s mind. She was laughing and so was her mother. Once they must have been close but since her father died over fifty years ago, that had evaporated. Her mother loved Diana in her way. Diana had wanted for nothing . . . except her. Everything changed and she knew it was because of that long weekend fifty-six years ago.

The front door was open, and she couldn’t stand on the threshold forever, as tempting as the view was. George would be around somewhere. Striding in, she put the past aside to focus on what was happening now.

In the hallway the temperature dropped, and she shivered. The newspaper on the large round table in the centre of the hall flapped. Due to her early start she hadn’t read the papers cover to cover as she normally would, but she’d listened to today’s stories on the radio. They were eerily similar to those in her last summer here. She flattened the pages and placed an empty vase on top of it. In 1962 the world had been on the brink of nuclear war with the Soviet Union and currently the great bear was roaring again. The world moved forward and thought things would be better, but people never learned.

She peered into the drawing room then the snug, but George wasn’t in sight and she was reluctant to call out. All was quiet aside from a lawnmower and the distant beach sounds. The small kitchen was empty too. There was nothing for it but to head up to her mother’s room. She dropped her bag on an empty chair and took the stairs slowly, trying to prepare. She had seen the dead and the dying, but she knew this was different despite her ambivalent feelings.

On the landing she hesitated. A cough echoed down the hallway. Her mother was still alive. Diana was not too late to say goodbye. The floorboards complained as she walked the corridor. A closet popped open as she passed, and she glanced away. It would be full and what on earth would Diana do with it all? Maybe she would be lucky, and it would be empty. The house had been let for nearly thirty years. It wasn’t until George retired in 1990 that Boskenna had become her mother’s home again. Diana stopped. She’d seen her mother’s will years ago. Boskenna would come to her but George had the right to live in it until his death. Her mother, of course, had expected to outlive George. That was the normal order of things but that hadn’t worked for her grandmother either. Caroline Penquite, née Carew, had died of cirrhosis of the liver long before her husband Edward had passed away. Boskenna had bypassed him and gone straight to Diana’s mother.

There were seven steps up to the landing in front of her mother’s room. An odd detail to recall but she used to hop up and down them. Now the door was wide open, and the smell of illness hung in the air. Every few seconds as she stood there, she heard a raspy breath. Yet she remained motionless, staring not at her mother propped up in a chair but out of the windows. This room commanded an all-encompassing view, or it would have done if the trees hadn’t been allowed to grow untended.

Boskenna had been added to over the years as the wealth of the family had increased. This room sat in the extension made in the 1840s. The ceilings were higher, and the sea-facing wall curved out towards the bay. Twenty years later the north end of the house was extended in the same way. As with all the windows at the front of the house, these framed a view. Gribben Head baked in the August sun while boats with white sails dotted the bay. It was postcard perfect, but what pithy lines would she pen on the back? Mother unwell but perfect holiday weather . . .

She could make out Carrickowel Point, the little headland to the left, which seemed to spring from the end of Boskenna’s garden. Black Head to the right was just visible through the trees. Beauty could stop her in her tracks, but that wasn’t what was holding her here on the threshold. Fear was. It was foolish because in the course of her work she had walked straight up to men holding guns pointed at her heart, but here she was rooted to the spot afraid of facing her dying mother. What could she say? She’d thought about this the whole drive and she’d rehearsed words and phrases. ‘I love you,’ being one of them. But then the questions that had gnawed at her for years popped up. They would not sink down into the recesses of her mind. Like children’s toy ducks pushed to the bottom of the bath, they kept bobbing back up bringing unwanted emotions with them.

Clenching her hands, she took one step after the other, keeping her gaze focused out of the windows. A gull swooped down from the roof and she jumped. She was hardened and had seen death in its worst forms, but her head refused to turn to look at her mother.

George had been right to call her, but it would have been easier to come for the funeral. Being here now still gave her time, and time demanded action in some way. She exhaled. Standing here she couldn’t avoid thinking of her father, missing what she could barely remember. She’d been eight when he died, and she only had one photo of the two of them. Years ago, when she’d asked for others her mother had shrugged and said she didn’t know what had happened to them. Diana had found that hard to believe. Why wouldn’t she know? But her mother had never changed her answer.

Around this one photo she had structured all her memories. The housekeeper at the time, Mrs Hoskine, had sent it to Diana at boarding school. Closing her eyes, she could envision the washed-out colours of the snapshot. Diana was on her father’s shoulders and they were looking out to the bay. Both of them were smiling and pointing. On that day she had been a pirate about to sail the seven seas but always to return home to Boskenna. Now, home and Boskenna were two words she wouldn’t put in the same sentence. Diana’s last visit, ten years ago, had been because of her daughter, Lottie . . . artistic, flighty, and too trusting.

Her mother wheezed, and Diana turned to look at her. She had known what Lottie needed right from the start. Diana had been wrong. Not just then but in so much of her life. Yet she was sixty-four and still at the peak of her profession, about ready to slow down and allow others to move into her shoes. Her career, she was proud of but not much else and certainly not her mothering skills. Those she had learned from the woman in the chair. How she had longed for the closeness that Lottie had with her grandmother. Jealousy left a bitter taste and even now it lingered about the sides of her tongue.

Her mother’s eyes were closed, and Diana watched the laboured rise and fall of her chest. Her brain told her to speak, to make her presence known. In the mirror on the wardrobe door she caught sight of her reflection but also glimpsed something else. She blinked. It was a dark-haired child, but there was no child in the room. She was imagining it. She was alone with her mother. The only figure in the mirror was Diana. Noticing the slight stoop, she straightened her shoulders.

Another step took her to the chair. Her mother’s short, white hair was clean but not styled. Somehow it made her appear vulnerable. That was a word Diana didn’t associate with her mother. No foundation covered the discolouration on her forehead and cheeks, yet she seemed younger. Only her dried cracked lips distorted the image.

‘У меня не было выбора’ Her mother moved her head back and forth.

‘What?’ Diana bent down to try and hear her better.

‘Я не могла поступить иначе’

‘Mum, what on earth are you saying?’ She put her face close to her mother’s but pulled back at the smell of her stale breath. Her mother’s eyes opened wide, but Diana wasn’t sure what she was seeing. Haunted and hollowed were the words that described her, and Diana began to process the scene as if with camera angles. Taking in the sweep of the room and the view before a close-up on a dying woman’s face. Then it hit her, and she sank onto the edge of the bed. This wasn’t a war zone and she didn’t know what to do. There was no cameraman and she hadn’t written a script.

3

Joan

Friday, 3 August 1962, 1.00 p.m.

The sun breaks through the low cloud and I squint at the brightness, slipping through the gate and onto the coastal path. In moments I reach the watchtower. The area is mostly quiet these days with only a few walkers venturing onto Carrickowel Point. Despite being built because of the war, this is a peaceful place. Clouds race across the sky and the sea below is splattered with their shadows. With sun one minute then rain the next, it is classic Cornish summer weather as the Bank Holiday approaches. Guests are due in the next few hours. Everything is in place. The larder is full of food, the menus are selected, and the seating plans are organised. Nothing is left to chance. All is as it should be, as it is expected to be.

Placing the flower trug on the ground, I climb the few steps up to the watchtower and kick aside the loose newspaper on the ground. A quick glance reveals it is from two days ago. Someone else must have stolen away here to read the news in peace. But that is the only thing peaceful about the news. It is filled with the Cold War. I’ve had enough four-minute warnings, nuclear tests and awkward diplomacy. Here in Cornwall, away from Moscow, I want to escape that world. We need to relax. Too much tension surrounds us. I strike a match, light my cigarette, inhale and will the tension in me to leave. Slowly exhaling, I notice my pink lipstick marks on the cigarette.

The world is balanced on the edge, yet looking out at the bay below it all seems distant. A carefree laugh emerges from me unbidden and I take another drag on my cigarette. The smoke clouds my view of the beach, but through the haze I can see our sailing boat coming ashore. Allan and our daughter, Diana, have been out on the water for hours and the tide is just allowing them to return to the beach. They will be damp and weary which isn’t ideal with guests arriving in a few hours. But it will be fine and I’m just jealous of their fun. The freedom of a day on the water is a gift, and I haven’t had that pleasure this holiday. After this weekend I will go with them.

I roll my neck. From the moment when I woke until now I haven’t stopped moving. Even cutting flowers hasn’t provided the quiet reflection I’m seeking. At first I welcomed the activity, the focus on the beautiful, the surface of things, but now every muscle is tense, waiting. This weekend must be perfect. The sun will shine, and laughter and gaiety will abound. There will be a new guest, an important one, at the dinner table tomorrow night. Every reasonable bed in the house will be occupied. I glance down at the flower basket, knowing I should head back to the house and finish the arrangements, but the solitude here at the watchtower is a tonic. Closing my eyes, I try to still my mind so that I can hear the birdsong and the sound of the sea below, but instead names and faces scroll through my mind as if I am memorizing a sheet of paper. We will have eighteen at dinner tomorrow night and ten this evening.

In some ways, things will be simpler when we head back to Moscow. But only in some ways as my clenched stomach reminds me. If only life consisted of ballet classes at the American Embassy and helping Diana with her school work. I hold my hand out and roll my wrist gracefully. The ballet mistress would approve. I laugh. She has no idea that I understand every word she speaks, especially those muttered under her breath. She watches us so closely, pretending that she comprehends little of our chattering before and after the class. But she is no different than any Russian we meet on a regular basis. Nothing is ever as it appears.

My fingers flex, touching the concrete of the tower. I loved my war years here at Porthpean. My parents remained in India but felt I would be safer here. That proved to be wrong, with the endless bombing of Plymouth and near-misses along this coastline. But it was a magic time. The house had been filled with refugees and evacuees, including me. My governess taught us all, but I learned the most from the refugees . . . a French chef, a Czech scholar, a Polish linguist and Elena, a Russian countess who was a distant relative of my mother.

Elena had turned up on the doorstep after the Blitz. I clutch the enamelled locket at my neck. It is my good luck charm. It had been hers. She hadn’t been wearing it when she’d been hit by a bus crossing the street in London in 1952. We had become close during our time together at Boskenna and I’d been touched when she’d left her jewellery to me. I release the locket, loving its touch against my skin. Because of the imperial connection I don’t wear it in Moscow. All her jewellery remains hidden here at Boskenna for my return trips. On arrival I pull out my jewellery case and find the locket and wear it. Boskenna is a haven, and with or without the locket, luck abounds here.

Down on the sand they are about to play beach cricket, Allan carries the bat and Diana races across the sand before she comes to a halt. Turning, I can see her grin from here. I grab my trug and race down the path to join them.

Casting off my shoes, I drop my basket of flowers. The sand is cool and damp from the earlier rain. Diana bowls and I sprint to catch the ball. Allan runs back and forth until I tag him out, laughing. Squeals of joy fill the air and Diana picks up the bat ready for her chance. Allan bowls slowly and Diana makes the most of it. I fumble the catch giving her more time. She races, plaits flying. Finally I tag her out and Allan scoops her high in the air. We twirl together.

‘Mummy, it’s your go,’ she says, grinning.

‘I’m hopeless at batting.’

Allan raises and eyebrow. ‘Can’t say much for your fielding skills either.’ He chuckles. ‘Salome would be better.’

‘Of course, she would Daddy. Dogs are brilliant at playing catch.’ Diana smiles and I think of her and our dog playing ball in the parks of Moscow. The dog would love it here as we all do.

‘Have a go, Mummy, please.’

I drop a kiss on her nose and take the bat. I remember playing here in summer holidays before the war. Allan makes a big effort of bowling. I can hear Diana moving behind me then I see Allan dropping the ball and running towards me. Frowning, I turn. A sailing boat is in trouble, caught over the rocks just hidden beneath the returning tide. Diana waves wildly trying to get their attention. Things don’t look good. So much for quiet family time. No doubt they are tourists here for the Bank Holiday weekend, but today’s wind and weather conditions are not ideal for the novice sailor. The sweep of golden sand is rapidly being covered by the sea and the easterly breeze is pushing the unlucky sailors onto the rocks.

I shake my head. In another hour their boat would be afloat but, no doubt, with some hull damage. However, Allan was already in the water. Damn fool husband and damn fool strangers. But I smile. Allan is quick to help and that is one of the many reasons I love him.

Diana and I watch as Allan, knee-high in water, is holding the strangers’ boat from the side, bracing it as the wind pushes it further in to shore. Although I can’t hear them, I know he is instructing them to get the sail down. By the looks of it, it is their first time doing it. Their incompetence would be funny to watch if guests weren’t arriving shortly.

Diana frowns. ‘Oh, it’s the Venns.’

‘Are these the people your father mentioned?’

She nods and right at that moment the best I can hope is that Allan won’t invite them up to the house for a drink. He’s been threatening to do it all week. I can’t pinpoint when these people arrived in our conversations, but last night he’d mentioned them again. They look harmless enough and certainly hopeless with regards to sailing.

Finally with him holding the side of their boat, there is enough water to manoeuvre off the rocks. He takes their painter and walks the boat towards Diana and me. He points up at Boskenna and my heart sinks. I don’t have time or energy for waifs and strays this weekend. Allan should know that, sense that, but he hasn’t been himself since we have come here on leave. He can’t be still but this isn’t unusual when we are away from the fishbowl of Moscow life. But his restlessness is different this week and my concern is that I can’t pinpoint why. Automatically my hand caresses my stomach. He has taken the last miscarriage harder than I have. For a man who had never wanted children he has become the ideal father, which surprised both of us.

The man from the boat leaps out. His swimming shorts display rather too much of his thighs. On top he wears a flimsy flower-covered shirt. He is almost pretty but along with having no sense about sailing he clearly doesn’t know how to dress for a Cornish summer’s day either. The east wind is touched with a cold underside. The forecast promises bright sunshine and warmth for tomorrow, but I will believe it when it happens. Right now, the sun is ducking behind the clouds and I wouldn’t be surprised if we have rain.

Diana grabs my hand and I look down at her in her navy guernsey. She is sensibly dressed for a day on the water. Her cotton trousers are rolled up to her knees. She is the image of a Cornish maid with her dark hair and brown eyes. Whereas the woman climbing off the boat with her high cheekbones and full mouth, is as underdressed as her husband. I pull my shoulders back and push my hair off my face. I am clothed like my daughter, but this woman is attired for the Côte d’Azur, in snug white shorts and a sleeveless shirt tied at her tanned midriff.

Together with Allan they pull the boat onto the sand. With my public smile in place, I try to make eye contact with my husband, but he is watching the strangers, his expression animated.

‘Darling.’ He turns to me. ‘I’d like you to meet Ralf and Beth Venn. The people I mentioned from America.’ He grins at them both, boyish and engaging, looking far younger than his thirty-six years. ‘They have rented Penweathers.’

‘Hello.’ I hold out my hand and Beth Venn extends her toned arm. Her hand limply grabs mine while she towers over me. I am not short, but I have to look up to meet her glance which falls away immediately.

‘Welcome to Cornwall,’ I say, then turn to Ralf Venn and offer him my hand. His grip is firm, but he quickly releases my hand too.

‘Thank you. It’s wonderful but the sailing is a bit different here.’ He grins and doesn’t quite look me in the eye. I don’t like him, despite his physical beauty, and I can’t explain this reaction to myself because it feels like jealousy.

I raise an eyebrow. ‘Really? No sails then?’

He laughs, still avoiding eye contact unlike most Americans in my acquaintance. ‘Good one. We’re from Chicago and have sailed lakes only.’

‘I see.’ But I don’t. His accent doesn’t sound Midwestern either, or was it the syntax?

‘I was just inviting them up to the house for a drink tonight, but they have other plans this evening.’ Allan’s glance meets mine and I stare back intently. ‘However they can make it for dinner tomorrow night.’

I swallow down my immediate reply. Tomorrow night is important, and I don’t need unknowns in the equation. I glare at Allan but open my eyes wide as I turn to his new friends and say, ‘How lovely.’

‘They’ve taken Penweathers for a year, so I thought it would be good for them to meet some people.’

‘How kind.’ I press my lips together slowly lifting the corners of my mouth into something resembling a smile. Two more people will bring the total to twenty for dinner. ‘Wonderful. We’ll see you tomorrow evening at six thirty for drinks followed by dinner.’ I push a loose tendril of hair off my face, feeling flustered for no reason. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I must dash back to the house as guests are due any minute.’ I lie. Picking up my basket I listen to Allan making plans with the Venns for tomorrow during the day when he and many of our guests would be enjoying the promised good weather. A piece of cobalt sea glass sparkles in a ray of sun light and I grab it, sighing long and low as I climb the steps on the path to the garden. Something isn’t right about the Venns, I’m not sure what it is, but nor do I have time to dwell on it.

4

Lottie

3 August 2018, 3.10 p.m.

The traffic in front of her on the A390 came to a halt. Lottie’s knuckles went white. Would she make it in time? Why hadn’t she charged her phone last night? When she finally woke on the last morning in her flat and plugged in her phone, there were three messages from Gramps asking her to call. The final one said, ‘My darling girl, she’s leaving us. I don’t think it will be long.’ His voice had cracked, and Lottie had swallowed a sob. Her car had already been packed. She’d thrown the last of her stuff into the boot and waited for the estate agent to take the final set of keys for her flat.

It was fewer than three miles to Boskenna from here. She just wanted to drive up and over all these people. Didn’t they know she had to get home? She exhaled, and her glance darted to the fuel level. In normal circumstances she would have enough fuel, but with this traffic it would be touch and go.

She turned on the radio for distraction. There was nothing she could do and that was proving to be the story of her life. Her fingers stilled on the scan button as Ray Charles began singing ‘I Can’t Stop Loving You’. This was the lead song in the soundtrack to her life. Just a few notes and she had time-travelled back to the summer of 2008.

That summer had proved that life could alter in a moment and now it was about to change again. Gran. She shifted from neutral to first and back again. The changeover traffic on a Friday in August had never been good but this was brutal. Cornwall was full of people and now that included her, except this was not a holiday. She would give anything to have this just be a visit, but she had heard the fear in Gramps’ voice.

Traffic stopped again, and the only movement was on the other side of the road. There must be an accident ahead. Today was purportedly the hottest day of the summer and she was now watching the fuel gauge on her old Fiesta bounce in and out of the red. It was like her bank account. That too was empty. The trip meter said she’d done 286 miles since she’d last filled it up. She’d lived twenty-eight years never having let her finances or her fuel tank run dry. On the passenger seat her handbag contained only five pounds, her phone and not much else. She ground her teeth trying to think of positive things, which at the moment was very difficult.

She glanced in the rear-view mirror as traffic began moving again. The car was stuffed with her worldly possessions. That was something she didn’t want to think about. She just wanted to make it to see Gran. She had to. Her last visit had been anything but good, and recent phone calls had been stilted. Lottie couldn’t have that be the last conversation. She just couldn’t.

As the car crept along at ten miles an hour, she spotted the problem: a broken-down camper-van. She tensed, waiting for the ancient engine powering her car to cough and die but it didn’t. Finally turning left, she travelled past the new housing estate, and before long she went left again to Porthpean. That first glimpse of St Austell Bay caught her unprepared even though she’d made this journey thousands of times. Stretched out below, it looked as if she could touch it, but she always forgot the sheer jaw-dropping beauty and today was no different. The bright blue sea gleamed, and Gribben Head jutted out into the bay under a clear sky. The road narrowed, descending towards the cove, and her heart lifted then it crashed. Gran.

Even before the sharp turn through the gates, she pictured Boskenna and the view. White, green and blue. House, lawn and sea. Perfect harmony. Peace. The car spluttered its way past the green wooden gate on fumes. The gate was in need of painting and she might be wrong, but it looked like it was off its hinges and wouldn’t close even if she wanted it to. This wasn’t normal, but the sun was beating down on Boskenna and the view of the bay beckoned. It never disappointed even on a grey day. Here was home in a way she never felt anywhere else ever. It was in her bones. Every school holiday until university, this was where she lived.

Lottie parked and climbed out, taking a deep breath. The breeze was fragrant with sea air and freshly cut grass. She could do this. She stood tall. Gramps needed her. Dashing towards the front door, she caught a glimpse of broad shoulders walking through the courtyard. She stared for a second. Her brain said Alex but it couldn’t be. It was just wishful thinking brought about because of an old song. She hadn’t spoken to him in ten years and her last words to him had been unjust. But that wasn’t really important right now. Gran was. She ran, seeing a blur of large agapanthus heads against the white wall of the house. The colour popped with the intensity of their blue petals. They glowed like Tanzanite. Boskenna was different from every angle, but this view by the front door was her favourite. It had welcomed her every time as it did now.

The front door swung wide and Gramps hobbled out, leaning heavily on a cane. This was new. In February he hadn’t needed one. She swallowed then threw her arms around him. ‘Gramps, I’m so sorry I missed your calls.’

‘My darling Lottie, not to worry. You are here. That’s all that matters.’ His smile couldn’t have been wider, but he looked like he would break. He was eighty-eight, his birthday just last month, but how could he have become so fragile so quickly?

‘Gran?’ She studied his face for signs of hope. There were none.

‘Sleeping.’ He sighed.

‘Mum?’

‘Still upstairs, I believe.’ He shook his head and the smile slipped from his face. ‘I haven’t seen her yet.’ His weariness broke her heart and she wanted to wrap him in her arms again. When she was last here, she’d had Paul with her and maybe that was why she hadn’t seen their frailty. She’d been too bloody focused on making sure Paul had a good time. But he hadn’t. He’d hated Cornwall. It had rained like they needed an ark. Maybe Cornwall had hated him, or it had simply been giving her a sign which she’d ignored. God, she’d wished she’d listened. Since then Gramps had shrunk. He had never been a big man, but he’d been fit for his age. He stood in front of her now looking old, really old.

‘You must be desperate for tea. It’s such a beastly journey.’ His voice was still strong and distinctive with that peculiar mix of English vocabulary and American twang. It reminded her a bit of JFK in old documentaries.

‘Is it OK if I just go see Gran and then have some tea?’

He nodded.

‘I promise I won’t wake her.’

‘Go.’ He smiled at her.

She hesitated. Should she stay with him a bit longer? But she might not have much time with Gran. She raced up to Gran’s room. She was through the door, breathless, then stopped abruptly. Gran was asleep in a big armchair. Her beautiful skin was thin and slightly yellow with her white hair flat against her head. Lottie reached out to it. She could fix that for her. Even combing it would make Gran look more like Gran. That and a touch of pink lipstick.

An oxygen tube rested against her grandmother’s sunken cheeks. Just six months ago she was working in the garden. The camellias were about to kick into full glory and Gran had held up one, and said, ‘The red camellia represents love, passion and desire.’ She’d tucked a bloom behind Lottie’s ear and said, ‘You’ll know when you’ve found it and it will happen when you least expect it.’ Lottie had thought it had been a sign, but if it had she’d misread it, thinking that Paul had been what she’d been looking for. A white bloom had fallen at Gran’s feet. Lottie had picked it up and given it to her. Gran had smiled but there was sadness in her eyes. ‘The white camellia can mean good luck, perfection and loveliness but in Japan it means death and bad luck.’

Lottie glanced around the room now. There were no flowers and that was wrong. She was sure the garden would be full of them. Gran always had flowers in her room and in the house. Even in the depths of winter. There was one particularly fragrant tree that should be in bloom now if she remembered correctly. Flowers would help somehow, even if they provided mixed messages.

She leaned down and kissed Gran’s cheek. ‘I love you,’ she whispered. Gran didn’t move, and Lottie backed out of the room with a heavy heart, but then Gran opened her eyes and smiled.

‘Lottie, my love.’

Lottie returned to her side.

‘I’m so pleased you’re here.’ She looked towards the door. ‘Did you bring your young man?’

Looking away Lottie reminded herself to simply answer the question asked. ‘No.’ She turned to Gran. ‘He’s gone.’

‘Ah.’ Gran stared at her before putting out her hand to hold Lottie’s. ‘I thought I heard your mother’s voice.’

‘She’s here but I haven’t seen her.’

Gran nodded, and her eyes closed.

‘Can I get you anything?’

She looked up and smiled. ‘Nothing darling. I’m just tired . . . forgive me.’

‘Rest and I’ll find some flowers.’

Without opening her eyes, she said, ‘That will be lovely. Thank you.’ Taking a last glance at her grandmother, Lottie held back tears. How had she not known Gran was ill? Because she’d been wrapped up in her own life and what a bloody mess that was.

Downstairs the smell of the sea, low tide in particular, rushed in through the office window. God, she loved it here. Even though everything else was wrong, being here was right. She nipped out to the car to get her phone.

Three messages all from Sally, her solicitor and best friend.

Jamie Sharp, a private investigator, will be in touch. I told him all. Sxx

Lottie swallowed thinking of the cost. She opened the next message.

Don’t worry about the cost. He owes me a favour. Sxx

Looking out to the bay, she didn’t think this Jamie Sharp would be able to help. The police didn’t know where Paul was nor did his mother. She opened the last message.

He’s just pinged me to say he’s found something. Love this guy. He’ll be in touch. Hugs and send your grandparents my love. Sxx

Typing quickly, she replied.

Arrived. Gran not good. Gramps holding up. Thanks for all the help. Don’t know what I’d do without you. Lxx

Even if they tracked Paul down it would all be too late. She sighed and grabbed her handbag, leaving everything else for later. She’d store her stuff out of sight. The last thing she wanted was for her current situation to be known and for it to become a concern. She was twenty-eight and she would fix her own problems.

Stopping in the entrance vestibule, she took a deep breath. Boskenna was unchanged, but she was altered since she had last removed her boots here. The Chinese vase still stood in the corner with enough brollies and walking sticks to equip an army. Under the large mirror, the bowl filled with sea glass was covered in a fine layer of dust, as was the table it sat on. Lottie ran her fingers over a cloudy aquamarine cabochon of the sea. It was pitted and rolled to the perfect shape. Her fingers turned it over trying to feel her grandmother who would have found this on one of her morning strolls. Those treasures of the beach had inspired Lottie’s career. As a child, she’d used old bits of garden wire to form jewellery. Maybe she should have stuck with beach debris and string. She wouldn’t be broke, if she had.

Through the glass doors into the hall, delicate flower-covered china plates still adorned the upper reaches of the wall in the 1840s addition to the house. Here the ceiling was high, and the white wooden panels covered the walls to six foot. Off to her right the drawing room beckoned, with the grand piano and family portraits, but rather than turning in there towards the view she walked through the arch that had marked the beginning of the original building. The afternoon sunlight streamed through the south-facing window, warming the wide wooden floor boards. Instantly the house closed around her with its lower ceilings. It felt like a much-needed hug. Clearly she was not the only one who felt welcomed. A spider web extended across from the ceiling light to the tall clock. A feather duster would tackle that later. She made a mental list . . . paint the fence, dust the hall. Other signs of things slipping appeared with each glance. Was their daily help on holiday? If that was the case Lottie didn’t think there could be a worse time.

In the small sitting room, otherwise known as the snug, the tea things were laid out and the sight of a Battenberg cake set her stomach rumbling. Gran was dying but life here at Boskenna went through the motions as it always had.

Gramps hobbled towards her clutching the teapot at a dangerous angle. She rescued it from him. How was he managing? Had he brought the tea things in one item at a time?

‘Did you stop for lunch?’ He studied her, and she looked away, shaking her head. He’d been her confidant for as long as she could remember, especially when she couldn’t talk to Gran or Mum. Now she hadn’t the heart to tell him she couldn’t have afforded to stop for lunch. It would require an explanation and that was one thing she didn’t want to give. He had taken against Paul on that visit. It had been mutual, and it was one of the reasons she hadn’t seen her grandparents or her beloved Boskenna since that wet February weekend. She should have listened to Gramps. But hindsight was a wonderful thing.

He frowned as he manoeuvred into his favourite chair by the fireplace. ‘Will you be mother?’

She poured the tea and put a small spoonful of sugar into his cup. ‘Shall I cut you a slice of cake?’

He looked at her as if he was surprised to see her there. ‘Yes, thank you, just a small one, please.’

The silver handle of the cake slice was tarnished. Another job she could sort out for them. She had no idea how long she would be here, but the up-side of her situation was that she could be of use. She cut herself a big slice. This cake represented her childhood. Her life then had been divided into squares, time with Mum, time at school, time at Boskenna and time at friends’. The only misrepresentation was the size of the squares. The school and Boskenna squares should be larger. Now of course her life in cake would be far from neat. It would have a soggy bottom certainly and only one flavour.

Her mouth watered as she used the dainty cake fork. At least these were pristine. The explosion of sugar took moments to hit as it reached her empty stomach and blended with the caffeine. Over Gramps’ shoulder she could see dust collecting in the corners of the bookshelves. Mixed among the local history books behind him were some of her favourite children’s books. The cake dried in her mouth as she thought of her grandmother in bed upstairs.

‘Tell me about Gran.’

He picked up his cup. ‘It’s not good.’

There was nothing Lottie could say. Gramps looked into his coffee. His hand shook.

‘Doctor doesn’t say much.’ He turned to the view. ‘She’s eighty-five . . .’ Out of the window she could see Gribben Head basking in the sun. Lottie had never known a summer like it. The atmosphere in London had been so close, but here the air was fresh with the scent of the sea.

‘But she seemed fine a few months ago.’

‘True.’ His voice was wistful, and Lottie leapt to her feet.

She knelt at his side. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Me too. Me too.’ He patted her hand.

Her mother walked past the door without looking in the snug. Lottie stood.

‘I hope she’s OK.’ He gave her hand a squeeze. ‘Go to her.’ His voice was gentle, but Lottie understood. Gramps knew things weren’t easy with her and her mother, or for that matter between her mother and Gran. He was very intuitive. He’d read people well, especially Lottie.

‘Don’t worry about me. I’m fine. I’m just going to check on your grandmother. The nurse won’t be in for a bit,’ he said, pushing himself out of the chair then giving her an encouraging hug to send her on her way.

5

Lottie

3 August 2018, 4.30 p.m.

Walking out the front door, Lottie noted a sea mist creeping across the lawn. Gribben Head had disappeared, the wind had dropped, and the air was still. In the past, she’d always felt that the world stopped when this happened, but looking ahead her mother hadn’t. She stole through the gates and down the lane. Lottie raced after her.

‘Mum?’

She glanced over her shoulder at Lottie, nodded, but didn’t speak. Even at a distance Lottie noted the shadows under her dark eyes. Where had her mother been recently? It always took her time to decompress after each assignment. Lottie knew enough not to speak. She was simply grateful her mother was here too. Her feet slowed, expecting her mother to turn towards the beach, but she continued up the lane towards St Levan’s Church.

She went straight to the small graveyard at the side of the building. There weren’t many graves. For years it had been a private chapel to the big estate. She stopped in front of a plain granite stone.

Allan Edward Charles Trewin

Born 4 August 1926

Died 5 August 1962

Loving husband and father.

Thirty-six, just. So young. Allan Trewin was her grandfather and she had been to the grave before, but this was the first time with her mother. That fact felt wrong, but she could count on one hand the number of times that her mother had been to Boskenna. She closed her eyes. Now was not the time to dwell on the past, but that was challenging in a graveyard filling with mist. It had covered Porthpean and was now depositing minuscule drops of water on everything around them. They softened each surface, including her mother who appeared out of focus.

She turned to Lottie. ‘Who put these flowers here?’

Lottie shrugged. Fresh flowers were always here, from what she remembered. Today they were bright blue hydrangeas with spiky red crocosmia. The one thing she was certain of was that it couldn’t have been Gran. It wouldn’t be Gramps. Why would he put flowers on the grave of his wife’s first husband? People were weird but not that weird.

‘Lottie?’

She blinked. ‘I don’t know.’

Her mother turned back to the grave.

‘Why are we here, Mum?’

Her mother sighed and said, ‘It’s almost the anniversary of his death.’ She traced her father’s name then the dates. It must have been awful to have lost her father when she was eight, but at least she’d had him. Lottie had never had a father. Well, there had to have been one in the picture in some form or another but not one that her mother had chosen to share with her. Foolish, but Lottie was jealous her mother had a gravestone to acknowledge that she’d had a father. In fact, although her mother didn’t like Gramps, she had a stepfather too. Lottie loved Gramps, but her mother didn’t care for him. Well, that was the polite way to describe her attitude. Lottie had never figured out why. From what she knew, Gran had been a widow for thirteen years before she remarried. Lottie’s mother was twenty-one then and no longer a child. But, maybe, for some things everyone was forever a child.

She peered through the mist at her mother who was still focused on the gravestone. Nothing made sense, especially being here now. Gran was dying, and her mother was standing in a damp churchyard touching a moss-covered stone. Lottie cleared her throat.

Her mother looked up, her eyes guarded. Lottie had seen that expression before. It was when she would lock things away inside, like all the horror she saw in the course of her work. She reached out and touched her mother’s hand.

‘Some things never leave you.’ Her mother’s voice was strangled. ‘Everything changed.’

Lottie clutched her mother’s long elegant fingers, so unlike her own small ones. As her mother glanced at her, Lottie caught pain in her eyes before she hid it again.

‘I’ve looked into the past and I see so little.’

‘Oh, Mum.’ She took a step closer to her. ‘Have you asked Gran?’

She nodded. ‘She won’t talk about it.’

‘It must be painful for her.’ Lottie pictured the frail woman upstairs in Boskenna now, who looked nothing like the vibrant woman in the black and white photographs in the house, with hair swept up, revealing a classic face. The clothes were elegant, and the makeup was so Sixties and Seventies. There were no pictures of Allan Trewin that Lottie had ever seen. His death must have been awful for Gran and her mother. Gramps didn’t seem the sort to fuss about pictures of his predecessor being around. He was just Gramps, so easy. She swallowed the smile that came to her at the thought of him.

‘I can look at this,’ her mother pointed at the carved slate. ‘With clear-sighted adult eyes and know my father died in a tragic accident.’ She took a deep breath. ‘But something eats at me.’

‘What are you saying, Mum?’

She shook her head and glanced at the grave. ‘I have only one strong memory.’

‘What’s that?’

She smiled, and her face became younger, lighter, happier. ‘You know. I’ve told the pirate story many times.’ She turned away from the gravestone. ‘I can’t picture any more than that, and that bothers me.’

Lottie looked down at her hand holding her mother’s. Lottie’s skin a smooth olive and her mother’s an embattled English rose. Lottie’s appearance spoke of somewhere else, but she didn’t know where. Her father had never appeared, no matter how much she wished he would.

6

Joan

3 August 1962, 4.35 p.m.

The flowers are arranged, and I’d reviewed bedrooms for the final time with our housekeeper, Mrs Hoskine, and still Allan and Diana aren’t back. Sighing I walk to the end of the garden and stand by the gate to beach path. Below Diana is skimming stones with Allan laughing beside her. She picks up a pebble and holds it out to him. He examines it carefully before handing it back and watches her form as she throws. It bounces twice then drops out of sight. He turns to the American woman, Beth, and her husband speaks to Diana, touching her shoulder. I frown. Allan isn’t paying attention and he should be. He’s become engrossed in conversation with Beth and his smile gleams. Something twists inside me. Why did he bring these strays into our world? Is he just filling the void again?

‘Joan, that’s a fierce look.’

At the sound of a familiar voice, I look up through my eyelashes and my stomach tightens. ‘Tom.’ I grin. ‘You’re early.’ I kiss his cheek and step back to study him.

‘Problem?’ He raises an eyebrow.

‘Never.’

‘Good.’ He studies my face. ‘Not sleeping?’

I touch my cheeks. The powder I applied this morning must require another application. ‘Can’t fool you?’ I turn back to the view.

‘I should hope not.’ He laughs then asks, ‘New friends?’ He opens his cigarette case, the one I gave him for his thirtieth birthday. It’s inscribed with one word, Always. That was years ago and the feeling hasn’t changed. Never have we ever crossed that line, but I don’t know if that is true of Tom and Allan.

He lights a cigarette and hands it to me. I take it while he lights one for himself then squints into the distance. ‘They don’t look local,’ he says.

Exhaling, I watch the smoke swirl. ‘American.’ I turn to him, noting the tell-tale darkness under his eyes. It only serves to enhance the blue of his irises. They remind me of a Cornish sky on a perfect summer day.

‘Interesting.’

‘Indeed, they are joining us for dinner tomorrow, so you can discover for yourself.’

He frowns. ‘George Russell arrives tomorrow around noon.’

‘Everyone will hopefully be out enjoying the sun they are promising.’ I look at the darkening clouds. ‘Which should give us some time alone.’

‘It will be like old times.’ He rubs his chin and a boyish grin appears.

‘Yes.’ I take his arm and we walk together towards the house. However it could never be like old times and we both know that.

We reach the front door where he picks up his bag asking, ‘Usual room?’

I nod with my mind on the Venns then what he’d said sinks in. ‘Sorry, Tom, not the usual room. Due to numbers I’ve had to move you into the little one by my parents’ old room.’

He smiles. ‘Downgraded, eh?’

‘Sorry.’ I raise my shoulders.

‘How many guests?’

I shake my head. ‘Too many.’

‘Allan?’ He holds out an arm directing me to enter first.

‘Yes, ever the host.’ I check my watch.

‘Some things never change.’

‘True.’ I chuckle. ‘Shall I show you up?’

‘No need, you are tight on time. I’ll see you,’ he pauses, ‘just before drinks?’

‘Diana,’ I say. ‘She comes to tell me about her day’s activities then.’

‘Ah, yes.’ He turns away. ‘A bit later then.’

He walks through the dining room to the far staircase and I remember the past. Things could have been so different. The scent of the roses in my trug catches the breeze. I pick up a bright red bloom and bring it to my nose. Its fragrance is a heady damask touched with spices. Arabia. Rose water. Souks. Innocence. A thorn pierces my index finger and I squeal, dropping the flower. Pulling the thorn out, I watch the blood pool then drip into the basket before I put my finger into my mouth. The blood tastes metallic. Memories . . . sailing and catching my finger on a splinter, Tom coming to the rescue, removing the bit of wood and placing my finger in my mouth. As I did that, he stared at me with such intensity, I shiver even now. Those intelligent blue eyes have haunted me ever since. I shake my head and dismiss the past, I have work to do.

7

Lottie

3 August 2018, 5.00 p.m.

Just as they went through the gates and onto the gravel parking area, her mother’s phone rang. It sounded important. Lottie prayed it wasn’t some world crisis that needed her mother’s award-winning reporting. Her mother veered back towards the gates where the phone signal was stronger. Inside the house Lottie checked downstairs for Gramps, but there was no sign of him. He must be with Gran or maybe taking a walk in the garden but she doubted that, with the fog. She couldn’t see past the end of the lawn.

In the snug she found an old wooden tray resting against Gramps’ chair and loaded all the tea stuff onto it. The small kitchen revealed more evidence of the neglect she’d noticed earlier, and her heart sank. She had been so bloody self-involved she hadn’t realized what was happening here. Rerunning the phone calls in her head, the conversations followed a normal course . . . the garden here, the weather, but mostly it had been about the collection she had been putting together for exhibition of young designers at the V&A. They were both so proud of her and had planned to come to London for the opening of the exhibition in the new year. She held her breath for a moment as a sharp pain pierced her temples. There was no sense in dwelling on what was lost. In all those calls they never mentioned Gran’s health, but there were things she’d never said either. She checked her phone: nothing.

But looking around there were signs of distress. Dishes and pans were washed but not put away. It wasn’t just breakfast things either but items from the night before. Opening the fridge, she saw ready meals. This wasn’t how her grandparents lived. Her heart sank further; she should have been here, no excuses.

After washing and clearing, she glanced out of the kitchen window towards the small walled garden. She would cut some flowers for Gran and the rest of the house. It might give her an indication of the amount of time her grandmother had really been ill. She knew Gramps wouldn’t tell her. He might be American, but through Gran or maybe just his own nature, he did the stiff upper lip thing rather well.

Both her grandparents adored the garden, be it the special camellias or the vegetables. They grew most of their own produce so if the vegetable patch wasn’t in good shape then they had been keeping Gran’s illness from her for a while.

Out in the courtyard, the mist swirled across the cobbles – blazing sun to impenetrable fog in the same day. She smiled, pushing open the gate and thinking of all the happy hours spent here with both of them. Vegetables, roses, and in the glass-houses, peaches and tomatoes. Her nose twitched anticipating the smell.

Hearing a noise, she looked to the nearest glass-house and gasped. She had been prepared for anything but what she saw. Alex Hoskine, her first love, stood with hose in hand watering the tomatoes. She hadn’t conjured him out of her memories earlier. It had been ten years almost to the day since she’d last seen him. And during those years he’d haunted her dreams and she woke wanting to say so many things. Now she was standing here with her mouth open and her vocal chords seemingly disabled. Memories raced around in her head, from their first kiss to the last angry words she said to him.

He looked up and squinted at her. Damn. This wasn’t going to be easy. She needed to apologise, but she also wanted to know what the hell he was doing here at Boskenna working in the kitchen garden. Where to start?

‘Lottie.’ His voice had become deeper since she’d last seen him. Back then he’d been twenty, lean and fit as hell, but now the promise of youth had been fulfilled and then some. Her mouth dried. She couldn’t still be attracted to him, not after all this time, but her body was telling her years made no difference. She was standing in front of her first love and her body remembered each and every caress, whether she wanted it to or not. This was not convenient. Her focus must be on Gran and Gramps not on her romantic history.

He turned the tap off and put the hose down. ‘Your grandfather mentioned he’d called you.’ He walked towards her but stopped just short. This was awkward. How did she greet him after all these years . . . a handshake?

‘Yes, this morning.’ She looked down.

‘She’s been ill for a while.’ He turned from her, giving her his back.

That said it all. She’d been too self-absorbed. ‘How long?’

‘There’s been a sharp decline these past few weeks, but it’s been months.’

She should have known. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath, trying to think clearly.

He picked up the watering can. ‘Where have you been? They needed you.’

‘I didn’t know.’ She clenched her fist.

He looked up with a dismissive glance. ‘You haven’t changed then?’

That wasn’t fair. Alex gave her one last look then walked away. She found her voice. ‘What are you doing here?’

He looked over his shoulder. ‘I would have thought that was obvious.’

‘Yes, that might be, but why isn’t?’

‘I moved back and one of the first things I did was visit them.’ He pulled out a weed. ‘It was clear they needed help, so I moved into the caretaker’s cottage to be close at hand.’

Ouch. There was no reply to that, so she took a step back. She should have known this, but she hadn’t. She held her breath for a moment then fled before he could say anymore. Yet again she was at fault, but then she was always misjudging things.

8

Diana

3 August 1962, 5.15 p.m.

The sun had disappeared, and her stomach growled loudly. Diana hoped Daddy heard it. He’d said he’d help Mr and Mrs Venn set off then he would come up to the house with her. But they’d been here ages and Daddy was just holding the Venn’s boat and talking and talking. She was tired of the Venns and she wanted time with Daddy on her own. She’d had to share him with them every day for over a week and now they were taking him all to themselves again. It wasn’t fair.

She picked up a mussel shell and moved it so the colours inside changed. Every so often she heard a word. Meeting. Deliver. Urgent. They were almost whispering but the breeze brought their secrets to her. She loved secrets. Mummy and Diana played the secret game all the time. Mummy said living in Moscow made secrets important. Things had to be kept tucked away, just like the little Russian dolls hidden inside the biggest one. She’d brought her dolls with her to Cornwall and had set them on her windowsill so they could see the sea. They had never seen it before, only the Moskva. Diana liked saying Moskva. It rolled off her tongue like when she said her piano teacher’s name, Madame Roscova. She could roll her Rs but Daddy couldn’t. Mummy was very good at hers. Diana had heard her reading aloud from a Russian book. It was called War and Peace.

‘Rrrrrrrrrrrr.’ She dropped the shell and picked up a piece of sea glass. It was strange to find one so high up the beach. Normally she found them in the wet sand. She looked out to the point and there was a cormorant drying its wings. ‘Rrrrrrrr.’ She loved the way her tongue vibrated and tingled a bit when she did it.

‘Diana, what on earth are you doing?’ Daddy looked over his shoulder. Mr Venn put his hand on Daddy’s as a wave rocked the boat. She frowned. The wind was turning, which was good. They wouldn’t have to row out into the bay – they could sail. They weren’t very good at sailing, but they were worse at rowing. She just wanted them to leave. She and Daddy couldn’t be pirates when they were here. Daddy became all serious with them around.

‘Rrrrrrrrr.’ She spun around looking up at the grey clouds. The gull’s wings seemed to become part of the sky at the tips. But mizzle was beginning to fall. She liked the word mizzle but didn’t like the actual thing.

‘Diana.’ Daddy spoke crossly.

She didn’t know what she’d done wrong, but she heard Mr Venn say, ‘See you tomorrow,’ and to ‘get’ something. She fell to the sand and watched the Venns’ sail flap until it caught some wind. It did and they frowned. They did that a lot when they didn’t think they were being watched but Diana watched everything. Even when he was frowning, Mr Venn looked like a movie star, but Mrs Venn didn’t. Diana didn’t like her. She kept sending Diana on silly errands to get things the adults didn’t need.

Daddy took her hand and pulled her to her feet. ‘Let’s see if Mrs Hoskine has anything you can nibble, as that tummy of yours is noisy enough.’

She smiled up at him and moved closer as they climbed up to the house. He kept looking over his shoulder. She wasn’t surprised that he kept checking on the Venns. They were terrible on the water, but they didn’t know that. Diana had noticed Daddy retying all their knots yesterday when they had been on the big sailing boat. They said they were from the Midwest in America and Diana knew from her geography lessons that there wasn’t a sea there so that must be why they were so bad. She liked geography and maps. Uncle Tom had given her an atlas for Christmas last year. He had spent hours with her telling her about places and the people he’d met in them. She loved Uncle Tom. Mummy and Daddy did too.

‘Daddy, why do you like the Venns so much?’

He stopped walking and looked at her. ‘Why do you ask?’

Diana wrinkled her nose. ‘’Cause we’ve spent so much time with them.’

A smile spread across his face and his eyes smiled too. ‘Well, they are new to Cornwall and I want them to feel welcome.’

She frowned. ‘Why hasn’t Mummy come along to make them welcome? She’s good at that.’

‘She is, but she’s been busy with Boskenna.’

Diana looked to the big house. This was the place she loved most in the world, with its round ends and secret floor. It wasn’t secret really, but it was easy to miss because everyone looked at the ends and the big windows. The second floor wasn’t often used but Mummy had Mrs Hoskine airing out a room above hers for some American arriving tomorrow. The window was still open so the room must be very short of breath.

‘Does Boskenna need Mummy?’ They walked along the gravel path framing the lawn. They had played croquet yesterday before the rain, but Mr Hoskine had put the croquet set away.

‘Yes, because the old dame has damp and the roof needs attention.’

‘Is dame another word for house? What sort of attention does the roof need and is Mummy wiping the damp up?’

‘Something like that.’ Daddy laughed, and she joined him. She liked it when Daddy laughed, and he hadn’t been doing it enough lately. Even Mummy said that. Diana had overheard them talking when they’d arrived. She had hidden in her favourite spot under the small table just outside the dining room. Mummy was worried about him. Daddy had said he was just tired, but Mummy had given him one of her looks. Diana knew those looks too well.

9

Lottie

3 August 2018, 5.20 p.m.

With secateurs in hand and her grandmother’s flower trug on her arm, Lottie walked out through the French windows in the smoking room. The name amused her as no one in the house smoked any more. It harked back to a time when men would have port and a cigar after dinner. She had no trouble picturing Boskenna then. Evening gowns, dinner jackets and household help. It was so far from today’s casual world. It was easier now but some of the world’s beauty had been lost with it. She rarely designed a formal piece of jewellery. Those rare pieces she did create were normally by special order for the Middle East. Fun, but she couldn’t imagine anyone apart from a royal or a celebrity wearing those designs. Up until two weeks ago when she had to cease trading because she had nothing left to sell, most of her work was being sold through a few outlets and her website. She specialised in making wearable pieces featuring semi-precious gems with gold, silver and other metal. She’d only used precious gems for special commissions and for the pieces that were supposed to go in the exhibition at the V&A in the new year.

Stopping at the flowerbed beside the house, she snipped the stem of a white Japanese anemone with rather more force than was necessary. She couldn’t undo the past, she knew that. But what brought the bile to her mouth was her own stupidity and gullibility. How had she missed the signs? Had she been so desperate for love that she’d been blind to Paul’s faults? She’d worked with him for five years and he’d been her mentor. Cutting another anemone, this time she took more care. She had landed herself in a huge mess and it would take time to fix. Somehow, though, she would find a way out and more importantly, a way forward.

The mist had deposited tiny drops of water on the petals of a pale pink rose. Here and there they had merged into large drops that magnified parts of the petal. She saw the fine lines that ran through it turned ever so slightly darker. With the bloom close to her nose, the fragrance was at first delicate but then musky overtones developed.

Towards the end of her degree course she had worked with pearls this subtle shade of pink. The rose, the pearls and the finished piece spoke of innocence. She cut the stem, watching out for the thorns. She hadn’t been innocent for a long time, ten years in fact. Dropping the stem into the basket, she scanned the flowers at the front of the house. The agapanthus were at their best, but she wouldn’t cut those. If she did there wouldn’t be anything in flower visible from the front windows. Of course, the view outshone even the agapanthus.

Light showed in Gran’s bedroom window and the snug, welcoming her. She loved the way the north and south ends of the house bowed out towards the sea. There was a satisfying symmetry about it. Although she knew they weren’t built at the same time, she was pleased they had balanced the building when money had allowed. Of course, it did mean ceiling heights varied greatly throughout the house. As a child she had loved discovering all its nooks and crannies, dancing up and down the many sets of steps on the first floor and up to the attic rooms. Boskenna was a place of endless delight, or had been then. She had brought an end to her carefree days here and she had to live with that.

Raiding a few other beds and some hydrangeas, she went to the kitchen to sort the flowers for her grandmother. Once happy with the arrangement, she climbed the front staircase, carrying her overnight bag along with the vase. August was a tough month for blooms in the garden. Things were well past their summer glory. But Gran had always made use of the most interesting shrubs at this time of year. They provided the architecture for the agapanthus and annuals in flower. Some of the roses should be on a second display by now but she had seen so few. The kitchen garden may have had more but because of Alex she hadn’t paid attention to anything there but him. It had been that way from the first moment she’d seen him, years before he’d become her boyfriend. He’d put her off her agenda then and now he’d unsettled her again, bringing the past to the surface. She sighed, resting the vase on the table outside her room before she went in to deposit her bag.

It was the smallest bedroom in the house, but it was the best. The single bed just fitted and from it she could look out of the window to the view. A view that never bored her even in the rain, or at the moment, fog. Placing her bag on the old chair, she saw nothing had changed from the Russian doll on the windowsill to her old books on the shelves. The dust on the chest of drawers told the same story of neglect she’d seen downstairs. Lottie was surprised to find the bed unmade, too. She’d sort that in a minute once she’d taken the flowers to Gran.

Out on the lawn, she could see Alex collecting the cushions from the garden chairs. Why had he come back to Cornwall? In the immediate aftermath of ten years ago, she hadn’t wanted to hear about him, or Cornwall, or what people were saying about her. It had been a terrible tragedy and she was part of it. Her life altered that day, everything had.

Weary after the journey – hell, just weary from life – she closed her eyes for a moment, letting the sound of the sea soothe her, along with the distant sound of Gramps snoring downstairs. But it could be no more than a moment for time was precious. Eyes now wide open so as not to miss a thing, she grabbed the vase and headed down the hall and up the steps to Gran’s room, listening for sounds of Mum chatting to her, but it was quiet. Sticking her head through the bedroom doorway, she found Gran sleeping in the chair and no sign of her mother. Lottie placed the vase on a table then walked back to the chair. She stroked Gran’s forehead and Gran mumbled a few words. They weren’t in English. She leaned closer to try and decipher the language. It sounded like Russian.

Lottie stepped back. They had lived in Russia so it shouldn’t be a surprise that Gran could speak it. Years ago, at the back of the garden shed behind an old terracotta plant pot, Lottie had found the matryoshka doll that sat on her windowsill. When she’d asked about it, a sad smile had crossed Gran’s face. She had wiped the grime off the outer doll and wriggled it until she could open it. To Lottie’s delight she released the next then the baby doll inside. Gran had explained it had belonged to her mother from their time in Moscow. She’d put it all back together for her and said she’d thought it had been long since lost. Lottie could still remember holding it and feeling connected to her mother, who was then in Kosovo. There were three dolls . . . one for each of them.

Whatever Gran was saying now, her voice was too weak for Lottie to hear properly. She seemed to be in a fitful sleep. Lottie kissed her forehead and she stilled. Her eyes opened. ‘Lottie.’ Her smile filled Lottie’s heart. ‘Your mother?’ Her voice was thin, like her frail body.

‘She’s downstairs I think, maybe with Gramps.’

‘Help her to be kind to him.’

Lottie nodded. That would be a challenge. Without Gran, Lottie wasn’t sure that her mother would give him the time of day. ‘I’ll look after him.’

‘I know, dear one. He has loved me when no one else could.’ She took a deep breath and closed her eyes for a moment. ‘He has understood when no one could.’

‘Gramps is wonderful.’ Just thinking about him, Lottie grinned. He’d been more than a grandfather. He’d been a father figure, teaching her to ride a bike and fly a kite. He’d been there to listen.

‘Yes, he is. But your mother has never seen that.’ She coughed at first softly. ‘She needs to be kind to him and . . . to forgive him.’

Lottie frowned. Kind, yes. Why “forgive”?’

Gran coughed again and her whole body, what there was of it, rattled. The effort took everything out of her, then she closed her eyes and her breathing settled. Lottie adjusted the blanket around her. Why did her grandmother want her mother to forgive Gramps? For marrying Gran and taking her father’s place? Did Gran know that Mum didn’t remember much of Allan?

‘Lottie.’ Gran was watching her.

‘I’m here. I was just wondering if you’d like to come downstairs and join us?’

Gran frowned. ‘Is Alex around?’

‘I’m not sure, why?’ She tilted her head.

‘He could carry me down.’

Lottie paused for a moment. ‘I’m happy to go and find him.’

Gran looked out of the window. ‘It might be nice.’

‘I’ll do my best.’

‘Thank you, my darling.’

She looked brighter and it was the right thing to find Alex. She could do this for Gran, Lottie thought.

On the way downstairs, she stopped in her room to pick up a sweater as the dampness from the fog had given her a chill. Her mother stood at the window holding the matryoshka doll in one hand with her other on the clouded window pane. The weather had set in and the visibility didn’t extend to the end of the garden let alone Black Head.

Her mother turned to her.

‘Travelling down memory lane?’ Lottie smiled.

Her mother shook her head. ‘No. I don’t really remember Moscow from my childhood or rather I can’t separate it from my visits as a journalist.’ She frowned.

‘Was Gran awake when you went in?’ Lottie picked up a hoodie from the back of the chair. ‘She’s been asking for you.’

‘Yes.’ Her mother twisted the outer doll open, revealing the brighter smaller one. With a shaky hand she placed the smaller one down and put the largest one back together.

‘How was she? Did she speak?’

Her mother twisted the middle one until it popped open and the baby fell out onto the floor. Looking up to Lottie before bending down she said, ‘Yes.’

‘Is that all you can say?’

She nodded and arranged the three painted figures in order on the windowsill before she turned back to Lottie. She pointed to the window. ‘It’s a bit like right now. I know the bay, Gribben and Black Head are there but I can’t see them because of the fog. I know I must have memories of those eight years with my father but . . .’ Her voice trailed away, and she picked up the smallest doll.

‘Shouldn’t you be focusing on Gran?’

‘You’re right, I should be but . . .’ She sighed. ‘I need a drink.’ She walked to the door.

‘I’m sure Gramps is already organising that. I’ll join you in a moment.’

Her mother disappeared down the stairs and Lottie pulled on her hoodie. She went to the old dolls and nested them again. The Cornish sunlight had faded the vivid colours on the mother doll over the years. They too would fade if left exposed.

10

Diana

3 August 2018, 5.40 p.m.

Diana hurried downstairs on unstable legs. She had forgotten those dolls. Her father had chosen them with her. They had been beside the Moskva and the sun had shone brightly while the air was filled with . . . fluff. It floated like snow, but it was spring and hot. The memory was so clear she could almost taste it. She stopped on the bottom step. How could she justify being drawn to discover more about her father when as Lottie had quite rightly said, Diana should be focused on her mother. Her hands shook as she tucked her short hair behind her ears.

George emerged from the kitchen with the ice bucket in one hand. He looked up, a smile hovering on his mouth. She pressed her lips together before forcing herself to respond in kind. She was no longer a child, she could be gracious. ‘Can I help?’

‘I’ve sliced some lemon for your gin, but I’m afraid I can’t manage that as well with the stick.’ He raised it off the floor. ‘Can’t carry too many things at once.’

‘I’ll grab the lemon.’ She watched him head to the drawing room then went into the small kitchen. For twenty-eight years since his retirement George and her mother had rattled around in this huge house. She’d never understood why they hadn’t sold it years ago. They lived in such a small part of it, especially in winter. Four rooms out of twenty-four, if she had remembered them all – plus the caretaker’s cottage, the lodge, the stables and a few barns. It was all too much for them and had been for a very long time. But her mother would never discuss it, so Diana had let it drop.

The lemon slices were in a shallow crystal bowl. Living here they had managed to hold onto the gracious past. How George would cope in Boskenna on his own was a mystery. For once, she felt sorry for him and that was a real change.

He’d entered her mother’s life and had taken it over. She’d been twenty-one when they had married. It bothered her, he irritated her even now, which was ridiculous. Her feelings hadn’t dulled with time as they should have. How could her mother replace Diana’s father with him? Back then she had seen nothing of value in George Russell, but looking again at the lemons he sliced for her, she could now admit he wasn’t so bad. He was thoughtful and he’d shown this in the past, but she hadn’t wanted to see it.

Lottie hadn’t appeared yet and George was free-pouring the gin into a glass as she walked into the drawing room. The size of his measure hadn’t changed either. It had been a hot June evening in the small flat in Chelsea when her mother had dropped the bomb that she was marrying him the following day. Speechless couldn’t begin to describe how Diana felt. George, sensing her anger, had immediately poured drinks – large ones – so that at the register office wedding the next day, Diana had a terrible hangover that had soured an already frightful situation. She’d been a right cow to her mother. But her inner child had been striking out. Looking back, she saw that her mother’s marriage meant that she would have even less of her than she’d had before, which hadn’t been much.

George took the lemons now and added a slice to her drink.

‘Thanks.’ Her hand wasn’t as stable as she would have liked. Being here was getting to her. It was a place that should feel welcoming, but everything annoyed her because it wasn’t familiar in the way it should be, despite her repeated dreams. A room like this spoke of family gatherings, Christmas carols around the piano and shared history with the portraits on the walls. Maybe they had had that once, but she couldn’t recall. All she had was a sensation like something she might have witnessed on television and not in person. Among her old diaries and journals, she still had a letter from Mrs Hoskine, the housekeeper, saying how much she missed her, and that she understood how hard it must be for Diana not to come home to Boskenna. That implied that she had loved this place once.

‘So, George, how long has my mother been ill?’

He looked up from his whisky, startled. ‘I would imagine the cancer has been there silently for years.’

‘She’s done nothing?’ The first sip of the drink tasted mostly of gin. The alcohol hit the back of her throat and her eyes watered.

‘No.’

Part of her rebelled at this news but another part respected it. ‘Hospice care here at Boskenna?’

‘Yes.’ His shoulders fell.

George and her mother had been married for forty-two years. He would be, and probably was already, devastated. Grieving could start before the loss. This she knew too well.

‘How often do the nurses come?’

‘Mostly twice a day now.’ He looked out to the garden.

In the infrequent phone calls with her mother, George’s devotion to the garden, and especially his passion for the camellias, always came up. Diana recalled he’d cultivated a few new ones.

‘Have they said how long?’ She glanced at him regretting she had phrased the question that way. He wasn’t a warlord but a frail old man.

‘I haven’t asked.’ His hand clenched the silver fox head on his cane. His knuckles went white.

‘What will you do?’

Sad eyes looked at her and despite her dislike, her heart reached out to him.

‘I don’t know, I honestly don’t know what I’ll do without her.’

Diana swallowed and looked away. She didn’t want to feel for him. She didn’t want to care. She had done that once before. Not caring was the only way to cope.

11

Joan

3 August 1962, 5.45 p.m.

Below on the edge of the lawn, Tom and Allan are side by side, their stance so similar. Allan’s hair is darker with more wave than Tom’s mid-brown straight fringe which falls onto his forehead if he hasn’t tamed it with hair crème. Both still whippet-thin, not yet touched with the fullness of middle age, unlike many of their peers. Allan is the more handsome of the two, also the more charming. But Tom’s eyes, their deep Cornish sky blue, are the more compelling. They take a step away from each other. Discord. In the past they had moved in unison and I was the third wheel, or so I felt. But now Tom plays that role happily, maybe even more comfortably.

He opens his cigarette case and Allan leans in to offer him a light. Allan’s fingers brush Tom’s. There is still a look in Allan’s eyes when he watches Tom. I’m sure Tom was his first love, as he was mine. My passion for Tom was years ago and yet it lives under the surface of our friendship giving it an edge. But Allan was never one to be held in check, and Diana was the result. The memory of our first kiss still stirs me. I stand here loving two men, differently . . . one always from a distance.

As they turn to look at the view their faces are no longer visible, just their broad shoulders. A hunger creeps across my skin as Tom shifts his weight from one foot to the other and Allan mimics him. It has always been this way since the first time I saw them together. I’m not sure what I will do if Tom finds love and marries. I’m a strange creature, loving what I can’t have. But my heart is filled with love for Allan and that is enough.

My husband’s hands caress the air. What are they discussing? Both look solemn, with none of Allan’s boyish charm on display. Diana runs up to them and Allan scoops her into his arms and Tom hands her a package. Even from here I can hear her delighted whoop of joy. She is a blessing and I never believed that would be the case. How wrong I was.

Turning from them, I walk to the dress hanging on the outside of the wardrobe. People will be arriving soon so I can’t slip downstairs and join Tom and Allan. Hopefully there will be an opportune lull in the evening when I can talk with Tom. There is so much that I don’t know, and my imagination is making things worse.

I pull the sleeveless shift dress over my head and the green silk reminds me of shallow waters on a bright summer’s day. Like the ones when Tom, Allan and I sailed. I was nineteen and – against my mother’s wishes – I had joined them sailing to the Scilly Isles. I was free as I never had been before. No school mistresses, no hovering mother or aunt. Simply me and two beautiful men in love. Innocent and free. Well, that will never happen again but at least I have those memories.

As I try to pull the zip up, I recall that it was then it was decided by the three of us that I should apply to a vacant secretarial post at the embassy in Aden. Tom thought I would be a shoo-in with my language skills, and of course the fact that Daddy was an ambassador wouldn’t hurt either. I knew the ropes already, so to speak. I had completed finishing school the month before and Mummy wanted me to marry right away. The problem, aside from the fact that there were no candidates, was that getting married was last on my list of things to do. I wouldn’t follow in her shoes. Somehow, I would find a way to a career and not simply become someone’s accomplished wife.

Smiling, I look around the bedroom at all the accoutrements of just that. Mummy was accomplished, accomplished at keeping her drinking hidden. She was the life and soul of the party. I pause, looking at myself in the mirror with her pearls about my neck, in her house which is now mine. If she knew, she would approve. Allan is the political attaché in Moscow and I am the ultimate hostess. But looks can be very deceiving and a smile spreads across my mouth.

‘What’s so amusing?’ Allan walks through the door and comes to stand beside me. He runs a hand down my bare arm. It is the only contact we’ve had in days. He hasn’t been sleeping and I hear his footsteps in the darkness as he paces by the windows. After wearing the carpet out, he heads downstairs then outside where he lights up a cigarette. The smoke makes its way into the bedroom and I lie awake until he returns just before dawn.

‘Nothing important.’

He pulls the zip on my dress up the final inch, running his finger along the base of my neck. ‘You’ve gone a delicious brown.’

My skin glows, from the Cornish air if not the blazing sun. My dark hair is highlighted from a week here. I look like my younger self, more like the woman he knew as a teenager – long and leggy.

‘It’s all the gardening of late.’ I look down at his hand as he links his fingers through mine. ‘You’ve gone brown yourself.’

‘Not sure how, with the dismal weather. Here’s hoping for some sun this weekend.’

But I knew that being on the sea brought colour even if the sun wasn’t bright. He’s been sailing every day and spending time with the Americans. Diana has loved being on the water, so I haven’t commented on the excessive amount of time he’s spent with them. Allan is like that. Making fast new friends and cutting out the rest of the world until it drags him back. Mostly I haven’t minded and many times it has helped. But I can’t quite put my finger on what is troubling him.

He yawns and pulls his hand from mine.

‘Tired?’

‘Just the fresh air.’ He laughs and turns away. ‘I’ll have a quick bath to freshen up.’ He runs his fingers through his hair. Even though we’ve been here just a week a few freckles have appeared across his cheeks adding to his youthful look, but there is a slight greyness under that tan which is new. He strips off, desire fills me and he sends me a knowing smile, as he grabs his dressing gown then leaves the bedroom before I can act on my need or ask about the sleeplessness. He knows I know.

Eventually he will tell me. He always does.

12

Diana

3 August 1962, 5.50 p.m.

Diana watched Daddy go into the house. Uncle Tom was already dressed for dinner and he stood beside her. ‘Shall we take a short walk?’

‘Yes, please, and thank you for my book.’

‘A pleasure. Have you had a diary before?’ Uncle Tom put his hands in his pockets which pushed his jacket out of place.

They cut across the lawn and walked up the long path.

‘No. What do I put in it?’ She turned the red book over in her hands. It was beautiful.

‘Your thoughts and what you did during the day.’

Diana frowned. ‘Do I only write in it once a day?’

‘That is entirely up to you.’ He stopped to sniff a flowering tree. ‘At your age you are already good with words, so you may want to write stories as well as what happened during the day.’

‘Oh.’ Diana stood straighter. She liked words a lot. ‘Does being good with words mean that I’ll be a writer when I grow up?’

‘Possibly or maybe a journalist for a newspaper,’ he paused and studied her.

‘I like that idea. They write stories.’

He laughed. ‘Technically they report events, but I do believe sometimes it is more storytelling.’

‘Report events?’ Diana decided to try to do that in her head. They passed the magnolia tree that was in bloom, it smelled lovely. She’d been told by the gardener that it was special, but she didn’t remember why. ‘I think I would like that.’

As the path rose the trees became taller and the camellia bushes bigger.

‘It’s an important job,’ Tom continued. ‘Think of all the people who read newspapers every day to discover what is happening in the world.’

She nodded. Mummy and Daddy did that, then they would discuss parts of what they’d read. ‘So, I should read the paper to discover how to report?’

‘You are a very clever soul, Diana.’

‘Am I?’ She stood straighter and took a bigger step forward.

‘Yes, you are and I think you would be a very good journalist.’

‘Thank you.’ Diana looked up to the big Monterey pine tree and saw the birds gathering there. They must have a wonderful view of the bay. She was jealous of their lookout. To see further she frequently went up to the attic rooms of Boskenna. From the one above her bedroom she could see over the trees and onto Carrot Hole. No, Mummy would correct her: Carrickowel Point.

She turned and looked up at Tom. He was so handsome. Not as handsome as Daddy, though. ‘What do you do, Uncle Tom?’ She thought she must have asked once before but she couldn’t remember. ‘You are good with words, too.’

‘I love words and history. But I look after people.’

Diana picked up a stone from the path. ‘Are you a nurse or a teacher?’

He chuckled. ‘A bit of both, to be honest.’

‘Oh.’ She wanted to ask more but wasn’t sure what to ask because she couldn’t think what job would be both nurse and teacher. Walking down the path towards them was Mr Carew. He limped ever so slightly, and Mummy had told her that he’d lost his leg in the war, but they had found him a new one when he came home to England. Diana had asked if they kept spare legs in England to replace lost ones. Once Mummy had stopped laughing, she explained it was made of wood and held in place with leather. Diana wanted to see it but hadn’t yet worked up the courage to ask. Maybe this weekend she would.

‘Hello, you two.’ Mr Carew held out his hand to Uncle Tom then took hers and bowed over it slightly. ‘I see as usual, Tom, you are escorting the most beautiful woman.’

Uncle Tom grinned. ‘Always.’

In the distance Diana heard Mrs Hoskine calling her. She looked up and said, ‘If you’ll excuse me, please.’

‘Of course.’ Uncle Tom smiled then continued walking with Mr Carew.

Diana raced to the house hoping that Mrs Hoskine was going to ask her to help with the final touches for the silverbelle, Diana’s favourite chocolate pudding, for tomorrow’s special birthday dinner for Daddy. Diana loved chocolate and so did Daddy.

13

Lottie

3 August 2018, 6.00 p.m.

Stopping at the bottom of the stairs, Lottie was greeted by the voice of Bobby Darin. ‘Somewhere Beyond the Sea’. Gramps had taught her to dance to this while Gran taught Alex. They had been invited to a big black-tie party at Eddie Carew’s house for his eightieth. Neither Lottie nor Alex had known how to dance properly so the week before the party the drawing room rug had been rolled up and every night, just after cocktails, it had been like a session of Strictly for the hopeless. But by the time the party had arrived, both Lottie and Alex could dance. Even now she could remember how handsome he’d been in his borrowed dinner jacket and the feel of his arms around her. It had been a magical evening of dancing under the stars. A few days later it was over.

She couldn’t fix the past, but she could make sure she didn’t mess up any more of the future. Hopefully now she had learned to let no one in and to trust no one. That would be key to going forward.

In the courtyard she tapped on the cottage door. Alex opened it, dressed only in a towel. She looked at the top of his head for fear of staring.

‘Sorry to disturb you but Gran would like to come downstairs and she said you’d help.’

‘Of course.’

‘Thanks.’

‘I’ll be there in a few minutes.’

‘Do you need help?’ She looked down at his bare feet.

‘I can get dressed on my own.’

‘Right.’ She risked a quick glance up but wished she hadn’t. He was amused but she felt an idiot. Exiting swiftly, she set a smile on her face and walked back to the house and into the drawing room with her head held high. No one here knew what a mess her life was at the moment and it would stay that way. It would cause Gramps so much pain and her mother would be disappointed yet again.

‘Lottie, my dear. Gin?’ Gramps asked, putting his hands on the arms of the chair.

‘I’ll get it, Gramps. You stay seated.’ She walked to the end of the piano where the trolley sat and made herself a weak drink, tempting though it was to let the gin relax her. She couldn’t afford to let her guard down. She turned back to the room and surveyed it. It felt too big and at the same time not large enough for the three of them.

Gramps was in his armchair because the sofa was now just too low for him to use without help. He didn’t want assistance, as she’d discovered in February when Paul had taken the armchair. Gran had called him a stubborn old mule when he wouldn’t be helped out of it and said to leave him to it. She hadn’t been herself then, now Lottie thought about it. She had been quieter and greyer. She must have known but hadn’t said anything. How could she have when Lottie had spent the weekend trying to get Paul to see Cornwall, Boskenna and her grandparents for the wonders they were. She shouldn’t have wasted her breath for he was a liar and a thief.

Her mother, gin in hand, paced in front of the French windows, looking out to the sea fret. She had been refreshing hers and Gramps’ drinks with ice when Lottie had walked into the silence.

‘Alex is going to bring Gran.’ Lottie perched on the arm of the sofa halfway between the two of them.

‘Alex?’ Her mother turned. Lottie braced herself. A decade ago her mother had forbidden her from ever getting in touch with him again. Lottie hadn’t blamed her. But Alex hadn’t been the problem – she had. She was the one who had lied to her mother. True, it was because of Alex that she hadn’t taken the internship her mother had arranged – but it was Lottie’s decision, not his.

‘Yes, Alex Hoskine has been a godsend to Joan and me.’

Lottie jumped to her feet. ‘Is there anything I can get for her?’

‘The nurse will be here shortly.’ Her mother turned to look at her.

‘Oh.’ Gramps and her mother obviously had a chat. This was good, progress even. ‘Should she stay upstairs?’

‘No, if she feels up to joining us, that is wonderful.’ He gave her a brave smile.

‘How often does the nurse come?’ Lottie asked, looking at Gramps’ face. She saw him trying to hold it all together.

‘Morning and evening.’ He took a sip of whisky. ‘Or more frequently if needed.’

Her heart sank. No wonder Alex had started helping.

‘She should be in a hospice. Not here.’ Her mother sighed and turned from the windows.

‘She is where she wants to be.’ He spoke with quiet determination.

‘Mum,’ Lottie stood.

‘The place is a wreck, a relic even.’ Her mother waved her hand. ‘The upstairs windows are coated in salt and the woodwork is rotting from the constant assault of the weather while two people rattle about in a few rooms.’

Gramps put his drink down. ‘Joan loves it.’

‘Does she? Does she really?’ Her mother shook her head. ‘I can’t see how.’ She walked towards Gramps. ‘I don’t know how you can stand it, living in the house that they lived in together.’

‘Mum.’ Lottie moved towards her then stopped. Where was this anger coming from?

‘We are all grown-ups here. No need to mince words.’ She topped up her drink and Lottie raised an eyebrow. Her mother wasn’t a big drinker.

‘Why did she come back to Boskenna after so long?’

‘What do you mean, “come back”?’ Lottie frowned. This was Gran’s home.

‘Boskenna was let out until George retired.’ Her mother sat on the sofa.

‘It was.’ Gramps relaxed.

‘Why did you come here? Why not Cape Cod, where your family were?’

Lottie held her breath. Her mother had shifted into reporter mode – forgetting that, like him or not, Gramps was her stepfather and an old man. How could she snap her out of it?

Gramps put his fingertips together, making an arch with them like the childhood game he used to play with her. Here is the church, here is the steeple, open it up, see all the people. But this wasn’t a game. Gran was dying and her mother, possibly as a way to distance herself, was interviewing Gramps.

‘She wanted to. It’s her home.’

Mum shook her head and pressed her lips together.

Just then, Alex arrived at the door – carrying Gran as if she was a child. With care, he placed her on the sofa and Lottie arranged some cushions behind her.

‘Can I get you a drink?’ Alex asked.

‘I’d love the smallest taste of whisky, well-watered, please.’

‘Of course,’ he smiled, and Lottie caught his eye and mouthed thanks. ‘George, does your drink need refreshing?’ Diana?’ He glanced around.

She held her breath again. Her mother stared at him and everything in Lottie tensed.

‘I’m fine, thank you.’ Her mother turned and walked to the fireplace then turned back again as he handed Gran her drink.

Lottie watched her mother open her mouth, but Gran raised her glass. ‘Thank you for coming.’ She coughed.

The doorbell rang and Alex leapt to answer it. She couldn’t blame him. Lottie’s shoulders were around her ears. The atmosphere in the room was fraught.

The nurse came in and her mother glared at Alex before she left the room. That wasn’t fair. Her mother had had every right to be angry with Lottie even now, because she’d believed Lottie had been in London all summer doing an internship when she’d been falling in love. It was never Alex’s fault. It had been – and always would be – Lottie’s fault.

14

Joan

3 August 1962, 6.10 p.m.

Diana sits cross-legged on the bed watching me while I clip on my earrings. Thus far today hasn’t gone as planned and now I am faced with a handful of guests gathering in the drawing room for drinks. Tom would be among them of course, but there would be eight others. It is paramount that I find time alone with him before tomorrow afternoon.

‘Mummy?’

I turn to her. She wears her serious look as she clutches the present that Tom has given her.

‘Yes?’

She holds a leather-bound book aloft. ‘Uncle Tom said this is a diary or a journal.’

I nod and perch beside her, taking the book from her hands. Flipping through the lined pages, it is apparent it was not made in England. At a guess the leatherwork indicated the Middle East, or possibly Spain at a stretch.

She looks up from under her long dark lashes so like Allan’s. ‘I can write things down . . . like what I do every day.’

‘Indeed, your thoughts about all sorts of things, too.’ I hand the book back to her. ‘Or even sketches.’

‘But there are lines on the page.’ She runs her finger over one.

‘True.’ Trust her to worry about that. ‘You could slip your drawings into the book.’

She frowns. ‘No, this isn’t a book for my drawings, I don’t think.’

‘OK, then you could write to it like it is your best friend.’

‘But that’s Maria.’

‘Your next best friend then. But do remember that some things must never be written down.’

She looks at me as if she despairs of me.

‘Of course, Mummy. I know all about secrets.’ She wrinkles her nose and I hide my smile. She is so like Allan. Quick, mercurial and ever so clever. ‘Uncle Tom said I was good with words.’

‘Did he?’ Turning, I look at her closely.

‘Yes, he said I might become a writer or even a newspaper journalist when I’m older.’

‘Very perceptive.’

‘Perceptive?’ she asks, tilting her head.

‘He sees things well.’ I stick another hairpin through the French twist in my hair. ‘Did he say where it was from?’

‘Beirut.’

Memories of 1955 in that glamorous city fill my mind. Dancing, laughing, loving.

‘They speak Arabic there don’t they?’ She turns the book over.

‘Yes.’

‘Isn’t that written back to front?’ She peers at me and I love watching her thought process. My darling girl is so intelligent it scares me sometimes.

I stand and smooth my dress. ‘You’re a clever soul.’

‘Thank you, Mummy.’ She jumps up clutching the book. ‘Maybe I’ll begin writing my diary from the last page.’

I chuckle. ‘That’s a super idea. Make sure you tell Uncle Tom your plan.’ I stroke her dark hair, loving its thickness. ‘He’ll be pleased.’

She stares at me. ‘I think I’ll become a journalist because I like to ask so many questions.’

‘You’d be a very good one.’

‘Would I, Mummy?’ She takes my hand.

‘Absolutely, you’re curious and very good with words.’

‘I like knowing the truth.’ Her bright smile disappears and her eyes narrow.

‘The truth is very important,’ I say, but I know that much of the time it’s best hidden. The truth can hurt.

We walk hand in hand into the hallway. Someone is warming up on the piano and begins playing the latest Bobby Darin song, ‘Things’. Diana starts singing and dancing. Joining her until we reach the top of the stairs, I give her a twirl and her laughter lifts me. All will be fine. My concerns are unfounded. The scrutiny of living in the fishbowl of Moscow is intense and life here should be a balm. Sadly, this weekend has brought the world of work into my refuge. I laugh, remembering that it was years ago that the world of work invaded Boskenna, and maybe it had always been here. Daddy and his guests who visited here during our leave changed the carefree atmosphere.

‘Mummy, what’s funny?’

‘Nothing important.’

‘Funny is always important.’ She gives me a piercing look. I make no sense to her, for I am intuitive and she is logical like Allan.

‘I’m going to start my diary now.’ She races to her room, which used to be mine. Twelve years ago I looked out of that same window and saw Allan for the first time. My heart missed a beat then and still does now as I begin down the stairs. The object of my thoughts is looking more handsome now than he had then. I had been eighteen and he twenty-four. My parents were celebrating their twentieth wedding anniversary. They never made it to their twenty-fifth.

‘Darling.’ Allan waits with a smile lighting up his face. The man is too handsome for his own good. He holds out a hand. Reaching the bottom step, I take it and he twines his fingers through mine. I shiver, loving his touch and yearning to take him upstairs, but instead we walk through to the drawing room, the picture of a golden couple.

Allan releases my hand, heading to the drinks table, and I move towards Lady Fox, Allan’s aunt.

‘Is everything in your room as it should be?’

‘Of course, my dear.’ She smiles. ‘Thank you for giving us your parents’ room looking out to Black Head. Mesmerizing. Despite the weather, I was so riveted by the view it’s a wonder I managed to apply my lipstick properly.’

‘True, it is a distraction.’

Outside, rain hits the windows obscuring everything but the sound of the sea, ever present. Tonight because of the weather, the windows are shut yet I can still hear the sea when the music pauses. The tide is high and the wind has picked up. Thinking of the beach brings the Americans to mind. They wouldn’t have enjoyed this evening, despite the fact that many of the people they should meet locally are here. I can’t see Lady Fox enjoying their company and with only ten tonight she couldn’t have avoided them. Tomorrow it will be easier with more people, more distraction.

‘Not sure how you can bear to leave Boskenna.’

My glance strays to Allan making a gin and tonic.

‘Ah, yes, the things we do for love.’ She picks up a devilled egg. Mrs Hoskine has done a marvellous job with the canapes and I take a deep breath. Life is about being flexible.

‘I do admire you, dear, following Allan all over the world. How long have you been in Moscow now?’

I force a smile. ‘Nearly two years.’

‘Fascinating place to be living at the moment, I should imagine.’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you expect to be there much longer?’

I look down at the bracelet on my wrist. If I didn’t know better, I would think I’m being pumped for information, but this is his aunt who I’ve known since childhood and this isn’t Moscow. She, of all the people here this weekend, has nothing to do with the diplomatic world. She belongs to the gardening one, competing against Boskenna every year at the flower show. Each year Pengarrock, Boconnoc, Caerhays, or Boskenna would win. Of course, those gardens are far larger and Boskenna being so close to the sea with little protection from the east winds, faced different challenges.

‘Here’s your drink, darling.’ Allan hands me the glass, looking up at his aunt. ‘Have you seen the agapanthus this year?’ he asks, leading her towards the windows. ‘It’s a wonder with all this rain this summer that anything blooms.’

I make my way across the room towards Tom. He is chatting to Eddie Carew and gives me a quick smile before replying to him. Again, I can see how drawn he has become but a few days here and he’ll perk up. Despite being only thirty-six he is greying at the temples. Rather than making him unattractive, it adds to his appeal if one goes for the scholarly variety.

‘Joan, how kind of you to invite me for the weekend.’ Eddie beams while he taps his cigarette ash into the fireplace. Tonight a fire is roaring to keep the evening’s dampness at bay.

‘Always a pleasure.’ I say, studying his face. He is such a dear man.

‘I was just catching up with what Tom’s been up to. It’s hard to believe it was twelve years ago that I last saw him here.’

‘At my parents’ anniversary party.’ It had been a momentous night in many ways. Aside from meeting Allan for the first time, my mother’s drink problem became public which might have been caused by my father’s mistress attending the evening as well. I’d fled to the watchtower to escape and Allan had followed me, concerned even though he’d only just met me. Years later he confessed that Tom had gone looking for me on the beach. But that had been the beginning. He’d asked me the following day to join him and Tom sailing. I’d escaped with two beautiful young men, leaving my mother to her bottle and my father to his mistress.

The Indonesian gong, a legacy from my father’s years there, announces dinner. Tom takes my arm. ‘May I escort you through?’

‘Of course.’ Glancing over my shoulder I see that Allan has the arm of the latest beauty in the neighbourhood. Nothing new in that. My dear husband does have an eye for it.

‘Now, we need to have a chat.’

Nodding, I catch sight of Mrs Hoskine waving at me from the kitchen door. Tom sees her as well and releases my arm.

‘Later.’

‘Yes.’ I sigh. One way or another I will find a moment alone with him before tomorrow afternoon.

15

Lottie

3 August 2018, 7.30 p.m

Lottie was digesting what little information the nurse had given her when Gramps reached her at the bottom of the stairs. She caught his expression as he went to the office. Devastated didn’t begin to describe it. They had been together for over forty years. Their anniversary had been in June. She’d seen the pictures tucked away in a photo album years ago.

Her phone beeped, and she looked at the text.

Hello. It’s Jamie Sharp here. Have made some progress. Have tracked down Paul’s first wife. Will be in touch.

Lottie didn’t see how talking to Paul’s ex would help. She wouldn’t know anything unless Paul had run off to be with her again. That wasn’t likely. She sighed. Walking through the kitchen door to check her chilli, she stopped in the doorway. Alex, wearing a striped apron, was stirring the pot. Fresh vegetables were laid out on the table. She opened her mouth to say something, but nothing came out so she closed it and continued to stare.

He turned. ‘I’m not much of a cook but the chilli was close to burning, which would be a waste as it smells good.’

She remained just inside the kitchen unable to move forward. He was the last person she had expected to see cooking. Her mother possibly, but not Alex and definitely not Alex in an apron wielding a wooden spoon.

‘Speechless at my beauty?’ He raised an eyebrow.

‘Something like that.’ She swallowed. He had no right to look so good and she had no right to feel the way she did. ‘More than mildly curious as to why you are here in the kitchen saving my chilli.’

He nodded. ‘Perfectly understandable.’ He paused. ‘I’m making my dinner as the cottage doesn’t have a functioning kitchen and I’ve been giving George a hand with cooking.’

‘Ready-meals?’

‘And fresh veg.’

She frowned. ‘Mrs Blitho, the daily?’

‘With her daughter . . . who is on bed rest expecting her second set of twins.’

‘Not brilliant timing.’ She frowned.

‘No.’ He left the stove and went to the sink and began to wash the veg.

She took a deep breath, she needed to speak now, not later. Lottie had longed to say these words for years and had rehearsed them in her dreams, hoping that somehow, she could make at least part of her past right.

‘Alex.’

He turned with lettuce in hand. ‘Yes.’

‘It’s been a long time . . .’ Her voice faded away and she took a step to the nearest chair, grabbing the back of it. He stared at her with a guarded expression on his face. She preferred the jokey one of a few moments ago.

‘What’s been a long time?’

‘Sorry. Ten years ago.’ She ran her hands over the battered oak of the chair, feeling the strength of the wood. She could be strong. This was the right thing to do. Taking a deep breath, she said, ‘But I’ve told myself it’s never too late to apologise.’

He raised an eyebrow. She took that as encouragement to continue. ‘I’m sorry for so much and if I could, I would do many things differently.’ She twisted her hands together. In her head the words had rolled out but now they were fading in her mouth, coming out at half strength. ‘But I can’t. But I can say . . . I’m sorry . . . to you.’

He leaned against the sink, remaining silent. She looked around the kitchen at the pine table and the painted wooden cabinet that lined the north wall. It was scarred with a few more marks and chips in the paintwork, showing the passage of time. ‘I treated you appallingly in that whole mess. I should never have said what I did. It wasn’t true.’ She hung her head studying the red tiled floor and taking a deep breath, but then she glanced up, making sure she made eye contact. ‘I’m sorry. I was so very wrong.’

Weighing a beef tomato in one hand, he passed it to the other. He didn’t look away and she held his stare. She didn’t deserve forgiveness, she’d been vile, saying things that were hurtful and untrue.

‘Thank you.’ He put the tomato down and turned back to the sink.

She stared at his back, managing to close her open mouth and swallow the reply she wasn’t invited to give. The conversation was over. That was fine. At least she’d apologised and openly owned her wrongdoing. He had accepted it . . . not graciously, but he had. That was what mattered.

Now to move on and attend to dinner. This she could do. Her shoulders fell as she took the pot off of the heat and placed the lid on top. It would stay warm and be the perfect temperature for eating shortly. She gazed around, not sure what to do with Alex occupying the sink and in control of the veg. She was lost but maybe she had always been. Now she needed to find her way home.

16

Diana

3 August 1962, 7.45 p.m.

As her father popped his head through the door, Diana put down her book, To Kill a Mockingbird and slid it under the blanket.

‘How are you, my darling one?’ he asked, coming to sit on her bed. He was so handsome in his dinner jacket. She thought he looked handsome all the time, but tonight he had twinkling eyes. ‘Did you have a good day?’

She smiled and nodded but decided not to say it would have been better if it had just been the two of them. He would make a face and might become cross. He’d been cross a lot lately.

‘I’m pleased.’ He brushed her hair off her face and put his hand on the book moving it into sight. He squinted at it. ‘Are you enjoying the story?’

‘Yes.’ Looking at it, she frowned.

‘It’s rather serious, isn’t it?’

Nodding, she said, ‘But I am serious, Daddy, and many things in the world aren’t right.’

He put a hand over hers and stroked it. ‘And this worries you?’

She bit her lip, thinking. ‘I can’t do anything right now because I am too little, but one day I want to make a difference.’ Crossing her arms against her chest, she sat straighter.

He smiled. ‘Then I know you will.’

‘I think, like Uncle Tom said, I will try and make a difference with words.’

‘Did he say that?’

‘He said I was good with words.’

‘Uncle Tom likes words.’ He looked out the window and frowned.

She could hear the rain hitting the window. Was he cross about the rain?

‘But enough about Uncle Tom. Are you ready for a day’s sailing tomorrow?’

‘Of course. How many people will be with us?’

He laughed. ‘That is a good question and the success of tonight will tell me how many we will have tomorrow.’

‘It will be a success. Mummy always has successes.’

‘That she does, my little one. Your mother is the best hostess ever and very clever to boot.’

‘Are hostesses not clever?’ She wrinkled her nose. Most of the ladies she knew were hostesses. Were they not clever? She didn’t like that idea.

‘I’m not going to comment on that one, but your mother is a rare breed.’

‘Breed? Like a dog or an exotic bird?’

He stood. ‘You know, Diana, you are good with words.’

‘Thank you. I learned a new one today.’ She grinned. ‘Perceptive.’

‘Good word.’ He picked up her new diary on the desk. ‘Where did you hear it?

‘Mummy.’

‘Really?’ He tilted his head and his eyes met hers. ‘Who was perceptive?’

‘Uncle Tom.’

He put the diary down. ‘Of course. That’s the perfect word for Uncle Tom.’ He kissed the top of her head. ‘Have you started the diary yet?’

‘Yes, just a little while ago.’

‘Are you keeping it secret?’

She nodded. ‘Diaries are supposed to be secret. It’s for me only.’

‘Then make sure you keep it safe.’ He tapped it then blew her a kiss as he left the room. Diana picked up her diary and looked at what she had written so far.

PRIVATE

This belongs to Diana Trewin of Boskenna

She turned the page.

3 August 1962

Dear Diary,

I’m still not sure what to write about in this diary that Uncle Tom has given me. It is so beautiful. It’s bright red. It’s mine!

Today was mostly boring. The sailing was good but Daddy and I spent too much time with Mr and Mrs Venn. No one but me will read this so I can say that I don’t like them and no one can tell me not to say it. I want Mummy with us but although they haven’t told me I know Mummy isn’t sailing because she lost the baby a little while ago and she’s tired. I never saw the baby and that makes me sad.

Right now I’m thinking about the raspberries and cream that I had. Not for my pudding. It was more second pudding, I think, like the Hobbit’s second breakfast. Daddy finished reading The Hobbit to me two nights ago. My tummy is rumbling again. I wonder if they have even started dinner downstairs yet. They always eat so late. Maybe I’ll sneak downstairs after I read another chapter.

Running her finger over the words, she knew she would have to work harder if it was to be interesting to read. It was boring. She needed to be more perceptive in what she wrote, she decided.

17

Lottie

3 August 2018, 10.00 p.m.

It hadn’t taken Lottie long to unload her things from the car into one of the stables. Someone, probably Alex, had been clearing and cleaning up the outbuildings. For years these buildings had stored lawnmowers, garden equipment that had last been used before WWI, old barbecues and spare furniture. Most of it was now either gone or neatly ordered. She was impressed. Whatever his reason for being in Boskenna, Alex Hoskine had certainly made a positive difference in the outbuildings.

Before shutting her stuff away, well out of sight, she pulled out the key paperwork file. It was her business, her problem, and on Monday she would make a renewed effort to sort it, including a proper chat with her best friend and solicitor, Sally. Right now, she wanted to focus on what she could do to help her grandparents. Pulling the gate back, she caught her shin on a small metal chest. It looked like an old tuck box from boarding school, but it wasn’t hers. She picked it up to put it out of the way. From the weight of it she knew it had something in it.

Curiosity aroused, she opened it and two black glass eyes stared up at her. She gently pulled the old bear from the box and a sheet of paper fell out. Lottie squinted at the faded writing…

Diana,

Both Boskenna and I miss you. Look forward to seeing you soon. Here’s Ben and your things to keep you company until then.

With love,

Mrs H

Underneath it was a small navy Guernsey sweater covering a pile of books. Why was this in the stables?

Taking the box with her, she headed towards her mother’s bedroom, but she wasn’t there. Lottie turned around and went to her own. Would the contents reveal what her mother had been like back then? Gran had said Lottie reminded her of Diana as a little girl. But Lottie could never picture her mother as a child. There was something too reserved about her.

The teddy bear smelled of dust and was worn threadbare on the ears. They must have been soft once. Would her mother recall its name? Many of the books looked like they may have been Gran’s once . . . except one, which had a beautiful red leather cover. Opening it, she saw in careful childish handwriting . . .

PRIVATE

This belongs to Diana Trewin of Boskenna

She went to the window, hoping to see her mother, but no luck. Returning to her bed, she flipped the diary open again. Empty. She frowned. Flicking through the whole book, she saw her mother had begun writing from the back of the diary. A quick scan of the words provided a glimpse into her mother’s past. Eating, sailing, eating, eating and then Lottie’s hand stopped. The last entry.

5 August 1962

Dear Diary,

Daddy is dead. It’s my fault.

She blinked then she read it again. What did her mother mean?

‘Lottie?’ Her mother called from the hallway.

She shoved the diary under her pillow.

‘There you are.’ Her mother walked through the door, paused then took two big steps to the bed. She clutched the bear. ‘Ben.’

‘You remember him?’

She nodded and stroked the Guernsey sweater with her free hand. ‘Where did you find this?’ Her eyes narrowed. That momentary flash of a softer side to her mother vanished. Interrogation mode was back in place.

‘In the . . .’ Lottie hesitated. If she said the stables, her mother could possibly – and rightly – ask why she’d been in there. She mumbled as her mother began putting the books back into the box.

‘It’s good that you remembered Ben.’ Lottie shuffled closer to her pillow where she could see the corner of the diary sticking out.

‘Is it?’ She stroked his ear. ‘Or is it worse that I can recall a stuffed animal’s name and not remember much about my father?’ She placed the jumper and the bear on top of the books, picked up the box and left the room without a word.

When she was sure her mother was gone, Lottie pulled the diary out. Those words jumped off the page. Why on earth would her mother feel she was responsible for Allan’s death? It was accidental. But thinking about it, all kids blame themselves for everything, be it divorce or in her own case, a missing father. Looking back, Lottie remembered believing that her father must have gone because of her. She looked out of the window, knowing she could still be right.

18

Diana

3 August 1962, 10.15 p.m.

The longcase clock in the hallway chimed and Diana crept downstairs. She could hear music coming from the smoking room. No one was in the hallway. The small kitchen was in darkness and totally cleared. She checked the refrigerator and found the bowl of whipped cream. But she couldn’t dig into that without the evidence showing. That had happened before, and she’d been caught.

Back in the corridor, she raced upstairs then down the hall to the back stairway. She liked these stairs best. They had a lantern light above them, looking out to the sky. Right now, because of the lights on inside she couldn’t see the sky, but on many nights she and Daddy had stared up at the stars and sometimes the moon. He would tell her stories while sitting halfway between up and down. It was their special place, a place of magic.

She stopped briefly, wanting all the guests to go so she could have Daddy on her own, but it was his birthday weekend and he wanted his friends around. She sighed then continued downstairs to hide against the doorframe at the bottom. The record player was on and Frank Sinatra was singing about night and day. Mummy was dancing with Uncle Tom and she looked so beautiful. Her dress was all shimmery. When he spun her, her dress became like mermaid skin. Daddy put his drink down and cut in, taking Mummy in his arms. Uncle Tom laughed. He walked towards the door and she pressed herself against the wall.

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