The Path to the Sea

by Liz Fenwick

  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?’
<
br />   ‘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.

  Looking down at her, he whispered, ‘Hello, Diana.’ He put his finger to his lips and she smiled. He pointed to the big kitchen and she nodded, leading the way. He covered her dash down the hall. Once there, she peeked out. Uncle Tom was running his finger across the inside cover of his cigarette case. He looked up and winked at her. In the darkness, she found her way around the large table in the centre of the room to the larder. On the thick slate shelf were all the scones that Mrs Hoskine had made for tomorrow’s adventures. No one would notice just one missing. But she would eat it he
re so that her escape upstairs would be easier.

  She broke the scone open, longing to layer it in homemade jam and clotted cream, but they were both in the other kitchen and it might not be Uncle Tom who caught her next. It could be Lady Fox, who scared her. No matter what Diana did or said, she frowned at her and turned away.

  The scone finished, she took a glass and filled it. The water was cool and sweet, unlike Moscow water. Diana had got very sick when she’d tried it when Mummy hadn’t been looking. But apart from that, Diana liked Moscow. It was filled with palaces of gold. Mummy said they were churches but churches in England didn’t have gold domes. The palace, in her favourite bedtime story about the princess who was loved, had many gold domes. Daddy changed the number every time because he couldn’t remember, and it always made her laugh.

  Diana slipped out past Tom with a smile, tiptoed back up the stairs and pulled her diary out from under her mattress. Daddy was right, she must keep it secret.

  Looking out of my window now I can see stars. I hope that means it will be sunny tomorrow. That would be brilliant, in fact better than brilliant. We haven’t seen much sun on this holiday. But it hasn’t stopped Daddy and me from sailing every day. Both Daddy and me are very tanned. I have freckles across my nose and cheeks. Daddy loves them. But Mrs Venn says I should be careful with my skin. She wears a big hat which isn’t very good for sailing. It gets in the way all the time. Daddy laughs a lot around them but I don’t think they are funny.

  I wanted more raspberries but I couldn’t find any downstairs, just scones. Maybe Mrs Hoskine had made jam for tomorrow. I don’t think the adults like the raspberries as much as I do. They come from the big garden across the road. It’s all walled in and I love its fruit trees and the raspberry canes. The berries are so sweet and they give me red lips, and earlier I got red fingers. Mrs Hoskine caught me red handed, or red fingered, she said. I giggled.