The Path to the Sea

by Liz Fenwick

  ‘Weever fish.’ With Alex’s help she reached the stairs.

  ‘You should know better.’ Her mother looked hard at her and then at Alex. Lottie thought she might not be referring to the weever fish. And if that was true, Lottie knew enough not to play with fire the second time.

  32

  Diana

  4 August 1962, 9.00 a.m.

  For her second – or was it third? – breakfast, Diana was eating porridge with raspberries. Everyone around the table was quiet and many were drinking tomato juice. She wrinkled her nose. It tasted awful. She loved orange juice almost as much as she loved chocolate. But orange juice wasn’t often available, and she certainly didn’t like them both together.

  Daddy was beside her reading the paper. He turned to the page with the goat. He looked at her and smiled. ‘Now I know what you were asking about, little one.’

  ‘What does “imperialism” mean and what does a goat in your house have to do with it?’ she asked.

  Uncle Tom looked up and smiled at her. ‘I see you have begun your education in journalism.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you want to explain this one, Tom?’

  ‘No, you are far better placed to do so.’ Uncle Tom turned the page on the paper he was reading before taking a sip of coffee and winking at her.

  Mrs Hoskine came into the room with a fresh pot of coffee. ‘There you are, Diana. Do you want to help with the picnic?’

  ‘Yes, please.’ She ate the last mouthful of porridge. ‘Will you excuse me, Daddy?’

  ‘Of course.’ He smiled.

  As she dashed out of the room, she heard Uncle Tom say to Daddy that he had dodged a bullet there, which didn’t make any sense. There was no gun in the dining room. She cast a look back at Uncle Tom and Daddy but both of them were reading the papers.

  Diana walked into the big kitchen. The table was covered with all sorts of food, but her glance went straight to the cake.

  ‘What do you think?’ Mrs Hoskine asked.

  ‘It looks like snow.’ The cake was all white and, sitting on a plate beside it, were the marzipan figures they had made.

  ‘Just what you wanted.’

  Nodding, she went to take a closer look. The surface was smooth and not like the Moscow snow she had played in. That only looked smooth when it first fell but soon it was icy and dirty.

  ‘Here’s some icing so that you can place the figures on. Do you know where they should go?’

  ‘Yes.’ She pictured the whole scene in her head. From her bedroom window in Moscow she could see a dome of gold. Diana and her dolls would sit for hours just watching the snow fall. It fell so quietly from the grey skies. She picked up the church with the blue and gold dome, placing it on the far side of the cake, securing it as Mrs Hoskine had taught her with a spoonful of icing. Then she put the dolls all together in a line as if they were holding hands, making a family. When she was finished, she took a step back. ‘It’s done, and I’ve left plenty of room for the candles.’

  ‘Do you think we’ll fit thirty-six candles on there?’

  ‘Well, last year you fitted thirty-five and we had sailboats on top.’

  ‘True, very true.’ Mrs. Hoskine sliced a chicken and put the slices into a box. Diana looked for the scones. ‘They are already in the basket, young lady. Have you packed your things for the day out?’

  She shook her head and raced up the back stairs, stopping halfway to look through the lantern light. She could see only blue sky. Hopefully the wind was picking up.

  In her room she threw her swimming costume, her Guernsey jumper and a pair of trousers in a cloth bag. She pulled her diary out from under the mattress and began to write.

  Dear Diary,

  I helped Mrs Hoskine pack the food for the sailing trip. I think Mr Martin had been right about people with sore heads. But Mummy looked happy as she came downstairs clutching her notebook. Once everyone was out sailing, she will sit down with Mrs Hoskine and review all the yummy food for tonight’s party. I love being here in Boskenna because the food is so good.

  She jumped up to look out of the window. The flag was beginning to move. Daddy was correct. He would want to know what it would be on the Beaufort scale. Earlier this week he’d had to remind her what that was because she had forgotten. Right now, it was one or two but hopefully by eleven o’clock it would be three or four.

  This morning he lifted me onto his shoulders then we walked down the path and through the gate to the beach. He scanned the water looking for pirates, I think. But we only saw Mummy swimming.

  Mummy waved but kept swimming. Daddy smiled as he squinted into the distance. Then we walked the coastal path and met the Venns. They had a funny conversation with Daddy and said they would meet us on the beach later. The man who looks after our boats is bringing the big sailing boat over from Fowey where Daddy keeps it. It will be on its way now.

  We walked back to the house and he told me the sea state was good and we’d need to get our skates on to head out to the yacht before eleven. I laughed. He asked why and I said he was funny because you can’t skate on water that’s not frozen. He kissed my nose and told me I was too clever for my own good. I told him I thought being clever was good and he laughed more then he called me his little love. He declared we would have a marvellous day on the water.

  Back inside we joined some of the other guests in the dining room having breakfast.

  I’ll write more later when we are sailing.

  Diana

  She packed her diary and her pencil into the bag and headed downstairs.

  33

  Joan

  4 August 1962, 9.30 a.m.

  Dressed and ready for the day, I stop at the table in the hallway. The post has arrived, but nothing is important. The crocosmia in the arrangement on the table need refreshing. Fallen blooms are scattered across the polished surface. The withered orange flowers look like a sign that our time here at Boskenna is coming to a close, which is an odd feeling. A week lies ahead of me before I will be back in Moscow, walking Salome through the parks and having coffee at the ambassador’s residence after ballet. I adjust a stem of the agapanthus and watch the blue flowers drop. Maybe the whole thing needs re-doing but I won’t have time. Unlike in Moscow, where time is the one thing I have. When we return in a week, many people will still be on leave. The parks will be full of children but not the ones I know. Diana will be lonely until her friends return. No, she won’t be. Salome will be delighted to have us back and my darling girl will read and practise piano. She is content in her own company in a way I never am. I railed against my solitude growing up but Diana delights in it.

  I take a deep breath, gathering the dead blooms in my hands. Things will be fine. This morning showed me that. Allan still wants me. I want him. My life has taught me repeatedly that love can grow. Back in Moscow for the second half of August, without others around for distraction Allan and I will be able focus on each other. We can walk in the park, we can talk about where we go in the future. I don’t want to try for another baby but if he really does, then I will do that for him. But maybe he’ll see how each child we have lost has pulled us apart. Parts of me are missing. But enough of the past. I must think of the future. I smile. Tonight I am looking forward to being in Allan’s arms again. Being the sole focus of his attention, his passion. My face flushes at the thought.

  ‘Mummy.’ Diana runs out of the dining room and catapults into my arms. This is love. This and Allan’s is enough. We walk hand in hand until she veers off to the kitchen, no doubt to consult on some aspect of Allan’s birthday cake.

  Jaded smiles greet me in the dining room. I hadn’t sensed that people had drunk too much. I must be more observant. There is no room for mistakes at the moment. After filling my plate from the sideboard, I sit opposite Tom and glance at The Times, which makes for uncomfortable reading. Being in Boskenna, the Soviet Union and its threat feel far away. But I just have to catch Tom’s glance across the table and the Russian bear is s
itting in the room. The knowledge that the whole operation could be blown had chased around in my dreams creating a restless sleep. I pause and try and swallow. The toast in my mouth is dry despite the butter and Mrs Hoskine’s marmalade. I read the report on the Archbishop of Canterbury’s four-day visit to Moscow. That must have kept those on duty at the embassy on their toes. Talks of future exchanges. Hah.

  Folding the paper, between nerves and outright fear, I can’t face the food on my plate. I need to be busy but what to do? Nothing for the moment. Sit still, be charming. A sigh escapes me. Here in Cornwall I am useless. At least in Moscow I play my part.

  ‘Telegraph reports much the same.’ Tom takes a sip of his tea. No one else at the table would take any notice of the conversation. ‘But it does look like we will have good weather for today and tomorrow.’ He raises an eyebrow and those blue eyes twinkle ever so slightly.

  ‘Yes, we must be grateful to the weather gods for something. They are forecasting rain for the bank holiday itself.’ I place my napkin on the table noting the splodge of marmalade I must have dropped on it.

  ‘Always the way, a bit of good followed by bad.’

  ‘What on earth are you two talking about?’ Allan walks in holding Diana’s hand. ‘The weather?’ He glances between us both, trying to read us. I have seen this before. They know each other so well from their shared history: school, the RAF, university. They even joined the Foreign Office at the same time. But I too have known Tom for years, in fact, all my life. His father was at Cambridge with mine.

  Looking across the table, I see the boy I had my first crush on and I value the enduring nature of our friendship. His calm wisdom has helped me through personal pain and through professional trials. He must have suggested the handover here to make it easier for me.

  Allan helps Diana to a piece of bacon from the sideboard. She is growing so quickly. In her free hand she holds To Kill a Mockingbird. I frown. I read the book last summer and she must have found my copy. She is too precocious. The book wasn’t written for eight-year-olds, but I don’t want to stop her reading. I can only hope she will not understand all of what she reads.

  Tom catches my eye and he’s trying to wordlessly tell me to leave her be. I sigh. He knows me too well. I must return to hiding my thoughts and my expressions better. It is vital and I will need it tonight especially. Standing, my fingers twitch. I’ll go and sort the flower arrangement. It will clear my mind.

  34

  Lottie

  4 August 2018, 10.00 a.m.

  The morning nurse had been and gone. Gran had been restless before Alex had helped Lottie settle her in the garden. Her breathing was distressed again, and Lottie guessed her thoughts were as well. Although her eyes were closed, she kept repeating ‘I had no choice. I had to do it.’ This made absolutely no sense, but Gramps had said she was delirious. Lottie didn’t think so. Yesterday Gran sounded troubled.

  Her mother wasn’t around, and Lottie wasn’t sure where she’d gone. Alex stopped mowing the lawn to pull his shirt off. If she didn’t know better, she would think he was doing it deliberately. She looked at Gran whose words sounded like Arabic now, but Lottie couldn’t be sure. But whatever she was saying, she was becoming more agitated.

  ‘Gran, it’s Lottie and I’m here.’ She stroked Gran’s hand. Her breathing eased but she was still restless.

  Gramps appeared. ‘Thought you might need a break.’ His smile was wobbly, and she stood to hug him.

  ‘How is she?’ he asked, looking down on her. His hand clutched his cane so tightly his knuckles were white.

  ‘Not very peaceful. I think she’s speaking Arabic.’

  He nodded but didn’t comment as he lowered himself onto the chair beside her. ‘Go take a walk if you can.’ He glanced at her foot. ‘At least enjoy the sun while we have it.’

  ‘If you’re sure.’

  He nodded then rested his hand on Gran’s forehead and spoke quietly to her. Lottie hobbled inside. Restless energy filled her now that some of the pain in her foot had eased.

  Gran had married Allan in Damascus, so she must have picked up the Arabic then, and of course she was working in Cairo when she’d met Gramps. Years ago, Gran’s fluency in French had made revising with her a joy. Back then she’d said she couldn’t speak any other languages fluently just a smattering of phrases . . . the sort of thing needed to order in a restaurant, buy food in a market place. But that didn’t ring true now because whatever she was saying, it was fluent. It could be, ‘I’ll have three tomatoes please,’ but Lottie didn’t think so. She went to her room to grab her phone and google what she thought Gran had said. But she came to a standstill when Lottie saw her mother sitting on the bed.

  ‘Mum.’

  ‘This.’ She lifted Gran’s dinner party notebook. ‘Where did you find it and when?’

  Lottie stomach clenched, and she glanced to her file. Under it sat the diary but it looked as if nothing had been moved. ‘Last night, when I tried to close the closet door.’

  ‘This is important.’ She pointed to the book.

  ‘Why?’ Lottie tilted her head trying to read the page. ‘You need a recipe?’

  ‘She lied to me.’

  ‘What?’ Lottie flinched. Her mother had big issues with lying, as Lottie knew too well.

  ‘She lied to me about something so important I can barely speak.’ She shook.

  Lottie sat down on the bed beside her. Her mother jabbed her finger at a page. A quick glance confirmed that it was Saturday 4 August, 1962. Carefully listed were the guests and some of them had the names of bedrooms in Boskenna next to them. The house had been full, but Lottie couldn’t see what was upsetting her. ‘What did she lie about?’

  Her mother held her finger still next to a name. George Russell. Lottie frowned. ‘They knew each other then?’

  ‘He was here.’

  ‘I thought they met in Cairo.’ It had sounded so romantic. Love at first sight – but it must have been love at second sight. Lottie flipped through the next pages, but that weekend was the last entry in the book.

  ‘That’s what she said.’ Her mother tucked her short hair behind her ear.

  ‘You don’t remember him from then.’

  She glared at her.

  Lottie shifted away. ‘Stupid question.’

  She shook her head. ‘I thought that with the photos, maybe something would come back to me but nothing worthwhile has.’

  Lottie touched her arm. ‘What brought you in here?’ She cast a quick glance at the file again, hoping her mother hadn’t noticed it. If she saw the diary and the marriage certificate, she would explode.

  She laughed. ‘I suddenly recalled having a hiding place.’

  ‘You remembered that?’ Lottie swallowed.

  ‘Well, I didn’t know if it was a memory or a dream.’

  ‘Did you find it?’ This had been Lottie’s room her whole life. She’d never found a secret hiding space.

  ‘I didn’t look in the end because I saw this on the floor.’

  ‘Oh.’ Lottie stood. ‘Shall we have a look?’

  ‘I just want to go to her and yell.’ She shuddered.

  ‘I get that but . . .’

  ‘I know.’ She put the box down. ‘If I haven’t dreamt it, there is a loose floorboard under the bed.’

  Lottie stretched out flat. The floorboards showed no signs of anything. One by one she tapped and pressed them, but nothing moved. Dusting herself down, Lottie said, ‘Unless it’s been repaired, I think you must have dreamt it.’

  ‘I don’t know what’s real and what isn’t at the moment.’ Her mother’s shoulders sank.

  ‘You never spoke about this before.’

  She shrugged. ‘What’s there to say? You move on but being here . . .’ She picked up the book and headed to the door.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To talk to my mother again and find out why she lied to me.’

  ‘Mum, she’s delirious half the time.’ Lottie heard th
e plea in her voice.

  ‘It’s the other half of that time I need.’

  ‘Be gentle.’

  ‘I haven’t got time to be gentle.’ She left, and Lottie debated whether to follow. Gramps was there so he could defend Gran. But it didn’t make sense that Gran would lie about meeting Gramps. What purpose would that serve?

  Pacing the room, she had to do something, anything, to make things better – even if it was just providing tea. She felt so useless. As she reached the bottom of the stairs, the tall-case clock chimed. It was ten thirty. It was a bit early for coffee, but it was close enough to Gramps’ routine.

  Lottie carried the tray outside half expecting to hear shouting, but silence greeted her as she walked up to them. Her mother looked mutinous and Gramps resigned. Gran’s torturous breathing was the only sound other than the roar of the sea below.

  The gentle thud of the tray making contact with the table broke the standoff.

  ‘Coffee?’ Lottie forced a smile and looked from her mother to Gramps.

  ‘My darling girl, how lovely, yes.’

  She poured his and whether her mother wanted a cup or not, she was going to have one. Maybe she should lace it with sugar to sweeten her. Lottie understood that she wanted to know her past, her father. And Lottie wanted to help, which was a strange irony. Her mother had never given her anything, anything at all, to go on about her own father. But Lottie could be bigger than that.

  ‘George, why did you and my mother lie to me?’

  She handed her mother a cup and tried not to flinch at her tone.

  ‘I don’t know what you are talking about.’ He sipped his coffee.

  ‘It’s right here in my mother’s handwriting. Guests staying at Boskenna: George Russell.’ She pointed to the notebook she’d put down on the garden table.

  ‘I wasn’t here then.’

  Her mother pressed her lips together, stood and quietly said, ‘I know you’re lying.’

  He shook his head. ‘I met your mother in Cairo.’

  She walked to the chair her mother dozed in and leaned down towards her. ‘I will find out the truth. I will,’ she whispered as she left.