by Liz Fenwick
Gramps sank back into his chair.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Lottie, dear, there is nothing to apologise for. Your mother is upset about my Joan dying. She is hurt, she is striking out.’
‘Maybe.’
He reached across the table and picked up the notebook. ‘Where did she find this?’
‘I did, after she found the old photographs in the closet.’
‘Photos?’
‘Yes, a shoebox filled with them.’
‘Oh.’ He put the notebook down. ‘Sometimes it’s best not to look backwards, but it can be hard when you are at the end.’
Lottie jumped up and hugged him. ‘I love you.’
‘I love you, and remember that your grandmother does too.’
She released him and looked to Gran, whose eyes were open now. Gramps pushed himself out of the chair and went to her.
‘My darling.’
‘Yes.’
Lottie walked over and kissed Gran. ‘I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone.’
Gramps smiled, and she heard him half whisper. ‘It’s all coming to a close.’
Her heart constricted. Her mother needed to let go of the past and make peace with Gran and Gramps. And she needed to make peace with the world. It hadn’t been kind to her in many ways, but she had done good and that was what she needed to focus on.
35
Diana
4 August 2018, 10.45 a.m.
The musty scent of unused places clogged her nose and Diana sneezed. This end of the house, with the large kitchen and larder, echoed as she walked around seeking a trigger to memories. The smallest of things could elicit one: the scent of spice, the angle of sunlight, the sound of a note played on an Afghan rubab. But memories not recalled for decades had often faded to beige, like a washed-out photograph with the detail lost and open to reinvention. Boskenna was the house of her dreams yet she hadn’t slept in it for fifty-six years until last night, when she dreamed again.
Fate had twisted things with the days and the dates aligning. Her mother was dying, and her father had died here the same weekend in 1962. The story-hunter’s instinct in her twitched – maybe it was a cruel form of symmetry. She must have walked these floors so many years ago not knowing that by Sunday morning her father would be dead, and her world as she knew it gone too, almost as if it had never existed. Yet the artefacts of her life were in front of her.
The large table was scrubbed but a fine layer of dust covered her fingers when she touched it. Looking up, she followed the cobwebs from the ceiling light to the row of bells high on the wall. Smoking room, dining room, drawing room . . . She stepped closer, looking at a relic from a long-forgotten world. The odd thing was she could picture Edwardian ladies with parasols on the lawn but not see her own time here despite the photos she’d found.
She’d tucked the memories to the back of her mind to examine later. Now it felt right to delve into those dark spaces because for all those years it had haunted her. No, not haunted, troubled her. The time had come for the adult Diana to look back, back through those elusive memories. She was not sure how to do this. Her slow walk through the house had showed her nothing of his. Allan Trewin had been erased from Boskenna. All that was left was his gravestone, which someone remembered. Images of the deep blues and sharp reds of the flowers at the grave swirled in her head as she touched the solid walls of the kitchen. The answers were here, she was sure of it. It was just a matter of asking the right question.
Diana had been born in Boskenna with a midwife in attendance. Whether she wanted it or not, she was connected to this house. Her father had not been here, she’d been told by Mrs Hoskine. He’d been in transit. Sometime when she was in her teens, she recalled an awkward conversation with her mother, asking about her father and her early life. She had paused only for a moment before reeling off the facts. Born here, moved to Istanbul then onto Moscow. Returning to Boskenna every summer and most Christmases until 1962. There had been no emotion, no joy or sorrow in the telling, as if she too had walled off those years. Her mother had lost as much as Diana had, but even now Diana felt she was part of her mother’s grief. Diana had lost her years ago. Her death would simply underline what had already happened.
Looking out of the window over the kitchen sink, she saw the wood pile. Someone, probably Alex Hoskine, had been keeping it in order because it wasn’t George. He looked dreadful but that wasn’t a surprise. His wife was dying. She wanted to feel, but maybe all these years in ever more God-forsaken locations on the planet had worn the edges of her nerves away. They didn’t respond any more unless it was tragic. It had to be more graphic, more everything. A simple death due to age and cancer wasn’t shocking. Her mother was dying but she’d seen so many deaths, so many that weren’t at the end of a long life but cut off lives in their prime, or before they had had a chance to know anything other than fear.
Something metallic fell and she flinched, not sure where the sound came from. Rolling her neck to release tension, she looked around but everything seemed to be in place until she glanced at the sink. There a baking tray sat at an awkward angle. That must have been what had fallen. She shrugged. She was still wound up after the refugee camp in Jordan and now the discovery that George and her mother were lying for some reason. Turning to the right, she flexed her shoulders and looked to the larder, taking a few steps towards the door before stopping. It smelled of chocolate. Her stomach turned, and she stepped away, her mouth dry. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d willingly eaten the stuff.
Her phone pinged, and she glanced at it. Nothing important but it reminded her of the date. Today her father would have been ninety-two if he’d lived. With the logical side of her brain she could accept accidental death, but her instinct said that was simply a polite way to give the family peace. Family, a social structure. Sometimes useful, frequently not. She had seen more broken families than she had seen whole ones. Although the world held up the family as the ultimate goal, it wasn’t essential. She would agree that children needed a structure around them to grow safely. But it didn’t have to be a family and it didn’t have to be loving to see a child to adulthood. Food, shelter, and education were all that was required. Love was not. A child would become an adult with or without love. Love only shaped parts of a child, making them more vulnerable. Yet it was everyone’s holy grail. Living was simpler without love. Love created loss and the world was full of it.
Diana had loved her father. She’d now seen the proof. Maybe that was what she’d been searching for in her dreams. Yet here she was, standing in the unused big kitchen because her instinct had brought her to this place. Something had happened here. She was sure of it. She walked to the larder door. The handle turned easily. Somehow, she had expected it wouldn’t. A blast of cool musty air greeted her. It was bare, with only an empty biscuit tin on the shelf.
A spider’s web stretched from the top shelf to the small north facing window. That’s all that was there yet she could still smell chocolate, and in the pit of her stomach was fear. It was a feeling she’d faced so many times. But she’d always won. What would cause fear here? What would make a child afraid?
Above her head a black iron hook dangled. Ominous but not frightening. The room must have been originally used for game. The cool air ran up her bare legs and goosebumps covered her flesh. She would not run, despite the urge. This room was key, she knew it. Now she needed to dig deep to find out what happened here.
Her mother had said her father’s death had not been suicide. An hour ago she might have believed her but now she had seen proof that she’d lied about other things. George was lying too. He was good at it, far too good, but then he’d been a diplomat. No doubt if she delved, she might discover her stepfather was an old spook and lying was his profession.
Closing her eyes, she pushed out the anger and the frustration. There was no place for them if she was going to discover the truth. Although she was cold and fear covered her skin, she didn’t feel vulner
able. That panic she knew too well. She was a woman and that fact alone had made her a target and a victim. No, the fear that ate at her stomach now was different.
She swung round and left the larder. It wouldn’t provide the answers she wanted. There had to be something she was missing. As she walked out of the kitchen, she saw a pile of local newspapers. The top headline read ‘Police break local drug ring’. That was the starting point, the police. She hurried to her room – she had some research to do.
36
Diana
4 August 1962, 11.00 a.m.
Dear Diary,
I am sitting on the beach wall waiting. The tender, full of guests, is on its way out to the boat. But I am cross. The Venns aren’t here. Why had they come earlier? And now when we wanted to go, why were they late?
‘Diana, what are you writing?’ Mummy walked towards her. She was wearing her big dark sunglasses and Diana couldn’t tell if she was cross.
‘Just that I am stuck waiting on the beach.’
Mummy smiled. ‘Well, if the Venns are not here by the time the tender returns, they will miss out.’ She looked up and the wind caught the ends of her scarf wrapped around her head. Its red and oranges tangled through her dark hair. Diana’s hair was in plaits again. She pushed one off her shoulder, smiling. It would be a better day’s sailing if they didn’t come.
‘What are they like?’
Diana glanced up. She didn’t like them, but it wasn’t polite to say that. ‘Pleasant.’ Diana enunciated the word carefully.
‘I see.’ Her mother laughed. ‘You don’t like them.’
Diana pursed her mouth. ‘I thought that was the correct thing to say but you knew.’
‘Oh, darling I only know because I know you and I know your word choice.’
‘So someone else wouldn’t have known.’
‘Absolutely not. The Venns are pleasant.’ She shielded her eyes even though she was wearing sunglasses. The last of the guests was now on board and the tender, with Daddy at the helm, was making its way back to the beach.
‘I wish you were coming too, Mummy.’
‘Me too but we do want a special party tonight.’
‘Yes.’ Diana nodded, watching Daddy cut the engine out and lift it up.
‘Hello.’ Mr Venn walked down onto the wall.
Diana closed her diary. Mr Venn held up a camera and snapped a picture of her. She frowned as Mrs Venn joined him. He counted to ten then pulled something out of the side of the it and waved it about. ‘Thought you might enjoy this Polaroid camera, Diana.’
‘Why?’ she asked, frowning.
‘Because it gives you the picture right away.’ He pulled the top sheet back and there she was holding her diary, looking a bit sad.
Mummy peered over her shoulder to take a look. ‘How lovely but I don’t think it will fare well on the boat.’
Mr Venn looked at her and said, ‘Of course, Joan, you are right. How foolish of me.’
‘I’ll bring it up to the house now and she may have it went she returns.’ She looked at Diana.
‘Thank you so much for the present,’ she said, placing her diary into her bag.
‘Come on you lazy ones. Time and tide wait for no man,’ Daddy called, holding the tender. Diana cast a quick look at Mummy then raced down the beach into Daddy’s arms.
37
Joan
4 August 1962, 11.10 a.m.
The sun is out, the wind is fresh, and the sea flat. There might never be another day quite so perfect for a sail. I wave off my guests, my husband and my daughter. I want to be with them but because of their expedition I have time to prepare with Tom for meeting George Russell. Tom bowed out of the sailing party, blaming it on too much cognac last night. Allan didn’t call him out on it. He could have but he had given me a look. It said it all. There was promise there. He would forgive me for keeping his best friend here with me. Tom and I work so closely together, but because of their friendship, no one suspects my role. Turning away, I consider the lie I will need to tell Allan if he asks what Tom and I discussed. The glow of happiness I’d felt disappears. Allan is no traitor, but the first rule is trust no one. Never before had that come so close to home.
I can wrestle with my qualms later, but first I must supervise the table for tonight . . . place settings, china, flowers, candles. It must be just right. It’s Allan’s thirty-sixth birthday. Every year we host a dinner in his honour while we are here. This year it provides the cover I need to meet George Russell.
On the sideboard in the dining room, Mrs Hoskine and the daily help have already put out the silver and the glasses ready to lay. What’s missing are the table extensions and the placemats. It’s still the size we needed for breakfast: eight. Twenty requires a full extension. I tap my fingers on the table. Why did Allan have to invite these new friends? A sigh escapes me. It is his birthday, so it is within his right, but it is annoying. I pause and lecture myself. I need to be bright.
‘Mrs Trewin.’ Mr Hoskine stands in the French windows.
I look up and smile.
‘Shall I extend the table now?’ he asks.
‘Yes, that would be good then I can review where I’ve placed people.’
‘Don’t forget the vicar’s deaf ear.’ He chuckles.
‘I won’t.’ I leave him to his task and walk straight into Tom coming out of the snug.
‘Excellent.’ He takes my arm. ‘Do you have some flowers to cut?’
I nod. I don’t, but in the garden we won’t be overheard. My mind shifts to Moscow mode. I think I may have walked every park in that city. We remain silent until we are under the cover of the trees and among the camellia bushes. I turn to Tom. ‘Do you know this George Russell?’
‘I’ve met him.’ Tom shrugs.
‘And?’ I snip at some eucalyptus branches.
He clears his throat. ‘Seems sound.’
‘That doesn’t fill me with confidence.’ I turn to him.
‘Not much fills me with confidence at the moment.’
I put my hand on his arm. ‘Tom, this isn’t like you.’
‘True.’
‘There’s more than you’re telling me.’ I stop walking.
He laughs. ‘Always.’ Lighting a cigarette, he offers it to me and I take it, waiting while he lights one for himself. ‘Victor said in his dispatch that he felt someone was following him.’
I frown. ‘I wasn’t followed.’
‘Are you sure?’ He casts me a sideways glance and I search my memories seeing the park, the museums and the Arbat. I’d been followed on my first drop in Aden in 1955 and that taught me what it felt like. But the unease I felt in Moscow was different.
‘I’m sure.’ I take the secateurs out of the basket on my arm as I see Mr Hoskine in the distance. Here, under the trees, dew lingers on the leaves and I cut a white hydrangea head. The air smells of pine and petrichor and all I can see in my mind is the park bench in Moscow where I was sitting with Salome. Diana stood by the pond looking at another child trying to make a small wooden boat float. Victor entered the park and watched the children for a while. I’d let Salome’s lead slip and she ran towards Diana. I began walking towards the pond. Victor caught the lead and brought Salome back to me with a smile. The scene is so clear. Were the women with the children watching us? Victor handed the lead back to me then bent down to scratch Salome’s head and clipped the film inside the dog’s collar. It was a seamless handover. He left the park and Diana and I stayed for another hour. No one had followed us home. Other than to say thank you to Victor we hadn’t spoken.
‘I’m sure,’ I say again as we move to the top of the garden now.
‘Victor is vitally important and if the information he’s feeding us is true then Khrushchev is bluffing.’
I open my eyes wide. This is the first time that I have heard anything of what is contained in the films I transport. The less I know the better. ‘Tom?’
‘Sorry.’ He drops his cigarette on the ground and crushes
it on the path.
My heart breaks looking at his slumped shoulders. ‘What will you do now?’
‘I’m not sure. Whatever it is it will be office-based.’
‘Sorry.’ He loves the field and the travel.
‘Perils of the job.’ He plays with the catch on his cigarette case. Open, close . . .
‘Yes.’ The reality of what I have been doing hits home. Diana and her movements have been an easy cover. Neither I nor Allan have ever felt she was at risk. But what if we have been followed and we are known?
He touches my arm. ‘You have to go back.’
I look up at him. ‘Are my thoughts that visible?’
‘To me, yes.’ He pauses. ‘Victor is too important.’
I know he speaks the truth. Pain sears between my eyes. I swallow down the gasp of agony. Diana is at risk and it’s my fault.
‘Diana could go to boarding school.’
‘Yes.’ I draw lines in the damp soil with my toe. ‘She won’t be happy.’
‘I know, but . . .’
He doesn’t have to finish the sentence. It is clear she is at risk even now. Closing my eyes, I think of her happy face as she scampered off holding Allan’s hand. I’d do anything for her.
‘I believe the next drop may well be the last.’ He begins pacing and I cut another flower head. ‘But I’m not in charge anymore and after this afternoon I will know very little of what happens going forward.’
‘Oh, Tom.’ He has been the safe pair of hands and now I am being handed over to an unknown person who hasn’t been involved. I sigh. That is the point, of course. They need someone who hasn’t been connected with Tom. But this George Russell will be another person in the loop and the more who know, the greater the possibility of a leak.
Tom stops pacing and shakes his head. ‘You mustn’t tell Allan. He can’t know. You understand this.’
‘Is he really under suspicion?’ I don’t want to think about this and I try not to connect the pieces.