The Path to the Sea

by Liz Fenwick

  Tom nods.

  ‘He’s not the mole, Tom.’

  He opens out his cigarette case again, removes a cigarette then taps it three times on the case before lighting it. ‘He’s one of a few people that it could be.’

  ‘No.’ I stare directly back at him not allowing my glance to waver.

  ‘Have you noticed anything different about him lately?’ He watches me, and I cut a branch from the Judas tree. I don’t like this Tom, this logical doing his job Tom, but I understand this Tom. I shake my head, telling him no, but at the same time my stomach rolls over. Allan’s restless behaviour is down to the miscarriage. It has to be. He wouldn’t turn. He isn’t a communist and he’s never had a leaning that way. Tom knows this. He doesn’t need to ask. He knows Allan like he does me.

  ‘Be careful when you head back to Moscow next week.’

  I take a deep breath. This isn’t a game. ‘You be careful too.’

  He turns to me and says, ‘Always.’ Our glances meet then we look away, walking towards the walled garden where I can see Mrs Hoskine giving instructions, then I hear the sound of wheels on the drive.

  ‘Your guest has arrived.’

  ‘Yes.’ I pick up my pace and head into the courtyard between the house and the cottage. Through the gate in the wall I watch my new minder step out of the taxi. Lean but short. I hadn’t expected short. He is not much taller than I am. His hair is thick and as he turns to look at the house, I see intelligence in his eyes. His glance takes in the view, the garden before spotting me watching him.

  ‘Joan?’ His accent is east coast, Boston at a guess.

  ‘Yes.’ I walk forward with Tom a few steps behind me. ‘Welcome to Boskenna.’ I extend my hand.

  ‘Beautiful.’ He says, staring at me.

  ‘Yes, we are very lucky with the location.’

  ‘Tom.’ George nods.

  ‘Good journey from Penzance?’ Tom drops his cigarette and stubs it out with his foot.

  ‘The train was comfortable.’

  ‘Do come in.’ I lead him through the front door and drop my flower trug on the table. ‘Would you like a drink, or should I show you to your room first?’

  His glance takes in everything. ‘Room please.’ He raises the bag in his hand.

  ‘Of course, follow me.’ I lead him to the front staircase and stop on the bottom step. ‘I’m afraid I’ve had to put you in one of the attic rooms as we are at full capacity.’ I smile. ‘But the advantage is that you have a bird’s eye view from there.’ As a child I had loved the room I was putting him in. Although the ceilings are low the view is spectacular, and I could survey my domain.

  George remains silent as I take him up the short staircase to the top floor. This is in the oldest part of the house, built in the 1740s. In many ways, the house is misshapen with different levels and small sets of stairs where you least expected them. It is part of what I love about Boskenna, not all is revealed at first meeting.

  The door is open and through the window the view is all blue sea and sky. In the distance I make out the sail of a yacht making way towards Gribben Head and then onto Fowey. Allan. I turn to George. Tom is downstairs, and this is his chance or mine to say something unheard by him.

  He places his bag on the bed and looks at me and not the view. ‘From this point forward, you will no longer relay any information to Tom or to your husband.’ His voice is quiet and even. It is a command.

  I remain silent.

  ‘MI6 has become a leaky sieve and Victor is too key to lose with Khrushchev flexing his muscles in Cuba.’

  I nod.

  ‘You have to put Victor before yourself, your family, and your friends.’ He glances to the door. ‘We can’t swap you out before the next drop.’

  I swallow.

  ‘I need you to be alert to everything and everyone.’

  I cross my arms. ‘How do I know I can trust you?’

  A slow smile spreads across his face. ‘You don’t.’

  I am alone. A cool breeze drifts in through the open window and goosebumps cover my arms.

  38

  Diana

  4 August 2018, 11.30 a.m.

  With a notebook in her hand and the information Diana had a colleague pull off the internet, she went to her mother’s room. Her fingers worried the wire of the binder. According to the material, she had seen her father’s body on the beach. That was in the transcript of the coroner’s court. Local police had handed over to CID swiftly.

  On the threshold of the bedroom she heard her mother. ‘I had no choice.’ This time she spoke in English. George sat beside her, stroking her arm and murmuring to her, trying to soothe her but Diana saw how troubled she was.

  She cleared her throat and George looked up. ‘May I have a few minutes alone with my mother?’

  He turned to Diana, his look almost pleading, but he stood – ever the old-school gentleman. ‘Of course, Diana. She’s not very . . . she’s . . .’

  ‘Dying.’

  His head dropped down to his chest. Her hand clenched as she watched him shuffle out the door. Once he was out of sight she went to her mother’s bedside and sat down and picked up her cold hand. Her circulation was slowing but Diana knew she could still hear her.

  ‘Mum, I need to know what happened fifty-six years ago.’ There was no response, but she couldn’t give up now. ‘You know I don’t really remember my father or Moscow or even Boskenna.’

  Her mother’s eyelids fluttered. ‘I had no choice.’

  Diana frowned. ‘You had no choice to send me away?’ Her voice caught on the last word. She too had sent her daughter away. It was the right choice and in her heart she knew that was true.

  Her mother opened her eyes. ‘Diana, I’m sorry.’

  She began to speak then stopped.

  She had waited years to hear those words. Now they took the fight from her.

  Her mother’s voice was so faint. ‘I was wrong to do what I did but . . .’

  ‘But what?’

  Her mother’s eyes closed again but Diana was sure she was still awake. ‘Mum, talk to me.’

  Her head moved from side to side. ‘Forgive me, please.’

  ‘How can I forgive you when you lied to me?’ She pulled her hand away, thinking of the neat writing listing what room George was in and where he sat at dinner.

  Her eyes opened wide before she said, ‘All parents lie to their children.’

  Diana gave a dry laugh. ‘I’m not talking Father Christmas here.’ She took a breath. ‘George Russell was here when my father died.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yes, Lottie found your notebook. Don’t lie.’

  Her mother tried to take a deep breath, but it turned into a cough. Once she had stopped, Diana watched her lay motionless, all energy wasted. The only sign of life was the occasional rasp until she whispered, ‘It wasn’t important.’

  ‘What? The man who became your second husband wasn’t important?’ She shook her head, but her mother didn’t her see. She was looking out of the window. Her thoughts clearly faraway. ‘You lied.’

  Rising from the bed, she walked to the window. A few clouds had appeared softening the heat. How could she forgive her?

  ‘I had to do it . . . you must understand.’

  ‘No, I don’t.’ She wasn’t sure if there was anything that angered her more than being lied to.

  ‘I thought it best.’

  ‘Ah, like sending me away?’

  ‘It was for the best.’ Her mother turned to her with eyes full of remorse. ‘I did it for you.’

  Diana swung around. ‘Why didn’t you love me enough to keep me with you?’ Once the words were out, she wanted to take them back. If she had thought her mother pale before, she’d been wrong. A ghost lay on the bed in front of her.

  ‘If you thought I didn’t love you, I’m sorry.’ Each word took more from her. ‘I love you and have loved you since the moment you came into my life.’

  Diana took a few steps back towards t
he bed, wanting to believe these words but she stopped. Her notebook still lay there, reminding her of her goal of more information about her father. ‘Why did you push me away?’

  ‘I didn’t mean to but . . .’ She closed her eyes. ‘I did.’

  Diana swallowed. The truth, finally.

  ‘You would have done the same.’

  ‘No.’ Diana moved forward but then stopped. She was right, Diana had.

  She looked at the body on the bed. She didn’t look like her mother but a corpse.

  ‘I love you and I’m so sorry.’ She sucked in air. ‘If I could change what I have done . . .’ Her eyes closed.

  ‘What? What have you done?’

  ‘Forgive me.’

  Diana went to her and took her hand. What was she forgiving? Her mother’s fingers tried to hold hers and Lottie’s voice rose up from the garden. Like her own mother, Diana had failed in so many ways. She paused then said, ‘Thank you for loving Lottie.’

  Her mother’s eyes gleamed. ‘Yes. Forgive me.’

  Diana nodded and her mother’s fingers clung for a second then fell away, hitting the notebook.

  Diana still had no answers, but something had moved within her.

  39

  Lottie

  4 August 2018, 12.00 p.m.

  Next year’s blooms were already forming on the camellia bushes. Some would be out before Christmas. Gran had always used the red and white ones in her Christmas decorating. Lottie associated the flowers with Alex. When he’d handed her a bloom that June, Gramps had whispered in her ear that a pink one represented heartfelt longing. Looking at one of the largest buds, she could see red appearing. Gramps had also told her that every year he cut the first red ones to appear and presented them to Gran, for they told her of his love, passion and desire. Lottie had imagined coming back to Boskenna for Christmas after her first term at Ruskin to find that Alex would do as Gramps had. Such lovely silly dreams. Flowers didn’t hold messages except for the bugs and the birds. However, she loved that unlike roses which dropped petals, the camellia falls as a whole flower. Keeping its heart in one piece even until the end.

  Her phone pinged with a text. It was from the private investigator.

  Meeting with Paul’s ex later. Will update you after.

  Jamie

  She rolled her eyes. It wouldn’t help. Nothing would make the divorce happen sooner, return her money or her designs. On Monday she needed to chase the woman at the V&A to withdraw from the exhibition. Everything she had worked so hard for was lost because she had believed he loved her. How needy had she been. Turning back down the garden, she winced every so often. Damn weever fish and damn her own stupidity.

  The walk cleared her head and from the tree cover of the path she saw her mother standing in Gran’s room. Her arms were crossed, and Lottie could only hope that Gran had remained sleeping. Her mother hadn’t looked pleased, but then that was not uncommon. What did her mother remember of her father’s death? Why on earth would she think she was at fault?

  ‘Hey.’ Two hands grabbed her and steadied her. ‘Head in the clouds?’ Alex asked.

  She gave him a lopsided smile. ‘I wish.’

  ‘What’s up?’ He fell into step beside her.

  ‘Mum.’ She sighed.

  ‘Oh. Nothing new then.’

  ‘I know she wants some answers that only Gran can give and well . . .’ She stopped walking and turned to him.

  ‘And?’ He raised an eyebrow.

  ‘She feels Gran is lying . . .’

  ‘Ah.’ The corner of his mouth turned up. ‘I understand.’

  It could be the same conversation they’d had years ago. He hadn’t understood why she hadn’t told her mother the truth back then. She’d argued that she hadn’t lied, and he’d kept whispering for days that there was such a thing as lying by omission.

  The distant memory of him popping up behind her and calling her a liar then kissing her came to the forefront of her thoughts. Probably because she was staring at his mouth. He had the most kissable mouth even now. She pushed the thought aside.

  When she was investigating a story, her mother couldn’t and wouldn’t be led astray and Lottie feared she was treating Gran the same way. She took a deep breath. Her phone pinged, and she pulled it out of her pocket.

  ‘Your boyfriend?’

  She coughed and glanced away.

  ‘George mentioned he met him a while ago.’

  ‘I don’t have a boyfriend.’ This was true, she had a husband which was far worse. ‘But this is just something I need to deal with.’ It was Sally wondering if she’d heard anything from Jamie.

  ‘Important?’

  ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘It’s not nothing. I can see it on your face.’

  ‘I have never been good at hiding things.’ She smiled. ‘Could never have been a spy.’

  ‘Most definitely not. You’re no good at lying.’ He chuckled. ‘You could only manage it by . . .’

  She cut him off. ‘Omission.’

  He laughed but then the corners of his mouth dropped down. ‘What’s bothering your mum, other than her mother is dying and she doesn’t want to be here?’

  ‘She’s just discovered that Gran lied to her.’

  ‘What about – the tooth fairy?’

  ‘Don’t be cheeky.’

  He grinned. ‘All parents lie to kids, all the time, for many reasons.’

  ‘Well, Mum as you know has a big thing about lying and this wasn’t over something trivial.’ She began walking again.

  ‘What was it? Her father wasn’t her father?’

  ‘No, it has to do with Gramps.’

  ‘With George?’ He frowned.

  She shook her head. ‘It’s weird, unless Gran has a really crap memory, which she hasn’t.’

  ‘You’d better tell me now as this is all too cryptic.’ He caught up with her.

  ‘Well, Gran had said she didn’t meet Gramps until 1975 in Cairo, but looking through an old notebook listing all her entertaining, George Russell stayed here the weekend my grandfather died in 1962.’

  He ran his hand through his hair then looked out to the bay. ‘Odd, but have you considered that it might be a different George Russell?’ He tilted his head. ‘George Russell is not exactly like Archibald Guswinger, is it?’

  ‘Archibald Guswinger? Where on earth did you come up with that name?’

  ‘God only knows.’ He smiled. ‘George Russell isn’t John Smith, either, but there must be many people bearing that name, I would think.’

  ‘True.’ She looked at him and she wished he was wearing sunglasses because his hazel eyes were bewitching. The last thing she needed was to fall under his spell again, so she removed herself from the temptation and walked into the house.

  In the kitchen, she washed the lettuce and other vegetables she’d found on the table. Alex must have brought them in. Ripping the lettuce apart she flung it into the salad bowl. If she could kick something or someone, she would but that wouldn’t help anything or anyone. There was nothing she could do but make food and be here. She couldn’t even go grocery shopping, thanks to Paul. Her hands were tied, and she hated it.

  ‘What’s for lunch?’ Her mother stood in the doorway looking a bit washed out.

  ‘Who is with Gran?’ Lottie asked.

  She picked up a piece of carrot. ‘The nurse called back in and is having a chat with George.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘You haven’t answered my question.’ The full strength of her stare landed on Lottie. This was something she’d learned to avoid as much as possible. Being under her mother’s radar was best practice and essential at the moment.

  ‘Thought the salad bowl made it obvious.’

  Her mother squinted into the bowl. ‘Anything other than lettuce and carrot?’

  ‘Not at the moment.’

  Her mother pulled open the fridge. ‘Why haven’t you gone shopping?’

  Truth or lie? Looking at her expression it was
a hard choice. Maybe something halfway in between. ‘Haven’t had a chance yet.’ Lottie sliced a tomato. ‘Why don’t you do it while I’m doing this?’ Her mother hated cooking, so this might work.

  ‘I don’t know what to buy.’

  Lottie dug into her jeans pocket and pulled out a slip of paper. ‘Here’s a list.’

  She grimaced as she read it. Lottie widened her stance ready for a fight.

  ‘OK, anything else?’

  ‘More coffee, maybe.’

  ‘Fine.’ Her mother put the paper in her back pocket and left the kitchen. Disaster averted. However, if she wasn’t careful someone would find out and these were the last people in the world she wanted to share her failure with, absolutely the last people. Her humiliation would be complete. Marrying Paul and lending him the money had seemed a good idea at the time. But these things do, like ditching the internship and spending the summer here. Big mistake. Would she ever learn?

  From the kitchen window she watched Alex walk into the cottage.

  ‘No,’ she said aloud then looked about to make sure no one had heard her. She would not think about Alex Hoskine and the plans they had had. There were more important things to think about. Gran, for one, and her mother’s peculiar behaviour. She could do little about either one. She closed her eyes and wished. Wished that for once that she could do something right and help things rather than mess them up.

  She put some eggs on to boil and thought about her mother’s life and her life within it, or outside of it of late. The one thing that constantly represented her mother for her was seeing a passport. She had several in case one was tied up in a visa process and always had one on her person. In her bedroom, one drawer was permanently filled with black knickers and bras, grey t-shirts and dark grey utility trousers. Not quite monotone but not far off, especially with her dark hair. These days her hair sported big streaks of steely grey. Once Lottie had asked why all the clothing was so boring and laughing, she’d said, ‘It won’t show the dirt.’

  Ever-practical was her mother and never there. Lottie assumed she was loved. She’d had her after all, but she’d never made it to a school play or a hockey match or a speech day. However, she’d attended every parent-teacher meeting. That had been important to her even if it hadn’t to Lottie.