by Liz Fenwick
65
Diana
4 August 1962, 11.45 p.m.
Diana’s stomach hurt worse than earlier. She shouldn’t have eaten the chocolate. She shouldn’t have gone downstairs. If she hadn’t gone, she wouldn’t have seen Daddy.
She walked to the bathroom to get a glass of water. But when she arrived her stomach turned over and she threw up. Shaking and scared, she sat down on the floor waiting to see if it was going to happen again. She wanted Mummy, but she knew Mummy was with her guests.
Blowing her nose, she rinsed her mouth and tried to stop shivering. It wouldn’t stop so she went back to bed and rocked herself. She was still rocking when Daddy came into her room. He stopped at the chest of drawers and looked at his birthday book. Diana tried to speak but her tummy was rolling again. He stayed there a long time staring at one page.
‘Daddy.’
He turned, and a smile spread across his face. ‘My Diana, what on earth are you doing awake. What’s wrong?’ He walked to the bed and she slid over to make room for him. He pushed her hair off her face. ‘Are you OK?’
Diana nodded. ‘I was sick.’
‘Too much chocolate?’ He touched her chin.
She nodded and looked away. Had he seen her there?
‘Did you ever finish your piano practice today?’
Diana frowned. ‘No.’
‘What’s Madame Roscova like?’
She smiled. ‘She’s lovely but . . .’
‘But what?’
‘Tough.’
‘How so?’ he asked.
‘She knows when I haven’t practised enough.’
‘Does she talk to you much?’
‘Yes, but I don’t say much, like Mummy told me.’ She shook her head.
‘I’m sure you don’t.’ He picked up her hand. ‘Do you like her?’
‘Oh, yes. She’s lovely and she always smells nice, like flowers.’
He laughed. ‘Is there anything particular she’s interested in?’
She closed her eyes for a moment. ‘About Salome and where we take her for walks and she sometimes asks when you’ve been away.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘She’s not like the art teacher who asks me all sorts of questions.’ She flexed her fingers. ‘But she always talks to me when I’m trying to put my fingers in the right position.’
He went quiet and he said so softly she could barely hear him, ‘They knew but they turned me anyway . . . I’m as good as dead already.’
‘What Daddy? Who is dead?’
‘No one, my angel.’ He tickled her then took his hankie and cleaned her face. ‘You don’t keep secrets from me, do you?’
She shook her head. ‘Never.’
‘I love you.’
‘I love you, Daddy.’ She gripped the blanket tightly. ‘You love Mummy, too?’
He frowned. ‘I love Mummy, too.’
‘That’s good.’ She released the blanket.
‘You’re not to worry about anything, little one.’
‘I won’t.’
‘You’d tell me if you were?’
She pushed her hair back. ‘I’m sorry I went into the larder. I shouldn’t have.’ She nodded and looked away. Mummy had said to tell no one what she saw but that wouldn’t mean Daddy.
‘Ah.’ He glanced at the chest of drawers. ‘You haven’t told anyone have you?’
She shook her head and closed her eyes, thinking of Mummy. ‘No.’
‘Good.’ He kissed her cheek. ‘Nothing to concern yourself with. Just forget it.’
She nodded vigorously. That was a word she liked. Daddy had taught it to her. ‘I will.’
‘Good.’
‘Will you tell me a story?’
He smiled. ‘Which one?’
‘The little princess.’
‘I will if you close your eyes and relax.’
She snuggled down in the bed and looked up at him. His eyes were shining, and she reached out and touched his hand. He looked sad.
‘Eyes closed,’ he said.
‘Yes, Daddy.’
‘Once upon a time in a castle far away lived a little princess who was so loved by her parents that she glowed with happiness. She and her little dog Salome ran through the kingdom bringing joy wherever she went . . .’
Diana listened, not hearing the words any more just Daddy’s voice telling her he loved her. Everything would be fine.
THE CAUSEWAY
66
Lottie
5 August 2018, 12.10 a.m.
Alex helped Gramps up to bed. Lottie had suggested earlier on he might want to use a different room, but he refused. He wanted to be with Gran while he could. She could understand that.
She looked for her mother, but she hadn’t returned from her walk and she’d been gone for ages. As Alex came downstairs, Lottie was pulling out the big old torch.
‘Problem?’
‘No, Mum’s not back so I’m off to have a look.’
‘Want company?’
She paused. It would be good, but her mother might not feel that way. ‘Thanks, but no.’
He smiled. ‘You know where to find me if you need me.’ He stopped at the kitchen door. ‘George was almost asleep before he lay down.’
She walked towards him. ‘Although he knows – well, we all know – what is coming, it knocks you off your feet. Thanks for all the help.’ She stood on tiptoes, balanced herself with a hand on his chest. His heart beat beneath her fingers. She kissed his cheek.
He put his fingers on hers for a moment. ‘No problem.’ He dropped his hand and stepped away, closing the door behind him. She walked out of the open French windows in the drawing room. The sound of the sea and the cry of an owl filled the air. It was mournful, but Gran had loved listening to them and Lottie wondered if that was her way of saying she was on her way.
No, that was too fanciful for Gran. Lottie laughed and cut across the dew-covered grass and onto the gravel path. Her mother must be in one of two places. Lottie heard the voices of some teenagers coming from the beach, so she would try the watchtower first.
The darkness grew the further up the long path she went, and she switched on the torch. The beam of light picked out the way and she recalled taking this path so often with Gran. On one particular evening stroll Lottie had asked her about Allan. Lottie must have seen his grave that day. Gran had spoken about him with such love. ‘He made me laugh and he could win anyone over to his point of view. Your mother adored him and so did I.’
‘Is that why you didn’t remarry for so long? You loved him too much?’
She’d taken Lottie’s hand in hers. ‘Yes. Love that big is hard to match.’
‘But you love Gramps?’
‘I do.’ She smiled.
‘He loves you.’ Lottie giggled. ‘He tells you with flowers all the time.’
‘That he does.’
‘It’s like a secret code.’ She skipped a few steps ahead and turned to Gran
‘Indeed.’ She laughed.
‘Do you think I’ll ever find someone who loves me like Gramps loves you?’ Lottie asked.
Gran bent down so she could look her in the eyes. ‘I know you will because you have a huge heart.’
‘But why doesn’t Mum have someone loving her, aside from me and you?’
‘Ah, I think . . . I think she might be afraid of love, or maybe she is complete without another.’
‘Oh.’
Lottie had looked at her elegant grandmother and wondered what being complete meant. Now as Lottie reached the gate that led out onto the path, the smell of the pine needles beneath her feet scented the air. The ground was so dry. She couldn’t remember a summer so hot. Never had she so looked forward to rain and never had she felt less like going to the watchtower. Earlier it had been bad enough. Somehow it was different in daylight but in the darkness her skin prickled, and her feet slowed.
She wasn’t alone. Whispered voices and the sound of feet filled the air. She suppressed the desire to scream. She fled to the watchtower, switche
d off her torch and stood still, waiting for whoever it was to pass. But the footsteps came closer. A beam of light showed their progress. Lottie pressed herself against the concrete support holding the platform above her.
‘Are you sure this is the way, Robert?’ the woman’s voice was soft and well spoken.
‘It looks different at night but yes.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Take my arm.’
‘I know I thought it was a good idea to come here at the hour of his death. To . . . to let go finally, but . . .’ Her voiced trailed away and Lottie’s heart sank. John’s parents.
‘What time do you make it?’ he asked, and they walked right by Lottie.
‘About quarter past, I should think.’
She watched the beam of their torch move further out onto the headland and she followed. They were making a pilgrimage and she shouldn’t be a part of it. But she had to face her role in it. He had been their only child.
She stopped on the path, listening to the sounds of the night. Something moved in the undergrowth as John’s parents made their way out to the point. The backbeat of the music from the beach shook the still air. Lottie peered into the darkness below, looking to see lit cigarettes or phone screens but all was dark.
‘Hey you.’
Lottie spun around, heart thumping, but she realized it was from the beach, forgetting how sound carries around here. She knew this small headland like the back of her hand having used it as her personal playground for years. John hadn’t.
Now his parents had reached the bench and the light from their torch caught the bouquet of garden flowers his mother held.
‘Robert, I can’t do this. I can’t let go.’
‘We can. It’s what he’d want.’
‘But . . .’
Lottie stood by a tree. She shouldn’t be witnessing this. It was wrong. That night ten years ago, the music was all Groove Armada, who were headlining at the festival in a few days’ time. She didn’t recognize the music coming up from the beach now.
‘Be careful up there,’ a voice from below shouted.
‘Yeah, we don’t need our night ruined.’ Laughter followed the reply and she could smell their weed.
‘OK, I can do this.’
Lottie saw them hold hands and walk a bit further towards the edge. Her heart in her mouth, she prayed they weren’t about to do something reckless.
‘That’s done.’ Their torch shone in her direction.
The woman wasn’t carrying the flowers anymore. ‘We won’t stop missing him,’ she said.
He cleared his throat. ‘No, but we don’t need to come back here again.’
A branch snapped as Lottie stepped on it. She flinched.
‘Who is there?’ he asked.
Lottie watched John’s mother move closer to his father.
‘Sorry.’ She stepped into the path of their torch and they walked right up to her.
‘You’re Lottie Trewin,’ his mother said.
‘Yes.’ Lottie rubbed her arms feeling the wind rising.
‘You came too.’ His mother held out her hand and Lottie took it. ‘These years had to be hard on you, too.’
Lottie swallowed. ‘Yes, but not as hard as for you.’
‘Thank you.’ She squeezed Lottie’s fingers gently. ‘It’s time we all kept John in our hearts and moved forward.’
‘Yes, he’d want that.’ John’s father’s voice faded away.
‘I know.’ Lottie managed to say.
‘He’d want all of us to live, to laugh and to love.’ His mother paused. ‘We must do that.’
‘Are you heading back?’ his father asked.
Lottie shook her head. ‘Not just yet.’
‘Take care of yourself and be careful.’ John’s mother took a deep breath. She leaned forward and kissed Lottie. ‘Embrace life.’ She snuffled. ‘It’s what I’m going to try to do again.’
‘Yes.’ Lottie managed to reply. Living was hard. She watched the light of their torch until it disappeared. She was alone. Her mother wasn’t here, and Lottie doubted she was on the beach with the teens. She knew today had been tough on her. To finally find some peace with Gran and to know the end was so close. Lottie began to make her way off the headland when suddenly she remembered her mother’s diary. Her mother had to try and understand so much as a small child, like her father’s homosexuality, but it was the diary’s final words that haunted Lottie.
Daddy is dead. It’s my fault.
Was it like Lottie feeling responsible for John’s death? Or had her mother played a role in her father’s death and if she had, did it matter? Whatever happened, her mother had her ghosts and Lottie had hers and so had Gran.
67
Lottie
5 August 2018, 12.45 a.m.
Everything ached, including her head, when she reached the house. She went around locking doors and windows but left the back door by the larder unlocked in case her mother was still out, but it was now almost one in the morning and she hadn’t seen her. She was probably sound asleep in bed, which was where Lottie should be. Stifling a yawn, she climbed the far staircase. She would check on her grandparents before she called it a night. Tomorrow, or more correctly today, could prove to be a long day. She needed to make a proper list of all the things that needed to be done on Monday.
When she reached the landing, she saw her mother in the hallway taking everything out of the closet once more.
‘There you are.’ Lottie walked up to her.
Her mother looked up with a haunted expression. ‘They are all so beautiful.’
Lottie nodded. Her mother had taken each dress out of their garment bags and unboxed all the shoes. There were only a few things left hanging. Seeing all the clothes Lottie thought of her earlier conversation with Pat Treneer. She looked for the sea-blue dress he had described. Was it the one she had seen on Friday?
‘It was such a different age.’ Stroking a pillbox hat, her mother sat on the floor.
‘Jackie O.’
‘Yes, when she was the first lady and white gloves were de rigueur.’ She picked up a pair of long calfskin gloves.
‘Do you remember?’ Lottie knelt beside her.
‘Flashes of things and jewels.’
‘Jewels?’ Lottie raised her eyebrows. Gran wore pearls but nothing else that she recalled.
‘Diamonds.’
‘I’ve never seen any other than her rings.’
‘Diamonds were only to be worn after five.’ Her mother chuckled.
‘Where did that come from?’
Her mother shrugged. ‘Somewhere. I wish I knew,’ she smiled. She stroked the silk of the dress in front of her. ‘Maybe . . . Lady Fox?’
‘Who?’ Lottie froze. She’d read that name in the diary. Her mother was beginning to remember more.
Frowning, her mother said, ‘My great aunt, possibly.’ She shrugged. ‘My mother had beautiful jewellery.’ She closed her eyes. ‘Even some Russian ones.’ Her hand went to her neck. ‘There was an enamelled locket and other pieces.’ She opened her eyes and dropped her hand. ‘I wonder what she did with them.’
‘Maybe she sold them.’ Lottie frowned.
‘I guess money was tight.’ She waved her hand. ‘She rented out Boskenna and went back to work.’
‘We could ask her about them.’
‘Sadly, I think that possibility has passed.’ Her mother yawned.
Lottie nodded with a heavy heart. ‘Why don’t we leave these here and go through them tomorrow when we’ve had some sleep?’ She stood as the longcase clock downstairs chimed the hour.
‘Yes.’ Her mother rose and rubbed her back. ‘It’s strange. Here I am trying to piece together my mother or maybe my childhood through things.’ She picked up a silk scarf and let it slip through her fingers. ‘I’m not sure how it will help, though.’ She turned towards her room. ‘Night.’
Lottie smiled. ‘Night, Mum. I’m just going to check on them.’
‘OK, get some sleep and . . . thanks.’ She smiled the
n disappeared around the corner of the hall.
Before she reached her grandparent’s room, Lottie could hear his storing. At least Gramps would be rested in the morning. As tired as she was, her brain was running around like a puppy chasing its tail. She wished her body had that energy.
She leaned on the balustrade. Would hot chocolate help? Her mind kept thinking of Gran’s words, her mother’s diary and Pat Treneer’s conviction that Allan hadn’t just fallen. She walked back to where Gran’s clothes were laid out. Turning on the nearby bathroom light, she went through the dresses and gowns on the floor. No sea-blue ones and none missing bows. Taking a deep breath, she checked the remaining garment bags. The first two were more silk and cotton shift dresses but the final one tucked in the far reaches of the closet was an evening gown she’d seen yesterday. Even in the dim light the silk shimmered like the sea.
Pulling it out, she carried the garment bag into the bathroom and closed the door. Laying it on the floor, she freed it from the bag. The zip was on the side and a thin band ran under the bust. She swallowed as she turned the dress around. There was no bow but maybe there had never been one. The light from the single bulb above was dim. She lifted the dress watching the colours of it shimmer. It was exactly as Jacob had described it to Pat. Gran must have been stunning in this.
She pulled the wooden chair from the corner of the room under the ceiling light. It groaned as she stood on it, clutching the dress. Beginning at the back she turned it over studying the band. If the bow had been on the back Allan could have grabbed it as he fell. But the were no threads or even needle marks. She slowed her breathing and moved her fingers around praying she wouldn’t see what she knew she would. At first, she thought it was all fine. No threads were visible but when she held the fabric up to her face there was a tear that had been carefully mended. Her heart sank.
Once she had the dress back in the bag and hung in the exact place it had been, she went down into the small kitchen and put milk on to heat. If she hadn’t spoken with Pat she probably could have let go of her grandmother’s words, like Alex suggested. But she couldn’t un-know, un-see, or un-hear. Her grandmother had killed her grandfather. Gran had said she had no choice, but Lottie knew there was always a choice. Murder was never right. She made cocoa and sat with her head in her hands. Gran had murdered her husband. Those words kept running through her brain. She told herself it didn’t matter. Gran was dying. But she knew it did.