by Liz Fenwick
68
Joan
5 August 1962, 3.30 a.m.
The hall clock chimes and I watch Allan light a cigar in front of the French windows. He doesn’t see me as he grabs the halfempty bottle of cognac and staggers up the garden. I switch a few lights off and make sure my guests are in bed. Once I’m sure the house is clear, I change into my plimsoles and set off to the watchtower. It is his favourite spot for an end-of-party smoke. And if he hasn’t gone that way, I would know far quicker than if he has opted for the beach.
The bottom of my dress is soaked from the dew as I creep through the shrubs and trees, making sure I can’t be seen from any of the windows. Once I am far enough from the house I return to the path. The moon is gone and the darkness complete. Instinct and the smell of the cigar smoke guide me.
I pause, taking in the peace of the early morning. The sound of the sea is gentle, almost whispering while my heart is hammering. I roll my shoulders to release the tension.
‘Hello.’ I say holding myself straight. Only the burning tip of his cigar was visible.
‘Darling.’ He slurs.
‘Really?’ I can’t keep the irony from my voice
‘Always.’
I freeze, wanting to see his expression, but it is too dark. Only the angry burning edges of the rolled tobacco glows as he puffs. I sniff. It is not his usual. Cuban I would guess. No doubt from the Venns. ‘Why?’
‘I’ve asked myself that question too many times.’ He snorted. ‘I suppose you have, too.’
I nod but know that he can’t see me. ‘Yes.’
‘What gave me away?’
‘Many things.’ I clasp my shaking hands together in front of me. This ladylike pose is somehow comforting.
‘I was careful.’ He sits on a step.
‘I’m sure, but they had you tightly.’
‘Unfortunately, yes.’ He tapped the ashes from the cigar. My glance follows its burning trail.
‘How much have you leaked?’
‘Nothing important.’ He inhales deeply.
‘I doubt that.’
His laugh is bitter. Self-hate emanates from the sound. I fight the urge to comfort him. It has gone beyond that now. ‘Tell me.’
‘Nothing can be done.’
‘Something can be done.’ I take a step closer, wanting to make this better.
‘No.’
I shift my weight onto my left foot, thinking. ‘You betrayed Tom.’
Silence.
‘Allan.’
‘Well, yes,’ he pauses, ‘you see they needed something big or I was done, and it would affect you.’ He drops his cigar and grinds it out. ‘You see it was you, or Tom.’ He laughs. ‘It always has been.’
I stand still. Me or Tom. I’m not blown. Relief floods in but then I know the pressure will build. It would never be enough. Tom and the operation wouldn’t be enough. He would have to give more. That’s the way it worked.
‘So you blew Tom and which operation?’
‘Vauxhall.’
‘Not me?’ I step back.
‘How could I? Think of Diana.’
‘You only chose Tom because of Diana?’ My mouth dries. The truth is never easy. I squint through the darkness. I would choose Diana over him, but I would also have chosen Tom over him.
‘Darling, he was my first love but she, she is everything.’ He fumbles in his jacket, finding his cigarette case.
I swallow.
‘She saw you.’
‘I know.’ He lights a cigarette then grabs the bottle of cognac from the concrete steps of the watchtower and takes a slug. ‘I asked her what was wrong. She wouldn’t say at first but then it came spilling out.’ He laughs madly. ‘Poor mite didn’t understand. I asked her if she’d told you. She lied.’ He took a swig. ‘Not that it matters now.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Allan?’ The clunk of the bottle against the concrete startles me. I jump. I need to control my emotions.
‘It will all become apparent soon enough.’
I grit my teeth. ‘That’s not an answer.’
‘No. But it will have to do.’ He stands.
‘No, it won’t. I need to know.’
‘In this world that rarely applies. You don’t need to know.’
‘What have you done?’
He sways. ‘More than Tom?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s only Tom that matters and I’ve probably saved him.’
‘When did they turn you?’ I stand my ground as he moves closer. I have been the drop for a year and a half. How much did Allan known about what Victor has been giving us? How much has Tom shared?
‘You remember the trip to Budapest?’
‘Yes.’ I nod, thinking that he was not himself when he returned but I’d just had a miscarriage before he’d left.
‘Then.’
‘Are you that weak?’
‘Or are you just not enough?’ He paused. ‘I could never have what I wanted so everything was always a substitute, even you.’ He took a drag of his cigarette. ‘But you knew that, and you gave me the one thing I hadn’t known I longed for.’
‘Diana.’
‘You love me, you need me.’ The bright end of his cigarette made circles in the air. ‘What does it matter if I’m a double agent?’
All I can focus on is him putting Diana at risk. He is the weak link and Tom has known this for years, as have I. Not that I want to admit it to myself, but between the two of us we have covered for him.
‘Come on, Joan. Our little game doesn’t matter in the big picture.’
But I know it does. Victor is worth protecting. I owe a duty to my country but more importantly, I love Diana.
‘I know you think you are helping with Victor but he’s not giving you anything they don’t want you to know.’
I press my lips together as he takes another swig and staggers towards me. ‘Tell me his real name, Joan, and we will be free.’
I back away. ‘No.’
‘Come on, Joanie. It’s nothing.’ His cognac breath covers me. But I know it is everything. They don’t know Victor’s name or aren’t sure. This operation could be saved.
‘It’s all blown. All of it.’ He moves closer. I step back again.
‘Don’t do this, Allan.’
He throws his head back and chuckles. ‘It’s too late, my lovely one. Too late. I’m done.’ He tips the bottle up and downs the last dregs. ‘You’re done too, my clever one.’
‘No.’
‘Don’t be all mightier than thou on me. I know you love Tom more than me, but in the way of irony he loves us both . . . as friends.’ He shakes his head and I see his teeth. ‘Neither of us could have our way with him, though God knows we both tried, until we fell into each other’s arms as compensation.’
‘Don’t do this.’
‘Don’t do what? Puncture our love?’ He drops the bottle. ‘The sad thing is, I do love you.’
‘I love you, too.’ I sigh, knowing it is the truth.
‘I know, silly woman, I know.’ His words slur more and more. ‘But that doesn’t matter right now. What I need is the actual name of Victor.’ He stepped closer. ‘And you, my love, can get it for me.’
‘How can you ask me that?’
‘Because I need to.’ Two steps bring him to me. I can’t move back any further. Despite the darkness, I know we are on the edge of the cliff. The sea sounds below as it sucks the water away from the beach.
I need to think clearly. ‘What are they threatening you with?’
‘What is my one weakness?’
I gasp. ‘Diana.’
‘Yes. So, tell me and they will leave us alone.’
My chest is tight, and I can hardly breathe. ‘I can’t believe you would do this to us.’
‘Our beautiful girl is the one who led them to us.’
‘No.’ I shake my head.
‘The piano teacher.’
My stomach tu
rns, accepting the truth of this. ‘But you are the one who betrayed us.’
‘You know me.’
I can’t deny that. But now because Allan couldn’t keep it in his trousers, he is risking Diana.
‘Don’t go all “God and country” on me, Joan.’
But he is right. I am left with only one choice. ‘Don’t ask me to do this.’
‘You’d choose Queen and country over Diana.’
I step closer to him. The smell of cognac was intoxicating. I kiss him.
‘See, women are ruled by their feelings.’
‘True.’ My lips hover over his.
‘Love binds you.’
‘It does.’ I place my hands on his arms and he leans in towards me. He is so drunk. As I kiss him again, I brace myself, moving one leg back then I whisper, ‘I love you.’ And push him over the edge. I feel a slight pull at my heart as his hands reach for me, but I step back. He doesn’t make a sound, but his body does when it hits the rocks below. A deep and cracking thump.
69
Joan
5 August 1962, 4.00 a.m.
‘If you hadn’t done it, I would have.’ George steps out from behind the watchtower.
I jump, and he grabs me and pulls me close. I shake until my teeth chatter. They will not stop.
‘It’s a shame he finished the cognac, you could use some.’ His American twang pounds in my ears, but I know he is whispering.
‘Diana.’ I stutter.
‘She’ll be fine.’
‘How . . . how can you be sure?’
‘I promise.’
He holds me close and I try not to think but it doesn’t work. ‘How?’
‘It’s simple.’
I rock my head back and forth. Nothing will ever be simple again.
‘It is.’ He holds me away from him with a hand on each arm, gentle but firm keeping me standing. ‘Listen. Everyone saw how drunk Allan was. It will look like he stumbled off the cliff.’
I glance over my shoulder. Somewhere below Allan is on the rocks.
‘No one knows you are here except for me, right?’
I nod. ‘No one. I made cer—certain.’ My teeth chatter. My hand flies to my mouth forcing him to let go.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘My lipstick.’
‘Lipstick?’
‘Yes, I kissed him. He’ll have my lipstick on him.’
‘Breathe.’ He strokes my shoulder while holding me upright. ‘Of course you kissed him. You’re his wife.’ He takes a breath. ‘You tell the police you kissed him on your way to bed. He was still up.’
‘No.’ I shake my head.
‘Yes. No one was up when you left the house.’
‘You were.’ I step back.
‘Yes, but I was waiting.’
I think about his room. It overlooks the bay. He must have seen Allan leave.
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s my job. And now we need to get you back into the house without anyone else seeing or hearing you.’
I nod then turn and look behind me.
‘There’s nothing more that can be done tonight, just know that you have done the right thing.’
I cry out. ‘Murder is never right.’
‘It wasn’t murder. It was manslaughter at a push – if that. He was a traitor to your country, he was a traitor to you and he risked Diana’s safety.’
‘No, he didn’t do that.’
‘Yes, he did.’
‘No, I did that, using her as a cover.’ I push a strand of hair away from my neck. The diamonds catch my fingers. I want them off. If George hadn’t been standing with me, I would have ripped the necklace off and thrown it down the cliff with Allan.
‘This is bigger than you or Allan or me or even Diana.’
He leads me through the garden gate and then waits in the shadows until I am in the kitchen. I remove my plimsoles and wipe them clean then lift my dress. The bottom is sodden and heavy. Holding it high, I climb up the back stairs on tiptoes and continue along the passageway to the front of the house, hoping that no one is on their way to the loo.
Once in my room with the door closed, I lean against it and look at the empty bed. Sliding to the floor, all I can think is that I’ve killed my husband and it was so easy.
70
Lottie
5 August 2018, 5.00 a.m.
Lottie paced the kitchen. She’d had no sleep, just tossing and turning while her mind circled. Why did Gran have to say anything? Why did she do it? According to Mrs Hoskine, they were the perfect family. But what did that mean? Perfect meant different things. In the case of a gemstone it would mean near flawless. But to her, those stones were the ones of the least interest. She preferred ones that had inclusions showing the stones’ history, what forces had shaped them.
She stopped pacing. Why would her mother think she was at fault? What had Gran said? She did it to save Diana. She raced upstairs to the diary.
The man leaned forward and kissed Daddy. Daddy didn’t pull away but looked around again.
Allan was gay or bi. This was 1962. Homosexuality was illegal then. Lottie read on.
Morning.
I still don’t feel very well. Last night when Daddy came to check on me, his breath smelled of brandy. He asked me what was wrong. I said I’d been sick. I can still taste it in my mouth. He asked if I’d eaten too much chocolate. Maybe he had seen me?
I love him so much but, Diary, I am worried. Both Mummy and Daddy are cross. I know because of their mouths. They went straight like when I’ve done something wrong. I know I’ve done something wrong, but I don’t know what. Diary, I’m scared. I also saw someone standing outside my room while Daddy was in here. I saw their feet shadows under the door.
Lottie looked out into the growing light, trying to piece it all together. Flipping through the notebook, she wanted to see what else her very observant mother had noticed. Both this Tom Martin and a young, handsome Gramps watched Gran closely. But she was beautiful, so that was not surprising. What she was sure of was that Gramps knew more than he was saying. Lottie had a feeling Mrs Hoskine might as well.
The next entry in the diary was the last. Lottie read the whole thing again looking for something. Anything that would take away the knowledge or provide her with a reason why Gran pushed her husband off the cliff.
The sky had gone from leaden to a Ceylon sapphire blue and now was a blaze of pink and orange with Gribben Head like a dark finger stretching out into the grey water. The sun hadn’t appeared above the headland yet. She threw on some jeans and an old sweater. The morning air was fresh, and an easterly wind blew through her open window. Lottie looked down, trying to picture what her mother would have seen fifty-six years ago. She imagined the dress hanging in the closet catching the light and her heart hurt.
Heading towards her grandparents’ room she could hear Gramps snoring again. They were both sleeping – her grandmother was still with them. When she was a child, she used to think someone was moving a table back and forth in the attic room above her. Lottie smiled at the memories of how Gran had laughed when she’d told her this. These were the things Lottie wanted to remember. Laughter, joy and fun. Instead, as she reached kitchen, she was thinking of murder.
She was about to put the kettle on but turned and headed out of the back door to visit Mrs Hoskine. She was always up early and Lottie had a few more questions for her. Outside the air was cool and damp. The sky was cloudless and would be deep blue soon but right now it was washed white with soft pink edges. Lottie waved to a dog walker in the field. With each step she tried to formulate what she wanted to say. The question was how to broach it. Did she just come right out with it?
‘Morning,’ Alex whispered in her ear.
She jumped. Where the hell had he come from?
‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.’
‘Startle? Scare the hell out of me, you mean.’
‘Off to see my grandmother again?’ he asked, walking alongside her. T
hey passed the church and she glanced at Allan’s grave.
‘How did you guess?’
‘Might be me hearing you whisper her name, or it could be the direction.’
‘No, was I talking out loud?’ She rubbed her temple.
He nodded.
‘That’s what lack of sleep does for you.’ She yawned just to confirm it.
‘Thought I saw a light on in the small hours.’
‘Why were you awake?’
He shrugged. ‘I didn’t see you come back.’
She turned to him. ‘Why were you watching?’
‘I was worried about you. Joan is dying, and your mum is taking it and being here, hard.’
She was about to bite back that she was well aware of that but swallowed it. ‘Thanks.’
‘Now why are you off to see my grandmother?’
‘Looking for more answers.’
‘Let it go. Your grandmother was talking nonsense.’
She turned towards him. He was pushing this ‘forget it’ stuff too much. ‘She wasn’t, and I know she killed my grandfather.’
‘Come on, that’s ridiculous. Joan couldn’t hurt a fly.’
That was what she had always thought but now she knew differently. She stopped, hands on her hips. ‘She pushed him off the cliff.’
‘No.’
‘Yes.’
He tilted his head to one side and gave one of his half smiles. ‘You’re imagining things through lack of sleep.’
‘I wish.’ She marched off.
‘No, I’m serious.’
‘So am I. Last night Pat Treneer called looking to talk to Mum but she wasn’t around.’ Lottie took a breath as they reached his grandmother’s gate. ‘He remembered something, something that bothered him and something that told him it wasn’t just a drunk man falling off the cliff . . .’
‘And what?’ He crossed arms.
‘Allan was clutching a silk bow from a woman’s dress.’
‘That wasn’t in the coroner’s report.’ He frowned.
Why had he read that, Lottie wondered. Morbid curiosity?