The Path to the Sea

5

Lottie

3 August 2018, 4.30 p.m.

Walking out the front door, Lottie noted a sea mist creeping across the lawn. Gribben Head had disappeared, the wind had dropped, and the air was still. In the past, she’d always felt that the world stopped when this happened, but looking ahead her mother hadn’t. She stole through the gates and down the lane. Lottie raced after her.

‘Mum?’

She glanced over her shoulder at Lottie, nodded, but didn’t speak. Even at a distance Lottie noted the shadows under her dark eyes. Where had her mother been recently? It always took her time to decompress after each assignment. Lottie knew enough not to speak. She was simply grateful her mother was here too. Her feet slowed, expecting her mother to turn towards the beach, but she continued up the lane towards St Levan’s Church.

She went straight to the small graveyard at the side of the building. There weren’t many graves. For years it had been a private chapel to the big estate. She stopped in front of a plain granite stone.

Allan Edward Charles Trewin

Born 4 August 1926

Died 5 August 1962

Loving husband and father.

Thirty-six, just. So young. Allan Trewin was her grandfather and she had been to the grave before, but this was the first time with her mother. That fact felt wrong, but she could count on one hand the number of times that her mother had been to Boskenna. She closed her eyes. Now was not the time to dwell on the past, but that was challenging in a graveyard filling with mist. It had covered Porthpean and was now depositing minuscule drops of water on everything around them. They softened each surface, including her mother who appeared out of focus.

She turned to Lottie. ‘Who put these flowers here?’

Lottie shrugged. Fresh flowers were always here, from what she remembered. Today they were bright blue hydrangeas with spiky red crocosmia. The one thing she was certain of was that it couldn’t have been Gran. It wouldn’t be Gramps. Why would he put flowers on the grave of his wife’s first husband? People were weird but not that weird.

‘Lottie?’

She blinked. ‘I don’t know.’

Her mother turned back to the grave.

‘Why are we here, Mum?’

Her mother sighed and said, ‘It’s almost the anniversary of his death.’ She traced her father’s name then the dates. It must have been awful to have lost her father when she was eight, but at least she’d had him. Lottie had never had a father. Well, there had to have been one in the picture in some form or another but not one that her mother had chosen to share with her. Foolish, but Lottie was jealous her mother had a gravestone to acknowledge that she’d had a father. In fact, although her mother didn’t like Gramps, she had a stepfather too. Lottie loved Gramps, but her mother didn’t care for him. Well, that was the polite way to describe her attitude. Lottie had never figured out why. From what she knew, Gran had been a widow for thirteen years before she remarried. Lottie’s mother was twenty-one then and no longer a child. But, maybe, for some things everyone was forever a child.

She peered through the mist at her mother who was still focused on the gravestone. Nothing made sense, especially being here now. Gran was dying, and her mother was standing in a damp churchyard touching a moss-covered stone. Lottie cleared her throat.

Her mother looked up, her eyes guarded. Lottie had seen that expression before. It was when she would lock things away inside, like all the horror she saw in the course of her work. She reached out and touched her mother’s hand.

‘Some things never leave you.’ Her mother’s voice was strangled. ‘Everything changed.’

Lottie clutched her mother’s long elegant fingers, so unlike her own small ones. As her mother glanced at her, Lottie caught pain in her eyes before she hid it again.

‘I’ve looked into the past and I see so little.’

‘Oh, Mum.’ She took a step closer to her. ‘Have you asked Gran?’

She nodded. ‘She won’t talk about it.’

‘It must be painful for her.’ Lottie pictured the frail woman upstairs in Boskenna now, who looked nothing like the vibrant woman in the black and white photographs in the house, with hair swept up, revealing a classic face. The clothes were elegant, and the makeup was so Sixties and Seventies. There were no pictures of Allan Trewin that Lottie had ever seen. His death must have been awful for Gran and her mother. Gramps didn’t seem the sort to fuss about pictures of his predecessor being around. He was just Gramps, so easy. She swallowed the smile that came to her at the thought of him.

‘I can look at this,’ her mother pointed at the carved slate. ‘With clear-sighted adult eyes and know my father died in a tragic accident.’ She took a deep breath. ‘But something eats at me.’

‘What are you saying, Mum?’

She shook her head and glanced at the grave. ‘I have only one strong memory.’

‘What’s that?’

She smiled, and her face became younger, lighter, happier. ‘You know. I’ve told the pirate story many times.’ She turned away from the gravestone. ‘I can’t picture any more than that, and that bothers me.’

Lottie looked down at her hand holding her mother’s. Lottie’s skin a smooth olive and her mother’s an embattled English rose. Lottie’s appearance spoke of somewhere else, but she didn’t know where. Her father had never appeared, no matter how much she wished he would.

6

Joan

3 August 1962, 4.35 p.m.

The flowers are arranged, and I’d reviewed bedrooms for the final time with our housekeeper, Mrs Hoskine, and still Allan and Diana aren’t back. Sighing I walk to the end of the garden and stand by the gate to beach path. Below Diana is skimming stones with Allan laughing beside her. She picks up a pebble and holds it out to him. He examines it carefully before handing it back and watches her form as she throws. It bounces twice then drops out of sight. He turns to the American woman, Beth, and her husband speaks to Diana, touching her shoulder. I frown. Allan isn’t paying attention and he should be. He’s become engrossed in conversation with Beth and his smile gleams. Something twists inside me. Why did he bring these strays into our world? Is he just filling the void again?

‘Joan, that’s a fierce look.’

At the sound of a familiar voice, I look up through my eyelashes and my stomach tightens. ‘Tom.’ I grin. ‘You’re early.’ I kiss his cheek and step back to study him.

‘Problem?’ He raises an eyebrow.

‘Never.’

‘Good.’ He studies my face. ‘Not sleeping?’

I touch my cheeks. The powder I applied this morning must require another application. ‘Can’t fool you?’ I turn back to the view.

‘I should hope not.’ He laughs then asks, ‘New friends?’ He opens his cigarette case, the one I gave him for his thirtieth birthday. It’s inscribed with one word, Always. That was years ago and the feeling hasn’t changed. Never have we ever crossed that line, but I don’t know if that is true of Tom and Allan.

He lights a cigarette and hands it to me. I take it while he lights one for himself then squints into the distance. ‘They don’t look local,’ he says.

Exhaling, I watch the smoke swirl. ‘American.’ I turn to him, noting the tell-tale darkness under his eyes. It only serves to enhance the blue of his irises. They remind me of a Cornish sky on a perfect summer day.

‘Interesting.’

‘Indeed, they are joining us for dinner tomorrow, so you can discover for yourself.’

He frowns. ‘George Russell arrives tomorrow around noon.’

‘Everyone will hopefully be out enjoying the sun they are promising.’ I look at the darkening clouds. ‘Which should give us some time alone.’

‘It will be like old times.’ He rubs his chin and a boyish grin appears.

‘Yes.’ I take his arm and we walk together towards the house. However it could never be like old times and we both know that.

We reach the front door where he picks up his bag asking, ‘Usual room?’

I nod with my mind on the Venns then what he’d said sinks in. ‘Sorry, Tom, not the usual room. Due to numbers I’ve had to move you into the little one by my parents’ old room.’

He smiles. ‘Downgraded, eh?’

‘Sorry.’ I raise my shoulders.

‘How many guests?’

I shake my head. ‘Too many.’

‘Allan?’ He holds out an arm directing me to enter first.

‘Yes, ever the host.’ I check my watch.

‘Some things never change.’

‘True.’ I chuckle. ‘Shall I show you up?’

‘No need, you are tight on time. I’ll see you,’ he pauses, ‘just before drinks?’

‘Diana,’ I say. ‘She comes to tell me about her day’s activities then.’

‘Ah, yes.’ He turns away. ‘A bit later then.’

He walks through the dining room to the far staircase and I remember the past. Things could have been so different. The scent of the roses in my trug catches the breeze. I pick up a bright red bloom and bring it to my nose. Its fragrance is a heady damask touched with spices. Arabia. Rose water. Souks. Innocence. A thorn pierces my index finger and I squeal, dropping the flower. Pulling the thorn out, I watch the blood pool then drip into the basket before I put my finger into my mouth. The blood tastes metallic. Memories . . . sailing and catching my finger on a splinter, Tom coming to the rescue, removing the bit of wood and placing my finger in my mouth. As I did that, he stared at me with such intensity, I shiver even now. Those intelligent blue eyes have haunted me ever since. I shake my head and dismiss the past, I have work to do.

7

Lottie

3 August 2018, 5.00 p.m.

Just as they went through the gates and onto the gravel parking area, her mother’s phone rang. It sounded important. Lottie prayed it wasn’t some world crisis that needed her mother’s award-winning reporting. Her mother veered back towards the gates where the phone signal was stronger. Inside the house Lottie checked downstairs for Gramps, but there was no sign of him. He must be with Gran or maybe taking a walk in the garden but she doubted that, with the fog. She couldn’t see past the end of the lawn.

In the snug she found an old wooden tray resting against Gramps’ chair and loaded all the tea stuff onto it. The small kitchen revealed more evidence of the neglect she’d noticed earlier, and her heart sank. She had been so bloody self-involved she hadn’t realized what was happening here. Rerunning the phone calls in her head, the conversations followed a normal course . . . the garden here, the weather, but mostly it had been about the collection she had been putting together for exhibition of young designers at the V&A. They were both so proud of her and had planned to come to London for the opening of the exhibition in the new year. She held her breath for a moment as a sharp pain pierced her temples. There was no sense in dwelling on what was lost. In all those calls they never mentioned Gran’s health, but there were things she’d never said either. She checked her phone: nothing.

But looking around there were signs of distress. Dishes and pans were washed but not put away. It wasn’t just breakfast things either but items from the night before. Opening the fridge, she saw ready meals. This wasn’t how her grandparents lived. Her heart sank further; she should have been here, no excuses.

After washing and clearing, she glanced out of the kitchen window towards the small walled garden. She would cut some flowers for Gran and the rest of the house. It might give her an indication of the amount of time her grandmother had really been ill. She knew Gramps wouldn’t tell her. He might be American, but through Gran or maybe just his own nature, he did the stiff upper lip thing rather well.

Both her grandparents adored the garden, be it the special camellias or the vegetables. They grew most of their own produce so if the vegetable patch wasn’t in good shape then they had been keeping Gran’s illness from her for a while.

Out in the courtyard, the mist swirled across the cobbles – blazing sun to impenetrable fog in the same day. She smiled, pushing open the gate and thinking of all the happy hours spent here with both of them. Vegetables, roses, and in the glass-houses, peaches and tomatoes. Her nose twitched anticipating the smell.

Hearing a noise, she looked to the nearest glass-house and gasped. She had been prepared for anything but what she saw. Alex Hoskine, her first love, stood with hose in hand watering the tomatoes. She hadn’t conjured him out of her memories earlier. It had been ten years almost to the day since she’d last seen him. And during those years he’d haunted her dreams and she woke wanting to say so many things. Now she was standing here with her mouth open and her vocal chords seemingly disabled. Memories raced around in her head, from their first kiss to the last angry words she said to him.

He looked up and squinted at her. Damn. This wasn’t going to be easy. She needed to apologise, but she also wanted to know what the hell he was doing here at Boskenna working in the kitchen garden. Where to start?

‘Lottie.’ His voice had become deeper since she’d last seen him. Back then he’d been twenty, lean and fit as hell, but now the promise of youth had been fulfilled and then some. Her mouth dried. She couldn’t still be attracted to him, not after all this time, but her body was telling her years made no difference. She was standing in front of her first love and her body remembered each and every caress, whether she wanted it to or not. This was not convenient. Her focus must be on Gran and Gramps not on her romantic history.

He turned the tap off and put the hose down. ‘Your grandfather mentioned he’d called you.’ He walked towards her but stopped just short. This was awkward. How did she greet him after all these years . . . a handshake?

‘Yes, this morning.’ She looked down.

‘She’s been ill for a while.’ He turned from her, giving her his back.

That said it all. She’d been too self-absorbed. ‘How long?’

‘There’s been a sharp decline these past few weeks, but it’s been months.’

She should have known. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath, trying to think clearly.

He picked up the watering can. ‘Where have you been? They needed you.’

‘I didn’t know.’ She clenched her fist.

He looked up with a dismissive glance. ‘You haven’t changed then?’

That wasn’t fair. Alex gave her one last look then walked away. She found her voice. ‘What are you doing here?’

He looked over his shoulder. ‘I would have thought that was obvious.’

‘Yes, that might be, but why isn’t?’

‘I moved back and one of the first things I did was visit them.’ He pulled out a weed. ‘It was clear they needed help, so I moved into the caretaker’s cottage to be close at hand.’

Ouch. There was no reply to that, so she took a step back. She should have known this, but she hadn’t. She held her breath for a moment then fled before he could say anymore. Yet again she was at fault, but then she was always misjudging things.

8

Diana

3 August 1962, 5.15 p.m.

The sun had disappeared, and her stomach growled loudly. Diana hoped Daddy heard it. He’d said he’d help Mr and Mrs Venn set off then he would come up to the house with her. But they’d been here ages and Daddy was just holding the Venn’s boat and talking and talking. She was tired of the Venns and she wanted time with Daddy on her own. She’d had to share him with them every day for over a week and now they were taking him all to themselves again. It wasn’t fair.

She picked up a mussel shell and moved it so the colours inside changed. Every so often she heard a word. Meeting. Deliver. Urgent. They were almost whispering but the breeze brought their secrets to her. She loved secrets. Mummy and Diana played the secret game all the time. Mummy said living in Moscow made secrets important. Things had to be kept tucked away, just like the little Russian dolls hidden inside the biggest one. She’d brought her dolls with her to Cornwall and had set them on her windowsill so they could see the sea. They had never seen it before, only the Moskva. Diana liked saying Moskva. It rolled off her tongue like when she said her piano teacher’s name, Madame Roscova. She could roll her Rs but Daddy couldn’t. Mummy was very good at hers. Diana had heard her reading aloud from a Russian book. It was called War and Peace.

‘Rrrrrrrrrrrr.’ She dropped the shell and picked up a piece of sea glass. It was strange to find one so high up the beach. Normally she found them in the wet sand. She looked out to the point and there was a cormorant drying its wings. ‘Rrrrrrrr.’ She loved the way her tongue vibrated and tingled a bit when she did it.

‘Diana, what on earth are you doing?’ Daddy looked over his shoulder. Mr Venn put his hand on Daddy’s as a wave rocked the boat. She frowned. The wind was turning, which was good. They wouldn’t have to row out into the bay – they could sail. They weren’t very good at sailing, but they were worse at rowing. She just wanted them to leave. She and Daddy couldn’t be pirates when they were here. Daddy became all serious with them around.

‘Rrrrrrrrr.’ She spun around looking up at the grey clouds. The gull’s wings seemed to become part of the sky at the tips. But mizzle was beginning to fall. She liked the word mizzle but didn’t like the actual thing.

‘Diana.’ Daddy spoke crossly.

She didn’t know what she’d done wrong, but she heard Mr Venn say, ‘See you tomorrow,’ and to ‘get’ something. She fell to the sand and watched the Venns’ sail flap until it caught some wind. It did and they frowned. They did that a lot when they didn’t think they were being watched but Diana watched everything. Even when he was frowning, Mr Venn looked like a movie star, but Mrs Venn didn’t. Diana didn’t like her. She kept sending Diana on silly errands to get things the adults didn’t need.

Daddy took her hand and pulled her to her feet. ‘Let’s see if Mrs Hoskine has anything you can nibble, as that tummy of yours is noisy enough.’

She smiled up at him and moved closer as they climbed up to the house. He kept looking over his shoulder. She wasn’t surprised that he kept checking on the Venns. They were terrible on the water, but they didn’t know that. Diana had noticed Daddy retying all their knots yesterday when they had been on the big sailing boat. They said they were from the Midwest in America and Diana knew from her geography lessons that there wasn’t a sea there so that must be why they were so bad. She liked geography and maps. Uncle Tom had given her an atlas for Christmas last year. He had spent hours with her telling her about places and the people he’d met in them. She loved Uncle Tom. Mummy and Daddy did too.

‘Daddy, why do you like the Venns so much?’

He stopped walking and looked at her. ‘Why do you ask?’

Diana wrinkled her nose. ‘’Cause we’ve spent so much time with them.’

A smile spread across his face and his eyes smiled too. ‘Well, they are new to Cornwall and I want them to feel welcome.’

She frowned. ‘Why hasn’t Mummy come along to make them welcome? She’s good at that.’

‘She is, but she’s been busy with Boskenna.’

Diana looked to the big house. This was the place she loved most in the world, with its round ends and secret floor. It wasn’t secret really, but it was easy to miss because everyone looked at the ends and the big windows. The second floor wasn’t often used but Mummy had Mrs Hoskine airing out a room above hers for some American arriving tomorrow. The window was still open so the room must be very short of breath.

‘Does Boskenna need Mummy?’ They walked along the gravel path framing the lawn. They had played croquet yesterday before the rain, but Mr Hoskine had put the croquet set away.

‘Yes, because the old dame has damp and the roof needs attention.’

‘Is dame another word for house? What sort of attention does the roof need and is Mummy wiping the damp up?’

‘Something like that.’ Daddy laughed, and she joined him. She liked it when Daddy laughed, and he hadn’t been doing it enough lately. Even Mummy said that. Diana had overheard them talking when they’d arrived. She had hidden in her favourite spot under the small table just outside the dining room. Mummy was worried about him. Daddy had said he was just tired, but Mummy had given him one of her looks. Diana knew those looks too well.

9

Lottie

3 August 2018, 5.20 p.m.

With secateurs in hand and her grandmother’s flower trug on her arm, Lottie walked out through the French windows in the smoking room. The name amused her as no one in the house smoked any more. It harked back to a time when men would have port and a cigar after dinner. She had no trouble picturing Boskenna then. Evening gowns, dinner jackets and household help. It was so far from today’s casual world. It was easier now but some of the world’s beauty had been lost with it. She rarely designed a formal piece of jewellery. Those rare pieces she did create were normally by special order for the Middle East. Fun, but she couldn’t imagine anyone apart from a royal or a celebrity wearing those designs. Up until two weeks ago when she had to cease trading because she had nothing left to sell, most of her work was being sold through a few outlets and her website. She specialised in making wearable pieces featuring semi-precious gems with gold, silver and other metal. She’d only used precious gems for special commissions and for the pieces that were supposed to go in the exhibition at the V&A in the new year.

Stopping at the flowerbed beside the house, she snipped the stem of a white Japanese anemone with rather more force than was necessary. She couldn’t undo the past, she knew that. But what brought the bile to her mouth was her own stupidity and gullibility. How had she missed the signs? Had she been so desperate for love that she’d been blind to Paul’s faults? She’d worked with him for five years and he’d been her mentor. Cutting another anemone, this time she took more care. She had landed herself in a huge mess and it would take time to fix. Somehow, though, she would find a way out and more importantly, a way forward.