The Path to the Sea. Liz Fenwick

she wants to be.’ He spoke with quiet determination.

      ‘Mum,’ Lottie stood.

      ‘The place is a wreck, a relic even.’ Her mother waved her hand. ‘The upstairs windows are coated in salt and the woodwork is rotting from the constant assault of the weather while two people rattle about in a few rooms.’

      Gramps put his drink down. ‘Joan loves it.’

      ‘Does she? Does she really?’ Her mother shook her head. ‘I can’t see how.’ She walked towards Gramps. ‘I don’t know how you can stand it, living in the house that they lived in together.’

      ‘Mum.’ Lottie moved towards her then stopped. Where was this anger coming from?

      ‘We are all grown-ups here. No need to mince words.’ She topped up her drink and Lottie raised an eyebrow. Her mother wasn’t a big drinker.

      ‘Why did she come back to Boskenna after so long?’

      ‘What do you mean, “come back”?’ Lottie frowned. This was Gran’s home.

      ‘Boskenna was let out until George retired.’ Her mother sat on the sofa.

      ‘It was.’ Gramps relaxed.

      ‘Why did you come here? Why not Cape Cod, where your family were?’

      Lottie held her breath. Her mother had shifted into reporter mode – forgetting that, like him or not, Gramps was her stepfather and an old man. How could she snap her out of it?

      Gramps put his fingertips together, making an arch with them like the childhood game he used to play with her. Here is the church, here is the steeple, open it up, see all the people. But this wasn’t a game. Gran was dying and her mother, possibly as a way to distance herself, was interviewing Gramps.

      ‘She wanted to. It’s her home.’

      Mum shook her head and pressed her lips together.

      Just then, Alex arrived at the door – carrying Gran as if she was a child. With care, he placed her on the sofa and Lottie arranged some cushions behind her.

      ‘Can I get you a drink?’ Alex asked.

      ‘I’d love the smallest taste of whisky, well-watered, please.’

      ‘Of course,’ he smiled, and Lottie caught his eye and mouthed thanks. ‘George, does your drink need refreshing?’ Diana?’ He glanced around.

      She held her breath again. Her mother stared at him and everything in Lottie tensed.

      ‘I’m fine, thank you.’ Her mother turned and walked to the fireplace then turned back again as he handed Gran her drink.

      Lottie watched her mother open her mouth, but Gran raised her glass. ‘Thank you for coming.’ She coughed.

      The doorbell rang and Alex leapt to answer it. She couldn’t blame him. Lottie’s shoulders were around her ears. The atmosphere in the room was fraught.

      The nurse came in and her mother glared at Alex before she left the room. That wasn’t fair. Her mother had had every right to be angry with Lottie even now, because she’d believed Lottie had been in London all summer doing an internship when she’d been falling in love. It was never Alex’s fault. It had been – and always would be – Lottie’s fault.

14

       Joan

       3 August 1962, 6.10 p.m.

      Diana sits cross-legged on the bed watching me while I clip on my earrings. Thus far today hasn’t gone as planned and now I am faced with a handful of guests gathering in the drawing room for drinks. Tom would be among them of course, but there would be eight others. It is paramount that I find time alone with him before tomorrow afternoon.

      ‘Mummy?’

      I turn to her. She wears her serious look as she clutches the present that Tom has given her.

      ‘Yes?’

      She holds a leather-bound book aloft. ‘Uncle Tom said this is a diary or a journal.’

      I nod and perch beside her, taking the book from her hands. Flipping through the lined pages, it is apparent it was not made in England. At a guess the leatherwork indicated the Middle East, or possibly Spain at a stretch.

      She looks up from under her long dark lashes so like Allan’s. ‘I can write things down . . . like what I do every day.’

      ‘Indeed, your thoughts about all sorts of things, too.’ I hand the book back to her. ‘Or even sketches.’

      ‘But there are lines on the page.’ She runs her finger over one.

      ‘True.’ Trust her to worry about that. ‘You could slip your drawings into the book.’

      She frowns. ‘No, this isn’t a book for my drawings, I don’t think.’

      ‘OK, then you could write to it like it is your best friend.’

      ‘But that’s Maria.’

      ‘Your next best friend then. But do remember that some things must never be written down.’

      She looks at me as if she despairs of me.

      ‘Of course, Mummy. I know all about secrets.’ She wrinkles her nose and I hide my smile. She is so like Allan. Quick, mercurial and ever so clever. ‘Uncle Tom said I was good with words.’

      ‘Did he?’ Turning, I look at her closely.

      ‘Yes, he said I might become a writer or even a newspaper journalist when I’m older.’

      ‘Very perceptive.’

      ‘Perceptive?’ she asks, tilting her head.

      ‘He sees things well.’ I stick another hairpin through the French twist in my hair. ‘Did he say where it was from?’

      ‘Beirut.’

      Memories of 1955 in that glamorous city fill my mind. Dancing, laughing, loving.

      ‘They speak Arabic there don’t they?’ She turns the book over.

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Isn’t that written back to front?’ She peers at me and I love watching her thought process. My darling girl is so intelligent it scares me sometimes.

      I stand and smooth my dress. ‘You’re a clever soul.’

      ‘Thank you, Mummy.’ She jumps up clutching the book. ‘Maybe I’ll begin writing my diary from the last page.’

      I chuckle. ‘That’s a super idea. Make sure you tell Uncle Tom your plan.’ I stroke her dark hair, loving its thickness. ‘He’ll be pleased.’

      She stares at me. ‘I think I’ll become a journalist because I like to ask so many questions.’

      ‘You’d be a very good one.’

      ‘Would I, Mummy?’ She takes my hand.

      ‘Absolutely, you’re curious and very good with words.’

      ‘I like knowing the truth.’ Her bright smile disappears and her eyes narrow.

      ‘The truth is very important,’ I say, but I know that much of the time it’s best hidden. The truth can hurt.

      We walk hand in hand into the hallway. Someone is warming up on the piano and begins playing the latest Bobby Darin song, ‘Things’. Diana starts singing and dancing. Joining her until we reach the top of the stairs, I give her a twirl and her laughter lifts me. All will be fine. My concerns are unfounded. The scrutiny of living in the fishbowl of Moscow is intense and