The Path to the Sea. Liz Fenwick

and went to the sink and began to wash the veg.

      She took a deep breath, she needed to speak now, not later. Lottie had longed to say these words for years and had rehearsed them in her dreams, hoping that somehow, she could make at least part of her past right.

      ‘Alex.’

      He turned with lettuce in hand. ‘Yes.’

      ‘It’s been a long time . . .’ Her voice faded away and she took a step to the nearest chair, grabbing the back of it. He stared at her with a guarded expression on his face. She preferred the jokey one of a few moments ago.

      ‘What’s been a long time?’

      ‘Sorry. Ten years ago.’ She ran her hands over the battered oak of the chair, feeling the strength of the wood. She could be strong. This was the right thing to do. Taking a deep breath, she said, ‘But I’ve told myself it’s never too late to apologise.’

      He raised an eyebrow. She took that as encouragement to continue. ‘I’m sorry for so much and if I could, I would do many things differently.’ She twisted her hands together. In her head the words had rolled out but now they were fading in her mouth, coming out at half strength. ‘But I can’t. But I can say . . . I’m sorry . . . to you.’

      He leaned against the sink, remaining silent. She looked around the kitchen at the pine table and the painted wooden cabinet that lined the north wall. It was scarred with a few more marks and chips in the paintwork, showing the passage of time. ‘I treated you appallingly in that whole mess. I should never have said what I did. It wasn’t true.’ She hung her head studying the red tiled floor and taking a deep breath, but then she glanced up, making sure she made eye contact. ‘I’m sorry. I was so very wrong.’

      Weighing a beef tomato in one hand, he passed it to the other. He didn’t look away and she held his stare. She didn’t deserve forgiveness, she’d been vile, saying things that were hurtful and untrue.

      ‘Thank you.’ He put the tomato down and turned back to the sink.

      She stared at his back, managing to close her open mouth and swallow the reply she wasn’t invited to give. The conversation was over. That was fine. At least she’d apologised and openly owned her wrongdoing. He had accepted it . . . not graciously, but he had. That was what mattered.

      Now to move on and attend to dinner. This she could do. Her shoulders fell as she took the pot off of the heat and placed the lid on top. It would stay warm and be the perfect temperature for eating shortly. She gazed around, not sure what to do with Alex occupying the sink and in control of the veg. She was lost but maybe she had always been. Now she needed to find her way home.

16

       Diana

       3 August 1962, 7.45 p.m.

      As her father popped his head through the door, Diana put down her book, To Kill a Mockingbird and slid it under the blanket.

      ‘How are you, my darling one?’ he asked, coming to sit on her bed. He was so handsome in his dinner jacket. She thought he looked handsome all the time, but tonight he had twinkling eyes. ‘Did you have a good day?’

      She smiled and nodded but decided not to say it would have been better if it had just been the two of them. He would make a face and might become cross. He’d been cross a lot lately.

      ‘I’m pleased.’ He brushed her hair off her face and put his hand on the book moving it into sight. He squinted at it. ‘Are you enjoying the story?’

      ‘Yes.’ Looking at it, she frowned.

      ‘It’s rather serious, isn’t it?’

      Nodding, she said, ‘But I am serious, Daddy, and many things in the world aren’t right.’

      He put a hand over hers and stroked it. ‘And this worries you?’

      She bit her lip, thinking. ‘I can’t do anything right now because I am too little, but one day I want to make a difference.’ Crossing her arms against her chest, she sat straighter.

      He smiled. ‘Then I know you will.’

      ‘I think, like Uncle Tom said, I will try and make a difference with words.’

      ‘Did he say that?’

      ‘He said I was good with words.’

      ‘Uncle Tom likes words.’ He looked out the window and frowned.

      She could hear the rain hitting the window. Was he cross about the rain?

      ‘But enough about Uncle Tom. Are you ready for a day’s sailing tomorrow?’

      ‘Of course. How many people will be with us?’

      He laughed. ‘That is a good question and the success of tonight will tell me how many we will have tomorrow.’

      ‘It will be a success. Mummy always has successes.’

      ‘That she does, my little one. Your mother is the best hostess ever and very clever to boot.’

      ‘Are hostesses not clever?’ She wrinkled her nose. Most of the ladies she knew were hostesses. Were they not clever? She didn’t like that idea.

      ‘I’m not going to comment on that one, but your mother is a rare breed.’

      ‘Breed? Like a dog or an exotic bird?’

      He stood. ‘You know, Diana, you are good with words.’

      ‘Thank you. I learned a new one today.’ She grinned. ‘Perceptive.’

      ‘Good word.’ He picked up her new diary on the desk. ‘Where did you hear it?

      ‘Mummy.’

      ‘Really?’ He tilted his head and his eyes met hers. ‘Who was perceptive?’

      ‘Uncle Tom.’

      He put the diary down. ‘Of course. That’s the perfect word for Uncle Tom.’ He kissed the top of her head. ‘Have you started the diary yet?’

      ‘Yes, just a little while ago.’

      ‘Are you keeping it secret?’

      She nodded. ‘Diaries are supposed to be secret. It’s for me only.’

      ‘Then make sure you keep it safe.’ He tapped it then blew her a kiss as he left the room. Diana picked up her diary and looked at what she had written so far.

       PRIVATE

       This belongs to Diana Trewin of Boskenna

      She turned the page.

       3 August 1962

       Dear Diary,

       I’m still not sure what to write about in this diary that Uncle Tom has given me. It is so beautiful. It’s bright red. It’s mine!

       Today was mostly boring. The sailing was good but Daddy and I spent too much time with Mr and Mrs Venn. No one but me will read this so I can say that I don’t like them and no one can tell me not to say it. I want Mummy with us but although they haven’t told me I know Mummy isn’t sailing because she lost the baby a little while ago and she’s tired. I never saw the baby and that makes me sad.

       Right now I’m thinking about the raspberries and cream that I had. Not for my pudding. It was more second pudding, I think, like the Hobbit’s second breakfast. Daddy finished reading The Hobbit to me two nights ago. My tummy is rumbling again. I wonder if they have even started dinner downstairs yet. They always eat so late. Maybe I’ll sneak downstairs after I read another chapter.

      Running