The Path to the Sea. Liz Fenwick

I can see her grin from here. I grab my trug and race down the path to join them.

      Casting off my shoes, I drop my basket of flowers. The sand is cool and damp from the earlier rain. Diana bowls and I sprint to catch the ball. Allan runs back and forth until I tag him out, laughing. Squeals of joy fill the air and Diana picks up the bat ready for her chance. Allan bowls slowly and Diana makes the most of it. I fumble the catch giving her more time. She races, plaits flying. Finally I tag her out and Allan scoops her high in the air. We twirl together.

      ‘Mummy, it’s your go,’ she says, grinning.

      ‘I’m hopeless at batting.’

      Allan raises and eyebrow. ‘Can’t say much for your fielding skills either.’ He chuckles. ‘Salome would be better.’

      ‘Of course, she would Daddy. Dogs are brilliant at playing catch.’ Diana smiles and I think of her and our dog playing ball in the parks of Moscow. The dog would love it here as we all do.

      ‘Have a go, Mummy, please.’

      I drop a kiss on her nose and take the bat. I remember playing here in summer holidays before the war. Allan makes a big effort of bowling. I can hear Diana moving behind me then I see Allan dropping the ball and running towards me. Frowning, I turn. A sailing boat is in trouble, caught over the rocks just hidden beneath the returning tide. Diana waves wildly trying to get their attention. Things don’t look good. So much for quiet family time. No doubt they are tourists here for the Bank Holiday weekend, but today’s wind and weather conditions are not ideal for the novice sailor. The sweep of golden sand is rapidly being covered by the sea and the easterly breeze is pushing the unlucky sailors onto the rocks.

      I shake my head. In another hour their boat would be afloat but, no doubt, with some hull damage. However, Allan was already in the water. Damn fool husband and damn fool strangers. But I smile. Allan is quick to help and that is one of the many reasons I love him.

      Diana and I watch as Allan, knee-high in water, is holding the strangers’ boat from the side, bracing it as the wind pushes it further in to shore. Although I can’t hear them, I know he is instructing them to get the sail down. By the looks of it, it is their first time doing it. Their incompetence would be funny to watch if guests weren’t arriving shortly.

      Diana frowns. ‘Oh, it’s the Venns.’

      ‘Are these the people your father mentioned?’

      She nods and right at that moment the best I can hope is that Allan won’t invite them up to the house for a drink. He’s been threatening to do it all week. I can’t pinpoint when these people arrived in our conversations, but last night he’d mentioned them again. They look harmless enough and certainly hopeless with regards to sailing.

      Finally with him holding the side of their boat, there is enough water to manoeuvre off the rocks. He takes their painter and walks the boat towards Diana and me. He points up at Boskenna and my heart sinks. I don’t have time or energy for waifs and strays this weekend. Allan should know that, sense that, but he hasn’t been himself since we have come here on leave. He can’t be still but this isn’t unusual when we are away from the fishbowl of Moscow life. But his restlessness is different this week and my concern is that I can’t pinpoint why. Automatically my hand caresses my stomach. He has taken the last miscarriage harder than I have. For a man who had never wanted children he has become the ideal father, which surprised both of us.

      The man from the boat leaps out. His swimming shorts display rather too much of his thighs. On top he wears a flimsy flower-covered shirt. He is almost pretty but along with having no sense about sailing he clearly doesn’t know how to dress for a Cornish summer’s day either. The east wind is touched with a cold underside. The forecast promises bright sunshine and warmth for tomorrow, but I will believe it when it happens. Right now, the sun is ducking behind the clouds and I wouldn’t be surprised if we have rain.

      Diana grabs my hand and I look down at her in her navy guernsey. She is sensibly dressed for a day on the water. Her cotton trousers are rolled up to her knees. She is the image of a Cornish maid with her dark hair and brown eyes. Whereas the woman climbing off the boat with her high cheekbones and full mouth, is as underdressed as her husband. I pull my shoulders back and push my hair off my face. I am clothed like my daughter, but this woman is attired for the Côte d’Azur, in snug white shorts and a sleeveless shirt tied at her tanned midriff.

      Together with Allan they pull the boat onto the sand. With my public smile in place, I try to make eye contact with my husband, but he is watching the strangers, his expression animated.

      ‘Darling.’ He turns to me. ‘I’d like you to meet Ralf and Beth Venn. The people I mentioned from America.’ He grins at them both, boyish and engaging, looking far younger than his thirty-six years. ‘They have rented Penweathers.’

      ‘Hello.’ I hold out my hand and Beth Venn extends her toned arm. Her hand limply grabs mine while she towers over me. I am not short, but I have to look up to meet her glance which falls away immediately.

      ‘Welcome to Cornwall,’ I say, then turn to Ralf Venn and offer him my hand. His grip is firm, but he quickly releases my hand too.

      ‘Thank you. It’s wonderful but the sailing is a bit different here.’ He grins and doesn’t quite look me in the eye. I don’t like him, despite his physical beauty, and I can’t explain this reaction to myself because it feels like jealousy.

      I raise an eyebrow. ‘Really? No sails then?’

      He laughs, still avoiding eye contact unlike most Americans in my acquaintance. ‘Good one. We’re from Chicago and have sailed lakes only.’

      ‘I see.’ But I don’t. His accent doesn’t sound Midwestern either, or was it the syntax?

      ‘I was just inviting them up to the house for a drink tonight, but they have other plans this evening.’ Allan’s glance meets mine and I stare back intently. ‘However they can make it for dinner tomorrow night.’

      I swallow down my immediate reply. Tomorrow night is important, and I don’t need unknowns in the equation. I glare at Allan but open my eyes wide as I turn to his new friends and say, ‘How lovely.’

      ‘They’ve taken Penweathers for a year, so I thought it would be good for them to meet some people.’

      ‘How kind.’ I press my lips together slowly lifting the corners of my mouth into something resembling a smile. Two more people will bring the total to twenty for dinner. ‘Wonderful. We’ll see you tomorrow evening at six thirty for drinks followed by dinner.’ I push a loose tendril of hair off my face, feeling flustered for no reason. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I must dash back to the house as guests are due any minute.’ I lie. Picking up my basket I listen to Allan making plans with the Venns for tomorrow during the day when he and many of our guests would be enjoying the promised good weather. A piece of cobalt sea glass sparkles in a ray of sun light and I grab it, sighing long and low as I climb the steps on the path to the garden. Something isn’t right about the Venns, I’m not sure what it is, but nor do I have time to dwell on it.

4

       Lottie

       3 August 2018, 3.10 p.m.

      The traffic in front of her on the A390 came to a halt. Lottie’s knuckles went white. Would she make it in time? Why hadn’t she charged her phone last night? When she finally woke on the last morning in her flat and plugged in her phone, there were three messages from Gramps asking her to call. The final one said, ‘My darling girl, she’s leaving us. I don’t think it will be long.’ His voice had cracked, and Lottie had swallowed a sob. Her car had already been packed. She’d thrown the last of her stuff into the boot and waited for the estate agent to take the final set of keys for her flat.

      It was fewer than three miles to Boskenna from here. She just wanted to drive