The Path to the Sea. Liz Fenwick
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.
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.
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.