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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.
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Diana (#ulink_b9e620f0-e490-5fcb-b875-8af6552f9928)
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.
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Lottie (#ulink_8eddb83b-eb08-5939-83d3-ff5144b20c6a)
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.
The mist had deposited tiny drops of water on the petals of a pale pink rose. Here and there they had merged into large drops that magnified parts of the petal. She saw the fine lines that ran through it turned ever so slightly darker. With the bloom close to her nose, the fragrance was at first delicate but then musky overtones developed.
Towards the end of her degree course she had worked with pearls this subtle shade of pink. The rose, the pearls and the finished piece spoke of innocence. She cut the stem, watching out for the thorns. She hadn’t been innocent for a long time, ten years in fact. Dropping the stem into the basket, she scanned the flowers at the front of the house. The agapanthus were at their best, but she wouldn’t cut those. If she did there wouldn’t be anything in flower visible from the front windows. Of course, the view outshone even the agapanthus.
Light showed in Gran’s bedroom window and the snug, welcoming her. She loved the way the north and south ends of the house bowed out towards the sea. There was a satisfying symmetry about it. Although she knew they weren’t built at the same time, she was pleased they had balanced the building when money had allowed. Of course, it did mean ceiling heights varied greatly throughout the house. As a child she had loved discovering all its nooks and crannies, dancing up and down the many sets of steps on the first floor and up to the attic rooms. Boskenna was a place of endless delight, or had been then. She had brought an end to her carefree days here and she had to live with that.
Raiding a few other beds and some hydrangeas, she went to the kitchen to sort the flowers for her grandmother. Once happy with the arrangement, she climbed the front staircase, carrying her overnight bag along with the vase. August was a tough month for blooms in the garden. Things were well past their summer glory. But Gran had always made use of the most interesting shrubs at this time of year. They provided the architecture for the agapanthus and annuals in flower. Some of the roses should be on a second display by now but she had seen so few. The kitchen garden may have had more but because of Alex she hadn’t paid attention to anything there but him. It had been that way from the first moment she’d seen him, years before he’d become her boyfriend. He’d put her off her agenda then and now he’d unsettled her again, bringing the past to the surface. She sighed, resting the vase on the table outside her room before she went in to deposit her bag.
It was the smallest bedroom in the house, but it was the best. The single bed just fitted and from it she could look out of the window to the view. A view that never bored her even in the rain, or at the moment, fog. Placing her bag on the old chair, she saw nothing had changed from the Russian doll on the windowsill to her old books on the shelves. The dust on the chest of drawers told the same story of neglect she’d seen downstairs. Lottie was surprised to find the bed unmade, too. She’d sort that in a minute once she’d taken the flowers to Gran.
Out on the lawn, she could see Alex collecting the cushions from the garden chairs. Why had he come back to Cornwall? In the immediate aftermath of ten years ago, she hadn’t wanted to hear about him, or Cornwall, or what people were saying about her. It had been a terrible tragedy and she was part of it. Her life altered that day, everything had.
Weary after the journey – hell, just weary from life – she closed her eyes for a moment, letting the sound of the sea soothe her, along with the distant sound of Gramps snoring downstairs. But it could be no more than a moment for time was precious. Eyes now wide open so as not to miss a thing, she grabbed the vase and headed down the hall and up the steps to Gran’s room, listening for sounds of Mum chatting to her, but it was quiet. Sticking her head through the bedroom doorway, she found Gran sleeping in the chair and no sign of her mother. Lottie placed the vase on a table then walked back to the chair. She stroked Gran’s forehead and Gran mumbled a few words. They weren’t in English. She leaned closer to try and decipher the language. It sounded like Russian.
Lottie stepped back. They had lived in Russia so it shouldn’t be a surprise that Gran could speak it. Years ago, at the back of the garden shed behind an old terracotta plant pot, Lottie had found the matryoshka doll that sat on her windowsill. When she’d asked about it, a sad smile had crossed Gran’s face. She had wiped the grime off the outer doll and wriggled it until she could open it. To Lottie’s delight she released the next then the baby doll inside. Gran had explained it had belonged to her mother from their time in Moscow. She’d put it all back together for her and said she’d thought it had been long since lost. Lottie could still remember holding it and feeling connected to her mother, who was then in Kosovo. There were three dolls . . . one for each of them.
Whatever Gran was saying now, her voice was too weak for Lottie to hear properly. She seemed to be in a fitful sleep. Lottie kissed her forehead and she stilled. Her eyes opened. ‘Lottie.’ Her smile filled Lottie’s heart. ‘Your mother?’ Her voice was thin, like her frail body.
‘She’s downstairs I think, maybe with Gramps.’
‘Help her to be kind to him.’
Lottie nodded. That would be a challenge. Without Gran, Lottie wasn’t sure that her mother would give him the time of day. ‘I’ll look after him.’
‘I know, dear one. He has loved me when no one else could.’ She took a deep breath and closed her eyes for a moment. ‘He has understood when no one could.’
‘Gramps is wonderful.’ Just thinking about him, Lottie grinned. He’d been more than a grandfather. He’d been a father figure, teaching her to ride a bike and fly a kite. He’d been there to listen.
‘Yes, he is. But your mother has never seen that.’ She coughed at first softly. ‘She needs to be kind to him and . . . to forgive him.’
Lottie frowned. Kind, yes. Why “forgive”?’
Gran coughed again and her whole body, what there was of it, rattled. The effort took everything out of her, then she closed her eyes and her breathing settled. Lottie adjusted the blanket around her. Why did her grandmother want her mother to forgive Gramps? For marrying Gran and taking her father’s place? Did Gran know that Mum didn’t remember much of Allan?
‘Lottie.’ Gran was watching her.
‘I’m here. I was just wondering if you’d like to come downstairs and join us?’
Gran frowned. ‘Is Alex around?’
‘I’m not sure, why?’ She tilted her head.
‘He could carry me down.’
Lottie paused for a moment. ‘I’m happy to go and find him.’
Gran looked out of the window. ‘It might be nice.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
‘Thank you, my darling.’
She looked brighter and it was the right thing to find Alex. She could do this for Gran, Lottie thought.
On the way downstairs, she stopped in her room to pick up a sweater as the dampness from the fog had given her a chill. Her mother stood at the window holding the matryoshka doll in one hand with her other on the clouded window pane. The weather had set in and the visibility didn’t extend to the end of the garden let alone Black Head.
Her mother turned to her.
‘Travelling down memory lane?’ Lottie smiled.
Her mother shook her head. ‘No. I don’t really remember Moscow from my childhood or rather I can’t separate it from my visits as a journalist.’ She frowned.
‘Was Gran awake when you went in?’ Lottie picked up a hoodie from the back of the chair. ‘She’s been asking for you.’
‘Yes.’ Her mother twisted the outer doll open, revealing the brighter smaller one. With a shaky hand she placed the smaller one down and put the largest one back together.
‘How was she? Did she speak?’
Her mother twisted the middle one until it popped open and the baby fell out onto the floor. Looking up to Lottie before bending down she said, ‘Yes.’
‘Is that all you can say?’
She nodded and arranged the three painted figures in order on the windowsill before she turned back to Lottie. She pointed to the window. ‘It’s a bit like right now. I know the bay, Gribben and Black Head are there but I can’t see them because of the fog. I know I must have memories of those eight years with my father but . . .’ Her voice trailed away, and she picked up the smallest doll.
‘Shouldn’t you be focusing on Gran?’
‘You’re right, I should be but . . .’ She sighed. ‘I need a drink.’ She walked to the door.
‘I’m sure Gramps is already organising that. I’ll join you in a moment.’
Her mother disappeared down the stairs and Lottie pulled on her hoodie. She went to the old dolls and nested them again. The Cornish sunlight had faded the vivid colours on the mother doll over the years. They too would fade if left exposed.
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Diana (#ulink_2fbf580f-835e-5e35-af43-09b220aaf063)
3 August 2018, 5.40 p.m.
Diana hurried downstairs on unstable legs. She had forgotten those dolls. Her father had chosen them with her. They had been beside the Moskva and the sun had shone brightly while the air was filled with . . . fluff. It floated like snow, but it was spring and hot. The memory was so clear she could almost taste it. She stopped on the bottom step. How could she justify being drawn to discover more about her father when as Lottie had quite rightly said, Diana should be focused on her mother. Her hands shook as she tucked her short hair behind her ears.
George emerged from the kitchen with the ice bucket in one hand. He looked up, a smile hovering on his mouth. She pressed her lips together before forcing herself to respond in kind. She was no longer a child, she could be gracious. ‘Can I help?’
‘I’ve sliced some lemon for your gin, but I’m afraid I can’t manage that as well with the stick.’ He raised it off the floor. ‘Can’t carry too many things at once.’
‘I’ll grab the lemon.’ She watched him head to the drawing room then went into the small kitchen. For twenty-eight years since his retirement George and her mother had rattled around in this huge house. She’d never understood why they hadn’t sold it years ago. They lived in such a small part of it, especially in winter. Four rooms out of twenty-four, if she had remembered them all – plus the caretaker’s cottage, the lodge, the stables and a few barns. It was all too much for them and had been for a very long time. But her mother would never discuss it, so Diana had let it drop.
The lemon slices were in a shallow crystal bowl. Living here they had managed to hold onto the gracious past. How George would cope in Boskenna on his own was a mystery. For once, she felt sorry for him and that was a real change.
He’d entered her mother’s life and had taken it over. She’d been twenty-one when they had married. It bothered her, he irritated her even now, which was ridiculous. Her feelings hadn’t dulled with time as they should have. How could her mother replace Diana’s father with him? Back then she had seen nothing of value in George Russell, but looking again at the lemons he sliced for her, she could now admit he wasn’t so bad. He was thoughtful and he’d shown this in the past, but she hadn’t wanted to see it.
Lottie hadn’t appeared yet and George was free-pouring the gin into a glass as she walked into the drawing room. The size of his measure hadn’t changed either. It had been a hot June evening in the small flat in Chelsea when her mother had dropped the bomb that she was marrying him the following day. Speechless couldn’t begin to describe how Diana felt. George, sensing her anger, had immediately poured drinks – large ones – so that at the register office wedding the next day, Diana had a terrible hangover that had soured an already frightful situation. She’d been a right cow to her mother. But her inner child had been striking out. Looking back, she saw that her mother’s marriage meant that she would have even less of her than she’d had before, which hadn’t been much.
George took the lemons now and added a slice to her drink.
‘Thanks.’ Her hand wasn’t as stable as she would have liked. Being here was getting to her. It was a place that should feel welcoming, but everything annoyed her because it wasn’t familiar in the way it should be, despite her repeated dreams. A room like this spoke of family gatherings, Christmas carols around the piano and shared history with the portraits on the walls. Maybe they had had that once, but she couldn’t recall. All she had was a sensation like something she might have witnessed on television and not in person. Among her old diaries and journals, she still had a letter from Mrs Hoskine, the housekeeper, saying how much she missed her, and that she understood how hard it must be for Diana not to come home to Boskenna. That implied that she had loved this place once.
‘So, George, how long has my mother been ill?’
He looked up from his whisky, startled. ‘I would imagine the cancer has been there silently for years.’
‘She’s done nothing?’ The first sip of the drink tasted mostly of gin. The alcohol hit the back of her throat and her eyes watered.
‘No.’
Part of her rebelled at this news but another part respected it. ‘Hospice care here at Boskenna?’
‘Yes.’ His shoulders fell.
George and her mother had been married for forty-two years. He would be, and probably was already, devastated. Grieving could start before the loss. This she knew too well.
‘How often do the nurses come?’
‘Mostly twice a day now.’ He looked out to the garden.
In the infrequent phone calls with her mother, George’s devotion to the garden, and especially his passion for the camellias, always came up. Diana recalled he’d cultivated a few new ones.
‘Have they said how long?’ She glanced at him regretting she had phrased the question that way. He wasn’t a warlord but a frail old man.
‘I haven’t asked.’ His hand clenched the silver fox head on his cane. His knuckles went white.
‘What will you do?’
Sad eyes looked at her and despite her dislike, her heart reached out to him.
