The Path to the Sea

‘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.

10 (#ulink_2fbf580f-835e-5e35-af43-09b220aaf063)

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.