The Path to the Sea

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 her finger over the words, she knew she would have to work harder if it was to be interesting to read. It was boring. She needed to be more perceptive in what she wrote, she decided.

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Lottie (#ulink_0842b394-ba99-5bfa-97d9-b98ee3e8c586)

3 August 2018, 10.00 p.m.

It hadn’t taken Lottie long to unload her things from the car into one of the stables. Someone, probably Alex, had been clearing and cleaning up the outbuildings. For years these buildings had stored lawnmowers, garden equipment that had last been used before WWI, old barbecues and spare furniture. Most of it was now either gone or neatly ordered. She was impressed. Whatever his reason for being in Boskenna, Alex Hoskine had certainly made a positive difference in the outbuildings.

Before shutting her stuff away, well out of sight, she pulled out the key paperwork file. It was her business, her problem, and on Monday she would make a renewed effort to sort it, including a proper chat with her best friend and solicitor, Sally. Right now, she wanted to focus on what she could do to help her grandparents. Pulling the gate back, she caught her shin on a small metal chest. It looked like an old tuck box from boarding school, but it wasn’t hers. She picked it up to put it out of the way. From the weight of it she knew it had something in it.

Curiosity aroused, she opened it and two black glass eyes stared up at her. She gently pulled the old bear from the box and a sheet of paper fell out. Lottie squinted at the faded writing…

Diana,

Both Boskenna and I miss you. Look forward to seeing you soon. Here’s Ben and your things to keep you company until then.

With love,

Mrs H

Underneath it was a small navy Guernsey sweater covering a pile of books. Why was this in the stables?

Taking the box with her, she headed towards her mother’s bedroom, but she wasn’t there. Lottie turned around and went to her own. Would the contents reveal what her mother had been like back then? Gran had said Lottie reminded her of Diana as a little girl. But Lottie could never picture her mother as a child. There was something too reserved about her.

The teddy bear smelled of dust and was worn threadbare on the ears. They must have been soft once. Would her mother recall its name? Many of the books looked like they may have been Gran’s once . . . except one, which had a beautiful red leather cover. Opening it, she saw in careful childish handwriting . . .

PRIVATE

This belongs to Diana Trewin of Boskenna

She went to the window, hoping to see her mother, but no luck. Returning to her bed, she flipped the diary open again. Empty. She frowned. Flicking through the whole book, she saw her mother had begun writing from the back of the diary. A quick scan of the words provided a glimpse into her mother’s past. Eating, sailing, eating, eating and then Lottie’s hand stopped. The last entry.

5 August 1962

Dear Diary,

Daddy is dead. It’s my fault.

She blinked then she read it again. What did her mother mean?

‘Lottie?’ Her mother called from the hallway.

She shoved the diary under her pillow.

‘There you are.’ Her mother walked through the door, paused then took two big steps to the bed. She clutched the bear. ‘Ben.’

‘You remember him?’

She nodded and stroked the Guernsey sweater with her free hand. ‘Where did you find this?’ Her eyes narrowed. That momentary flash of a softer side to her mother vanished. Interrogation mode was back in place.

‘In the . . .’ Lottie hesitated. If she said the stables, her mother could possibly – and rightly – ask why she’d been in there. She mumbled as her mother began putting the books back into the box.

‘It’s good that you remembered Ben.’ Lottie shuffled closer to her pillow where she could see the corner of the diary sticking out.

‘Is it?’ She stroked his ear. ‘Or is it worse that I can recall a stuffed animal’s name and not remember much about my father?’ She placed the jumper and the bear on top of the books, picked up the box and left the room without a word.

When she was sure her mother was gone, Lottie pulled the diary out. Those words jumped off the page. Why on earth would her mother feel she was responsible for Allan’s death? It was accidental. But thinking about it, all kids blame themselves for everything, be it divorce or in her own case, a missing father. Looking back, Lottie remembered believing that her father must have gone because of her. She looked out of the window, knowing she could still be right.

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Diana (#ulink_0e653f5b-989a-57b3-b41a-d2a68150d5b0)

3 August 1962, 10.15 p.m.

The longcase clock in the hallway chimed and Diana crept downstairs. She could hear music coming from the smoking room. No one was in the hallway. The small kitchen was in darkness and totally cleared. She checked the refrigerator and found the bowl of whipped cream. But she couldn’t dig into that without the evidence showing. That had happened before, and she’d been caught.

Back in the corridor, she raced upstairs then down the hall to the back stairway. She liked these stairs best. They had a lantern light above them, looking out to the sky. Right now, because of the lights on inside she couldn’t see the sky, but on many nights she and Daddy had stared up at the stars and sometimes the moon. He would tell her stories while sitting halfway between up and down. It was their special place, a place of magic.

She stopped briefly, wanting all the guests to go so she could have Daddy on her own, but it was his birthday weekend and he wanted his friends around. She sighed then continued downstairs to hide against the doorframe at the bottom. The record player was on and Frank Sinatra was singing about night and day. Mummy was dancing with Uncle Tom and she looked so beautiful. Her dress was all shimmery. When he spun her, her dress became like mermaid skin. Daddy put his drink down and cut in, taking Mummy in his arms. Uncle Tom laughed. He walked towards the door and she pressed herself against the wall.