for the three of them.
Gramps was in his armchair because the sofa was now just too low for him to use without help. He didn’t want assistance, as she’d discovered in February when Paul had taken the armchair. Gran had called him a stubborn old mule when he wouldn’t be helped out of it and said to leave him to it. She hadn’t been herself then, now Lottie thought about it. She had been quieter and greyer. She must have known but hadn’t said anything. How could she have when Lottie had spent the weekend trying to get Paul to see Cornwall, Boskenna and her grandparents for the wonders they were. She shouldn’t have wasted her breath for he was a liar and a thief.
Her mother, gin in hand, paced in front of the French windows, looking out to the sea fret. She had been refreshing hers and Gramps’ drinks with ice when Lottie had walked into the silence.
‘Alex is going to bring Gran.’ Lottie perched on the arm of the sofa halfway between the two of them.
‘Alex?’ Her mother turned. Lottie braced herself. A decade ago her mother had forbidden her from ever getting in touch with him again. Lottie hadn’t blamed her. But Alex hadn’t been the problem – she had. She was the one who had lied to her mother. True, it was because of Alex that she hadn’t taken the internship her mother had arranged – but it was Lottie’s decision, not his.
‘Yes, Alex Hoskine has been a godsend to Joan and me.’
Lottie jumped to her feet. ‘Is there anything I can get for her?’
‘The nurse will be here shortly.’ Her mother turned to look at her.
‘Oh.’ Gramps and her mother obviously had a chat. This was good, progress even. ‘Should she stay upstairs?’
‘No, if she feels up to joining us, that is wonderful.’ He gave her a brave smile.
‘How often does the nurse come?’ Lottie asked, looking at Gramps’ face. She saw him trying to hold it all together.
‘Morning and evening.’ He took a sip of whisky. ‘Or more frequently if needed.’
Her heart sank. No wonder Alex had started helping.
‘She should be in a hospice. Not here.’ Her mother sighed and turned from the windows.
‘She is where she wants to be.’ He spoke with quiet determination.
‘Mum,’ Lottie stood.
‘The place is a wreck, a relic even.’ Her mother waved her hand. ‘The upstairs windows are coated in salt and the woodwork is rotting from the constant assault of the weather while two people rattle about in a few rooms.’
Gramps put his drink down. ‘Joan loves it.’
‘Does she? Does she really?’ Her mother shook her head. ‘I can’t see how.’ She walked towards Gramps. ‘I don’t know how you can stand it, living in the house that they lived in together.’
‘Mum.’ Lottie moved towards her then stopped. Where was this anger coming from?
‘We are all grown-ups here. No need to mince words.’ She topped up her drink and Lottie raised an eyebrow. Her mother wasn’t a big drinker.
‘Why did she come back to Boskenna after so long?’
‘What do you mean, “come back”?’ Lottie frowned. This was Gran’s home.
‘Boskenna was let out until George retired.’ Her mother sat on the sofa.
‘It was.’ Gramps relaxed.
‘Why did you come here? Why not Cape Cod, where your family were?’
Lottie held her breath. Her mother had shifted into reporter mode – forgetting that, like him or not, Gramps was her stepfather and an old man. How could she snap her out of it?
Gramps put his fingertips together, making an arch with them like the childhood game he used to play with her. Here is the church, here is the steeple, open it up, see all the people. But this wasn’t a game. Gran was dying and her mother, possibly as a way to distance herself, was interviewing Gramps.
‘She wanted to. It’s her home.’
Mum shook her head and pressed her lips together.
Just then, Alex arrived at the door – carrying Gran as if she was a child. With care, he placed her on the sofa and Lottie arranged some cushions behind her.
‘Can I get you a drink?’ Alex asked.
‘I’d love the smallest taste of whisky, well-watered, please.’
‘Of course,’ he smiled, and Lottie caught his eye and mouthed thanks. ‘George, does your drink need refreshing?’ Diana?’ He glanced around.
She held her breath again. Her mother stared at him and everything in Lottie tensed.
‘I’m fine, thank you.’ Her mother turned and walked to the fireplace then turned back again as he handed Gran her drink.
Lottie watched her mother open her mouth, but Gran raised her glass. ‘Thank you for coming.’ She coughed.
The doorbell rang and Alex leapt to answer it. She couldn’t blame him. Lottie’s shoulders were around her ears. The atmosphere in the room was fraught.
The nurse came in and her mother glared at Alex before she left the room. That wasn’t fair. Her mother had had every right to be angry with Lottie even now, because she’d believed Lottie had been in London all summer doing an internship when she’d been falling in love. It was never Alex’s fault. It had been – and always would be – Lottie’s fault.
3 August 1962, 6.10 p.m.
Diana sits cross-legged on the bed watching me while I clip on my earrings. Thus far today hasn’t gone as planned and now I am faced with a handful of guests gathering in the drawing room for drinks. Tom would be among them of course, but there would be eight others. It is paramount that I find time alone with him before tomorrow afternoon.
‘Mummy?’
I turn to her. She wears her serious look as she clutches the present that Tom has given her.
‘Yes?’
She holds a leather-bound book aloft. ‘Uncle Tom said this is a diary or a journal.’
I nod and perch beside her, taking the book from her hands. Flipping through the lined pages, it is apparent it was not made in England. At a guess the leatherwork indicated the Middle East, or possibly Spain at a stretch.
She looks up from under her long dark lashes so like Allan’s. ‘I can write things down . . . like what I do every day.’
‘Indeed, your thoughts
