She turned to Gran. ‘He’s gone.’
‘Ah.’ Gran stared at her before putting out her hand to hold Lottie’s. ‘I thought I heard your mother’s voice.’
‘She’s here but I haven’t seen her.’
Gran nodded, and her eyes closed.
‘Can I get you anything?’
She looked up and smiled. ‘Nothing darling. I’m just tired . . . forgive me.’
‘Rest and I’ll find some flowers.’
Without opening her eyes, she said, ‘That will be lovely. Thank you.’ Taking a last glance at her grandmother, Lottie held back tears. How had she not known Gran was ill? Because she’d been wrapped up in her own life and what a bloody mess that was.
Downstairs the smell of the sea, low tide in particular, rushed in through the office window. God, she loved it here. Even though everything else was wrong, being here was right. She nipped out to the car to get her phone.
Three messages all from Sally, her solicitor and best friend.
Jamie Sharp, a private investigator, will be in touch. I told him all. Sxx
Lottie swallowed thinking of the cost. She opened the next message.
Don’t worry about the cost. He owes me a favour. Sxx
Looking out to the bay, she didn’t think this Jamie Sharp would be able to help. The police didn’t know where Paul was nor did his mother. She opened the last message.
He’s just pinged me to say he’s found something. Love this guy. He’ll be in touch. Hugs and send your grandparents my love. Sxx
Typing quickly, she replied.
Arrived. Gran not good. Gramps holding up. Thanks for all the help. Don’t know what I’d do without you. Lxx
Even if they tracked Paul down it would all be too late. She sighed and grabbed her handbag, leaving everything else for later. She’d store her stuff out of sight. The last thing she wanted was for her current situation to be known and for it to become a concern. She was twenty-eight and she would fix her own problems.
Stopping in the entrance vestibule, she took a deep breath. Boskenna was unchanged, but she was altered since she had last removed her boots here. The Chinese vase still stood in the corner with enough brollies and walking sticks to equip an army. Under the large mirror, the bowl filled with sea glass was covered in a fine layer of dust, as was the table it sat on. Lottie ran her fingers over a cloudy aquamarine cabochon of the sea. It was pitted and rolled to the perfect shape. Her fingers turned it over trying to feel her grandmother who would have found this on one of her morning strolls. Those treasures of the beach had inspired Lottie’s career. As a child, she’d used old bits of garden wire to form jewellery. Maybe she should have stuck with beach debris and string. She wouldn’t be broke, if she had.
Through the glass doors into the hall, delicate flower-covered china plates still adorned the upper reaches of the wall in the 1840s addition to the house. Here the ceiling was high, and the white wooden panels covered the walls to six foot. Off to her right the drawing room beckoned, with the grand piano and family portraits, but rather than turning in there towards the view she walked through the arch that had marked the beginning of the original building. The afternoon sunlight streamed through the south-facing window, warming the wide wooden floor boards. Instantly the house closed around her with its lower ceilings. It felt like a much-needed hug. Clearly she was not the only one who felt welcomed. A spider web extended across from the ceiling light to the tall clock. A feather duster would tackle that later. She made a mental list . . . paint the fence, dust the hall. Other signs of things slipping appeared with each glance. Was their daily help on holiday? If that was the case Lottie didn’t think there could be a worse time.
In the small sitting room, otherwise known as the snug, the tea things were laid out and the sight of a Battenberg cake set her stomach rumbling. Gran was dying but life here at Boskenna went through the motions as it always had.
Gramps hobbled towards her clutching the teapot at a dangerous angle. She rescued it from him. How was he managing? Had he brought the tea things in one item at a time?
‘Did you stop for lunch?’ He studied her, and she looked away, shaking her head. He’d been her confidant for as long as she could remember, especially when she couldn’t talk to Gran or Mum. Now she hadn’t the heart to tell him she couldn’t have afforded to stop for lunch. It would require an explanation and that was one thing she didn’t want to give. He had taken against Paul on that visit. It had been mutual, and it was one of the reasons she hadn’t seen her grandparents or her beloved Boskenna since that wet February weekend. She should have listened to Gramps. But hindsight was a wonderful thing.
He frowned as he manoeuvred into his favourite chair by the fireplace. ‘Will you be mother?’
She poured the tea and put a small spoonful of sugar into his cup. ‘Shall I cut you a slice of cake?’
He looked at her as if he was surprised to see her there. ‘Yes, thank you, just a small one, please.’
The silver handle of the cake slice was tarnished. Another job she could sort out for them. She had no idea how long she would be here, but the up-side of her situation was that she could be of use. She cut herself a big slice. This cake represented her childhood. Her life then had been divided into squares, time with Mum, time at school, time at Boskenna and time at friends’. The only misrepresentation was the size of the squares. The school and Boskenna squares should be larger. Now of course her life in cake would be far from neat. It would have a soggy bottom certainly and only one flavour.
Her mouth watered as she used the dainty cake fork. At least these were pristine. The explosion of sugar took moments to hit as it reached her empty stomach and blended with the caffeine. Over Gramps’ shoulder she could see dust collecting in the corners of the bookshelves. Mixed among the local history books behind him were some of her favourite children’s books. The cake dried in her mouth as she thought of her grandmother in bed upstairs.
‘Tell me about Gran.’
He picked up his cup. ‘It’s not good.’
There was nothing Lottie could say. Gramps looked into his coffee. His hand shook.
‘Doctor doesn’t say much.’ He turned to the view. ‘She’s eighty-five . . .’ Out of the window she could see Gribben Head basking in the sun. Lottie had never known a summer like it. The atmosphere in London had been so close, but here the air was fresh with the scent of the sea.
‘But she seemed fine a few months ago.’
‘True.’ His voice was wistful, and Lottie leapt to her feet.
She knelt at his side. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Me too. Me too.’ He patted her hand.
Her mother walked past the door without looking in the snug. Lottie stood.
‘I hope she’s OK.’ He gave her hand a squeeze. ‘Go to her.’ His voice was gentle, but Lottie understood. Gramps knew things weren’t easy with her and her mother, or for that matter between her mother and Gran. He was very intuitive.
