The Path to the Sea. Liz Fenwick
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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.
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