The Path to the Sea. Liz Fenwick
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He was eighty-eight, his birthday just last month, but how could he have become so fragile so quickly?
‘Gran?’ She studied his face for signs of hope. There were none.
‘Sleeping.’ He sighed.
‘Mum?’
‘Still upstairs, I believe.’ He shook his head and the smile slipped from his face. ‘I haven’t seen her yet.’ His weariness broke her heart and she wanted to wrap him in her arms again. When she was last here, she’d had Paul with her and maybe that was why she hadn’t seen their frailty. She’d been too bloody focused on making sure Paul had a good time. But he hadn’t. He’d hated Cornwall. It had rained like they needed an ark. Maybe Cornwall had hated him, or it had simply been giving her a sign which she’d ignored. God, she’d wished she’d listened. Since then Gramps had shrunk. He had never been a big man, but he’d been fit for his age. He stood in front of her now looking old, really old.
‘You must be desperate for tea. It’s such a beastly journey.’ His voice was still strong and distinctive with that peculiar mix of English vocabulary and American twang. It reminded her a bit of JFK in old documentaries.
‘Is it OK if I just go see Gran and then have some tea?’
He nodded.
‘I promise I won’t wake her.’
‘Go.’ He smiled at her.
She hesitated. Should she stay with him a bit longer? But she might not have much time with Gran. She raced up to Gran’s room. She was through the door, breathless, then stopped abruptly. Gran was asleep in a big armchair. Her beautiful skin was thin and slightly yellow with her white hair flat against her head. Lottie reached out to it. She could fix that for her. Even combing it would make Gran look more like Gran. That and a touch of pink lipstick.
An oxygen tube rested against her grandmother’s sunken cheeks. Just six months ago she was working in the garden. The camellias were about to kick into full glory and Gran had held up one, and said, ‘The red camellia represents love, passion and desire.’ She’d tucked a bloom behind Lottie’s ear and said, ‘You’ll know when you’ve found it and it will happen when you least expect it.’ Lottie had thought it had been a sign, but if it had she’d misread it, thinking that Paul had been what she’d been looking for. A white bloom had fallen at Gran’s feet. Lottie had picked it up and given it to her. Gran had smiled but there was sadness in her eyes. ‘The white camellia can mean good luck, perfection and loveliness but in Japan it means death and bad luck.’
Lottie glanced around the room now. There were no flowers and that was wrong. She was sure the garden would be full of them. Gran always had flowers in her room and in the house. Even in the depths of winter. There was one particularly fragrant tree that should be in bloom now if she remembered correctly. Flowers would help somehow, even if they provided mixed messages.
She leaned down and kissed Gran’s cheek. ‘I love you,’ she whispered. Gran didn’t move, and Lottie backed out of the room with a heavy heart, but then Gran opened her eyes and smiled.
‘Lottie, my love.’
Lottie returned to her side.
‘I’m so pleased you’re here.’ She looked towards the door. ‘Did you bring your young man?’
Looking away Lottie reminded herself to simply answer the question asked. ‘No.’ 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