Читать книгу The Path to the Sea - Liz Fenwick - Страница 15

4

Lottie

3 August 2018, 3.10 p.m.

The traffic in front of her on the A390 came to a halt. Lottie’s knuckles went white. Would she make it in time? Why hadn’t she charged her phone last night? When she finally woke on the last morning in her flat and plugged in her phone, there were three messages from Gramps asking her to call. The final one said, ‘My darling girl, she’s leaving us. I don’t think it will be long.’ His voice had cracked, and Lottie had swallowed a sob. Her car had already been packed. She’d thrown the last of her stuff into the boot and waited for the estate agent to take the final set of keys for her flat.

It was fewer than three miles to Boskenna from here. She just wanted to drive up and over all these people. Didn’t they know she had to get home? She exhaled, and her glance darted to the fuel level. In normal circumstances she would have enough fuel, but with this traffic it would be touch and go.

She turned on the radio for distraction. There was nothing she could do and that was proving to be the story of her life. Her fingers stilled on the scan button as Ray Charles began singing ‘I Can’t Stop Loving You’. This was the lead song in the soundtrack to her life. Just a few notes and she had time-travelled back to the summer of 2008.

That summer had proved that life could alter in a moment and now it was about to change again. Gran. She shifted from neutral to first and back again. The changeover traffic on a Friday in August had never been good but this was brutal. Cornwall was full of people and now that included her, except this was not a holiday. She would give anything to have this just be a visit, but she had heard the fear in Gramps’ voice.

Traffic stopped again, and the only movement was on the other side of the road. There must be an accident ahead. Today was purportedly the hottest day of the summer and she was now watching the fuel gauge on her old Fiesta bounce in and out of the red. It was like her bank account. That too was empty. The trip meter said she’d done 286 miles since she’d last filled it up. She’d lived twenty-eight years never having let her finances or her fuel tank run dry. On the passenger seat her handbag contained only five pounds, her phone and not much else. She ground her teeth trying to think of positive things, which at the moment was very difficult.

She glanced in the rear-view mirror as traffic began moving again. The car was stuffed with her worldly possessions. That was something she didn’t want to think about. She just wanted to make it to see Gran. She had to. Her last visit had been anything but good, and recent phone calls had been stilted. Lottie couldn’t have that be the last conversation. She just couldn’t.

As the car crept along at ten miles an hour, she spotted the problem: a broken-down camper-van. She tensed, waiting for the ancient engine powering her car to cough and die but it didn’t. Finally turning left, she travelled past the new housing estate, and before long she went left again to Porthpean. That first glimpse of St Austell Bay caught her unprepared even though she’d made this journey thousands of times. Stretched out below, it looked as if she could touch it, but she always forgot the sheer jaw-dropping beauty and today was no different. The bright blue sea gleamed, and Gribben Head jutted out into the bay under a clear sky. The road narrowed, descending towards the cove, and her heart lifted then it crashed. Gran.

Even before the sharp turn through the gates, she pictured Boskenna and the view. White, green and blue. House, lawn and sea. Perfect harmony. Peace. The car spluttered its way past the green wooden gate on fumes. The gate was in need of painting and she might be wrong, but it looked like it was off its hinges and wouldn’t close even if she wanted it to. This wasn’t normal, but the sun was beating down on Boskenna and the view of the bay beckoned. It never disappointed even on a grey day. Here was home in a way she never felt anywhere else ever. It was in her bones. Every school holiday until university, this was where she lived.

Lottie parked and climbed out, taking a deep breath. The breeze was fragrant with sea air and freshly cut grass. She could do this. She stood tall. Gramps needed her. Dashing towards the front door, she caught a glimpse of broad shoulders walking through the courtyard. She stared for a second. Her brain said Alex but it couldn’t be. It was just wishful thinking brought about because of an old song. She hadn’t spoken to him in ten years and her last words to him had been unjust. But that wasn’t really important right now. Gran was. She ran, seeing a blur of large agapanthus heads against the white wall of the house. The colour popped with the intensity of their blue petals. They glowed like Tanzanite. Boskenna was different from every angle, but this view by the front door was her favourite. It had welcomed her every time as it did now.

The front door swung wide and Gramps hobbled out, leaning heavily on a cane. This was new. In February he hadn’t needed one. She swallowed then threw her arms around him. ‘Gramps, I’m so sorry I missed your calls.’

‘My darling Lottie, not to worry. You are here. That’s all that matters.’ His smile couldn’t have been wider, but he looked like he would break. 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 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. He’d read people well, especially Lottie.

‘Don’t worry about me. I’m fine. I’m just going to check on your grandmother. The nurse won’t be in for a bit,’ he said, pushing himself out of the chair then giving her an encouraging hug to send her on her way.