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 about all sorts of things, too.’ I hand the book back to her. ‘Or even sketches.’
‘But there are lines on the page.’ She runs her finger over one.
‘True.’ Trust her to worry about that. ‘You could slip your drawings into the book.’
She frowns. ‘No, this isn’t a book for my drawings, I don’t think.’
‘OK, then you could write to it like it is your best friend.’
‘But that’s Maria.’
‘Your next best friend then. But do remember that some things must never be written down.’
She looks at me as if she despairs of me.
‘Of course, Mummy. I know all about secrets.’ She wrinkles her nose and I hide my smile. She is so like Allan. Quick, mercurial and ever so clever. ‘Uncle Tom said I was good with words.’
‘Did he?’ Turning, I look at her closely.
‘Yes, he said I might become a writer or even a newspaper journalist when I’m older.’
‘Very perceptive.’
‘Perceptive?’ she asks, tilting her head.
‘He sees things well.’ I stick another hairpin through the French twist in my hair. ‘Did he say where it was from?’
‘Beirut.’
Memories of 1955 in that glamorous city fill my mind. Dancing, laughing, loving.
‘They speak Arabic there don’t they?’ She turns the book over.
‘Yes.’
‘Isn’t that written back to front?’ She peers at me and I love watching her thought process. My darling girl is so intelligent it scares me sometimes.
I stand and smooth my dress. ‘You’re a clever soul.’
‘Thank you, Mummy.’ She jumps up clutching the book. ‘Maybe I’ll begin writing my diary from the last page.’
I chuckle. ‘That’s a super idea. Make sure you tell Uncle Tom your plan.’ I stroke her dark hair, loving its thickness. ‘He’ll be pleased.’
She stares at me. ‘I think I’ll become a journalist because I like to ask so many questions.’
‘You’d be a very good one.’
‘Would I, Mummy?’ She takes my hand.
‘Absolutely, you’re curious and very good with words.’
‘I like knowing the truth.’ Her bright smile disappears and her eyes narrow.
‘The truth is very important,’ I say, but I know that much of the time it’s best hidden. The truth can hurt.
We walk hand in hand into the hallway. Someone is warming up on the piano and begins playing the latest Bobby Darin song, ‘Things’. Diana starts singing and dancing. Joining her until we reach the top of the stairs, I give her a twirl and her laughter lifts me. All will be fine. My concerns are unfounded. The scrutiny of living in the fishbowl of Moscow is intense and life here should be a balm. Sadly, this weekend has brought the world of work into my refuge. I laugh, remembering that it was years ago that the world of work invaded Boskenna, and maybe it had always been here. Daddy and his guests who visited here during our leave changed the carefree atmosphere.
‘Mummy, what’s funny?’
‘Nothing important.’
‘Funny is always important.’ She gives me a piercing look. I make no sense to her, for I am intuitive and she is logical like Allan.
‘I’m going to start my diary now.’ She races to her room, which used to be mine. Twelve years ago I looked out of that same window and saw Allan for the first time. My heart missed a beat then and still does now as I begin down the stairs. The object of my thoughts is looking more handsome now than he had then. I had been eighteen and he twenty-four. My parents were celebrating their twentieth wedding anniversary. They never made it to their twenty-fifth.
‘Darling.’ Allan waits with a smile lighting up his face. The man is too handsome for his own good. He holds out a hand. Reaching the bottom step, I take it and he twines his fingers through mine. I shiver, loving his touch and yearning to take him upstairs, but instead we walk through to the drawing room, the picture of a golden couple.
Allan releases my hand, heading to the drinks table, and I move towards Lady Fox, Allan’s aunt.
‘Is everything in your room as it should be?’
‘Of course, my dear.’ She smiles. ‘Thank you for giving us your parents’ room looking out to Black Head. Mesmerizing. Despite the weather, I was so riveted by the view it’s a wonder I managed to apply my lipstick properly.’
‘True, it is a distraction.’
Outside, rain hits the windows obscuring everything but the sound of the sea, ever present. Tonight because of the weather, the windows are shut yet I can still hear the sea when the music pauses. The tide is high and the wind has picked up. Thinking of the beach brings the Americans to mind. They wouldn’t have enjoyed this evening, despite the fact that many of the people they should meet locally are here. I can’t see Lady Fox enjoying their company and with only ten tonight she couldn’t have avoided them. Tomorrow it will be easier with more people, more distraction.
‘Not sure how you can bear to leave Boskenna.’
My glance strays to Allan making a gin and tonic.
‘Ah, yes, the things we do for love.’ She picks up a devilled egg. Mrs Hoskine has done a marvellous job with the canapes and I take a deep breath. Life is about being flexible.
‘I do admire you, dear, following Allan all over the world. How long have you been in Moscow now?’
I force a smile. ‘Nearly two years.’
‘Fascinating place to be living at the moment, I should imagine.’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you expect to be there much longer?’
I look down at the bracelet on my wrist. If I didn’t know better, I would think I’m being pumped for information, but this is his aunt who I’ve known since childhood and this isn’t Moscow. She, of all the people here this weekend, has nothing to do with the diplomatic world. She belongs to the gardening one, competing against Boskenna every year at the flower show. Each year Pengarrock, Boconnoc, Caerhays, or Boskenna would win. Of course, those gardens are far larger and Boskenna being so close to the sea with little protection from the east winds, faced different challenges.
‘Here’s your drink, darling.’ Allan hands me the glass, looking up at his aunt. ‘Have you seen the agapanthus this year?’ he asks, leading her towards the windows. ‘It’s a wonder with all this rain this summer that anything blooms.’
I make my way across the room towards Tom. He is chatting to Eddie Carew and gives me a quick smile before replying to him. Again, I can see how drawn he has become but a few days here and he’ll perk up. Despite being only thirty-six he is greying at the temples. Rather than making him unattractive, it adds to his appeal if one goes for the scholarly variety.
‘Joan, how kind of you to invite me for the weekend.’