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.
3 August 2018, 4.30 p.m.
Walking out the front door, Lottie noted a sea mist creeping across the lawn. Gribben Head had disappeared, the wind had dropped, and the air was still. In the past, she’d always felt that the world stopped when this happened, but looking ahead her mother hadn’t. She stole through the gates and down the lane. Lottie raced after her.
‘Mum?’
She glanced over her shoulder at Lottie, nodded, but didn’t speak. Even at a distance Lottie noted the shadows under her dark eyes. Where had her mother been recently? It always took her time to decompress after each assignment. Lottie knew enough not to speak. She was simply grateful her mother was here too. Her feet slowed, expecting her mother to turn towards the beach, but she continued up the lane towards St Levan’s Church.
She went straight to the small graveyard at the side of the building. There weren’t many graves. For years it had been a private chapel to the big estate. She stopped in front of a plain granite stone.
Allan Edward Charles Trewin
Born 4 August 1926
Died 5 August 1962
Loving husband and father.
Thirty-six, just. So young. Allan Trewin was her grandfather and she had been to the grave before, but this was the first time with her mother. That fact felt wrong, but she could count on one hand the number of times that her mother had been to Boskenna. She closed her eyes. Now was not the time to dwell on the past, but that was challenging in a graveyard filling with mist. It had covered Porthpean and was now depositing minuscule drops of water on everything around them. They softened each surface, including her mother who appeared out of focus.
She turned to Lottie. ‘Who put these flowers here?’
Lottie shrugged. Fresh flowers were always here, from what she remembered. Today they were bright blue hydrangeas with spiky red crocosmia. The one thing she was certain of was that it couldn’t have been Gran. It wouldn’t be Gramps. Why would he put flowers on the grave of his wife’s first husband? People were weird but not that weird.
‘Lottie?’
She blinked. ‘I don’t know.’
Her mother turned back to the grave.
‘Why are we here, Mum?’
Her mother sighed and said, ‘It’s almost the anniversary of his death.’ She traced her father’s name then the dates. It must have been awful to have lost her father when she was eight, but at least she’d had him. Lottie had never had a father. Well, there had to have been one in the picture in some form or another but not one that her mother had chosen to share with her. Foolish, but Lottie was jealous her mother had a gravestone to acknowledge that she’d had a father. In fact, although her mother didn’t like Gramps, she had a stepfather too. Lottie loved Gramps, but her mother didn’t care for him. Well, that was the polite way to describe her attitude. Lottie had never figured out why. From what she knew, Gran had been a widow for thirteen years before she remarried. Lottie’s mother was twenty-one then and no longer a child. But, maybe, for some things everyone was forever a child.
She peered through the mist at her mother who was still focused on the gravestone. Nothing made sense, especially being here now. Gran was dying, and her mother was standing in a damp churchyard touching a moss-covered stone. Lottie cleared her throat.
Her mother looked up, her eyes guarded. Lottie had seen that expression before. It was when she would lock things away inside, like all the horror she saw in the course of her work. She reached out and touched her mother’s hand.
‘Some things never leave you.’ Her mother’s voice was strangled. ‘Everything changed.’
Lottie clutched her mother’s long elegant fingers, so unlike her own small ones. As her mother glanced at her, Lottie caught pain in her eyes before she hid it again.
‘I’ve looked into the past and I see so little.’
‘Oh, Mum.’ She took a step closer to her. ‘Have you asked Gran?’
She nodded. ‘She won’t talk about it.’
‘It must be painful for her.’ Lottie pictured the frail woman upstairs in Boskenna now, who looked nothing like the vibrant woman in the black and white photographs in the house, with hair swept up, revealing a classic face. The clothes were elegant, and the makeup was so Sixties and Seventies. There were no pictures of Allan Trewin that Lottie had ever seen. His death must have been awful for Gran and her mother. Gramps didn’t seem the sort to fuss about pictures of his predecessor being around. He was just Gramps, so easy. She swallowed the smile that came to her at the thought of him.
‘I can look at this,’ her mother pointed at the carved slate. ‘With clear-sighted adult eyes and