The Path to the Sea. Liz Fenwick

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      I pull the sleeveless shift dress over my head and the green silk reminds me of shallow waters on a bright summer’s day. Like the ones when Tom, Allan and I sailed. I was nineteen and – against my mother’s wishes – I had joined them sailing to the Scilly Isles. I was free as I never had been before. No school mistresses, no hovering mother or aunt. Simply me and two beautiful men in love. Innocent and free. Well, that will never happen again but at least I have those memories.

      As I try to pull the zip up, I recall that it was then it was decided by the three of us that I should apply to a vacant secretarial post at the embassy in Aden. Tom thought I would be a shoo-in with my language skills, and of course the fact that Daddy was an ambassador wouldn’t hurt either. I knew the ropes already, so to speak. I had completed finishing school the month before and Mummy wanted me to marry right away. The problem, aside from the fact that there were no candidates, was that getting married was last on my list of things to do. I wouldn’t follow in her shoes. Somehow, I would find a way to a career and not simply become someone’s accomplished wife.

      Smiling, I look around the bedroom at all the accoutrements of just that. Mummy was accomplished, accomplished at keeping her drinking hidden. She was the life and soul of the party. I pause, looking at myself in the mirror with her pearls about my neck, in her house which is now mine. If she knew, she would approve. Allan is the political attaché in Moscow and I am the ultimate hostess. But looks can be very deceiving and a smile spreads across my mouth.

      ‘What’s so amusing?’ Allan walks through the door and comes to stand beside me. He runs a hand down my bare arm. It is the only contact we’ve had in days. He hasn’t been sleeping and I hear his footsteps in the darkness as he paces by the windows. After wearing the carpet out, he heads downstairs then outside where he lights up a cigarette. The smoke makes its way into the bedroom and I lie awake until he returns just before dawn.

      ‘Nothing important.’

      He pulls the zip on my dress up the final inch, running his finger along the base of my neck. ‘You’ve gone a delicious brown.’

      My skin glows, from the Cornish air if not the blazing sun. My dark hair is highlighted from a week here. I look like my younger self, more like the woman he knew as a teenager – long and leggy.

      ‘It’s all the gardening of late.’ I look down at his hand as he links his fingers through mine. ‘You’ve gone brown yourself.’

      ‘Not sure how, with the dismal weather. Here’s hoping for some sun this weekend.’

      But I knew that being on the sea brought colour even if the sun wasn’t bright. He’s been sailing every day and spending time with the Americans. Diana has loved being on the water, so I haven’t commented on the excessive amount of time he’s spent with them. Allan is like that. Making fast new friends and cutting out the rest of the world until it drags him back. Mostly I haven’t minded and many times it has helped. But I can’t quite put my finger on what is troubling him.

      He yawns and pulls his hand from mine.

      ‘Tired?’

      ‘Just the fresh air.’ He laughs and turns away. ‘I’ll have a quick bath to freshen up.’ He runs his fingers through his hair. Even though we’ve been here just a week a few freckles have appeared across his cheeks adding to his youthful look, but there is a slight greyness under that tan which is new. He strips off, desire fills me and he sends me a knowing smile, as he grabs his dressing gown then leaves the bedroom before I can act on my need or ask about the sleeplessness. He knows I know.

      Eventually he will tell me. He always does.

12

       Diana

       3 August 1962, 5.50 p.m.

      Diana watched Daddy go into the house. Uncle Tom was already dressed for dinner and he stood beside her. ‘Shall we take a short walk?’

      ‘Yes, please, and thank you for my book.’

      ‘A pleasure. Have you had a diary before?’ Uncle Tom put his hands in his pockets which pushed his jacket out of place.

      They cut across the lawn and walked up the long path.

      ‘No. What do I put in it?’ She turned the red book over in her hands. It was beautiful.

      ‘Your thoughts and what you did during the day.’

      Diana frowned. ‘Do I only write in it once a day?’

      ‘That is entirely up to you.’ He stopped to sniff a flowering tree. ‘At your age you are already good with words, so you may want to write stories as well as what happened during the day.’

      ‘Oh.’ Diana stood straighter. She liked words a lot. ‘Does being good with words mean that I’ll be a writer when I grow up?’

      ‘Possibly or maybe a journalist for a newspaper,’ he paused and studied her.

      ‘I like that idea. They write stories.’

      He laughed. ‘Technically they report events, but I do believe sometimes it is more storytelling.’

      ‘Report events?’ Diana decided to try to do that in her head. They passed the magnolia tree that was in bloom, it smelled lovely. She’d been told by the gardener that it was special, but she didn’t remember why. ‘I think I would like that.’

      As the path rose the trees became taller and the camellia bushes bigger.

      ‘It’s an important job,’ Tom continued. ‘Think of all the people who read newspapers every day to discover what is happening in the world.’

      She nodded. Mummy and Daddy did that, then they would discuss parts of what they’d read. ‘So, I should read the paper to discover how to report?’

      ‘You are a very clever soul, Diana.’

      ‘Am I?’ She stood straighter and took a bigger step forward.

      ‘Yes, you are and I think you would be a very good journalist.’

      ‘Thank you.’ Diana looked up to the big Monterey pine tree and saw the birds gathering there. They must have a wonderful view of the bay. She was jealous of their lookout. To see further she frequently went up to the attic rooms of Boskenna. From the one above her bedroom she could see over the trees and onto Carrot Hole. No, Mummy would correct her: Carrickowel Point.

      She turned and looked up at Tom. He was so handsome. Not as handsome as Daddy, though. ‘What do you do, Uncle Tom?’ She thought she must have asked once before but she couldn’t remember. ‘You are good with words, too.’

      ‘I love words and history. But I look after people.’

      Diana picked up a stone from the path. ‘Are you a nurse or a teacher?’

      He chuckled. ‘A bit of both, to be honest.’

      ‘Oh.’ She wanted to СКАЧАТЬ