‘Because it gives you the picture right away.’ He pulled the top sheet back and there she was holding her diary, looking a bit sad.

Mummy peered over her shoulder to take a look. ‘How lovely but I don’t think it will fare well on the boat.’

Mr Venn looked at her and said, ‘Of course, Joan, you are right. How foolish of me.’

‘I’ll bring it up to the house now and she may have it went she returns.’ She looked at Diana.

‘Thank you so much for the present,’ she said, placing her diary into her bag.

‘Come on you lazy ones. Time and tide wait for no man,’ Daddy called, holding the tender. Diana cast a quick look at Mummy then raced down the beach into Daddy’s arms.

37. Joan

37

Joan

4 August 1962, 11.10 a.m.

The sun is out, the wind is fresh, and the sea flat. There might never be another day quite so perfect for a sail. I wave off my guests, my husband and my daughter. I want to be with them but because of their expedition I have time to prepare with Tom for meeting George Russell. Tom bowed out of the sailing party, blaming it on too much cognac last night. Allan didn’t call him out on it. He could have but he had given me a look. It said it all. There was promise there. He would forgive me for keeping his best friend here with me. Tom and I work so closely together, but because of their friendship, no one suspects my role. Turning away, I consider the lie I will need to tell Allan if he asks what Tom and I discussed. The glow of happiness I’d felt disappears. Allan is no traitor, but the first rule is trust no one. Never before had that come so close to home.

I can wrestle with my qualms later, but first I must supervise the table for tonight . . . place settings, china, flowers, candles. It must be just right. It’s Allan’s thirty-sixth birthday. Every year we host a dinner in his honour while we are here. This year it provides the cover I need to meet George Russell.

On the sideboard in the dining room, Mrs Hoskine and the daily help have already put out the silver and the glasses ready to lay. What’s missing are the table extensions and the placemats. It’s still the size we needed for breakfast: eight. Twenty requires a full extension. I tap my fingers on the table. Why did Allan have to invite these new friends? A sigh escapes me. It is his birthday, so it is within his right, but it is annoying. I pause and lecture myself. I need to be bright.

‘Mrs Trewin.’ Mr Hoskine stands in the French windows.

I look up and smile.

‘Shall I extend the table now?’ he asks.