‘Why did she come back to Boskenna after so long?’

‘What do you mean, “come back”?’ Lottie frowned. This was Gran’s home.

‘Boskenna was let out until George retired.’ Her mother sat on the sofa.

‘It was.’ Gramps relaxed.

‘Why did you come here? Why not Cape Cod, where your family were?’

Lottie held her breath. Her mother had shifted into reporter mode – forgetting that, like him or not, Gramps was her stepfather and an old man. How could she snap her out of it?

Gramps put his fingertips together, making an arch with them like the childhood game he used to play with her. Here is the church, here is the steeple, open it up, see all the people. But this wasn’t a game. Gran was dying and her mother, possibly as a way to distance herself, was interviewing Gramps.

‘She wanted to. It’s her home.’

Mum shook her head and pressed her lips together.

Just then, Alex arrived at the door – carrying Gran as if she was a child. With care, he placed her on the sofa and Lottie arranged some cushions behind her.

‘Can I get you a drink?’ Alex asked.

‘I’d love the smallest taste of whisky, well-watered, please.’

‘Of course,’ he smiled, and Lottie caught his eye and mouthed thanks. ‘George, does your drink need refreshing?’ Diana?’ He glanced around.

She held her breath again. Her mother stared at him and everything in Lottie tensed.

‘I’m fine, thank you.’ Her mother turned and walked to the fireplace then turned back again as he handed Gran her drink.

Lottie watched her mother open her mouth, but Gran raised her glass. ‘Thank you for coming.’ She coughed.

The doorbell rang and Alex leapt to answer it. She couldn’t blame him. Lottie’s shoulders were around her ears. The atmosphere in the room was fraught.

The nurse came in and her mother glared at Alex before she left the room. That wasn’t fair. Her mother had had every right to be angry with Lottie even now, because she’d believed Lottie had been in London all summer doing an internship when she’d been falling in love. It was never Alex’s fault. It had been – and always would be – Lottie’s fault.

14

Joan

3 August 1962, 6.10 p.m.

Diana sits cross-legged on the bed watching me while I clip on my earrings. Thus far today hasn’t gone as planned and now I am faced with a handful of guests gathering in the drawing room for drinks. Tom would be among them of course, but there would be eight others. It is paramount that I find time alone with him before tomorrow afternoon.

‘Mummy?’

I turn to her. She wears her serious look as she clutches the present that Tom has given her.

‘Yes?’

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.