‘I was in IT and I had an idea that I’d build my own company based here.’

She paused. ‘So, you’re building it in Boskenna’s stable block?’

‘Your grandparents offered it to me along with the use of the cottage.’ He looked at her. ‘I’m grateful.’

‘I should think your arrival was ideal timing to help them.’

‘Possibly.’

They reached the gate behind the café. This all felt so familiar, yet odd. In the past, every thought revolved around spending as much time with each other as possible. It hadn’t mattered whether they were walking the coast, swimming, or sailing. As long as they were with each other. Now they stood stiff like strangers.

She stifled a yawn.

‘Get some sleep. You’ve had a tough day.’

‘Yes.’ She closed the gate behind them and looked up to her grandparents’ room. The light was off, and she hoped they were both sleeping peacefully. She doubted she would.

20

Joan

3 August 1962, 11.30 p.m.

The bouillabaisse was a success, the summer pudding was delicious with just the right amount of bite, and now that the rain has stopped my guests are slipping outside into the fresh night air. I climb the front stairs to check on Diana. Unlike during most dinner parties, I haven’t seen her slip into the kitchen. Maybe the day’s sailing has tired her out, but that would be most unusual. She loves food and seems to be hungry all the time.

The door to her room is ajar and to my surprise she is asleep, with a pencil in hand. The diary has slipped to the floor. I pull the pencil out of her hand then tuck the blanket around her. Her dark eyelashes rest on her cheeks and my heart turns over with love. It never ceases to shock me how much I love her. Maybe I have lost the other babies because I can only love one child.

Picking up the diary, I resist the urge to take more than a quick glance at it. I would not spy on my own daughter. True to her word, she has begun writing in the back. She has underlined private and put it in bold capitals. I close the journal and place it on the bedside table. Private it will be, but I love that she has begun her first entry, Dear Diary.

I lean down and kiss her forehead. The scent of raspberry lingers on her skin. Her rosebud mouth is stained from the berries she ate earlier and there is a tell-tale crumb of scone in the collar of her nightgown. She must have slipped down unnoticed, after all. She is such a dear thing and I never thought I would feel such love. Life is funny that way. I never wanted her and now I can’t imagine my life without her . . . or Allan. Below the open window I hear him chatting and smile. All will be fine. After each miscarriage he has mourned differently than I have. That’s normal. Grief is different for everyone. But we do need to have a discussion about trying for any more. It takes so much out of us each time and of course, Diana. She feels it. I sometimes think she feels guilty. That she feels she is not enough, which isn’t true. She is everything and more. How do I explain this to a child? Looking at her once more I slip out of her room, hoping that tonight won’t be too late. I stifle a yawn.