I roll my neck. From the moment when I woke until now I haven’t stopped moving. Even cutting flowers hasn’t provided the quiet reflection I’m seeking. At first I welcomed the activity, the focus on the beautiful, the surface of things, but now every muscle is tense, waiting. This weekend must be perfect. The sun will shine, and laughter and gaiety will abound. There will be a new guest, an important one, at the dinner table tomorrow night. Every reasonable bed in the house will be occupied. I glance down at the flower basket, knowing I should head back to the house and finish the arrangements, but the solitude here at the watchtower is a tonic. Closing my eyes, I try to still my mind so that I can hear the birdsong and the sound of the sea below, but instead names and faces scroll through my mind as if I am memorizing a sheet of paper. We will have eighteen at dinner tomorrow night and ten this evening.

In some ways, things will be simpler when we head back to Moscow. But only in some ways as my clenched stomach reminds me. If only life consisted of ballet classes at the American Embassy and helping Diana with her school work. I hold my hand out and roll my wrist gracefully. The ballet mistress would approve. I laugh. She has no idea that I understand every word she speaks, especially those muttered under her breath. She watches us so closely, pretending that she comprehends little of our chattering before and after the class. But she is no different than any Russian we meet on a regular basis. Nothing is ever as it appears.

My fingers flex, touching the concrete of the tower. I loved my war years here at Porthpean. My parents remained in India but felt I would be safer here. That proved to be wrong, with the endless bombing of Plymouth and near-misses along this coastline. But it was a magic time. The house had been filled with refugees and evacuees, including me. My governess taught us all, but I learned the most from the refugees . . . a French chef, a Czech scholar, a Polish linguist and Elena, a Russian countess who was a distant relative of my mother.

Elena had turned up on the doorstep after the Blitz. I clutch the enamelled locket at my neck. It is my good luck charm. It had been hers. She hadn’t been wearing it when she’d been hit by a bus crossing the street in London in 1952. We had become close during our time together at Boskenna and I’d been touched when she’d left her jewellery to me. I release the locket, loving its touch against my skin. Because of the imperial connection I don’t wear it in Moscow. All her jewellery remains hidden here at Boskenna for my return trips. On arrival I pull out my jewellery case and find the locket and wear it. Boskenna is a haven, and with or without the locket, luck abounds here.