‘How is she?’ he asked, looking down on her. His hand clutched his cane so tightly his knuckles were white.

‘Not very peaceful. I think she’s speaking Arabic.’

He nodded but didn’t comment as he lowered himself onto the chair beside her. ‘Go take a walk if you can.’ He glanced at her foot. ‘At least enjoy the sun while we have it.’

‘If you’re sure.’

He nodded then rested his hand on Gran’s forehead and spoke quietly to her. Lottie hobbled inside. Restless energy filled her now that some of the pain in her foot had eased.

Gran had married Allan in Damascus, so she must have picked up the Arabic then, and of course she was working in Cairo when she’d met Gramps. Years ago, Gran’s fluency in French had made revising with her a joy. Back then she’d said she couldn’t speak any other languages fluently just a smattering of phrases . . . the sort of thing needed to order in a restaurant, buy food in a market place. But that didn’t ring true now because whatever she was saying, it was fluent. It could be, ‘I’ll have three tomatoes please,’ but Lottie didn’t think so. She went to her room to grab her phone and google what she thought Gran had said. But she came to a standstill when Lottie saw her mother sitting on the bed.

‘Mum.’

‘This.’ She lifted Gran’s dinner party notebook. ‘Where did you find it and when?’

Lottie stomach clenched, and she glanced to her file. Under it sat the diary but it looked as if nothing had been moved. ‘Last night, when I tried to close the closet door.’

‘This is important.’ She pointed to the book.

‘Why?’ Lottie tilted her head trying to read the page. ‘You need a recipe?’

‘She lied to me.’

‘What?’ Lottie flinched. Her mother had big issues with lying, as Lottie knew too well.

‘She lied to me about something so important I can barely speak.’ She shook.

Lottie sat down on the bed beside her. Her mother jabbed her finger at a page. A quick glance confirmed that it was Saturday 4 August, 1962. Carefully listed were the guests and some of them had the names of bedrooms in Boskenna next to them. The house had been full, but Lottie couldn’t see what was upsetting her. ‘What did she lie about?’

Her mother held her finger still next to a name. George Russell. Lottie frowned. ‘They knew each other then?’

‘He was here.’

‘I thought they met in Cairo.’ It had sounded so romantic. Love at first sight – but it must have been love at second sight. Lottie flipped through the next pages, but that weekend was the last entry in the book.

‘That’s what she said.’ Her mother tucked her short hair behind her ear.

‘You don’t remember him from then.’

She glared at her.

Lottie shifted away. ‘Stupid question.’