Diana had been born in Boskenna with a midwife in attendance. Whether she wanted it or not, she was connected to this house. Her father had not been here, she’d been told by Mrs Hoskine. He’d been in transit. Sometime when she was in her teens, she recalled an awkward conversation with her mother, asking about her father and her early life. She had paused only for a moment before reeling off the facts. Born here, moved to Istanbul then onto Moscow. Returning to Boskenna every summer and most Christmases until 1962. There had been no emotion, no joy or sorrow in the telling, as if she too had walled off those years. Her mother had lost as much as Diana had, but even now Diana felt she was part of her mother’s grief. Diana had lost her years ago. Her death would simply underline what had already happened.

Looking out of the window over the kitchen sink, she saw the wood pile. Someone, probably Alex Hoskine, had been keeping it in order because it wasn’t George. He looked dreadful but that wasn’t a surprise. His wife was dying. She wanted to feel, but maybe all these years in ever more God-forsaken locations on the planet had worn the edges of her nerves away. They didn’t respond any more unless it was tragic. It had to be more graphic, more everything. A simple death due to age and cancer wasn’t shocking. Her mother was dying but she’d seen so many deaths, so many that weren’t at the end of a long life but cut off lives in their prime, or before they had had a chance to know anything other than fear.

Something metallic fell and she flinched, not sure where the sound came from. Rolling her neck to release tension, she looked around but everything seemed to be in place until she glanced at the sink. There a baking tray sat at an awkward angle. That must have been what had fallen. She shrugged. She was still wound up after the refugee camp in Jordan and now the discovery that George and her mother were lying for some reason. Turning to the right, she flexed her shoulders and looked to the larder, taking a few steps towards the door before stopping. It smelled of chocolate. Her stomach turned, and she stepped away, her mouth dry. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d willingly eaten the stuff.