A Cornish Orphan, page 21
‘Where is she?’
‘Bed three, on the left.’
The bunch of flowers swept towards Jenny in a wave of perfume. It stopped at the end of her bed, and a face under a panama hat looked round at Jenny with eyes that were fierce and brimming over with tears.
Jenny gasped. ‘NAN! Oh . . . Nan.’
Nan didn’t speak. She lowered the flowers onto the bed and let their fragrance do the talking. Then she lowered herself gingerly onto the visitor’s chair. She took Jenny’s pale hand and held it firmly between her rough, strong palms. The silence glistened over the flowers and around the bed, growing brighter with every heartbeat until it sparkled, and the work of the silence was done.
Jenny reached out and gave Nan a hug. The two women wept into each other’s shoulders, sharing breath, sharing unspoken forgiveness. It was the first time they had ever hugged. Nan smelled of Madonna lilies and the earth they had grown in. She smelled of herb tea, and bluebell woods and Cornish pasties. And she smelled of home.
They moved apart, and looked into each other’s eyes. The silence had one more healing moment to offer. A rare gift. The gift of looking into the eyes of your most deadly enemy, and finding a friend.
‘This place pongs of Dettol,’ Nan said.
‘You haven’t changed a bit,’ Jenny said cheekily, and they both laughed. ‘And – thank you for the flowers. They’re gorgeous, and so extravagant – where DID you get them?’
‘From my garden. I grow them.’
Jenny’s mouth fell open.
‘It’s not difficult,’ Nan said. ‘They come up every year.’
‘How did you get here, Nan? Surely you didn’t carry this magnificent bouquet on the train . . . did you?’
‘I drove here.’
‘You never did! Not in Mufty’s cart?’
‘’No – I drove my motorcar.’
‘You did what?’
‘She’s an Austin Seven, and she’s a noisy old bird, but she goes like a scalded cat.’
‘Nan! I didn’t know you could drive.’
‘Neither did I, Jenny. I just got in and found out. I’ve hit a few gate posts, and left some streaks of paint on those sharp corners in St Ives. It’s been fun. I only just fit behind the steering wheel but, my goodness, people jump out of the way when they see me coming.’
Jenny looked at her in astonishment. ‘But why, Nan? Why do you feel you need such a thing?’
Nan went quiet. She took Jenny’s hand again, between hers, and looked at her intently. ‘I’m going to find the children, Jenny. Nobody knows where they have been taken. The police wouldn’t tell me, and nor would that stuck-up doctor’s wife. So I’ve consulted my lawyer in Truro, and he’s going to help me find them. He said it would be much quicker and easier if I had a car, and a telephone – so I’ve got both, and we’re ready to go.’
‘But I won’t have a home for them, Nan,’ Jenny said sadly, her pale fingers stroking the satin petals of a red tulip. ‘Our cottage is up for auction to pay my medical fees.’
‘I know. I know, dear.’ Nan looked at her steadily. ‘And that’s why I’m here. I know we’ve had our differences – but it’s water under the bridge – and I know I’m a wheezy old bat, but I intend to help you, no matter what. I intend to find those children and bring them home to St Ives, and I won’t let the hospital send you to some nursing home. You can live with me – all of you.’
‘But, Nan . . .’ Jenny’s eyes welled with tears again. ‘I know you love Lottie – who wouldn’t? But you’ve never liked the boys, have you? Are you sure it would work?’
‘Of course it will work. We’ll make it work,’ Nan said reassuringly. ‘It’s never too late to start loving.’
Chapter 17
A Twist of Fate
Nan tripped over Bartholomew in her rush to answer the new phone. She’d christened it ‘that hideous object’. It had such a loud, persistent bell and the other five cats had fled, wild-eyed, from the house. Shaking and cross with herself for falling, Nan heaved herself up, clutching the sideboard. It wobbled and the china horses toppled over and the gong swung to and fro. She was convinced the phone would stop ringing before she could answer it. This had happened several times, bringing her in from the garden in muddy boots, or struggling downstairs, only to find the bell had stopped ringing and all she heard was a buzz. She began to think there was something wrong with it.
This time she managed to get there. Breathlessly she lifted the heavy black receiver and looked at it, still not sure which end was which.
‘Hello, Mrs Lanroska – are you there?’
‘Wait a minute – let me turn this infernal thing round.’ Nan realised the voice was coming out of the end with the pepper pot holes. She turned it round and shouted into the cup-shaped mouthpiece. ‘Hello. Can you hear me?’
‘Yes, I certainly can, thank you. Are you all right, Mrs Lanroska? You sound a bit out of breath.’
‘Of course I’m all right – I just tripped over the cat. Who are you?’
‘It’s Bart Pascoe, your solicitor. I’ve been trying to ring you. I have some good news. I’ve found out where the three children were taken. They are in an orphanage – Treskirby House. The name of the manager is Miss Poltair.’
‘Oh, well done,’ Nan said, excited. ‘So where is this place?’
‘It’s in a remote location, at the top of Wheal Buller Hill – that’s on the Helston road out of Redruth. Do you know it?’
‘Not yet.’
‘You turn left down a narrow lane and it’s at the end – it’s a big old place. I’ve drawn you a map and posted it to you with my letter.’
‘That’s wonderful news. I shall go and fetch them.’
‘I wouldn’t advise that course of action yet, Mrs Lanroska. The children are in the care of the welfare authorities and they won’t let them go.’
‘WHAT? That’s preposterous,’ Nan said firmly. ‘They can’t stop me, surely; can they?’
‘I’m afraid they can. And if you go and try to take them, even if the children want to go, then it could make things worse. What I suggest, Mrs Lanroska, is a more subtle approach – a “softly-softly catchee monkey” approach, if you see what I mean.’
‘I am beside myself with anger.’
‘Yes, naturally you are. But, believe me, the only way to get them back is to first go and visit them. Play the benevolent granny. Go and see their mother and get her permission. Then you must make a formal application to foster them – yes, I know you’re their great-granny, but I’m afraid this is the only way. I will set the wheels in motion for you, and I hope you will take my advice.’
‘That is appalling, wicked, abominable bureaucracy. No one is going to stop me from bringing MY great-grandchildren home to the place they love.’
‘It’s not as simple as that.’ Bart Pascoe wearily explained it all again while Nan simmered at the end of the line. Then he said, ‘You go and make yourself a nice cup of tea, Mrs Lanroska, and think seriously about what I’ve said. Calm yourself down. Don’t go charging up there until you’ve had a chance to think it over.’
‘I will not be spoken to in that patronising manner. Good morning.’ Nan banged the phone down. Then, trembling, she picked it up again to see if she had broken it.
Seething, she took a basket and put six fresh brown eggs in there, carefully wrapping each one in a small square of newspaper. She packed three saffron buns from the batch she’d made yesterday, a roll of Cornish butter, and a small pot of her homemade blackcurrant jam. Orphanage food was pretty bland, she’d heard. She pictured the children’s eyes shining when she gave them each a bun with the luxury of butter and jam.
The summer day was breezy and cool. It would be chilly up on those hills. Nan went to the window and scanned the distant blue hills across the bay through her telescope. She studied the Carn Brea with its stone cross and stacks of granite. Somewhere, beyond that hill, were the children!
Nan went out to the car and squeezed herself in behind the steering wheel, her mind too busy with what she was going to say. A good omen, she thought when the car started at the first go. Despite her anger, she deemed it wise to take Bart Pascoe’s advice. This would be a ‘benevolent granny’ visit. Bittersweet, mandatory happiness. No ranting. No crying.
She was looking forward to seeing Lottie and she intended to make an effort with the boys. Then she’d go on to Truro, see Jenny and give her the good news. It had to be a lucky day. Lucky, lucky, lucky. Nan put her foot down and began to sing with unashamed abandon as the Austin Seven sailed along by the Hayle estuary. Mindful of the little car’s needs, Nan stopped at a garage in Redruth and topped her up with petrol, oil and distilled water.
‘Are you going Helston way?’ the garage man asked her.
‘Yes.’
‘You’ll be going up Wheal Buller Hill, madam,’ he warned, ‘and I’ll give you a piece of advice. You need to go like hell at it, right from the start – you just have to hope there’s no farm carts or herds of cows around.’
For the first time, Nan felt nervous and worried about getting stuck or, even worse, rolling back. She could see Wheal Buller mine as she came to the hill, and the chimneys and slag heaps of other mines in the distance. She gripped the steering wheel tightly, put her foot down, and started to sing Trelawny at the top of her voice. She visualised Lottie’s bright little face. ‘I’m on the way, darling.’ But on the last bit of the hill, the singing stopped, and she talked to the car, alarmed by the roar of the engine as she drove slower and slower, in first gear. ‘Go on. Go on. Go on,’ she prayed, sweating with anxiety.
At last, she was at the top. Seven hundred feet above sea level on the windswept moors of wiry grass, stunted trees and tiny fields. A place of ancient history where some of the fields had standing stones, and churches without towers crouched against the weather.
Nan felt jubilant as she swept down the narrow lane to the big, bleak house with its line of windows and tall chimneys. She’d made it. And the basket of goodies for the children was still intact. Play the benevolent grandmother. Go swanning in there with the basket over her arm, with a nice smile. Nice and calm. She imagined Lottie running towards her. It would be hard not to cry.
It was the right place. A weathered sign stood at the entrance gates. Treskirby House.
Then Nan went cold.
Something was wrong.
She parked and got out to open the high, wrought-iron gates and found them padlocked. A thick, brand new chain and a grey heavyweight padlock. Nan fiddled with it, not believing it would be locked, but it was. She let go of the chain and stood looking in, her hands on the rusting bars, expecting someone to come and let her in. She looked up at the house, hoping to see children’s faces watching her arrive in her Austin Seven, all the way from St Ives. There was a large garden, even a well-tended vegetable patch, she observed. Surely there would be children out playing?
Nan went to the car, reached inside and blew a long blast on the horn. No one appeared, so she tried again and waited with the cold hilltop wind wrapping her mottled blue dress around her ankles. Lottie would be sure to see her from the window and cry, ‘Nan! That’s my Nan out there!’ The imposing wooden doors would open and Lottie, Matt and Tom would come running down the drive, their eyes shining with joy.
Benevolent granny, she thought, optimistically ignoring the creeping shadow of disappointment. She felt shivery and extremely tired. Reluctantly she wedged herself back into the car and decided to rest and wait for a while. Maybe they’d taken the children on a trip out, judging by the two sets of wide tyre marks going under the gate.
She heard a dog barking and the clop-clop of heavy shire horses coming up the lane, and the sweet, heady scent of meadow hay. Nan got out and stood in the lane. ‘Will you stop, please?’ she asked the trilby-hatted farmer who was driving the wagon.
‘Whoa there.’ He pulled the reins and the two huge horses halted and immediately began to tear at the hedge, munching leaves and grass, their harnesses jingling.
‘Do you know how I can get into this place?’ Nan asked, hoping he would say there was another entrance. Yes, that would be it. She was at the wrong gate.
The farmer got down from the wagon, blue eyes glinting from a sunburnt face. He tapped his pipe on the roof of Nan’s car and relit it. ‘You ’ent gonna get in there, lady,’ he said. ‘’Tis closed down. Gone broke or summat – lease run out – I dunno. I can’t tell ’e why.’
Goosebumps prickled over Nan’s skin. She looked at him in shock. ‘But . . . the children? Where are they?’
‘Gone up-country. Saw ’em meself, yesterday, early in the morning. Saw ’em, poor little kiddies, all herded onto a great big blue bus – a private hire bus, it were. So big it nearly got stuck in the lane. Made such a mess it did. Worse than me ’aycart.’
‘Is – that true?’ Nan asked, looking at him through the curls of tobacco smoke.
‘Course it’s true. Saw ’em meself.’
‘But how do you know they haven’t just gone on a trip?’
‘Believe me, I know, lady. ’Tis common knowledge. I ’eard it in the pub.’
‘But where have they taken all those children?’
‘’Tis up-country. Plymouth.’
‘Plymouth!’ It sounded like the other end of the earth to Nan.
‘They’m part of a big chain. They got orphanages all over the place – even in London, so I’ve ’eard. A girl who worked there was talking about it. She said they were taking ’em to Plymouth, and then splitting ’em up – a few in London and a few in Reading – some are going up to Leeds.’
‘I hope they won’t split up families,’ Nan said, devastated.
‘I wouldn’t trust that lot as far as I could throw ’em. They don’t care, do ’em? They’m just in it for the money. Wicked, I call it. Wicked.’
‘When did the bus leave? Do you know?’ Nan pictured herself tearing after the bus in her airborne Austin Seven. She’d overtake it and park in the road, blocking the way, then heave herself out with her forked stick and make them let the children go.
‘Yesterday, about midday. Saw ’em meself, poor little urchins with their faces pressed to the window, some of ’em crying.’
The vision of driving to Plymouth faded.
‘I’d best be on me way. I ’ope you find the kiddies.’ The farmer doffed his hat to Nan, climbed onto the haycart, picked up the reins and set off in the creaking wagon, shedding wisps of hay over the hedges.
A throbbing mass of rage and despair barged its way into Nan’s mind, body and soul. Arnie’s children. Little Lottie, forever in her heart.
John De Lumen fidgeted and looked at his watch. For once the view of the sparkling sea failed to move him as the train pulled slowly into St Ives Station. It was ten minutes late, and that ten-minute delay could change his whole life. He was first out, opening the door before the train had even stopped. Dodging and apologising, he hurried down the platform, ticket in hand. Instead of his canvas haversack with its brushes and tubes of oil paint, he carried a brown leather briefcase with important documents inside, plus his lunch, a GWR cheese and tomato sandwich in white bread, with a mean little slice of Genoa cake without a cherry.
‘Welcome to S’nives, sir. Nice to see you back again.’
‘Please excuse me – I’ve got to dash.’
The ticket collector stared after him, puzzled as to why anyone should ever be in a hurry in beautiful S’nives.
John couldn’t remember the last time he’d done any running. His legs weren’t keen on the idea, but he forced them along, his leather-soled brogues pounding the slippery cobbles of The Warren, past the church, and onto Wharf Road. Today the sea was myriad colours, like an abalone shell, shimmering with opalescent gold and silver, turquoise and lavender. Normally that first glimpse of the harbour was a special meditative treat to John. He hardly noticed it, but ran hard along Wharf Road, scattering a flock of turnstones. People frowned at him as if he was an escaping thief. He didn’t look like the sort of man who would have a reason to run.
Red-faced and out of breath, John arrived at the cottage in Downlong. It was the day of the auction. His heart sank when he saw the crowd gathered outside the cottage, and several expensive motorcars blocking the road, including a cream Bentley. John slid to a halt and leaned against a wall in the May sunshine, hoping his pulse was going to calm down and that he wouldn’t drop dead before the bidding started.
He might be about to make the worse mistake of his life, he thought, looking at the small granite cottage. He was too late to view the inside and survey the yard at the back. All he had was the piece of paper with the description on it. AN EXCELLENT INVESTMENT. IDEAL AS A HOLIDAY COTTAGE OR AN ARTIST’S STUDIO. It didn’t say a pair of seagulls were nesting on the roof. All over St Ives the gulls were busy and stressed with the task of feeding and raising their speckled fledglings. There were two of them parked on the ridge of the roof, still fuzzy and awkward, screaming for food as the industrious parents swooped in with beaks full of fish.
‘They mate for life, them gulls,’ remarked the woman who was leaning on the wall next to John. Despite the sunshine, she was dressed in a long trench coat and a maroon scarf. Her eyes looked him up and down beadily. ‘Where are you from then? You ’ent local.’
‘London,’ John said, still gasping for breath.
‘So what d’you come all down ’ere for, eh?’
‘We shall see.’ John saw her eyeing his briefcase. He put it down, wedged it safely between his feet and focused on the auctioneer who was standing on the doorstep.
The church clock struck three, and the bidding started for the freehold of the Lanroskas’ cottage.
‘I will start at one hundred guineas.’
Even the seagulls fell silent as the auctioneer’s keen eyes swept over the crowd. For a few seconds he locked eyes with John, but John kept still, his hands in his pockets. He wasn’t going to push up the price by bidding too early.
‘Eighty then. Eighty guineas. Surely? What a low price for this sturdy little cottage in the heart of beautiful St Ives. Thank you, madam. Any advance on eighty guineas? Ninety – one hundred – one hundred and ten . . .’
