‘No. There might not be a path, and we’d be struggling through gorse and bracken,’ Lottie told him.

  ‘And when we got to Hayle, we’d have to go all round the harbour, through the town and over the long road bridge,’ Matt said. ‘Someone would be sure to see us.’

  Tom pouted. ‘Can’t we just tell people where we’re going?’

  ‘No,’ said Matt and Lottie together, and Tom looked crushed.

  ‘We’re fugitives, Tom,’ Lottie explained.

  ‘What’s a fugitive?’

  ‘A person who is escaping.’

  ‘But we escaped yesterday. You said we did.’ Tom looked indignant.

  ‘We’ve got to escape every day, Tom, until we find Nan’s place in St Ives.’

  ‘But I don’t want to live with Nan. I want Mum. I want her a lot.’ Tom’s eyes burned with pain. ‘And if . . . if . . . I can’t have Mum . . . I want to die. I do, Lottie, I really do.’

  Lottie and Matt looked at each other in horror. Tom wasn’t crying. He’d left the words smoking in the air. And he’d meant it. He seemed incapable of crying in the way he used to do. There was no safety valve now for Tom.

  Lottie understood, but she still felt powerless. She gave Tom a hug, rocking him gently as he leaned on her. He felt tense and rigid, not like himself at all. Matt tried to offer some empathy, putting his hand on Tom’s back. For a weird moment he and Lottie felt like parents.

  They sat, silent, with Tom between them, searching the land spread out before them. If only Nan had a telephone, Lottie thought, we could ring her up. Or I could write her a letter and tell her where we are. But I’ve got no paper and no money for a stamp.

  It seemed impossible.

  Then, from far away came a familiar sound, a sound they heard in St Ives. The whistle of a train.

  ‘There it is. LOOK!’ Matt was fired with excitement.

  Together they watched the Great Western Railway express steaming through the landscape, its plume of white steam flying like a scarf. Even as the train disappeared behind buildings and trees, the white plume still marked its path.

  ‘The railway!’ Matt shouted. He jumped to his feet. ‘It goes in a straight line. THAT’S what we have to do. Get down there, get on the line and follow it – walk along it all the way to St Ives. It’ll be easy. It’s perfect.’

  ‘But, Matt . . .’ Lottie stared at him, unable to keep pace with his reckless plan.

  ‘We could even follow it at night – under cover of darkness.’ His bright eyes were like magnets drawing Lottie and Tom into his enthusiasm. ‘And there’s not many trains – we can easily hop out of the way. They make such a racket. We should start right now. Come on. It’s our best plan. I know it is. We’ll be in St Ives in no time.’

  ‘But what about our dinner?’ Tom asked. ‘I’m still hungry.’

  ‘Leave that to me,’ Matt said. ‘But get ready to run away fast if we get near a bakery or a market.’

  Lottie frowned at him. ‘You’re not thinking of stealing, are you?’

  ‘Course I am. How else are we gonna eat?’

  ‘I could beg, like Oliver Twist,’ Tom said.

  ‘Or you could let me walk into the shop and persuade them to give us yesterday’s bread rolls,’ Lottie said.

  ‘No.’ Matt shook his head. ‘It would draw attention to us and we don’t want that. I can pinch food. It doesn’t matter if I get caught ’cause I’m the bad boy anyway. Even the orphanage don’t want me. Now come on. Down the hill. Or am I going on me own?’

  Lottie followed him, dragging Tom who was still eating flapjack. Along the badger’s path through a bright tapestry of gorse flowers and pink heather, with the wild songs of skylarks, then down a rough track, the gritty mine-spoil crunching underfoot. It wound between two tin mines, one derelict and one busy with miners arriving for work, whistling and singing. They took no notice of the children.

  Soon they were plodding past terraces of cottages on the outskirts of Camborne. The cottages fronted the street, as they did in Downlong, and there were bottles of fresh milk on the doorsteps. ‘When I say RUN, you run,’ Matt said, eyeing the gleaming glass bottles of creamy milk, ‘and turn left at the end of this street.’

  He winked at Lottie. She glared back. ‘Matt, you can’t steal from these people. They’re like us – poor, like we were in Downlong.’

  ‘I can.’ Matt looked defiant.

  Lottie drew herself up taller. ‘If you do, Matt Lanroska, I shall stand in the street and shout it out to everyone. My brother, the milk thief.’

  ‘That’s why I shall survive and you won’t,’ Matt said ruthlessly. ‘Tom wants a bottle of milk, don’t you, Tom?’

  ‘Nick it from the milkman’s cart,’ Tom said. ‘He won’t miss a few. He’s down there – look.’

  Ten minutes later, gasping for breath, the three of them sat in a field, their backs against a sweet-smelling haystack. Hearts thudding, they had fled through the streets of Camborne, each clutching one of the thick glass bottles of milk Matt had pinched from the back of the milk cart which was standing, unattended, at the kerb, the pony dozing in the sun.

  The milk tasted heavenly and, despite herself, Lottie drank gratefully.

  ‘What shall we do with the bottles?’

  ‘Stuff ’em down a rabbit hole.’

  At the far end of the field, a colony of rabbits were sitting perfectly still, their ears erect, their fur silver in the morning sun. Beyond the hedge was a low embankment, pink with tall foxgloves and a fence of posts and wire. ‘That’s the railway! Come on.’ Matt flung his empty milk bottle at the haystack and ran off, with Tom following, towards the railway.

  Lottie collected the three empty bottles and stood them neatly in the lane, hoping the milkman would find them. She felt exhausted, her tummy aching from too much milk, and the boys had run off without her. She didn’t want to walk on the railway track.

  ‘Come ON, Lottie,’ Matt yelled, already on the other side of the wire.

  Lottie trailed slowly across the field, carrying her shoes, her sore feet brushing through the lush clover and buttercups. She wanted to lie down and go to sleep. It was a power struggle now, between her and Matt, and she didn’t feel up to it. She tried to ignore the GWR notice on the embankment saying TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED.

  Tom was standing in front of it. ‘That’s like the Lord’s Prayer,’ he said. ‘Forgive us our trespasses. What’s the other word, Lottie?’

  ‘Prosecuted.’

  ‘Does that mean you get your head chopped off?’

  ‘No. that’s executed.’

  ‘So what does prosecuted mean?’

  ‘It means you go to ’ell,’ Matt said. He held the wire down for Lottie to climb through. Then he bounded onto the railway track and stood victoriously. ‘The way home! It’s gonna be easy.’

  ‘Lottie’s tired,’ Tom said. ‘And me.’

  ‘When we get to Hayle we’ll have a rest,’ Matt promised. ‘We’ve got to keep going.’

  The shining rails stretched ahead under a clear blue sky, the banks rich with cornflowers, ox-eye daisies and scarlet poppies. The children soon found it was easier to walk between the rails, stepping on the sleepers and avoiding the sharp ballast. Lottie found it fun to balance-walk along a single rail. They had plenty of warning when a train was approaching. At this end of Cornwall, the great GWR steam engines chuffed slowly between quiet little stations, and the rails carried the clatter of the metal wheels a long way down the track. The only dangerous places were in the cuttings where the flowery banks disappeared, replaced by walls of jagged rock covered in mosses and ferns. When they came to a cutting, they listened for trains, then ran through, following Matt. He led them on, relentlessly, never seeming to get tired.

  But the proposed rest at Hayle Station didn’t happen. Instead, they got a fright.

  ‘Don’t run. Act as if we’re meant to be here,’ Matt said, leading them under a bridge and onto the platform. Lottie and Tom were so exhausted that they could hardly keep going. But the busy port of Hayle hummed around them and the air smelled of sea salt, tar and sawdust. Tantalising glimpses of the surf, the estuary and the piping cries of curlew and oyster catchers made Lottie feel emotional. So close to home now. She recognised the distant headland of Carrack Gladden. She decided not to speak in case she burst into tears. Her legs seemed to be walking up the station platform without her.

  A few people were waiting on the opposite side with suitcases, but no one took any notice of three children trudging along in the hot sun.

  At the other end of the platform, the rails curved inland going over a megalithic stone viaduct, its endless arches straddling the town. Matt didn’t hesitate but attacked it in eager strides. Lottie yelled at him, ‘Matt – NO! We can’t walk over such a long bridge. It’s too narrow.’

  He kept walking.

  ‘If a train comes, there’s no room for us. There’s no bank.’

  He didn’t look back.

  ‘Matt!’ Lottie was screaming at him now. She grabbed Tom. ‘Don’t go after him. Stay with me.’

  Matt didn’t even turn.

  ‘If a train comes, it will CRUSH you against the wall.’

  Lottie pushed Tom onto a bench and he sat obediently, too tired to do anything else. ‘I’ve got to stop him. I’m going after him. You stay there.’ She hurtled after Matt, running between the rails, over ballast and sleepers. How could Matt be so stupid? Or was he trying to kill himself? She had to stop him.

  The rails started to clatter. She knew it meant there was a train about a mile away. ‘MATT!’ Lottie screamed until her throat was sore.

  A new drama unravelled behind her. She heard Tom shout, ‘Look OUT, Lottie!’ Then the crunch, crunch of heavy boots running after her.

  ‘GET OFF THEM RAILS.’ A man’s voice, louder than the town crier. ‘What the ’ell do you think you’m doing? Get back on the platform – NOW. Right now or I’ll skin you alive.’

  Lottie turned, caught between two terrors. A station porter with a dark red furious face was tearing towards her. ‘You stupid, crazy little girl.’ Paralysed with fright, Lottie cowered in the middle of the railway, hearing the train.

  The incensed porter thundered to a halt and grabbed her as if she was a doll, clamping his big meaty hands under her arms and lifting her up. ‘Don’t you move,’ he warned and ran back to the platform, bouncing her up and down, her hair falling over her face. His shoulder smelled of nicotine and soot.

  He flung her down with a bone-shaking thump onto the bench next to Tom, who was white-faced and indignant. ‘Don’t you hurt my sister,’ Tom clenched his fists, ‘or I’ll fight you.’ He wriggled close to Lottie and looked up at her. ‘Are you all right?’

  Lottie nodded, shaken. She studied the porter’s furious face. He was breathing hard and sweat trickled from under his cap. ‘My brother . . .’ Lottie said desperately. ‘He’s on the bridge.’

  And as she spoke, the train for Penzance came steaming into Hayle Station. Far below the great stone viaduct, people who were walking around the town looked up and gasped in horror as they saw a boy balance-walking along the parapet.

  Chapter 19

  Locked In

  Lottie sat on the station bench, trembling from head to toe. A wild look of intent passed between her and Tom. Run, it said. But which way? Out of the station and into the town. Run until they found the end of the viaduct, and Matt. Stick together and never give up.

  It was too late. The porter seemed to have read the intention in their eyes. Quick as a boxer’s fists, his meaty hands grabbed both children, Tom by the ear and Lottie by a hank of her hair.

  ‘Ow, you’re hurting me. You’re pulling me ear off,’ Tom yelled, aiming a kick at the porter’s substantial shins.

  ‘Come quietly then or I will pull it off. And you, madam, if you wanna keep your flea-ridden hair.’

  Lottie wanted to burst with rage. ‘I have not got fleas. I’ve never had fleas. How dare you.’

  ‘How dare you trespass on the railway line, you dirty little street urchins.’ He dragged them ruthlessly to a brown door marked WAITING ROOM, pushed them inside and locked the door from a bunch of keys hanging around his belt. ‘You sit there and don’t move. I’ll be back when I’ve dealt with this damned train.’

  They heard a slam of doors and the guard’s whistle. Then the train’s whistle as it chuffed out of the station and onto the viaduct.

  ‘It’ll kill Matt.’ Tom curled up in a ball on the brown leather seat. ‘I can’t bear it, Lottie. First me dad – then me mum – now me brother.’

  Lottie put her arm around him. ‘No, it won’t. Matt will be over the other side by now on a nice grassy bank.’ She tried to sound reassuring, but she wasn’t sure at all.

  ‘Don’t tell him about the orphanage,’ she warned as the porter came back in.

  ‘I’m Mr Roskenna,’ he said, in a calmer voice. ‘I’m not here to hurt you. It’s my job to keep the railway line clear, and keep everyone safe – even the likes of you.’ He sat down, took his hat off and pushed his hair away from his sweaty face. ‘You could fry an egg on them rails in this heat.’

  Lottie stood up and composed herself. She looked him in the eye. ‘Mr Roskenna, you’ve no right to keep us here. Let us go, please, and we won’t come here again.’

  He peered at her. ‘Are you Cornish children? Or tourists.’

  ‘We’re Cornish children.’

  ‘Right – then why aren’t you in school? Playing truant, I suppose. What are your names?’

  ‘Lottie and Tom.’

  ‘Lottie and Tom who?’

  ‘Lanroska.’

  ‘And where do you live?’

  ‘In S’nives,’ Tom said, pouting.

  ‘So what are doing in Hayle?’

  Tom looked up at Lottie. She gave his shoulder a warning squeeze. ‘That’s none of your business, Mr Roskenna.’

  He looked her up and down. ‘You are a little madam,’ he said, ‘and I don’t believe you’re Cornish. He might be, but you’re not.’

  ‘She came off a shipwreck,’ Tom said, ‘but she’s our big sister now.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Mr Roskenna tapped his chin thoughtfully. ‘And if I let you go, where are you gonna go to now?’

  ‘S’nives.’

  ‘And how are you gonna get there? Eh?’

  ‘That’s our affair,’ Lottie said haughtily.

  ‘Well, madam, I’m not letting you go until I know you’re safe. I care about you – see? Where are your parents? Eh?’ He looked at Tom.

  ‘Dunno,’ Tom said.

  ‘That won’t do. How do I know you’re not on the run from somewhere? I heard some kids went missing yesterday from Redruth station. That’s a job for the police, not me.’

  Lottie’s heart sank. She didn’t know what it was safe to say. Mr Roskenna was putting his hat back on as if he’d already made up his mind. ‘I’m locking you in, for now,’ he said, standing up. ‘I’ll be back in about ten minutes. And if you’re good, I’ll bring you some orange squash and biscuits.’

  He’s going to ring the police, Lottie thought, and a cloud of depression engulfed her. The glory of being free, the Carn Brea and the lights of St Ives. Was the dream already over? Over and gone? So soon.

  Up at Hendravean, Nan was getting ready to go to Truro for another meeting with Bart Pascoe. She wanted some action. Aware that she needed to look civilised, she chose a navy-blue dress she hadn’t worn for years. It had voluminous sleeves and a full skirt which suited Nan’s plan. She wanted to billow into the solicitor’s office like a huge sailing ship. She chose a formidable navy hat with a wide brim to complete the effect. If she didn’t get any sense out of Bart Pascoe, then she’d billow into the local press office. The West Briton would surely do a feature on how three Cornish children had been snatched from their home, imprisoned in Treskirby House, and now carted off to Plymouth, facing the prospect of being split up and relocated to up-country orphanages, while she, Nan, was a respectable grandmother with a home and heart big enough for all three children.

  She’d talked it through with Jenny, especially the question of Matt’s challenging behaviour. Between them, they’d manage him and, hopefully, Vic would get involved as well. Further down the line was another battle Nan intended to win. She had to prove to the hospital discharge team that she was fit to look after Jenny, who was now officially ‘disabled’.

  Nan had christened it ‘Bureaucracy Mountain’.

  Today’s summit was to persuade Bart Pascoe to take immediate legal action to get the children back before they disappeared forever. Nan hadn’t got the heart to tell Jenny about the children being taken to Plymouth. She’d try to resolve the problem first.

  Instead of her beloved forked stick, Nan chose a respectable cane from her collection in the hall. She glanced at herself in the hall mirror, shooed the chickens off the stairs and sailed out, in warrior mode.

  Bartholomew was sitting on the gatepost looking majestic and supervising Nan trying to start the Austin Seven in the hot sun. She was just squeezing herself behind the wheel when the cat gave a loud wail and ran to her.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’

  Bartholomew looked at the house and gave another echoing wail. Nan listened. The phone was ringing. Annoyed, she struggled back to the house, unlocked it and went in with Bartholomew galloping, kink-tailed, ahead of her.

  Something’s happened, Nan thought. She snatched the receiver off its pedestal. ‘Hello?’

  A man’s voice answered. ‘Are you Mrs Lanroska?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘And are you the lady who lives at Hendravean in S’nives?’

  ‘Yes.’ Nan’s heart began to beat wildly. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m the porter at Hayle Railway Station. I have two children here who say their name is Lanroska. I caught them walking along the railway line. I was concerned for their safety and so I’ve locked them in the waiting room.’

  Nan caught her breath. No, it couldn’t be. Could it? She began to shake with emotion. ‘What are their names?’

  ‘The little girl’s name is Lottie.’

  ‘Lottie,’ whispered Nan and, without warning, tears trickled down her wrinkled cheeks. She couldn’t breathe. Lottie was found. Beautiful, bright little Lottie.

 

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