A Cornish Orphan, page 27
Something about her made Coraline uneasy. The young woman didn’t seem to be engaging with the paintings in the responsive, contemplative way that most people did. The gallery was uncannily quiet with only a few elderly visitors sitting, deep in thought, in front of individual paintings. Watching from her chair by the entrance, Coraline lost sight of the enigmatic young woman when she moved on into the second and third rooms of the gallery.
She heard a sudden low-pitched gasp, followed by a pulsating silence, and then a crash that made the polished floorboards tremble.
Coraline ran through the gallery, into the second room. Nothing. Into the third, and there she found the young woman, face down on the floor in her powder-blue suit, the badly worn soles of her shoes upturned, one arm stretched out, her delicate white fingers splayed as if reaching towards the painting she’d been looking at.
It was Discovering Charlotte.
September brought a golden peacefulness to St Ives. The children went back to school, the swallows and the sand martins left for South Africa, and the tourists headed home to their up-country lives. Most of the September visitors were artists, seeking to paint the mellowing light, the sunsets and the harvest moon shining on the water. Despite the quiet weather, the surf was building, the swell coming from the hurricane season far away across the Atlantic. The waves were huge, indigo and a long way apart, roaring into Porthmeor Beach and Porthgwidden like steam trains with their plumes of white. At full moon, the highest tide of the year swept over Wharf Road, driving foam and seaweed into the fish cellars, the shops and cottages. Behind the lifeboat house, the spray flew right over the rooftops and poured down into the street.
In the morning, after the night tide, wedges of soft sand and blue mussel shells, orange crab claws and ribbons of seaweed filled the streets.
Jenny wanted to go to the cottage in Downlong which had been their home. She’d heard rumours about an artist buying it and having the audacity to paint it white, and she wanted to see it for herself. Her walking was improving every day and she felt better for being in St Ives again. It was still like summer in the harbour, the tide far out, exposing the pale sands stretching to the distant shore of Porthminster Beach.
‘You’ll be fine. Just take it steady,’ Nan said, taking her enormous willow basket out of the car. ‘I’ve got plenty of shopping to do.’
Jenny hobbled off towards Downlong, self-conscious about her iron leg. Women were still out sweeping the sand from doorsteps and corners, and most of them were pleased to see Jenny back in St Ives. She felt her smile getting wider and wider, her eyes brighter with every conversation. By the time she reached the cottage, she was radiant.
The white walls shone in the morning sun. The windows sparkled and pots of red geraniums stood outside the door. A man with a silver beard was watering them gently with a brand new watering can. Jenny chuckled to herself, imagining what Arnie might have said about that. She couldn’t believe how lovely the cottage looked, painted snowy white, and with a board across the top of the door, saying:
ARTIST’S STUDIO
OPEN
It looked so different that Jenny didn’t experience the sadness she’d been expecting. A sense of light and optimism hovered over the white cottage. For some absurd reason, Jenny felt glad she had chosen to wear a pretty dress and forget about her iron leg. She decided to go in and see what kind of paintings this man did, and she wouldn’t tell him she used to live there.
She waited until he’d shaken the last few drops from the watering can, and then followed him inside. I could pretend I’m a wealthy Emmet, she thought mischievously.
He took the can into what had been her kitchen and put it on the draining board. Jenny gasped with surprise. ‘TAPS!’ Two shiny metal taps. He’d had water put in!
John turned slowly to look at her.
Jenny’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oops – sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude. I was just surprised to see the taps. Not many people have them in Downlong.’
John looked at her quietly, an unassuming warmth in his gaze. She saw him glance at her iron leg, then up at her face. She felt drawn to him.
‘Good morning, young lady.’ He held out his hand. ‘I’m John De Lumen. Welcome to my studio.’
Jenny swapped her walking stick to her left hand, and shook hands with John De Lumen. His fingers held on to hers just a fraction longer than normal, and in those few seconds Jenny saw something deep and shadowy in his eyes. A closely guarded wound of the spirit.
‘I hope you enjoy looking at the paintings,’ he said in a kind voice, as if he was cutting her a slice of cake. ‘Most of them are mine, but there are a few that friends have done.’
‘Thank you. I’ll have a look round,’ Jenny said, noticing he wore a heavy cotton fisherman’s smock, covered in smears of paint. An easel was set up in a corner, with boxes of rolled up tubes of colour, bottles of turps, lots of rags, and an earthenware jar crammed with brushes, their handles encrusted with paint.
Jenny walked out into the back yard. A broken heart, she thought. John De Lumen has got a broken heart. I’ll bet it’s a woman. She stared in amazement at what had been a scruffy back yard. He’s covering his broken heart with white paint. The dilapidated sheds were gone, replaced by an elegant colonial style veranda which ran all the way round, sheltering the paintings hung on the white walls. In the centre of the yard, a small square of granite cobbles remained, well scrubbed and twinkling with tiny flecks of mica and crystal. Even the devoted pair of seagulls stood on the roof in shock, looking down at Jenny. ‘Hello, my birds!’ she called, remembering the years of nest building, and mess, and fun, and joy she’d had from watching them.
Her legs were aching now but she walked round, looking at the paintings of St Ives. They were colourful and interesting, mostly seascapes, cliff top flowers and sunlit, cobbled streets. One of them stopped Jenny in her tracks. A painting with an odd title. The Queen of St Ives. ‘That’s Nan!’ she cried, and laughed out loud at the way he’d captured her charismatic figure, sitting like a Buddha on Mufty’s cart surrounded by the colourful posies, hats and pots of chutney, punnets of fruit and lavender bags.
Hearing her laughter, John hurried to her side. ‘You like that one?’ he asked.
‘I LOVE it,’ Jenny said, and hesitated. She didn’t want to tell him who she was. ‘I know that old lady. Everyone calls her Nan. You’ve got her – absolutely. She’d love it.’ She grinned at John’s slightly anxious face. ‘It’s a bit cheeky – but who cares?’
‘Look at the next two,’ John said, and they moved on to the next painting which was a comical back view of Nan going home through the narrow street on Mufty’s cart. The third one, entitled Still Going Home was a perfect tiny silhouette of Nan and Mufty against the sunset.
‘They’re wonderful,’ Jenny breathed. ‘If I had money I’d buy them – all three.’
John looked pleased. His eyes hung on to her as if he badly needed the warmth and friendliness.
‘How long have you been an artist?’ Jenny asked.
‘Not long – about ten years.’
‘And what were you before?’
‘I was an engineer,’ John said. ‘Mostly abroad. Canada, and South Africa. Building tunnels through mountains for the railway – and I worked on the diamond mines.’
‘You must be very clever,’ Jenny said, impressed.
‘Perhaps.’ He looked pensive. ‘But being clever isn’t a recipe for happiness.’ He looked down at her iron leg. ‘You seem happy, my dear – despite . . .’ He paused awkwardly.
‘Despite me poor old leg,’ Jenny smiled, rescuing him. ‘I had polio, but I’m well now.’
A new spark of interest lit his eyes. ‘Ah – you must be Jenny. Jenny Lanroska?’
Jenny felt cornered. She couldn’t say no, and she didn’t want to say yes. So she kept quiet.
John noticed her discomfort immediately. He took her hand and held it warmly between his, and shut his eyes in a moment of silent reverence. It moved Jenny profoundly.
‘Forgive me, my dear.’ John looked at her intently. ‘I don’t wish to intrude – but – hmm . . . let me think about this.’ He held on to her hand and she noticed the flecks of oil paint embedded in his cuticles. He seemed to be deep in thought. Untold secrets flew between them like owls in the twilight on silent wings.
Whatever might have been said remained unspoken, as they were interrupted by a shout from the door. ‘Mr De Lumen – are you there?’
John let go of her hand and became business-like again. ‘I’ll come back.’ He went to answer the door and Jenny walked after him thinking she should go now.
‘A telegram for you, sir.’ The postman handed him a yellow envelope. ‘From New York.’
Lottie didn’t feel like herself. The conversation with Morwenna had disturbed her. Over the summer she noticed her own breasts growing but she didn’t feel proud of them like Morwenna. She wanted to push them flat. She felt robbed of her childhood. At first, going to live with Nan had seemed like Utopia. But nothing was the same. Secretly, Lottie wanted Nan to herself. She craved the times of magic when she and Nan would read together, or Nan would tell her stories from Cornish folklore, or teach her music. Nan herself was different, changed by the effort of living with Jenny and Tom. Lottie didn’t think driving the car was good for Nan. She held on to the steering wheel grimly and nobody dared to speak when she was driving. Cooking for four was another worry, and Nan had more or less given up her kitchen to Jenny who was used to feeding a family. But it meant Nan no longer had fun, spreading her herbs on the kitchen table, making pot pourri, flipping pancakes and laughing her wheezy laugh if things went wrong. Lottie helped as much as she could, but often felt torn between Nan’s way of doing things and Jenny’s way. Even the chickens were upset, their feathers ruffled when Jenny chased them out of the house with a broom. Only Mufty and the two cats were peaceful.
Nan never mentioned Matt, and Lottie sensed she was glad he wasn’t there. Jenny, Lottie and Tom worried about him and talked it over together, and shared their sadness and the ache of missing him. Jenny was convinced Matt would be caught and sent to Borstal. Tom kept asking if his brother was dead. But Lottie’s feelings were so different that she kept them to herself. She didn’t long for the old Matt who teased her. She longed for the new Matt who masterminded their escape. The new Matt who looked like Arnie. The new Matt who was kind and courageous.
Increasingly, Lottie wanted time on her own and she often ended up sitting in the straw with Mufty, in his cosy stable, telling the listening donkey her troubles. Or she spent time curled up in a chair, poring over one of Nan’s encyclopaedias, always the same one, the one with the map of shipping routes from Great Britain.
‘It’s time for bed, Lottie.’ Nan looked over her shoulder one evening. ‘Are you reading that AGAIN? You must know it by heart by now.’
Lottie gave Nan a look that said everything about how she was feeling. Nan heaved herself down onto the window sill seat, facing Lottie’s chair. ‘Tell me – why on earth are you so obsessed with shipping routes? Is it something you’re doing at school?’
Lottie shook her head miserably.
‘Lottie?’ Nan sat there in her Buddha pose, her storm-coloured eyes kind. ‘You can tell Nan, surely?’
‘If I do, you mustn’t tell Jenny.’
‘I won’t. Promise.’
‘Jenny would be upset,’ Lottie said, not sure whether she would dare to tell Nan.
‘You tell Nan. I’m not moving until you do.’
Lottie sighed. She’d water it down. Pretend it didn’t really matter. Nan was looking at her expectantly.
‘I want to . . . to find out where my real mother is.’
‘Oh, my dear girl,’ Nan said, radiating compassion. She held out her arms. ‘You’d better let me give you a cuddle. Come on. Or does Mufty get them all now? I’m sorry I haven’t got big furry ears.’
Lottie shut the navy-blue encyclopaedia. She leaned against Nan’s comforting bulk. A ring of pain circled her throat, and her temples throbbed. The sharp light from the window hurt her eyes. ‘I’m getting one of those headaches, Nan. Do I have to go to school tomorrow?’
‘Not if you’ve got a headache, dear. What’s brought it on?’
‘Worrying,’ Lottie said, and Nan squeezed her tighter.
‘What about?’
‘Matt.’ Lottie felt sheltered as if Nan was a sun-warmed rock in a storm. She listened to the old, steady heartbeat under the mottled blue dress. Her hand crept up and curled a finger around Nan’s deep purple amethyst beads. They felt like familiar friends. ‘And – I don’t want to grow up, Nan. Not without knowing where my mother is and why she didn’t want me.’ Suddenly her head seemed to burst with pain and she sobbed and sobbed. ‘And why didn’t my father come and find me? Why?’
‘You have a good cry,’ Nan crooned, rocking her. ‘It’s the best medicine in the world.’
As always, Nan was right. The sobs went on, relentlessly, like footsteps carrying the headache and the worries away to a distant mountain.
‘We don’t really grow up,’ Nan said. ‘I haven’t. I’m still a little girl inside. That’s how I keep the magic alive. And little girls are strong for ever. Indestructible and invincible.’
‘I miss the magic,’ Lottie sniffed. ‘Everything is so serious now.’
Nan went on rocking her. ‘Maybe you’re right, Lottie. We need some nostalgia. Some fun time.’
Lottie sat up. ‘Why don’t we go to the nut grove? It’s September. Tom would love it – and we could take a picnic.’
Nan smiled her toothy old smile. ‘I don’t see why not. On Saturday, while the weather is good.’ She smoothed Lottie’s hair away from her hot face. ‘You’ll always be my little girl, even when you’re grown up, Lottie – and – I don’t want to lose you. Have you got that?’
Lottie nodded, suddenly feeling more stable. ‘I love you, Nan,’ she whispered.
John stood at the top of the stairs, hands on hips, looking up at the loft hatch. In the early morning, before the gallery opened, he reckoned there was time to inspect the loft. One of the neighbours had given him a finger-wagging warning. ‘You take a look in the loft, before the winter storms come in. That roof was leaking badly when the Lanroskas were there.’
It wasn’t the only reason, and the other one gave him goosebumps. John had slept with Coraline’s telegram under his pillow. And in the pre-dawn twilight, with the sound of hundreds of seagulls circling over St Ives, there had been a presence by his bed. Dimly, as if in a dream, John saw a shining face and heard a whisper – ‘In the loft – in the corner – a forgotten box. You must open it – open it – open . . .’ The image faded with the dawn, and John wasn’t sure whether he’d been dreaming, or not. Could it have been the young fisherman who had died so tragically? Why was he telling John to go into the loft?
He lit an oil lantern, and carried a ladder upstairs. Annoyed with himself for feeling nervous, he climbed up, lifted the hatch and pulled himself through. The rafters looked ancient and riddled with woodworm. John stood up gingerly, balanced on one of the beams. He held the lantern high. The cramped space smelled musty and fishy and he could hear the two seagulls paddling over the roof tiles on their webbed yellow feet.
Slowly he swung the lantern round, spilling brassy light into every cobwebby corner. And there it was – a box, thick with dust, lurking under the eaves. John nearly stopped breathing. After all his years of engineering tunnels and diamond mines, this was the most spooky thing he’d ever experienced. A box, in a loft, in a Cornish cottage.
John’s ability to keep calm, no matter what, clicked into place in his mind. Yet he felt vulnerable, having nobody there to witness his hair-raising discovery. It’s only an old box, he told himself. Not trusting the strength of the beams, he crawled towards the box and touched it, leaving a handprint in the dust. It was cardboard; a wide, shallow box with a fitted lid, such as a tailor might use to put a new suit in. It wasn’t heavy, but there was obviously something inside.
Putting the lantern down, John eased the lid up, holding the two front corners, intending to briefly assess whether it was worth the effort of dragging it across the loft and down the ladder. He made a slot big enough to put his fingers in and what he touched spooked him even more. Velvet. John withdrew his hand smartly and pushed the cardboard lid shut again.
Had it been china, or metal, he could have coped. But velvet? Velvet was mysteriously feminine. Some secret seductive power that women used. Something he wasn’t supposed to investigate. John made a swift, business-like decision. He slid the box towards the hatch and manhandled it awkwardly down the ladder. He carried it outside into the yard and brushed a cloud of dust from it, then took it inside, put it on the kitchen table and lifted the cardboard lid right off.
Sunlight streamed through the window onto rich, red velvet. A dress. A child’s dress with a full skirt and layers of quality lace petticoats.
John’s eyes burned. He felt his defences crumbling. He recognised that dress. He’d bought it in Canada and sent it over for Christmas. It had to be the same one. Slowly, he gathered its muffled softness and pressed it close to his face, feeling the shock bending him in half, allowing himself to stroke the scarlet velvet, lovingly, as if the little girl was still inside it. ‘Charlotte,’ he whispered, ‘I’ve found you. It was you, in the painting. It really was you – and I was so close.’
Afraid to breathe, he stared at the sky outside the window, seeking to calm himself. John didn’t know how not to cry. He straightened his spine and carefully put the red dress on the table, diverting his mind into searching for an answer to the great mystery of how on earth Charlotte had ended up in St Ives. Was there something else in the box?
