There was! Under the layers of tissue paper, he found a light green school exercise book, and on the front was a name, Lottie Lanroska. Someone, perhaps the young fisherman, had thought it important enough to be hidden in the box with the dress.

  John’s hands shook with excitement as he opened the book and began to read the words Lottie had written on her first day at St Ives School in her clear, childlike but flawless script.

  AN INTERESTING JOURNEY

  Until I was four I had a happy life with my mother. We lived in Swansea. My father was working abroad and I hardly ever saw him. My mother said she loved me, but she didn’t because she abandoned me. She went to live in America with a soldier and he didn’t want me so I was left behind to live with my Granny. When I was six she gave me a secret treasure and told me to look after it forever, and then she died and I was taken to an orphanage, where I lived until I was eight.

  I was very unhappy and they made me do horrible work like scrubbing the floor. At night in the dormitory we were freezing cold. All of us were crying and afraid of the manager, Mr Burlet. One day I told him we needed an extra blanket each. His face went purple and he shook me hard. I told him to stop it but he dragged me into his office and left me there for hours. He had two birds in a cage and I let them out. I was glad to set them free but when I told him that, Mr Burlet went crazy. He took off his belt and beat me. I tried not to cry but in the end I was screaming.

  The next day was an adoption day and we had to wear our best clothes. I decided to run away and I took my secret treasure out of the hole I made in my mattress. I ran all the way to the docks and hid on a ship. I thought it was going to America and that I would find my mother.

  A storm blew up and the ship was wrecked at St Ives. I was thrown into the sea and I clung to a piece of wood. The waves were like hills and valleys. I was scared and icy cold but Arnie rescued me and took me home to live with his family and I like it. I like Jenny and my two brothers, but I love Nan best.

  My name is Lottie now and I like it. My real name used to be Charlotte De Lumen, but I’m not going to tell anyone because I’m very happy here in St Ives. I’m looking forward to my birthday on 8th May. I will be nine, and Jenny is going to take me to Flora Day at Helston.

  John held Lottie Lanroska’s exercise book tightly over his chest. For a few moments he could feel the fast, powerful thump of his heartbeat through the pages. Again he waited for calm to return. He visualised the sea on a winter night, perfect silk stretched out under a silver moon. His mind sang a line from a favourite hymn. That still small voice of calm. Another line from the same hymn poured its music through his heart. Forgive our foolish ways. And look what his foolish ways had done to his beautiful daughter. How she had suffered while he was far across the world, totally, selfishly obsessed with his work as an engineer. He’d sent money home, and gifts. He’d sent prayers. But he hadn’t been there for Charlotte. Would she ever forgive him? Could he ever tell her he was here, in St Ives?

  John got up, the book still clutched to his heart. He paced to and fro, trying to think sensibly against the crazy mix of guilt and joy. His impulse was to find Charlotte, immediately, and tell her the good news. Or was it good news? He realised he must handle this very carefully. If he got it wrong, he could lose Charlotte as quickly as he’d found her.

  It must remain a secret. For now.

  Cool, calm decision-making had been part of John’s life. He needed a plan. He put Lottie’s book into his brown leather briefcase. Then he took it out again, kissed it and put it back in. He added Coraline’s telegram and a notepad. It was ten o’clock, time to open the gallery. Instead, John put a notice in the window:

  GALLERY CLOSED TODAY.

  Carrying the briefcase, he headed for the station.

  Chapter 23

  Perfect Timing

  John’s carefully constructed plan collapsed like a card house on a Saturday morning in October. He’d done everything the solicitor suggested. Shaved his beard off because Bart Pascoe said little girls found beards alarming. Sent for a copy of Charlotte’s birth certificate from Somerset House. Written out a ‘Statement of Intent’. Drafted a formal letter to Jenny Lanroska. Planned and rehearsed his first meeting with Charlotte. He was waiting for the letter from America. He planned to proceed in a calm, unhurried, non-threatening way to make the reunion with his daughter go smoothly. He didn’t want her to feel frightened, or angry with him. Their first meeting must lay the foundations of a new, lifelong bond. John was quietly excited and optimistic, but he felt he was walking a tightrope, and he was glad he hadn’t encountered anyone from the Lanroska family during those tense weeks of planning.

  On that Saturday morning, there was a storm brewing. People were tapping their barometers and watching the pressure drop. The sea was blue-black and clouds of spray flew high against Godrevy Lighthouse. It was still quiet in the harbour, but no fishermen ventured out, and the smaller boats were being winched out of the water and lined up neatly along Wharf Road. The town was busy with locals stocking up on essentials ahead of the storm.

  John was packing up a painting for a customer, taking the money and exchanging pleasantries. He was unaware of who had walked into the gallery while he was busy. When the customer had gone, he heard laughter coming from the yard area. A wheezy, ringing laugh, some girly giggling and banter. Intrigued, he headed down there, and came face to face with Nan and the entire Lanroska family – including Charlotte – no, he must call her Lottie.

  John felt emotionally shipwrecked. He longed to talk to Lottie, to be close to her, to see her eyes. But Nan filled the doorway. She had stopped laughing and was assessing him with storm-coloured eyes, her chin lifted high. John’s knees trembled. He felt terrified of her.

  ‘Ah – so you’re the culprit!’ Nan’s voice rang through the gallery and out into the street. There was a wheezy silence during which she looked him up and down. ‘Well, my man, you’re a MOST accomplished artist. I haven’t laughed so much for years and years.’ She wiped her eyes with the sleeve of a voluminous, multi-coloured hand-knitted cardigan, and she smelled of chrysanthemums and pickling vinegar. ‘I must say these paintings of me with Mufty’s cart are superb caricatures. The Queen of St Ives indeed! The audacity of it! – but I like it. Well done, my man.’ Nan offered him her hand.

  John grasped it warmly, reassured by her humour. He found himself saying something totally inappropriate, given the gravity of the situation. ‘I can see you’ve been making chutney.’

  Nan kept hold of his hand. ‘Well then – it’s a case of paint meets chutney,’ she said and a gale of laughter followed.

  John hadn’t yet looked at Lottie, but it was good to hear her giggling. He wasn’t used to laughing now, but he managed a chuckle, conscious of his face without the beard. Jenny was there, with her iron leg, and she threw him a cheeky grin. ‘You look SO NICE without that beard. I can see your smile – and you look years younger, John.’

  ‘Thank you,’ John said, still mesmerised by Nan. He knew what was going to happen. No one else was in the gallery. He thought he ought to go and shut the door, lock it and put the CLOSED sign up. But it happened so fast, as if a master chess player was up there making great sweeping game-changing, life-changing moves. John hadn’t time or the power to intervene.

  There was even a gust of wind from the heavens, whirling leaves in the middle of the yard.

  Jenny brought the children forward. ‘Lottie and Tom, you must meet the artist – John . . . oops, I’ve forgotten your surname. Remind me.’

  ‘De Lumen. John De Lumen,’ he said, and finally he and Lottie were staring at each other with their dark blue eyes.

  There was no more laughter.

  Only shock.

  No one spoke. A spell had fallen and ripples of magic pulsed out from the mysterious moment of truth.

  Again, John was captivated by Lottie’s beauty. It wasn’t just physical. It was an aura of light around her as she came to shake his hand. John was very afraid. But Lottie wasn’t. In the moment of contact, she gazed up into his eyes with perfect clarity.

  ‘John De Lumen,’ she said, and a smile made her eyes luminous with incredulous joy. She noticed he was afraid, and she gave him both her hands. ‘I’m Charlotte De Lumen, but you can call me Lottie. You’re my daddy, aren’t you? I know you are.’

  He nodded helplessly. It was over. Lottie was in charge. She reached up and slipped her arms around his neck, and became part of him, as if she’d always been there. It felt natural to rest his cheek on the silky top of her head, and rest his hands lightly on the plume of bright hair around her shoulders.

  She’d made it easy. So easy.

  It was over.

  ‘Don’t cry, Jenny.’ Lottie put Jenny’s mug of cocoa down on the windowsill. ‘What’s wrong?’

  Jenny could hardly speak. She sat in the window, watching the storm through salt encrusted glass. The tide was out, but the beach was covered in foam, and the sea was a mass of white. Huge clods of foam detached and flew inland, across the sand, over the rocks and onto the grassy cliffs. It blew into the town, piling against walls and into corners. It was even in Foxglove Lane, clinging to the hedges in great shivering drifts of creamy white.

  ‘Is the storm upsetting you?’ Lottie asked.

  ‘It’s Matt,’ Jenny said in a low-pitched, desperate voice. ‘Where is he? Where will he go in this storm? Why hasn’t he come home? I’m breaking my heart worrying, Lottie, and trying to understand – why?’

  Lottie hardly knew what to say. She worried about Matt too, and so did Tom. She stood close to Jenny and leaned on her shoulder. ‘You’re shivering. Come and sit by the fire.’

  Jenny shook her head. ‘I can’t. I keep thinking – what if he’s out there trying to get home? No one is out. No one can even stand up in this wind. In the town it’s dangerous with the roof slates flying everywhere. I feel so helpless. And it’s his birthday soon. He’ll be fourteen – and I want him home.’ She cried even harder.

  ‘Matt is strong now, Jenny,’ Lottie said, ‘and he knows how to survive. He really does. He brought Tom and me home and he was brave. I didn’t used to like Matt but now I do. I love him and I want him home, and Tom does, even though they used to fight.’

  Jenny sipped her cocoa, wrapping both hands around the mug. ‘You’re such a comfort to me, Lottie. I hope – I hope I don’t lose you as well.’

  ‘You won’t,’ Lottie said firmly. ‘Even if I go to America and find my real mum, I’ll never love her like you and Nan. I want to live in St Ives for all of my life – and now I’ve got my father here too.’

  Jenny nodded. ‘I’m happy for you, darling girl, and John is proper ’andsome. I like him. He’s a gentleman and there’s not many of them around. He says he’ll come up here later, at teatime, and he’s bringing all the documents, even your birth certificate, and he’ll tell you about your real mother.’ Jenny paused to dry her eyes. She tried to smile. ‘I wish it was me.’

  The wish hovered in the silence. Lottie didn’t know what to say, how to comfort Jenny, so she just listened, her hand on Jenny’s knee, her eyes attentive.

  ‘Are you happy about it, Lottie? Will you be pleased to see him later?’

  Lottie didn’t answer. She felt happy about her father, but her feelings about her mother were confused, swinging between anger and an ache of yearning. She stared out of the window at the darkening sky. ‘I hope he doesn’t try to go out in the storm. He’s not used to Cornish storms.’

  ‘There you are – now you’re worrying about him. We are a pair of worriers,’ Jenny said in a brighter voice. ‘Come on, we’ve gotta make pasties, and a cake for when he does come up here. A celebration cake – with ICING.’ Her eyes lit up and she looked kindly at Lottie. ‘It’s a big thing for you, isn’t it? Finding your real dad like that – so unexpectedly.’

  Lottie gave her a hug. ‘But I still love you, Jenny. I’m getting to know my father, and I expect I shall love him in time, but he’ll never be as good as Arnie.’ She lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘And Matt looks like Arnie now, and he’s clever and brave, like Arnie was.’

  ‘Don’t start me off crying again.’ Jenny swallowed the rest of her cocoa. ‘Now. Kitchen. Pasties.’

  A stormy day was cosy at Hendravean. Lottie trusted the strong old house. Its walls were thick, and the fire burned steadily. All the cats were inside. Mufty had been bedded down the night before in an extra deep layer of straw, a net bulging with sweet meadow hay, and plenty of water. The chickens were shut safely in their shed. Nan was upstairs trying to teach Tom how to play the piano accordion, so fragments of tunes and long breathy chords echoed down the stairs.

  Lottie felt lucky and contented. A good feeling on a stormy day. Meeting John, and talking about her mother had changed her longing to go to America. Yes, she still wanted to go and see her mother, but Hendravean was home.

  Dear John,

  Every day, every hour of my life, I have grieved for my lost child, little Charlotte. She was so beautiful and wise beyond her years. I should never have left her. Please forgive me for what I did.

  When I saw your painting in the gallery I’m afraid I collapsed with the shock, but the lady, Coraline, was so kind to me and I am all right now. I have been ill for years, and I live alone in a tiny apartment. I would love to come back home to England and see Charlotte but sadly I have no money for the fare.

  I hope Charlotte is happy. Please, if you get the chance to talk to her, tell her I love her and I pray we will meet again some day and that I will be forgiven.

  My love, always,

  Olivia

  Lottie folded the letter and handed it back to John. ‘Poor Mummy,’ she said. ‘I wanted so much to find her. I was even going to stow away on a ship again.’

  John looked thoughtful. ‘You won’t have to do that, Lottie. I shall take you to New York, one day, I hope. We shall go on the luxury cruise ship, which sails from Southampton. It’s enormous – like a floating palace, with lovely cabins and a posh restaurant. You’d love it.’

  ‘That would cost a fortune,’ Jenny said. ‘I hope you’re rich.’

  ‘I’m not.’ John looked round at the Lanroska family and Lottie sensed he was finding it difficult to be honest, especially with Nan who was still eyeing him sceptically. ‘I was moderately wealthy once, but I gave it all up to follow my dream of being an artist and running my own gallery in St Ives.’

  Nan tutted and picked up Bartholomew who set about kneading her lap with his soft paws. ‘More fool you,’ she said bluntly. ‘But who am I to criticise when I did something similar myself. Gave it all up to mess about with a few chickens.’ She laughed but nobody else did.

  ‘What were you, Nan?’ Jenny asked.

  ‘A musician. LRAM. A music teacher.’

  ‘I never knew that.’ Jenny looked impressed. ‘You’re a dark horse, Nan.’

  ‘So you won’t be taking Lottie off to America just yet,’ Nan said, looking at John in a challenging way.

  ‘I can’t make any promises,’ John said. ‘Even if I had the money, we couldn’t go until Easter. The Atlantic is no fun in winter. To be honest, I don’t expect to make more than enough to live on from the gallery – but we can dream – can’t we, Lottie?’

  Lottie smiled at her father. ‘We’d need enough money to go there on the ship, and bring my mother back.’

  ‘I’d like to bring the painting home as well,’ John said, ‘because that’s what started it all – it’s how I found you. It belongs here in St Ives – but I’d have to buy it back from Rex and Coraline. Yes, we shall need a lot of money. A lot of money.’

  ‘Well, come on, let’s finish this cake. Get your strength up!’ Jenny said, slicing up the remaining wedge of the iced cake.

  Lottie thought her father’s first visit to Hendravean had been a success. She watched him walking away in the sunset, the light glinting on his silver hair. A flame of happiness burned in her heart. But there was something else. An idea. She wanted to shout it out, but, no, it must be a secret. It had always been a secret, hiding in the dark, waiting for its moment in the sun, the right moment.

  She couldn’t wait for it to be midnight.

  The air was calm now, full of a briny, peaty tang after the storm. The waves were still enormous and spaced out, but the surface of the water moved like folds of satin. A pale marble moon broke through the clouds and etched a silver blaze over the sea. Lottie sat in her bedroom window, unable to sleep. She thought of Nan telling her about the shimmering pathways of the sun and moon in St Ives Bay and how it inspired artists like her father to give up everything for the joy of painting that special light.

  Tired out, she got into bed and managed to fall asleep, only to wake at the perfect time. Nan’s grandfather clock breathed in and started its Westminster chimes down in the hall. Lottie sat up and counted. Twelve. It was midnight.

  The moon looked tiny now, high up in the sky, making silver slabs of the slate rooftops and silver threads from the masts of boats in the silent harbour. Down in Nan’s garden, it cast shadows over the silver grass and flickered in the tiny windmill on the chicken shed roof.

  Lottie lit her candle with a match and watched her own shadow leap onto the wall like a wild-haired giant. She pulled her fisherman’s jersey over her nightie, took the candle and tiptoed along the landing, past Tom’s room, and Nan’s room, and Matt’s empty room. She crept down the stairs, trying to breathe quietly, her eyes big and bright in the darkness.

  John was standing in the open doorway of his white-painted gallery, sipping strong tea from a blue and white enamel mug. It was early morning and the cobbled road glistened with the sunrise. He heard the throb of boats in the harbour and the clamour of circling seagulls. Then running feet, and Lottie appeared, pink-cheeked and out of breath, her eyes full of light. Her beauty startled him, throwing his orderly thoughts into chaos.

  ‘Charlotte – no – I mean Lottie! Whatever are you doing here so early? You’re welcome, of course.’

 

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