A Cornish Orphan, page 29
‘It’s a secret.’ Her eyes shone with excitement. ‘Can we please go inside, as it’s private.’ She led the way in and sat down at the kitchen table. ‘You sit there – Daddy – and don’t interrupt. Listen until I’ve finished.’
‘Right.’ Astonished, he sat down and tried to look Daddyish. His skin chilled, and his spine turned to ice when Lottie calmly put a small black velvet bag on the table. ‘Is – is this . . . ?’
Lottie put a finger to her lips. ‘Please just listen.’ Her eyes were compelling, holding his like magnets.
He listened.
‘When Granny died, I was only little – six, I think. The day before she died, she gave me this. I knew what it was because I’d seen it in her jewel box. She told me it was a family heirloom and it was given to her by my grandad. She said he had brought it all the way from the diamond mines in South Africa where he worked. She asked me to keep it hidden until I was grown up, and then think very carefully about what to do with it. She told me it would be difficult for me to do, and she was right.’ Lottie paused, stared out at the sky and sighed. ‘It’s been hard for me. I wanted to give it to Jenny when we were very poor, and Jenny was ill and we had to burn the chairs to keep warm, here in this cottage.’
John waited, concerned at the obvious stress the memory brought to Lottie’s young face.
‘But I thought about it, and saw that it would be wasted, and we’d still be poor, so I kept quiet. Nan hid it for me in a secret cubby hole, and there it stayed, until – until you came into my life. Granny said the timing would be perfect, and I would know with all my heart what to do with it.’ Lottie put the black velvet bag into her father’s hand. She sighed and suddenly looked bright again as if a great burden had been lifted from her young shoulders. ‘You must have it now, Daddy. It was meant for you, not me, and I’ve done it in secret because I didn’t want to hurt Jenny or Nan.’
John nodded, overwhelmed by his daughter’s philosophy.
‘The timing is perfect,’ she concluded, ‘because if it’s worth a lot of money, you can use it to bring my mother home from America, and the painting.’
‘Can I speak?’ he asked.
Lottie grinned, looking happier. ‘Yes.’
‘I’m proud of you,’ John said. He took a pair of scissors from a drawer. ‘Shall we look at it together?’
‘Yes – please – I’ve never looked at it, but I wanted to.’
The moment when he cut the tightly knotted cord seemed sacred, like a ship being launched. With his steady artist’s fingers, John slid the diamond brooch out from its dark bag into the lattice of sunlight on the kitchen table. Its sparkle was deep. Blue, and gold, and crystal white.
They gazed and gazed.
‘If you squint your eyes, you get rainbows,’ Lottie said, awed by the perfect geometry and wonder of the diamond. ‘It’s too beautiful to touch.’
‘I think it somehow belongs to St Ives,’ John said, ‘as if St Ives is, itself, a diamond.’
It was nearly Easter, and in Cornwall the bulb fields were ablaze with daffodils. On the cliffs, the green domes of sea pinks had plump little buds, and the wiry grass was studded with purple violets. Abundant primroses cushioned the winding lanes. Even the abandoned tin mines were a paradise of wild flowers, mats of bright blue heath speedwell, and the polished petals of celandines opened to the sun. This was Cornwall at its best, ironically a time when few tourists ventured down.
It was the day before the long awaited trip to America, and Lottie was sitting on the warm timber at the side of the harbour slipway with Jenny, their faces to the west where the late afternoon sky was pink and gold, reflected in a calm sea, the tide lapping higher and higher at the granite walls, lifting the boats as it flooded across the sand.
‘I can’t believe you’ll be away for three whole weeks,’ Jenny said. ‘I’m going to miss you. It’ll just be me, and Tom and Nan.’
‘I’ll miss you too, Jenny.’ Lottie was trying to keep a conversation going with Jenny but her mind wanted to be dreaming. Her dreams followed the sun over the shining sea. She dreamed of arriving and seeing her mother waiting on the quay. Would they recognise each other? Would they hug? Would there be tears of joy? She couldn’t imagine beyond the point of arrival, but only take a leap forward to the time of coming home, seeing Jenny and Tom there to welcome her as the luxury cruise ship sailed in to Southampton. Imagining Nan at home, caring for Mufty and the chickens, keeping the fire burning. Lottie wanted to go but she didn’t want to miss a single day of the spring in Cornwall. By the time she got home, the bluebells would be out.
She felt nervous about going on the ship. Memories of the shipwreck kept looming in her mind. Her father would be with her. He’d look after her, he assured Jenny. Lottie wasn’t sure how she felt about that, or whether she actually wanted to be looked after. She thought the roles might be reversed, and she would be looking after him.
‘You will come back, Lottie, won’t you?’ Jenny was working herself up into a state of anxiety.
‘Of course I will,’ Lottie assured her. ‘This is my home, Jenny. I just want to be Lottie and live in St Ives.’
‘You’re growing up so quickly now,’ Jenny said, ‘and you look wonderful, Lottie. I hope some American lad doesn’t take a fancy to you.’
Lottie grinned. ‘I doubt that.’ She stared out to sea, one hand twiddling the ends of her hair. Freshly washed, and dried in the sun, it was thick and shiny. She had a new light blue dress with a slim skirt, a dark blue softly draped jacket, and a string of blue lapis lazuli beads which Nan had given her. The colour suited her and she felt good in it. Tom had gazed adoringly at her. He didn’t want her to go. She glanced across at Smeaton’s Pier where Tom was playing with some friends in a sunny wedge of soft sand against the wall.
The church clock chimed six, each chime travelling far across the water and through the ancient stones of the harbour. Jenny stood up. ‘I can see Nan’s car there now. Shall we go?’
Lottie hesitated. She had a funny feeling that something was going to happen. Something that came from the sea, out of the golden evening. ‘You go home with Nan, Jenny. I want to stay a bit longer and say goodbye to St Ives – and Tom can come with me.’
Jenny looked at her dubiously. ‘Don’t be long then, Lottie. Early start tomorrow.’ She stood close to her for a moment, both of them watching a boat coming in from the west, chugging steadily over the shining water. Lottie saw Jenny’s eyes change, a sudden dark welling up of grief. ‘Don’t that sound like Arnie’s boat?’
‘I don’t know,’ Lottie said, lost for words to comfort Jenny.
A young man was standing, balanced with careless grace on the boat, bringing it in from the open sea.
‘He even looks like Arnie,’ Jenny said. ‘But perhaps it’s just me, imagining it – wishful thinking – I’m not going to stand here and watch. See you later, Lottie.’ Jenny hobbled off, determinedly, without looking back.
Lottie stayed there, a slim figure alone on the slipway, her honey-coloured hair lifting gently in the breeze. Some mysterious force compelled her to watch the boat coming in to the harbour, going too fast, a bow wave fanning out from it making the moored boats rock a little. Intrigued, she studied the young man from a distance, noting his blue fisherman’s cap, his blue-as-the-sea shirt, his long straight legs, his confidence. Obviously he intended to land on the slipway where she was standing. Maybe she ought to move.
She turned to walk away.
‘Lottie! Lottie, wait.’
She froze.
‘Lottie!’
She knew that voice – didn’t she?
She turned back to see him climbing out of the boat onto the slipway. They stared at each other.
The last brim of the sun flared pink on the horizon. The boat rocked gently. Neither of them moved.
‘Matt!’ she cried, in disbelief.
Matt had grown tall and strong. Lottie gazed up at him, feeling suddenly small and feminine. She wanted to ask where he had been, but she didn’t want to yell at him like Jenny would have done. She tried to smile, but the smile wouldn’t come. He moved closer, his eyes full of the light on the sea.
‘Lottie,’ he said, in a new voice, low and deep, and she sensed he wanted to say more. But the way he said her name said everything. It glowed in the air. Just ‘Lottie’. Matt looked down at her and his eyes sparkled under the long lashes. The old hostile, rebellious glint had gone. Matt had come home. Not just home to St Ives, but home to his true self.
Lottie searched her soul for something beautiful to say, and the moment had points of light, a brilliance, like the diamond brooch emerging out of the black velvet bag. ‘You’re precious, Matt,’ she said, ‘like a secret diamond.’
‘Lottie,’ he said, again, as if he couldn’t say anything more meaningful. His eyes moved over her. He reached out a suntanned hand and gently brushed a tendril of her hair away from her face.
She gave his rough brown hand a squeeze. ‘You’ve come home – have you?’
Matt shook his head. He waved at the boat. ‘That’s my home now. Recognise her?’
The boat was freshly painted in a new shade of blue, with the cabin window frames glossy white and yellow. A new St Piran’s flag flew proudly on the cabin roof. Lottie gave a squeal of joy. ‘The Jenny Wren! Is it really her? Really Arnie’s boat?’ The smile came then, on both their faces. ‘How did you get her, Matt?’
‘I found her.’ Matt had tears in his eyes. Happy tears. ‘She was doing nothing, moored in Hayle. Terry wasn’t using her and he said I could have her cheap. So I worked for him all winter, mending lobster pots and nets. And selling my pictures at weekends – ’til I’d got enough to buy her. Terry didn’t care – he didn’t even ask how old I was – he just helped me ’cause Dad was his friend.’
‘Your pictures?’ Lottie asked, still smiling, still holding his rough hand between her own. ‘What pictures?’
‘I’ll show you them – we’ll go on board d’reckly,’ Matt said. He started to explain how he’d come to do the drawings and sell them, when they were interrupted by the sound of running feet.
Tom came belting along Wharf Road and onto the slipway, his cheeks red, his eyes bright with excitement. ‘Matt! Matt!’ he yelled, and flung himself at his brother, wrapping his arms around him. ‘I missed you, Matt. Are you home now?’
‘I’ll be around,’ Matt promised, ‘but I’ve got me own home now – The Jenny Wren.’
‘Dad’s boat!’ Tom jumped up and down with enthusiasm. ‘You got Dad’s boat back.’ He took a wild leap from the slipway into the rocking boat.
Matt looked at Lottie. ‘Where’s Mum?’ A shadow crossed his face.
‘Up at Nan’s place. She’s all right, Matt – but she misses you.’
Matt looked sceptical. Then he nodded. ‘I’ll take you out in the bay. Just a little way and back,’ he said, ‘but you’ll have to sit still, Tom.’
Tom sat down on one of the blue painted seats. ‘I won’t move. Promise.’
Matt helped Lottie into the boat, and she sat down next to Tom. With a wide grin on his face, Matt started the engine, turned the boat around and The Jenny Wren went purring across the harbour and out into the vast expanse of shining water. Today The Jenny Wren, Lottie thought, and tomorrow the luxury cruise ship sailing out to America. But she wouldn’t tell Matt now. She didn’t want to spoil his obvious joy. It was so healing to be out in St Ives Bay with the sunset still pink and gold in the west, the rippling swell gentle but heavy enough to remind them that this was the mighty Atlantic Ocean.
Matt cut the engine and they floated blissfully, looking back at St Ives where the cottage walls glowed in the golden evening. The window of Hendravean winked in the light, and Lottie wondered if Nan was up there gazing out at the eastern sky. Waiting, as she often did, for the moonrise.
‘Lottie.’
She felt Matt’s hands on her shoulders, turning her round. He sat down, between her and Tom, his arms round both of them. She gasped. ‘The MOON – it’s enormous.’
‘And look where it’s rising, Lottie,’ Matt said.
Far away, silhouetted against the radiance of the moon was a hill with a stone cross. ‘The Carn Brea.’ Lottie smiled at Matt, then at Tom. ‘That’s where we were – so far away – so lost – so long ago. And look at us now – so lucky and free.’
‘I made my own luck,’ Matt said, and he gave The Jenny Wren a pat, started the engine, and took them safely home to the harbour.
I thank St Ives Bookseller for their warm welcome (they have sold all my books since Solomon’s Tale) and for helping me choose books for research, particularly the work of Cyril Noall and Helston Flora Day by Jill Newton.
Author’s Note
I lived in Cornwall for many years, so it is close to my heart. It’s a beautiful and charismatic land with its own language, its own St Piran’s Flag, its unique customs and folklore, and a thriving culture of music, dance and theatre. The town of St Ives, where my novel is set, has always been a magnet for artists who enjoy the particular quality of light, the narrow, cobbled streets and breath-taking seascapes. It began in the 1920s when artists from London came down on the train to set up their easels and paint. As well as numerous small galleries, St Ives now has the Barbara Hepworth Museum and Sculpture Garden, and Tate St Ives, a great honour for the town.
In writing and researching A Cornish Orphan, I have tried to weave some of the lesser-known culture and legend into the story. The male voice choirs which are awesome and an experience not to be missed. The bakeries, not just pasties but saffron bread and Nelson cake, clotted cream and honey. The folklore, rich with stories of wicked giants, sea spirits and spriggans, many of them brought alive by street theatre such as the Hal-an-Tow which is part of the Helston Flora Day, featured in the book. Last, but not least, the warm-hearted, resilient, creative people of Cornwall.
Included in A Cornish Orphan are the legends of St Ia, and The Maiden’s Tears from the fern cave at Carrack Gladden, the legend of The Stone from Outer Space and the Unwinding Spiral Dance from the Helston Flora Day. Thank you to the St Ives Archives and the St Ives Museum who helped me with my research, and the St Ives Bookshop who stock so many interesting books on Cornwall, and who support West Country authors, including me, by selling and displaying our books.
Have you read the poignant and gripping saga from bestselling author Sheila Jeffries . . .
Running away from heartache and scandal, Tessa flees Cornwall to London in search of anonymity and freedom. Sleeping rough and scared, she contemplates throwing herself in the river. Then she discovers the Samaritans.
Dorothy, a volunteer, patiently listens as Tessa pours out a lifetime of troubles. Inspired by her, Tessa tries to turn her life around, and when she meets Paul, she feels she has at last found her soulmate. But Paul may not be the man he seems . . .
When a tragedy at home calls Tessa back to the countryside, her past and present collide. Can she finally find the strength to fulfil her destiny? And who will be waiting to help her begin her journey?
Available now in paperback and ebook
Acknowledgements
My grateful thanks to Rita at the St Ives Archives for her time and meticulous research, to Beth Emanuel for her perfect typing and friendly help, to Jo and Emma at Simon & Schuster UK, and to my agent, Judith Murdoch, for her wise guidance.
Also by Sheila Jeffries
Solomon’s Tale
Solomon’s Kitten
The Boy with no Boots
Timba Comes Home
The Girl by the River
Born to Be Trouble
First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2018
A CBS COMPANY
Copyright © Sheila Jeffries, 2018
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Paperback ISBN: 978-1-4711-6527-6
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Sheila Jeffries, A Cornish Orphan
