A Cornish Orphan, page 6
Les parked the pony in Nan’s gateway and walked up the garden with her bottle of milk, setting it down in the corner of the doorstep, covering it with a piece of slate to stop the cats getting into it first.
‘That’s very odd,’ he said, aloud, frowning as he saw Monday’s bottle of milk still there under the slate. ‘Gone sour.’ He sniffed it and debated whether to tip it away. Better not. Nan might tell him off in her strident voice. He looked up at the house and was surprised to see one of the attic windows swinging open. Scanning the garden he noticed the mess of speckled feathers on the lawn. ‘Foxes,’ he muttered. It wasn’t like Nan to let that happen. Usually she was out working in her garden early in the morning, in all weathers, or she’d be vigorously grooming the donkey. Mufty was still in his stable, looking out and kicking the door with his hoof. Something was wrong.
Mindful of his pony waiting patiently in the gateway, Les shrugged and walked away. He didn’t want to intrude. He’d tell someone. Arnie, if he could find him. He glanced down towards the bay and saw a number of fishing boats going out, silhouetted against the light of the morning sea. The church clock struck eight. He had to finish his delivery round and hurry home to get the cows in and milked, the glass bottles washed and ready for the next day. He had no spare time at all. And anyway, it was none of his business.
In the night there had been a sudden change in Lottie’s condition. At three o’clock in the morning she’d sat up and asked for a drink, then said she was hungry. Jenny had made her a bowl of hot oat porridge with golden syrup swirled into it, and some creamy milk. Lottie had eaten it daintily and scraped every last bit from the bowl. She’d snuggled down under the blanket on the sofa and gone straight to sleep, peacefully. The fever had gone. Jenny touched the child’s brow and it was cool, her breathing normal.
Relieved, Jenny collapsed into the wicker chair and fell into an exhausted sleep. She half-heard Arnie giving the boys their breakfast and the fierce whispering he was doing. ‘Don’t let’s disturb Mummy. She’s VERY tired.’ Smiling to herself, Jenny dimly heard their feet running past the window and felt Arnie kiss her tenderly. His clothes smelled of fish. ‘I’m taking the boat out whilst the sea’s calm, Jen. I’ll be out all day. Love you.’
‘Love you too,’ she muttered and went back to sleep. She slept on and so did Lottie through a blissful hour of early morning, of sunlit streets and a calm, silk sea. Even the seagulls were quiet, gathered in the shallow streams of the ebbing tide, fluttering and bathing and preening their feathers.
Grateful for the restorative sleep, Jenny dozed pleasantly, aware of her need for a bath and a change of clothes. That would have to wait until early evening when Arnie would fill the tin tub for her, bringing in bucket after bucket of water from the street tap. Then a kettle full of hot water, a block of yellow Sunlight soap and the bath was ready for her in front of the fire. For her first. Then the boys. And Arnie last, and she’d relish the gleam of his lean, muscular body in the firelight.
It was a beautiful morning, the sea shimmering, the town settling back into normal life after the storm. Jenny longed to go out. She looked down at Lottie, still fast asleep with Millie’s knitted doll tucked against one cheek. Perhaps today will be better, she thought, and I can spend some time with Lottie, make her feel at home.
She opened the door to take the milk in and was surprised to see a note wedged under the bottle. She pulled it out. It was hard to read, scrawled in pencil on an opened-out cigarette packet.
‘SOMETHING IS WRONG UP AT NAN’S PLACE. YESTERDAY’S MILK NOT TAKEN IN. ATTIC WINDOW OPEN, AND DONKEY STILL IN STABLE. THOUGHT I SHOULD TELL YOU.
LES PENGELLAN’
Jenny immediately felt guilty. She had told Nan to go away, and Nan had brought Lottie home, and called the doctor, AND paid him. But so deep was her hatred of Nan that Jenny quickly stuffed the guilt into a far corner of her mind. She carried the milk, and the note, into the scullery and looked at the piles of washing. She must stoke the fire, and make pasties, and clean the straw and seaweed from the floor. She wasn’t responsible for Nan. Let the old witch sort herself out, Jenny thought, allowing rebellion to burn through her mind. Why should I go running up there just because there’s a window open?
She worked doggedly, filling the washtub, rubbing the sheets vigorously over the washboard, then wringing them through the mangle, the water streaming onto the stone floor, and the flattened sheet emerging arched and stiff. A depressing task. No matter how hard she worked, the thick linen still looked grey and retained an undefinable odour. She hung them across the street on a line she shared with Millie and stood for a moment, drying her sore red hands on her skirt, enjoying the sun on her face.
She turned to go back in and was astonished to see Lottie standing at the sink, her small arms pounding the pile of socks and shirts in the soapy water.
Jenny was going to shout at her but Lottie gave her a heart-melting smile. Her eyes looked blue again, and confident.
‘I’m going to help you,’ Lottie announced, squeezing the water from a pair of Arnie’s socks. ‘I know how to do washing,’ she added, ‘I did it in the orphanage.’
Jenny gulped. The thought of Lottie’s tender little fingers getting caught in the mangle was alarming but she didn’t want to crush the child’s obvious pride in her ability to help. ‘That’s kind of you, Lottie. We’ll do it together,’ she said, and another smile flashed up at her.
‘You’re doing a good job. But I shall do the mangle. We’ll have it done in no time with you helping. Then we’ll have a cup of tea with Jenny’s ginger biscuits.’
A sudden glow of harmony shone over the two of them, working together, Lottie again wearing the blue silk blouse, her feet bare, her hair hooked behind cute little ears, her soft round cheeks still pale.
‘How old are you, Lottie?’ Jenny asked curiously.
Lottie took a deep breath. ‘I’m eight,’ she announced, ‘and a half.’
‘So when is your birthday?’ Jenny was surprised. She’d assumed Lottie was about five.
‘On the eighth of May.’
‘Oh – a summer birthday, eh? The eighth of May is a special day in Cornwall,’ Jenny said, smiling. ‘It’s Helston Flora Day. And because I was born in Helston I’m allowed to wear a really pretty dress and a hat, and we dance through the streets, all the morning, and the Helston Silver Band put on their best suits and march along with a big boomy drum playing The Furry Dance.’
‘The Furry Dance?’
‘I’ll teach it to you later,’ Jenny promised, turning the handle of the mangle, ‘and on your birthday you shall wear a pretty dress too, and we’ll all go to Flora Day . . . on the train.’
‘What does Flora mean?’
‘Flowers. The whole town is decorated with bluebells and lily-of-the-valley, and the scent is wonderful.’
Lottie looked pensive. Her eyes examined Jenny’s soul. ‘We could go in Nan’s donkey cart,’ she said brightly. ‘Nan decorates it with tassels of wool, and bunches of herbs, and the perfume keeps the flies away from Mufty. She told me what they were – mint, sage and chamomile, and elder leaves, and lemon balm.’
‘Fancy you remembering,’ Jenny said, astonished to find Lottie so articulate. ‘But it’s a long time until May. We’ve got winter to come, and Christmas . . .’
‘I’m going to make Nan a Christmas present. And one for Mufty.’ Lottie’s eyes shone. Then, without warning, her expression changed to a horrified frown. She ran to the sofa and seemed to be searching for something. Her face crumpled, and she walked slowly back to Jenny, as if in a nightmare.
‘What’s the matter?’ Jenny asked, alarmed.
‘My black velvet bag. I’ve lost it.’ The words tumbled out and with them came the tears. For the first time since the shipwreck, after all she’d been through, Lottie was sobbing inconsolably. She curled up in a ball and let Jenny hold her close, both of them smelling of washing soda and steam.
‘I must have left it in Mufty’s cart,’ Lottie wept. ‘I’ve got to find it. Where does Nan live?’
Jenny battled with herself. She felt it was a plot being masterminded by some well-meaning celestial committee. Pushing her towards Nan’s place. She couldn’t let Lottie go on her own. ‘How about if Arnie takes you up there in the morning?’
Lottie’s distraught eyes looked up at her, the sunlight from the window making the tears sparkle along the curve of her eyelashes. ‘No. No . . . you don’t understand,’ Lottie sobbed, but she straightened her back, quickly regaining her composure. ‘I must go IMMEDIATELY. Will you please tell me where Nan lives? Or I shall go out by myself and ask someone.’
A very determined little madam, Jenny thought. Now what am I going to do?
Chapter 5
A Cat in the Window
Jenny felt proud of Lottie as they walked through the town in the afternoon sunshine. Lottie didn’t exactly walk. She floated, with her beautiful hair flowing down her back and her head held high. People turned to look at her curiously. The child from the wreck. Who was she? Whoever she was, Lottie had presence and grace.
Calming her down had been easy compared to the battles Jenny was used to with the boys. It had begun with Jenny finding her a pair of shoes. ‘You can’t walk all the way to Nan’s place in bare feet,’ she explained, opening the lid of the settle again. Down in the bottom corner in a brown paper bag were her own favourite shoes and socks from childhood. ‘I wore these for my first ever Flora Day dance,’ she sighed. ‘I wanted to keep them nice, for ever, as a happy memory. But you can borrow them, if they’ll fit you.’ It was hard to give them to Lottie. But the look of wonder and gratitude on the little girl’s tear-stained face made it worthwhile.
‘They’re LOVELY.’ Lottie stared at the shoes in amazement. ‘I’ve never seen shoes with pretty flowers on them.’ She fingered the woollen flowers threaded over the strap, colours still bright on shiny black shoes.
‘My mum made the flowers. She crocheted them.’
Lottie’s mouth fell open. ‘She’s clever.’ Then she looked deeply serious. ‘Is she dead now?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid she is,’ Jenny said, and they were both silent for a moment of empathy. Lottie pulled on the clean white socks, then slipped her feet into the shoes.
‘They fit me!’ She deftly fastened the buckles. She skipped around the living room, her slim legs elegant in Jenny’s Flora Day shoes. ‘I LOVE them.’ She flung her arms around Jenny. ‘Thank you . . . and . . . I won’t get them muddy. Can we go to Nan’s place now?’
Jenny eyed the half-finished pile of washing and decided to leave it. She was glad to see Lottie better after the fever. She told Millie where they were going and asked her to be there for the boys when they came back from school. Millie was pleased to be asked. She beamed at Lottie. ‘I’m glad you’re better, my love. Look at your pretty shoes!’ Then she looked knowingly at Jenny. ‘I thought you said you’d never go to Nan’s place. How come? Buried the hatchet, have you? About time.’
Jenny’s cheeks flushed. ‘I had a note from the milkman. He thought something was wrong up there. And Arnie’s gone all day, with this late tide.’
Millie frowned. ‘I’ll come with you, Jen, if you like – but I’m slow going up that hill. What if it’s something you can’t handle? Nan is a heavy woman.’
‘Thanks, but no, we’ll be fine.’
The truth was that Jenny wanted Lottie to herself. She hoped Lottie would tell her what had happened, how she came to be on a ship. Everything she’d said so far was like a jigsaw with pieces missing. Why did she keep asking about America? Who had beaten her? And how had such an articulate, well-dressed little girl ended up in an orphanage – and then on a ship?
At the edge of Downlong, the green turf and rocks of the ‘Island’ stretched away between Porthgwidden Cove and Porthmeor Beach. ‘Is that the ship I was on?’ Lottie asked, and suddenly the bright energy seemed to be draining out of her. She leaned her head against Jenny’s skirt. ‘I’m dog tired,’ she added.
‘Yes . . . that’s the ship – or what’s left of it,’ Jenny said, and a shiver passed through both of them as they saw the blackened hulk of the ship, looming at a crazy angle, on the rocks. ‘If you’re tired, we could sit and have a rest.’
‘But not here,’ Lottie said. ‘I don’t like seeing the broken ship.’
Jenny led her over the saddle of turf that connected the ‘Island’ to the town, and they sat on a bench overlooking Porthmeor Beach. Behind them loomed the massive drum of the gas works, the circular railings at the top covered in sparrows, crows and seagulls. Next to it was the hillside cemetery, the gravestones facing the western sea. The waves were perfect, rising out of a tranquil sea in gleaming semi-circles, the surf peeling away from translucent curls of jade. Beyond the ‘Island’, the afternoon light turned the rising waves to indigo, the horizon a sharp line as if drawn along a ruler with a crayon. Jenny watched Lottie’s eyes and sensed the question coming. ‘Is America out there?’
‘Yes.’
‘How far away is it?’
‘A long way.’
‘But HOW far? How many miles?’
‘I don’t know. You’ll have to ask Nan,’ Jenny said, and immediately regretted it. Her mind had been figuring out how to avoid seeing Nan. They’d sneak into the garden, search the donkey cart, and once the velvet bag was found, they could quietly leave. She’d tell Lottie Nan was asleep. Liar, she thought uncomfortably, and you’re a coward, Jenny Lanroska.
‘Why am I so tired, Jenny?’ Lottie asked.
‘’Cause you’ve been poorly. And you’ve had a proper upset too.’
‘Where is Nan’s house?’
‘It’s that one, all by itself.’ Jenny pointed to Hendravean, thinking how grim the big house always looked with its gabled windows.
Lottie stared. ‘There’s a cat in the window.’
‘So there is.’
‘Will he let me stroke him?’
‘I expect so.’
‘I’ve never stroked a cat. Never in my WHOLE life.’ Lottie jumped up with new energy. ‘Come on.’
They walked on along Porthmeor Road. The cat in the attic window disturbed Jenny. The attic windows had never been open before. Surely Nan hadn’t tried to go up those steep stairs by herself ? What could have happened? Jenny felt a shudder of nerves deep in her gut. She wished she had let Millie come with her.
‘What a funny road,’ Lottie remarked as they turned in to Foxglove Lane. ‘It’s got walls covered in grass.’
‘Cornish hedges,’ Jenny said. ‘You wait ’til spring. It’ll be covered in primroses. And it’s a lane, not a road.’
‘I’ve never been along a lane. I lived in a big city.’
‘Where was that then?’ Jenny asked, but Lottie went quiet, trailing her fingers over the cushiony grasses and thrift.
The gate to Hendravean was open. As soon as Lottie saw Mufty’s face looking out of his stable, she was gone, running across the yard, the donkey watching her eagerly. Jenny glanced up at the attic window and saw the cat, Bartholomew, checking her out. With an echoing meow, he quickly disappeared from the attic window and reappeared from the scullery window. He trotted over to her, meowing, and within seconds all six cats converged on her, weaving around her ankles with their tails up.
‘Mufty is extremely hungry,’ Lottie called in her clear voice. No chance of Nan not noticing them now. Then Lottie saw the cats and squealed with excitement.
‘Gently, gently. Don’t run at them,’ Jenny said, ‘or you’ll frighten them.’
Lottie slowed down to a theatrical creep, and Bartholomew made a beeline for her, his magnificent tail waving. The look of pure joy on Lottie’s face touched Jenny’s heart. ‘What’s he doing?’ Lottie asked. ‘He’s making a snoring noise.’
‘He’s purring. That’s ’cause he likes you,’ Jenny said. To her it was obvious the cats were hungry. She looked at the silent house and went cold with fright. She wanted to turn and run. Why me? she thought.
‘He’s so fluffy and soft. I love him.’ Lottie looked up at her with shining eyes and, for the first time, Jenny heard her giggle when Bartholomew brushed his whiskers against her bare legs.
‘You stay in the yard and look for your bag, Lottie,’ she said. ‘I’ll go and see if Nan is there. She might be asleep.’
‘All right.’ Lottie was so entranced by the cats that she hardly noticed Jenny.
Jenny felt caught between a horde of starving animals, a shipwrecked orphan, and an old woman whom she hated and who might be horribly dead inside that frowning house.
The front door looked reassuringly homely, a whiff of polish coming from its timber. Jenny could see her reflection in the round brass doorknob. She turned it and the door swung open. ‘Are you there, Nan?’ The air glistened with the scent of blackberry wine. ‘Nan?’ Jenny walked in, the quarry tiles clinking under her feet. Bunches of dried herbs hung from a beam, brushing the top of her head, and releasing tangy aromas of rosemary and mint. An enormous mirror gleamed on one wall, surrounded by fading rosettes Nan had won for her flowers and preserves. Horse brasses shone from the panelled oak walls, and brown and white porcelain horses cantered across the sheen of a rosewood sideboard. Everything seemed to have a listening presence, eyes of china and brass watching Jenny.
The kitchen door was open. Jenny found herself creeping on tiptoe. She peeped in, startling a bunch of mice who were on the table tunnelling into a stale loaf of bread, the crust spotted with blue mould. She walked into the scullery where Nan had been bottling pears and making wine. The garden door was wide open to a tangle of foliage and a glimpse of colour in the flowerbeds beyond.
Jenny went back to the bottom of the stairs and shouted. ‘Nan? It’s Jenny. Are you all right?’
Silence. She listened intently, and then heard something that sent a chill crawling up her spine. Breathing. She could hear someone breathing, faintly, and wheezing. Nan must be ill in bed, she thought, and jumped as Bartholomew shot past her and ran upstairs. Jenny was afraid of Nan and she was tempted to turn and run back into the sunlit yard and the simple joy of seeing Lottie playing with the cats in the sunshine.
