A Cornish Orphan, page 8
It wasn’t going to work.
‘I’m going home,’ she yelled, ‘and packing me bags, Arnold Lanroska. I’ve had enough.’
She managed not to run. She swept along Foxglove Lane, her chest burning, as if she carried a scorching lump of pain lodged inside her. She felt its flames dying down with every distancing footstep. Her feet seemed to have a mind of their own. Instead of heading for home, they were taking her towards the station. I’ve got no money, Jenny thought, no money for a ticket, and no bag to pack, and not much to put in one, and Arnie knows I don’t mean it anyway.
She got as far as the church and stopped, leaning against the porch, tempted to go inside but not wanting the vicar looming over her. What she needed was the peace it offered, peace from the babble and energy around the harbour, the group of stooping women gossiping as they packed fish, the men sorting lobster pots and nets, shouting and laughing from the decks of boats. Inside the church there was always a light burning in a red glass, and a scent of incense. A memory.
Jenny sat down on the steps, aching as she remembered their wedding: Arnie, turning to gaze at her with love and pride in his eyes; his craggy, fisherman’s hands awkward as he slipped the ring onto her finger. Where were those smiles now? Could smiles blow inland and vanish like the weather? Were they meaningless magic? Smiles ready to mature into judgemental glares, waiting gleefully for her to turn into a downtrodden, downhearted fishwife, her young hands roughened with endless washing, fire-stoking, baking and making do. Waiting for her children to drain the sparkle from her eyes. Matt, she thought, Matt did that. Jenny hadn’t been ready for him, and the birth had torn the life out of her. Instead of bonding, she had wanted nothing to do with the screaming kicking baby, the baby with black, malevolent eyes. And she’d hated herself for it.
When Tom came it was quite different. He’d been sweet and placid. Adorable. The powerful mother-love, on hold since the stillborn baby girl, flooded back and Jenny felt Tom had somehow rescued her from what felt like a mine shaft, his dancing eyes and limitless smile leading her back into normal life – Flora Day life where every day was a day for dancing and singing and being her normal, happy self.
Her normal, happy self. The thought made Jenny lift her face to the sun again, and it calmed her angry, painful breath. Had she really screamed at Arnie like that? And was there a way back? He wanted her to accept Nan back into their life. But she couldn’t. She just couldn’t.
It would be hell if she did, and hell if she didn’t.
‘I’d like to see the boys again,’ Nan said, sipping the cup of tea Arnie had made for her. It was late afternoon, and she was feeling better after her rescue the previous day, and a good night’s sleep. She was thankful to find she hadn’t broken any bones but had just a few bruises, including the one on the side of her head. Her own herb tea had soothed the pain. ‘I don’t need medicine,’ she’d declared when Arnie suggested the doctor. ‘I make my own. It’s all out there, in the garden. I could give Jenny a remedy if she’d let me.’
‘She won’t,’ said Arnie briefly.
‘She’s got a bee in her bonnet,’ Nan said.
‘She has,’ agreed Arnie, ‘but she’s tired – she’s been nursing Lottie day and night since the shipwreck. It’s a week ago now.’
‘Where’s Lottie now?’ Nan asked. ‘You need to keep an eye on her, Arnie.’
Arnie glanced out of the window. Lottie was brushing Mufty who was tied up outside his stable. ‘She’s happy out there grooming the donkey.’
‘She’s a very intelligent little girl,’ Nan said. ‘How much do you know about her?’
‘Not much. She’s eight years old. But how she came to be on a cargo ship is a mystery.’
‘Where did the ship come from?’
‘I dunno – Cardiff maybe – or Swansea.’
‘But she’s not Welsh,’ Nan said. ‘She doesn’t have a Welsh lilt to her voice.’
‘She speaks posh,’ Arnie said, ‘and that won’t go down too well in St Ives. Judging by her clothes she’s come from a rich family.’
‘Hmm – aristocracy,’ Nan said. ‘What WAS she doing on the ship?’
‘We think she was running away. Poor little mite, she’s been beaten, Nan, savagely beaten. Jen put iodine on her back – it looks bad.’
‘Oh dear.’ Nan looked shocked. She lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘You should keep quiet about it. Otherwise word will spread and the person who beat her will come looking for her when news gets out about the ship. Was she the sole survivor?’
‘We thought we’d got them all out of the water. But apparently there was one missing, presumed drowned. He’d have had no chance in that sea. Eventually the body will be washed ashore, somewhere along the coast.’
Nan looked thoughtful, sipping the last dregs of her tea. She put the cup down and fingered the amethyst beads around her neck. ‘I believe . . .’ she began, and hesitated, put off by a sudden flash of scepticism in Arnie’s eyes. Say it anyway, she thought. ‘I believe Lottie was sent to us, like a gift. Like St Ia. Like St Ia, Arnie.’
Arnie managed an impartial kind of grunt, but Nan didn’t miss the spark that floated through his eyes. She looked fondly at his long eyelashes, his handsome Cornish profile, the lean, strong bulk of him cramped in a chair too small for him. She reached out and patted his knee. ‘Don’t let Jenny drive you out of yourself.’
He frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You KNOW what I mean.’ Nan tried to get eye contact, but Arnie’s gaze slipped away like a fish escaping through the water. ‘Didn’t I tell you? A Helston girl is different from a St Ives girl. Helston’s inland – and it’s soft. They’ve got flowers, like we’ve got pilchards. Jenny’s had a different kind of life – and Lottie – well, we don’t know, do we? But I would say Lottie’s come to you as a blessing – whereas Jenny . . .’ Nan’s voice stopped like a bird flying against glass. She saw a warning twitch in Arnie’s jaw. Nan knew life wasn’t easy for her beloved grandson. She’d observed Jenny screaming at him and storming off, and she’d watched him wearily pick up the bag of linen and pack it into the cart. Then she’d seen him take Lottie over to Mufty’s stable, lead the donkey out and tie him up, all the time talking to her. A smile lit up Lottie’s face when he handed her a brush and showed her how to groom the donkey’s coat. Halfway across the yard Arnie looked back at her and called, ‘Don’t brush him so gently. He’s not a butterfly. Lean into it. Press harder – he’ll enjoy it more.’
Nan realised Arnie had shouldered the pain and hurt of Jenny’s tantrum, and successfully distracted Lottie from worrying about it. ‘I’m going to help you, whether Jenny likes it or not,’ she assured him. ‘Lottie can come with me to the nut grove at the weekend. It’s time we did the picking.’
‘She’d like that – she probably doesn’t even know what a hazelnut is. Jenny gave her one and she didn’t know what to do with it. But . . .’ Arnie turned his eyes to look at Nan, his brow etched with thought, ‘ . . . I think the boys should go too – they’ll soon be jealous and start playing up if Lottie gets all the treats. That is – if you can handle Matt and Tom.’
A wicked smile creased Nan’s face and she gave a wheezy laugh. ‘Handle them? Me? Those two little toads won’t dare step out of line with me.’
‘But I’ve never been to school.’ Lottie clung to Jenny’s hand, staring into the classroom. It smelled of sharpened pencils and floor polish.
‘You didn’t tell me,’ Jenny said. ‘So how did you learn to read so well?’
‘I had a tutor. Miss Morgan.’
‘Right – well, you’d better tell the teacher that.’
Lottie didn’t feel like herself at all. She was wearing a dress made for her by the doctor’s wife from a brown and white curtain, and a biscuit-coloured apron over the top. On her feet were Jenny’s Flora Day shoes, without the crocheted flowers. ‘But why?’ Lottie had pleaded. ‘Why can’t I keep the flowers?’ To her it was a tragedy, a dumbing down of the happiness and dancing those bright little flowers had represented. It made her think school would be colourless and grim.
She looked at the silent children sitting in twos at wooden desks, aware of them staring back at her. One girl who sat on her own at the back gave her an open, friendly smile. She was a big girl with an aura of power, her hair tossed back, her eyes searching for mischief. ‘What’s your name?’ she hissed. ‘Mine’s Morwenna.’
David Merryn swung round from writing on the blackboard, a stub of chalk in his hand. He took a cane from the top of his desk and rapped it on the wooden lid. A pulse of fear rippled through the children, and especially through Lottie. She didn’t want to be there. She eyed Morwenna who now had her head down, pretending to read the book on her desk. Lottie could see it was upside down. She let go of Jenny’s hand, went over to Morwenna, and quietly turned the book the right way up. Their eyes met in a moment of empathy.
‘Ah – Mrs Lanroska. This must be the orphan from the wreck.’ David Merryn’s mirror-bright leather brogues squeaked across the floor. Lottie looked up at him, thinking he resembled a marionette, a set of bones strung together and covered in tweed.
‘That’s right, Mr Merryn. Her name is Lottie.’
Annoyed by his loud voice and attitude, Lottie went back to stand beside Jenny. Mr Merryn’s keen eyes glinted down at her, a lock of hair flopping over his brow, a bead of sweat trickling past his left ear.
‘She hasn’t been to school before,’ Jenny said, and lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘Private tutor at home.’
‘How old is she?’
‘Eight.’
‘Can she read and write?’
‘Very well.’
‘Hmmm.’ Mr Merryn’s eyes assessed Lottie from her Flora Day shoes to the green satin ribbon Jenny had put in her hair. ‘You sit down there, Lottie, next to Morwenna. I’m afraid she’s a bad girl.’ He steered Jenny towards the door. ‘Leave her with me. If she’s good, she’ll be happy here and learn. If she’s not – then she’ll end up like Morwenna Bartle. Sit down, Lottie.’
Lottie opened her mouth to say she didn’t want to sit down, but caught the look in Jenny’s eye and changed her mind. She didn’t fancy sitting next to Morwenna but she managed to do it, perching on the end of the bench, her eyes fixed on Jenny, hoping to convey a silent, desperate message: Don’t leave me here – please.
Jenny’s eyes were wide open and she was whispering to Mr Merryn, something about Morwenna.
Don’t leave me here – please, Lottie sent the thought again, but Mr Merryn firmly guided Jenny to the door, and held it open. ‘You can leave the discipline to me, Mrs Lanroska. Goodbye now.’
It was a defining moment in Lottie’s life. I’m on my own again, she thought with a touch of defiance, watching the last corner of Jenny’s skirt disappear through the door. Shipwrecked. This time in a classroom. Her eyes strayed to the cane which Mr Merryn was absently tapping against his bony thigh. He crossed the room on loud feet and opened a lopsided cupboard.
‘Come here, Lottie.’
Lottie froze, and Morwenna gave her a shove. She found herself walking up to Mr Merryn with her heart beating furiously. He handed her two brand new smooth exercise books, one marked ENGLISH and the other ARITHMETIC. Then he gave her a dark red pencil with somebody’s teeth marks at one end, a rubber with grubby corners, and a cracked wooden ruler.
Lottie accepted them numbly, remembering her old schoolroom at home, and the lovely tin of sharpened Lakeland pencils in bright colours, and the black Waterman fountain pen she’d been learning to use. She remembered the kindly face of Miss Morgan and how patiently she’d taught her to read and write. Another face floated into her memory. A vivacious, encouraging face, ready to laugh and enjoy life. Her mother.
But that was – before.
‘You can choose a book to read, from the shelf,’ Mr Merryn said. ‘Be quick, and put it inside your desk. We’re going to do English now.’
Lottie glanced at the embossed spines of the books, mostly a dull red or a faded blue. She would have liked to browse, but quickly chose BLACK BEAUTY, and sat down next to Morwenna, keeping her distance, alarmed at the way the girl had shoved her.
Mr Merryn turned his back to write on the blackboard, and immediately the children’s heads turned to stare at Lottie. She stared back, defiant, curious, her gaze drawn to a neat, small girl with kind eyes. She looked serious and focused. Lottie wished she was sitting next to her instead of big, wild Morwenna.
‘Stop staring at Lottie.’ Mr Merryn swung round. ‘You can make friends with her at playtime. Now . . .’ He pointed at the words on the blackboard, ‘you will write COMPOSITION, and the date, and the title. Who can read the title? Yes – Natalie.’
The small girl with the kind eyes stood up smartly and read the title in a clear voice, ‘AN INTERESTING JOURNEY.’
‘Thank you, Natalie.’ Mr Merryn’s eyes twinkled fondly at Natalie. ‘An interesting journey – I’m sure you can all think of a journey you have been on – in a horse and cart, or a train, a boat, or even a ship.’ He looked directly at Lottie, and she understood instantly what he was trying to do. Had he chosen that title especially for her?
‘You may begin.’
There was a flurry of movement, a whisper of small hands smoothing the next clean page of exercise books, a rattle of pencils, then an industrious silence. Lottie glanced at Morwenna who was struggling to copy the date and title from the blackboard, her pencil stub clutched awkwardly in her left hand.
‘Morwenna Bartle.’ Mr Merryn crossed the room, brandishing a ruler, his eyes triumphant, like those of a fox pouncing on a rabbit. ‘Wrong hand. Again! You will write with your RIGHT hand – how many times must I tell you?’ He aimed a swipe at Morwenna’s hand, but she whipped it away and the ruler hit the desk with a crack. ‘And don’t you dare glower at me like that.’
Morwenna changed the pencil to her right hand, gripping it even tighter, her face hot with fury. An enormous tear plopped onto her book. Lottie looked at her sympathetically.
‘Just ignore her, Lottie.’ Mr Merryn’s hard stare softened a little as he looked at Lottie. ‘Morwenna Bartle is a bad girl, and a dunce. You get on with your own work.’
He walked away and lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply, sending blue smoke curling into a shaft of sunlight. Lottie felt she couldn’t begin until Morwenna was calm. She waited until Mr Merryn turned his back, then she leaned over and wrote the date and title in Morwenna’s book, in her best writing. The girl looked at her in disbelief. ‘Thanks,’ she mouthed, and a bond was forged. Forever friends.
Chapter 7
The Maiden’s Tears
Lottie followed Nan along the wooded path to the nut grove. To her left, the sea twinkled beyond the trees and to her right the green woodland twilight glimmered with mosses and ferns. Lottie had never been in a wood. She’d only seen pictures of woods in a book of fairy tales, and this was so different from a paper wood. This real wood was sensual. It crackled and sighed. It smelled earthy and ancient. It invited her to touch and feel, to poke a finger into a cushion of moss and experience the deep, damp softness of it, to skim her hand through curtains of foliage, to discover a clump of fungi burnished gold by a sunbeam.
‘Mushrooms!’ Lottie cried, excited, and touched one of the domed heads. It felt smooth as skin.
‘No, those are toadstools, Lottie,’ Nan explained. ‘Don’t even touch them. They’re poisonous.’
Lottie looked at the tiny, umbrella-like fungi in awe. ‘Where did they come from?’
‘They grew, in the night. From spores.’
‘Where did the spores come from?’
‘From older toadstools.’
‘What does a spore look like?’ Lottie examined the ground under her shoes, hoping to find one.
‘They’re invisible,’ Nan said. ‘They’re smaller than a dot on a piece of paper. The wind blows them around. We’re probably breathing them in right now. Something’s making me wheeze.’ She sat down heavily on a tree stump. ‘I need to rest for a minute.’
‘I’ll stay with you, Nan.’ Lottie leaned against Nan’s comforting bulk, and listened to the steady thump of the old lady’s heart, and the high-pitched wheeze of her breath. It didn’t sound right. Lottie had heard that kind of breath before, in her old life, when she’d sat beside her gran, for the last time. Her gran had been little, half the size of Nan, but brave and bright like a robin. Lottie had watched the light in her eyes go out, like the flame of a candle stub. Suddenly, where light had been, there was blank, black stillness. Nothingness. It had happened so fast that Lottie hadn’t even seen the last wisp of Gran’s presence vanish into the air.
‘Don’t you fret about it,’ Nan said, sensing the child’s anxiety. ‘It’s only my wheezy old chest. I’m not going to die. I’m going to be around to see you grow up.’ She gave Lottie a pat on the shoulder and pointed into the tangled twigs of a hawthorn tree. ‘Look – see that bird? Oh, what a little gem.’
In a moment of shared magic, they watched a tiny, mouselike bird hopping around in the prickly branches, its stubby tail up, its bright bead of an eye winking as if it knew they were there and wasn’t afraid.
‘It’s got a yellow stripe on its head,’ Lottie said, fascinated by the bold little creature.
‘It’s a goldcrest,’ Nan said. ‘There’s plenty of those around here.’
‘A goldcrest.’ Lottie searched her mind for a word to describe its wonder. ‘It’s exquisite,’ she announced, relishing every syllable, her eyes firing the word into Nan’s astonished expression.
‘You DO know some long words,’ Nan remarked. She got to her feet again and picked up her basket. ‘Now where are those boys? I hope they’re not going to be an infernal nuisance. I can hear them up there somewhere.’
Matt and Tom had been good on the train trip to Carbis Bay, both appearing intimidated by Nan. They’d walked quietly on the coastal path to Carrack Gladden, until it wound into the trees. The woods seemed to incite a kind of madness in them, and they’d gone crashing into the undergrowth, armed with an enormous stick each, thrashing at ferns and invisible tigers, shaking storms of red berries from the hawthorn trees. ‘Little toads,’ Nan had muttered.
