An Orphan's Winter

by Sheila Jeffries

  John’s hand was an anchor. The resonance of his voice felt comforting, like the blaze of a fire on a cold day. He wasn’t going to let her float away. He wanted her to stay and he was putting power and light into his intention, like a lantern to guide her home through the dark ocean twilight.

  In a rare moment of clarity, she asked John where Olivia was. He was silent. Lottie managed to open her eyes and observed that he looked upset. ‘Daddy? Where’s my mother? Does she know I’m ill?’

  ‘Oh yes – she knows.’ John’s eyes darkened. ‘She’s worried about you, of course, darling, but she won’t come in. She can’t stand hospitals.’

  Detecting bitterness in his voice, Lottie gave his hand a squeeze. Her eyes wouldn’t stay open and she spiralled back into darkness. ‘It doesn’t matter, Daddy. I just want Jenny – and Nan – so much.’

  His words echoed into the tunnel where she was floating. ‘It won’t be long now. The sea is calm and we’re almost at the end of our journey. Nan will be waiting for you on the quay.’

  Lottie felt a hot teardrop trickle down into the starched pillow. Questions whirled in her mind and she hadn’t the energy to voice them. One particular dark thought hung over her like a black umbrella: was her mother going to abandon her all over again? She’d tried to reassure John by saying it didn’t matter, but it did matter – it did.

  Before Lottie fell ill, John and Olivia had been getting on well. Laughing a lot, gazing at each other. That had changed a few days ago at the dining table. The pain in Lottie’s side had been getting steadily worse and she felt too nauseous to eat. She’d pushed her plate away.

  ‘I’m sorry, Daddy – and Mother – I can’t eat this. I’ve got a really bad stomach ache. I need to go and lie down.’

  John’s face had shown immediate concern, but before he could speak, Olivia rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, for goodness sake, Charlotte, you were forever doing this when you were a child. Surely you’re not still having these convenient stomach aches?’ Olivia turned to John, her bony fingers waving expressively. ‘Ignore it, John. Believe me, it’s attention-seeking.’

  Wordless frustration filled Lottie’s heart. The glint in Olivia’s eyes was sharp and merciless. John put down his knife and fork. He fixed Olivia with an icy glare. ‘You come with me, Lottie,’ he said, his arm around her shoulders. ‘I think it’s time for the ship’s doctor to look at you. You’re deathly pale.’

  Lottie could hardly walk as he led her away, his arm supporting her. ‘It hurts. It really hurts,’ she whispered, almost in tears from the pain.

  ‘I’ll be in the bar later, John,’ Olivia called after them as she reached across the table and poured herself another glass of red wine.

  Lottie was rigid with fright as she let the ship’s doctor examine her.

  ‘How brave are you, Lottie?’ he asked when he’d finished.

  ‘Very brave,’ John said. ‘She survived a shipwreck.’

  Lottie didn’t feel brave. She felt terrified and held John’s hand tightly as the doctor explained that she must have an operation – immediately.

  ‘Can’t it wait until we get to Plymouth?’ John asked.

  ‘Absolutely not. If it’s delayed, even by an hour, the appendix could burst and cause peritonitis, which is nasty – and . . .’ he lowered his voice . . . ‘life-threatening.’

  ‘Life-threatening?’ Lottie’s mouth went dry. ‘But I’m only sixteen, and . . .’ She thought of Matt. She saw the beauty of their last evening together, with the sun and moon on the water. The velvet cloak. The love.

  She dug deep, and found bright threads of courage. She lifted her chin and met the doctor’s kindly eyes. ‘I’m perfectly capable of facing an operation if it will make me well. Just tell me what I have to do.’

  John held her hand. He looked at her in awe and closed his eyes for a few seconds. ‘I’m proud of you.’ His knees trembled.

  ‘It’s okay, Daddy,’ Lottie said. ‘The only way out of it is through it. I’ll be okay.’

  Hours later, her father was tucking the knitted donkey close to her cheek on the pillow. Touching it gratefully, Lottie could see Jenny’s warm, bright eyes and feel her love in every stitch.

  John stayed beside her, day and night, and when the doctors and nurses came, he stepped outside the curtain but continued to tell her he was there.

  ‘Just a little pinprick, dear,’ the nurse would say, but the big injections into her leg hurt even more than the tightly bandaged wound across her tummy. The slightest movement sent pain raging through every nerve in her body. She hadn’t the strength to cry. Next came a second huge injection of a painkiller, which gave her blessed relief. Profound and fathomless sleep soon followed, lowering her down to the floor of the ocean, far below the ship, into a shadowed, indigo cavern, undisturbed by dreams.

  Hours later, rising again into consciousness, her thoughts were vivid. The dreams brought her to the nets of sunlight on the surface of the sea, always in St Ives Bay, and then Matt appeared. She saw the gleaming new paint of The Jenny Wren, and saw his smile, his long legs and his confidence. Matt was the way out of the dream. Matt was the future, if only she could get there.

  Lottie opened her eyes and searched through the nets of light until she found her father sleeping in the chair by her bed, his hand still gripping hers. She gave it a tiny squeeze and John woke up instantly. He smiled. ‘You’re awake, Lottie!’

  They gazed at each other.

  ‘Is there anything you want?’ John asked.

  ‘I want to go home – to St Ives.’

  ‘You will, darling, very soon. You shall see the sun and the moon rise over the water. I know that’s what you love,’ John said. He took his leather wallet from the inner pocket of his jacket and fumbled inside it, withdrawing a seashell, a pretty limpet with rays of orange, white and brown. He put it into Lottie’s hand and closed her fingers around it. ‘Hold this, Lottie,’ he said, his voice husky with emotion. ‘It’s from Porthmeor Beach. I picked it up from the shell garden you were making with Morwenna the very first time I saw you – the day I started painting Discovering Charlotte, because I knew I’d found you. I’ve carried it with me all these years. Hold it, and remember the beach. That’s what I do.’

  ‘Thank you, Daddy.’ Lottie closed her eyes, her fingers exploring the texture of the limpet shell, its rough, conical outer surface, and its smooth, cool inner side. Immediately, she heard the surf and the sand martins, and saw the lovely face of her friend Morwenna. She felt the arms of St Ives Bay all around her like a hug.

  *

  ‘John . . . John! Will you please come out here?’ Olivia hovered at the door of the ward. ‘I must speak to you.’

  Annoyed, John let go of Lottie’s hand. He smoothed a strand of her blonde hair back from her sleeping face and whispered, ‘I’m going out just for a minute, my angel. Back soon.’

  His legs were stiff from the hours of sitting. Olivia’s eyes were huge and red-rimmed. A sour tang of alcohol clung around her. ‘Come to the bar with me,’ she drawled. ‘It’s only up those stairs.’

  ‘Certainly not,’ John said, his voice icy. ‘I’m not going anywhere. What is it, Olivia?’

  She sank onto one of the leather chairs, which were bolted to the wall. ‘Then sit down with me, John.’

  ‘No. I’d prefer to stand. What do you want to say? Say it quickly, please.’

  ‘Aw, don’t be huffy with me, John,’ she whined. ‘I need to explain why I can’t go in and see Charlotte. I hate hospitals. The smell – and the illness – makes me giddy. I’ve been on my own on this ship for three days, John – I need some company. It’s a big ordeal for me, moving back to England, especially to this place you’re so obsessed with.’

  She paused. John listened silently, watching her nervous fingers clawing at the sleeves of her cashmere cardigan.

  ‘Don’t look at me like that, John. We were getting on so well – weren’t we?’

  He didn’t answer.

  ‘Charlotte will be
okay for a few hours – she’s got all those nurses and doctors around her. I feel lost on this ship. I’ve left my home in New York – I . . .’

  ‘Be quiet.’ John’s eyes were firm and steely. ‘Don’t you even want to know how Lottie is?’

  ‘Sure I do. But—’

  ‘She’s very ill,’ he barked, ‘and the least you could do, Olivia, is come in and see her. She’s asked for you.’

  Olivia’s eyes softened. ‘You can give her my love, but I can’t, and won’t, go in there. I have a phobia. You have to understand that, and so does Charlotte. Don’t glare at me like that, John, it’s so mean.’ Her fingers were in her hair now, twiddling and tugging at its silver-blonde tresses. ‘I’ve made such an effort. For you, John. I hoped we—’

  ‘Stop!’ John felt something snap inside his mind. ‘If you were hoping we would get back together – so was I, until now. Forget it, Olivia. If you can’t be a mother to Lottie when she needs you, honestly, dear, I’d rather stay on my own in Cornwall.’

  Olivia wailed. ‘But . . . where am I going to go? I thought you’d take care of me because of what we once had.’

  John shook his head. He put his hand into the inner pocket of his jacket and took out a key. ‘This is the key to my London apartment. You can stay there until you find somewhere to live. That’s the best I can do for you. I’m going back to look after Lottie.’

  He gave her one long, hard stare and walked away firmly, ignoring her cries. I’m better off without her, he thought, and so is Lottie. Thank God I’ve realised that now.

  His footsteps were lighter as he padded back to Lottie’s bedside.

  *

  ‘How long before we get to Plymouth?’ Lottie asked.

  ‘A few hours,’ John said.

  ‘Only hours – not days?’ A sudden radiance shone in Lottie’s pale face. ‘I’m looking forward to it so much, Daddy.’ She thought of Nan waiting on the quay and it was like a tonic. If only she could get up, get dressed in the new American frock John had bought her, and stand in the front of the ship, waving.

  John looked very serious. He glanced up at the doctor who had come through the curtain when he’d heard Lottie talking. They nodded at each other in silence. It was time to tell the truth.

  ‘Now then, young Lottie.’ The doctor sat down on the bed and took her hand. ‘I’m afraid you won’t be going home to St Ives just yet. An ambulance will be waiting for you on the quay and it will take you straight to Derriford Hospital in Plymouth. It’s an excellent hospital – they can give you the treatment you need to make you better.’

  Lottie stared at him. ‘But it won’t take long – will it?’

  The doctor looked over his glasses, his eyes grave. ‘A few weeks, Lottie.’

  A cold gust of shock knocked the joy out of Lottie’s heart. Her pulse began to race. ‘No!’ she cried, and tears of disappointment meandered across her cheeks and dripped onto the crisp white pillow.

  ‘Oh, darling.’ Her father was there, his arms around her instantly.

  ‘I wanted so much to go home – to St Ives,’ Lottie wept bitterly, the deep sobs hurting the wound on her tummy, making her cry harder. ‘I wanted to see Jenny and Nan. They can make me better. I know they can. Oh, please – please let me go home.’

  The doctor felt her pulse and shook his head. ‘You must keep calm, Lottie, you’re very ill.’

  ‘But why? What’s wrong with me?’ Lottie asked, on the verge of hysteria. ‘I’m terrified of having polio like Jenny.’

  John held onto her firmly. ‘You haven’t got polio, I promise, darling – and you will see Jenny. I shall bring her to Plymouth myself. Now take some deep breaths and listen to what the doctor is trying to tell you.’

  His calm, strong voice steadied her a little. She didn’t understand why she couldn’t sit up and have a proper conversation.

  ‘We have tried to explain this to you, Lottie,’ the doctor began, ‘but you’ve been very . . . sleepy because of the drugs you are having. Do you remember being brought in here? Do you remember what I told you then? You were in terrible pain, weren’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Lottie whispered. ‘You said it was appendicitis and I had to have an operation. I don’t remember much after that except waking up, and the pain had gone – but I felt dizzy and my whole body felt as if it was on fire.’

  ‘Well – what a good description,’ the doctor said. ‘We removed your appendix, but it was badly infected and what you have now is peritonitis. It’s a horrid, painful infection in your tummy. We’re doing our best to stop it spreading. We’re giving you an antibiotic – but your body is like a battleground. That’s why you have to just lie still and let it fight. The antibiotic will win if you let it.’

  Lottie managed to listen in silence, feeling great waves of drowsiness driving her down into the indigo cavern again. All she could say was, ‘But I want to go home.’

  ‘You will go home, but not until you’re better. Derriford Hospital is much better equipped than what we’ve got here on the ship. This is very basic. They’ve got clever young doctors and all sorts of new medicines and therapies. I’m confident they will make you completely better, Lottie.’

  Lottie lay back on the pillow trying to believe him, her eyes closing. She felt her father’s hand on her brow. ‘She’s going again,’ he said, and kissed her gently. ‘Sleep tight, my darling girl. I’m here. I won’t leave you.’

  His constant, reliable love was her lifeline. She fell into a deep sleep, with Jenny’s knitted donkey in one hand and John’s firm grasp in the other one.

  Hours later, she awoke to the triumphant blare of the ship’s siren.

  ‘We’re docking in Plymouth Hoe now,’ John said. ‘I went up to have a look – Nan is standing on the quayside.’

  Lottie felt a change in herself, an aura of peace billowing around her. Nan was there, waiting for her. And Nan was like home. Like the whole of St Ives packed into her reassuring presence.

  A nurse and two porters came bustling up to Lottie’s bed with a stretcher covered in a cosy red blanket. ‘Come on, young lady, you’re a VIP,’ the porter said cheerily. ‘You’re going to be first off the ship.’

  Lottie smiled and tried to sit up. ‘I’m going to stay awake and wave to Nan so she’ll know I’m all right.’

  *

  Olivia walked away from Plymouth Hoe feeling utterly desolate. She’d tried so hard to rekindle the fragile relationship she’d once had with her daughter. It hadn’t worked. Charlotte had been unbelievably hostile from the start. Icily polite, but hostile. To be rejected was bad enough, but it was ten times worse to be rejected by a daughter who was intelligent, articulate and beautiful. Olivia had looked forward to feeling proud, feeling loved, feeling like somebody of worth. She’d imagined a wedding in the not too distant future, her own supremely elegant outfit already planned. Charlotte must marry money, of course. A rich man’s only son and heir, clean-shaven and accomplished.

  She regretted not turning up at the gallery. Of course, Charlotte had overreacted. John had been cold towards Olivia, courteously accepting her explanation, but secretly judging her. Why couldn’t he understand? He knew what a battle she’d had with alcohol. Didn’t he realise what an effort it was for her just to stay sober and come out to meet them?

  Olivia was still in love with John. In her opinion, he’d never given their marriage a chance, going off abroad on long-term engineering projects, leaving her alone and stuck at home with a baby. Now he fancied himself as an artist! In some poky little fishing port in Cornwall. But if he would only unbend and give her a chance, she could get used to it. There had been moments when she felt he still found her attractive, and she’d done her utmost to seduce him without seeming to do so. The trouble was, John was totally besotted with Charlotte – obsessed with her, Olivia thought, and pangs of jealousy had been added to the mix.

  The romantic cruise she’d expected turned out to be a nightmare. First the seasickness. Then Charlotte’s stubborn rejection of h
er, then the illness, which meant she hardly saw John again for the rest of the voyage. He really was fanatical about Charlotte. Olivia had almost wished it was herself lying there, getting all the attention.

  Arriving in Plymouth was the final straw. The way that mountain of a woman in her scruffy old dress had looked her up and down with her storm-coloured eyes. ‘Oh, so you’re the mother, are you?’ Nan had said scathingly and added, ‘Better late than never, I suppose.’

  Nan had been all over Charlotte, calling her ‘our Lottie’ and hugging her for so long that the stretcher-bearers had to ask her to move. Nan and John seemed to have forgotten Olivia was there as they fussed over ‘Lottie’ and saw her being loaded into the ambulance. Oliva ran forward to say goodbye, but Charlotte hadn’t even noticed her. Both John and Nan had been allowed to travel inside the ambulance.

  ‘But I’m her mother,’ Olivia pleaded. ‘I should go with her.’

  ‘I’m sorry, madam, we have no more room.’ The doors were slammed shut, the ambulance drove away with its bell ringing, and Olivia was left there, devastated and alone.

  John hadn’t even said goodbye.

  Legally I am still Charlotte’s mother, Olivia thought angrily. I should find a lawyer and insist she comes to live with me in London – it’s my right.

  She turned her back on Plymouth Hoe and walked into the town, carrying her suitcase, holding back her tears. Dealing with the immediate crisis was priority. She needed somewhere to stay – a cheap guest house. She eyed the big church in the middle of the busy town, tempted to go in and find a sympathetic young vicar.

  She stopped in front of a chemist. In the window were bottles of calamine lotion, pots of Pond’s Cold Cream, Mason Pearson hairbrushes – and brown glass bottles of aspirin. One hundred aspirin tablets! All she needed was a bottle of wine to go with them.