An Orphan's Winter

by Sheila Jeffries

  Nan began to hum, beginning with ‘The Ash Grove’, and when she glanced at Warren, there was a subtle change, as if the soul of him had suddenly arrived to take over the grumpy gnome.

  In her youth, Nan had been a music teacher and an opera singer. She had sung the role of Brünnhilde in Wagner’s The Ring of the Nibelungs, and had taken solo parts in many concerts. Her sequinned dresses, now much too small, hung silent in a fusty wardrobe in the attic, glittering weakly from the occasional sunbeam venturing through a crack in the door. She longed to sing again, and did so only when she was alone.

  Nan went on humming ‘The Ash Grove’ and variations on it, adding a bit of finger-tapping on saucepan lids and cake tins. She pretended Warren wasn’t there. This was Nan on her own having fun.

  When she started humming ‘Scarborough Fair’, Warren moved. Quiet as a rabbit on his bare feet, he darted into the hall and up the stairs.

  Nan pretended not to notice, but went on humming, half listening to what Warren might be doing up there. She sat down in her chair, encouraged by Bartholomew, who jumped onto her lap and spread himself out, his sumptuous paws reaching up towards her face. He seemed determined to keep her still, his purring adding a kind of rhythm to the humming. Nan chuckled to herself. It was a long time since she and Bartholomew had made music together.

  She heard Warren plodding downstairs, moving carefully for once instead of hurtling down. What is he up to? Nan wondered. Then he appeared shyly in the doorway with Tom’s piano-accordion strapped around his small body.

  The eagerness and sparkle in Warren’s eyes, and the touch of Bartholomew’s paws on her neck, restrained Nan from shouting at him for daring to help himself to that instrument. To shout at a child in such a fragile moment would have been like killing a butterfly. So Nan held herself and waited, bewitched by the engaging smile on Warren’s wizened face as he began to play, hesitantly at first, then swept away by the music.

  He played ‘The Ash Grove’, then ‘Scarborough Fair’ and ‘Trelawny’. On and on he played, filling the house with music as Nan sat spellbound, tears of joy pouring down her wrinkled cheeks. After all the grand operas and concerts Nan had done in her life, the exotic venues, the sequinned gowns, the passion and the applause, Warren’s unexpected performance was reconnecting her with the very roots of music.

  Humility was a rare feeling for Nan, but it tugged at her now, seeing this homeless, inarticulate boy, the piano-accordion covering most of his body, his bony knees on the edge of the chair, his little face shining with joy. With all her defences down, Nan bonded with him forever.

  *

  ‘You’ll go on to school, will you?’ Jenny asked, relieved to see Lottie looking more at ease when she came out of Dr Tregullow’s surgery.

  ‘Yes, I’ll go to school.’

  ‘Tell them why you’re late.’

  ‘Okay, Jenny.’

  ‘What did he say?’ Jenny searched Lottie’s face for clues.

  She shrugged. ‘Nothing much. He said I was healthy and normal.’

  Jenny frowned. ‘Oh good. Though I can’t say I agree with that.’

  Lottie sighed. ‘Must you interrogate me? I just want to go to school and catch up on what I’ve missed.’

  ‘Go on then – you go.’ Jenny gave Lottie a hug. ‘See you later.’ She watched from the waiting-room window as Lottie ran up The Stennack towards the school.

  Dr Tregullow popped his head round the surgery door and invited her in for a chat. Jenny went, hoping for more information than Lottie had given her.

  She sat down on a leather chair – everything in the consulting room seemed to be leather, even the surface of the doctor’s vast desk. He wore a tweed jacket with leather buttons, with leather patches sewn over the elbows. A pigskin doctor’s bag stood half open on the desk and horse harnesses hung on the walls, dark old bridles and heavy black straps covered in horse brasses.

  ‘So how’s that leg getting on?’ Dr Tregullow enquired, looking at Jenny’s iron calliper.

  ‘I’m managing, thank you,’ Jenny said, ‘but what about our Lottie? What exactly is wrong with her?’

  The doctor looked over the rim of a pair of round glasses. ‘Nothing to worry about, Mrs Lanroska. In my experience, girls of her age are often inexplicably sick, and frankly it’s all in the mind. Young Lottie’s had a lot of upheaval this last year and she’s facing the dreaded exams.’

  ‘I don’t agree with you,’ Jenny dared to say. ‘She’s never been sick like this – sick one minute and going to school the next. I worry about the peritonitis coming back.’

  ‘No. She’s clear of that, I can assure you. However . . .’ Dr Tregullow dipped a gleaming fountain pen into a bottle of Quink, keeping Jenny in suspense as he flicked the tiny silver lever, releasing it slowly to allow the ink to fill the rubber tube inside. Then he made a mess with it, dropping blots onto his leather desk and mopping it up with a tartan hanky. ‘Dratted thing.’ He wrote something on a pad of paper.

  ‘Are you writing a prescription?’ Jenny asked, hoping for a magic potion in a dark bottle which would stop Lottie being sick.

  ‘No. There’s nothing I can give her today. I’m just making a note of her symptoms.’

  ‘But what if she goes on being sick? It’s been every day this last week.’

  ‘I don’t think we should jump to conclusions,’ he said. ‘If it continues, then bring her back for further examination.’

  ‘So you didn’t examine her tummy?’

  ‘No. She didn’t want me to so I didn’t force the issue. She seemed nervous and jumpy. Given her age and the fact that her periods still haven’t returned after her illness, I think it may be hormonal moodiness, if you understand what I mean.’

  ‘Oh I do, yes.’

  ‘Keep an eye on her, and don’t be cross with her for being sick. I’m sure it will resolve itself one way or another. Is there any chance she doesn’t want to go to school? Deep down, I mean. She bottles it up, doesn’t she?’

  ‘No, she likes school and she wants to study.’ Jenny remembered the sunny day when Lottie had played truant. She wasn’t going to tell the doctor that.

  ‘Has she got friends?’

  ‘Oh yes – she’s thick as thieves with Morwenna Bartle and I’m not happy about it. Morwenna is a bad girl, don’t you think?’

  ‘I can’t comment on another patient, I’m afraid.’

  Jenny left the surgery feeling frustrated. It had been a waste of time. She wanted answers. Doctors were a pompous bunch, in her opinion, especially this one who hadn’t got a family of his own. She felt even more worried. Who could she talk to? If only Millie were there.

  It was raining as she limped down The Stennack and she didn’t feel like getting soaked on the long walk home. She decided to go and see John. She wound her way through the narrow alleyways and bumped into Maudie Tripconey, who was coming out of the bakery. Jenny said good morning and tried to walk on but Maudie homed in on her. ‘‘Ow’s yer leg?’ she asked, trying to be nice.

  ‘It’s a nuisance,’ Jenny said, ‘but at least I can walk.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Maudie filled the space in front of her between a parked car and the wall. Her eyes glittered. ‘That girl of yours, you want to watch her,’ she warned.

  ‘Lottie?’

  ‘Yes, Lottie. She goes off with your boy, Matt, on his boat. And, believe me . . .’ Maudie lowered her voice and pushed her pug-like face close to Jenny, ‘they’m up to no good, those two. You watch out. Lottie’s a nice girl, I like her – everyone does. But that boy, great tall thing, he were always trouble, weren’t he? He’ll lead her into trouble – trouble you don’t want, I’m tellin’ you.’

  ‘Don’t you criticise my family, Maudie. Mind your own business,’ Jenny fired back, tossing her head. ‘Excuse me, I haven’t got time for this.’ She squeezed past Maudie.

  ‘You’ll wish you’d listened to me, Jenny Lanroska,’ Maudie called after her. ‘I’m trying to warn you, but you can’t see it, oh no. You g
o on then – too good to talk to me now you live in that posh house up there.’

  It was hard to look dignified with an iron leg. By the time Jenny reached John’s gallery, her face was flushed with the worry. Interfering old bat, she muttered to herself. And she pongs to high heaven.

  John was busy painting in his studio, his smock covered in colour. The smell of turpentine and oil paint was somehow calming, as was his greeting.

  ‘Jenny! What a nice surprise!’ John put his brushes down, his eyes calm and bright as he gazed at her. ‘Your hair is sparkling!’ he breathed. ‘And your face is glowing. You look so beautiful – like a rose in the rain.’

  ‘Why, thank you, John. I haven’t had a compliment like that since I was a girl,’ Jenny said coyly. She took a step back, thinking John was too close. His eyes continued appraising her. ‘Can I sit down for a minute, please?’ she asked. ‘I’m worn out.’

  ‘Of course, my dear.’

  There was only one chair in his studio, a Lloyd Loom cane chair painted green. It was piled high with sketch pads and books. He picked it all up in an armful and dumped it on the paint-spattered floor. ‘Would you like a cup of coffee?’ he asked.

  ‘Coffee? I don’t know – never tasted it.’

  ‘You’ll like it,’ John assured her. ‘It won’t take a minute. I’ve got an electric kettle now.’

  ‘All right – I’d like to try it.’ Jenny tried to relax as John went into the kitchen. If only he knew how hard it was for her to be there in the studio, the very cottage that had been her home. She felt nostalgic and tried to distract herself by gazing around at the paintings on the wall, embarrassed to see one of a woman with no clothes on. Jenny tried not to look at it, but the woman’s face was familiar. Olivia! He’d painted her in the nude. Was John still in love with his ex-wife, Jenny wondered. She couldn’t stop looking at it. The eyes were so compelling.

  ‘Don’t take any notice of that one,’ John said. ‘I painted it years ago, before Lottie was born.’

  ‘Has Lottie seen it?’

  ‘Yes. She doesn’t like it, but at her age she wouldn’t, would she? No. She sits with her back to it when she comes here.’ John put two mugs of steaming coffee on an upturned fish crate. ‘I’ve added some brown sugar to yours.’

  Jenny sipped the unfamiliar coffee. ‘Mmm, it’s lovely.’

  John sat close to her on a kitchen chair and they talked about Lottie. Why Jenny had taken her to the doctor and how she was getting on at school. ‘I’ve got high hopes for her,’ John said, proudly. ‘She’s a bright girl – she’s sure to get into college. I wouldn’t want her to end up packing fish.’

  ‘She won’t,’ Jenny said firmly. ‘She’ll have a career. I’m proud of her too and so is Nan.’

  ‘You should be proud of young Matt too,’ John said. ‘Did you know Lottie brought him to see me?’

  ‘No,’ Jenny said, surprised. ‘Lottie’s getting increasingly secretive.’

  ‘Well, I liked Matt a lot,’ John said. ‘He ought to have a career. He’s a gifted artist, you know. He brought his sketches to show me – in fact, he asked if I would store them here for him. He was worried about them getting wet in the boat so I told him I would. I might even frame a few for him and put them on the wall. He’s a brave young fellow and I’d like to help him.’

  Jenny gulped. It was hard to admit she hadn’t even seen Matt’s pictures, especially to John, who was looking at her with concern.

  ‘You look upset, my dear,’ he said gently.

  Jenny couldn’t speak. A bit of kindness from John and she’d fall apart. She didn’t want him to see her weakness; she wanted him to have confidence in her as Lottie’s adoptive mother. She must be strong and cheerful. Not weepy and needy.

  ‘Would you like to see Matt’s work?’ John said, instinctively rescuing her.

  Jenny nodded. ‘I’d love to.’

  John opened a wide shallow drawer under the worktop and took out a homemade cardboard folder. Even seeing his name, Matt Lanroska, beautifully inscribed on the front made Jenny worse. Usually she was in control and able to laugh and chat convincingly when she felt terrible, but now, with John’s kind face hovering over Matt’s folder, her strength seemed to have deserted her. She felt vulnerable and weepy. And John had noticed. She could tell from the way he kept peering at her, with kindness in his dark blue eyes, so like Lottie’s. Jenny held herself still and quiet as he opened the folder.

  ‘I was moved by his story,’ John said. ‘He’d no money so he started out with just two pencils, an HB and a 2B. These are the first ones he did at Carn Brea.’

  Jenny felt her eyes widening. ‘They’re marvellous!’ she managed to say, fascinated by the way Matt had boldly sketched the great granite boulders and used them to frame bits of the distant landscape, exquisite little cameos of tiny tin mines, cottages and trees.

  ‘They get better,’ John said, pleased at her reaction. ‘These next ones were done on the beach at Portreath.’

  ‘Oh, look at that!’ Jenny breathed, marvelling at his swirly drawings of seals and sea caves. The seals’ eyes seemed to stare off the page, so real, so peaceful, and so . . . motherly. More motherly than she had been. She managed to speak the word aloud: ‘Motherly’. The feel of it on her tongue was velvety and reproachful. She held up her hand. ‘Don’t show me any more. I must go home.’ She tried to stand up and leave in a dignified manner.

  ‘Jenny!’ The tender way he said her name in a low, kindly voice was both healing and disempowering. She sat down again and John’s arm was around her shoulders, his hand patting gently, and she let him pull her in closer, her head resting on the cool thick cotton of his smock, smelling the oil paint, hearing the slow, calm beat of his heart. ‘I know how it hurts to lose a child.’ He kept repeating it, like a mantra, and it somehow simplified everything, gave her freedom to cry and time to recover.

  Eventually she felt peace returning, as if John’s steady heartbeat had restored her. She detached herself, found her hanky and dried the tears from her hot cheeks. ‘I’m sorry, I . . .’

  ‘Don’t apologise.’ John faced her squarely, a hand on each of her shoulders, compelling her to meet his eyes. ‘You’ve been a wonderful mother, Jenny. Wonderful. I know that from Lottie, and I can see it for myself. Matt does love you – deep down, he does – and he’ll come back to you in time. Just hold the faith and believe in him. He’s a young man now and young men are full of feelings they can’t handle. He’ll come back – believe me – and it’s not your fault. You be proud of who you are, Jenny.’

  ‘I . . . don’t know who I am anymore.’ Jenny looked down at her iron leg.

  ‘You’re a beacon of love and courage,’ John said, and she felt the power of him, the stability, and the passion in his gaze as he said, ‘You’re everyone’s mother, Jenny. And you’re full of children.’

  It seemed an odd thing to say. But Jenny loved it. The words went straight to her heart and stayed with her. She sighed. ‘You’ve made me feel better, John. Thanks.’ She wanted to kiss him, but held back. ‘I can look at the rest of Matt’s pictures now. Then I simply must go. I left Nan minding Warren so goodness knows what I’ll find when I get back.’ She grinned, feeling more like herself.

  Half an hour later she set off on the long walk home, her iron leg lighter, her mind free of torment. She loved the image John had given her. It sang in her heart.

  Chapter 12

  Warren

  ‘I don’t think we can manage.’

  Nan’s face was serious as she gathered the family around the kitchen table on the first day of the children’s long summer break from school. Between her freckled hands was the money box, a battered red OXO tin with a lid. She prised it open and showed them the stash of coins inside. Pennies and halfpennies, threepenny bits, sixpences and shillings, a few florins and half-crowns.

  ‘Cor – we can have ice creams!’ Tom said, and Jenny gave his leg a smack under the table. ‘Ow.’ He glared at her indignantly.

&n
bsp; ‘Don’t you dare even speak,’ Jenny hissed. ‘Listen to Nan. This is deadly serious.’

  Nan fired a glint of approval at her across the table. She burrowed under the coins and extracted a few ten-shilling notes and pound notes. ‘This looks like a lot,’ she said, ‘but it’s got to feed five people and buy corn for the chickens and pay the milkman and buy shoes if anyone needs them.’

  ‘I do. Mine are pinching,’ Tom said, ‘and Warren does too.’

  ‘Shush.’ This time he got a fierce poke from Jenny and a steely glare from Nan.

  Lottie sat quietly next to Jenny. She and Jenny had done it all before. Poverty. Burning the chairs to keep warm. A bad time they both wanted to forget. It was different now, for Lottie anyway. Her father would buy her shoes and meals if needed, though she didn’t think it would be right or tactful to say so.

  She still couldn’t help feeling sad, even though her morning sickness had disappeared, she’d finished her exams and she felt well and energetic. It was July, and the first hazy blue morning of the summer holidays should have been a joyful time of freedom, with long days of swimming and picnics stretching ahead. Carefree days.

  Warren sat leaning on Jenny, looking at Nan with anxious eyes. But he was better. Since Nan had taken him under her wing, he’d gained confidence, still refusing point-blank to go to school, but thriving at home with Nan’s music lessons and stories, and Jenny’s patient, loving efforts to teach him to talk.

  ‘The only money we have is what I earn from Mufty’s cart,’ Nan said. ‘The tourists are flocking into St Ives now and I can’t make enough things to sell. Jenny is knitting hats, but now you children must help me too – think of things you can make and sell. We’ve got to all pull together. Otherwise, come the winter, there’ll be no money in this tin.’