An Orphan's Winter

by Sheila Jeffries

  Jenny was still on the doorstep.

  ‘It’s only me, Jenny, don’t be alarmed.’ John hurried towards her, breathing hard.

  ‘What happened?’ she asked, her eyes big in the moonlight. ‘Did you fall off your bike?’

  ‘No. I’ve found Warren’s jacket – and it’s full of cash, Jenny. It is his, isn’t it?’

  Jenny gave a cry and took the threadbare jacket, cuddling it against her face. ‘Yes, it’s his.’ Her eyes widened as she felt the weight of the coins. ‘Oh, John – poor Warren. He’d have been so proud to bring it home to Nan after doing the busking all on his own. He’d have loved it. I can’t bear to think about it. Oh John . . .’

  John held her and they clung together, the jacket between them, both silent, sharing a wordless anguish.

  ‘What could have happened to him?’ Jenny whispered.

  John pulled himself together and became suddenly business-like. ‘We must telephone the police, immediately. Warren could be lying somewhere – hurt. It’s no good waiting until morning. He could be . . .’

  They stared at each other in horror.

  ‘You make the phone call, John, please,’ Jenny said. ‘I couldn’t talk to them. They’d better care . . .’

  She stood in the moonlit garden hugging Warren’s jacket while John reached the hall telephone in a few brisk strides. ‘It needs your urgent attention, sergeant,’ she heard him say. ‘We need lights and a search party or that boy could die.’

  Nan appeared at the top of the stairs in the voluminous white gown she wore in bed. ‘What the hell is going on down there?’ she boomed. ‘I can’t sleep in my own bed.’

  Jenny put her finger to her lips. ‘Shh.’

  ‘Don’t you shush me! What is going on? Is there a fire?’

  ‘No, but will you come downstairs, Nan?’ Jenny said, trying to keep her voice calm. Calm, like John. ‘There’s something you’ve got to see.’

  ‘At this unearthly hour?’

  ‘Yes.’ Come on, Nan, don’t be awkward, she prayed, still clutching Warren’s little jacket. Nan had to see it. Jenny hoped it would touch her heart.

  Still talking to the police, John didn’t move from the phone. Only his eyes moved, fixing Nan with an unwavering, autocratic stare. She clamped her mouth shut and began to come down in her bare feet, the stairs creaking as she clung to the banister. Bartholomew sat at the top, meowing. He waited until Nan was safely down, then descended at a fast trot with his tail up.

  John put the phone down and turned to face them. ‘A police car is on its way now with two policemen. They’re bringing searchlights and a dog. And a second car will come over from Penzance.’ He turned to Nan, his expression softening respectfully. ‘Excuse me, Nan, invading your home at this time of night. Would you come and sit down and we’ll explain what’s happening.’ Escorted by Bartholomew, he steered Nan into the kitchen and Jenny followed.

  The three of them sat round the kitchen table with Nan at the head. Jenny put the jacket on the table. She smoothed it lovingly, her voice breaking as she said, ‘Nan – this is Warren’s little jacket. John found it in the lane – and it’s full of money. Feel the weight of it.’

  Nan’s mouth stayed clamped and anger flared briefly in her eyes. She took the jacket in both hands and suddenly began to shake with emotion.

  ‘He was nearly home, Nan. He was bringing the money he earned from busking, and he must have been so looking forward to giving it to you. It looks like he was attacked or kidnapped in the lane, poor little mite.’

  Nan looked at the passion in Jenny’s eyes and remembered how her own eyes had welled with tears when she’d heard Warren playing.

  ‘He wanted to please you so much, Nan. He wanted you to have this money. I know he doesn’t talk but he’s got a heart.’

  Nan shut her eyes and nodded. ‘Pray to God they find him.’

  *

  In the morning, the cobbled streets of St Ives rang with music and rumbled with the scrape of cartwheels and heavy horses pulling wagons stacked high with colourful timber and bunting. Behind the horse wagons a few lorries roared slowly along, their loads strapped down under tarpaulins. Each wagon bore a multi-coloured placard. One said CAROUSEL, another HELTER-SKELTER, others TOMBOLA, ROLL-A-PENNY and COCONUT SHY. As the procession entered the town, clog dancers and Morris men danced between the wagons with bells on their socks. Musicians sat high up on the front of the wagons playing piano-accordions, violins and banjos.

  The town welcomed the funfair with the flag of St Piran flying from garden gates and windows and, instead of washing, there was bunting strung across the streets. Many smaller funfairs and circuses came throughout the summer, setting up on the wide grassy space at the foot of the island. This one was the biggest and the best – The Harvest Fair – and there would be market stalls and local produce: Cornish butter and cream, candyfloss, fudge and toffee apples.

  Hidden in the back of one of the wagons, Warren lay curled up on the floor, his hands still tied together, his head aching from the blow. Alternately waking and sleeping, he kept quiet, knowing what would happen if he cried or called out, or kicked at the sides of the wagon.

  His dad would never let him go – he would have to escape. But that couldn’t happen until he’d somehow earned his dad’s trust again. It meant long, miserable weeks of pretending to be good, never daring to ask for anything, even for time in the sunshine. It would go on until he was grown up and big enough to fight back. That time seemed far away, but worth thinking about. Good things had happened in his life. Like Jenny holding him close like a mother. Jenny teaching him to talk.

  Warren made up his mind to carry on, listening and learning, and teach himself to talk. Music wasn’t enough. To have a life worth living he must talk. Like Lottie. Warren was in awe of Lottie and the way she talked and read stories to him. He thought he might be in love with Lottie. She inspired him, and just thinking about her as he huddled on the grubby floor of the wagon lifted his spirits. Then there was Tom. Warren had never had a friend, and Tom had been a true friend. Tom had played with him and hadn’t teased him. Tom had been patient and understanding – and fun. Everyone in the Lanroska family had given Warren a life. Even Nan. Even Mufty and the cats had given him limitless, unconditional love.

  He stared at a slender crack of sunlight blazing into the gloom of the green tarpaulin. The short time he’d been with the Lanroskas seemed longer than the rest of his young life, and it shone as brightly as that crack of sunlight. And he hadn’t told them. Jenny had patiently taught him to say thank you, but he hadn’t said it to her. He had to go back.

  Escape or die, he thought desperately. Escape or die.

  Why live on the floor in the dark, in the fear, in the anger? Why live like that when you could love and be loved?

  For three days and nights, Warren huddled there, alone, listening to the raucous sound of the funfair, the laughter, the screams from the helter-skelter. Then night, and the soothing, eternal roar of the surf. Then morning. Dawn, and the symphony of seagulls. Then people walking past.

  And no one called his name.

  On the fourth day, the funfair was dismantled and loaded noisily onto the lorries and wagons. Heading up country for the winter, so they said. The procession formed up, this time without the musicians and dancers, and rolled back up the hill and out of St Ives, perhaps never to return.

  Chapter 14

  A Tiny Heartbeat

  ‘Time to say goodbye,’ Matt said, helping Lottie off the boat and onto the slipway. He’d taken her for one last trip on that September morning.

  Unexpectedly tearful, Lottie looked into his eyes, searching desperately for a way in. She still hadn’t told him – and now it was too late.

  He grinned, his face glowing from the sea, sun and happiness, but the rain now starting to fall on his fisherman’s hat and on the tufts of sun-bleached hair, and on his shoulders the drops sparkled and darkened as they soaked into the thick blue cotton.

  The long sum
mer holiday was over and school would be starting again. Lottie was hoping for a place in the college class, but she would have to work hard to catch up with the studies she had missed.

  Matt looked at Lottie’s silent, desperate face in alarm. ‘What’s the matter?’

  She shook her head dumbly.

  ‘Lottie?’

  ‘I need to talk to you about . . . something,’ she murmured, and her voice sounded strange. Not her usual confident self. It sounded apologetic and nervous.

  ‘What, now?’ Matt looked puzzled. ‘Can’t it wait? There’s a swell building and I’ve got to get back to Portreath.’

  ‘Couldn’t you stay in St Ives for the night?’

  ‘No. I’ve got to earn some cash,’ Matt said. ‘You’re okay, aren’t you? We’ve had a whole day together. We’ll talk next time.’

  She shook her head again.

  ‘Come on – smile at me, Lottie.’

  ‘I don’t have to smile. I need to talk to you.’

  ‘You’re in a mood.’

  ‘It’s not a mood, Matt. It’s really, really important – and you’re the one who asked me what’s wrong.’

  A heavy wave lifted the boat and swept on, the raindrops peppering the surface of the water. A low wind blew the loose sand up the slipway.

  ‘You should have said something before. Why leave it ‘til the last minute?’

  Lottie felt mutinous. She hadn’t meant it to be like this. Both of them standing on the slipway getting soaked, and Matt shifting from one foot to the other, eyeing the sea and accusing her of being in a mood. She lifted her chin.

  ‘Forget it, Matt.’ She shook the raindrops out of her hair and walked away without looking back.

  ‘Bye, Lottie,’ he called after her.

  It wasn’t the way she wanted to say goodbye. His last look had been one of impatience. A man-of-the-world-who-had-to-work look. Not the Romeo look. But they loved each other, it was just the world getting in the way. She wasn’t going to be pathetic and clingy like Olivia.

  Lottie walked briskly until she was out of sight of the harbour.

  Who could I talk to? I’ve got two mothers, she thought, and I can’t talk to either of them.

  School was starting on Monday and she couldn’t go on like this. It had been a wonderful summer. Now it was time to face the truth.

  She headed up The Stennack to Dr Tregullow’s surgery, went in and sat on one of the hard leather chairs in the waiting room, planning what she would say.

  She was last in the queue and when Dr Tregullow popped his head round the door to say ‘Next, please’, he looked surprised. ‘Are you here on your own, Lottie?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where’s your mother?’

  ‘She’s busy at home.’

  ‘Does she know you’re here, young lady?’

  ‘No . . .’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘Then I ought to say no, I won’t see you. It’s not my policy to see a girl of your age without her mother.’

  Lottie looked at him desperately. ‘Please, please see me. Can’t you bend the rules just this once? I have to see a doctor, and it’s private. I don’t want you to tell anyone.’

  ‘Well, well, well.’ Dr Tregullow looked at her over the top of his glasses. ‘What have you been up to?’

  ‘Please – it’s urgent.’

  He sighed. ‘All right. Come on in.’

  She sat on an even harder leather chair, waiting while he inspected her notes from a brown cardboard folder. ‘Ah – last time you were here it was sickness.’ He folded his hands together and looked at her shrewdly. ‘So what is it this time?’

  Lottie took a deep breath. ‘Can you – can you tell if I’m going to have a baby?’

  He tutted. ‘Oh dear. Well, yes, of course I can.’

  ‘But please – please don’t tell Jenny . . .’

  ‘I presume you’ve had sexual intercourse?’

  Lottie frowned. Sexual intercourse? It sounded so boring and clinical. Nothing like the lovemaking she’d had with Matt. Was it really so unromantic? ‘Yes,’ she managed to say, and felt herself blushing with embarrassment.

  ‘How long ago?’

  ‘Yesterday.’

  He tutted again. ‘But how long has it been going on? When was the first time?’

  ‘In December.’

  ‘And was that the only time? Or were there more?’

  ‘There were more.’

  ‘In which month?’

  ‘Regularly – since May.’

  ‘Hmm. I am surprised, I must admit.’ Dr Tregullow tweaked the end of his waxed moustache. ‘There is a test I could do, but it involves sending a urine sample to the laboratory. It’s long-winded and expensive.’

  ‘We couldn’t afford it,’ Lottie said, thinking she couldn’t possibly expect her father to pay for that.

  Dr Tregullow shut his eyes and nodded. ‘I’ve known you since you were rescued from the shipwreck, young Lottie, and I know what you and your adoptive family have been through.’

  ‘Is there another way?’ Lottie asked.

  ‘It depends how far along you are. Was there a particular time when you thought something had changed? When, perhaps you felt different after sexual intercourse?’

  Lottie closed her eyes. It came to her instantly. That day by the wishing well on Carrack Gladden – when she’d had the dream. She looked into the doctor’s eyes. Would he understand?

  ‘Yes – it might have been the thirty-first of May.’

  The doctor counted the months on his fingers. ‘June, July, August, September. Hmm – you could be far enough along for me to be able to tell. I will need to examine your tummy. Will you lie on the couch, please? I’ll be very gentle, don’t worry.’

  There was no going back. She undressed and lay down on the cold leather couch. An absurd thought came into her mind. The leather had once been skin, the skin of a cow or a pig. It was barbaric, expecting a young woman who was nervous and embarrassed to lie on the cold, well-polished skin of a dead animal. Her knees trembled.

  Dr Tregullow loomed over her, his head emerging from an immaculate collar, an apparition of nostrils, skin pores and a waxed moustache. Lottie felt she couldn’t bear him near her, but she made herself keep still as his big hands pressed and probed her tummy. Her mind screamed Stop and she tried to distract herself by turning her eyes away from his florid face. She found herself staring into the glassy eyes of a stuffed fox who was mounted on a plaque on the wall.

  At last, he lifted his hands, his eyes grave and stern. ‘I’ll just have a listen,’ he said, and reached for his stethoscope. ‘This might feel a bit cold, but I have to hold it on your abdomen for a minute. All right?’

  She nodded the tiniest of nods. It was nearly over, but getting scarier by the moment. She watched his face for clues as he listened intently, and suddenly an extraordinary light flooded his eyes. ‘Ah!’ he exclaimed. ‘I have a heartbeat.’

  Lottie’s mouth fell open. ‘My heart’s not down there!’

  He smiled. ‘Indeed it’s not.’ He put the stethoscope down. ‘Get up now, Lottie, and put your clothes on –we’ll have a little chat.’

  Lottie’s hands shook and her whole body quivered as she quickly got dressed and sat down on the chair. To her surprise, the doctor picked up his own grand leather chair, carried it round from behind the desk, put it next to her and sat down. She stared at him anxiously. He looked different, like a benevolent grandpa about to read a story.

  ‘You’re a brave, intelligent young lady, Lottie,’ he said, his voice very quiet, ‘and I want you to listen carefully to what I’m going to say and, whatever happens in the future, please remember it. Remember it always.’

  She nodded, wide-eyed and afraid.

  ‘As a doctor, I have done this hundreds of times, and when I hear a baby’s strong, fast heartbeat, it moves me deeply.’ His voice went quieter and quieter and he took her hand in a kindly grasp, compelling her to listen. ‘I want to tell you this in a certain
way.’ He paused and his old eyes smiled into hers. ‘Every baby is a miracle, and a tiny baby who wants to live is growing inside you now. It’s still very small at the moment, but if you could see it you would marvel at its perfection. It has tiny, perfect fingers and toes, and a sweet little face. It’s sleeping and growing – maybe it’s thinking and dreaming, we don’t know. But its tiny heart is beating and it wants to live and it wants you to be its mother, Lottie.’ He squeezed her hand, then let it go. ‘Always remember that, whatever happens – and don’t let anyone bully you into a wrong decision. This little one has chosen you. You are going to be a mother, Lottie.’

  She sat, stunned, frightened, yet appreciating the way this leathery old doctor with his waxed moustache had spoken directly to her soul in a language she understood: the language of poetry.

  ‘I will do everything I can to help you, Lottie,’ he assured her. ‘What about the father? Do you know who it is?’

  ‘I do, but it’s a secret.’

  ‘Does he know?’

  ‘No.’ Lottie pictured Matt, so carefree and alive on his boat. The beautiful hours of love they had shared. Love that had made a baby. She remembered the dream she’d had about the pearl in the oyster shell.

  ‘You must tell him – or I will, if you’d like me to.’

  ‘No,’ Lottie shook her head. ‘Not yet – I need time to think about it.’

  ‘And you must tell your mother, Lottie.’

  ‘Which one?’ she asked, with a trace of irony.

  ‘Jenny, of course. I know how much she loves you.’

  ‘She – she’ll go crazy. I shan’t tell her.’

  ‘You won’t be able to hide it, Lottie. I think you know that.’

  ‘Please – please don’t tell her,’ Lottie pleaded, her eyes filling with tears. ‘Please.’

  Dr Tregullow looked at her steadily. ‘You think it through, Lottie. I won’t say anything just yet, but eventually Jenny will have to know – sooner rather than later. She may be angry at first, that’s only to be expected, but she will need time to get used to the idea, and time to plan; with you, I hope, not against you.’