An Orphan's Winter

by Sheila Jeffries

  The sea was far away. And Matt was far away.

  It hurt.

  How was she going to stand it? What was she doing here in London?

  Panic spun through her. Thoughts came at her like traffic and she felt marooned in the middle of a highway, vulnerable and alone, each thought louder, harder, brighter. The same ones. Relentlessly coming at her. Matt was far away. Nan, and Jenny and Mufty, and Tom, and Morwenna. St Ives Harbour. The moon on the sea. The flowers on the cliffs. The white, white waves.

  Go back. Go home. You must go home. You can’t live here in London with its black umbrellas and its vertical rain. The voice of London is stern and unforgiving.

  Panic was something new to Lottie. She’d always considered herself brave and confident. But now, in a perfectly safe place, she found herself gasping for breath, dizzy, shivering, her cheek pressed against the cold glass between her and the rain. It was hard not to scream.

  Terrified she might die, Lottie stumbled back to the bed and sat on it. She wrapped the army blanket tightly around her shoulders and over her knees like a tent. She held onto the knitted donkey, feeling Jenny in every stitch. Jenny when she was calm and motherly.

  The real Jenny.

  Not the Jenny who had dragged her out of school and screamed at her, called her those terrible names. Unfair, untrue, undeserved names.

  The real Jenny who had carried her home from the shipwreck. Lottie wanted her badly. No one else would do. Not even Nan.

  I was born again, Lottie thought, when Jenny lifted me up from the sand, wrapped me tightly in her shawl and took me into her family – the Lanroska family. I was born again.

  A flutter of movement deep in her womb brought sudden peace. Little star! She wasn’t far away. She was there. Lottie managed to slow her breathing down. The rain stopped and the window sparkled like the sea.

  Lottie got back in bed, the scratchy blanket wrapped around her, the two pillows heavenly against her cheek. Her breath became steady and sleepy. She remembered her plan. On the long train journey, she’d closed her eyes and planned every detail of her future life. It was bold. But it would work. She’d make it work.

  The only problem for her would be learning to tell lies.

  Chapter 19

  The Road to Ruin

  A flicker of excitement lit up John’s mind as he surfaced from sleep the next morning. He was going to buy Jenny a ring – and he intended to propose. Secretly, he believed she would accept, and Lottie would be thrilled. He even allowed himself to dream about a wedding, with Lottie as a bridesmaid and Nan in a flowery hat.

  The dream had sustained him during the train journey from Cornwall, with the anxiety he felt about Lottie’s uncharacteristic silence, the strange decision she had made and the look in her eyes.

  Arriving at the flat had been difficult for John. It was a decent flat, comfortably furnished from his own efforts, and it hurt to see it so messy. The place felt abused and unloved, and the smell of wine had permeated the upholstery, the curtains, and even the walls with their heavy anaglypta wallpaper. John didn’t want a confrontation with his ex-wife, especially with Lottie there. He felt reasonably confident that Lottie would soon return to Cornwall, and to Jenny. Hopefully they’d only had a minor upset, which the two of them would quickly forgive and forget.

  Comfortable on the drop-end Chesterfield sofa, he dozed for a while, dreaming of choosing a ring for Jenny. A ruby. He thought she was definitely a ruby kind of person, and the red would be deep like a red rose. Red was for courage, and Jenny was the brightest, most courageous woman he’d ever met, and so motherly. He’d go to Hatton Garden and choose a sparkling ruby ring and take it home in a secret box. A perfect ring for his perfect woman.

  Olivia was moving around in the kitchen and John was pleasantly surprised when she brought his breakfast in on a tray.

  She’s made an effort, he thought. She must want something, probably money – or the moon.

  ‘How kind of you,’ he said, eyeing the boiled egg, the crusty bread roll with butter and marmalade, and the steaming mug of strong coffee. ‘Exactly what I need.’

  He took the tray to the dining table in the window. Olivia sat down with him, sipping her own mug of coffee, her eyes anxious. ‘Are you going to do the same for Lottie?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, I suppose I could,’ she said. ‘When I’ve had a coffee. But while she’s asleep we should talk about this, John. I’m not sure I can manage her if she’s being so moody. And if she intends to stay, I want to enrol her in a good school. She must have decent clothes, too, for London. I shall need some money, of course.’

  John shut his eyes for a moment. The whine of Olivia’s voice was painfully familiar. He ate his breakfast mindfully, concentrating on breaking the crusty bread roll, buttering it and munching.

  ‘Don’t go silent on me, John. I mean . . . look, you can’t just dump Charlotte on me with no warning. I don’t understand why she suddenly wants to be here when she won’t even talk to me. She shuts me out. If she wants to live here then she must live by my rules. Otherwise you will have to stay here with her.’

  John felt pressure rising in his head. ‘That’s not an option, Olivia. I have a business to run in St Ives.’

  He noticed how her painted nails were digging into her arms, going deeper and deeper, leaving marks on her white skin. It was a habit that had driven him mad in the past. Remembering it was painful.

  ‘Calm down,’ he said, and that made her worse. ‘Why don’t you go and get Lottie’s breakfast?’ he suggested. ‘Then we can talk to her about what she wants to do.’

  Olivia sighed. She finished her coffee and went into the kitchen. John saw her open the fridge, take out a large jug and swig from it. Then she leaned against the wall, holding her head.

  Wine, John thought. At breakfast time.

  He felt a surge of anger. Something he was no longer used to dealing with. Anger belonged to the past, to those painful years of being married to Olivia, compounded by the fact that he’d idolised and admired her beauty. But her grace and sparkle were transient, like a soap bubble.

  John watched her carry a breakfast tray to Lottie’s bedroom. She tapped on the door, opened it and went in.

  ‘Wakey, wakey, honey-child. Breakfast in bed!’

  John smiled at the enthusiasm in her voice. He hoped Lottie would respond with a warm thank you. Instead there was a jangle of china as Olivia banged the tray down.

  ‘Oh no!’ she cried, and reappeared in the doorway, her hollow cheeks taut with shock. ‘She’s gone, John.’

  ‘Gone?’

  John got up and joined Olivia. They looked down at Lottie’s neatly made bed. ‘Where can she be?’ Olivia wrung her hands. ‘She can’t go out on her own in a strange city. John, this is London, not St Ives. How am I going to cope with her? She’s a liability. What am I going to do?’ Olivia cried a few panicky tears. ‘She’ll get lost – or . . . or attacked.’

  ‘No, she won’t,’ John said calmly, ‘not Lottie. Believe me, Olivia, she is smart. Let’s not panic. Has she left a note?’

  On top of the chest of drawers was a square of folded paper, torn from a notebook. Olivia pounced on it. Gone for a walk. Back soon. Lottie.

  She handed it to John.

  ‘She must have sneaked out so quietly. Surely you heard her, John?’

  ‘I did sleep heavily.’

  ‘We’ve had nothing but trouble with this child,’ Olivia moaned.

  ‘Excuse me, I dispute that.’ John’s eyes hardened with indignation. ‘Lottie has had nothing but trouble from us. From me, her father working abroad, and from you, abandoning her when she was only four.’

  ‘I didn’t abandon her. I left her with your mother. How was I to know she was going to die?’

  John turned to stone. ‘Let’s not dig up the past.’

  Olivia tossed her head. ‘One of your favourite get-out lines. Charlotte is a devious child and when she lives with me, I shall stop this nonsense about her name. She won�
�t be Lottie Lanroska in London. Charlotte De Lumen has a very different ring to it. And as she grows up, I shall make sure she meets some classy, eligible young men – a cut above that lanky, insolent boy she goes around with in St Ives.’

  ‘If you mean Matt, he’s a fine young man – courageous, and a gifted artist. And he’s Lottie’s brother, Olivia.’

  ‘Not by birth.’

  ‘No, but Lottie has grown up with him and they’re good friends. She’s going to miss him, and Tom and Jenny. I hope you’ll be kind to her, Olivia.’

  They both turned at the sound of a key in the lock, and Lottie came in, the ends of her hair curling and glistening from the rain, her eyes bright. John gave her a hug.

  ‘Good to see you looking better,’ he said warmly. He looked into her eyes and detected a secretive gleam. ‘Not too wet, I hope?’

  ‘I’m glad you gave me a key, Daddy. I borrowed your umbrella, and I—’

  ‘Where the hell have you been, Charlotte? Answer me. Charlotte!’ Olivia gave her a look of cold, matriarchal steel.

  Lottie threw her a contemptuous glare, the light in her eyes dying as she marched into the bedroom and closed the door with a dignified click.

  *

  Jenny lay in bed with her face to the wall. Outside, the autumn sunshine glowed on cottage walls, warming the granite and drying the fishing nets spread out across the island. The cliffs beyond Hendravean were alive with bobbing butterflies feeding on the late flowers of greater knapweed, and flocks of finches pecking the seed pods of thistle and teasel. Tom had gone to school and Nan worked alone in the garden, collecting and labelling seeds into envelopes.

  It was a beautiful day; a day to enjoy before the wheel of the year turned again to winter, to bitter winds, storms and hardship. But Jenny refused to get up. She’d had enough. Tom’s unexpected outburst had been the last straw. Tom, who had always been dependably cuddly, imperturbable and loyal, had turned on her, removing the last shreds of hope. After Tom, there would be nothing. The family Jenny loved so fiercely had gone. Arnie, Matt, Warren, and finally Lottie.

  Was Tom right? Have I driven them away?

  She’d tried so hard to love and guide them. Bringing up children alone was a harrowing, exhausting task. Hiding the constant pain and inconvenience of her iron leg. Sharing Nan’s home. Despite Nan’s kindness, Jenny felt beholden to her. She felt victimised and abandoned, punished by life, worn down until she no longer existed.

  At lunchtime, Nan came in with a tray, a bowl of homemade soup, which smelled good, and a thick slice of fresh bread. ‘Sit up, Jenny. Come on, you’ve got to eat something.’

  Nan’s voice, the clink of china and the aroma of soup seemed distant to Jenny, a world on the other side of a bank of dense fog. She needed to keep totally still and unresponsive. To move or speak would open the floodgates to a torrent of grief and despair.

  ‘Jenny!’ There was irritation in Nan’s voice. ‘I’ve never seen you like this. Are you in pain?’

  ‘No.’ Jenny’s voice sounded like the moan of a storm wind.

  ‘Are you ill or sick in some way?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then you must make an effort. Frankly, I could do with some help.’

  Nan’s voice floated in the distance. Please just go away. Leave me alone, Jenny thought.

  But Nan wasn’t going to. ‘Jenny, will you please pull yourself together.’

  She didn’t move. A wisp of anger at Nan’s attitude drifted by and Jenny let it go. Enough anger. Enough, she told herself.

  Nan put the tray down and patted her on the shoulder. ‘Jenny, you must pull yourself out of this. If you don’t, I shall be obliged to call the doctor – and I’m sorry to say he will declare you mentally ill. He will send you to Bodmin, Jenny, I’m warning you, and I’m doing it for your own good. If you go on like this you will lose everything. I know you think you’ve lost everything already, but you haven’t, Jenny, you haven’t. You’ve got a safe home, you’ve got Tom, and you’ve got me, even if I am an old battleaxe. And there’s John. He’ll want to see you, won’t he?’

  ‘No!’ Jenny cried. ‘Don’t let John near me – please.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I can’t let him see me like this.’

  ‘Well, isn’t that a good reason to sit up, eat your lunch and wash your face, Jenny, and brush your hair. That’s all you need to do. John will understand, believe me. He thinks the world of you.’

  ‘He did. But he won’t now. I can’t see him, Nan, keep him away – please. I don’t want him to see me at my worst.’ Jenny managed to sit up, driven by the words tumbling through her mind.

  ‘I don’t think John is a fine-weather friend.’

  ‘But he thought I was such a good mother to Lottie.’ Jenny stared at Nan with desperate eyes. ‘And I’ve been a rotten, useless, angry witch of a mother. I’ve driven Lottie away – and . . . and . . . it’s truly the most terrible thing I’ve ever done, Nan. I want her back. I love her so much. But she’ll never forgive me. I let her down when she needed me the most. Oh, what am I going to do, Nan?’

  Nan was sitting on the bed, looking shabby but rocklike. ‘You are going to calm down, dry your eyes, and make yourself eat this lovely soup. My soup makes people feel better, believe me – try it.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘No buts. One thing at a time. You’ve managed to sit up. Now eat. I’ll leave you to it. I need some lunch too.’ Nan heaved herself up and left the room.

  Jenny knew she was right. She took a deep breath, tasted the soup and discovered that she did want it, and every spoonful filled her with simple warmth and goodness. Her body felt softer and more ready to move, wanting to move, yet knowing it wasn’t strong enough to carry the weight in her mind. To move would be to see with every step some new reminder of Lottie and Matt and Warren – and Arnie.

  Jenny closed her eyes and relapsed into sleep, a sleep embossed with one thought, I can’t live like this.

  *

  ‘I’ll stay another night if I have to,’ John said as he walked by the river with Lottie. ‘I need to be sure you are all right.’

  ‘I’ll be okay, Daddy.’

  ‘But can you handle being alone with your mother?’

  ‘I won’t be with her much. I’ll be out, like we are now.’ Lottie stopped to lean on the wide stone balustrade to gaze at the river. ‘I didn’t know the River Thames was so wide and crowded with boats. What muddy water flowing very fast – it’s powerful, isn’t it?’

  ‘Oh, that’s not the river’s power – it’s the tide,’ John explained, enjoying the look of wonder on Lottie’s face. For a moment she looked like herself again.

  ‘The tide? How can the tide be in the middle of London?’

  ‘It floods in from the North Sea twice a day, thanks to the moon.’

  ‘The moon.’ Lottie’s eyes widened. ‘Does it make a silver pathway on the river?’

  ‘It might in some places, but not like it does in St Ives.’

  ‘And the sun – does it rise over the water and make a blaze of gold?’

  ‘No – not much,’ John said, feeling her sadness and her longing already burning for the special light of St Ives shining on a clean, vast ocean, not random sparkles on a muddy river.

  Lottie fell silent again, her eyes watching the swirling water, her hair burnished by the coppery sunlight of London.

  John felt proud to be with her. My daughter, he kept thinking. If only he knew what was troubling her. What had made her so determined to come to London to be with a mother she said she hated? He remembered his brief conversation with Nan when he’d phoned to tell her they were in London. Nan had sounded unusually tense, and Jenny wouldn’t come to the phone. Nan had said only one meaningful thing: ‘You must talk to Lottie. She needs to tell you something.’

  He led her along the embankment to a seat tucked against a wall at right angles to the river, facing the sun. ‘Shall we sit down for a minute? This is my favourite place to sit in Londo
n. I’ve spent many hours on this seat, Lottie, drawing and thinking, sometimes reading.’

  She seemed glad to sit down.

  ‘Are you tired?’ he asked.

  ‘A bit.’

  They sat in silence. He wondered how to begin to ask her what Nan had meant. Could it be something to do with Olivia?

  ‘I will give you some advice,’ he said, and Lottie looked at him in alarm. ‘I’ve lived with your mother, and I found the best way to handle her was not to argue with her. Just say yes and no, keep calm, and do what you want anyway.’

  Lottie gave him a rare smile. ‘That sounds very wise – and wicked, Daddy. I’ll remember it.’

  ‘And where’s the key I gave you?’

  ‘In my bag.’

  ‘Keep it on a string around your neck – at all times,’ he warned, ‘because Olivia is devious and she wants to control you. If she decides to take that key, you won’t get it back.’

  Lottie nodded. ‘Okay.’

  ‘And you must be careful in London if you go for walks. There are people you can’t trust.’

  ‘Daddy, I already know plenty of people at home who I can’t trust.’

  John gave her a searching stare, a slight frown on his brow as he detected the hurt in her dark blue eyes. For a minute she looked at him miserably, then continued to gaze at the river. ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Lottie. I thought you were happy at home.’

  ‘I was.’ Her voice went low. She began twiddling a strand of her hair, winding and unwinding it.

  ‘Was?’ John asked sharply. ‘So – who has let you down?’

  ‘Morwenna, and Morwenna’s mum, and . . .’ Lottie paused. Her voice had gone so low that John strained to hear it against the noise of London. He was aware of the tension in her as she struggled to speak.