Worst of all was the devastating belief that she could never go back.
Lottie went back to bed, still haunted by the sound coming through the open window. It wasn’t the roar of the sea, she kept telling herself. It was the perpetual roar of London. Yet she still went to sleep imagining the surf thundering onto Porthmeor Beach.
In the morning, she quickly made herself look smart, ate a hasty breakfast of bread and butter with milky Camp Coffee. Olivia didn’t appear, and Lottie let herself out of the flat at half past seven and set out on the long walk to Mountberry Avenue. She’d studied the map and found a quicker route, cutting through a magnificent park.
She arrived just as Mr Ford-Morgan was leaving for work dressed in the blackest black she’d ever seen. A majestic overcoat, a black umbrella and a black briefcase, his tired eyes peering out at the world as if trapped under the brim of his bowler hat.
Lottie managed to smile brightly, look him in the eye and say good morning. He looked pleased.
‘Good morning, Miss Lanroska. I’m off to work as you can see. Mrs Rigby, my housekeeper, is expecting you. She’ll help you settle in. And . . .’ he stooped towards her, speaking in a low, conspiratorial tone, ‘don’t take too much notice of her. She likes to be the Queen Bee.’
Forewarned, Lottie found herself facing a pug-faced dumpy woman who looked her over suspiciously. It was unnerving, especially as she’d tried to keep her pregnancy hidden under a loose pinafore.
‘ ’Ow old are you?’ Mrs Rigby asked with a frown.
‘Twenty-one.’
‘Hmm. And where are you from?’
‘Cornwall.’
‘So what are you doing in London?’
Lottie gave her a withering look. ‘I was looking for a job. And, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get on with it.’
‘Yeah, you get on with it, dearie,’ Mrs Rigby said huffily. ‘Don’t mind me. I’m a Cockney – born within the sound of Bow Bells. I speak my mind and I’m proud of my Cockney accent.’
‘Bow bells? What are they?’ Lottie asked, sensing a legend.
‘Like in “Oranges and Lemons” – “I’m sure I don’t know, said the big bell of Bow.” ’ Her face brightened as she sang the rhyme and her expression softened when she saw Lottie smile. ‘We’ll ’ave to rub along,’ she said. ‘If you get any trouble with young Ben, send ’im to me. ’E’ll soon behave. ’E knows I’ll smack ’im if ’e don’t.’
‘I hope that won’t be necessary,’ Lottie said. ‘So where’s his bedroom?’
‘Up the stairs, first door on the right.’
Lottie set off, her shoes sinking into the lush red and gold stair carpet, aware of Mrs Rigby’s shrewd eyes watching her.
There were twenty-three steps, each one of them painful, taking her on cushioned treads away from one life and into another.
A face on each step: Nan. Jenny. Mufty. Tom. All gone. Gone from her life, perhaps forever. There was only Matt whose eyes still burned in her heart. They loved each other and surely love would find a way to reunite them – wouldn’t it?
She went eagerly into Ben’s bedroom, expecting to see the bright-faced, polite little boy who Mr Ford-Morgan had introduced to her to. Instead she saw a pair of bewildered, hostile eyes looking up at her from the pillow.
‘Hello, Ben. I’m Lottie, your new nanny.’ She gave him a radiant smile. ‘And it’s time to get up.’
The little boy didn’t smile back. His mouth pouted and his eyes filled with tears. ‘I don’t want a new nanny. I want my old nanny. Go away!’
Lottie sat down on the bed. ‘Oh, you’ll soon get used to me, Ben. We’ll have lots of fun together.’
Ben stared at her in mutinous silence. Lottie wrinkled her nose. Obviously he’d wet the bed. She tried to reassure him. ‘It doesn’t matter if the sheets are wet, Ben. You couldn’t help it.’
Ben’s small face hardened. He climbed out of bed on the other side and crawled underneath it in his wet pyjamas. ‘I’m not coming out,’ he yelled. ‘I don’t want you here. Go away!’
*
Back in St Ives, Matt waited outside the school gate, a white envelope in his hand. Inside was a letter he’d written to Lottie and he intended to ask Tom to give it to her. He sat on the wall kicking his sea-soaked boots against the granite. The day was quiet, St Ives muffled under a vast swathe of thick mist, the sea invisible except for its fringe of creamy white foam, the subdued waves whispering into the sand and sliding back like sheets of satin.
It was chilly and Matt wore his navy-blue fisherman’s jersey, the last one Jenny had knitted for him, too small now and with holes in the sleeves. He felt cold waiting outside the school and wished he was back in The Jenny Wren’s cabin, bundled in a blanket, brewing tea on the Primus stove.
Weeks had passed since he’d last seen Lottie. He’d stayed in Portreath safely out of reach, wanting to be left alone to sort his feelings out, and he intended to go back there as soon as the mist cleared and he could take the boat back.
It must be December, he realised, seeing a poster outside St Ia’s Church advertising the Advent service. Christmas was looming once more and the prospect of a family Christmas seemed even more remote.
Impossible, he thought. Now I’m more isolated than ever.
Matt had never written a letter except as an exercise in school. This one had taken hours and hours. He’d written and rewritten it umpteen times, the balls of screwed-up paper rolling around the cabin floor. He wanted it to be a love letter. Despite everything, Matt wanted Lottie back. Nothing else mattered. As for the baby, Matt still had his reservations. He wasn’t ready to be a father, expected to protect the child until it grew up, and selfishly he didn’t yet want to share his precious Lottie. He reasoned that his denial was based on an entrenched fear of motherly love. Would Lottie be taken over by its apparently awesome power? Would she love the baby more than him?
So Matt had struggled with the letter. He’d even gone into the library and searched for poems he remembered from school, and stories with love letters in them. None of it sounded Cornish. But he hoped Lottie would read it and forgive him. He hoped she’d come back to the harbour with magic in her eyes as she stepped aboard The Jenny Wren.
Once he let go of the letter, Matt knew he would be in a state of limbo. It would last until Lottie came back to him and the love would be sweeter and deeper than ever before.
Lost in thought, Matt jumped when he heard the school bell, soon followed by the voices and running feet of children going home. Tom came trudging out, his socks rumpled, his cap over his brow. For once his eyes didn’t sparkle when he saw Matt waiting. There was something different about Tom, a sullen shadow around him. It made Matt uneasy.
Tom stood solidly in front of him, unsmiling. ‘What do you want, Matt?’ he asked bluntly.
‘Will you give this to Lottie?’ Matt held out the white envelope. ‘It’s important.’
‘How can I?’ Tom’s eyes narrowed. ‘Lottie’s gone. She don’t live with us no more.’
‘What?’
‘You ’eard,’ Tom growled. His shoulders twisted and he tried to walk away from his brother.
Matt grabbed at his sleeve. ‘Hey – don’t just walk off, Tom. I didn’t know Lottie had gone. Where is she? Tell me.’
Tom stopped reluctantly. ‘She’s gone to London to stay with her birth mother.’
‘But Lottie doesn’t even like that woman. And she won’t like London – not after St Ives. How long’s she been gone?’
‘Dunno. A lot of weeks, Matt, and it’s nearly Christmas, and Lottie’s never gonna come home. I miss her, and Mum does – and Nan.’
Matt was shocked. His worst nightmare had come true. Lottie had gone to live with Olivia. And it was his fault.
‘I wish I’d known. Why didn’t anyone tell me?’ There was a silence. He looked at Tom’s eyes and thought, ’Cause I don’t matter. That’s why.
‘We didn’t even know where you were,’ Tom said, ‘and Mum keeps thinki
ng you’re dead.’
‘Dead?’
‘Yeah, she thinks you’ll get drowned, like . . . like Dad.’ Tom frowned, then looked straight into Matt’s eyes. ‘Mum wants you home for Christmas, Matt – and Lottie.’
He glanced at the letter in Matt’s hand. ‘Why don’t you put it in a letterbox? You’ve gotta stick a stamp on it.’
‘I don’t know her address. Do you?’
‘No.’ Tom’s frown deepened. ‘And if I did, I’d go up there too and live with her, Matt.’
‘Why? What’s up with you, Tom?’
Tom slid down the wall and sat with his back to it looking at the billows of mist gliding up The Stennack from the sea. ‘I know Lottie’s having a baby,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Mum’s so upset she’s lying in bed day after day with her face turned to the wall – and Nan says she’s ill and she’ll end up in . . . in the loony bin, up Bodmin or somewhere, I dunno. Why should I care? Mum don’t care about me no more, Matt. She don’t even look at me or talk to me – all ’cause I told her she’d driven Lottie away.’ Tom’s chest heaved and he put his head down on his knees and sobbed.
‘Tom!’ Matt suddenly rediscovered his role as the elder brother. He forgot about the letter and sat close, his hand on Tom’s shoulders. But he felt useless, unable to think of the right words to comfort him.
Keeping quiet, trying to send a wordless stream of empathy and love, allowed Matt a sudden, precious glimpse of his dad. A light shining in the mist, a pair of intense and soulful eyes, eyes that cared, a deep, rich Cornish voice; his dad’s voice, and it said just one word: Listen.
Matt nodded. ‘I’m listening, Tom. Talk to me. I’ll walk home with you if you like.’
Tom shrugged and plodded on down The Stennack looking at the ground. He didn’t speak until they both paused to lean on a wall and watch the waves creeping in through the mist. Tom fidgeted, then slowly turned his head and looked up at Matt. He shuffled closer to him.
‘You’re like my dad now, Matt,’ he said in a husky voice. ‘I miss you, and Lottie. And – and Lottie’s baby is gonna be lucky to have you as a dad.’
Stunned, Matt studied his brother’s candid eyes. Tom loved him! After all the bullying and fighting he’d done when they were growing up. The times he’d made Tom cry. Now Tom had set aside his own worries and made a simple, direct statement: Lottie’s baby is gonna be lucky to have you as a dad.
Like a golden key, those words unlocked an undiscovered door in Matt’s heart.
It changed everything.
He watched Tom disappear into Hendravean. Deep in thought, he headed back towards The Jenny Wren. When he came to the place where a bubbling stream crossed the lane, Matt paused on the bridge. He took the letter from his pocket and tore it into fragments, letting them flutter down into the water. His precious letter. He was glad it had gone, the tea-brown current whipping it away down a tunnel of bracken and bramble.
He’d have to start again. What he had to say was now very simple.
*
An uneasy truce had developed between Lottie and Olivia. A predictable routine turned out to be calming for both of them. Olivia liked to lie in bed until mid-morning and by the time Lottie came home in the evening, Olivia was already slightly drunk. It was Lottie who cooked their evening meal and cleared up afterwards, collecting the empty glasses her mother left lying around.
Olivia’s shopping habits were erratic and some nights it was difficult to find the ingredients to make a meal. Lottie began to feel like her mother’s servant, not her daughter. It was exhausting after a challenging day managing little Ben, then walking home on sore feet and swollen ankles.
On a Friday night Lottie hurried home, pleased to have her pay packet.
Three pounds. Three whole pounds.
She planned to pay most of it into her Post Office savings account, which John had opened for her. She carried the little book with her to work, safe in a secret pocket she’d stitched inside her apron. Olivia was not to be trusted.
The walk home was scary. Mr Ford-Morgan had looked at her sternly as he handed her the money.
‘I don’t like to think of you walking home alone with a pay packet,’ he said, and he’d stood at the top of the steps and watched her go down the road.
Earlier he’d praised her work. ‘You are excellent,’ he kept saying, ‘I heard you reading a story to young Ben and he clearly adores you – well done. I hope you’re happy here; are you, Lottie?’
Lottie swallowed. If only he knew! ‘Yes, I’m okay, thank you.’
Mr Ford-Morgan’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Okay? My goodness, that’s an Americanism, isn’t it? Don’t teach it to Ben.’
‘Sorry – no, I won’t,’ Lottie said, ‘and it is American. I picked it up in New York.’
‘You’ve been to New York? I thought you were a quiet little Cornish girl.’
‘I am. Most of the time.’ Lottie pursed her mouth and gave him a steely stare. She must be careful what she told him. Especially as he seemed keen to talk to her.
There was a hunger deep in his eyes, a hunger that seemed to get unnervingly stronger each time he talked to her.
She thought wistfully of Morwenna and her shrewd knowledge of men. What would Morwenna say about Mr Ford-Morgan? Probably: ‘ ’E’s got a look in ’is eye. ’E ain’t up to no good, Lottie. You watch out.’
It felt strange having money pressed into her hand, feeling his thumb brush her palm. But the heady sensation of suddenly having three crisp pound notes tucked into her secret pocket gave her an unexpected energy boost.
But one Friday in early December Olivia was waiting for her, bright-eyed, and she’d made an attempt at setting out their tea. ‘Hello, honey-child. Did you get your pay packet?’
Lottie felt caught in a net. She couldn’t say no, but she didn’t want to say yes, and she didn’t want to start yet another row with Olivia. Lying didn’t come naturally to her, but more and more often she was having to do it. She shrugged and sat down at the table. ‘This cake looks good.’
Olivia gave a sceptical nod. ‘Okay, honey-child, we’ll talk about money later. It’s Saturday tomorrow and I thought we’d go shopping. Wait ’til you see the shops in Oxford Street. You need some smart clothes now you’re a working girl.’
‘I don’t need anything – except a rest.’ Lottie felt like crying from sheer exhaustion. She kicked off her shoes.
Olivia gasped. ‘Look at your ankles, Charlotte! They’re badly swollen. Oh my God, there’s something wrong with you. You shouldn’t have swollen ankles at your age.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with me.’ Lottie took a slice of fruit cake and poured herself a cup of tea. She sat there eating, determined to screen out Olivia’s rising panic. The baby stirred inside her as if she too was sensing the atmosphere.
‘But Charlotte, you need to see a doctor.’
‘No, I don’t. Look, it’s just London. I’m not used to walking miles on hard pavements.’
‘Do you feel well?’ Olivia asked with genuine concern.
‘Yes, I do, there’s no need to panic.’
‘I’m not panicking, Charlotte,’ Olivia said huffily. ‘I wanted to take you shopping for clothes.’
Lottie sighed. ‘I don’t want to go shopping.’
‘But you do need a change of clothes. You’ve worn that pinafore every day since you’ve been here. And Christmas is coming.’
Lottie continued eating her tea. ‘You can’t make me go and there’s nothing more to be said.’
Olivia looked annoyed. ‘I’m trying to be helpful, Charlotte.’
‘Lottie.’
‘Okay, Lottie then. I’ve been very tolerant and lenient, letting you go to this job where they think you’re twenty-one. I don’t know what your father is going to say.’
Lottie smouldered. She wanted to tell her mother she was homesick, missing Matt, craving the pure light of sea and sky. She’d managed to keep going and now the weekend yawned with emptiness. Two whole days away fro
m home. How could she bear it?
Olivia was studying her with a hint of empathy in her eyes. ‘I know what we can do – Lottie,’ she said brightly. ‘Why don’t we go through my wardrobe? I’ve got a suit and a dress you might like. I’ve lost so much weight, they’re too big and baggy on me now.’
That appealed to Lottie. Her bump was difficult to hide. Big and baggy was exactly what she needed but Olivia mustn’t know why. John had warned her not to tell her mother about the baby. But talking about clothes seemed to be what made Olivia happy. So, tired as she was, Lottie agreed and followed her into the bedroom.
Angular slabs of rosy light shone on the walls and across the wide bed with its brown satin eiderdown. In the wardrobe mirror, Lottie could see the reflection of London’s plum-coloured sunset.
Olivia had a lot of clothes. Her face came alive as she riffled through them, pulling out dresses and flinging them on the bed in a gale of eau-de-cologne and fustiness. She began to talk at top speed, giving Lottie a potted history of each garment; where she had bought it, when she had worn it and what had happened.
Finally, she said, ‘Well, come on, honey-child – get that pinafore off and try something on. How about this one?’ She held up a chocolate-brown velvet dress with an embroidered bodice.
‘It wouldn’t fit me.’
‘Come on, try it. You’d look so good in it.’
Lottie touched the velvet. It reminded her of a dress she’d had as a child. ‘It’s lovely – but I couldn’t wear it to work. It’s too nice.’
‘Well, you choose something,’ Olivia snapped. ‘There’s no pleasing you, is there?’
‘This one might do.’ Lottie pulled out a red dress with a full skirt. She thought Matt would like it. She wished Olivia would go away and let her try on the dresses in private. And did she really want to wear something her mother had worn?
The pinafore she was wearing had been Jenny’s, and that’s why she loved it. She felt it clinging around her.
‘I’m going to get a glass of wine,’ Olivia said. ‘You try it on.’
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