An Orphan's Winter

by Sheila Jeffries

  It happened so quickly. Left alone for a precious minute, Lottie struggled to get the pinafore off, pulling it over her head, hearing threads of cotton snapping as she wrestled with it. Annoyed, she finally emerged only to see Olivia in the doorway, wine glass in her hand, with an expression of shock horror on her face.

  ‘Your stomach, Charlotte! You look – oh my God, you look pregnant!’

  Silence twisted between them, tighter and tighter. Lottie felt her face burn with colour. A memory tore at her inner calm. Olivia’s eyes were wild and furious like a painting of the mother she had once been, a mother out of control.

  Lottie remembered being three years old, quivering with shock as Olivia shook her until the delicate bones in her neck sent cracks of pain needling across her skull and over her cheeks. A flash of insight told her it was the cause of her terrible headaches – that long-ago violent shaking.

  ‘Are you?’ Olivia demanded. ‘Answer me.’

  Lottie couldn’t speak. What about the language of poetry, so eloquently promised by Dr Tregullow? It streamed past her like a shredded flag in a storm. Useless idealism.

  ‘You are – aren’t you?’ The skin on Olivia’s face shone like hard porcelain, her lips wire-thin. ‘Answer me,’ she spat. ‘Is that what you’ve been up to with that sullen-eyed Cornish boy? You devious, dirty little slut.’

  Nothing she could say would pacify Olivia, but Lottie’s silence seemed even worse than the truth, driving her mother into a frenzy. Silence felt like the only safe option.

  ‘Don’t look at me like that, Charlotte.’

  Lottie hardened her stare and, without warning, Olivia flung her glass of wine at Lottie’s face. She blinked as it stung her eyes and its ripe-tasting fury ran down the side of her nose and into her mouth. The silence towered over them like a wave, growing darker as it burst into a torrent of rage.

  ‘You’re mad,’ Lottie cried. ‘Why can’t you control yourself, you crazy, drunken witch?’

  ‘This is what I’m talking about.’ Olivia’s arm shot out and landed an almighty slap on Lottie’s tummy. ‘This, this, this!’ It was followed by another and another blow.

  The pain and anger echoed through Lottie’s womb. She screamed at Olivia.

  ‘My baby! You’re hurting my baby. Stop it. Stop!’ Lottie curled her arms over her bump, her hands desperately trying to soothe the tiny child inside. ‘It’s all right, little one, little star,’ she whispered. ‘I won’t let her hurt you ever again.’

  Olivia stood over her, trembling. ‘So there is a baby – a bastard. His, I suppose.’ Her eyes glittered triumphantly. She picked up the cracked wine glass, which was rolling around the floor. ‘A Cornish bastard.’

  ‘Give me that.’ Lottie reached out and took the cracked wine glass from her, surprised at how easily Olivia let go. She looked in her eyes; beyond the fury, there was fear.

  ‘You sit down there,’ she said, and Olivia sat on the edge of her bed, in amongst the dresses she had thrown there. Lottie sat down with her, still rubbing her hands over her bump.

  ‘I don’t care what you think, of Matt or of me. I’ve managed perfectly well without you all these years. We’re not alike, thank goodness. Look at me, Mother, I’m a young woman now, not a child you can intimidate. First, you are going to sit there and listen, for once in your life, to how I feel about my baby. Then I am going to pack my bag and leave. I can afford to rent a room now.’

  But even as she spoke those defiant words, desolation swept over Lottie. She couldn’t go home to St Ives. She could never again live with the family she loved. The enormity of it welled up and she saw Olivia through a blur of tears. Her birth mother, staring at her with savage, bewildered eyes, her thin hand reaching again for the wine bottle.

  Lottie squeezed her painful feet into her shoes again. She pulled her American bag out of the wardrobe and crammed a few things into it. The truth was she probably couldn’t afford to rent a room, and didn’t feel like trying. Deeply exhausted, both physically and emotionally, she needed a good night’s sleep in a quiet bed. But where? And who cared?

  She slung the bag over her shoulder and walked out, ignoring the harrowing sound of Olivia panicking in her high-pitched tearful voice.

  ‘No, Charlotte – don’t go, honey-child. Please – don’t leave me. Please.’

  Lottie walked away into the darkening evening, into the streets of London.

  Desolate.

  Chapter 22

  Forgive Me, Honey-Child

  After John’s kindness and Nan’s warning, Jenny managed to drag herself out of bed. She didn’t know where Nan had been, or why. The car had arrived home, backfiring and skidding along the side of the chicken shed, sending a metal bucket rolling across the yard. Unperturbed, Nan had heaved herself out and waddled inside, straight into her armchair where she’d fallen asleep instantly, the basket on the floor beside her full of paper roses.

  What has she been up to? Jenny had worried, thinking the old lady’s behaviour looked sinister. What if Nan has been to Bodmin? Was she secretly arranging for me to be carted off to the dreaded hospital?

  The next morning, Nan was up early sorting out Mufty and the chickens. Then she sat at her bureau writing what appeared to be a letter, dropping blots of dark blue Quink on the floor as she paused in contemplation.

  Filled with foreboding, Jenny made a decision. She’d pretend to be pulling herself together, acting normal, even though she felt half dead and hopeless. She made Tom’s breakfast: a boiled egg with bread and dripping. He looked at her in surprise. ‘Are you feeling better, Mum?’

  Jenny gulped. ‘I’m trying, Tom.’

  ‘Lottie’s not coming back,’ he said. ‘We’ve gotta help Nan if we want to stay here.’

  She nodded silently, trying to eat a slice of bread, feeling sick and not hungry.

  ‘Why don’t you brush Mufty, Mum?’ Tom suggested. ‘It’s a nice job and Mufty is good for people.’

  Jenny tried to smile. ‘I might.’

  She watched Tom go off to school. He’d spoken kindly. Why couldn’t she respond?

  Jenny confronted herself in the hall mirror. A dead-eyed, hollow-cheeked person stared out, ghost-like, empty. The urge to creep back to bed was overpowering. She fought it but it wouldn’t go away. She made herself go to clear up in the kitchen, only to find herself standing at the window, a tray in her hands at a precarious angle.

  Useless. You’re useless, Jennifer.

  ‘I’m going out in the car,’ Nan announced, and Jenny almost dropped the tray. ‘I’m glad to see you up and about.’

  Pretend. Go on pretending. Once she’s gone I can go back to bed, Jenny thought. She wondered what Nan had done with the paper roses, but didn’t dare ask. ‘Please be careful in the car, Nan,’ she said instead.

  Nan tossed her head. ‘Careful? Me? When was I ever careful?’ She cackled with laughter. ‘If the damned thing starts, I shall get in and go like hell until I reach my destination. But first . . .’ she tapped the blue envelope in her hand, ‘I have written a letter to Lottie. I must go and get the address from John, then post it.’

  Why couldn’t I do that? Jenny thought, wincing as the Austin Seven careered out of the gate in a cloud of dust and leaves.

  She wondered what kind of letter Nan had written to Lottie. A load of old Latin, probably. Whatever it was, Jenny realised Nan had spent a long time composing it. The close relationship between Nan and Lottie was something precious, but Jenny felt both envy and anxiety. Nan’s forthright and often scathing manner might be deeply hurtful on paper. She imagined Lottie reading it in London, with Olivia sitting there.

  The image evoked unbearable guilt and Jenny deliberately stubbed it out like a candle flame, leaving a trail of black smoke dispersing in her mind.

  Alone at Hendravean, Jenny meandered around the house knowing she would end up crawling back to bed sooner or later. Sleep was the only way to cope.

  Jenny picked up the sepia photograph of the Lanroska family and s
tared at it gloomily. She’d been the mother. The hub of the wheel. So much love and passion, and energy – gone. Forgotten. Why was she even alive?

  But she was alive, and in that painful bramble bush of thoughts, something happened outside. A raucous, spine-chilling howl came from the yard, an echoing rhythmic scream going on and on, like someone being murdered.

  ‘For goodness sake! What the heck is it?’ Jenny dragged herself to the window, wide-eyed with alarm. The sound didn’t stop, but went on and on in waves, resounding from the walls and rocks of St Ives.

  Jenny shuddered with fright, then smiled when she realised what it was. Donkeys rarely bray. Some never do. But when they do, it is a gut-wrenching sound, more chilling than the howl of wolves in a forest. For some reason, Mufty was at the paddock gate, braying, his neck stretched out, his cavernous mouth wide open to the sky.

  Even though she now knew what it was, Jenny still felt spooked by the deafening and relentless sound. She went to the door, which was open as usual, and called out to him. ‘What’s the matter with you, Mufty? Making such a din!’

  The donkey quietened down instantly, turning his furry face to look at Jenny with bright black eyes. Then he turned his head and stared towards the lane, his ears pricked, listening. He seemed agitated.

  ‘Don’t start again, for heaven’s sake,’ Jenny said. She noticed something huge grinding its way up Foxglove Lane, something towering above the tall hedges. Only its scarlet and yellow roof was visible. It wasn’t a farm wagon.

  Jenny stared hard. It passed a gap in the hedge and she saw it had windows with pretty curtains. She could hear the rumble of wheels and the steady, scratchy plod of a horse’s hooves along with a subdued clinking sound, as if pots and pans were being shaken around.

  Gypsies! Jenny thought, and suddenly she was alive, fired up by a spark of anger. How dare they come up here to Hendravean?

  Nan was out – and without Nan and her booming voice, Jenny would have to deal with it.

  They needn’t think they’re going to set up camp here. She eyed the stretch of rough grass next to the yard.

  Jenny pumped herself up and stepped outside. She could hear the creak of wood and the jingle of the horse’s harness. She stood aggressively on the doorstep, arms folded, eyes challenging – a reincarnation of the old Jenny who’d lived proudly in the cottage in Downlong. A Jenny who would defend her family and home to the ends of the earth.

  Obviously, the horse-drawn vardo would have to come into the yard to turn around. Jenny glanced down at Bartholomew, who sat majestically beside her, his neck lengthening as he watched the gate.

  ‘We’ll send them packing,’ Jenny said to him and got an encouraging meow in return. ‘Pity you’re not a gurt dog.’

  She watched, awed by the size of the vardo and the gleaming colours of the paintwork.

  Romanies, she thought, and a tinge of nostalgia softened her anger. As a child growing up in Cornwall, she had loved the colourful Romany women who came swinging through the town selling clothes pegs and paper roses.

  Paper roses! Jenny’s hand flew to her mouth. Has Nan set this up? I wouldn’t put it past her, she thought.

  There was an odd kind of silence around the tall vardo and the obedient skewbald horse as it made the cumbersome turn into the gate of Hendravean. A young boy sat on the high driving seat, holding the reins, a cap pulled over his brow. Obviously he was concentrating on bringing the vardo safely in without scraping the gate posts.

  Jenny put her hands on her hips, unsmiling and mentally rehearsing the confrontation to come. If they just turned around and went out, she’d keep quiet and breathe a sigh of relief. Despite her misgivings, she couldn’t help admiring the elaborate pictures painted on the vardo. Vines and roses, oak leaves and acorns, and a flying eagle with gold-tipped wings.

  Her heart thudded faster when she saw the gypsy boy steer the horse onto the patch of grass. They meant to stay. He loosened the reins and the horse relaxed and began to munch hungrily at the grass.

  The boy climbed down. He looked small and oddly familiar, but she couldn’t quite place him from a distance. Something shifted in Jenny’s heart.

  Who is he?

  He stared towards the house. Then he threw his cap in the air and ran towards her. ‘Jenny! Jenny!’

  Jenny gasped. Her anger vanished and she held out her arms. ‘Warren!’ His feet thundered up to her and Jenny hugged him tightly, smiling through tears of joy. ‘It’s you, Warren – driving that huge vardo. What a surprise.’

  ‘I missed you, Jenny,’ Warren said clearly. He looked up at her adoringly.

  ‘I missed you too,’ she breathed. ‘But look at you! You’re proper handsome now, Warren. You’ve grown so much. I can’t believe it’s you.’

  ‘Nan found me,’ he said. ‘I were buskin’ in Truro and she said me and Mum could come and camp here for a while.’

  ‘Warren – you can talk!’ Jenny said, amazed.

  Warren looked up at her. ‘You learned me,’ he said, ‘and I practised – and Mum helped me too. We’ve come to say thank you and make you better.’

  ‘Your mum?’

  Warren turned and looked at the vardo. ‘You can come out now, Mum,’ he called.

  Jenny gasped in surprise as a radiant Romany gypsy woman emerged with a swish of embroidered skirt and came smiling towards her. She had the warmest, most loving eyes Jenny had ever seen. A pair of gold hoop earrings glowed from her thickly coiled black hair. Bangles clinked on her arms and a multi-coloured shawl was wrapped around her broad shoulders and reassuringly ample bust. She held out her hands to Jenny.

  ‘Hello, my darling. I’m Petronella. Nan sent me to help you get well. I’m a Romany gypsy, dear, and proud of it.’

  ‘And you’re Warren’s mum?’

  ‘I’m Warren’s mum. I want to say thank you for what you did for him, Jenny. He loves you for it. He told me how you rescued him – wonderful, wonderful kindness – and you gave him a lovely home, taught him to talk. He’d be dead by now if it wasn’t for you.’ Petronella looked down at Jenny’s iron leg. ‘You need a bit of help yourself now, don’t you, darlin’?’

  Jenny stood there, speechless. Her first impulse had been to resist, but Petronella’s warm eyes and the radiance of her kindness were already melting her, offering her a way back. At the same time, Jenny was suspicious. Had Nan been up to her old tricks again? Folklore and magic and all the stuff Jenny hated. And what kind of mother would let her son live wild and get into such a state?

  It was Warren who answered her unspoken question.

  ‘Me dad’s in prison now,’ he said, ‘and we’re glad, aren’t we, Mum?’

  ‘Never mind glad, I’m celebrating.’ Petronella’s eyes changed, a deep sadness crossing through them like the shadow of a cloud across fields of corn. It passed swiftly and her eyes gleamed at Jenny. ‘He were a bad ’un. Bad through and through. Left me and took Warren when he was five – wanted him to busk with the travelling fair. Broke my heart, he did, but I stayed with the Romanies – we’re hard-working, peaceful folk. We don’t hurt nobody. Warren was terrified of him. ’Tis no wonder he couldn’t talk. He wasn’t allowed to. His dad used to smack him round the head if he tried to talk. “Shurrup you,” he used to shout.’ Petronella shuddered with the memory and slipped her arm around Warren, who looked up at her with concern in his eyes.

  ‘I ran away,’ Warren said, ‘trying to find Mum again, but I got lost on the cliffs and nearly drowned.’

  ‘Good job I found you,’ Jenny said.

  Petronella gave her arm a squeeze. ‘You were an angel,’ she said, ‘going out there with that leg.’

  ‘It’s only what anyone would do,’ Jenny said, but the words had encouraged her.

  ‘Then Dad kidnapped me,’ Warren said. ‘I were nearly home with some money for Nan. Then the police came and arrested him and they found Mum and took me there, to Chacewater.’

  ‘We’ve still got the money,’ Jenny said. ‘You can go upstairs
and get your jacket. John found it in the lane – we kept it for you, with all the money you earned.’

  Warren darted upstairs and came down with his jacket, its pockets still bulging with coins. ‘It won’t fit me now,’ he said proudly. ‘But I’m giving the money to Nan. And she said I can keep the piano-accordion – forever!’

  ‘A fair swap, don’t you think?’ Petronella laughed.

  ‘We won’t be no trouble, Jenny,’ Warren said. ‘It’s just Mum and me and we live in the vardo. We only need water and a place to park.’

  ‘There won’t be anyone else arriving,’ Petronella assured her. ‘It’s taken us ages to get here from Chacewater.’

  ‘The vardo is so beautiful,’ Jenny said. ‘Lottie would love it.’

  ‘Nan told me about Lottie. I’d love to meet her,’ Petronella’s eyes gleamed with enthusiasm, ‘and you might need me – I’m a Romany midwife.’ She leaned closer and looked into Jenny’s eyes. ‘Lottie will be coming home – believe me, I know. You wait and see.’

  Jenny gasped. She clasped her hands in joy. ‘Nan’s not stupid, is she? How long can you stay?’

  ‘We could stay for the winter – then we’ll buzz off again in the spring, back to our Romany family. We do the flower and pea picking. I’d help you, Jenny, ’til you’re better, then I’ll look after Lottie and the baby for the first few weeks. And we’ll live in the vardo.’

  ‘It’s our home,’ Warren said, and his eyes shone.

  ‘Nan set this up,’ Petronella explained. ‘She found Warren busking on the steps of Truro Cathedral. We got talking and she told me about you – and Lottie – and invited me and Warren to come and park here in return for helping you. You do look very run down – I understand ’cause I got like that when I lost Warren. Would you like us to stay for a while? I can do lots to help you in the house and garden.’

  Jenny looked at her and instinctively trusted this beautiful, warm-hearted woman. ‘I’d love you to stay – and Warren. I feel better already, I really do.’

  ‘Nan said we can paint Mufty’s cart,’ Warren said. ‘Romany style. Me and Mum know how to do it – and Tom can help. He likes painting.’