‘Good idea. Tom will enjoy doing that,’ Jenny said, suddenly seeing a new, happier time ahead. It was good to know what Nan had been up to. ‘Where is Nan now?’ she asked.
‘We don’t know,’ Petronella said.
But Warren knew.
‘Nan’s gone to Portreath,’ he said, ‘to fetch Matt.’
*
Lottie sat on the bench watching the River Thames. The heavily silted river water kinked and swirled as it raced along, bringing floating rafts of driftwood jumbled with netting, rusting cans, bundles of straw and dead, unrecognisable birds. Rainbow patches of oil skimmed the surface in elongated shapes. The river smelled of tar and rotting wood. Barges with dark red sails came in on the tide towing strings of other barges. It was depressing, but oddly fascinating.
In her hand was the cream cardboard rail ticket; the return half John had given to her. Still smarting from the row with her mother, Lottie wanted desperately to go home. The special light of St Ives shimmered in her mind like a distant, tantalising vision of heaven. She wanted her baby to be born there on a starry night, not here in London. But how could she live among people who wanted to kill her baby? One by one, each person she loved and trusted had let her down.
Get rid of it, they’d said. Babies are horrible. Termination. Adoption.
Then what?
Then we will love you again, Lottie, now that you’ve murdered your baby.
Bitter thoughts, but true.
She’d had to be sensible. Tolerating Olivia. Getting a job. Pretending to be twenty-one. Building a future for her baby.
Was there a way forward? Returning to live with Olivia would involve a superhuman effort at being tolerant – for the sake of her baby.
It was nearly dark with rain clouds, and a northerly chill was creeping up the river. Lottie shivered. She had to sleep somewhere. She could feel one of her headaches coming on, the dreaded bolts of pain in her left temple, shooting through her eye and over her skull. She rubbed the back of her neck where a knot of pain was forming.
‘You’re a pretty girl sitting here on yer own.’ A man who smelled strongly of beer and garlic sat down beside her, uncomfortably close. ‘ ’Aven’t ya got an ’ome to go to?’
Lottie glanced at his red-rimmed eyes and thought of Morwenna. She got up and walked away, her bag over her shoulder. Rain began to fall and her headache was blinding. She needed to lie down, and she needed an aspirin, a cup of Nan’s tea, and a safe, peaceful bed.
She stumbled back along the embankment, haunted by an alarming memory of Olivia. While Lottie was packing her bag, Olivia had been drinking glass after glass of wine. Lottie remembered the bottles of aspirin lurking in the cupboard and suddenly she was terrified of what her mother might do.
She had to go back – quickly.
A feeling of foreboding hung over Lottie as she let herself into the apartment. There was a smell. And a deathly silence.
Broken glass glimmered from the carpet, and wine was splashed up the wall in several places, soaking into the anaglypta wallpaper like an art form. Olivia’s snakeskin shoes were splayed on the floor by the sofa, and on the dining table was a wad of papers tied together with a thin bottle-green ribbon. A broken doll sat there, her remarkably human eyes looking out from a porcelain face. It startled Lottie, but she brushed the memory away and headed for Olivia’s bedroom.
‘Mother?’
There was no response.
Terribly frightened, Lottie tiptoed to the bed and stood looking down.
Olivia lay on her back, her bare feet neatly together, her slim arms clutching a photo frame. Her eyes were closed, her skin pearly white. A dribble of foam trailed from her mouth and soaked into the pillow. On the bedside table was an empty aspirin bottle and a few of the pills scattered amidst the pools of red wine.
There was something husk-like about her mother’s body; a sense of finality. She looked so small and so . . . discarded. Like a dead seabird tangled in shoreline wreckage.
Lottie knew straightaway that her mother was dead. But her reasoning mind prompted her to seek for a pulse.
Olivia’s wrist was cold, her fingers locked around the photo frame. Lottie told herself she could feel a thread of life faintly beating.
‘Mother – Olivia. It’s Lottie. I’ve come back. Please don’t die – please.’
There was no response.
It was no good crying and pleading. She must stay calm and get help. She tucked a blanket over Olivia and picked up the telephone, not sure who to call.
‘Number, please.’ The voice was demanding and icily efficient.
‘It’s an emergency. I don’t know who to ring. Can you help me, please?’
‘Fire, police or ambulance?’ snapped the voice.
‘Ambulance,’ Lottie said with a heavy heart. She gave the address and some brief details.
‘Just stay with her. Someone will come,’ the voice said, and added kindly, ‘How old are you, dear? You sound very young.’
‘Twenty-one,’ she lied, determined not to risk being taken away by the welfare. Her head pounded as she waited for the ambulance.
It came quickly, its bell ringing, and two uniformed men lifted Olivia onto a wooden stretcher with a pillow and scarlet blanket. Lottie saw the look that passed between them. Negative.
‘We’ll take her to St Mary’s, Paddington. They’ll do what they can for her.’
‘She . . . tried to take her life,’ Lottie said and the stretcher-bearer nodded. He took the empty aspirin bottle from her. ‘You’d best stay here, hadn’t you?’ he said, looking at her bump.
Lottie nodded. With a shaking hand, she wrote the phone number on a strip of paper.
‘Stay near the telephone. They’ll call you.’
‘Okay.’
‘Will you be all right?’
‘Yes.’
Lottie stared at her mother’s empty, shell-like face on the pillow. An uncomfortable blend of sadness, shock and relief filled her mind. Is it my fault? I didn’t like her, anyway. But did I love her? Daddy must have loved her once. How am I going to tell him?
They took Olivia away so quickly, like a confiscated parcel whipped away and shoved in a drawer. Lottie stood by the window looking down at the roof of the ambulance, hearing its bell fading into the roar of London.
Gone. She was gone.
Only then did Lottie pick up the photo frame Olivia had been clutching so tightly against her heart. She turned it over and saw a framed poster – a photograph of a ballerina in a white dress. Under the picture the caption read:
OLIVIA DE LUMEN dances Giselle in London
An exquisite performance by this gifted young dancer
Tucked into the frame was a folded scrap of paper with LOTTIE written on it. Alone now in the flat, Lottie unfolded it with shaking hands. It said simply:
Forgive me, Lottie.
This is the me you never met. This is who I am and who I was before I tried, and failed, to be a wife and mother. Forgive me, honey-child. Fly free.
Love,
Your mother, Olivia
Stunned and deeply moved, Lottie took the framed photo into her bedroom. She pressed her face against the cold glass.
The excruciating headache kept her awake and she got up to swallow two of the aspirin from a bottle that hadn’t been opened. Then she lay down on her bed with the photograph beside her on the pillow.
The eyes of the young dancer were the eyes she remembered so vividly. Eyes full of passion and light. Those eyes had welcomed her into the world when she was born and this was the mother she had searched for and never found. Forgive me, honey-child. Fly free.
Final words. Burned on her heart. Forever.
Chapter 23
A Lifelong Secret
Nan found Matt sitting on the beach at Portreath, chucking pebbles into the sea. She decided to skip the preliminaries and get straight to the point.
‘I am calling a family conference,’ she boomed. ‘About Lottie. I think you should
be there, don’t you?’
Matt looked up at her, startled, his eyes momentarily so like Arnie’s. Wild and unshaven, he quickly masked his true feelings and resumed the sullen stare. He continued chucking pebbles into the sea.
‘It’s not a meeting to criticise you, Matt. It’s a chance for you to have a say in the decision we’re going to make about your baby’s future.’
He went on chucking stones.
‘I have driven here in my unpredictable, dilapidated motor car to fetch you. I will take you home to Hendravean and you can make your own way back.’ Nan paused for a wheezy breath. ‘I’m not going to stand here persuading you. I’m going now and I won’t wait. Either come with me or stay here and throw stones.’ She turned and walked off without looking back.
Nan had reached the car when she heard the crunch of Matt’s long strides catching up. She pretended not to notice and began easing herself into the driver’s seat.
Got you, she thought mischievously when Matt ran round to the passenger door.
‘Wait, Nan. I’m coming with you.’ Matt opened the door and got in, folding his long legs into the cramped space.
‘Nil illegitimi carborundum,’ Nan declared.
‘What the heck does that mean?’ Matt asked.
‘Nil illegitimi carborundum?’ Nan repeated it, her eyes twinkling with glee. ‘It means don’t let the bastards grind you down,’ she cackled, pleased to see a grin on Matt’s face.
She started the car. ‘Prepare to be frightened,’ she warned, and set off in low gear up the winding coast road, over the North Cliffs and Hell’s Mouth with Matt, white-faced and silent, beside her. About an hour later, tired but triumphant, Nan swung the car into the yard at Hendravean.
Jenny and John were there, waiting in the sitting room, and Petronella was in the kitchen baking. Tom and Warren were in the yard cleaning out Mufty’s stable, happy in each other’s company. Nan felt hopeful, pleased that Matt was with her. He sat down, without looking at anyone, and stared out the window.
‘Who is chairing this meeting?’ John asked, a notebook and a brand-new pencil on the table in front of him.
‘I am,’ Nan said. She unfolded another wing of the extending table and sat down in the wide dining chair with arms. ‘First, I have a confession to make,’ she began, and a crippling bout of coughing and wheezing shook her body. ‘Damned cough. Thank you.’ She took the glass of water Matt had fetched for her.
‘Are you all right, Nan?’ Jenny asked.
‘Of course I’m all right. I just sound like Richard Trevithick’s steam engine.’ Nobody smiled, so she embarked on the confession she had rehearsed in her mind. It would make a difference, she was sure – and it didn’t matter now, what they thought of her.
‘I have never told you this before. It’s my lifelong secret and I would have carried it to the grave. It’s hard for me to share, but I’m doing it for Lottie’s sake. I think it may help us to understand one another.’ Nan paused for breath, her storm-coloured eyes challenging each of them. She took a dog-eared photograph from her apron pocket and held it up.
‘That’s Grandad Vic,’ Matt said, ‘when he was young.’
‘He lives in Newlyn now,’ Jenny explained to John. ‘He’s Arnie’s dad.’
‘And as you know, Vic is my son,’ Nan added, proudly. She took a deep breath and decided to just come out with it. She twisted her wedding ring round and round her finger. ‘But see this ring? It’s a lie – a fake. I was never married. Vic was illegitimate.’
The room went deathly quiet. Three pairs of eyes stared intently at Nan. Even Matt looked serious and respectful.
‘I’m a fierce old thing,’ Nan continued, ‘and nobody’s ever dared ask me about my husband. Well – there wasn’t one. There was a boyfriend, Elliot. I . . . I adored him. But he broke my heart. We were seventeen and in love, in secret, like Romeo and Juliet.’ She looked at Matt. ‘But when I found myself pregnant, my Romeo walked out of my life and never came back.’
‘Aw, Nan!’ Jenny reached across the table to give Nan’s hand a squeeze.
‘Don’t be kind to me,’ Nan warned, ‘because I might cry.’ She held on tightly to Jenny and was moved to see that Matt was gripping her other hand. John sat, wise-eyed, listening, twiddling his pencil. Nan felt the love and was encouraged to continue.
‘I was terrified of my parents. Of course, they had to know I was expecting a baby – and all they could think about was how to get rid of it. They were in for a shock. I was stronger than them. I said no. I stood up to them and tried to explain how I felt. I loved my unborn child and honoured his life, his right to live. But they threw me out – onto the streets of London, and . . . oh, you don’t need to hear the rest of it, do you?’
Nan looked round at them, proud of the love and compassion, even in Matt’s reluctant eyes. She’d always felt isolated and apart from her close family, but now she felt included in a secret circle of love. An empathy circle. It was a completely unexpected result of her brave decision to reveal her lifelong secret.
‘We do, Nan – we do,’ Jenny said warmly.
‘All right – but to cut a long story short,’ Nan continued, ‘I earned my living by singing on the streets of London. I was lucky when my music teacher and his wife took me in, despite the pregnancy, and continued to train me for free because they believed in me. The rest is like a fairy tale. When Vic was born, I was in demand as an opera singer. I had plenty of work, enough to pay for a babysitter for the evenings when I was singing. I spent my days with my little boy and loved him. When he was five and old enough for school, I took a leap of faith and moved down to Cornwall, set up as a music teacher and made enough money to buy Hendravean – and here I am, wheezy and cantankerous but still going strong.’
Nan looked round at the spellbound eyes.
‘What an inspirational story, Nan,’ John said.
‘The point of this meeting,’ Nan said, ‘is to bring Lottie home. She belongs here and she loves it. She loves us too, and . . .’ Nan made her voice quiet, discreetly observing how it made everyone sit up and listen, ‘I can’t speak for the rest of you, but I intend to give Lottie my full support, and her baby will be a welcome blessing to this family and to this earth.’ Nan noticed that heads were nodding. ‘All we have to do is decide who is going to London to bring her home – unless she actually wants to stay with Olivia, of course.’
The telephone bell cut into the brief silence, making everyone jump.
‘Damned, infernal cacophony.’ Nan glared into the hall. She looked at John with fierce eyes. ‘Would you mind answering the damned thing before it blows the dust out of my skull?’
‘Okay.’ John padded into the hall and picked up the receiver. ‘Hello, this is John De Lumen speaking from Hendravean.’
‘Daddy . . .’ Lottie’s voice sounded breathy and terrified.
‘What is it, darling? I’m here for you.’
Lottie couldn’t seem to answer. She was taking deep, shuddery breaths. John was instantly on alert. What if the baby was coming early? He made his voice low and reassuring. ‘Try to stay calm, Lottie, and tell me what’s wrong. What’s happened?’
Nan, Jenny and Matt looked at each other in alarm. Now what?
He waited and eventually Lottie managed to speak. ‘Daddy, it’s Olivia – she . . . she’s taken her life.’
*
Matt prowled up and down the platform of St Ives Station, a bunch of flowers in his hand for Lottie. He wasn’t sure what time she would arrive. It could be a long wait but Matt was determined to be there.
It had been a big week for Matt. Apart from Lottie coming home, Ken had persuaded him to get The Jenny Wren out of the water for the winter. She was leaking and there were holes in the hull. He would have to spend the winter making her seaworthy again, an endless job but worth doing.
‘Otherwise you’ll end up with no boat at all, Matt,’ Ken had warned.
So Matt was getting used to living on the land again, being warm and
dry and sleeping in a bed.
He still resisted the idea of living at Hendravean when he still couldn’t look at his mum. John offered him a temporary place to stay in the box room above the gallery. It gave him breathing space, and he felt at ease with John. But now, with Lottie returning, he’d be going up there to see her every day.
Nan’s confession had given Matt a new perspective. He realised Jenny was trying to be kind and forgiving towards him, even managing to talk about the baby. It helped to have Petronella there, and Warren, and their fascinating brightly coloured vardo. It felt good to give Warren his old marble tin and watch him playing with Tom, rolling the glass marbles along the floorboards upstairs.
Matt had always been a night owl, and when everyone was in bed he spent satisfying time in Nan’s extensive library reading and re-reading some of his favourites. One night, he dared to take out one of the heavy encyclopaedias and found the page on how babies were born. He pored over the diagrams and text until one o’clock in the morning. The information was an eye-opener for Matt; he tried to memorise it so that he could help Lottie and understand what she was going through.
Jenny left him alone. Relationships were fragile, like dew-spangled cobwebs in the dawn, clinging on in the salt sea wind. Another delicate strand would be added today, when Lottie came home, leaving John in London to deal with the legal issues surrounding Olivia’s death.
Matt thought the train was never coming. Muffled in a scarf and his St Piran hat, he sat on the narrow GWR seat facing the sea. He found himself staring at the flowers in his hand. Flowers were hard to find in December, but Nan had led him into the tropical garden where the rocks were warm.
There were marigolds with burning orange sunray faces, a few precious late roses and spires of blue salvia. On the cold station, Matt soaked up their colourful presence thinking he must have lived his whole life and never actually gazed into the bright, deep face of a flower. He imagined doing paintings of hot marigolds against a silver sea.
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