An Orphan's Winter

by Sheila Jeffries

  Mesmerised by his creative vision, Matt jumped when he heard the train’s hiss of steam burst under the bridge. He leapt to his feet, feeling overwhelmingly emotional. Was she there? His Lottie. His love.

  Steam billowed over the platform. Clutching the flowers, Matt waited in the coal-flavoured mist. Doors slammed and hard shoes marched past him. The sea wind carved through the steam and Matt saw Lottie at the far end of the platform.

  Small, straight-backed, she stood with her face to the sea, her hair a golden flame against a jet black coat.

  She’d come home. Lottie was home.

  It seemed to Matt like a miracle. A heaven-sent gift. When he didn’t even deserve it.

  Matt’s emotions boiled over into pure joy. He wanted to dance and sing. But he couldn’t move.

  And Lottie wasn’t moving. She was gazing at the sea.

  What if she didn’t want him? The thought fled from under him, a shadow vanishing.

  Matt remembered that Olivia had died. Ought he to be smiling? Would Lottie be locked into grief and sorrow?

  But he couldn’t help standing there with a great big bucket of a smile on his face.

  Lottie turned. She waved, almost dancing as she walked towards him and her face was radiant, not sad. Matt covered the distance between them in hungry strides. He held out his arms and everything blurred as they came together like twin flames.

  Pulling her close, he sensed how eager she was to come to him. For the first time, Matt was aware of the warm, firm bump of the child in Lottie’s womb. The vivid picture in his mind was stunning. He didn’t see a horrible, screaming baby. He saw a star, a pure blue-white spirit of life.

  Lottie looked up at him, a question in her dark blue eyes.

  ‘I love you, Lottie,’ he murmured, ‘and I’ll love our baby. I can imagine it in there, shining like a star between us – and I love you for being brave enough to keep it safe.’ He noticed the shadows of tiredness under Lottie’s eyes, but her smile was magical. It was his whole world and nothing else mattered.

  ‘Those are the most beautiful words I’ve ever heard said to me,’ Lottie whispered as their faces came close and they kissed blissfully, hardly aware of the train steaming backwards out of the station, leaving them almost alone on the windswept platform.

  ‘That yours, sir?’ Running feet interrupted their kiss. They moved apart, astonished to see the portly stationmaster sprinting past them in pursuit of a bunch of marigolds and roses, which the wind was whisking down the platform. He skidded to a halt, catching it on the brink of tumbling over the edge. Holding it triumphantly, he came rollicking back.

  ‘Oops, I dropped it!’ Matt said, catching Lottie’s eye, and they giggled.

  Breathing hard from his run, the stationmaster handed the flowers to Matt, a very Cornish twinkle in his eyes. ‘Never a dull moment at S’nives Station,’ he quipped, ‘and you’ll be moving on, the pair of you. Can’t stay ’ere canoodlin’ all day.’

  All three of them laughed. Matt picked up Lottie’s heavy bag and they walked out of the station, Lottie with her face buried in the fragrance of the roses. ‘From Nan’s garden?’ she asked.

  ‘From Nan’s garden.’

  ‘I shall keep them forever,’ Lottie said. ‘I’m going to press the petals in my diary. And when our baby is growing up, I’ll show them to her and tell her about her kind, romantic daddy.’

  Kind? Romantic? Me! Matt was actually feeling guilty. He was building up to saying sorry. Apologies didn’t come naturally to a lad who had spent most of his life being defensive and rebellious. He’d hoped the flowers would say it for him, but they hadn’t. And he’d dropped them.

  In the past, his attempts to say sorry had merely invited further recrimination and the pain of not being forgiven.

  Just say it, he thought, but the apology seemed stuck like a lump of grit in his throat. It wouldn’t move and he longed to feel he deserved the candid, unconditional love Lottie was offering him. Despite everything life had thrown at her, she was carefree and radiant – in control, the way she’d always been, even from the first day when she’d arrived as a shipwrecked orphan with nothing to call her own except her endearing bossiness.

  Together they leaned on the wall overlooking the moon-pale sand of Porthminster Beach.

  ‘I’ve missed St Ives so much,’ Lottie said, and her eyes sparkled in the afternoon light. She seemed aware of his silent struggle. ‘Is there something you want to say, Matt?’

  He nodded, his eyes downcast. He’d take a risk and just say it, but he couldn’t meet the radiance in her eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ he managed to say, and the word hurt across his shoulders. How many times? How many painful times must he say it before it finally vanished? ‘I’m sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry.’

  ‘Matt!’ Lottie said tenderly. ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘The way I treated you when you tried to tell me about the baby – our baby.’

  ‘It’s okay, Matt. I’ve forgiven you.’ Lottie touched his cheek and made him look at her. ‘Let’s forget about it. I’m so happy that you came to meet me. It means the world to me.’

  *

  Olivia’s body was laid to rest in the St Ives cemetery overlooking Porthmeor Beach. The funeral was quiet and private with only John and the Lanroska family there. John chose the hymns he thought Olivia would have liked and, with Nan’s help, Lottie chose a piece of music from Giselle.

  A pair of pink silk ballet shoes, found in the corner of Olivia’s wardrobe, were placed on the simple ash wood coffin. It seemed profoundly sad to Lottie that only six people stood dutifully around Olivia’s grave.

  A thick, luminous sea mist obscured the whole of St Ives, the ocean and the sky, and the wet grass glistened around their ankles. The seagulls were silent, the waves hushed and only a robin, the bird of winter, offered fragments of song to the memory of a girl who had danced with her soul in her eyes. In her final hour, there was no applause, no accolades, no tributes, and no love.

  And nobody cried. Even Lottie was dry-eyed as she read the poem she had written as a eulogy.

  I’ll remember

  how you tried to love me.

  You were an angel, grounded,

  shackled to earth

  and wingless.

  Like a night lily

  was your love,

  its petals closed.

  It never found the sun.

  I’ll remember

  the way you died,

  as you lived, alone and friendless.

  I will pray

  that you dance again

  in the light beyond the bright river,

  and I promise to carry forever

  the words you have left for me:

  Forgive me, honey-child. Fly free.

  As she read the words in her clear voice, Lottie stood very straight in her black coat, a black velvet beret over the mane of golden blonde hair. The church of St Ia gave her its mystic space like a forest glade; the stone pillars and the polished wood, the empty pews, the glass faces, all steeped in sea salt and frankincense. When she’d finished reading, Lottie gazed at Matt, then at Nan, Jenny and John. She was happy to know they’d forgiven her and had accepted Little Star as a baby who mattered, a child who would bring love and light.

  There was only the problem of Matt and Jenny. Would they ever be truly reconciled?

  Chapter 24

  Christmas and Candlemas

  ‘What are you doing up that ladder?’ Jenny yelled at Nan. She’d been watching from the window, hoping to catch Matt when he arrived to see Lottie. It was nearly Christmas and she wanted him home. After the heartache and the years of separation, a family Christmas was exactly what the Lanroskas needed.

  Turning to look at the garden, Jenny was appalled to see Nan’s huge bulk at the top of a rickety old ladder propped against the pear tree. She had to stop her. Grabbing her stick, Jenny hobbled out there as fast as she could. The ladder creaked and the tree shuddered with the old lady’s weight.

  ‘Na
n!’ Jenny looked up at the soles of Nan’s shoes, her swollen ankles and the billowing skirt of the mottled blue dress she wore summer and winter. ‘Nan, you could fall. You mustn’t go up ladders.’

  No answer.

  Jenny peered into the branches, shocked to see Nan wasn’t even holding the ladder, but reaching sideways, a pair of pruners open like a parrot’s beak.

  ‘Will you please come down, Nan? John will do that for you. The rung you’re standing on is bending.’

  ‘Stop kicking up a fuss,’ came the tetchy reply. ‘I’ve had this ladder forty years and haven’t fallen off it yet. This ladder and I are old friends – we know each other’s creaks and groans.’ Nan gave a wheezy laugh, which didn’t hide the fact that she was breathless and shaky. ‘Calm down, Jennifer. I know exactly what I’m doing.’

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Cutting mistletoe. Kindly don’t distract me.’

  The tree heaved and rustled as Nan wrestled with a clump of mistletoe growing out of the bark. Then she had a coughing fit. What if Nan fell out of the pear tree – at Christmas time?

  Don’t do this to me, God, Jenny prayed.

  Nan hacked away at the tough stalk. ‘Ah, success!’ she boomed at last, and Jenny held onto the ladder, wincing to see the elderly rungs bending as Nan climbed down clutching her trophy. ‘A perfect ball of mistletoe. Isn’t that splendid? I thought we should have some this year, with two young lovers in the house.’

  Almost crying with relief, Jenny disentangled a twig from Nan’s thick silver hair. ‘We love you, Nan. You’re precious and we don’t want anything happening to you.’

  Nan gave her a reassuring pat. ‘I’m a tough old bird. Now look at the berries on this mistletoe. They represent the sun. And did you know the thrushes plant them? When they’re eating the berry, they rub their beaks on the bark and the tiny seeds get stuck in a crack and grow.’

  ‘No, I didn’t. All I know is we need a new ladder.’

  ‘I’ll take this inside and Tom can hang it in the porch.’ Nan looked at Jenny approvingly. ‘You look nice.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Jenny had made an effort to look her best for Christmas. She’d brushed her long dark hair, and it looked good, flowing over her shoulders against her best crimson velvet dress. It might send a silent message to Matt: Welcome. Come home. Home for Christmas.

  She remembered Matt as a leggy seven-year-old, how he’d loved her to wear that dress, how he’d creep close, stroke the velvet and look up at her adoringly. But that was before. Before it all happened.

  Jenny thought nostalgically of Christmases when she’d taken Tom, Matt and Lottie to the church for the blessing of the crib, then the saffron buns and the tiny presents hidden in a barrel of bran. The tall Christmas tree bobbing with hand-knitted ornaments, peg dolls and tiny muslin bags of sweets. The happiness of singing carols with the children gathered around the tree, faces glowing in the candlelight. How she missed it.

  Jenny followed Nan indoors. ‘I’ll help make the saffron buns,’ she said. ‘It’ll take my mind off Matt.’

  ‘Good idea,’ Nan said. ‘You spend far too much time agonising over him.’

  *

  Every day, in all weathers, Matt walked up to Hendravean to see Lottie and managed to avoid Jenny. He stayed away from the house, waiting outside in the barn next to Mufty’s stable. He was making a cradle for the baby from sea-smoothed driftwood. Lottie sat with him, perched on a straw bale, and helped to sand the wood.

  They’d spend precious time cuddling and talking quietly, but when they said goodbye, Lottie always said, ‘Please Matt, I want you to come home. This is your home, with me. Won’t you come for Christmas?’ His only response was to kiss her and hold her close, both of them smiling when feeling the movements of Little Star between them, still safe in Lottie’s womb.

  With Christmas looming, Matt talked to John about his dilemma. ‘It’s Mum,’ he said, and even the words stuck in his throat, the same old pain spreading into his shoulders. ‘It’s like . . . there’s a stone wall between us.’

  John was a good listener. He gave Matt his full attention, his dark blue eyes full of empathy. ‘I’ll tell you what we’ll do,’ he said. ‘We’ll chop wood.’

  ‘Chop wood?’

  ‘Firewood,’ John said. ‘Actions speak louder than words. I went up there one day and found Tom in tears out in the cold, trying to saw logs for the fire – he just isn’t strong enough yet. But you and I could go on Christmas Eve morning and quietly get on with it. I can wield an axe any day.’

  ‘Okay,’ Matt agreed, ‘but I don’t see how it will help.’

  ‘Give it a try, eh?’

  Matt shrugged. ‘Can do.’

  ‘We’ll do it quietly – sneak into the woodshed when they’re all indoors making mince pies and painting pine cones.’

  So, early on the morning of Christmas Eve, Matt and John set off in a bitter easterly wind. It was driving massive waves into the harbour and the air stung with beads of ice. Together the two men tackled Nan’s chaotic pile of planks and branches, enjoying the work and the satisfaction of creating a neat stack of logs against the wall.

  ‘I need a break,’ John said, and Matt nodded, preoccupied with wedging the top layer of logs into place. He’d almost finished it when he sensed a presence. John had disappeared and someone else was there, behind him, watching.

  He swung round. ‘Mum!’

  Jenny was in the doorway, leaning on her stick. Her eyes were bright and hopeful. ‘Matt!’ She looked at the stack of wood. ‘You’ve done all this. Thank you – it’s such a help . . . so . . . so kind of you.’

  Matt looked at her silently. She seemed different – not angry, not afraid, but confident, the way she used to be. He couldn’t remember her ever saying thank you to him before. The words shone in the air between them like a transformational light. Thank you.

  He sat down on the straw bales, tired from chopping wood and suddenly emotional. Those words and their light, and the light in Jenny’s eyes, had power to heal his pain. It was so simple. He tried to speak but couldn’t, not while the pain was melting away from his throat and shoulders.

  Jenny sat down beside him and he slipped his arm around her, remembering the feel of her hair and the hand-knitted shawl. She felt small and precious – and motherly.

  ‘Look at me, Matt,’ she said, and their eyes met in the dim light of the woodshed. Matt knew what she was going to say, but this time it sounded like music.

  ‘Will you come home? Home for Christmas?’

  He still couldn’t speak.

  ‘Come in by the fire,’ Jenny said. ‘It’s cold out here.’ She brushed the sawdust from his sleeve and gave him a little tug. ‘Come on.’

  He walked beside her in a dream, his arm still firmly around her shoulders, across the yard and into the warmth of Hendravean.

  The smell of cinnamon. The cats curled up in front of a roaring fire. And Lottie hanging painted pine cones on the Christmas tree, her face radiant with joy. ‘You’ve got him!’ she said to Jenny.

  Jenny grinned. ‘That’s right – I’ve got him. Now you sit down there, Matt, and I’ll bring you a cup of tea and a saffron bun – with butter.’

  Matt sank into Nan’s voluminous sofa and managed to speak. ‘I’d love that.’

  Tea and a saffron bun, he thought, the food of the Gods.

  He stared into the fire and felt its heat soaking into his bones, warming his face and the roots of his hair. Mesmerised by the beauty of the flames and the indescribable homeliness of Nan’s room, he felt warmer than he’d felt for years.

  Home for Christmas, he thought, dazed and softened with a new feeling – contentment.

  He grinned at John, who gave him a conspiratorial wink. There was no inquisition. No recriminations. Only friendliness. Lottie snuggled next to him on the sofa, then Bartholomew on his lap, and Tom squeezed in on the other side of him.

  The sound of the flames and the wind in the chimney, the scent of pine, the
voices . . .

  Matt looked at the clock. It was dark, and Jenny was drawing the curtains. He yawned and stretched.

  ‘Ah, you’re awake,’ Nan said.

  ‘Have I been asleep?’ Matt asked, surprised.

  ‘For three hours.’ Nan actually smiled at him. ‘You must have needed it.’

  ‘I was warm,’ Matt said. ‘I haven’t been warm for years.’

  ‘We didn’t disturb you. You looked so sweet.’

  ‘Sweet?’

  ‘You and Lottie – I wish I’d had a camera. She’s still asleep.’

  Matt looked down at Lottie’s golden head on his shoulder. Had she slept for three hours too?

  ‘We’ve been waiting for you to wake up, Matt,’ Tom said. ‘Me and Warren are starving.’

  The saffron bun was a distant memory. Matt glanced at Nan’s big dining table, which was laden with a Cornish Christmas feast. There were candles burning and a bottle of homemade damson wine.

  ‘After tea we’re having a sing-song,’ Tom said. ‘Wait ’til you hear Warren playing the piano-accordion.’

  ‘Have you got a favourite Christmas carol, Matt?’ Nan asked.

  Matt nodded, remembering. He looked down at Lottie, who was now awake, her face glowing in the firelight. ‘Yeah – I have. “The Bethlehem Star”. The one where it says, “Brighter than the brightest gem”.’ He kissed the top of Lottie’s head, ‘ ’Cause that’s you, Lottie – you’re my brightest gem.’

  ‘Wait ’til the baby’s born,’ Lottie said, her eyes shining. ‘You’ll have two gems.’

  Matt smiled, but kept his doubts to himself. The baby would be born in February and in the meantime, he was home. But how long would it last?

  Tread carefully, he told himself, don’t spoil it.

  *

  After Christmas the weather turned cold. Frost was rare in St Ives, but there were hailstorms and wild seas. In Nan’s garden, sheltered from the gales, the first violets glowed purple in the hedges and stiff little snowdrops emerged from the carpet of leaves. By the end of January, the lane was bright with starry celandines and domes of pale primroses.