A Cornish Orphan Read online

  A blend of love and anxiety simmered in Jenny’s heart as she sensed the child relaxing, growing warmer, recovering in the blessing of sleep and firelight. Outside, the granite walls of the cottages echoed with the roar of surf breaking on Porthmeor and Porthgwidden. The narrow streets of St Ives were full of sand and broken roof slates which the storm had sent crashing down onto the cobbles.

  The thought of those nameless bodies being loaded into three undertaker’s carts haunted Jenny. In a clear sky, the light from the sea extended the October twilight into a mystic hour, a coming home hour when cottage windows flickered with firelight and the Sloop Inn rang with laughter. Tonight there was no laughter. Only the crunch-crunch of men’s boots heading purposefully down the cobbled streets towards Porthmeor.

  Gently rocking the sleeping child, Jenny listened, aware of sorrow drifting through the streets like windblown sand. She sensed the compassion, the powerlessness carried in every heart. She wanted to be out there, sharing the burden with the community she loved. A community that did what it had to do, made unanimous decisions in total silence, as it was doing now, doing the last act of love for the dead sailors of a wrecked ship. Jenny listened, knowing exactly what was going to happen.

  She hadn’t cried for years but now the tears flowed, the breath burned in her throat, and she heard what she’d been waiting for. The men of St Ives, some of them so old they could hardly walk, had gathered to sing the dead sailors home. In perfect harmony, their voices rang out, warm and strong as they had always been:

  Eternal father strong to save

  Whose arm doth bind the restless wave . . .

  The hymn was followed by another, and another until the slow clop of horses and the rumble of carts filled the street, and Jenny felt the shutters tremble as the solemn procession thundered past her door. A slit of light from a lantern shone between cracks in the shutters, the gleam of a horse’s eye, then the long shadow of the death wagon. The sound faded, leaving only the hushed waves of low tide, and the piping cries of turnstones who gathered in twittering flocks at night to feed along the rocky shoreline.

  The child’s brow was warm. Jenny carried her upstairs and laid her down on the mattress. Without bothering to undress, she climbed in beside her, reaching across the bed for Arnie’s hand. She lay awake, worrying. How would the little girl feel when she woke up, in a strange bed, between two strangers? Would she be terrified? How hard would it be, to cope with her and with the two lively boys? Could they find enough food and clothes for her? Jenny felt sure of only one thing. Love. There would be enough love to go round, always. Comforted by that certainty, she finally fell asleep.

  At dawn, Jenny awoke to the sound of brushing from the street outside as energetic women with brooms swept up the sand and gathered the clinking roof slates into stacks against the walls. She turned over in bed and found herself looking into a pair of bright, strong, fathomless eyes. ‘You’re awake,’ she breathed. ‘Don’t be frightened. You’re safe now, and we’re looking after you. I’m Jenny.’

  The child gave her a quizzical glance, then looked down at the blue silk blouse she found herself wrapped in. Her small hands emerged from the creases of fabric. They were dimpled and very mobile, touching the silk, the coarse blanket, and twiddling locks of her hair which was now dry.

  ‘Your dress is downstairs, drying by the fire,’ Jenny said.

  The child didn’t seem interested. She twisted round, and her mouth fell open as she saw Arnie’s stubbly face asleep on the pillow. She looked back at Jenny and put her finger to her lips. ‘Shh. He’s asleep,’ she whispered.

  ‘That’s Arnie,’ Jenny said. ‘He rescued you from the sea.’

  ‘Shh.’ This time it was louder, and fierce. A bossy little madam, Jenny thought. Like me. We should get along fine.

  ‘Will you tell me your name?’ she asked, but the child shook her head.

  ‘Then what shall I call you? Princess? Goldilocks?’

  No response.

  ‘How about Cinderella?’

  Silence. And a rising tension. Jenny had a startling thought. What if this beautiful little girl had lost her memory? What if she didn’t know who she was?

  ‘Shall we get some breakfast?’ she suggested, getting out of bed. She pulled out the towel she’d put there in case the traumatised child wet the bed. It was dry. ‘I’ve got some elderberry cordial . . . with honey . . . would you like some?’ Jenny headed for the stairs without further persuasion and was pleased to hear the little girl’s feet running after her.

  Together they looked at the velvet dress, a lighter shade of red now that it was drying. ‘You can’t wear it yet. It’s still damp,’ Jenny said, but the child didn’t seem to care. She was preoccupied with extracting something from the pocket, a black velvet pouch, its knobbly contents evidently precious to her. She wound the drawstring firmly around her wrist, and threw Jenny a look that clearly said, ‘Hands off. This is MINE.’ She sat at the table, clutching the velvet pouch while Jenny warmed the elderberry cordial and honey on the stove. She gave her a thick slice of home-baked bread with butter and damson jam, surprised when the child took a knife and skilfully cut it into dainty squares, which she ate without getting in a mess.

  ‘You’re a proper little lady,’ Jenny said.

  The beams in the ceiling creaked alarmingly, and from upstairs came the sound of running feet, bedsprings, and squeals of laughter, followed by Arnie’s groans of protest, then a roar as he pretended to be a lion. ‘Don’t worry, little one.’ Jenny saw the child freeze with anxiety. ‘It’s only my two boys getting up. They’re waking Daddy. Little monkeys.’

  The big eyes rounded again as the child watched the stairs, her body poised for flight, like a bird on the edge of a roof. A beam of morning sunlight picked out a single curling strand of her hair, and Jenny noticed her eyes were dark blue like the deeps of the ocean. Behind the round cheeks and the stubborn silence was an old soul, Jenny thought, a tender flower cruelly uprooted, torn away from everything she knew.

  ‘Who’s SHE?’ Matt pointed at her from the stairs, with Tom following him. ‘She’s sitting in MY chair.’

  ‘Don’t you be so rude,’ snapped Jenny. ‘This little girl came from the wrecked ship.’

  The boys looked at each other, and Tom gave Matt a shove. ‘We gotta say hello nicely, Daddy said.’ He barged past his brother and ran downstairs, crossed the kitchen and stood in front of the little girl, his eyes treacle brown and solemn. ‘Hello. My name’s Tom Lanroska. What’s yours?’

  ‘Lottie.’

  It felt like a breakthrough. The first time Lottie had spoken. ‘Bless you, Tom.’ Jenny ruffled his mop of dark hair, glad of her five-year-old son’s disarming friendliness. She smiled at Lottie who sat uncannily still, as if she’d broken a spell and stopped breathing.

  They all listened to footsteps tip-tapping on the cobbles. Footsteps that sounded oddly menacing. The front door had an iron knocker like the head of a lion. It was rapped, three times in an unfriendly manner.

  Jenny smoothed her skirt, and went to the door, aware that she had slept in her clothes and hadn’t yet washed or done her hair.

  Two women in uniform stood at the door, their faces grave and unsmiling.

  ‘Mrs Lanroska?’

  ‘Yes – that’s me.’

  ‘We understand you have a child here from the wrecked ship. We’ve come to collect her.’

  Chapter 2

  ‘S’Nives’

  Lottie got down from the table where she’d been eating her breakfast. She tried to push the chair in neatly, but Matt was waiting to reclaim it, his eyes smouldering with resentment. He snatched the chair from her fingers, and Lottie felt a huff of unfriendly breath on her cheek. ‘That’s MY chair, not yours.’ Matt’s voice had rough edges, like stones. ‘And why are you wearing my granny’s clothes?’

  Lottie snuggled into the cosy shawl Jenny had given her to cover the silk blouse. She looked steadily at Matt, and the scars on her back started to bur
n and prickle as if his unfriendly attitude had somehow reawakened the pain. She didn’t like his narrow nose, his scabby, bony knees and his dirty bare feet. Choosing to ignore him, she studied the younger boy, Tom, who was still babyish and plump, his sturdy legs anchored firmly in front of her, his eyes shining brown and knowing, as if a wise wizard lived inside his chubby face. She smiled at him and his eyes glowed with joy.

  ‘Is that her?’ The tallest of the two uniformed women at the door peered in, and the west wind from the sea gusted in, lifting the heavy damask door curtain. ‘Can we come in?’

  Jenny stood in the doorway, her back straight. ‘Wait there.’ She turned to shout up the stairs. ‘Arnie! Come down here – right now, please.’

  They all looked at the stairs, and Arnie’s hairy legs appeared, bounding down the bare wooden steps. He was clad in a thick red and grey tartan dressing gown. He grinned at Lottie but she didn’t smile back.

  ‘Is this your dress, Lottie?’ Tom asked, and he walked over to the drying rack by the fire, touching the red velvet in awe, and fingering the cream lace petticoats. ‘It’s pretty.’

  ‘Keep away from the fire, Tom,’ Jenny hissed. ‘I’ve told you and told you.’

  ‘Ah – you’ll be Mr Lanroska.’ The tall woman held out a leathery hand. ‘I’m Miss Trevail from the orphanage in Truro. We’ve come to collect the child. I believe you rescued her from the shipwreck.’

  Arnie frowned. ‘What authority do you have to take her?’

  ‘She’s an orphan. Isn’t that a good enough reason?’ Miss Trevail lifted her sagging chin in a confrontational manner. Her ice-green lizard eyes glinted at him. The other woman nodded like an obedient accomplice.

  ‘No, it isn’t a good enough reason,’ Arnie said. ‘Me and Jen want her to stay here with us. Don’t we, Jen?’

  ‘That’s right. We do,’ Jen said staunchly. ‘Poor little mite. She’s only just arrived, and look what she’s been through. It’s not fair to move her again the very next morning.’

  ‘But it’s the right thing to do,’ insisted Miss Trevail. ‘We can care for her and discipline her properly, keep her clean and train her to work hard.’

  ‘She doesn’t need an institution. She needs a home.’ Jen stepped forward and propped her arm against the doorframe, barring the two women from coming in.

  ‘But you can’t look after her here.’ Miss Trevail wrinkled her nose disapprovingly. ‘This is a hovel. And look at the state of those two boys. I’ve never seen such dirty feet. Filthy.’ She peered inside. ‘And this is a two-up, two-down cottage in what is, frankly, a very rough area. Our orphanage in Truro is one of the best in the country.’

  Jenny flew at her. ‘How DARE you criticise my children and my home. My children are loved, not regimented. You’ve got a cheek, coming here telling us Downlong folk what to do.’

  ‘But . . . Mrs Lanroska . . . I mean . . . look at the sand on the stairs!’

  ‘Don’t you Mrs Lanroska me. If you lived in a cottage with a west-facing door and a storm blowing, you’d have sand on your stairs. We were all too busy caring about the shipwrecked sailors yesterday to go sweeping up sand. A bit of sand never hurt anyone. You go on back to Truro and sit in your fancy orphanage. Us Downlong folks don’t need the likes of you in St Ives, telling us what to do.’

  ‘I’m not telling you what to do, dear. We’ve come to collect the child – what’s her name?’

  ‘Lottie,’ shouted Matt from the table.

  ‘Right. Then Lottie is an orphan, and she must come with us to live in the orphanage.’ Miss Trevail spoke slowly and loudly, hanging on to her consonants, as if Jenny was stupid.

  The words broke into Lottie’s consciousness. She’d been listening to Tom who was showing her a broad bean he was growing in a jar of wet newspaper. When she heard the word ‘orphanage’, Lottie’s eyes went black with terror, the way they had been when Arnie first saw her in the sea.

  ‘You’ve got to go to the orphanage,’ Matt said, gloating.

  ‘Eat your breakfast and be quiet, you tactless little spriggan,’ barked Arnie, and Matt glowered.

  A disapproving huff of wind made the fire flare in the stove.

  ‘I really think we should come in.’ Miss Trevail took a step forward. She brandished a brown leather suitcase with hard corners and brass buckles. ‘We’ve brought a case for your clothes, Lottie – and what’s that you’ve got in your hand? Where’s your clothes?’

  Lottie was clutching the black velvet pouch. Her lips quivered, and Tom put his arm round her. ‘Don’t cry, Lottie.’

  ‘You are not coming in.’ Jen braced her arm against the doorframe. ‘That’s right, Tom, you look after Lottie.’

  But Lottie wasn’t crying. She had steel in her eyes, and her mouth pursed tightly. In silence she gathered her clothes from the drying rack, folded them neatly over one arm, and walked towards Miss Trevail. Arnie and Jenny looked at each other. Surely Lottie wasn’t going to choose the orphanage over their cosy home?

  ‘There you are!’ Miss Trevail looked triumphant. ‘She’s going to be sensible.’

  Lottie walked right up to her in a moment of silence where everyone seemed to be holding their breath.

  ‘Open the suitcase please,’ Lottie said clearly. She looked up at Miss Trevail, who failed to notice the glint of artful intelligence in the little girl’s frightened eyes.

  Miss Trevail fumbled with the stiff leather buckles on the suitcase and when her hands were busy, Lottie saw her chance and took it. With one wild glance at Jenny, she slipped deftly between the two portly women and fled down the street, her bare feet flying over the cobbles, her bundle of clothes clutched tightly against her, her blonde curls waving like a flag.

  ‘Now look what you’ve done,’ Jenny glared accusingly at Miss Trevail. ‘Made her run away. How’s she going to find her way back? She don’t know where she is.’

  ‘St Ives is a good place to hide.’ Arnie looked at Miss Trevail’s shocked face, his eyes twinkling with amusement. He pointed a finger at her. ‘You go back to Truro, and don’t come here again. We’ll take good care of Lottie. There’s a train due in half an hour. Go on. Go.’ He took Miss Trevail’s hefty arm and turned her around.

  ‘Don’t you manhandle me.’

  ‘Calm down. We don’t want a rumpus.’ Jen imagined how Miss Trevail’s furious face would look to a small child. More than intimidating. Those cold lizard eyes were terrifying, and anger radiated from her pockmarked skin like invisible bristles. ‘Arnie’s right. Go – and take your posh suitcase with you.’ Their faces were close now, Jenny and Arnie and the two starchy women, a clash of wills.

  But before anything else could happen, the streets of Downlong echoed with shouts and the rumble of handcarts. Two women scurried by, breathing hard, a bundle of empty baskets over their arms. Then an old man hobbling as fast as he could with a rickety handcart.

  ‘Arnie!’ Vic turned up next, his eyes alight with excitement, pushing a cart he had made from driftwood and towing a box on wheels. ‘Cargo!’ he yelled. ‘Get yourself down ’Gwidden. And Porthmeor.’

  Jenny’s eyes rounded. ‘What is it?’

  ‘We don’t know. It’s in wooden crates, coming ashore off the wreck. There’s plenty – but we gotta be quick – afore the police get there.’

  Arnie pulled some clothes on and grabbed two fish baskets from the stack outside the door. He gave Jenny a quick peck on the cheek and a wink. ‘Gotta go. Get what we can.’

  ‘What about Lottie?’ Jenny called after him.

  ‘I’ll look out for her.’

  ‘She could get hurt.’

  ‘She’ll come back.’

  Jenny gave Miss Trevail and her crony a little push. ‘GO. Before you get mown down by this lot.’ She waved her arm at the advancing horde of people now thundering down the street with baskets and carts, their faces alight with the prospect of plundering cargo from the wreck. They didn’t see it as stealing. It was their right, and their reward for the hard work
of living in St Ives, the pilchard packing, the rescues. A storm-wrecked ship brought sadness, and treasure too. Sometimes it was crates of whisky and brandy, sometimes household stuff like cutlery and china, sometimes precious tins of food, food they’d never tasted, like salmon and pineapple.

  Jenny watched the two women sidling along, close to the granite walls, hanging on to each other as the entire population of St Ives poured down the narrow streets towards the sea. She smirked when Miss Trevail’s hat was knocked off by a flying fish basket. Seagulls wheeled and screamed overhead as if caught up in the excitement.

  All she could think about was Lottie, out there clutching her only possessions, the black velvet pouch and her dress. Jenny thought of those tender little feet running over the cobbles. More pain. Undeserved pain. Seeing the cruel wounds on her back had upset Jenny and rekindled maternal love and a sheltering instinct. She wanted to protect this beautiful child who had suffered so much. Already she felt the ache of losing her.

  Normally Jenny would have joined in the scrum to salvage booty from the wreck, but today she felt committed to finding Lottie. I have to stay here, in case she comes back, she thought, and please God, she will come back.

  Lottie crouched behind a stack of lobster pots, her heart beating wildly as she watched the two women walk past in their prim navy-blue hats and squeaking shoes. Never again would she go to an orphanage. She needed to know where those women were going and if they would be coming back for her. If they were, then she’d stay in hiding – for ever.