An Orphan's Winter Read online

  ‘No – Olivia wanted nothing to do with animals,’ John agreed.

  The colour was back in Lottie’s cheeks now, her blonde hair shining in the salty breeze, and she began to talk to John like never before, with passion in her eyes and voice. ‘I loved the times I spent with Nan. She had wonderful books and we used to read together by the fire on wet days with the wind howling in the chimney. We read all through Grimms’ Fairy Tales and Hans Christian Andersen, and we read Anne of Green Gables and Oliver Twist, and best of all we read Nan’s old books of Cornish legends. Nan taught me how to care for the animals and she let me read on the sofa with a chicken on my lap. In the summer, she took me out on the cliffs and taught me about wildflowers and herbs and birds, then she started teaching me music.’

  ‘You were going to tell me about Nan and Jenny,’ prompted John.

  ‘Well – it was bad enough already with Nan and Jenny hating each other, but Nan blamed Jenny for Arnie’s death, and then it was like open war between the two of them. Nobody told Nan when Jenny got polio and we were taken to an orphanage, but when Nan found out she made a huge effort to put things right. She rescued us and managed to make peace with Jenny. I hope they stay friends – our life would be impossible if they didn’t.

  *

  ‘I can’t do this.’

  Olivia stared at her reflection in the yellowing mirror on the back of the wardrobe door. Her once beautiful complexion was plastered with thick, concealing make-up, her cheeks aglow with rouge, her lips glossed with scarlet, her pencilled eyebrows sweeping towards her ash-gold hair.

  Her eyes confronted her from the mirror. She wasn’t seeing the make-up. She was seeing the truth underneath. The pale cheeks. The finely etched wrinkles, not smile lines, but lines of tension and misery. Somewhere inside those solemn, desperate eyes was the sparkle John had fallen in love with, and no matter how hard she tried, Olivia couldn’t seem to coax it into life.

  Seducing John after all these years wasn’t going to be easy. She dreaded the way he would look at her. Dismissively. The kindness in his dark blue eyes wouldn’t be for her, but only for little Charlotte.

  Little Charlotte? Olivia gave her thoughts an angry prod. Her estranged daughter wouldn’t be the candid, enchanting child she had been so long ago. Olivia glanced at the sepia photograph John had sent from England. Their daughter was now a new, almost adult creature who insisted on calling herself Lottie. Not even Lottie De Lumen, but Lottie Lanroska, a Cornish name that sounded rebellious and earthy to Olivia.

  I can’t do this, she thought again. I can’t face the accusing glint of hurt in her eyes, asking ‘Why did you abandon me, Mummy?’

  The clock ticked on mercilessly on the windowsill, against the nicotine-stained nets that screened the views of other dingy tenement flats in the haze of a New York smog. In one hour she was to meet John. Her pulse quickened at the thought. Would he take her in his arms? Would he gaze deeply into her eyes and see her, really see her? Or would he give her his business-as-usual look through frosted glass? Olivia had to keep reminding herself that her daughter would be there. John would be the devoted, respectable daddy in front of Charlotte. No – Lottie. Olivia picked up her keys and spoke the name aloud.

  ‘Lottie.’

  It sounded strange. Challenging.

  She locked the door of her apartment. As usual, the lift wasn’t working so she took the five flights of stairs, her small feet moving with swift precision. It felt like escaping from herself.

  I can’t do this, her thoughts insisted at each turn of the staircase. But moments later she found herself stepping into a taxi.

  ‘Will you take me to the Rex and Coraline Art Gallery please?’ she asked, and sat back cocooned against the smog, her legs crossed, her eyes hardly noticing the passing streets, her mind in a panic. She leaned forward and tapped the cab driver on the shoulder. ‘On second thoughts – would you drop me at the bar on the opposite side of the road?’ she requested.

  ‘Sure.’ The cabbie’s eyes frowned at her from the driving mirror. ‘But it’s not the sort of place for a lady on her own.’

  ‘I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself,’ Olivia snapped.

  ‘Okay, lady,’ he shrugged.

  A plan hatched in Olivia’s mind. She’d hide in the bar and watch for John to arrive at the gallery; she’d test how it felt to see her daughter – and see how John looked now. Had he grown a beard? Put on weight? Gone bald? Would he still have his eager, loping walk, his hard stare masking the eyes of a dreamer?

  She could barely afford a glass of wine, but she simply had to have one. Trying to sip it slowly, Olivia sat by the window, looking through the traffic at the open doorway of the Rex and Coraline Art Gallery.

  Waiting.

  Remembering.

  *

  ‘Did I really look like that?’ Lottie stood in front of her father’s painting of her playing on the sand in St Ives with her best friend, Morwenna.

  ‘To me you did.’ John had his arm around his precious daughter and he gave her an affectionate squeeze. ‘I wanted to capture a feeling – something deep in your heart. It spoke to me and I felt compelled to paint it.’

  ‘What kind of feeling?’ Lottie asked, her slim fingers twining into his rough artist’s hand, which was on her shoulder.

  John was silent for a moment, thinking. Then he said simply, ‘Pain.’

  ‘Pain?’ She challenged him immediately. ‘But I wasn’t in pain, Daddy. I was happy.’

  ‘Happiness doesn’t come without pain,’ John said, ‘and it is the special task of the artist to explore its mysterious connection. It’s not easy to paint a feeling because you’re trying to paint the invisible.’

  Lottie waited for his words to make sense in her head, which they didn’t. But it didn’t matter. She was here to meet her mother and the excitement was blurring everything, even the thrill of arriving in New York all the way from Cornwall.

  She sighed. ‘I can’t really concentrate on it, Daddy. It’s a lovely painting, and I like the way you’ve done the sea and made the waves look all shimmery and the sky so blue, but I’m too excited about meeting my mother. She is coming, isn’t she?’

  John frowned. ‘She said she was. But this is New York. It’s not always possible to be on time, especially in this kind of weather.’

  ‘I can’t wait. Look at me, Daddy, I’m shaking with excitement.’

  John looked down at her, concerned. Lottie was usually so calm, taking everything in her stride. He supposed this wasn’t surprising given all she had been through in her short life. He observed the ruffled hem of her blue frock was quivering, as if her knees were shaking.

  ‘Why don’t we sit down?’ he suggested, and led her to one of the plush green velvet seats in the middle of the gallery. ‘Just take some deep breaths, Lottie. Olivia is late, but I’m sure she’ll be here soon. She wants to see you.’

  Lottie nodded and sat down beside him, facing the painting. ‘I do like the way you’ve painted Morwenna,’ she said, feeling a wave of homesickness, a longing for her friend. ‘She looks wild and mischievous, but doll-like – the way she is. Or was. She’s grown up now and keeps on telling me she could have a baby. It’s all she wants. A baby. She’s not even married yet.’

  John smiled. ‘Has she got a young man?’

  ‘No,’ Lottie said. ‘She used to make eyes at Matt, but he hates her.’

  ‘Matt sounds like an angry young man,’ John said. ‘Maybe I should take him under my wing – if he’ll let me.’

  Lottie’s eyes lit up as she remembered Matt and how he had appeared the night before she left for America. ‘Matt is rebellious. He won’t live with us because he blames his mum for his father’s death. He survived the Cornish winter on his own, sleeping rough, and he earned enough money to buy his father’s boat back. I’m proud of Matt – and he’s an artist like you. Wait ’til you see his pictures of seals.’ Lottie hesitated, then said what she wanted to say, her cheeks colouring a little as s
he spoke with passion about Matt. ‘I didn’t used to like Matt when we were growing up. He was horrible to me. But now he’s changed – and we . . . we’re good, close friends.’

  Her voice lost its music and faded away. She hadn’t quite found the courage to say the words burning in her heart. She loved Matt. And Matt loved her. She knew he did, but it was secret.

  She sighed and searched her father’s eyes for understanding. John was looking at her intently, his hands clasped, the deep blue of his eyes glistening with empathy and hope. Lottie had spent most of her life without her father, but a twist of fate had brought them together and it felt as if they’d never been apart.

  ‘Hmm . . . I shall enjoy getting to know Matt. When we get back to Cornwall—’ He broke off as he heard footsteps come from the far end of the gallery. ‘Ah . . .’

  They both tensed, listening, and a look of anticipation tingled between them. Lottie felt a shiver rush up her spine. She stared at the open archway between the galleries.

  Her mother! Her mother was coming.

  She gasped in surprise as a beautiful, Goddess-like woman in a swinging, swishing skirt hurried briskly towards them. She had rich brown eyes and a smile wider than her face.

  ‘That’s not your mother,’ John said quickly. ‘It’s Coraline, who owns the gallery.’

  Disappointment flooded over Lottie, but she quickly regained her composure, warming to Coraline’s open friendliness.

  ‘John! It’s great to see you.’ Coraline grasped John’s hand and held on to it. ‘Isn’t this a wonderful, special day? I’m so excited for you. Rex told me you were here. All the way from Cornwall – lovely Cornwall. I’m going to see it someday soon.’ Without waiting for a reply, she turned her glowing eyes on to Lottie and the smile stretched even wider. ‘And this is Charlotte?’

  ‘Lottie.’

  ‘Lottie! Okay, Lottie – what a gorgeous girl you are! I’m so pleased to meet you – the star of John’s fabulous painting. How does it feel to be famous, Lottie?’

  ‘Famous? How can I be famous?’ Lottie looked bewildered.

  ‘Aw, you’re so cute.’ Coraline’s smile was illuminating. It was making Lottie smile too, even though she was worrying about her mother. ‘It’s John’s painting of you that’s famous. People from all over America have come to see it. The title, Discovering Charlotte, is so intriguing. Everyone loves a mystery.’

  Coraline turned her joyful smile on John. ‘There are lots of reviews. I’ve kept a scrapbook of them for you – you shall have it to take home.’

  Lottie kept her mouth shut. She liked Coraline, but found her enthusiasm slightly alarming. She glanced at the gallery clock. Her mother was half-an-hour late. It was unnerving. Lottie felt fragile, as if her confidence had walls of glass and behind them lurked a heavy tide loaded with fear of abandonment. What if her mother didn’t turn up? Suddenly she understood, with frightening clarity, what her father had meant by ‘pain’. Lottie had felt that pain so young – at four years old – when her mother abandoned her, leaving her with John’s mother, Granny De Lumen, and gone far away to America on a ship. Betraying her. Betraying John, who was working abroad.

  If it happens again, Lottie thought grimly, I’ll hate her forever. Forever and ever. No matter what she does.

  She stared at the clock. Forty minutes. Forty-five minutes. Nearly an hour.

  Leaving her father deep in conversation with Coraline, Lottie prowled along the walls, pretending to be looking at the other paintings in the gallery, none of which interested her. Except for one, a rather gloomy painting of Jesus on a donkey. Seeing the donkey reminded Lottie of home, of Mufty, far way in St Ives; the way he looked at her with those wise, hopeful eyes, the cosy warmth of his fur, the way he loved her without judgement. A hot lump of homesickness lodged in her throat. To be polite and make conversation was going to be difficult.

  An hour – gone. And time, like a drain, was sucking away her hopes and dreams. All through the winter, Lottie had dreamed of this meeting with her mother. She’d imagined hugs and smiles and harmonious talks that would heal the gulf between them. She’d even dreamed of rekindling the romance between her parents, despite John’s insistence that he wasn’t going to let Olivia back into his life. He’d be courteous, he’d help her if he could, but she wasn’t going to be his wife again.

  The trip to America had been a major commitment for John, who’d had to close his new art gallery in St Ives. For Lottie, it took up almost all of the first half of the school term. Spring came early to Cornwall and it was a time she had grown to love: first the primroses and violets, then the bluebells and white bells of wild garlic, followed by the tight little buds of sea pinks and the clumps of sweetly fragrant Alexanders. Like most houses in St Ives, Nan’s place had a pair of nesting seagulls on the roof, nesting jackdaws in the old pigeon holes along the barn wall, and swallows’ nests on the rafters inside Mufty’s stable. Standing there in the gallery, Lottie felt sad at the thought she might miss it – for nothing – for a mother who hadn’t turned up.

  She trudged back to where her father and Coraline were carefully wrapping the painting in layers of corrugated cardboard.

  ‘I can see you were a boy scout,’ Coraline joked, watching John tying swift and complicated knots and cutting lengths of the white string with a penknife from his pocket.

  Her mother was now an hour and a half late.

  Coraline noticed Lottie’s disconsolate stance. ‘You’re disappointed, Lottie,’ she said warmly. ‘Perhaps your mother will be here soon. Don’t give up on her.’

  Lottie looked into her eyes and saw the glow of kindness there. She wished Coraline was her mother. It would be so easy and happy. But she felt too upset to speak.

  ‘Are you all right, Lottie?’ John asked, but Lottie couldn’t even look up at his concerned eyes. She just wanted to go home – to St Ives.

  Chapter 3

  The Boy in the Barn

  Far away in St Ives, Nan stood in the open door of the hay barn, an imperious glare crinkling her brow. Tom hovered beside her, brandishing a driftwood truncheon. ‘I’ll smash his head in, Nan, don’t you worry.’

  ‘I’ve never had a day’s worry in my life,’ Nan replied, casting a contemptuous glance at Tom’s driftwood truncheon. ‘That’s a fat lot of good. Go and get the cricket bat from the woodshed if you feel the need of a weapon. I don’t need one.’

  Someone was hiding in the hay barn. Nan had sent Tom to let the chickens out in the early morning and he’d come thundering back, red-faced and bursting with importance to report hearing someone coughing inside.

  Hendravean was isolated, standing alone on the cliffs overlooking Porthmeor Beach and Clodgy. Nan liked her reclusive lifestyle. Her best friends were Mufty, the donkey; Bessie and Bartholomew, the two house cats; the chickens, and the wild birds and animals. She was doing her best to adjust to a new life, having taken in Jenny and her three children. She’d taught herself to drive and had bought an Austin Seven so that she could rescue the children and bring them home to St Ives. Only Matt was missing. While Jenny grieved and worried for her eldest son, Nan was secretly glad Matt wasn’t there. In her opinion, Matt was a born troublemaker and the Lanroska family were better off without him.

  Nan was doing her best to build a relationship with young Tom, teaching him music and getting him involved in caring for the animals and the garden. She found him irritatingly babyish, but, unlike Matt, Tom was trustworthy. So when he told her someone was in the barn she believed him, and dragged herself out to investigate.

  She and Tom stood outside the barn door, listening intently.

  ‘Excuse me, Nan, but whoever’s in there isn’t going to come out if we’re standing in the doorway,’ Tom said sensibly, then widened his eyes and whispered, ‘let’s hide round the corner and keep watch.’

  ‘Good thinking,’ Nan said, impressed.

  ‘It’s what me an’ Matt would do.’

  ‘You miss him, don’t you?’ Nan said, detecting the
wistful tone in Tom’s voice.

  Tom put a finger to his lips: ‘Shh!’

  After twenty minutes of standing in the cold wind, Nan was fed up with waiting. The chickens were clustered expectantly around her, wanting their breakfast, and Mufty was kicking the door of his stable. ‘I’m not going to stand here all day, Tom. And you’ve got to go to school.’

  ‘Have I got to?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But who’s gonna look after you and Mum, Nan? If it’s a burglar in there, I could fight him and chase him off.’

  ‘I dare say you could. But you are going to school, so put that cricket bat down and get yourself ready.’

  Tom was going to argue but Nan’s eyes fixed him with a look he hated – unquestionable, no-nonsense authority. Nan would win. She always did. But what if the person hiding in the barn was a criminal on the run from prison? Tom handed the cricket bat to Nan. ‘All right then, I’ll go to school. But you watch out, Nan. He might attack you.’

  Nan cackled with laughter. ‘Attack me? He wouldn’t dare.’ She tossed the cricket bat aside and headed for Mufty’s stable, her laughter shaking her belly and ringing from the granite walls.

  Halfway down the lane with his school satchel over one shoulder, Tom heard one of Nan’s foghorn shouts. Alarmed, he turned to look back at Hendravean and saw a fleeing figure, dark against the morning light. He wore a small cap and raggedy clothes and he was bent double, clutching a bundle of something Tom couldn’t make out. Tom watched him zig-zag through the bracken towards the Clodgy rocks until he disappeared. Who was he? Why was he desperate enough to steal? And would he come back?

  Tom walked on towards school. He missed Matt, he missed Lottie and didn’t want to admit he was actually scared on his own. Two weeks, and Lottie would be back. On his bedroom windowsill, Tom had made a timeline of pebbles. Each morning, he removed one. He was counting the days.