A Cornish Orphan Read online

  Dodging in and out of doorways and bobbing behind walls, Lottie shadowed them along the harbour, past the lifeboat house, to a high wire fence with notices in scarlet letters: DANGER, KEEP OUT and MINE CLOSED. She stared through the wire at the high granite chimney, the silent, rusting machinery and small trucks with iron wheels. What a place to hide.

  Lottie almost forgot about the two women as she surveyed the overgrown site. She had no idea it was a tin mine with deep shafts and tunnels under the sea. Grass and thrift, bindweed and bramble colonised the piles of stone and heaps of iron. Seagulls sat motionless on every available perch, their blue-grey wings neatly tucked, their yellow eyes noting her without interest. A flock of turnstones ran to and fro, pecking the ground, their matchstick legs going so fast that they seemed invisible. Entranced by the cute little birds, Lottie lingered, tempted by sprays of blackberries glistening on the brambles. Then two rabbits appeared, hopping and nibbling grass, pausing to listen, their ears rim-lit by the emerging sun. Lottie held her breath. She had never seen a wild rabbit, except in story books. But when she moved, both rabbits scuttled into holes and disappeared. Lottie made up her mind that one day she’d come back, find a way in under the fence and play there, in peace, away from dictatorial adults. It would be the kind of healing freedom she’d never had.

  She pressed herself against the fence as a donkey trotted past pulling a cart laden with empty boxes, driven by a man with a hooky nose and greedy eyes. He didn’t look at her but seemed to be hurrying towards the sea, like everyone else she had seen. Over here on the other side of the rocky headland of Pedn Olva, there was a glimmer of sunshine on the sea, a sanctuary from the great rolling storm waves, a glassy stillness about the wooded cliffs above a deserted beach. It wasn’t the beach where the ship had been wrecked. Lottie frowned, anxious now as she followed the fence around the abandoned mine.

  The whistle of a train broke into the lagoon-like silence of Porthminster Beach and the vast curve of Hayle Towans beyond. Godrevy Lighthouse shone white like a tooth at the far end of the bay, and Lottie could see surf breaking over its rocky island. She saw the plume of white steam from the train puffing through the hills, and ahead of her was a high granite wall. The two women were struggling up a flight of steep stone steps.

  Hidden behind a clump of palm trees, Lottie watched their reddening faces, hearing their wheezing breath as they reached the top of the wall and disappeared. She ran up the steps, her heart thumping, ready to run for her life if they turned back and discovered her there. The granite twinkled with flecks of black and clear crystal, cold under her touch. At the top she crouched, peering over a low wall, amazed to see a railway station, and a steam train chuffing slowly into the long platform as if it had emerged from a page in a story book.

  Her heart lifted when she saw the two women go into the station. She ran to the railings, awed by the towering black engine hissing against the barriers. Through the clouds of steam she observed the bulky shapes of the two women climbing into a carriage. Where could they be going? The orphanage in Truro? Well, she wasn’t going with them. Ever. Lottie gave a little skip of joy. Truro must be far away, over those distant hills. She didn’t know what Truro was, but she imagined a grim, grey orphanage with frowning windows. The scars on her back burned, and a question bobbed into her mind. She looked around for someone who might know the answer. There was a porter collecting the green cardboard tickets from people getting off the train. He looked friendly.

  Lottie was still afraid someone might grab her, throw her onto the train, and call her an orphan when she wasn’t an orphan. She waited until the train steamed off into the wooded hills, and then she approached the ticket collector. ‘Excuse me. May I ask you a question?’ she said in a clear voice.

  ‘Yes, Miss.’ He looked at her attentively. ‘What do you want to know?’

  Lottie took a deep breath. ‘Is this America?’

  ‘America!’ A broad grin spread over his tanned face. ‘Nah, course it’s not. Get on with ’e. This is S’nives.’

  Lottie felt hope and energy draining out of her.

  The ticket man noticed her sudden aura of defeat. ‘Was you joking?’ He squatted down to bring his face level with hers.

  Lottie shook her head wordlessly. S’nives. She was in S’nives. A place she’d never heard of. All that desperate terror she’d been through as a stowaway on the creaking, rolling, salt-drenched ship, then the shock of being thrown into the cold sea. Had it been for nothing? She swallowed, caught in the disappointment just as she’d been caught in the wreckage and the storm. She felt cold and sick.

  ‘Where’s yer mum and dad then?’ the ticket man asked. His eyes glowed with concern for this strange little waif who stood before him in a blue silk blouse, miles too big, a cream shawl with its fringe trailing in the puddles, and a bundle of red velvet and lace clutched tightly against her body. ‘You lost, are you?’

  Lottie backed away, her eyes fixed on him in case he grabbed her. Questions about her mum and dad inevitably preceded her being seized by clamp-like hands, bruising her arm, marching her off to be taken prisoner by merciless adults. Before he could catch her, she twirled around and ran, feeling sick and shaken. She hurried down the stone steps too fast, lost her balance and tumbled to the bottom, banging her elbows on the granite, and leaving the red velvet dress and petticoats strewn over the sooty wet steps.

  Expecting the ticket man to come pounding after her, Lottie picked herself up, fighting to ignore her bruises. Pain flared in her wounded back. Shaking and nauseous with shock, she threw up all over Jenny’s cream shawl. It upset her. She would have to wash it, somehow. There were plenty of deep puddles around. She hesitated, watching the top of the steps, and when the ticket man didn’t appear, she made herself climb up and snatch her dress, petticoats, and the black velvet pouch.

  Dazed, she stumbled back towards the abandoned tin mine, hoping to find a way in. She followed the rusty fence down to where the path ended at a sheer granite wall built against the sea. The surf boiled on the rocks below, flouncing great glittering mops of seaweed. Cormorants sat on the highest rock, drying their sepia wings in the sunshine, their beaks lifted towards the sky.

  There was no way in. Lottie walked back from the edge, her fingers trailing the cold wire netting. She felt suddenly feverish and wanted to curl up in a safe warm bed. She sat down on a ledge between two rocks. The rocks were warm from the sun, and prickly with gold and silver lichens.

  I ought to put my proper clothes on, Lottie thought, trying to distract herself from the cloud of despair that had been waiting to swallow her up. She took off the shawl and rolled it into a bundle. The blue silk blouse felt kind against her skin, so she kept it on and pulled the petticoats and dress over it. The red velvet had dried stiff like cardboard in front of Jenny’s fire, and the lace petticoats felt scratchy against her bare legs. Her feet were freezing cold and sore from running on the rough ground. She longed for the shoes and socks she had lost in the sea.

  The thoughts about clothes seemed futile. The cloud of despair crept over Lottie as she leaned against the rocks. It was a cloud full of words. Tormenting words. Cruel reminders. THIS IS NOT AMERICA was the dominant phrase. It overwhelmed her with sadness and a sense of betrayal.

  Lottie was eight years old, and more than anything she wanted her mother. Her mother had gone to America on a steam ship. Lottie had stood on the quay with her gran and both of them had cried, watching the ship until it was smaller than a bird, watching it confidently steaming out across that vast ocean, the sparkles dancing after it like mockery. When it had gone, and the steam was a smudge of cloud, and then a memory, Lottie had felt a chasm open up in her life.

  ‘I can’t take you with me, Charlotte.’ Her mother’s vibrant face had been sad and anxious before she boarded the ship. ‘But I’ll come back for you. One day. I promise.’ The memory of that last hug still lingered like a scarf of chiffon around Lottie’s shoulders. Her mother’s expressive fingers twirling her hair, her mother’s luminous eyes giving her a look intended to last, a look that would hold its sparkle for weeks, months, years, perhaps for ever in Lottie’s heart. A diamond of a look. A look to sustain her through the hard times to come.

  Lottie tried to comfort herself with the memory as she leaned her head against the rock, but she was shivering and wanting to go to sleep. Her eyes felt heavy, her skin clammy. She wanted some more of Jenny’s elderberry cordial. She wanted her shoes and socks. And she didn’t want to be in this place called ‘S’nives’. Lottie had trained herself not to cry, but tears were painfully close. She shut her eyes, but was jolted awake by the rumble of cartwheels and the furry face and ears of a silvery brown donkey coming around the corner. Lottie tensed, expecting it to be the man she’d seen earlier. She stared in surprise, first at the donkey’s harness which was decorated with tassels of brightly coloured wool, and real flowers, marigolds and lavender stuck into his bridle. Bunches of mint and lemon balm hung from the sides of the cart. The aroma of dried herbs and the polish in the donkey’s harness was oddly comforting to Lottie, and the donkey was looking at her with liquid brown eyes. She got to her feet. Why was this donkey apparently on its own . . . pulling a cart with no driver?

  Lottie had never been close to a donkey, but this one looked cuddly, and so . . . she couldn’t find a word. She felt the donkey actually wanted to love her. She walked up to him, thrilled when he stood still for her and rested his head against her body as if he saw her pain and wanted to offer his love in the form of a warm, furry head, soft rabbit ears, and the flowers in his bridle. She wound her arms around the donkey’s head, burying her fingers in his lush fur.

  ‘I see you’ve found a friend,’ said a ringing voice, and the donkey pressed his head even closer into her
body.

  Lottie looked up into the fierce eyes of the most enormous woman she had ever seen. High cheekbones, a coil of snow-white hair, and a vast tent of a dress half covered by a gigantic apron, stained and puckered. Bare, freckled legs planted a long way apart, struggling to carry such a weight.

  ‘Would you like me to take you home, young lady?’

  The ringing voice reached Lottie through waves of dizziness. Her little hands clung to the donkey’s fur, then let go as she crumpled like a rag doll, soundlessly, and lay on the cobbled road in a dead faint. The donkey lowered his head and pushed her gently with his velvety muzzle, but she didn’t move.

  ‘Oh dear, oh dear!’ The woman struggled to get down close to the child’s still form, and failed. So she stooped and picked her up, alarmed by the pale cheeks and closed eyes. Despite her blonde hair, Lottie had dark eyebrows and dark lashes. ‘I know who you are. I know exactly who you are,’ the woman said, ‘and I’m taking you home.’

  She placed Lottie on a rug in the back of the donkey cart and tenderly wrapped the fringed edges of the rug around her. She heaved herself up onto the driver’s seat, almost toppling the cart with her weight, and picked up the reins. ‘Giddy up,’ she called to the donkey and set off in the rocking, rumbling cart through the narrow streets of St Ives, with the seagulls screaming overhead, and the wind doing its best to unravel the white coil of her hair.

  Chapter 3

  Nan

  Arnie’s grandmother reminded Jenny of a mountain. Her hips were so wide that when she sat down she was shaped like a pyramid. She lived in a dress of mottled blues and browns, and glints of purple came from the amethyst beads embedded in the folds of her neck. Her hair was a peak of white snow, the skin over her cheeks rough and glistening like a rock face. Her storm-coloured eyes missed nothing, and fixed Jenny with a confrontational stare.

  The people of St Ives knew the old lady as ‘Nan’, for she had long ago buried her real name unceremoniously onto the compost heap in her garden. Nan seldom spoke, but when she did her voice would freeze a Labrador, turn a well-meaning man to stone, or fragment into a wheezy laugh that made the flowery dress wobble alarmingly and the rock-face cheeks crease into a smile.

  Nan’s knowledge of horticulture and folklore was legendary, and the folklore had split the family and caused Jenny to openly hate her. Nan wished she’d kept quiet about the stillborn baby, but apologies were not in her repertoire. Arnie was her favourite grandson. Nan had brought him up from the age of nine when his mother had died from smallpox, leaving Vic heartbroken and alone. She’d been pleased, but slightly uneasy when Arnie had met and married Jenny, a feisty girl from Helston. Like Arnie, Jenny had lost her mother very young, and then her father had died in a mining accident.

  When Jenny was pregnant with their first child, Nan had gone to visit, armed with a basket of broad beans from her garden. Her bones had chilled to the marrow when Arnie showed her the cradle he had made from elder wood. He was proud of the beautiful sheen on the light gold wood, smooth and polished, the inside cushioned with a crochet blanket Jenny had made in brand new white wool. ‘It rocks,’ Arnie said proudly and flicked it with his big fisherman’s hand. ‘It smells lovely too. It’s elder wood, from that big tree they felled in the churchyard.’

  ‘Elder wood?’ Nan went pale. She had to tell him. He wasn’t going to like it, but he was her grandson and he had to learn. Her voice came out louder and more critical than she intended. ‘But . . . elder wood! You must never, NEVER make a cradle from elder wood.’ Nan pursed her lips. A mist of disappointment drifted over Arnie’s devastated face. Nan felt pressure rising up through her chest and into her throat. It made her giddy. But she had to say it. She had to. ‘You must burn it. Right now. Or the baby will die.’

  The cradle had continued rocking on the slate windowsill as if it was laughing.

  In the explosive silence, Jenny flew out of the kitchen, her eyes blazing. ‘What a cruel, tactless thing to say, Nan. Arnie’s worked hours and hours making it, and singing while he was sanding it. A lot of love went into that cradle. And we’re keeping it – and our baby’s going to sleep in it. I don’t care what you think.’

  Nan tried to speak, but there was no stopping Jenny once she started a diatribe. ‘How do you think that makes me feel? Saying our baby’s gonna die when it’s kicking away inside me – here, put your hand on me and feel it for yourself.’ She patted her bump proudly, but Nan went rigid and backed away. ‘How can you be so spiteful?’ Jenny raged. ‘You never liked me, did you? Just because I come from Helston.’

  It wasn’t true. Nan hadn’t meant to be spiteful. She’d been doing her duty in warning them. To her, the old legends had power and wisdom. As for not liking Jenny – well, she’d tried, hadn’t she? Nan looked at the broad beans, her eyes bitter, her cheeks taut.

  ‘Don’t you come here upsetting my family with your ridiculous superstitions, Nan.’

  ‘I’m warning you – for your own good,’ Nan said. ‘That baby . . .’

  ‘I don’t want to hear it.’ Jenny tossed her head. She grabbed the squeaky fresh bundle of broad beans from the kitchen table and flung them back into Nan’s basket. ‘You GO HOME and take your broad beans with you. You bigoted old witch.’

  ‘You hot-tempered, insolent little hussy.’ Nan’s voluminous flower dress rustled and the willow basket creaked over her arm as she sailed out, her wide hips see-sawing, her chin high. Dignity was her suit of armour. But inside she burned with hurt, Jenny’s shout stabbing cruelly at her heart.

  To get upset over a few broad beans would seem ridiculous. So Nan kept quiet and retreated into the defensive shell she had built. Obviously Jenny could have no idea how much it hurt to have her gift flung back at her. Growing vegetables in a seaside garden wasn’t easy and Nan had slaved through the seasons, planting shelter belts, tilling the gritty clifftop soil, saving seeds in brown paper bags. The lush green pods of broad beans were her pride and joy. Back then it was wartime and food was precious. Nan had picked the best of the crop for Arnie and Jenny, imagining them enjoying the nourishing meal. Her heart had trembled with pain as she struggled home with the rejected gift.

  Nan had never gone back. Long years had passed since the stillborn baby. Arnie had taken Matt and Tom to see her, but Nan hadn’t engaged with the two boys. Especially not Matt. Nan disliked him instantly. A spriggan. That’s what Matt was. And the other boy, Tom, had looked at her with such enquiring candour in his eyes that Nan had shut down. She didn’t do guilt. Her remedy was to become ever more reclusive, spending her days cultivating her garden and caring for her donkey and six cats. The animals met her emotional needs with their soft fur, their adoring gazes and unconditional love. And the plants rewarded her efforts with extravagant blooms, heady fragrance and produce that pulsed with the life force.

  Nan only thought about the family on stormy days, indoors by the fire, turning the fading pages of albums, polishing wood and silver until everything flickered in the firelight. On the slate windowsill, Nan kept a telescope in a brown leather case. She watched everything that happened on Porthmeor Beach and the green cliffs of the ‘Island’.

  On the day of the shipwreck, Nan stayed in the window, watching the bodies being plucked from the sea. She recognised Arnie and Vic through the telescope. The courage on their tired, weather-beaten faces touched a forgotten place in her heart. She saw Arnie, and then Vic dive into the storm-flecked waves. Love, pride and guilt flowed through her veins in fierce, rapid beats.

  When she saw them bringing Lottie ashore, Nan noticed the child’s golden head moving as if searching for her lost parents. Then Jenny, running down the beach and gathering the shipwrecked child into her arms with unhesitating compassion. Nan’s whole world had changed in that moment. ‘It’s time,’ she said aloud, to herself. ‘It’s time you went down and made your peace. St Ia has come again – from the sea.’

  Matt was nine years old and very angry. The anger wouldn’t leave him alone. It snapped at his heart and filled his soul with sadness. Matt didn’t feel loved. ‘Course I love you,’ Jenny would say, but she didn’t look at him the way she looked at Tom. The tone of her voice changed. When she spoke to Tom, her voice was warm and welcoming. Matt wished his mum would talk to him like that, but she never did. There was always a sharp edge of disappointment in it for him.