It wasn’t Olivia’s fault. The thought dawned in a glare of light. Olivia was a relic from long ago. The nail varnish and shoes had been her frivolous but pathetic attempt to reengage with her lost child. Why punish her? She must take the wisdom John was offering her so courteously. Give her mother a chance. It wouldn’t be that difficult, would it?
Lottie made her decision, standing at the magnificent bow of the ship. She’d go back, hold her head high and try to be kind.
She stood back from the deck rail, a breeze rippling through her hair, a nagging pain in her side. She frowned, rubbing the place where it hurt, low down in her tummy. It was happening more and more. Lottie tried to ignore it as she walked back to John and Olivia.
Why wasn’t she happy about having both of her birth parents in her life again? She supposed, since her childhood was virtually over, it didn’t matter that much. Did it? But the nagging pain was getting worse, giving her a sick feeling and a sense of urgency. She must put things right, say what she had to say, try to make peace with her mother – and then worry about the pain.
*
Jenny lay awake, hearing the sounds of morning, the seagulls out on the cliffs, and a lone song thrush in Nan’s garden.
But Jenny was listening to a sound that didn’t belong out on those wild rocky cliffs. It disturbed her so deeply that she got out of bed to lean on the windowsill in the glow of dawn and listen intently. Would it come again or was she dreaming?
She heard it again. Crying. Somewhere out on the cliffs. It wasn’t a seabird or a lamb. It sounded like a child. Jenny decided it must be coming from somewhere down in the town and waited to hear the predictable mother’s voice dealing with it. But the cry went on and on in a kind of rhythm, high-pitched but weak, and it was coming from the cliffs. It gave Jenny goosebumps. The more she listened, the more the cry sounded like words ‘ ’Elp. ’Elp me.’
The clock in the tower of St Ia’s church struck eight. Jenny knew the tide was coming in.
She listened again, spooked when she realised the cry had stopped. A flock of seagulls passed high up over the house, circling and screaming, the whole flock moving as one, moving on over the town. When they had gone, she heard the cry again. ‘ ’Elp. ’Elp me.’ Just once. Then silence.
If only Arnie had been with her. He would have been out there in seconds, surefooted and swift, running over the rocky ground towards the sea. Jenny started to cry with frustration as she pulled on her clothes and wrestled with the buckles on her iron leg. It was hard to get them right, and she was so slow.
She stood at the bottom of the stairs, banging her stick on the banister and calling Tom. He emerged, tousled and sleepy. ‘What’s the matter, Mum?’
‘It’s an emergency. Get dressed quick and come with me. Someone’s crying for help out on the cliffs.’
Tom looked down at her, scratching his head. ‘It might be the wild boy!’
‘It might be – so be quick. I need you with me, Tom. I’ll start walking.’
She heard Tom’s feet running along the landing. Then Nan’s bedroom door opened. ‘What in heaven’s name is going on? What a commotion.’ Nan filled the doorway in her voluminous white nightdress. ‘That boy’s feet sound like an entire regiment of soldiers.’
‘It’s an emergency, Nan. We’re going out to Clodgy. Someone’s crying for help out there.’
Nan tutted. ‘Doubtless some ill-informed emmet.’
‘Back soon, I hope,’ Jenny said, and struggled out into the cold morning.
Walking on uneven ground was difficult for her, but she set off, leaning heavily on her stout walking stick. It wasn’t long before Tom caught up with her, red-faced and alert. He’d had the presence of mind to bring the old red and white lifebelt with its coil of rope, which he wore looped over one shoulder. He looked solid and reliable, Jenny thought proudly. And where was Matt when she needed him?
No one had seen Matt for days and the boat was no longer in the harbour. Jenny only knew what Lottie had told her: Matt lived on The Jenny Wren and he was further up the coast at Portreath.
‘Are you all right, Mum?’ Tom asked, glancing at her iron leg.
‘Course I am,’ Jenny said, ‘and you’ve got your jumper on inside out.’
Tom shrugged. ‘Let’s stop and listen.’
The winding path came to an end and they were on the cushiony green turf of the cliffs. It was quiet except for the waves.
‘I can’t hear anything,’ Tom said. ‘What was it you heard, Mum?’
‘A cry for help. It went on and on then suddenly it stopped. Then I heard it again, but weaker. It came from over there.’ Jenny pointed to the stretch of rocky cliff beyond Clodgy Point, where the rough path led up to an even wilder, rockier headland and on for six miles towards Zennor. ‘We should call out.’
Jenny cupped her hand around her mouth and shouted in her clear voice, ‘Hello, anyone out there? We’re here to help you. Hello?’
Tom shouted too. Then they listened.
When the cry came again on the wind, Jenny’s heart leapt. ‘We’re coming to help you. Where are you?’
The cry came again, louder and stronger.
Tom and Jenny looked at each other. Jenny was aware that Tom’s sharp young mind was better than her own, his hearing more sensitive, and he had intimate knowledge of the rocky cliffs where he and Matt had played.
‘Mum,’ he whispered, ‘if it is the wild boy and he sees us, he’ll be scared. He’ll hide, even if he’s in trouble, ‘cause of the stealing he’s been doing.’
Jenny nodded. ‘We won’t hurt you,’ she called. ‘Where are you?’
The cry came again, louder.
‘I can guess where he is,’ Tom said, ‘but you can’t get down there with your leg, Mum. You stay up here.’
Jenny followed him along the path, which wound steeply around a high stack of rocks and down again over a trickling stream. Below was a secluded cove of storm-washed sand, with dramatic dark stacks of rock and mirror-like pools with mops of seaweed.
‘There he is!’ Tom shouted.
‘Oh my goodness – no!’ Jenny gasped, shocked to see a small, crumpled figure clinging to a rock which was completely surrounded by speeding white water. ‘He’s cut off. And there’s a hell of a tide. What are we gonna do?’
The boy looked up at them, terrified. Tom shouted down to him. ‘Don’t be scared. We’ll get you out of there.’
‘We won’t hurt you,’ Jenny yelled. ‘We’re here to help.’
The boy’s face changed a little, as if he was crying.
‘I can get to him, Mum. You stay up here,’ Tom said.
Panic flung itself around Jenny like a scarf in the wind. She grabbed a handful of Tom’s inside-out jumper. ‘No, Tom. No! I can’t lose you as well.’
‘Let go, Mum. I can do it. I know I can. Matt and me used to swim in that cove.’
‘But not in a tide like this. Look at it! Have some sense, Tom. Think about your dad. He wouldn’t have let you.’
As she spoke, an enormous wave towered and pounced, sending a storm of hard spray flying over the clinging boy who began to wail in terror.
‘That would knock you off your feet and suck you under, Tom,’ Jenny gabbled. Her fingers dug into his arm. ‘You know I’m right.’
He stared at her, and to her great relief, he nodded slowly. ‘Mum – at least let me climb down and throw him the lifebelt. It could save his life if a wave knocks him off the rock.’
‘Promise you won’t go in.’
‘Promise.’
Jenny let go of him. ‘Be quick then. Come straight back up, then you have to run like the wind back to Nan’s place and phone the coastguard. You can go quicker than me. I’ll stay here and try to reassure him – poor little scrap. Where on earth are his parents?’
It was hard to let Tom go down there, but she did. Wringing her hands and praying out loud, Jenny watched him climb down, leaving her standing helplessly. Looking at the level of the water, she reckoned
it would be about thirty minutes before it reached the ledge that the boy was clinging onto. Her heart went out to him. He must be icy-cold and exhausted.
Tom was down on the sand trying to throw the lifebelt, timing it between waves. At the third attempt he managed to land it on the ledge.
‘Put it over your head,’ he yelled, and for one perilous moment the boy let go of the rock and quickly pulled the lifebelt over himself. ‘Keep holding on,’ Tom yelled. ‘You’ve got to hold on while I get the coastguard. My mum will stay and watch you.’
Breathing hard, Tom scrambled back to Jenny. She gave him a quick hug. ‘Go on – run and phone the coastguard.’
Jenny watched him go, then she went as close to the edge as she dared. It wasn’t a sheer drop, but a very steep slope, sculpted with granite and domes of sea pink. She sat down on a rock where the boy could see her and, hopefully, could hear her voice.
‘When you’re rescued, you can come home with me and Tom,’ she called, ‘and we’ll give you a hot dinner and some warm, dry clothes. You can stay with us as long as you need to. You’re never going to sleep in the wild again, not if I’ve got anything to do with it. You can rest and get better and tell us where you came from.’
Jenny knew the boy was listening by the way his eyes were fixed on her. He seemed calmer after a few minutes, but the tide was rising, the danger increasing as it did so, and still no one came to help. Surely Tom has made the phone call? she thought. What if Nan decided to be awkward?
Jenny had run out of prayers and things to say to the poor, thin, shivering boy. So she decided to sing. In her clear soprano voice, she began with the fisherman’s hymn:
Eternal Father, strong to save,
Whose arm hath bound the restless wave,
Who bidd’st the mighty ocean deep
Its own appointed limits keep;
Oh, hear us when we cry to Thee,
For those in peril on the sea!
Jenny felt the thud of footsteps even before she heard them. Overjoyed, she turned to see three young, strong Cornishmen pounding along the coastal path. She waved with both arms. Her prayer had been answered and Tom, wonderful Tom, was following at a distance, running his hardest, striving to keep up. Jenny gulped. All three men had been Arnie’s friends, members of the lifeboat crew, lean and fit, compassionate, ready to down tools and rescue anyone in danger. She felt their power as they ran towards her.
‘Where is he, Jen?’
‘Down there,’ she pointed to the boy who was looking up at them, wide-eyed and afraid.
The three men, Alf, Keiran and Bryn, went bounding down the steep rocky cliff, surefooted as goats. ‘There’s a boat coming round d’reckly,’ Alf called to Jenny. ‘Keep Tom up there with you.’
Tom was only too glad to collapse on the turf next to Jenny’s rock. Gasping for breath and sweating, he quickly sat up to watch the rescue.
It happened in minutes.
‘Oh, thank God. Thank God. They’ve got him safe,’ Jenny cried, her hands clasped tightly together. She’d never felt so proud that she belonged to Cornwall, to these brave, strong, unassuming men. ‘And thank you, Arnie,’ she whispered, convinced he had been there in spirit.
Keiran and Bryn carried the boy out of the sea between them, talking to him all the time. The boy wasn’t answering. He looked dazed, and even from the clifftop Jenny could see him shivering violently. She took off her red woollen shawl ready to wrap him up. Bryn carried him up the cliff to Jenny.
‘Give him here,’ she said, ‘on me lap.’ Bryn hesitated for a moment, eyeing Jenny’s iron leg, then he tenderly placed the dripping wet boy on her lap. She quickly wrapped the shawl around him, holding him close. ‘I’m Jenny,’ she said, ‘and I’ll take care of you. What’s your name?’
The boy grunted a reply that sounded like ‘Worn’.
‘Worn?’ Jenny looked at Tom for help.
‘He said Warren, Mum.’
Bryn sat down on the turf, water streaming from his clothes. He gazed caringly into the boy’s face. ‘Are you hurt anywhere? Any broken bones or bruises?’
Warren shook his head.
‘Been living rough, have you?’ Bryn asked, looking at the boy’s sore feet. When there was no response, he said, ‘Are you sure there was no one with you? No one else in the sea, is there?’
Warren shook his head again.
‘You go home with Jenny – she’ll look after you. Won’t you, Jen?’
‘Course I will.’
‘My mum’s the best,’ Tom said proudly, ‘but she can’t walk too well. She had polio.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll carry young Warren back to your Nan’s place,’ Bryn said. ‘Hold onto him for a minute, Jen, while I tip the water outa me boots.’
Warren clung to Jenny, closing his eyes as the warmth seeped into him. Jenny leaned her cheek against his wet dark hair, feeling a rush of maternal love for this lost boy who weighed almost nothing and seemed content to just lean against her in silence. It reminded her of the day she had carried Lottie home, cold and shocked, from the shipwreck.
A line from Arnie’s funeral service came to her: ‘The Lord gives and the Lord takes away.’ I’ve been given another child – a boy, she thought, overwhelmed with sudden joy. Perhaps I could adopt Warren. We’ll see how it goes – and how Nan reacts. It’s meant to be. Jenny kept the thoughts to herself. Reluctantly, she let Bryn take him from her, still wrapped in the shawl, leaving a cold, wet emptiness soaking through her dress.
Another thought came, flaring from within her soul like a burst of light, a warm lantern showing her the path her life must take. Despite her iron leg, caring for this lost boy was something she could do.
Nan was waiting in the doorway, a blanket over her arm. Seeing her, Warren struggled to escape.
‘No, no,’ he wailed, ‘let me go.’ He kicked and wriggled but Bryn held on to him firmly.
‘Let me have him, Bryn.’ Jenny held out her arms and took the terrified child, his small, thin body trembling with fear and exhaustion. ‘It’s all right,’ she told him. ‘That’s only Nan. She won’t blame you for the stealing. You couldn’t help it. Forget about it and let us help you.’
Warren met her eyes and leaned against her again, slipping a thin arm around her neck, his fingers lost in her hair. The wave of maternal love swept over her again. She tucked her dream away in a corner of her mind where it was safe from Nan, reminding herself that, without Nan, she and her family would be homeless.
Nan was trying to be kind, but even as she handed Jenny the blanket, she said, ‘You do realise he can’t stay here?’
Jenny nodded. ‘Let’s just get through today, then worry about tomorrow.’
Chapter 7
A Secret Gift
‘Only a few more days and Lottie will be home,’ Jenny said, stirring a bowl of cake mix at Nan’s kitchen table. Warren sat watching her, wide-eyed and silent, clutching a blue paper bag with sultanas in it. Tom sat next to him holding a bag of currants.
Warren now looked less like an elf and more like a boy, clean and bright-faced, but silent. They still knew nothing about him except his name, his age – ten – and that he might have come from Zennor, further west.
‘Lottie was just the same after the shipwreck,’ Jenny said. ‘We couldn’t get a word out of her, but once she did start talking she never stopped.’
Jenny didn’t question Warren about his life. He’d talk when he was ready, she reasoned. Obviously some terrible tragedy had befallen him, something that had driven him to try to survive on his own at ten years of age. She’d given him a set of clothes Tom had worn at the age of six and he’d allowed her to cut his nails and his hair. Tom seemed to be enjoying his new status as the big brother; he was kind and friendly to Warren, explaining everything, playing games with him and even mediating with Nan.
Jenny knew she must call the welfare people and try to find Warren’s folks, but she kept putting it off. She wanted Warren to settle down and see what family life shou
ld be like. So far, Nan had kept her distance from the strange boy. The fact that Warren was so quiet made it easier for her to unbend a little and accept him. She even allowed him to brush Mufty, a great honour in Nan’s world.
To Jenny’s surprise, Nan said something complimentary when the boys had gone to bed. ‘I must say, Jenny, how much I admire your ability to be a mother. It’s something I wasn’t aware of until now.’
A compliment indeed from Nan. Jenny glowed. ‘I love it, Nan – and it’s the only thing I’m good at.’
‘Well, they’re very lucky children. I wish I’d had a parent like you,’ Nan said. ‘I was petrified of both my parents.’
Would this be the moment to tell Nan her plans to adopt Warren? Jenny was tempted, but she didn’t want to rock the boat, especially with Lottie and John coming home on Saturday.
Jenny stared out of the window and was surprised to see the postman pedalling into the drive of Hendravean. ‘What’s he doing here at this time of day?’
Nan looked out of the window. She stiffened. ‘Oh dear. It’s a telegram, Jenny. He’s got a yellow envelope.’ She waddled to the front door and took the envelope from the postman.
‘I hope it’s not bad news,’ he said, doffing his cap to Nan. ‘And I’ve got to wait and see if you want to send a reply.’
Nan looked very serious as she handed the envelope to Jenny. ‘You open it.’
Jenny pulled out the folded yellow paper and read the words aloud, horrified:
LOTTIE VERY SERIOUSLY ILL IN SHIP’S HOSPITAL. ARRANGED FOR AMBULANCE TO MEET SHIP WHEN ARRIVES PLYMOUTH AND TRANSFER TO DERRIFORD HOSPITAL.
PRAY TO GOD THEY CAN SAVE HER LIFE.
JOHN
‘Oh, Nan – how awful. What could be wrong with her?’ Jenny closed her eyes in horror. All she could hear in her head were those words – again.
The Lord gives – and the Lord takes away.
‘Not Lottie!’ she wept. ‘Please, God, don’t take our Lottie away.’
*
Lottie lay stretched out between the crisp white sheets of the ship’s hospital. She drifted in and out of consciousness, aware of her father’s constant presence beside her, holding her hand. A few times she felt she was floating away, up to the ceiling, and once she seemed to be outside, high above the ship, looking down at the sunlit deck and the foaming wake. She could see through everything, as if the entire ship was made of glass, and she saw herself lying there like a ragdoll in the hospital bed.
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