An Orphan's Winter

by Sheila Jeffries

  John would be sorry he’d ignored her.

  *

  Warren began to talk now that Nan had gone to Plymouth, but his speech was hesitant and difficult to understand, and Jenny relied on Tom to interpret. For some reason, Tom knew exactly what Warren was trying to say. Jenny didn’t ask him questions, but chatted brightly to him and let him follow her as she hobbled around.

  ‘Wuzzatfer?’ he asked, looking at her with bright, enquiring eyes.

  Jenny looked at Tom.

  ‘He wants to know what your iron leg is for,’ Tom said.

  Jenny was at the kitchen table making pastry, rolling it and flouring it. ‘I used to have a normal leg like yours,’ she explained, ‘but one terrible day I got very ill with polio. I went to hospital.’

  ‘Wuzzat?’

  ‘Hospital – it’s a big, big house with lots of windows and doors, and inside are lots of beds where you can rest if you’re not very well. There are clever doctors and kind nurses who make you better.’ Jenny took care to look into Warren’s eyes when she talked to him. She figured he hadn’t had that kind of nurturing attention in his life.

  ‘That’s where our Lottie is right now,’ Tom said.

  ‘You wait ’til you meet Lottie,’ Jenny said to Warren. ‘You’ll like her.’

  ‘She’s got golden hair,’ Tom said, ‘and I’m learning to play a song for her on me squeeze-box. Shall I show you?’

  Warren nodded and the two of them ran upstairs to Tom’s bedroom. Jenny began to cut the pastry into tart-sized circles, smiling as she heard Tom struggling through the notes on his piano accordion, then playing the other tunes he knew. She figured Warren would soon get fed up with Tom’s halting recital.

  But Warren did something so surprising that Jenny almost dropped the tray of jam tarts she was putting in the oven.

  ‘I didn’t say you could have it.’ Tom looked hot and flustered as he followed Warren downstairs. ‘Nan said I wasn’t to let me friends mess with it.’

  ‘Warren is more than a friend. Let him have a go,’ Jenny said, mindful of the light in Warren’s eyes and the sudden flush on his cheeks. She started singing ‘Trelawny’ as she cleaned the table.

  Warren gave her one of his rare smiles. His eyes danced with a devilish glint and he sat down on the stairs, the piano accordion strapped around his thin shoulders. He looked at Jenny so piercingly that she couldn’t look away. Then with one confident chord and a tap of his foot, Warren launched into playing ‘Trelawny’.

  Jenny stood, open-mouthed, a cloth in her hand. Warren wasn’t stumbling along like Tom did. He came alive, the music pouring from his bony little fingers, note perfect, his foot tapping, rocking the old wooden staircase and making the plates ring on the dresser.

  Was this the same whimpering little scrap of a boy who’d been stealing eggs and turnips, a boy rescued from the sea and carried home, a pathetic bundle in Jenny’s shawl?

  ‘Warren! That’s incredible,’ Jenny gasped when he’d played the final chord with a flourish. ‘How did . . .’

  Grinning wickedly at Jenny, Warren paused to take a breath, then plunged into ‘The Ash Grove’, playing it with sensitivity and joy. Next came ‘My Grandfather’s Clock’ and ‘Scarborough Fair’. He played on and on, the music burning in him like a fire, as if the boy and the piano accordion were one, its keys and buttons glittering in a shaft of sunlight. While he was playing, the chickens paraded into the house and settled into Nan’s armchair, and the two cats sat mesmerised at Warren’s feet, their golden eyes dancing as they watched his flying fingers.

  Finally, Warren stopped and there was a silence as the music left the house and drifted across the land to the sea.

  ‘Cor, you are good,’ Tom said, in awe.

  ‘Well, thank you, Warren – I really enjoyed that,’ Jenny smiled. ‘Made me want to dance.’

  Warren looked at her as if he could tell how much dancing meant to Jenny. He unhitched the strap and gave the piano accordion back to Tom. Then he did something even more surprising. He gave Jenny a hug. She felt the fast beating of his heart against her dress.

  ‘How did you learn to play like that?’ Jenny asked.

  Warren shrugged. ‘Just did.’

  ‘You wait ’til Nan hears you play,’ Tom said.

  Warren frowned. He shook his head firmly. ‘Won’t play fer ‘er.’

  ‘You don’t have to,’ Jenny said warmly. ‘Just play when you want to, eh?’

  She sent the boys outside to brush Mufty and lead him out to the paddock. Then she sat down with a cup of tea and both cats on her lap. She understood only too well why Warren wouldn’t play for Nan. He was petrified of her. Since Nan had gone to Plymouth to meet the ship, Warren had begun to relax a bit, and Jenny was careful not to put any kind of pressure on him. The unexpected hug had been a gesture of gratitude and trust – in her.

  His musical talent was exciting. Jenny would have loved to share it with Nan, but she respected the fact that it was a secret jewel belonging to Warren. He would only share it when he felt confident and loved.

  So far, Nan had only managed to tolerate Warren. In particular, his poor speech annoyed her and at first she’d been openly critical, coming out with scathing comments.

  The moment after Warren’s arrival, Nan had fired a question at him. ‘Where on earth are your parents, boy?’

  ‘Gun.’

  ‘Gun?’

  ‘No – gun.’

  ‘That’s not an answer, boy. That’s a monosyllabic grunt.’

  Warren had shrivelled under Nan’s imperious glare and Jenny had confronted her, hands on hips, a spark of indignance in her eyes. ‘Give him a chance, Nan. He’s doing his best and I won’t have you intimidating him. It’s counterproductive and if you can’t say anything kind, you should keep your mouth shut.’

  Everyone had held their breath. For a moment, it was like the old days when Nan and Jenny were deadly enemies. The colour of rage had spread up Nan’s neck and into her jaw, but she’d kept quiet.

  Since then, Nan had kept her distance from Warren and, sensing the difficulty she was having, Jenny said no more, but got on with her task of mothering this poor lost boy. It was precarious. Every day, Jenny expected an ultimatum from Nan, declaring Warren had to leave.

  The crisis with Lottie distracted them both, but it gave Jenny a chance to have Warren to herself and, with Tom’s help, it was going well. Surely if Nan knew of his musical gift, she would be more inclined to let him stay. Jenny wasn’t going to tell her. No. She’d set something up so that Nan ‘accidentally’ heard him playing.

  She kept an eye on the boys, pleased to see Mufty standing still and enjoying the attention. The donkey was shedding his thick winter coat and the boys were combing out tufts of silvery brown fluff, leaving it to blow across the yard.

  Worrying about Lottie, Jenny stayed within hobbling distance of the phone. When it rang, she was ready and picked it up quickly. ‘Hello, Jenny here.’

  It was John, calling from Derriford Hospital. Breathless with anxiety, Jenny was glad to hear his calm voice.

  ‘Relax, Jenny. Lottie is getting better. These new antibiotics they’ve got seem to be working. Her temperature is normal at last and she even managed breakfast this morning.’

  ‘Oh, thank goodness, John. I’ve been so worried.’

  ‘Well, it was touch and go when she first arrived here,’ John said, ‘but now they say she is stable and should make a full recovery.’

  ‘Aw, bless her. We miss her so much.’

  ‘Nan has been wonderful – just wonderful. She’s a rock, isn’t she? She sat with Lottie for hours, talking to her even when she was asleep, telling her stories from Cornish folklore – I quite enjoyed them myself. And she talked about flowers. I felt Nan was actually drawing the life back into Lottie. She’s a powerful old lady – very powerful.’

  Jenny nodded. ‘Don’t I know it!’

  ‘I’ve booked her into a guest house near the hospital,’ John continued. ‘She wa
nts to stay until she can bring Lottie home.’

  ‘What about Lottie’s birth mother? Where’s she?’

  John hesitated. ‘I’m afraid it didn’t work out too well, as I told you, and Olivia has disappeared into Plymouth. I’ve no idea where she is, Jen. But I did give her a key to my London apartment – she likes London, and she can stay there until she makes up her mind what to do, if she ever does.’

  ‘Won’t she want to come to St Ives and see Lottie?’

  ‘She might, yes. But I’m not going to be responsible for her, Jenny.’

  Chapter 8

  A Bottle of Aspirin

  Lottie opened the train window with its thick leather strap.

  ‘Be careful. You’ll get a smut in your eye,’ Nan said, but Lottie didn’t care. The wind from the sea was blowing the train’s plume of white steam away towards the land. Lottie wanted to savour every moment of the homecoming. As the St Ives train sped across Lelant Saltings, she felt as if she were flying. Flying home like a swallow, an intense ache of joy in her throat, aching harder with everything she saw on the familiar ten-minute journey. The flocks of seabirds over the Saltings, the sand dunes of Hayle Bay, Godrevy Lighthouse. Nothing had changed. Shining waves curling across pale sand. The wooded headland of Carrack Gladden with memories of the wishing well and the nut grove. The whistle of the engine as it burst under the bridge and into St Ives Station.

  Home.

  The bay was busy with fishing boats. She hoped one of them would be The Jenny Wren with Matt on board.

  ‘Does Matt know I’ve been ill?’ Lottie asked Nan.

  ‘Probably not. We haven’t seen him for a while,’ Nan said, struggling to get up as the train came to a halt.

  John lifted their cases down from the string luggage rack. ‘Come on, Lottie, home sweet home!’ he said, seeing her still at the window. ‘And guess who’s waiting on the platform?’

  Jenny and Lottie hurried towards each other, both unable to run, Jenny with her iron leg and Lottie still with a sore tummy. Jenny held her arms out. ‘Hello, my bird!’ and Lottie melted into the warm hug, both of them crying with joy. ‘How I’ve missed you,’ Jenny murmured, holding Lottie tightly. ‘My little girl.’

  Jenny still made her feel as if she were about eight years old, but Lottie didn’t mind. There was something nurturing and cocoon-like about being someone’s little girl. She wondered what Jenny would say if she found out about her secret love with Matt. It must remain a secret, Lottie thought. Jenny would go absolutely crazy – and Nan – and even my father. They’d never understand.

  Tom was there with Jenny, a wide smile on his face. Lottie gave him a hug. ‘I’ve got you a present, Tom. You can have it when we get home.’

  ‘I hope it’s something he can share with Warren.’ Jenny looked around. ‘Where is he? Where’s he gone, Tom?’

  ‘He’s behind you,’ Tom said, ‘hiding.’

  Nan tutted and got a warning frown from Jenny.

  ‘Hello, Warren.’ Lottie peeped round at him and Warren looked up at her shyly. Nan had given Lottie a graphic description of Warren. ‘He looks like a drowned rabbit and his speech is abysmal,’ she’d said, and added, ‘Jenny is mothering him, but I’d call it smothering.’

  Lottie saw something different in Warren’s eyes. Sadness, but strength too. Abandoned. Surviving. Familiar territory for Lottie. She squatted down and looked into his face. ‘I was rescued from the sea like you.’ There was a spark of recognition, which quickly faded as John led them to a lofty, dark green Model T taxi that was to take them up to Hendravean.

  ‘Won’t you come with us, John?’ Jenny said. ‘I’ve made pasties.’

  John looked at her and Lottie noticed how bright his eyes became. She could see he was drawn to Jenny. ‘Thanks, but no,’ he said. ‘I must go home and open the gallery. You know where I am if you need anything.’ A secret smile passed between them and Lottie saw Nan raise an eyebrow as John kissed Jenny on the cheek. A business-like kiss. Then he turned his attention to his daughter. ‘I’ll see you soon, Lottie. You go on getting better. Lots of rest – and no school for two weeks.’

  ‘Bye, Daddy, and thanks – for everything.’

  ‘I’m sorry it didn’t work out with Olivia,’ John said. ‘I’m sure she’ll turn up in St Ives one day, but in the meantime we must just get on with our lives.’

  Lottie went straight to see Mufty when they arrived. The donkey trotted across the paddock to her.

  ‘A great honour,’ Nan said. ‘Donkeys will never trot when they can walk.’ Mufty leaned his head against Lottie and stayed there while she fondled his furry ears and pressed her cheek against the top of his head.

  ‘Ibrushdun,’ Warren said. ‘Smoletin.’

  ‘He helped me brush him,’ Tom translated, ‘and he says Mufty’s moulting.’

  ‘You did a good job,’ Lottie said. She smiled into Warren’s sad eyes and he reached out and touched a strand of her honey-blonde hair.

  ‘Our Lottie taught me to read,’ Tom said, ‘and she’ll teach you too, Warren, if you want.’

  Lottie looked over the paddock hedge and she could see a haze of blue from the bluebells growing in the bracken, and in the thick grasses near the sea were clouds of sea pink, trefoil and red sheep sorrel.

  ‘There’s so much I want to do,’ she sighed, ‘but I’m really tired.’

  ‘You look tired,’ Jenny observed. ‘Why not go and lie down on your bed?’

  ‘I’ve had enough of bed.’

  ‘Well, take a rug and lie under the apple tree. I’ll come with you. I want to hear all about America.’

  Lottie felt blissfully happy stretched out with a blanket under Nan’s apple tree, which was in a sheltered part of the garden. She wanted to forget the trip to America. She closed her eyes and dreamed of Matt, instead.

  She opened her eyes, feeling rested and grateful. Jenny was on the rug next to her, lying on her tummy, a reassuring glow of love in her amber-brown eyes.

  Jenny wanted to hear Lottie’s version of the meeting with Olivia. ‘How did it go – with your birth mother?’ she asked, and quickly added, ‘You don’t have to tell me, Lottie, if you don’t want to.’

  ‘Oh, I do want to tell you,’ Lottie said. ‘I hate her.’

  Jenny looked at her for a long time. ‘I’ve never heard you say that about anyone. How did that happen? You were so looking forward to meeting her.’

  ‘I was deluded,’ Lottie said. ‘I built her up in my memory from all the good things I could remember because I wanted it to be true. I couldn’t bear to believe she never wanted me. She only wanted a model child, like a sort of trophy. When it came to looking after me, she didn’t. I just don’t understand her, Jen. She let my father spend so much money for us to go out there. I was excited going to the gallery to meet her and she didn’t turn up. It was going to be the best day of my whole life, meeting her after years of wishing and dreaming.’

  Jenny nodded. ‘That was cruel. Did she have a reason?’

  ‘Daddy tried to defend her. He went on his own to see her and she told him a sob story – she couldn’t make up her mind whether to see me or not so instead she went and got drunk. She seemed to have no consideration, no awareness of how I might feel. I thought my birth mother was a bright, interesting person, not a selfish old drunk.’ Lottie began to speak faster and faster, the words tumbling out of her. ‘I’m never going to be like her. She’s selfish, selfish, selfish and I hate her.’

  ‘Aw, Lottie,’ Jenny looked at with caring love. ‘That’s hard for you to bear.’

  ‘You’d never be like that,’ Lottie said fiercely.

  ‘I hope not,’ Jenny said, ‘but I’m no angel!’

  ‘To me you are. I love you, Jenny – and I loved Arnie too. Thank you for adopting me.’

  Jenny looked pleased. ‘And what about your tummy? Is it better now?’

  ‘Much better, almost back to normal. But I’ve got a horrible scar.’

  ‘It will fade,’ Jenny said,
and grinned mischievously. ‘It’s a good job you’re not old enough to be worrying about boyfriends.’

  If only you knew, Lottie thought, and changed the subject. ‘Are you going to adopt Warren?’

  ‘Well – yes, if I can,’ Jenny said. ‘I haven’t told the welfare about him yet. I wanted him to settle down and have a bit of peace. Tom’s been so good with him. It’s not fair on Nan, but she’s tolerating Warren. I want her to hear him playing the piano accordion because he’s astonishing, and she might take more of an interest in him then, but Warren is petrified of her. I’ve got to set it up so that he doesn’t know she’s listening.’

  ‘We’ll think of a way,’ Lottie said.

  ‘But don’t tell Nan.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘What do you think about me adopting Warren?’

  ‘I think he’d be a lucky boy. You should adopt him if he wants to stay, Jenny. It’s what you’re good at – being a mum.’

  ‘So why did I fail so miserably with Matt?’

  ‘I don’t think you did. Matt is just . . . Matt.’

  Jenny looked gloomy. ‘I lost my first baby – she was a little girl. Arnie and I were heartbroken.’

  ‘What happened?’ Lottie asked, not quite understanding how a baby could be ‘lost’.

  ‘She was born dead – stillborn, they call it.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘They didn’t tell us – I don’t think they knew the reason. They just took her away – and she was perfect.’

  Lottie put her arm around Jenny’s shoulders. ‘That’s so sad. I didn’t know babies could be born dead.’

  Jenny looked at her thoughtfully. ‘I don’t suppose you know how a baby is born, do you?’

  ‘Not really – only from what Morwenna told me. She watched her little sister being born and it sounded awful. Her mum was screaming.’

  ‘Well, don’t let it frighten you, Lottie. Morwenna does exaggerate everything, doesn’t she?’ Jenny was looking intently at her. ‘If you want to know anything, Lottie, you must ask me – not Morwenna. I’ll tell you the truth.’