Lottie gave a little quiver of happiness. The velvet cloak was still there. So much to look forward to. She grinned back, impishly. ‘Okay. I’ve got a tiny present for you too – from New York. I’ll give it to you when we get back to Hendravean. Let’s go for that walk first.’
They looked at each other, both wanting time together away from anyone who might gossip.
‘Did you come specially to see me?’ Lottie asked.
But before Matt could answer a voice called out, ‘Charlotte!’ and Olivia came tapping down the pier in her snakeskin shoes. She was waving and smiling.
‘What’s the matter?’ Matt asked, shocked to see resentment appear on Lottie’s face.
‘She is my birth mother,’ Lottie hissed, aware that her own smile had turned quickly to a glare. Olivia couldn’t have chosen a worse moment. Damn her. Lottie wanted Matt to herself.
‘You look as if you want to kill her,’ Matt said, intrigued.
‘I do,’ Lottie mouthed.
Matt frowned as Olivia wove her way to them between the piles of lobster pots and nets. ‘I should go,’ he said.
Lottie hung onto his arm. ‘No, Matt. We’re going to the woods. I’ll just try to be polite to her, then we’ll go.’
‘Well, hello, Charlotte. How lucky to see you here.’ Olivia’s smile glittered with artificial optimism.
‘Lottie.’
‘Okay, Lottie, then.’ Olivia tried to kiss her daughter, but Lottie twisted neatly out of reach. ‘Aw, don’t be so huffy, honey-child – and who’s your handsome friend?’ Her eyes raked over Matt.
‘Matt,’ Lottie said and turned her head to look up at him. He looked down at her, one eyebrow raised.
Olivia held out an eager hand. ‘Well, how lovely to meet you, Matt. Are you a fisherman?’ She held onto his hand far too long.
‘No. An artist.’
‘Ooh,’ she breathed, ‘an artist. I’m interested in art. What do you paint?’
‘Pictures.’
She laughed. ‘Pictures of what?’
‘Wind-sculpted granite.’
Olivia looked at Lottie for clarification but Lottie stayed silent, hostile, resenting every word gushing from Olivia’s painted mouth.
‘How interesting, Matt – but tell me please, what exactly is granite?’
‘Rock – like this one.’ Matt patted the warm stone of the harbour wall. ‘It’s what most of St Ives is built from.’
‘But wind-sculpted? I don’t understand,’ Olivia said, fluttering her eyelashes at Matt. ‘You’ll have to show me. Where is your work hung?’
‘Nowhere. It’s in a cupboard on my boat.’
Oliva gasped. ‘You have a boat? A real boat? But you’re so young. Can we go and see it, and look at your pictures? I’d love that, and Charlotte . . .’
‘Lottie.’
‘Okay, Lottie wants me to see your work, don’t you, honey-child?’
Lottie wanted to scream. Matt stood awkwardly, shifting from one foot to the other, trying to understand this woman from America who was different from everyone he’d ever met.
‘No, not right now.’ Lottie lifted her chin, letting her hair slip down her back. She lifted her bust, aware suddenly of her new woman power. Matt was looking at her admiringly, and he gave her a secret wink that made her heart miss a beat.
‘But Charlotte . . .’
‘Lottie.’
‘When we were on the ship, Lottie, you told me about Matt and his wonderful drawings, and – no – let me finish . . .’ Olivia held up a bony hand, its palm blue and white against the sea, ‘when you were talking about Matt, you had fire in your eyes and your cheeks went rosy – you were so proud of him. So why can’t I see his pictures?’
‘I was actually talking to my father,’ Lottie said, pronouncing every syllable with perfect diction, something that came naturally to her when she was annoyed. ‘You just happened to be sitting there.’
In the heat of her anger, she was aware of Matt’s appraising eyes. Was he wishing they were lying together in the cosy cabin of The Jenny Wren, far out on the water? His gaze was roving over her, lingering on her breasts, returning to meet her dark blue eyes, meeting fire with fire. It pushed her beyond the bright edge of anger into an urge to giggle.
Olivia caught the smirk that passed between them. The corners of her painted mouth turned down and the hollows deepened in her cheeks. ‘You’re being so mean to me. I am your mother, I’m not well and I’ve made a big effort to come here to St Ives to spend time with you.’ Her voice became high-pitched and indignant. ‘I want to come with you now and see Matt’s pictures. I can come with you, surely – it won’t take long.’
‘No, Mother, you can’t,’ Lottie said. ‘Matt’s pictures are in Portreath, which is about fifteen miles away. Matt and I are going for a walk.’
‘Well, I can come with you,’ Olivia looked appealingly at Matt.
He gave her an assertive stare. ‘No. You can’t come. Lottie needs some peace.’ He slipped a long arm around Lottie’s shoulders. ‘She’s had a hard time and I’m taking her for a quiet walk along the cliffs. And don’t try to follow us – you’ll soon come to grief in those shoes. Come on, Lottie.’
Matt took her hand, tucking her fingers reassuringly into his, and Lottie walked beside him, her nose in the air.
Olivia wasn’t going to give up. She scuttled beside them, like a crab, her face turned to focus on Lottie. ‘You’ll have to change your attitude, my girl. I hope you realise why I’m down here in this fishy little backwater. I’ll be going back to London shortly, and you, Charlotte, will be coming with me. I’ve seen a solicitor and it will all be made legal. I’m doing this for you. I’m enrolling you at a good college in London and we can live very comfortably in John’s apartment.’
Panic swept around Lottie like a whirlwind. Her skin chilled and she felt dizzy. The three of them were at the harbour end of Smeaton’s Pier. ‘You’ve gone deathly pale,’ Matt said, and steered her towards a seat. She leaned against him, taking deep breaths the way she’d learned to do in hospital. Olivia tried to sit next to her, but Lottie pushed her away. She sat cocooned in Matt’s arms while he demolished Olivia with a few well-chosen words.
‘That’s not gonna happen,’ she heard him say confidently. ‘I was there when my parents signed the legal adoption certificate. I know where it is too. Lottie was legally adopted by my mum and dad, to last until she’s twenty-one. So back off. We don’t want you here in St Ives. Leave Lottie alone, madam, or you’ll have me to reckon with.’
*
‘What’s happened to Lottie? She should be back by now.’ Jenny leaned on the yard gate, watching the lane, hoping to see Lottie’s blonde mane bobbing along between the hedges. Lottie was usually punctual and reliable. Where could she be?
It was six o’clock, the air fluttering with blossom petals and birdsong, the sea a blade of bright silver in the distance. The table in the kitchen was laid for high tea, a meal they all enjoyed together. Hunks of home-baked bread with butter, slices of pink ham, cold boiled eggs, crunchy lettuce and radishes from the garden, homemade flapjacks and a spicy Nelson cake. Fresh fruit wasn’t available in March, so Nan had opened an enormous jar of bottled pears. It was the kind of meal where everyone helped themselves and ate at their own pace. It was Lottie’s favourite meal. Where was she?
‘We’d better start without her.’ Jenny went back into the kitchen. ‘Come on, boys.’ Tom and Warren sat down, with Nan at the head of the table. Always wide-eyed in the presence of so much food, Warren looked at Jenny. ‘You can help yourself – slowly, Warren. The food’s not going to fly away.’ It had been a battle, getting him to understand that it was possible to eat without grabbing and stuffing.
‘I’ll put some aside for Lottie,’ Jenny said eventually, and she took Lottie’s empty plate and arranged a selection of food on it for her. She covered it with another plate and left it on the table.
‘Me and Warren could run down and look for her,’ Tom said e
agerly. ‘We’ve finished our tea, Nan.’
‘No, Tom – thank you – you’ve got school tomorrow and I don’t want the two of you running wild before bed.’
‘You should telephone John,’ Nan said. ‘Lottie might be down there with him.’ She clapped her hands and looked piercingly at the boys. ‘It’s getting late. You two lads go and put the chickens to bed. Make sure you count them. If one is missing, check the tops of the hedges where they like to roost. They must all be inside at night or the fox will get them. You can bring Mufty in and make sure he’s got water.’ Her eyes twinkled unexpectedly. ‘If you manage to do all that without fuss, I might tell you a bedtime story.’
‘The White Horse of Porthgwidden. Please, Nan?’ Tom pleaded.
‘That’s not a bedtime story,’ objected Jenny. ‘That’s a scary old legend.’
‘I like it,’ Tom said, ‘and Warren hasn’t heard it.’
‘Go on and do the chickens then,’ Nan said, ‘or I’ll do them and you can wash the dishes instead.’ Then she tutted and rolled her eyes as Warren overturned his chair in the rush to get outside.
‘Warren actually smiled at you, Nan,’ Jenny said as they cleared the table. ‘I think he’s beginning to trust you.’
Nan cackled with laughter. ‘I wouldn’t trust me if I were him.’
‘But we are all getting on better, aren’t we?’ Jenny said.
‘I am finding Tom a remarkably wholesome little boy,’ Nan admitted, ‘but Warren is unbelievably uncouth and I don’t know how you have the patience with him.’
‘It’s called love,’ Jenny said.
‘But how can you love such a wimpish apology for a human being?’
‘He can’t help it, Nan. He’s not had any education. It’s as if no one has ever talked to him, so he hasn’t learned to talk. He does like music.’
‘Does he?’ Nan looked interested. ‘Well, music is language – language without words, so it’s universally communicative.’
Jenny longed to tell her about Warren’s amazing gift for playing the piano accordion, but she held back. She’d work out a way of getting him to play again and surprise Nan. It would work better that way.
Nan glanced out of the window and stiffened. ‘Well, look who’s coming across the yard. I’ll leave you to deal with him, Jenny. I shall retire to my armchair with a book.’
Jenny limped to the window. Who did Nan mean by ‘him’, using such a derogatory tone?
She squealed, excited to see Matt, with Lottie by his side, talking to the boys who had Mufty between them.
Did she dare go out? She feared Matt would go skulking off when he saw her. How long since she’d been close to her firstborn son? Years, she thought, when Matt had unexpectedly turned up to see her in hospital and it had gone horribly wrong. Jenny’s heart began to beat unreasonably fast.
She made a decision. Instead of rushing out there, she’d sit down, pick up her knitting and watch and wait from her chair.
The talking out in the yard seemed to go on forever. Matt squatted down to talk to Warren. Lottie looked pensive as if something was wrong. She stayed close to Matt, really close, and Jenny found that surprising. When they did finally come into the house, they both looked uncannily serious.
Jenny looked up from her knitting, hardly knowing what best to say.
‘How are you, Mum?’ Matt asked, and his eyes looked steady and strong. But there was a shadow. It’s me, Jenny thought, I’m the shadow.
Matt and Lottie sat down at the table. Jenny frowned. ‘So you’ve come home,’ she said, looking directly at Matt.
‘Just for a visit,’ he said. His voice had deepened, and he had a gingery fuzz of a beard. Ginger? Jenny thought. Why is it ginger? She put down her knitting. Whatever she said would be wrong. Silence didn’t come naturally to Jenny.
‘We want to ask you something,’ Matt said.
‘Go on then. What?’
They looked at each other.
‘I would like to go for a holiday,’ Lottie said.
‘A holiday!’
‘With Matt. On The Jenny Wren. Just for a few days. Please let me go, Jenny.’
‘But – what exactly do you mean by a holiday? I’ve never had a holiday in me whole life.’
‘Matt has got the boat moored at Portreath.’ Lottie’s dark blue eyes shone with excitement. ‘We want to explore the North Cliffs. You can walk to the woods.’
‘Sounds lovely,’ Jenny said, ‘but who’s going to go with you? I can’t, ‘cause of me leg. What about John?’
‘Daddy is busy with the gallery,’ Lottie said firmly. ‘We want to go on our own.’
Jenny looked sceptical. ‘Where are you going to sleep?’
‘On the boat. Matt does.’
‘In that tiny cabin? The two of you?’
‘Why not?’ Matt said. ‘I can sleep on deck under the stars and Lottie can have the cabin.’
Jenny paused to think. Something didn’t ring true. Matt and Lottie hadn’t even been friends when they were growing up in the Downlong cottage. Why were they suddenly so close?
Nan looked up from her book. ‘Over my dead body,’ she said, in a voice that would freeze a bonfire. She directed the icicles at Matt. ‘Don’t you dare try and drag Lottie down into your feckless, deplorable lifestyle. Or you’ll both end up in a borstal.’
‘Nan!’ Lottie’s eyes blazed, unafraid, stung by the injustice. ‘That’s not fair. Matt works hard and you haven’t even seen his pictures. Why do you hate him so much when he hasn’t done anything wrong? It’s pure prejudice.’
Jenny saw Matt squeeze Lottie’s hand in gratitude. She felt caught in the crossfire, glad of Nan’s support but hurt by her ruthless condemnation of Matt. Her firstborn son whose eyes were brave and proud and . . . lost. She ached to hug him. But knew he’d push her away.
Tom and Warren came into the kitchen, bright-faced, just as Nan directed her storm-coloured glare at Lottie’s indignant face.
‘How dare you speak to me like that, you impudent little madam. After all I’ve done for you – and your family. I could have turned my back and let you all end up in the workhouse. It’s been hellishly difficult for me, sharing my home, and there are times when I wish I’d never suggested it.’
Nan paused for a fit of coughing, her freckled old hands gripping the chair. The coughing seemed to ignite another explosion of pent-up fury – at Lottie. ‘The hours and hours I’ve spent with you – teaching you, reading with you, sitting in Plymouth Hospital with you – and now you speak to me like that, Lottie. I could cry. I could bloody well cry. Time wasted. I feel like telling you to leave this house – the lot of you.’ She picked up her walking stick and banged it on the floor in a crescendo of rage.
No one moved until a horrible silence fell. Then there was a crash as Warren again overturned his chair and fled, his footsteps pelting through the hall and out.
‘Nan . . .’ Jenny dared to go close, ‘you’ll make yourself ill. Please try to calm down.’ She put a hand on Nan’s shoulder. ‘You’re shaking. And burning hot.’
Nan looked directly at Matt. ‘You’re the one who should go. We were all doing fine until you turned up.’
Matt feigned innocence. ‘I’m just sitting here. I’m not doing any harm.’ He gave Nan a look loaded with insolence.
‘Stop it, Matt,’ Jenny said. ‘You’ll make Nan ill.’
‘How?’ he challenged.
‘Because she’s old, and when you’re old, anger is bad for you.’ She kept a hand on Nan’s shoulder, trying to calm her. She looked at Lottie. ‘We don’t want anything to happen to Nan, do we?’
Lottie shook her head. Obviously Nan’s words had touched her heart and she was feeling guilty. ‘I’m sorry, Nan,’ she muttered.
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Nan said, ‘because I love you dearly, child.’ She held out an arm and Lottie went to her and became a child again, the child Nan wanted her to be. Lottie had crossed back over the bridge, away from Matt and into the security o
f the family. Jenny glowered at Matt who was left sitting on his own in an arrogant stance.
Matt is bad for Lottie, she thought, and sensed he wanted a fight. He’d got the familiar challenging smirk on his almost adult face.
‘Why has it got to be like this, Matt?’ she asked. ‘I wanted to see you so much.’
‘I haven’t done anything wrong.’
‘Yes, you have, Matt. You’re influencing Lottie – trying to make her talk like you talk. Don’t think I don’t know.’
‘Oh yeah – I grew up being made to think you knew everything. But I know a few things too – like why my dad got drunk and drowned in the harbour.’
Jenny drew her breath in sharply, tasting the hatred Matt was sending her. She felt defeated by it. Whatever she said he would shoot it down. The meeting she’d longed for was cruelly widening the gulf between them.
She opened her mouth to give him a good scolding, but something was happening down in the harbour at that very moment, as if the hand of God had cracked a whip and torn them apart.
The walls of the cottages, the rocks, and even the air itself cracked and trembled with an almighty reverberating boom, and shockwaves sped out in rings across the sea to distant beaches and cliffs. Before the seagulls could rise and scream above the town, there was a second boom; the same, but louder and more urgent in the stunned, awakened air.
‘The maroon!’ cried Jenny. ‘That’s the call-out maroon for the lifeboat. A ship is in trouble out there.’ To Jenny, it meant a surge of grief. Arnie. At the sound of the maroon, he’d grab his lifejacket and run, no matter what he was doing, to join the RNLI lifeboat crew.
She looked at Matt and saw him transform from an insolent boy to a man who cared about saving lives. As if to honour his father’s courageous spirit, Matt was on his feet.
‘I’m gone,’ he said, and ran, his feet slamming through the hall, thudding like a heartbeat merging with the landscape as he headed towards the harbour.
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