Easy to say, Nan thought, but harder to do. This time I’ve got it wrong. I should have talked to Lottie as soon as I discovered she was pregnant. She needed my support and I let her down.
The silence filled with Bartholomew’s purring as he sought to comfort Nan, giving her his warmth and love. Until now, it had always been enough. The love of her pets and the beauty of her flowers had sustained Nan through the years. She’d never needed people. People had been an intrusion. Except for Lottie. Lottie was a magical, inspiring creature in Nan’s life.
Recently, Nan had noticed a heaviness about Lottie. She moved differently, plodding instead of floating. She glowed rather than sparkled. There was a new depth to her personality. Nan stared out at the sky over the distant hills. Where would Lottie have gone? Surely not to live on the boat with Matt? That wouldn’t work. So young. So alone.
Like me, Nan thought, like I once was.
The walls of Hendravean had guarded Nan’s secret until it had almost disappeared into the granite, into the cracks in the dark oak timbers, into the subsoil of the garden. Respectability, softened only by the fringe of little love nests in the eaves, sparrows and swallows, wild bees and bats, which Nan allowed and protected. A network of life in which she was happily entangled. Easier to love than people.
Nan knew without being told that Lottie was in love with Matt, and she’d kept quiet about it. Jenny was so volatile, in Nan’s opinion. She sighed resignedly when she heard the sounds from downstairs, the iron leg and the stick clonking through the hall, the doors banging as Jenny arrived home and searched the rooms. Then the commotion of her chasing the chickens off the stairs.
‘Are you up there? Nan? Lottie?’ she called.
‘I am,’ Nan responded. ‘I am sitting on Lottie’s bed.’
‘Is she there?’
‘No.’
‘Do you know where she is?’
‘No.’
‘I’m worn out,’ Jenny called. ‘I need to sit down before I fall down.’
Nan lumbered downstairs and found Jenny lying on the sofa looking utterly wrung out. An aura of defeat clung around her and her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy.
‘Have you been drinking?’ Nan asked.
‘No! Trust you to think the worst of me.’
‘I shall ignore that assumption.’ Nan sat down beside Jenny, the sofa springs creaking from her weight. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Nan – it’s Lottie.’
Nan looked at her silently.
Jenny took a deep breath. ‘You’re not going to like this, but the little minx has got herself pregnant.’
Nan closed her eyes and nodded.
Jenny looked at her, wild-eyed. ‘Surely you didn’t know, did you?’
‘Not officially. I guessed – and I dowsed.’
‘Dowsed!’
‘Never mind that. How did you find out?’
‘Matt told me. I gave him a good scolding – and Lottie. I took her out of school and had the doctor look at her.’
‘It must have been a shock for Lottie.’
‘Oh no, she knew. She’s been keeping it from us. Would you believe she told Cora Bartle instead of me? I am furious with her, Nan. She’s ruined her life, and ruined our family.’
Nan shut her eyes and pinched the top of her nose. ‘It all sounds horribly familiar.’
‘What do you mean?’
Nan shook her head. ‘Now is not the time to dig up the past. Suffice to say I know exactly what Lottie is going through, Jenny. Let’s not be too hard on her, and Matt must take his share of the blame.’
Jenny snorted. ‘Pigs might fly.’
‘Does John know?’ Nan asked.
‘I don’t think so. He’ll be devastated – and, well, it’s like the end of everything, Nan. The end of our happy life and we’ve worked so hard at it, haven’t we?’ Jenny leaned back on the sofa, her eyes awash with tears, and she let them flow, appearing to have no energy or will to fight them.
Nan took her hand and held it firmly. ‘You need to calm down – and so do I. Things are not always as bad as they seem.’
‘I’ll lose my job at the gallery,’ Jenny sobbed. ‘John won’t want me around, will he.’
‘You don’t know that. Give the man a chance.’
The fight had gone out of Jenny and with it the light. Nan couldn’t help remembering how vibrant and happy she’d been only twenty-four hours earlier after their day in Penzance. It was hard to know what to say. She looked down at Jenny’s iron leg and noticed the skin was bruised and blistered from too much vigorous walking. ‘Would you like me to put something on your leg? It looks painful.’
Jenny shook her head. ‘No, thanks. Forget about me leg. I want to know where Lottie is. Do you know?’
Nan sighed. She’d have to tell the truth. ‘No, I don’t know, but she’s packed a bag and gone. She left me a note.’ Nan took the folded paper from her pocket and handed it to Jenny. ‘I was working in the tropical garden all day and she must have come and gone without me knowing. She’s taken her clothes and the knitted donkey and her jewellery in the American bag.’
Jenny stared at Lottie’s note. ‘She never left me a note.’
‘I wonder why that could be,’ Nan said, with more than a hint of sarcasm.
Worse was to come. Neither of them had noticed Tom in the doorway hearing every word. Placid, reliable Tom who’d always helped and defended his mum, standing there now with hatred burning in his eyes.
‘I know why Lottie’s gone,’ he said. ‘It’s your bad temper, Mum. I saw you dragging Lottie out of school, shouting and calling her names. She ain’t done nothing. You drove Matt away. Now you’ve driven Lottie away with your horrible temper. Lottie might never come back. And next time it’ll be me, Mum. Just wait ‘til I’m old enough and I’m getting out of here too.’
He slammed his school bag against the wall. It burst open and marbles rolled everywhere.
‘Out of the mouths of babes,’ said Nan wearily. She raised her eyebrows at Tom. ‘Are you going to pick those up?’
Red-faced and muttering, Tom gathered up the marbles.
‘And are you going to apologise to your mother?’
‘I’m not sorry.’ Tom glared bullishly at Jenny. ‘Lottie’s having a baby, isn’t she?’
‘How did you know?’ Jenny asked.
‘ ’Cause it’s all over school. Everyone knows now ’cause everyone heard you yelling at her.’ Tom pushed his hair out of his eyes. ‘I don’t understand it, Mum. Lottie’s not bad, she’s good. So what’s wrong with having a baby? You had me and Matt.’
Jenny couldn’t take any more. Tom’s unexpected burst of rebellion had sucked the last glimmer of light from her eyes. Nan would have preferred to distance herself from the conflict, but she sensed Tom had a lot more to say and painful questions to ask.
In one way, she was pleased to see him showing a bit of fire in defence of Lottie.
‘I agree with you, Tom,’ she said, ‘but now is a bad time. Your mother is extremely upset and exhausted. Remember how you felt when she was in hospital? She’s going to end up there again if she’s not allowed to rest and recover from this terrible day. And it won’t be Truro Hospital, Tom, it will be Bodmin.’
‘Bodmin?’ Tom looked guilty. ‘That’s the loony bin.’
‘No.’ Nan spoke quietly and firmly. ‘It’s a hospital for people who are upset and tired from worrying about their families. So leave your mother alone, Tom. You and I can have a talk later about how you feel. Right now, we all need some peace and a cup of tea.’ She helped Jenny swing her legs onto the sofa. ‘You close your eyes and have a little sleep. It’ll do you good.’
Jenny nodded. ‘Thanks, Nan.’ She sank into the cushion, her face faintly blue-tinged and pale.
‘I don’t like the look of her. She’s had enough,’ Nan said, and turned a demanding stare on Tom. ‘Now – are you going to make the tea or make the peace?’
‘I dunno how to make peace.’
/> ‘Watch Bartholomew,’ Nan said as the cat flowed in like a weightless cloud and settled himself over Jenny’s heart, his loud purring filling the room, bringing with it a feeling of fireside warmth and peace.
‘He wouldn’t care if your mother had robbed a bank,’ Nan said. ‘It’s unconditional love – exactly what Jenny needs.’
*
At John’s apartment in London, Olivia scurried around in a frenzy of cleaning and tidying. She seized armfuls of clothes from where she’d flung them, over the backs of chairs and on the floor, and put them on hangers or into drawers. She disentangled a heap of shoes and handbags and put them in an orderly line, accidentally knocking over a half-empty bottle of red wine that was in the heap.
Swigging what remained in the bottle, she slouched into the kitchen to find a cloth and stood contemplating the stack of unwashed dishes in the sink. Better tackle those first.
She opened the bow-fronted refrigerator and surveyed the contents. Half a bottle of milk, a few eggs and a wedge of hard yellow cheese wrapped in greaseproof paper. She would need to go shopping and do some baking.
It really was inconsiderate of John to spring this on her at such short notice. He’d telephoned at midday, his voice curt and business-like, to say he was bringing Charlotte – no, Lottie – to London. The train took about six hours, so it would be dark when they arrived.
The longing to be in London instead of New York had been unfulfilled, and Olivia soon discovered she felt just as bad, if not worse, than in America. Her life was lonely, her health precarious. Her dreams of being reunited with her daughter and of seducing John had come to nothing.
Thanks to that Cornish family Lottie was so attached to.
The powerful grandmother with those scathing eyes. The insolent boyfriend who lived on a boat. And Jenny! Olivia had felt drawn to her. Jenny was everything she was not. Olivia saw her as the perfect friend, someone she could respect and learn from. Lottie’s attitude had been a huge disappointment, a snub of the worst kind. Alcohol was the only solace for Olivia. John had told her to get a job, find her own flat and build a life. He was still sending her money to help her get on her feet, but she’d spent it all on alcohol and clothes.
She had six hours to restore John’s flat to its previous pristine condition, and she must have a scented bath, do her hair and nails, and find something seductive to wear. The dishes could wait.
Still procrastinating, Olivia wandered into the spare room where Lottie would sleep. The narrow iron bedstead was covered in an old army blanket with a tattered hem, and the heavy brocade curtains were dark brown. The electric light was a yellowy bulb with a grubby white shade, hanging on a twisted cord from a badly cracked ceiling. A sludgy old oil painting dangled from the picture rail on a greasy string.
Olivia sighed. It seemed a miserable, unwelcoming room for a bright young girl like Lottie. She’d take her to Portobello Road market and let her choose some fabric, but John would have to pay, of course. The idea of shopping with her daughter appealed to Olivia and she spent some time dreaming of trips to Harrods and Selfridges. Lottie couldn’t go around London looking like a Cornish fishwife. She’d need elegant dresses nipped in at the waist, as well as hats, gloves and shoes. Mother and daughter stuff, at last.
The one redeeming feature of the room was the lofty sash-window, west facing, catching the evening sun and a pleasant view over one of London’s elegant squares with tall plane trees, their huge, arty leaves tinged with the fires of autumn.
Olivia had no idea why Lottie suddenly wanted to come and stay with her in London. John hadn’t offered any explanation. Lottie had been so hostile on the ship. What had made her change her mind? Could she be running away from something? Had something gone wrong in the Lanroska family?
The six hours flew by and when nine o’clock came, Olivia was beautifully dressed in a willowy, peacock blue frock, her hair swept up into a shining coil, like a ballerina, the way John liked her to look. She’d had a bath, painted her nails and put a dab of Eau de Cologne on her wrists, behind her ears and in her cleavage. She paced the floor, sucking peppermints to mask the tell-tale smell of wine. When at last the doorbell rang, she glided downstairs to open the front door, her pulse quickening with nervous excitement.
John met her eyes, briefly, business-like. Lottie stood beside him, her hair limp, her face unsmiling.
‘Hello, honey-child. Good to see you.’
‘Hello,’ Lottie said flatly and looked directly into Olivia’s eyes. ‘First of all, my name is Lottie, not Charlotte, and not honey-child. I’m sorry it’s short notice but can I please stay with you for . . . for a short while?’
‘That’s okay, Lottie. I said you could, didn’t I? But you didn’t want to. Why the change of heart?’
Lottie shrugged. ‘I don’t want to discuss it.’ She looked at the stairs. ‘Is this the way to Daddy’s flat?’
Olivia rolled her eyes at John and Lottie headed up the stairs, her blue American bag over one shoulder. ‘What’s the matter with her?’ Olivia mouthed at John.
He shook his head. ‘I’ve no idea. She’s usually so full of life, but she’s hardly spoken a word since we left Cornwall. We had dinner on the train and she couldn’t eat it.’
‘She was like this on the ship, wasn’t she?’ Olivia said. ‘You don’t think she’s ill again, do you, John?’
‘She was fine yesterday. We had a lovely day out, walked over to St Michael’s Mount. Even Jenny managed it with her iron leg.’
He followed Olivia upstairs and into the flat where Lottie was standing forlornly. ‘I honestly haven’t got a clue what’s wrong with her – but something is. I’m extremely concerned about her, Olivia. Do you think you can manage her, the way she is?’
‘John, she is my daughter. Of course I can manage her. I’ll take her shopping, show her the sights of London. She’ll soon snap out of it.’
‘I’m concerned about her schoolwork,’ John said. ‘She was working hard in the college class and enjoying it.’
‘Excuse me,’ Lottie looked at both of them, her eyes blank, ‘but I’m very tired and I’d like to go straight to bed. Where will I be sleeping?’
‘Okay, John and I will have a quiet drink together,’ Olivia said as she opened the door to the spare room. ‘There you are, Lottie. It’s a bit gloomy in there but I’ll take you shopping for some fabric.’
‘Thank you – and goodnight. Goodnight, Daddy. Thanks for bringing me.’ She gave her father a kiss on the cheek and Olivia a dismissive stare.
‘Wait a minute, Lottie,’ John said. ‘Jenny doesn’t know where you are and she’ll worry. Will you telephone her, please?’
‘No.’
‘She’ll worry all night.’
‘Let her.’
‘Then I shall phone her,’ John said firmly. ‘Would you like me to give her a message?’
‘No, thanks. I’m going to bed.’
‘Would you like an aspirin, honey-child?’ Olivia opened a cupboard. Bottle after bottle stood on the shelf inside, each with a white label: 100 ASPIRIN TABLETS.
‘No, thanks. Please just leave me alone.’ Lottie retreated into the spare room and closed the door.
John looked at Olivia, his eyes shrewd. ‘Why on earth have you got so much aspirin? Are you curing the British army of headaches?’
She gave him a haughty stare. ‘It’s my way of making sure I have everything I need when I need it.’ She opened the cupboard next to it. ‘I have plenty of wine, as you can see. Why don’t you choose a bottle for us to share?’
‘Thanks, but no thanks, Olivia. I don’t want to encourage you to drink. Especially with Lottie here. She’s going to need you to be sober.’
Olivia looked miffed. ‘For goodness sake, John, I was only going to have a glass.’
‘I’d rather have coffee or Ovaltine if you have it. I’m tired after the journey.’
‘Where are you planning to stay tonight?’
‘Here, of course. It is my flat.’
<
br /> Olivia leaned towards him, her graceful fingers fiddling with his tie. ‘It’s been a while, John, but it’s time we shared a comfortable bed together, don’t you think?’
She watched him turn to stone. ‘Definitely not, Olivia. I’ll sleep on the sofa. All I need is a rug. I intend to get the afternoon train back to Cornwall tomorrow – I have some business to attend to in London. Right now, I’m going to telephone Jenny so would you kindly make me a hot drink? Without alcohol.’
Olivia tossed her head angrily. ‘Certainly, your lordship.’ She tip-tapped into the kitchen and left him to make his phone call. She opened the refrigerator and reached for the willow-patterned jug hidden at the back, glad she’d remembered to empty half a bottle of wine into it earlier.
Hearing John on the phone, she drank quickly, gulping the chilled red wine directly from the jug. Wine, wonderful wine – it was the answer to everything. Loneliness. Jealousy. Anxiety. Rage. Wine would fix it.
Satisfied, Olivia slid the jug back again and eavesdropped on John’s conversation.
It was brief and business-like, and when he’d finished he came into the kitchen.
‘I only spoke to Nan. Jenny’s gone to bed early, not well from the sound of it. Nan was relieved to know Lottie was safe – she didn’t offer any explanation. She’s awkward on the phone. She said we’ll talk when I get back –that’s all she said really. Is the kettle on?’
‘Not yet.’
John looked annoyed. He picked up the kettle, took it to the sink and filled it. ‘How long have these dishes been festering here, Olivia? Isn’t the hot water working?’
‘I was going to do them. I haven’t had time.’
‘Obviously.’ John took his jacket off and hung it over a chair. He rolled up his sleeves, turned on the hot water tap, and tackled the disgusting pile of plates, pans and mugs, scrubbing them diligently with a brush.
Olivia sank into a chair feeling the wine beginning to take effect, blurring her loneliness, her longing and her guilt.
*
Lottie slept deeply and awoke at first light. She lay in the narrow bed listening to rain drumming on a variety of hard surfaces, gurgling and gushing from hundreds of pipes, making a magnificent sound. She drew the curtains and sat cross-legged on the wide window seat, fascinated by the tree canopy level with the window, the huge golden leaves and the twigs gleaming and dripping. London rain came straight down in rods of silver white, so different from Cornish rain, which always blew in at crazy angles. The lawned square below was a quiet space and beyond it the city growled with traffic, a hectic mix of horse-drawn wagons and noisy buses and lorries with grinding gears.
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