‘And who else?’ he prompted, trying hard to be calm and gentle.
‘Matt.’
‘Matt?’ John couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t sound like a platitude. Lottie’s haunted eyes told him trivia wasn’t welcome. He must take her seriously. Even if it was just sibling stuff. Looking at her in silent empathy seemed to work best.
Lottie’s eyes brimmed with tears, but she brushed them away and let go of another name. ‘And Jenny.’
‘Jenny?’ John put his hand into his pocket and touched the small Hatton Garden box with the ruby ring inside. Was it sparkling in the dark? To him, Jenny was a person who sparkled in the dark, and the dark was his secret loneliness, his yearning for a woman in his life. Jenny was perfect. What could she have done to hurt Lottie so deeply?
‘I thought you got on so well with Jenny.’
‘I did.’
‘So what happened, Lottie? I want to understand.’
Lottie shuddered with the memory of Jenny dragging her out of school in front of all her friends. She closed her eyes and wanted to scream. She let the feeling pass over her in the silence, then felt strong enough to speak calmly. ‘If I tell you something, Daddy, will you please keep quiet and listen until I’ve finished?’
‘Okay, my lovely, I’m listening.’ John offered her his hands and she took them. Her fingertips were cold but her grip was firm. Not needy like Olivia but unconditionally strong. He remembered her as a baby, how her tiny fist had curled around his finger, claiming him for life. He mustn’t let her down.
‘You’re going to be shocked, Daddy,’ she began, ‘but please – let the shock surge over you like an ocean wave; let it pass and, when the water is calm, you can try to understand.’
Startled at the intensity in those dark blue eyes, John tried to speak.
‘No, Daddy, just listen, because it’s hard for me to tell you this,’ Lottie said. ‘I’m not a child, Daddy. I’m a woman, and I’m in love – with Matt. We’ve been lovers since last December and like Romeo and Juliet we are star-crossed lovers. Our love has been a secret, but it’s beautiful, the most beautiful thing that has ever happened to me.’ Lottie began to speak with passion, and her eyes shone. ‘We knew no one would understand. People think it’s bad and wicked. But it isn’t. How can something so sacred be wrong? How can love be bad?’
Stunned, John made himself listen, squeezing her hand just enough to let her know he was still there.
Lottie took a few deep breaths and continued. ‘Matt didn’t know what would happen and neither did I, although Morwenna tried to warn me and I didn’t believe her. Since Arnie died, Matt hasn’t had anyone to talk to. It wasn’t his fault – and now the whole town is against him. You should see the bruise on his face, Daddy. Morwenna’s mum attacked him in the street – she threw a frying pan at his head when he wasn’t doing anything wrong! He was just walking past her house.’ Sobs of fury were breaking up Lottie’s voice. She paused for breath.
Instinctively, John knew he mustn’t interrupt, though he longed to say something calming. He felt her distress deeply. Just be a rock, he kept thinking.
Finally, she told him. ‘The truth is, Daddy, I . . . I’m going to have a baby.’
John kept perfectly still, letting the shock wave wash over him as Lottie had asked. From inside the translucent curl of the wave, the blackest reactions came.
He wanted to kill Matt. He wanted to take an axe and smash The Jenny Wren into splinters. He waited in the tunnel as moments turned into ages. He held on, and the wave toppled and broke, surging away from him, taking his bad feelings and crashing them onto the beach where they vanished into the sand.
Lottie lifted her chin and began to talk again, this time with defiance, conviction and love. ‘Dr Tregullow let me listen to her heartbeat through his stethoscope and it made me want to sing and clap my hands and dance – but Jenny wouldn’t listen to it. She was so angry. I felt sad for her, Daddy. Poor Jenny. She would have loved it. She loves children and this little one will be her grandchild, and yours. It’s not my baby’s fault Matt and I made a mistake, is it?’ Lottie paused, her eyes questioning his, and John felt himself closing down.
He managed to listen to the bright words flowing from his daughter’s lips. She was speaking from the heart while his own heart was sinking into a deep crater. He wanted to tell her to stop, or at least to slow down and let him think.
‘I love my baby, Daddy, and I want to be her mother, and be a good mother. I shall never abandon her or have her adopted. If I need to, I shall leave home and take her far away where I can bring her up in peace.’
A moment hovered between them, with the sounds of London filtering into the silence. Lottie took a strip of paper from her pocket and unfolded it. ‘Listen to this, Daddy. It’s from some poetry we were doing at school and it will be the last and most important thing I learned there – listen . . .’
Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting.
Our soul that riseth with us, our life’s star
Hath had elsewhere its setting
And cometh from afar.
Lottie thrust the paper into his hand. ‘You keep it and read it, Daddy, when you have doubts. I know it by heart now.’ She stared into his retreating soul. ‘A baby is a star sent from God. Remember that, Daddy.’ Lottie closed her mouth and looked at her father with a compelling light in her eyes, a look he was to remember many times in the lonely days and nights to come.
His eyes read the words on the strip of paper. He folded it and tucked it inside his leather wallet. ‘May I speak now?’ he asked, and Lottie nodded. He sensed how eagerly and anxiously she was awaiting his reaction, but John was so shattered that he couldn’t think what on earth to say. He admired her clear, brave vision of being a mother. But with his life experience, he could see all the pros and cons. How could he both morally support her and warn her of the consequences? His thoughts plummeted into a downward spiral. He’d had such high hopes for his daughter’s future.
‘Daddy?’
Whatever he said, he was going to lose her. How could he condone this? It was the road to ruin.
‘Daddy, please, you’re the last person I trust.’
‘I’m sorry, Lottie, but I need time alone to think about this. You must give me a chance to recover.’ He stood up and put his hands in his pockets. ‘It’s time I headed back to Paddington – to catch the train to Cornwall. Are you coming?’
‘No.’
‘Then you must go back to Olivia and try to get along with her. But come home soon, won’t you, dear? You’ve got your rail ticket.’
‘I might never come home,’ Lottie said with pride.
‘That would make me sad. Very sad indeed.’ John wanted a quick, uncomplicated goodbye, brisk and business-like. No heartbreak. No tears. ‘Goodbye now.’ He gave her a peck on the cheek and walked away, his mind hammering out the words he should have said.
*
Days later, Lottie walked alone along the embankment, a map in her hand. She passed John’s favourite seat, eyed it, and walked on, her back straight, her blonde hair coiled into an elegant bun. Her shoes tapped importantly along the pavement. Nobody smiled at her the way they did in St Ives. People stared coldly into the distance, imprisoned in stiff black overcoats and intimidating bowler hats. Only the shabbily dressed people looked at her with greedy eyes. Lottie felt wary. If she dared to smile, she’d be dragged up an alleyway. Being po-faced was a new skill she needed to master in London.
She did pause to admire the work of a pavement artist who was creating evocative pictures on the stone slabs with only a grubby OXO tin of coloured chalks. How could he bear to do such beautiful works of art when the rain would wash them away? He looked up at her with eyes like Matt’s. She gulped and walked on, searching the street names high up on the buildings across the road, a tingle of excitement and dread in her mind when she saw the one she was looking for: MOUNTBERRY AVENUE.
Lottie crossed the busy road and turned into
the tree-lined avenue, the crisp, copper leaves of autumn rustling around her feet. Why were the streets of London so endlessly long? Number 139 would be at the far end of this expensive-looking road. The tall houses had immaculate steps with wide banisters and pillars, tiled doorsteps and magnificent front doors winking with swirls of mullioned glass.
A flutter of movement in her womb made Lottie stop to rest for a few seconds. Discreetly she touched her growing bump with caring hands, sending the baby a message: It’s all right, little star, I know exactly what I’m doing, and it’s for you.
Moments later, number 139 loomed. Lottie’s heart began to thump as she climbed the scrubbed steps under the dappled sunlight of the plane trees. Feeling small and very Cornish, she stood on the spacious doorstep and rang the bell. She heard it ringing deep in the house but there was no sound of approaching footsteps, only a spooky sense of someone already hovering inside the substantial door. It swung open, ponderously, and a man with tired eyes stood there, smartly dressed in a suit with a matching waistcoat, a rose-gold watch chain looped from his top pocket.
‘Good morning,’ Lottie said, looking directly into his eyes. ‘I have come in response to your advertisement. My name is Miss Lanroska.’ She held out her hand and he took it, his cold fingers firm and dry, his large, flat nails immaculately clean.
He looked her up and down. ‘May I ask how old you are?’
‘Twenty-one,’ she lied.
‘And when could you start?’
‘Tomorrow.’
His tired eyes brightened and he opened the door wide. ‘Would you like to come in? We’ll have a chat about what is involved. My name is Mr Ford-Morgan.’
‘Yes. Thank you.’
Lottie gave him a candid stare and stepped inside. The house smelled of cloves and old books. The walls ticked with multiple clocks and two bronze dogs with ugly faces guarded the thickly carpeted staircase.
‘Come this way.’
Lottie followed Mr Ford-Morgan through the muffled silence of the house, her heart thudding with the huge lie she had told. It sat in her mind like a hungry bird, its beak gaping, its eyes glimmering. Every day, from now on, she must feed it – feed the lie and keep it safe – and she must ignore the slender echo of a voice within her, a distant, fading cry that said: I’m too young. Too young for this – and too alone.
Chapter 20
To Live That Day Again
John had come home from London and Jenny begged Nan not to let him see her.
‘He knows about the baby,’ Nan told her. ‘He’s shocked, of course. Aren’t we all? But he wants to see you, Jenny. He’s very persistent.’
‘I can’t see him. Please Nan, just keep him away.’
‘I thought you liked him.’
‘I do.’
‘So what’s the problem? Lottie’s his daughter and he needs to talk to you about her.’
‘Leave me alone, Nan.’
‘Does that mean let you starve?’ Nan was getting annoyed with her. Jenny feared she might do something drastic, like calling the doctor or even throwing her out. But did it matter? There was only Tom to consider now, and Tom had turned on her too. He’d meant what he said. The words rang in her heart: Next time, Mum, it’ll be me leaving.
From her bed, Jenny heard Nan’s loud voice telling John she wouldn’t see him. His disappointment crept under the door like autumn fog and Jenny heard him eventually leaving.
It left a hollow space.
The days rolled on and nothing changed. The telephone didn’t ring and no letters appeared. October was passing and the autumn gales stripped leaves from the hedges and blew sand into the streets. There was no word from Lottie in London.
I’ve lost her, Jenny thought, grief-stricken. I’ve lost Lottie, and John as well. If only I could go back and live that day again. I’d be kind and motherly. But it’s too late so what’s the point in trying?
But one morning, to her alarm, Jenny heard Nan starting the car and driving off, the sound of the exhaust backfiring as it lurched out of the gate and down the lane.
Where could Nan be going? Tom was in school and Jenny was lying in bed, alone at Hendravean. Nan seldom used the car and everyone, including Jenny, worried about her erratic driving. What is she up to?
At least it would give Jenny time to sleep in peace. She snuggled into the pillow and closed her eyes.
Nan had left the door of Jenny’s downstairs bedroom ajar and it wasn’t long before the two cats padded in. First came Bartholomew. He jumped onto the bed and paraded carefully up Jenny’s body until he found her face. Then he sat on her shoulder, purring and peeping over to kiss her nose, tickling her cheek with his white whiskers. She couldn’t help smiling and it felt strange after the days of stubbornly maintained misery.
The smile seemed to illuminate the inside of her head. Bartholomew slithered down to lie beside her, curled on the pillow, his golden eyes like two suns shining at her every time she opened her eyes. Then Bessie arrived and the two cats lay together, entwined in a heap of paws and tails. Jenny stroked them gently, aware of their silky fur and the love they were giving.
Obviously it was all part of Nan’s plot to get Jenny out of bed. After the blissful interlude of purring and stroking, something suddenly startled the cats. They leapt, with bushed-out fur and bottlebrush tails, onto the windowsill and crouched there, watching the door with huge black eyes.
Spooked, Jenny sat up and swung her legs to the floor. She dragged her iron leg out from under the bed and quickly strapped it on. Wrapped in her cream shawl, she sat shivering on the bed. The cats knew when there was danger. Nan had left the front door wide open as usual.
Jenny stood up, her legs unsteady from too much time in bed. She jumped as a rumpus erupted in the hall.
Usually the chickens were clumped peacefully on the stairs in the morning. Jenny tiptoed into the hall, a shoe in one hand ready to use as a weapon. The ginger eyes of a fox confronted her. The morning sun glowed through his cream and orange ruff, a glaze of droplets misting his fur as if he’d been running in wet grass. He stood with one paw raised, his black nose twitching, his eyes unafraid, challenging and in control. While the chickens squawked and flapped, the fox looked steadily at Jenny. She could smell his musky coat.
She sensed his fire. Fire that kept him alive. She felt he despised her, saw her weakness.
Jenny brandished the shoe and yelled at him, ‘Get out!’ The fox threw her a contemptuous glance and fled, light as air, across the yard and over the hedge. The cats stayed on the windowsill like two porcupines and the chickens carried on squawking at full volume. Fright seemed to ripple across the floorboards and into china cupboards and cutlery drawers. The rows of chutney jars clinked and the bunches of dried lavender, rosemary and sage released a fragrant, lustrous dust into the air.
Outside, the garden looked peaceful and bright. Jenny felt drawn to go out there. Unsteady on her feet, she shuffled along, close to the wall, so preoccupied with the simple task of walking that she didn’t notice John come sweeping into the yard on his bike. She was stepping out of the door just as he was walking in.
There was no place to hide.
Jenny shook her fist at the sky. ‘You’re at it again, God,’ she hissed, and smiled at the look on John’s face. ‘I didn’t mean you to see me, John. Not like this. I’m such a mess.’
‘Oh, Jenny,’ John spoke her name with immense tenderness. He held out his arms. ‘Darling.’ Again, the word was loaded with nurturing warmth. To be spoken to with such tenderness in the middle of so much stress was like being wrapped in layer upon layer of goose down.
‘Don’t run away from me. Don’t hide from me,’ he pleaded, not touching her but standing close with his arms held out in welcome.
It’s a long time since I felt welcome on this earth, she thought.
She allowed him to hold her, and it felt sweet and sustaining, like the first sip from a mug of Ovaltine.
‘I’m sorry, John – about the gallery. I let yo
u down,’ Jenny mumbled. ‘And I’m so, so sorry about Lottie. I let her down when she needed me. I’m horrible, John. Don’t get close to me. I’ve got a bad, fiery temper and I’m no good to anyone.’
‘Jenny!’ he breathed, making her name sound like a healing mantra. ‘Jenny.’
‘Even Tom doesn’t . . .’ Jenny stopped herself. She wasn’t going to rant at John and drag him into her misery. She looked up into his eyes. ‘I’m not going to moan.’
‘We’ve got a lot to talk about,’ John said, ‘but not now. Let’s just be quiet.’ He led her to the bench against the sunny wall. ‘You’re good for me, Jenny. Very good for me.’
They sat close, absorbing the ambience of Nan’s garden, the scent of apples and crushed grass, the busy wings of bumble bees and tiny, flake-like butterflies with exquisite patterns on the underside of their blue wings. ‘They’ve got wise little faces,’ John said, studying one, ‘and such black, bright eyes.’
‘Lottie’s so like you,’ Jenny said. ‘It’s exactly what she would have said.’
‘We’re both grieving, in a way, for Lottie,’ John sighed. ‘Let’s be quiet and think about her. She’s staying in my London apartment with Olivia.’
Jenny put her head on his shoulder, her cheek pressed against the thick cotton smock he wore, her other cheek warmed by the golden autumn sun. They listened to the waves rolling in on Porthmeor Beach, the distant throb of a motorboat and the whirr of linnets’ wings in Nan’s garden. Out on the cliffs there were pockets of silence in the hot grass between rocks. Jenny longed for John to take her hand and lead her into one of those intimate places of deep quiet where you could hear the slim black pods of the gorse flowers snapping open and spreading their seed.
Lottie taught me that, she thought, before I had polio. Everything joyful had come before polio. Until John.
Jenny looked down at her iron leg and at the crumpled nightie she was wearing and the matted cream shawl with its tatty tassels. What was she doing sitting in the sunshine wearing grimy rags, her unwashed hair hanging in sullen tangles? How had she got into such a state? It wasn’t only her clothes. Her mind ached with shame, and blame, and bitterness. Where was the bright, clear-minded, confident girl she’d always been? Who was she now?
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