An Orphan's Winter

by Sheila Jeffries

  She looked at John. He was watching her. Their eyes met and they both began to speak at the same time.

  ‘I’m sorry, John . . .’

  ‘I’m sorry, Jenny . . .’

  ‘Go on . . .’

  ‘No, you go on,’ John said firmly. ‘I’m in better shape than you, Jenny. Talk to me. Let it out.’

  A phantom smile wavered between them like a reflection in the harbour.

  Jenny sighed. ‘I hate myself, John. You’ve been so nice to me – and I’m ashamed of the way I look. I never meant you to see me like this.’

  ‘Shall I go away?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I was going to apologise for the upset my daughter has caused you, Jenny.’

  ‘I hate myself,’ Jenny said again. ‘I did something dreadful. Matt told me about the baby and I gave him such a scolding. I was so angry. I felt like a thunderstorm and I marched up to the school – gave myself blisters! – and . . . Lottie was there enjoying her class. She looked happy and calm, John, and . . . oh, I can hardly tell you – I hate myself,’ Jenny paused, a hot pain in her throat.

  ‘Take your time. Slow down.’ John gave her a squeeze.

  ‘I’ve never hurt Lottie, never slapped her or anything, but I was beside myself with fury. I dragged her out of school. I called her terrible names. No wonder she’s run away. I wish, oh, how I wish I could go back to live that day again. I’d give anything to have Lottie home and tell her I’m sorry – so sorry.’ Jenny began to cry, hardly noticing the tears mingling with her confession. John kept still, rocklike, his eyes never leaving her face. ‘I took Lottie straight to the doctor, John, and she tried so hard to tell me how she feels. She’s being unbelievably brave and she wants to keep the baby.’

  ‘She told me that too,’ John said, ‘and I didn’t listen. I walked away and regretted it. I know how you feel, Jenny.’

  ‘The worst thing was – oh,’ Jenny sobbed, ‘Lottie wanted me to hear the baby’s heartbeat. You should have seen her face – like the face of an angel – when the doctor let her listen through the stethoscope. And I turned my back. On my own grandchild. John, I’m so wicked. Don’t get involved with me. I’m a wicked, grubby old witch. And you’re a decent, proper handsome man. Don’t get involved with me. I’m a dishrag. I’ve driven all my children away and it serves me right . . .’ Jenny tried to get up and scurry back to the safety of bed with her face to the wall. She’d just lie there and die.

  But John wasn’t going to let her. He curled his strong, steady hands around her small wrists and made her look at him. ‘Jenny,’ he said, again putting such love into her name, gazing steadfastly at her.

  She stopped crying and felt stillness gathering around her, stillness with dappled sunlight. It was a place of transformation. John had seen her at her worst and he was still there, holding her. Everything he wanted to say and all she needed to hear was encapsulated in the way he’d spoken her name, infusing it with healing love, as if the name was her whole being, the essence of her.

  ‘It will be okay. I am here, and we will get through this – together,’ John said.

  *

  Nan was on a mission of her own. She put her foot down on the accelerator and the Austin Seven flew along the winding hilltop road, backfiring at every sharp bend and groaning as it climbed the hills. Nan was getting tired, but she daren’t stop in case the car never started again. She met only occasional traffic as she drove on between high stone hedges, the summer flowers now a mist of brown seed pods.

  On and on she drove in clear autumn sunshine, winding through Camborne and Redruth, glancing up at the Carn Brea as she passed, wanting to go up there and see the giant stacks of weathered granite and remember its legends.

  But there wasn’t time.

  A signpost loomed out of the hedge pointing towards the sea. It said PORTREATH.

  Should she go down there and find Matt? Someone had to talk to him. But, no, she must focus on the task at hand; the reason she’d driven such a long way. The car seemed to be getting hotter and hotter.

  Nan wasn’t particularly worried about Lottie. In her opinion, Lottie was level-headed and wise beyond her years. She’d already coped with everything life had thrown at her. Lottie would sort herself out, even being pregnant. Social expectations like marriage and being old enough didn’t bother Nan, and she’d no time for gossip. She felt sure Lottie would soon tire of London and come home.

  It was Jenny who bothered Nan. Jenny would end up in Bodmin, a hospital for the mentally ill, and they were terrible places. Worse than prison. In fact, they were a kind of prison. Nan believed it was Jenny, not Lottie, who was seriously at risk. Mental illness was invisible, misunderstood and regarded as shameful. People would go on hiding it for years rather than face a doctor with it. There seemed to be no kindly treatment on offer. It was the loony bin or nothing.

  So Nan’s secret mission today was for Jenny.

  The signpost to Truro was half hidden in a gorse bush and she almost missed it, braking sharply and steering the car wildly into the turning. At least it was a wider, straighter road and the countryside began to change from the granite moorland to a softer landscape, the fields greener, the cows fatter, even the sunlight seemed more mellow. Closer to Truro there were tall, dark conifer trees, pine and cedar, and houses with green lawns and gravelled driveways.

  Money, Nan thought; people with money live here.

  As she drove on through the outskirts of the city, Nan saw something that made her slow down. Parked in a grassy layby were three colourful gypsy caravans with three skewbald horses tethered in the thick grass. The caravans were impressively lofty and beautifully painted with birds and roses, elaborate scrolls and motifs, some painted in gold leaf. They glowed richly in the autumn sunshine.

  Nan paused, studying them with interest. She’d always felt an affinity with the Romany gypsies, especially the women. The caravans were deserted. The women would be in town selling waxed paper roses, clothes pegs and bits of lace. Some would be offering sprigs of white heather and lucky charms, such as tiny brass Cornish piskies. Tired as she was, Nan felt energised by seeing the caravans. Finding the Romany gypsies was phase one of her mission.

  She felt rebellious driving into the grand city of Truro in her battered Austin Seven. Most of its paint was back home in St Ives, scraped along the many sharp granite corners she had misjudged. The stuffing was bursting out of the back seat from where the chickens had been excavating with their sharp claws. The floor was damp under the seats with moss and even a few tiny toadstools.

  Nan knew her way around Truro. She must get in there without hitting any of the expensive-looking motors. She mustn’t hit the pavement either, or drive on it – and she mustn’t forget to do the hand signals. She wound the window down and flapped her arm up and down, and by some miracle she managed to park neatly in a road close to the cathedral.

  Exhausted, Nan sat for a few minutes and closed her eyes. She was boiling hot and so was the car.

  It might catch fire!

  She heaved herself out, struggling to unbend her legs after the long drive. She opened the bonnet with the intention of topping up the water tank. Heads turned as a whoosh of steam erupted from the engine.

  ‘Don’t touch it, madam.’ A little man in overalls and a cap stepped between Nan and the car. He looked up at her like one of the seven dwarves. Probably Grumpy. ‘You’ll burn the skin off yer,’ he said. ‘Let ’un cool down first.’ He looked her up and down. ‘Looks like you need to cool down, yerself.’ He peered into the back window. ‘Proper old banger, int ’er.’

  ‘If I want your opinion on my mode of transport, I’ll ask for it,’ Nan said imperiously, her voice rising above the hiss of steam. ‘Kindly go on your way.’

  He made a face, but walked on. Nan was relieved – she didn’t want to start a conversation. She needed to be quiet and private and focus on her mission.

  It was mid-morning and Truro was bustling with people: wealthy women shopping with
their subservient daughters; men in suits looking switched-off and important; country folk like herself with willow baskets. A few streets away, the market was in full swing and she could hear the high-pitched babble of an auctioneer. Nan found cattle markets distressing, picking up the fear in the frantic voices of bewildered cows and sheep, and the terrified squealing of pigs. Avoiding it, she walked on towards the cathedral.

  Nan was delighted to see a Romany gypsy woman making a beeline for her, carrying a basket laden with bunches of paper flowers. The dark-eyed woman’s smile startled Nan. Didn’t she know that face? Something about her was hauntingly familiar.

  ‘Will you buy some paper roses, madam?’ The woman looked at her knowingly. ‘I could tell you something you need to know – if you buy one of my lucky charms for a shilling.’

  Nan peered into the basket. ‘Ah, you have some Cornish piskies!’

  ‘Wait – let me pick one for you,’ the woman said in a lilting, seductive tone, her eyes gleaming. She chose a brass piskie and put it into Nan’s hand. ‘That’s a rather special one. He’s very, very lucky for you, especially today – you must have him. Keep him with you, always. Don’t give him away. You were going to, weren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I was going to,’ Nan admitted. She’d intended the piskie for Lottie.

  ‘Don’t,’ the gypsy said quickly. She reached into the basket, underneath the stems of the paper flowers, and drew out a small cardboard box of gemstones. ‘If you want a charm for a child in your life, a little girl you love very much, choose a piece of Cornish turquoise. It’s rare and precious. Only the Romanies know where to find it. And if you want a charm for a sturdy little boy, choose a piece of rainbow ore.’ She took a piece out to show Nan the winking, rainbow colours in the sunshine. ‘See how it glitters.’

  Nan smiled to herself. She took the piskie, a piece of pale turquoise for Lottie and a rainbow stone for Tom. She gave the gypsy woman a florin. They stood looking at each other, Nan trying to understand why she felt so drawn to this warm, contented gypsy woman. ‘I think we’ve met before, haven’t we?’

  ‘No, madam,’ the gypsy said firmly, ‘but we’re going to meet again – many times.’

  Nan nodded. ‘Would you tell me your name?’

  ‘Petronella. And yours?’

  ‘Nan.’

  A secretive sparkle came into Petronella’s eyes. ‘Nan! Nan indeed,’ she said. ‘I will see you again, very soon. Look after those charms.’

  Petronella flashed her a radiant smile and walked on, hips swinging in her colourful skirt. She didn’t look back, but the glint in her eyes stayed with Nan. Where had she seen those eyes before?

  Nan forgot how tired she was and continued walking to the end of the street, which opened out onto the cobbled precinct of the cathedral. A weathered Celtic cross stood opposite the main door, as if guarding the majestic cathedral with its spires and rose windows. There were a few people strolling about or sitting, and there was a cart parked with a donkey like Mufty. A cacophony of music filled the precinct from various buskers: a man with a barrel organ and a pet monkey, an elderly tramp playing a harmonica and a young girl playing a fiddle, all of them far enough apart to be playing their own individual repertoire.

  Nan stood listening intently to one particular tune.

  The Ash Grove.

  Her pulse quickened and goosebumps covered her arms. She stared towards the cathedral and lost all control of her emotions, not caring if people saw her crying.

  For there on the steps sat a thin, dark-haired boy playing his heart out on a piano-accordion, its pearl buttons shimmering in the sun, his fingers flying over the keys, his face alight with a wicked grin.

  She’d found him.

  She’d found Warren.

  *

  Far away in London, Lottie let herself into the flat, her fingers trembling with excitement and trepidation. She wasn’t sure how her birth mother was going to react to her news.

  Olivia was already angry. ‘Where have you been? And why are you dressed up like that? You’re far too young to wear your hair in a bun.’

  Lottie sat down and kicked her shoes off, rubbing her feet. ‘I’ve walked miles and the London pavements are so hard.’ She studied her mother’s disapproving expression. John hadn’t told Olivia about the baby and had advised Lottie to keep quiet about it. Olivia wouldn’t be able to cope, he’d warned.

  ‘Answer my question,’ Olivia glared, her eyes red-rimmed under heavily pencilled brows. She drained the last inch of red wine from a glass on the table. Another glass stood half full on the windowsill, and another on the floor by an armchair.

  ‘I’ve got a job,’ Lottie said brightly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I. Have. Got. A. Job.,’ Lottie replied bluntly.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘It’s true. Whether you believe it or not, Mother, I’m starting work tomorrow morning at eight o’clock.’

  ‘Doing what? And where?’

  ‘As a nanny. Looking after a little boy. He’s—’

  ‘You’re lying to me, Charlotte.’

  ‘No, I am not. Why would I?’

  ‘You are lying. You must be. How could you possibly get a job as a nanny when you’re only seventeen?’

  Lottie felt as if a door had been slammed in her face. Extreme disappointment at her mother’s reaction was hard to swallow. She was proud of what she’d done. Earning some money would help her to keep her baby and bring her up – free of confrontations and disapproval. Facing Olivia was devastating. Her own birth mother didn’t trust her, didn’t like her, and apparently didn’t even want her to succeed. ‘Why are you so against me?’

  ‘Aw, honey-child, it’s not like that. I want to keep you safe and I want you to go to college – John does too. I can’t believe you had the audacity to go out in London and get yourself a job when you’re only seventeen. Nobody is going to hire a seventeen-year-old kid from Cornwall to be a nanny. It’s a responsible, highly trained job. Explain it to me, please.’

  ‘I will if you listen.’

  ‘I am listening.’

  ‘No, you’re not. You’re standing there with a shotgun, firing at me every time I speak.’

  ‘Just explain about this so-called job. Without being a drama queen.’

  Lottie sighed loudly. ‘I have to be a drama queen to make you listen. Why can’t you ever be pleased at anything I do? And I’m not going to talk to you unless you stop drinking wine. I shall go to bed, have an early night and go to my job in the morning, and you can’t stop me.’

  Olivia held her head in her hands. ‘Oh God – how did I give birth to such a self-willed little madam?’

  ‘Being self-willed is a quality. Nan admires me for it, and so does Daddy, and—’ Lottie was going to say Jenny but her voice broke. She took a deep breath and searched Olivia’s eyes. If she couldn’t tell her about something as good and lucky as getting a job, how would she ever tell her about the baby?

  ‘I need you to back me up,’ she explained calmly. ‘I lied about my age. He thinks I’m twenty-one. He’s a nice, courteous, respectful man – and he’s very rich. You should see the lovely house he lives in. It’s got a curved staircase with a red and gold carpet and golden banisters, and a glittering chandelier.’

  Olivia’s expression began to change. She listened, wideeyed. ‘Go on.’

  ‘His wife died and he’s got a bright, bouncy little boy, Ben, aged three, to bring up. He had a proper, qualified nanny but she was taken ill. She’s in hospital and he thinks it’s going to be a while before she recovers – four to six weeks, he said – so it’s a temporary job, perfect for me at the moment. He wanted a nanny urgently and he put a card in a corner-shop window and that’s where I saw it. I told him I was well educated and experienced with children, like Tom and Warren. He looked so tired and desperate and he hired me on the spot.’

  Olivia’s mouth was open, her eyebrows arched. Lottie could see her attitude was changing by the minute. She remem
bered what John had said, scathingly, of Olivia: ‘Money talks.’

  ‘I’m old enough to leave school and work,’ Lottie added, ‘and don’t try to stop me. You’ll regret it if you do.’

  Olivia’s eyebrows met in a draconian frown. ‘Are you threatening me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I am threatening you, madam. I can stop you going to this so-called job. I can have you made a Ward of Court.’

  ‘No, you can’t. You’re not my legal guardian. Jenny is.’

  They glared at each other. It was like a declaration of war.

  Chapter 21

  Lies

  The moon in London was high up and far away, a tarnished shilling viewed through dust. It was three o’clock in the morning and Lottie had woken, convinced she could hear the sea. Filled with an unbearable longing, she went to the window seeking the healing power of fresh air and a clean, bright silver moon. She wanted the reassuring, eternal presence of the Atlantic Ocean, its white waves beating on the shores of home.

  Matt, are you out there on The Jenny Wren, dipping and rolling over the moonlit swell? she thought, and the vivid memory was both painful and comforting.

  Lottie felt she’d been managing her broken heart pretty well. Keeping busy. Standing up to Olivia. Finding herself a job, which she was looking forward to.

  Ben was an appealing, lively little boy and Lottie felt confident in her ability to manage him. There was a garden at the back of the big house with a mature horse-chestnut tree. She planned to take Ben out there and share some of the magic Nan had taught her, the stories, games and legends. It helped her to focus on doing her best in her first job. Everything about her new life felt precarious, a driftwood fragment of her future being tossed about by the Atlantic surf. The great rolling tide was the ache of homesickness, the longing for Nan, and Jenny, and her father. And Matt.