Gull Island

by Grace Thompson

  The deep snow made everything doubly difficult but somehow the news was spread and the arrangements made for the funeral. Neighbours dealt with the animals and offered help in any way it was needed. Numbly, Barbara wrote to tell Rosita that her stepfather had died then, even at such a time she remembered the lie and re-wrote to the matron stating that Rosita’s dear Uncle Graham had sadly died.

  It was only two days before the news reached Rosita that her ‘Uncle Graham’ was dead.

  ‘Your aunt wrote to me too and she sounds very distressed,’ Matron said kindly. ‘She wonders if you might like to go and stay with her for a while? I think she needs some extra family around her.’

  ‘I’ll go at once, if she needs me.’ Was there sarcasm in the girl’s words? Matron couldn’t be sure but she was puzzled by the harshness in Rosita’s tone.

  ‘Don’t worry about your work, my dear. I’ll let everyone know you won’t be in for a few days.’

  Rosita packed her bag and left the place that had been her home since the age of five, and didn’t look back. Today she was leaving but wouldn’t be going to comfort her mother and those half-sisters of hers who hadn’t come to see her once during all the years she’d been away. She was heading for the town and a life of her own.

  It was easier than she had imagined to change from Rosita Jones from the home to Miss Caroline Evans, a smart young woman with a future. She went first to a hairdresser and had her long hair cut into the fashionable shingle. The difference was startling. Her eyes looked huge and her face had a chiselled look that went well with the rather haughty expression she habitually wore. The hairdresser helped with some advice about make-up and Rosita went into a chemist and bought eye shadow, face cream and powder, and some lipsticks. To her utter joy she also bought soap that wasn’t carbolic and smelled wonderful.

  With the rest of her meagre savings she bought a calf-length skirt, a richly embroidered Hungarian blouse and a long jacket. The outfit was unsuitable for January and she would have to keep the awful coat the home had supplied and the even more awful black lace-up shoes Matron had lent her, supposedly for the funeral. But at least she felt different.

  She caught sight of herself in a café mirror and was pleased with what she saw. She looked older, no longer a child needing to be looked after. She bought a packet of cigarettes although she made no attempt to light one. Just having them in her handbag added to her new sophistication. For the first time she was going to be herself, but with a new name. Miss Caroline Evans. How wonderful was that?

  Boldly, she applied for a job in a dress shop. Making sure she hid the awful brown coat, she walked confidently in to see the manageress, a Miss Grainger, wearing her new clothes. She carried herself proudly. She was careful about her diction and after a few preliminary questions, which Rosita answered with a mixture of truth, exaggeration and downright lies, she was told she could begin the following day.

  Rosita walked around for an hour but the day was chilly. Snow banked up all along the pavement was crisp with the onset of the night’s frost. Knowing that a night sleeping outside was impossible to consider, she went back and asked Miss Grainger if she could help her find a room.

  The manageress looked surprised to see her back and even more surprised at her request. Looking older than her early forties, she stood behind her desk, tall, elegant, wearing a polite half-frown. Her mid-brown hair was curled into a neat bun, her face was serious but by no means harsh, and there was a gentility about her that Rosita thought she could manipulate.

  ‘I’m from out of town, you see, Miss Grainger. The lady I intended staying with, a dear friend of my mother, has been taken ill. In hospital she is and I’ve wasted a lot of time visiting her and giving comfort. Now I’ve left it rather late. Tomorrow there will be no problem. I have plenty of friends who will help, but tonight, I wonder, could you find me a room?’

  Miss Grainger was half annoyed and half amused by the girl’s impertinence but seeing the smile and the confident assurance on Rosita’s pretty face, she said quietly, so the other members of staff couldn’t hear, ‘A little short of money, are we, Miss Evans?’

  ‘Yes, but only until for now. Tomorrow I’ll contact my friends and it will be all right.’

  ‘If it’s for one night only, I will allow you to use my spare room. But please, don’t tell any of the staff – they will think it very odd.’

  They walked back to the house where Miss Grainger had lived with her mother until the old lady had died, and which, she told Rosita, now rattled around her like an over-large cage. She showed Rosita into a cosy bedroom the like of which she had never seen. Rugs on the floors, a thick eiderdown on the single bed and velvet curtains across the window that looked out on a view of the docks.

  Miss Grainger watched as Rosita unpacked her few belongings, taking in the carefully mended lisle stockings and the minimal amount of underwear, and offered kindly to lend her a nightdress, dressing gown and towel.

  ‘The rest is following on. I had to wait until I was sure of an address, you see,’ Rosita explained in her new, carefully modulated voice, accepting with some trepidation the cigarette Miss Grainger offered. It was foul and she thought her throat was on fire, but she determinedly tried to appear nonchalant and took a second and third puff but soon placed it on an ashtray, and there it stayed.

  ‘If there’s anything else you need, please ask,’ Miss Grainger offered. She stood for a long time wondering if she had been foolish to invite the unknown girl into her home. It was obvious she had run away from someone, but it wouldn’t hurt to give her a few days and see how things went. She could always tell her to leave if she caused any worries.

  Rosita was not allowed to approach the customers at first. She had to watch and learn from the other sales girls. She also had to spend time getting to know her stock. When a customer came in for a particular item, she had to have a clear and accurate picture in her mind of all they had to offer.

  In the showroom were rails of coats and suits, skirts and dresses. In special glass-fronted showcases on the sales floor there were some beautiful evening gowns displayed with glittering hairbands, evening bags and jewellery. In a corner there were delicate evening shoes, sheer silk stockings, fur stoles and wraps. One gown, Rosita was surprised to see, was in black velvet with a startlingly low front and, from the waist up, no back at all! Some of these special dresses cost fifteen guineas so the cases where they were displayed were kept locked and Miss Grainger had the keys.

  In the stockroom below the sales floor, an alteration hand sat at her sewing machine with dozens of cottons and assorted pins and needles, and took in and let out and shortened hems and let them down. There were other rails down there, covered with sheeting, and from these the displays were refilled after sales had been made. It was here, too, that purchases were wrapped.

  Rosita had to recognize each material, learn about the latest fashion and be able to discuss the rights and wrongs of dress for every occasion. At first she thought it would be boring but Miss Grainger was encouraging and helpful and her newest assistant soon became fascinated by the variety of both garments and the customers who came to buy. Miss Grainger noted approvingly how quickly she learned and how well she dealt with customers.

  The ‘stupid’ label still hovered around her though. She occasionally brought the wrong garment to the wrong customer and once handed the purchase to the wrong person. The incidents were covered each time by amused laughter but Rosita saw Miss Grainger watching and in her anxiety to please her, made other, less serious errors.

  The accommodation problem seemed in abeyance. Miss Grainger had surprised her on the second day after her arrival by saying, ‘If you wish, Caroline, you can stay a few more days, just until you find something more suitable.’

  ‘Thank you, that’s very kind,’ Rosita said in her new voice that went with her new self.

  ‘And,’ Miss Grainger added with a chuckle, ‘you can stop pretending to smoke!’

  A few days drifted on a
nd although Rosita had found a place where she could stay cheaply and which was not far from the shop, she waited until Miss Grainger told her she must leave. At the end of two weeks, she had handed all her small wages to her.

  ‘For my bed and board, Miss Grainger, and thank your for you kindness.’

  It was a tricky moment, an opportunity for Miss Grainger to remind her the few days were over, but instead, she handed back two of the seven shillings and said nothing.

  Rosita had a way with people that her mother would never have believed. Like Matron and several others if they had been brutally honest, her mother would have described her daughter as an ill-tempered, ungracious character. But in her role of junior sales assistant, she was patient and very polite.

  She was only allowed to approach those customers that were considered time wasters, just come to look and finger and dream of owning such beautiful clothes. And at lunchtime, when the staff was reduced, she was occasionally allowed to hone her skills. She encouraged those who came in to try on garments that appealed instead of just looking and sometimes flattered them into buying more than they intended. But Miss Grainger was curious, she knew something was wrong.

  ‘Caroline, dear, why didn’t you return the smile when Mrs Prichard-Jones came in just now?’ she asked, when that lady had turned away embarrassed at having her smile ignored.

  ‘I’m sorry, Miss Grainger, I didn’t see her.’

  ‘Well, just go and speak to her, will you? Just a polite good morning, mind. Don’t involve your betters in conversation, that won’t do,’ she reminded her.

  Miss Grainger watched in surprise as Rosita walked to a woman standing near the rail of winter coats before realizing her mistake and walking back again to the counter, where Mrs Prichard-Jones was looking at fur wraps. She frowned and wondered if the girl was perhaps a bit stupid, as the others believed. Such a pity if she were; she was pretty enough and the customers liked her.

  She began to watch Rosita more carefully and suddenly the reason for her apparent vagueness came to her. As they walked home together, the rest of the staff now knowing of the friendship between them, she pointed to a hoarding across the road.

  ‘Look, there’s a circus advertised. I love a circus. When does it say it’s coming?’

  Rosita ran across the road and read the notice. ‘It’s an old one, I’m afraid. It was here months ago.’

  ‘Why did you run all that way? You could have seen it from here.’

  ‘From here?’ Rosita laughed. ‘No one could read those small letters from here!’

  ‘Caroline, my dear, tomorrow you must see an optician. I think you are fearfully short-sighted.’

  Barbara had searched for her daughter without finding even a hint of where she might be. She even went to see Bernard’s mother, Mrs Stock, but without opening the door more than an inch, Mrs Stock said she knew nothing about her.

  By Easter 1935, Barbara faced the fact that the farm would have to be sold. Without Graham there was no possibility of her and the girls coping with all the work. Besides the heavy work, she didn’t have the knowledge. She braced herself to tell her daughters her decision. She dreaded their reaction but instead of tears and distress and begging and pleading for her not to take them away, they were jubilant.

  ‘Does it mean we’ll wear shoes all the time and not boots?’ Kate asked.

  ‘We’ll be able to go to dances and see films and shows!’ a delighted Hattie shouted.

  Barbara became caught up in their excitement and when a buyer was found, the three of them threw aside the years of drudgery with glee.

  They arrived in the town that had been Barbara’s home with all their belongings on the back of a cart and rented a terraced house. The size was laughable after the huge old farmhouse. ‘But,’ Barbara told the girls, ‘it’s only temporary, just while we get ourselves settled.’ The money from the sale of the farm and the animals was put into the bank and Barbara, Kate and Hattie looked for work.

  Kate was slim and willowy and rather like Barbara, with the same dreamy eyes and gentle manner. She found work in the local school, looking after nursery-age children, a job she quickly came to love.

  Hattie was overweight and followed her father in appearance. Her features, apart from the eyes, were large in the round, flat face. Her hands were wide and clumsy. She had no burning desire for any particular job. Her attitude to life was simple: she anticipated a short working life filled with fun and amorous adventures, before finding a husband and settling down in a home of her own. A factory offered a better wage than a shop or cleaning and she quickly found herself a niche with friends as determined as herself to have a good time.

  They saw the Careys and admired their new shop but Molly Carey didn’t tell Barbara that she knew where Rosita was, or that she now called herself Caroline Evans.

  ‘We haven’t seen hair nor hide of the girl,’ she lied, avoiding Barbara’s eyes.

  Barbara took the girls to the beach where Luke’s cottage stood silent and neglected. There was no sign of Luke, although his boat was still in its usual place. While the girls walked on the beach and explored the abandoned house, Barbara sat and stared across at Gull Island. She wondered what had happened to her daughter and felt somehow this was the place where she would one day find her. She wondered too about Luke, far away in France, and young Richard who had disappeared on the day his father had taken on the shop and from whom Mrs Carey had received only a few brief notes.

  A sea fret was gathering low over the water, moving out and gradually engulfing the rocky island. She shivered as it cut off the sun. Melancholy overwhelmed her as she felt the chill breeze creep over her skin and she called to Kate and Hattie. It was time to leave. The lonely beach represented the past and there was nothing to be gained by looking back. It was tomorrow where happiness lay, not here with the ghosts of yesterday’s woes.

  Instead of going straight back to the terraced house where they were settling into a comfortable existence, she went to the newspaper shop again.

  ‘You will tell me if you hear even the slightest hint of where I might find Rosita, won’t you?’ she asked Mrs Carey.

  ‘I’ll always want to do what’s best for you and Rosita, you can be sure of that.’ The ambiguity of the reply was lost on Barbara.

  ‘Best we tell Rosita that her mam and half-sisters are in town,’ Mrs Carey said to Henry later. Henry nodded vaguely, tickled the dog’s ear and went on enjoying the comic he was reading.

  Rosita was fitted with glasses and, putting them on for the first time, she was startled. Her familiar and fuzzy world was transformed. She walked home wearing them in a state of bewilderment. Everything was so bright and clear. She hadn’t realized how beautiful the familiar pigeons were, so many colours and such wonderful patterns on their feathers. Starlings, she saw in amazement, wore fragmented rainbows on their backs. People across the street had faces instead of a pale blur. She spotted people she knew from an amazing distance and they had features whereas before, she now realized, she only recognized them by their clothes or the way they walked.

  As euphoria faded, she began to go back over the difficulties of her miserable childhood. She discussed it with Miss Grainger and they realized that poor sight was the reason for much of her so-called stupidity. Copying vaguely-seen shapes from a blackboard was still a painful memory. She’d had no idea until now that there was more, much more to see than the blurred and indistinct images she could make out by screwing up her eyes and looking through the slits.

  She remembered going into a shop to buy some sweets her mother had pointed out and coming out of the shop with the wrong ones simply because she hadn’t been able to see the label far back in the window. Then there were the buses she had allowed to go past because she couldn’t read the destination board in time to raise her hand and stop them.

  She had several times waved at people she didn’t know, mistaking them for friends, and had been accused of ignoring those she did know and passing them in the street.
It hadn’t been stupidity, simply her poor sight. She almost screamed in her delight, but her new-found dignity forbade it.

  Far from making her unglamorous, the new acquisition became a beauty aid. She fingered the frames with elegant fingers, waving her hands about her face, bringing her large, luminous eyes to everyone’s attention. Many of the girls with whom she worked wished they too needed to wear them.

  By the time 1939 came, bringing fears of imminent war, Rosita was first sales and earning enough to put money away in a savings bank.

  Although she often visited the town where she had been born, she had never met her mother or, to her knowledge, either of her half-sisters; two dull girls obeying their father to please him, and looking at her with a smug smile when she had earned a slap. She doubted whether she would know them if they did meet. It had been so long they would be strangers. She knew they were back, as Auntie Molly Carey had told her. She thought about them occasionally, not without bitterness, and wondered if they would ever meet and, if they did, whether they would acknowledge each other.

  To Miss Grainger she told her story. It began when that good lady had discovered her need for glasses. The excitement of seeing clearly and the realization that her problems could have been explained so easily made her pour out the story in a gush of grateful emotion.

  She continued to stay with Miss Grainger; the difference in age was no barrier to their liking each other. They read books and discussed them, they saw plays and films and, best of all, it was because of Miss Grainger that she began to enjoy accounts.

  It was part of Miss Grainger’s job to keep the ledgers up to date and offer them annually for audit. Within two years, Rosita was sharing the work with her and in 1939, when Miss Grainger was taken ill, Rosita did them unaided and was congratulated by the auditors for the immaculate and efficient way she presented them.

  ‘You have an instinctive gift for figures, Miss Evans,’ one of them said. ‘Have you considered becoming trained for the work? Secretaries with accounting skills can earn a very acceptable salary these days, you know.’