That day came sooner than she’d dare hope. Three days after she’d found the letter, the Hawk called her into her office and said, ‘There’s post to go today, Betty.’ She handed Betty a package, wrapped in brown paper. ‘I want you to post this parcel, and Miss Vanstone has letters to go as well. Collect them from her office.’ She pulled out her purse, and peered into it, then she extracted a ten shilling note and handed it to Betty. ‘I’ve no change,’ she said crossly, as if it was Betty’s fault. ‘You’ll have to take this. Now, mind you bring me a receipt for the parcel, and make sure I have the right change.’
‘Yes, Mrs Hawkins,’ replied Betty dutifully. ‘Matron needs me to sort the laundry upstairs. Will it be all right if I go to the post when I’ve done that?’
‘Just as long as you catch today’s post with that.’ The Hawk nodded at the parcel. ‘It’s for my niece’s birthday.’
‘Of course I will,’ promised Betty. ‘I’ll just leave it on the hall table for now and pick it up as I go.’ The ten shilling note she folded and slipped into her pocket, where it seemed to generate a warmth of its own.
This is my chance, Betty thought. I’ve an extra ten bob in my pocket. Today’s the day.
She felt suddenly hollow inside. Could she really do this? She clenched her hands into determined fists. Today was the day. It had to be. If she didn’t leave today, then she’d never leave. She’d be stuck in this God-awful Laurel House for the rest of her life. This last thought brought her out in a cold sweat, and the decision was made.
Betty went to the office. ‘Excuse me, Miss Vanstone, but Mrs Hawkins said you had some letters for me to post.’
‘Ah, Betty, yes.’ Miss Vanstone looked up from what she was writing. ‘I should have them finished in about half an hour. I’ll leave them in the hall box when I go. Please make sure they catch today’s post.’ She opened her desk drawer and reached inside, handing Betty a florin. ‘That should cover the postage,’ she said, adding, ‘you may keep the change, Betty, it’ll only be a few pence.’
It was the chance Betty had been waiting for and she scurried up to her room to get ready. Having wedged the chair against the door once more, she retrieved her hoard from under the floor and laid it out on the bed. She took her Sunday frock from the hook on the back of the door and her change of underwear, comb and toothbrush from the locker by her bed. All she had in the world. With a quick glance round the room, she stuffed everything into the cloth bag and then tied it round her waist under her black stuff skirt. It made a peculiar bulge, so she retied it so that the bag hung down behind her knees. It made her walk with a strange waddle, but it was concealed, and she only had to get through the kitchen and hide it in the yard ready to pick up later.
With a final look at her bleak little attic, she closed the door. Never again would she go into that room.
When she reached the kitchen, Ole Smithy was standing, red-faced, at the stove.
‘There you are, Betty!’ she cried. ‘Where’ve you been? I need you to take over here,’ and without further explanation she handed Betty the huge wooden spoon she’d been using to stir a vat of custard, and disappeared. Betty gave the custard a hefty swirl and darted out of the door into the yard. She stashed her bag behind the dustbins and was back at her post, dutifully stirring the custard when Ole Smithy returned.
‘Now, my girl,’ she said, ‘you keep on with that, and mind you don’t let it burn. What were you doing upstairs, anyway?’
‘Just went up to be excused,’ replied Betty, trotting out the answer which had to be accepted.
‘Well, don’t disappear again, do you hear?’
Betty ducked her head submissively. ‘No, Mrs Smith.’
As soon as lunch was over and the girls were set to their chores once more, Betty went into the hall and collected the letters from the box. She was about to go back through the kitchen, when a thought struck her. Perhaps Miss Vanstone had already gone. Betty hurried along the passage and knocked on the office door. There was no answer. Betty knocked again just to be sure, and then eased the door open.
The room was empty. Betty went inside, closing the door quickly behind her. Then, she crossed to the oak desk. She pulled open the unlocked drawers, but as usual, there was nothing of value, so she turned her attention to the central drawer. It was locked. Betty pulled hard at the handle, but although it moved a little, it didn’t give. Frustrated, Betty rattled it hard, pulling and jerking in an effort to break the recalcitrant lock. She was about to give up, when she caught sight of the little metal paperknife lying on the desktop. She snatched it up and with all her strength, jammed its point in beside the lock, twisting it hard against the wood. Something seemed to give a little and she did the same again. At the third attack, the lock gave way and the drawer was open.
It was the work of a moment for Betty to empty the petty cash tin and grab the stamps, but just as she was about to shut the drawer again, she saw a small black address book and remembered the letter. She snatched it up and stuffed it into her pocket with the money. Then, pushing the drawer closed, she pocketed the paperknife and went to the door.
Now was the dangerous part. She opened the door an inch and listened. Silence in the corridor outside, and so, clutching the letters in her hand, she slipped out into the passage and hurried towards the kitchen.
‘Betty!’ The Hawk’s harsh tone brought her up sharp. ‘What are you doing there?’
‘Just going to the post, Mrs Hawkins,’ murmured Betty, the colour flooding her cheeks. She held up the letters.
‘In that corridor?’ The Hawk’s voice was laden with disbelief.
‘I just went to see if Miss Vanstone had any more letters before I went,’ answered Betty, falling back on her prepared excuse, ‘but she’s not there.’
‘No, she’s gone home.’ The Hawk raised an eyebrow at her. ‘You haven’t forgotten my parcel, I trust.’
‘No, Mrs Hawkins,’ she lied. ‘I was just going to collect it.’
‘I’ve several jobs for you,’ the Hawk told her. ‘Make sure you come up to the flat as soon as you get back.’
For the last time, Betty Grover ducked her head and replied, ‘Yes, Mrs Hawkins.’ She fetched the parcel from the hall-stand and went through to the kitchen, gathering up her coat and slinging it carelessly over her arm. In the yard, she collected her bag and concealing it beneath her coat, walked out through the back gate. In the road outside she turned in the direction of the post office, aware that the Hawk might be watching from a window. She walked quickly, heading for the nearest bus stop. A bus pulled up beside her and she got on. She had no idea where it was going, and she didn’t care. She simply needed to be far away from Laurel House before they realized that she’d broken into Miss Vanstone’s desk and wasn’t coming back. And by then, thought Betty, I’ll have disappeared, swallowed up by the world. Swallowed up by the world. She liked that idea and for the first time in days, Betty Grover smiled.
Betty looked out of the bus window. No one knew she was escaping, and no one cared. She wondered what the Hawk would do when she realized that Betty wasn’t coming back. Would she care? Or would she simply shrug and say, good riddance to bad rubbish?
The Hawk’ll be furious, thought Betty, ’cos I’ve had the courage to walk out, and I’ve taken her ten bob with me!
The bus stopped at the railway station and Betty jumped off and went to the ladies’ public convenience. Ten minutes later, she emerged with combed hair, wearing her Sunday frock. She’d been about to throw away the hated black uniform, but remembering she had little else, she reluctantly stuffed it into the bottom of her bag. With her coat over her shoulders and her bag on her arm, Betty walked to the ticket office and bought a third class ticket to London. One way. She was never coming back to Belcaster.
She’d counted her money and with the ten shillings the Hawk had given her, the florin from Miss Vanstone, and the money from the office desk as well as her savings, she now had almost four pounds.
If I’m car
eful, she thought, I can make that last until I find some work.
Sitting in a compartment by herself, Betty opened the Hawk’s parcel. Inside was a small brown teddy bear. He lay in tissue paper, and looked up at Betty with bright boot-button eyes. Betty lifted him out and pressed his soft furry face against her own. She had planned to sell whatever was in the package, but now she changed her mind.
‘You’d better come with me, Tedda,’ she told the bear, ‘you’re my lucky mascot,’ and she tucked him carefully into the top of her bag.
She opened each of the letters in case there was money enclosed, but there wasn’t, and she tore them up and watched as the fragments were whipped away in the turbulence of the train’s slipstream. Then she sat back and considered her future.
‘Whatever it is, Tedda,’ she said to the bear who regarded her solemnly from the top of her bag, ‘it has to be better than Laurel House.’
It was a week later, in London, that she wrote the Carrabunna address, found in Miss Vanstone’s address book, on the letter to Rita and Rosie Stevens and using all the stamps she’d taken from the desk, dropped the letter into a pillar box.
19
The Pride of Empire steamed into Sydney Harbour, on a chilly September dawn, giving a blast on her foghorn as she approached the great bridge.
‘Cor! Look at that!’ breathed Rita, staring up in amazement at the incredible steel structure arching across the harbour mouth.
‘This ship’s too big,’ cried Daisy as they drew nearer. ‘Our funnel ain’t gonna fit under there!’
‘Course it is,’ scoffed Sheila who was standing with them, ‘ships like this come in here all the time, stupid!’
‘It’s very high,’ whispered Rosie, clutching her sister’s hand. ‘Will it fall down?’
‘Don’t be silly, Rosie,’ muttered Rita. ‘Course it won’t.’ But, as they steamed slowly beneath it, they could hear the thunder of a train passing over their heads, the steady rumble of its wheels seeming so close that they were all glad when the ship was through and making her way up the inner harbour towards Pyrmont, where they would finally disembark.
They, along with all the other migrants left on the ship, were standing on the main deck, crowding the rails to gaze in wonder at the huge bridge and the city around it; the town stretching away to their left, with strange buildings clinging, higgledy-piggledy, to a rocky headland. Wharves, jutting out into the water with boats tied up alongside, were topped with warehouses, some of which seemed derelict. There were boats everywhere, ferries hurrying fussily across the water to pick up and deposit passengers all around the harbour, other small, private craft that chugged about on business of their owners, and boats under sail, skimming across the bay, seemingly unaware of the vast liner passing under the bridge.
The Pride of Empire continued her stately progress up the harbour. All round the deck there was a buzz of excited conversation, a babble of languages from the melting pot of migrants aboard, as with a mixture of fear, hope, excitement, expectation and resignation, they gazed at the city, spreading amorphously away on either side of them. Their long voyage was finally coming to an end and they were about to be expelled from the safe haven of the ship into this strange, unknown city at the end of the world. The six-week journey, a curious interlude between their past lives in war-scarred Europe and their uncertain, future lives in Australia, was at an end.
The ship finally docked at Pyrmont. With much noise and shouting she came alongside the wharf and was made fast. When they at last disembarked, streaming down the gangplanks onto the quay and into the customs sheds, the crowd of immigrants fell into untidy lines, their meagre luggage at their feet, the buzz of their conversation muted by anxiety.
The Miss Dauntseys had gathered their charges together the evening before, speaking to each group in turn, giving them instructions on what to do when they disembarked.
‘All your luggage must be packed and ready this evening,’ Miss Dauntsey told the EVER-Care children. ‘We arrive early in the morning, and have to get off the ship straight away. Make sure you leave nothing behind or you’ll lose it.’
‘You’re to wear your best clothes,’ Miss Ellen added. ‘We don’t want Mrs Manton to think we’ve brought her a lot of scruffs.’
‘Sheila, you’re in charge of your group,’ went on Miss Dauntsey. ‘Make sure everyone stays together. I’ll be handing you over to Mrs Manton once all the formalities have been dealt with.’
‘What’s “formalities”?’ murmured Daisy.
‘Showing passports and telling them what you’ve got in your suitcases,’ Miss Ellen explained. ‘Don’t worry, it won’t take long.’
She was wrong. It took ages. Once ashore the children were separated into their original groups. The Laurel House group was the smallest, and as they stood together waiting for someone to come and collect them, they saw the other, larger groups of children shepherded away. Miss Ellen and Miss Dauntsey waited with them, looking anxiously about. Until they had handed over their charges they couldn’t leave the port themselves. Various groups of children were called, and either Miss Dauntsey or Miss Ellen came forward with the necessary papers, escorting each group out to where they were to be collected, passing on their guardianship.
The Laurel House girls shuffled their feet, sat on their cases, moaned and grumbled. Rita looked round the enormous shed at the stream of people who had disembarked from the Pride, pushing and shouting and gesticulating. All these people, she thought. All these people coming to live here… because they want to. I don’t want to.
‘How much longer?’ whined Susan Hart.
‘I’m hungry,’ wailed Rosie.
‘So am I!’ said Daisy.
They were all hungry. The excitement of their passage into the shelter of Sydney Harbour had kept the children on deck. None of them had gone below for their breakfast. Six weeks earlier, none of them would have missed the chance of a meal for any reason; but with six weeks of regular and satisfying meals, the fear of hunger had faded.
‘You should have gone to breakfast when you had the chance,’ remarked Miss Ellen, overhearing as she returned from handing over another group. ‘Never mind, Rosie, I expect Mrs Manton has made arrangements to feed you very soon.’
Paul had been part of the previous group, and as they’d stood waiting to be called forward, Rita had asked him where he was going.
‘Place called Molong,’ he replied. ‘Looks all right. It’s a farm.’
They’d said goodbye, and as he turned to rejoin the rest of the Molong group, he said, ‘Keep writing your stories, Reet. They’re quite good.’
‘And you,’ replied Rita, giving him a half wave as he followed the others out of the shed. He didn’t look back.
Rita watched him disappear, sad to see him go. Over the final few weeks, they’d become friends. While the other children continued to race round the ship, playing hide and seek, and deck tennis, running races and inventing new games to amuse themselves, Paul and Rita had spent many hours curled up in the library, reading, writing and sharing their thoughts. Watching him walk away into the new world which was Australia, Rita felt bereft, and fighting the tears that threatened her, she turned back to find Rosie. Rosie was still her responsibility, and it was with a rush of affection that she saw her sister sitting on her suitcase, kicking her heels against its cardboard sides.
‘You all right, Rosie?’
‘Yeah,’ replied Rosie, surprised. ‘Aren’t you?’
‘Me? Course I am.’
Eventually they were allowed to straggle out of the customs shed to a concrete yard beyond where a formidable-looking woman sat on a bench: Mrs Manton, Superintendent of Laurel Farm, Carrabunna, waiting to collect her new charges.
The woman stood up as they approached. She was tall and thin, her greying hair scraped back into an untidy bun under a small black hat. Her face wrinkled, her mouth downturned with permanent discontent, she peered at the children from small, mistrustful eyes. Dressed in a long black ov
ercoat which almost reached her spindly, black-stockinged ankles, she wore black gloves and carried a capacious, black handbag.
‘She looks like a witch,’ muttered Daisy. ‘Or a spider. She’s going to be worse than the Hawk.’
‘May be OK,’ Rita murmured in reply.
‘Huh!’ Daisy looked her new guardian up and down. ‘Don’t you believe it, Reet.’
The little group came to a halt in front of her, all of them realizing as they saw the expression on her sallow face that their ‘holiday’ had indeed come to an end.
‘Here you are at last,’ said the woman by way of greeting. ‘I was beginning to think you were never coming through.’
‘Mrs Manton? I’m so sorry, but they dealt with the larger groups first,’ explained Miss Ellen. ‘I’m afraid your girls were last.’ She turned to the silent group at her heels and said brightly, ‘Well, girls, here’s Mrs Manton. She’s going to look after you from now.’
No one moved. Rita stared at Miss Ellen, suddenly realizing how important she’d become during the journey. She had shown her charges a kindness which was new to most of them. She and her sister had read to them, played with them, talked to them; something few adults had done before. Of all the children in their small group, only Rita and Rosie remembered being with loving adults, and those memories were fast fading. Looking at Miss Ellen now, Rita wanted to clutch hold of her and beg her not to leave them, but she knew with bleak certainty that there was nothing Miss Ellen could do.
The Throwaway Children Page 22
