The Throwaway Children

by Diney Costeloe

  A pair of grey overalls lay on her bed. Rita stared at them for a moment before opening her locker. Just like Daisy, all she found was a pair of knickers and her nightdress. All the clothes she’d been given on leaving Laurel House had disappeared. They had taken everything she had, including her rose-patterned dress, and she suddenly realized that if they saw Knitty, he would vanish as well. There was nowhere to hide him and she knew with a cold certainty that when Mrs Manton came to her, Knitty would be destroyed. ‘Oh, Knitty!’ she murmured. Nowhere seemed safe. Then she had an idea and hurried to the lavatories. She pulled the chain and as the toilet flushed, she stood on the seat, looking up to the rusty cistern above. It was old and had no top to it, and the water hissed softly as it began to refill. Standing on tip-toe, Rita reached up and tipped Knitty into the cistern.

  He’ll be very wet, Rita thought, and he’ll be difficult to get out again, but at least he’s safe for now. She clambered down from the seat and flushed the lavatory again… it still seemed to work… and she went back to the dorm.

  Sitting on her bed, awaiting her punishment, made her think of the Hawk and the punishments she’d dished out at Laurel House. Was she going to get the same again from Mrs Manton? she wondered. She hardly cared as she thought, despairingly, of Rosie being carried off, screaming, in the back of the car to… who knew where? Little Rosie, usually so sunny-tempered, who just wanted people to love her, now frightened and alone in a new place with new people… and no one to comfort her, not even her beloved Knitty. Rita knew now that she would never see Rosie again.

  ‘I did my best, Gran,’ she whispered to the empty room. ‘I did my best.’ And she sat on her bed, awaiting retribution for doing her best.

  The retribution was swift and cruel, but it wasn’t Mrs Manton who administered it; that she left to Mrs Garfield. While Rita had been waiting in the dormitory, the superintendent paid a visit to the house-mother. Mrs Manton disliked Mrs Garfield, she thought her a slut, and a toper, but she knew that she stood no nonsense, and could be relied upon to bring mutinous girls to heel.

  ‘Rita’s a rebellious girl,’ she said, as she sat in Mrs Garfield’s squalid sitting room. ‘I won’t have such disobedience. Please deal with her as you think fit. I leave the punishment up to you, but I will not tolerate a repeat of how she behaved today.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Mrs Manton, I’ll deal with her,’ replied Mrs Garfield. ‘I’d already marked her down as a trouble-maker, but I can assure you she won’t cause any more.’

  Rita didn’t have to sit in the dormitory for long. Within a few minutes she heard footsteps in the corridor, and she braced herself for whatever was to come. She was surprised it was Mrs Garfield who appeared, not Mrs Manton.

  ‘Ah, there you are, you wicked, selfish girl.’ Ma Gar’s eyes gleamed malevolently as she stood over the child sitting on the bed. ‘Trying to come between your sister and a lovely new home. Jealous, I suppose!’

  ‘No—’ began Rita, but Mrs Garfield cut her off.

  ‘Keep silence,’ she hissed. ‘You were told to come back here. Did you? No! You were not told to lie in wait outside the gates and cause trouble! Did you? Yes! Stand up!’

  Rita stood, her eyes downcast.

  ‘You’re an ungrateful, disobedient girl.’ The house-mother spoke softly and her icy voice slithered round Rita, making her shudder. ‘Mrs Manton has asked me to deal with you. She has no time to waste on disruptive girls like you. You’re going to learn that she will not be disobeyed or defied. And I am going to be the one to teach you.’ She paused, looking Rita up and down and waiting for some reaction. There was none. Rita, determined not to cry, stood rigid, her expression blank.

  ‘Get changed!’ snapped Mrs Garfield. ‘Put your overalls on.’ She stood, hands on hips, as Rita took off her white blouse and tartan pinafore, and put on the grey, weekend overalls.

  ‘Take off your shoes. From now on you only wear them for school and church.’

  Rita did as she was told, placing both shoes and her socks in her locker. She stood, barefoot, and waited.

  ‘Now, you can come with me.’ Ma Gar turned on her heel and led the way out of the dormitory and along the passage. When she stopped at the kitchen door, Rita felt a wave of relief flood through her. She was going to be given extra kitchen chores as a punishment. She could cope with that.

  Mrs Garfield opened the door and nodded to Rita to go in. There were two girls, whose names Rita didn’t yet know, working at the kitchen table, making sandwiches for the midday meal. They fell silent as Mrs Garfield took hold of Rita’s arm and marched her to the cellar door. Still maintaining a tight grip on Rita’s wrist, she pulled the door open and giving Rita a push, said, ‘Down there.’

  Rita had to grab at the door frame to stop herself from falling. ‘What do you want me to fetch?’ she asked, still thinking she was going to be given extra chores.

  ‘Fetch?’ Mrs Garfield gave a snort. ‘Nothing. You’ll stay down there until I say you can come out again.’

  Rita looked down the steps to the gloom of the cellar below, remembered the rats and with a rush of panic turned round to face her tormentor. Mrs Garfield took a menacing step towards her, and Rita took an involuntary step backwards onto the top stair. As she did so, the house-mother slammed the door shut in her face, and Rita heard the heavy bolt sliding home. For a moment she was gripped by a silent terror; panic rose inside her at being shut into this dank, dark place, alone with the rats, and then she began to scream, banging her fists on the solid door, but it remained shut.

  After a while Rita stopped hammering and sank down on the step, her fist crammed into her mouth. ‘I will not cry!’ she said through her teeth as she fought down the panic. ‘You will not make me cry!’

  She sat on the top step, eyes closed, hands balled into fists, rocking back and forth, drawing deep, slow breaths until, gradually, she grew calmer and her heart beat a little more slowly. How long she sat there she didn’t know, but after a while she opened her eyes and, as they grew accustomed to the gloom, she looked around her. She thought back to the previous day; there had been no electric light in the cellar, but there had been a window which allowed a little daylight to filter through.

  No point in sitting here, Rita told herself, that cow ain’t going to open the door for ages yet. Calling Mrs Garfield a cow, out loud, seemed to give her courage and she began to shout, ‘Cow! Cow! Cow!’

  Holding firmly to the handrail, she made her way down the steps to the cellar below. A blade of sunlight stabbed its way through the dirty window, a pale shaft of yellow, dancing with dust motes, bringing an illusion of warmth into the chilly air. Rita made her way carefully round the cellar. Among the pile of old furniture she found a wooden stool and, dragging it over to the window, she clambered onto it and peered out through the filthy glass. The garden beyond was flooded with sunlight, bathing the rows of vegetables in bright spring light. Because the window was at ground level, Rita could see nothing more of the garden, but she could hear voices, and occasionally she saw the bare feet of the girls working outside. She tapped on the glass, but got no response; either they didn’t hear her, or they knew better than to react.

  She was hungry, but as far as she could see there was nothing she could eat: all the vegetables stored here needed to be cooked. Despite the shaft of sunlight, the cellar was chilly, and dressed only in her cotton overalls, Rita was soon shivering with cold. She could hardly feel her bare feet, and she sat on the stool rubbing them to try to warm them up. It helped a bit. She stood up again and began to swing her arms as she’d seen tram drivers do in the winter in Belcaster. This did warm her a little, but as soon as she stopped, the chilly air slipped round her again.

  Shivering, Rita made a more careful exploration of the cellar and its contents, and found that one of the barrels contained apples, all wrapped in newspaper. She pulled one out and looked at it. It was big and green, tinged with red. She rubbed it on her overalls, took a bite and immediately spat it out again. C
ooking apple, she thought, like the ones Gran used to make into apple pie. She threw the apple away in disgust and turned her attention to the jars on the shelf along the wall. They contained preserves of some sort, but when she lifted one down, she found that the lid was so tight that she couldn’t open it. She tried each jar in turn, but it was no good.

  As the day wore on, Rita got colder and colder. She was hungry and thirsty, and she couldn’t feel her feet at all. She tried jumping up and down to get warm, but it was tiring and she couldn’t keep it up. She climbed back onto the stool and peered out of the window again. No one was working outside now, no feet passed by, she heard no more voices.

  Rita lost track of time, and as darkness began to fall beyond the window, she turned her back on the garden. Among the oddments of furniture was an old table, and underneath it she discovered a piece of carpet, rolled up and secured with string. It was heavy, but she managed to pull it out and stared down at it.

  If I can undo that, Rita thought, perhaps I can roll myself up inside to keep warm. With great patience, she managed to ease the string off and the carpet flopped open. It wasn’t as big as she’d thought, little more than a hearth rug, but at least she could spread it on the filthy flagstones of the cellar floor.

  She needed to go to the lav, but there was nowhere to go. She tried not to think about it, but as the minutes passed, she became more and more uncomfortable. She couldn’t remember when she’d last been. Not for ages, and there was nowhere to go. She made another tour of the cellar, but there was nothing she could use as a chamber pot. In the end, in sheer desperation, she crept into a corner, pulled down her knickers and crouched against the wall. Another fear grasped her. What would Mrs Garfield do to her when she discovered that Rita had been excused all over the floor? She could smell the sharp tang of the urine. Surely Ma Gar would smell it too, when she came down, and know what Rita had done.

  She returned to the carpet, pulling it as far as possible from the damp patch she’d made. At least she hadn’t needed to do number twos, she thought. That would have been even worse. Wee would dry up, number twos would be there in the morning, for all to see.

  As night closed on the garden outside, Rita finally drifted off into an uneasy doze. Not really asleep, she could hear a rustling in the rubbish. There was a definite scuffling in the corner where she’d thrown the apple, and something fell over with a crash. Rita sat up with a start. The darkness around her was complete; only the faintest outline of the window showed in the unbroken blackness around her, but she knew now, for certain, that there was something else in the cellar with her. Knew it was a rat.

  She grabbed the nearest thing, another apple from the barrel, and hurled it in the direction of the scuffling. There was more scratching and a squeak. Rats!

  The rats added another layer to the fear that wrapped her far more closely than the cold air. With her eyes stretched wide, trying to pierce the darkness, she sat on the stool, her feet held clear of the floor, and waited. While there were still scufflings and scratchings, nothing would induce Rita to lie back down on the carpet. S’pose the rats bit her, started to eat her! They were probably big as cats. She’d heard Gran say once that she’d seen some rats on a bombsite that were as big as cats. Rita had been frightened by the idea at the time, but the fear that consumed her now was an entirely different emotion. She sat perched on the stool, her legs drawn up underneath her, her arms wrapped round them, so that no part of her touched the floor.

  When the dawn’s early light finally began to filter through the window, Rita was faint with hunger and cold, and her throat was parched and dry. She drifted between sleeping and waking, but every time she nodded off, she began to slip and jerked awake again. At last unable to sit there any longer, she gave in and returned to the carpet. The scuffling had stopped, and the cellar was silent. Had the rats gone? She tried to put them out of her mind. She lay down on her side, and despite the cold and feeling faint from hunger and thirst, she finally fell asleep, only to be troubled by the most terrible dreams.

  She dreamed she was running, she had no idea where, but she knew she had to run. Rosie. She was looking for Rosie. There were rats all over the path in front of her, so many of them there was nowhere to put her bare feet, but even so she had to keep running. In her dream she was freezing cold, but even so Mrs Garfield was shouting at her, telling her to take her clothes off. She was chasing the car that was taking Rosie away, and the road was covered in broken glass. She was calling to Rosie, but Rosie didn’t seem able to hear her, she simply sat in the back of the car clutching a dripping wet Knitty. Rita was screaming at Rosie not to go, and Mrs Manton, looking more like a witch than ever, was waving a stick and threatening to beat her if she didn’t stop screaming.

  It was Rita’s own screams that woke her up, and she lay on the carpet for a moment, bathed in a cold sweat, not knowing where she was, or what she was doing. Then it all came back to her, the fear, the cold, the hunger, the thirst, flooding through her and making her shake uncontrollably. The light filtering through the window had become stronger, lighting her prison with chilly, grey light. It was morning, but still nobody came.

  Daisy woke early. She was cold. She pulled the thin blanket closer round her, but it added little warmth. She turned over, curling up into a ball, and as she was pulling the blanket up over her head she caught sight of Rita’s bed, empty and unslept-in. It was a moment before she remembered that Rita had disappeared yesterday, Daisy hadn’t seen her since breakfast. When she’d asked Audrey, she’d shrugged and said she was probably in trouble with Mrs Garfield.

  ‘She’ll be back later,’ Audrey said, ‘you’ll see.’

  ‘But where is she?’ insisted Daisy.

  ‘Better not to ask,’ chipped in Carol.

  The rest of the day Daisy had been set to work outside. Mr Manton had girls from each cottage clearing out the hen houses, fetching water in buckets to water the vegetable gardens, and one team clearing a new patch of ground to be dug over and planted with beans. It had been hard work and Daisy had little time to think about Rita, but when they all sat down to tea in Oak’s living room, there was still no sign of her.

  ‘Have you seen my friend, Rita?’ she whispered to the girl next to her.

  The girl, whose name was Janet, laid a finger on her lips and whispered back, ‘Tell you after.’

  Two girls brought in a dish of macaroni cheese, but there was no sign of Mrs Garfield. Agnes, the senior girl in the cottage, said grace and they started to eat. As the meal progressed the girls relaxed and began to whisper quietly to each other. Gradually the volume of their talk rose, until there was a general buzz of conversation. Suddenly the door at the end of the room burst open and Mrs Garfield appeared, swaying unsteadily on her feet, clutching the door jamb for support.

  ‘And what is this noise?’ she demanded. The chatter ceased abruptly and she went on, her words slightly slurred. ‘Just because I have a shlight headache and am unable to take thish meal with you, there is no excush for thish dreadful noise. You will keep shilence from now onwards, and if…’ She paused as if she’d lost the thread of what she’d been saying. ‘…and if… and if… and if you don’t, you’ll all be in trouble tomorrow.’ Still holding the door frame for support, she turned unsteadily and left the room.

  The girls remained silent for a long moment, and then Janet muttered, ‘Well, she can’t lock us all up in the cellar.’

  ‘Is that what she’s done with Reet?’ asked Daisy, wide-eyed. ‘Locked her in the cellar?’

  Janet nodded. ‘She’s done it before as a punishment, but she’ll let her out later.’

  ‘Shut up, you two,’ hissed Agnes. She was sitting on the other side of Janet, and when they’d started to talk again she looked anxiously at the door.

  Janet and Daisy shut up, but Janet nodded towards the door and mouthed the word ‘after’.

  The meal was soon over, and Daisy found herself on washing-up duty. Janet came into the kitchen too, and as they did
the dishes Janet told Daisy what had happened.

  ‘I was doing sandwiches with Agnes,’ she said, ‘ready to bring them out to you lot, when Garsley came into the kitchen.’

  ‘Garsley?’

  ‘Mrs Garfield. Anyhow, she came into the kitchen with Rita, and she locked her in the cellar.’

  ‘Locked her in?’ echoed Daisy. ‘How did she… I mean, what did she do?’

  ‘She opened the cellar door and just shoved her inside,’ replied Janet. ‘Told us if we opened the door or even went near it, we’d be put in there too. She meant it, and Agnes was terrified, ’cos she’d done it to her before and left her there for hours.’

  ‘Poor Reet.’ Daisy was horrified. ‘What did she do?’

  ‘She banged on the door for a bit, and then it went quiet.’

  ‘No, I mean what did she do, that she was put in the cellar?’

  Janet shrugged. ‘Dunno. Something to do with her sister, I think.’

  ‘Rosie? What about her?’

  ‘Dunno,’ said Janet again, ‘but Edna over in Larch said that the sister ain’t there no more. She was in the parade, weren’t she, so perhaps she was took.’

  ‘Rosie was? Poor Reet! Wonder what she did… or said.’

  Janet glanced at the cellar door which was still bolted. ‘I don’t know, but she’s still in there, ain’t she? I mean the door’s still bolted. Old Garsley’ll be back to let her out soon. I’m off before she does.’

  Daisy hesitated, looking at the bolted door. Rita was locked in. Should I just open the door a fraction? she wondered. Call to her, see if she’s all right?

  Janet seemed to read her thoughts. She grabbed her by the arm and pulled her towards the door, saying, ‘Don’t you dare, Daisy. Come on, she’ll be let out in a while, you’ll see. It’ll be the worst for the both of you if Garsley knew you’d opened that door, honest.’ She tugged on her arm again. ‘Come on.’

  Daisy still hesitated, and Janet let go of her. ‘Suit yourself,’ she said, ‘but I’m not stopping here.’ With one final, backwards glance at the bolted cellar, Daisy followed her from the kitchen.