The Throwaway Children

by Diney Costeloe

  A tiny part of Lily had hoped that if she persevered long enough, she’d discover where her girls were; that one day she would find them and bring them home. That hope was now extinguished. Laurel House had gone, the children were dispersed and their records were ash.

  ‘Well, Ricky my boy,’ she whispered to the baby on her lap, ‘it’s just you and me now. You’re all I have left of Mavis, but I won’t forget your sisters.’ She glanced up at the photo of the two girls in their rose-patterned frocks, beaming down at her from the mantelpiece. ‘We’ll remember them together, you and me.’

  Lily was not the only one to read both the Chronicle and the Drum that day. Miss Drake had left both the papers on her employer’s desk before going to lunch. Emily came in soon afterwards and finding the newspapers laid out waiting for her, she picked them up, and took them over to the sofa to read in peace. The headline shrieked at her from the front page of the Chronicle, but it wasn’t the Chronicle to which she turned first; it was the Drum.

  INSIDE JOB!

  Inside Job! Inside Job! How dare they! As Emily read the article she felt the rage boiling up inside her. How dare that rag imply that Laurel House had been burned down for insurance purposes? And Edward… Edward had carried out his threat to distance himself from EVER-Care, and had announced as much to the papers, to the Daily Drum.

  You can bet your life Miss Vanstone wasn’t available for comment, Emily thought furiously, as she thrust the paper from her. She has nothing to say to gutter press like the Drum, except ‘see you in court!’ Surely this must constitute libel, she thought, surely they can’t suggest such a defamatory thing without a shred of evidence to back it up. I must ring Martin at once.

  As she reached for the phone, the familiar dizziness overcame her. A fierce pain lanced through her head and she staggered backwards, the offending papers cascading from her hand as she collapsed in a heap on the floor.

  34

  Daphne Manton opened the letter from England with a sigh. Surface mail and dated six weeks earlier, it was another epistle from Emily. She skimmed through the opening paragraph, and then, unable to believe what she’d read, read it again.

  Dear Daphne,

  How could you have let this happen? Rita Stevens has written home to her grandmother. Not only that, but it must have been with your permission as there was a fair amount of censorship within the letter. What on earth were you thinking to allow such a thing? The repercussions here have been grave. The grandmother is accusing me of kidnapping her granddaughters. The press were there when she came to my office, but luckily they didn’t latch on to what she was saying.

  You know my most important rule is that once we have a girl in our care, that girl is to have absolutely [the word absolutely was heavily underscored] no further contact with her family. I was about to deal with the situation, once and for all, when the matter was taken out of my hands. God moves in mysterious ways, and before I could take any action, the child’s grandmother had a stroke, from which she did not recover. She was struck down in her home, but pronounced dead on arrival at the hospital. This is of course very sad (and I know I can rely on you to break it gently to the child), but at least it means there will be no further problems from that quarter. However, I’m sure I don’t have to remind you that the letter occasioning all this trouble should never have been sent and I wish you to ensure that there are no further letters.

  Daphne stared at the letter. How had Rita written home? Who had given her the paper, the stamps? And who had censored her letter before it was sent? Only one possible person, Daphne thought in fury, that interfering Watson woman. Well, she’d interfered for the last time. This time she’d have to go.

  ‘So, what’re you going to do about it?’ Joe said when she showed him the letter.

  ‘I’m going to sack her,’ replied Daphne. ‘We can’t have the house-mothers going behind our backs like that.’

  ‘And who will you get to replace her?’ asked Joe mildly. ‘You haven’t replaced that Garfield woman yet. You can’t afford to be without another house-mother.’

  Daphne glared at him, knowing he was right. Joe looked up from his paper and added, ‘And what about the child? What about Rita? You have to tell the poor kid that her grandmother is dead.’

  ‘Delia Watson can do that,’ retorted Daphne, ‘that’s her job as her house-mother.’

  ‘So you aren’t going to sack her?’ ventured Joe.

  ‘Haven’t decided yet,’ replied his wife, sighing, ‘But you’re probably right, I can’t afford to get rid of her just now, it being school holidays and all.’

  The long summer holidays were always difficult at Laurel Farm. There was work to be done, but there were times when the girls had little to do and the house-mothers took it in turns to arrange some sort of activity. Mrs Watson often took them for a picnic by the nearby lake. Dusty grass ran down to a small stony strand and there was plenty of room to spread out. Under her supervision, they were allowed to bathe. The little beach shelved gently, and even those who couldn’t swim paddled in the cold water. Mrs Watson’s ‘day’ was always looked forward to by everyone.

  No, Daphne Manton decided reluctantly, she couldn’t afford to let Delia Watson go, but she would certainly reprimand her.

  That afternoon, while the girls were playing hide and seek, vaguely supervised by Mrs Yardley, Mrs Manton sent Irene to find Mrs Watson, and waited for her in her office to indicate that this was an official meeting.

  The house-mother came in wearing a blue cotton frock, looking cool and comfortable, and strangely younger than usual.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Manton,’ she said with a smile. ‘You wanted to see me?’

  ‘Ah, Mrs Watson,’ Daphne Manton did not return the smile, but looked at her over the rim of her spectacles, ‘I have just received this letter from Miss Vanstone.’ She passed over the letter. ‘I wondered what you had to say about it!’

  Delia Watson took the letter and read it with a sinking heart. She and Rita had been found out and it sounded as if there’d be hell to pay, but as she reached the closing paragraph and read of the death of Rita’s grandmother, her dismay was replaced by a profound sadness. Poor Rita! As if the child hadn’t had enough to put up with.

  Still holding the letter she raised her eyes and said, ‘The poor child! How very sad. You’d like me to break it to her, would you?’

  ‘I would, yes,’ agreed Mrs Manton, ‘but that is not why I sent for you. I sent for you because I am extremely angry that you allowed one of our girls to write home to England. How dare you go behind our backs like that?’ As her voice rose in righteous indignation, two spots of colour appeared on her cheeks, mottling her skin.

  As if she’s applied too much rouge, thought Delia, and the irrelevance of the thought made her smile.

  ‘I can assure you, Mrs Watson,’ spluttered Mrs Manton when she saw the smile, ‘that this is no laughing matter. The letter, which you must have posted, has caused a great deal of inconvenience to Miss Vanstone. The lady who pays your wages!’ This last was spoken slowly, as if punctuated between each word. ‘So, what have you got to say for yourself, eh?’

  ‘Firstly,’ Mrs Watson said, apparently unintimidated by the other woman’s anger, ‘the letter was sent in reply to one Rita received from her grandmother, in which that lady actually stated that Miss Vanstone had agreed to forward a letter from her to Rita and Rosie. It was addressed to them here at Laurel Farm and so I assumed, apparently erroneously, that it had been sent by Miss Vanstone. I passed the letter on to Rita and she wanted to write back. I saw no harm in it, as her letter had been sanctioned by Miss Vanstone herself. You can see from this,’ Mrs Watson waved Miss Vanstone’s letter in the air, ‘that I took the trouble to censor the letter before I sent it, so that there was little in it to cause alarm.’

  ‘You took a great deal upon yourself, I must say,’ snapped Mrs Manton. ‘Who, may I ask, is the supervisor of this place?’

  ‘You, of course,’ agreed Mrs Watson m
ildly. There was nothing to be gained, and much to be lost, by antagonizing Mrs Manton further. ‘But I am the child’s house-mother, responsible for her day to day care. It isn’t for me to come running to you with every little query about individual children. You have the responsibility for the whole farm, you have no time for trivialities such as this.’

  ‘I don’t consider this a triviality,’ retorted Mrs Manton, ‘and nor does Miss Vanstone.’

  ‘So I see, and I’m sorry if what I did was wrong, but,’ Mrs Watson extended the letter in her hand, ‘it would seem that, as Miss Vanstone says, things have been decided for us, and the poor child has lost her grandmother.’ She smiled sadly. ‘To me that is the most important thing about this letter, the sad news it brings Rita.’

  ‘Well,’ said Mrs Manton, ‘it seems you had reason to think that Miss Vanstone had sanctioned the letter from England, so, anyway, all’s well that ends well.’

  All’s well that ends well! Delia Watson wanted to shriek. All’s well for who, you unfeeling bitch. Not for poor little Rita Stevens, and not her grandmother either, dead on arrival at the hospital. God moves in mysterious ways, indeed! If that’s how God works, she thought furiously, then I’m glad I no longer believe in Him!

  ‘And you’ll break the news to Rita, will you?’

  Forcing her voice to remain calm, Mrs Watson said that she would and that she would choose a suitable time at which to do so.

  ‘Fine,’ said Mrs Manton briskly, ‘I’ll leave it to you then.’

  Back at Larch Cottage, Delia Watson went to her own quarters, pacing the room until her rage had subsided a little. Then she went to the window and looked out into the garden, where the desultory game of hide and seek was coming to an end. The girls would be coming back to the cottage for their tea before very long. The two on duty today to prepare the evening meal were Rita and Daisy.

  ‘Hurry up, or we’ll be late,’ Daisy was saying as they came in, ‘and the Watchdog’ll be after us.’

  Mrs Watson smiled. She was quite proud of her nickname, the Watchdog. She did watch over them, she watched over them all, and just wished there was more she could do to make their lives happier, but she was confined by the strict EVER-Care rules as much as they. And now she had to find a way to tell Rita that her grandmother was dead.

  ‘Whose day is it tomorrow?’ asked Daisy as they spread marge on slices of bread.

  ‘Can’t remember,’ said Rita. ‘Hope it’s not Old Dawes.’

  ‘So do I,’ agreed Daisy fervently, ‘her days are soooo boring.’

  ‘Never mind,’ Rita said, ‘at least it’s the Watchdog the day after that. Her days are always fun. I love going to the lake, don’t you?’

  That’s the answer, Mrs Watson thought as she listened to the conversation from the hallway. That’s what I’ll do. I’ll take Rita to the lake tomorrow and tell her then.

  ‘Rita, I need you,’ Mrs Watson said the following day. ‘I’ve told Mrs Dawes you won’t be joining in the scavenger hunt.’

  ‘Lucky you!’ cried Daisy when she heard. ‘What does she want you for?’

  ‘How do I know?’ asked Rita, sounding a little anxious. Was there another letter? she wondered.

  ‘Well, whatever it is, it’s got to be better than whatever Old Dawes has got lined up.’

  After lunch Rita waited in Larch, wondering what Mrs Watson wanted her to do. When the house-mother appeared she was carrying a basket.

  ‘Right, Rita, off we go.’

  Surprised, Rita followed her out into the garden, through the orchard, and onto the path that led across the dusty paddock towards the lake.

  ‘Please, Mrs Watson, where’re we going?’

  ‘You’ll see,’ replied the house-mother, and strode on so quickly that Rita almost had to run to keep up with her.

  When they reached the lake, Mrs Watson took a rug from her basket and spreading it on the ground, sat down. Rita, surprised but delighted, ran to the water and paddled her hot feet in the cool water. Then turning back she said, ‘Why’ve we come here, miss? What do you want me for?’

  ‘Come and sit down here, Rita,’ said Mrs Watson, patting the ground beside her. ‘I want to talk to you.’ Reluctantly, Rita came out of the water and flopped down on the dusty grass.

  ‘Rita, Mrs Manton asked me speak to you,’ began Mrs Watson, and then she paused. It was so difficult, breaking yet more bad news just as Rita seemed to have settled down to her new life. ‘She’s had a letter…’

  Rita, staring at her wide-eyed, murmured, ‘Is it Rosie? What’s happened to her?’

  ‘No, no,’ Mrs Watson said, ‘it’s not Rosie. As far as I know she’s fine. No, I’m afraid it’s your grandmother—’

  ‘Gran? What’s the matter with her?’ A note of hysteria crept into Rita’s voice. ‘Gran got better, she wrote to me. Gran got better.’

  ‘I know she did,’ Mrs Watson said gently, ‘but then she had what’s called a stroke, sudden bleeding in her head, and though they took her straight to hospital, I’m afraid she didn’t get better this time.’ She reached out and took hold of Rita’s hands. ‘I’m so sorry, Rita.’

  ‘Is she dead?’

  ‘Yes, my dear, I’m afraid she is.’

  Rita pulled her hands away and got to her feet. ‘Then I ain’t got no one now, have I?’

  Mrs Watson let her go, watching a little anxiously as she took the path that ran along the lake shore.

  Rita followed the stony track beside the lake, staring unseeingly out across the smooth expanse of water. She had no tears, but there was an unbearable pain in her throat, and despite the heat of the afternoon, she felt cold. She passed some trees that threw silver shadows to dance on the water, and found another tiny beach in their shade. Sitting on the strip of shingle, she heard the words again in her head… I’m afraid she didn’t get better this time.

  Rita looked out miserably across the lake. She thought of home, of Mum and Gran, remembering them as she’d not allowed herself to do for weeks. She thought of Gran waiting for them at the school gate on a Thursday, and playing snap and snakes and ladders in her kitchen after tea. She could still conjure up her mother’s face, tired and strained, Gran’s smile that crinkled her eyes, even Uncle Jimmy’s face, fierce and threatening, but not their voices, their voices had all slipped away.

  A wave of desolation swept through her. Daddy was a vague memory, only kept alive by the precious photo still hidden under her mattress. Mum didn’t want her, and Rosie had been taken from her, vanishing into the vastness of Australia, and now Gran, beloved Gran, had had this stroke thing and had died. There’d be no more letters from Gran, no possible chance that one day in the far distant future, when Rita was grown up and had left Laurel Farm, that she might manage to go back and find her. There was no going back.

  The painful lump in Rita’s throat finally erupted and she began to sob. Sitting in the shade of a tree, alone in Australia, she wept for all she’d lost, the tears pouring down her cheeks, her body wracked with sobs, until there were no more tears to come and a strange calm overtook her. She had no handkerchief to wipe away her tears, so she went to the water’s edge and scooped up handfuls of water to cool her burning cheeks. She remembered the promise she’d made herself that they wouldn’t make her cry, ever again. Well, she’d broken that promise now, but it was for the last time.

  ‘You’re on your own now, Rita,’ she said, and standing by the lake she made a new promise. ‘You don’t need no one else.’

  Slowly she threaded her way back through the trees, to where Mrs Watson still sat, waiting for her, on the grassy slope.

  ‘We can go back now, miss,’ Rita said. ‘Thank you for telling me about Gran.’ And without waiting for her house-mother to reply, she ran, barefoot through the hot, dusty grass, back the way they’d come.

  Daphne Manton heaved a sigh of relief when the long summer holidays ended, and the girls reverted to their tighter term-time routine.

  Mrs Watson had broken the news of her
grandmother’s death to Rita Stevens, but though the child seemed withdrawn and looked a little wan, Daphne could see very little difference in her; she was simply relieved that Rita was causing no more trouble. No more letters came from Emily, so no more news from England. That was, until the phone call that completely changed her life.

  Daphne and Joe had been going to bed one night when they heard the phone ringing downstairs. Daphne put on a robe and went down to the office. When she picked up the receiver she was greeted with a hiss and a whistle, and then an operator’s reedy voice. ‘Putting you through, caller. Go ahead, please.’

  ‘Hallo?’ Daphne almost shouted into the receiver. ‘Who’s there?’

  ‘I need… Manton.’ The line was bad, crackling with static, and she could hardly hear the man on the other end.

  ‘Daphne Manton speaking. Who’s there?’

  This time the voice was a little clearer, and she heard him say, ‘This is Martin Fielding, trustee of EVER-Care. I’m ringing from England. Is that Mrs Daphne Manton?’

  ‘Yes,’ Daphne replied loudly. ‘Yes, Daphne Manton speaking.’

  ‘I’m a trustee of EVER-Care. I’m ringing from England. I’m afraid I have some bad news. Emily had a massive stroke a fortnight ago, leaving her in a coma, and she died yesterday.’

  ‘Died,’ echoed Daphne, stunned.

  ‘A stroke,’ repeated Martin. ‘Look, I haven’t much time before we’ll be cut off. She has died, and so we’re winding up EVER-Care, here in England. There’ve been problems recently, so, as the sole trustee, I’ve decided that enough is enough.’

  ‘You can’t… I mean, what about—’ began Daphne, but Martin Fielding ignored the interruption.

  ‘With regard to Carrabunna, obviously we have a duty of care to those children already living at Laurel Farm, and funds will be available for their upkeep until they turn sixteen and are able to leave school to make their way in the world.’

  ‘But…’ stammered Daphne Manton.

  ‘Please hear me out,’ said Martin Fielding firmly. ‘As the girls leave your care, they will not be replaced. As the numbers fall, there will naturally be fewer staff required to look after them. The cottages will be amalgamated and house-mothers given notice. You and your husband will be able to stay on at the farm and EVER-Care will make it over to you in recognition of your hard work. I’m sure you’ll agree that this is an equable solution for everyone concerned.’