Martin gave Daphne no chance to comment. ‘I will be putting all this in writing,’ he went on, ‘you’ll get it in the next few weeks, but I wanted to tell you of Emily’s death, and about the changes. So, I think that covers everything for now, Mrs Manton,’ Martin continued briskly, ‘except to offer you my condolences at the death of your cousin. I’ll be in touch. Goodbye.’ And the line went dead.
Daphne replaced the receiver. So, Emily was dead. Daphne felt no sadness at the news, she’d never particularly liked her. No, what she felt was more akin to anger, anger that Emily should have died so unexpectedly and left EVER-Care to the mercy of her dry stick of a lawyer brother-in-law. Was Martin Fielding really going to wind up the trust? Could he? Just like that?
Slowly she went back upstairs. Seeing the shocked expression on her pale face, Joe said, ‘Who was it?’
‘Martin Fielding, Emily’s brother-in-law. She’s dead, Joe.’
‘Who is? Emily? Thought she was indestructible.’
‘She had a stroke. She died yesterday.’
‘That’s sad,’ said Joe, cheerfully.
‘It’s more than sad,’ retorted his wife. ‘It’s disastrous. He’s going to close us down.’
‘Close us down?’ echoed Joe. That piece of news really did grab his attention. ‘He can’t do that, can he?’
‘He says he can,’ insisted Daphne. ‘He says that he’s winding up the trust and not replacing girls as they leave.’
‘That’ll take some time. Nothing to worry about yet.’
‘I’m not so sure. But at least he said they were going to make Laurel Farm over to us, to you and me,’ Daphne told him. ‘We shall still have somewhere to live.’
‘That’s all right then,’ said Joe. ‘We can sell it and move somewhere decent.’
‘For God’s sake, Joe, grow up,’ snapped Daphne. ‘The next few years are going to be incredibly difficult as the farm winds down.’
‘You could always resign,’ suggested Joe. ‘Let them find someone else to take it on. Their headache then, not ours.’
‘Don’t be obtuse, Joe. If I do that, they certainly won’t give us the property. Anyway,’ she said as she got back into bed, ‘this Martin Fielding is going to send me all the details.’
‘Then I should wait for his letter,’ Joe advised. ‘Don’t do or say anything to anyone until you’ve got it all in writing.’
Daphne’s brain was whirling. How could Emily not have made provision for the continuation of the trust after her death? Emily was practical, organized. Surely she’d made a will, and surely, in it, she’d stipulated what was to happen to EVER-Care. She would never have left anything that was so important to chance. Was Martin Fielding the only trustee? she wondered. If he was, was it really, entirely, his decision? Laurel Farm had been a comfortable billet for them, with a salary from EVER-Care and all the other perks and extras that she skimmed off the budget. Mrs Garfield had not been replaced. Her departure hadn’t been mentioned to EVER-Care in England and her salary had been syphoned off into the Mantons’ bank account.
The Mantons had quite a nest egg in their account, but even so, it wouldn’t be enough to live on. At last she fell asleep, but in the morning the force of the problem came back to hit her again. Laurel Farm was a fair-sized property, but she and Joe would be hard-pressed to make it pay as an actual farm. Could they sell it? Might Martin have second thoughts?
Now his letter had come, and as she read it, Daphne’s heart sank. Martin had no second thoughts, and his new proposals were even more stringent.
We shall, of course, require copies of the accounts for the past five years, as there are none in our files. Also details of all the children now accommodated with you, as their records here were destroyed in the fire at Laurel House…
Fire at Laurel House! Daphne knew nothing about a fire at Laurel House.
…their names, ages and the expected date that they will leave Laurel Farm. We encourage you to find foster placements for the younger children if no adoptive parents can be found. It is our intention to close Laurel Farm within the next six months.
‘Six months!’ cried Daphne. ‘For God’s sake, how do they think I’m going to get rid of more than twenty children in that time?’
Should this not be possible, funding will continue for the girls still living at Laurel Farm, but we shall expect progress in establishing those children elsewhere. No doubt the New South Wales authorities will assist you in finding suitable homes, either with foster parents or in other institutions.
The property of Laurel Farm will revert to you and your husband on the day that the last child leaves. This will be subject to a signed statement that you will make no further demands whatsoever on the EVER-Care Trust or the Vanstone family in the future.
All documentation with regard to the children who have passed through the farm is then to be destroyed, and no information contained in that documentation is to be disclosed to any third party, now or in the future. Please consider this letter as notice given to you and all your staff. As the numbers of girls decrease, and the house-mothers become redundant, a small amount of severance money will be paid to each. EVER-Care thanks you for your hard work in the past, and I know that I, and Sir Edward Sherrington, who is now a co-trustee, may rest assured of your ready cooperation in the proposal outlined here. I look forward to receiving all the documents I have requested at your earliest convenience.
‘Six months!’ Daphne said again, and went to find Joe.
‘Better get cracking, then,’ he said when he’d read the letter. ‘You sort out the children, I’ll sort out some accounts. Did you send any to Emily recently?’
‘No, not for some time,’ answered his wife.
‘Good,’ Joe said with a grin, ‘that’ll make it a lot easier.’
35
From that day things began to change at Laurel Farm. Gradually the children were found places elsewhere, many of them leaving the only home they’d ever known. In ones or twos they disappeared to other children’s homes, or occasionally a foster home was found. As the numbers dwindled, two of the cottages were closed, the disgruntled house-mothers forced out into the world, and the remaining children spread among the remaining houses.
Rita was still there, but Daisy had gone. She was sent to a children’s home south of Sydney. Delia Watson begged Mrs Manton to send someone else, any one of the other children, as she knew that, since Rosie had gone, both girls were desperate to stay together.
‘Do I have to go?’ Daisy cried, distraught. ‘Can’t Reet come with me?’
‘Couldn’t we both stay here?’ begged Rita. ‘We absolutely promise not to get into any more trouble, don’t we, Dais?’
‘Yes, we promise!’ Daisy agreed fervently. ‘Honest!’
But Mrs Manton was adamant. Daisy should go and Rita should stay.
‘I’m surprised you aren’t sending Rita,’ Delia said. ‘You’ve always disliked her.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ snapped Mrs Manton. ‘There’s only one place there, and Daisy Smart is going. I’ll find a place for Rita eventually.’
Was it pure spite? Delia wondered. Because the woman regarded Rita as a trouble-maker? Did she want to make Rita’s life as miserable as possible? Could anyone be that malicious? Yes. Daphne Manton. Delia had never seen her commit a single generous act, or show a moment’s kindness to any of the girls in all the time she’d been at Laurel Farm.
Well, Delia decided, that was enough. She, too, would leave Laurel Farm and return to Sydney. She didn’t particularly want to live in the city, but the chances of finding work there were much greater, and when she thought about it she realized she’d had enough of living out in the sticks and needed normal people, living normal lives, around her. She began writing for jobs, letter after letter, but though she had worked with children most of her adult life, she had no qualifications on paper and no one wanted to employ her. Eventually she received the offer of a job as a general assistant in a children’s day-car
e centre. The salary was minimal, but the proprietor offered a little house in Randwick at reduced rent as part of the deal. Life would not be easy, money would be short, but the chance of shaking the dust of Laurel Farm from her shoes seemed heaven-sent, and Delia leaped at it.
The very next morning, when the children had left for school, she crossed over to the Mantons’ house and knocked on the door.
Daphne, having a late breakfast, was less than pleased to see Mrs Watson on her doorstep.
‘Can’t it wait, whatever it is?’ she demanded petulantly.
‘No, I’m afraid not,’ Delia Watson replied.
‘Oh, very well,’ sighed the superintendent, ‘you’d better come in.’
She led the way into her office and seating herself behind her desk, looked across at Mrs Watson, her least favourite house-mother. Her least favourite, but, as Joe was always reminding her, her most efficient. ‘Well?’ she said. ‘What is it?’
‘I’ve come to give you my notice,’ Delia replied.
‘Your notice?’ Mrs Manton was startled. ‘What do you mean, “your notice”?’
‘Just what I say.’ Delia spoke calmly. ‘I’ve been offered another job, and I intend to accept.’
‘And what is this job?’ demanded Daphne. ‘Who would employ you? You have no qualifications.’
‘I only have to give you a week’s notice,’ Delia said, ignoring the superintendent’s rudeness, ‘and it starts today.’
Daphne Manton was extremely put out by this turn of events. She had already decided Mrs Watson should be the last house-mother to leave Laurel Farm, and now it was clear that Delia Watson had other plans. She glowered at her across the desk.
‘You must suit yourself,’ she said coldly. ‘I only hope you don’t live to regret it.’
‘I understand,’ Delia interposed, ‘there’s a small severance payment.’
‘There would be if we made you redundant,’ agreed Mrs Manton sourly. ‘But,’ her eyes gleamed with malice, ‘as you’re giving notice, that won’t apply.’
Delia was furious. She couldn’t afford to wait to be made redundant, she’d lose the job in Randwick. She had to seize this opportunity; it might be the only one. She had a little money saved out of her pittance as Larch’s house-mother; she’d have to live on that until she received her first pay cheque.
‘In that case,’ she returned, ‘I shall work out my notice and leave at the end of next week,’ and she stalked out of the office without another word.
That evening, as she supervised their tea, Delia looked at the eight girls still living in Larch as they sat round the table and knew a feeling of guilt. She was leaving, escaping from the miserable institution that was Laurel Farm, while these poor children were forced to stay here at the mercy of Daphne Manton. Since Daisy had gone, Rita had lost her spark. She clearly missed Daisy dreadfully. The two girls had been inseparable, each keeping the other afloat in the muddy waters of Laurel Farm. Delia hadn’t seen Rita as quiet as this for months. When Rosie had been taken, when her grandmother had died, each time Rita’d withdrawn into herself, but with Daisy staunchly beside her, her natural courage and determination had reasserted itself and she had gradually re-emerged and settled back into the familiar, if strict routine of Laurel Farm.
Delia had done her job as the ‘Watchdog’, and watched over all her charges, but particularly over Rita. She admired the girl’s courage. She encouraged her to work hard at school. A decent education would be a stepping stone out of the mire of an EVER-Care home to a much happier life.
‘If you go on working as you are now,’ Delia had told Rita, ‘you’ll pass your exams with flying colours and you’ll have lots of opportunities when you leave school.’
How will they all manage without me? Delia wondered as she watched them eating their tea. But in truth Rita was her particular concern.
I could always take her with me.
Where had that thought sprung from? As an idea it seemed to burst, fully formed, into her mind. Could I? Could I really take responsibility for her for the next seven years? Why not? You’ve got a job to go to and a house to live in. The Manton woman doesn’t want her here. The idea of leaving this dreadful place, taking Rita with her, filled Delia with a peculiar sort of exhilaration. What a commitment to take on, the fostering of a child; but not impossible given that she already loved that child. She’d never thought she could love another child since the death of her own son, but now she discovered Rita had crept, almost unnoticed, into her heart. Surely Rita’d want to go anywhere that took her away from Laurel Farm. But, Delia knew that she couldn’t ask her. If she so much as hinted at the possibility and then was unable to carry it through, poor Rita would have to cope with yet more disillusionment, another desertion, another apparent rejection. No, Delia decided, if she was going to do this, she must do it, officially, through Mrs Manton.
That night she lay in bed thinking of the obstacles Mrs Manton would surely put in her way. Children were only to be fostered by couples or families. It would be better for Rita… when had she ever cared about Rita?… to be brought up in an environment she was used to, with other children around her. Delia wouldn’t be able to support her on the wages she was to receive.
Delia found an answer for each difficulty. No couple or family had come forward to give Rita a home. She, Delia Watson, was doing so now. The child needed somewhere to go when Laurel Farm finally closed, and Delia was offering that somewhere. She was offering Rita a proper home and somehow they would manage on her money.
‘And,’ Delia spoke the words out loud, ‘there is no possibility that I shall fail. I will not allow that child to be brought low again.’
Next morning when the girls had gone to school, she marched back into the superintendent’s office.
‘I’d like another word with you, Mrs Manton,’ she said without preamble.
Mrs Manton looked up from the letter she was writing, startled at the intrusion. ‘Second thoughts, I suppose,’ she said tersely. She’d wondered if Mrs Watson might have them when she heard there would be no severance money. She had already decided not to accept a change of heart; she and Joe would keep the severance pay.
‘No,’ snapped Delia, ‘certainly not. I shall be gone by the end of next week, and I shall be taking Rita Stevens with me.’
‘Taking Rita Stevens?’ echoed Daphne Manton, incredulously. ‘Taking Rita Stevens where?’
‘I shall take her to live with me in Sydney.’ Delia had finally decided in the early hours of the morning that the way to handle this was to state her intention rather than ask permission. So, she spoke calmly but firmly. ‘I have a job to go to and a place to live. Rita needs a home and I intend to provide her with one.’
‘You can’t just—’ began the superintendent.
‘I can and I will,’ declared Delia. ‘We shall both leave Laurel Farm at the end of next week, and you need never think of either of us again. EVER-Care will have discharged its responsibility towards the child by ensuring her a loving home to go to, and I will provide that loving home.’
‘The state authorities may have something to say about this,’ said Mrs Manton sourly.
‘If you handle this properly, the state authorities will be delighted to have one less child on their books,’ replied Delia. ‘All I require is for you to sign the requisite forms, entrusting Rita to me as her foster mother. Of course she’ll be a ward of state, but I’ll be her day to day guardian. You’ve already done this for at least four other children. There is absolutely no reason why you shouldn’t do the same for Rita.’
‘And if it all goes wrong?’
‘It won’t,’ said Delia. ‘I won’t let it.’
The two women regarded each other for a long moment, then Daphne Manton shrugged. ‘If you really want her, take her,’ she said dismissively. ‘Let’s hope you’re not making a big mistake. I will not take her back.’
‘I have no intention of sending her back.’
‘Have you talked to Rita a
bout this?’
‘No, not yet,’ admitted Delia.
‘Supposing she doesn’t want to go with you. Have you thought of that?’
‘Of course I have,’ returned Delia. ‘It’ll be her decision, but let’s face it, Mrs Manton, what child in her right mind wouldn’t want to get out of this hell-hole?’
For a moment Delia thought she’d said too much. Daphne Manton’s pinched face took on a vicious look, the twin spots of colour reappearing on her cheeks. This time, however, Delia did not smile; her own eyes met and held the superintendent’s, challenging and defiant… and the battle had been won.
When Rita came home from school that afternoon, she was on her way out to work in the farm garden with the other girls, but Delia called her aside.
‘Rita,’ she’d said when they were safe from inquisitive ears, ‘can you keep a secret?’
‘Yes, miss,’ Rita answered, round-eyed. ‘What secret?’
‘I’m leaving Laurel Farm next week,’ began Delia and as the colour drained from Rita’s face, she hurried on, ‘and I’m taking you with me.’
Rita stared at her. ‘Me, miss? But where are we going?’
‘Sydney,’ replied Delia. ‘We’re going to live in Sydney.’
‘Live in Sydney?’ repeated the child. ‘For a holiday, miss? When are we coming back?’
‘Never!’ answered Delia firmly. ‘Never, never, never.’
Rita gazed at her in silence, and Delia went on, ‘I’ve got a new job and a little house to live in, and I thought you might like to come and live in it with me.’
‘Just me, miss? What about the others?’
‘I’m afraid there isn’t room for the others,’ explained Delia, ‘so it’ll be just us, you and me. Would you like that, Rita?’
The Throwaway Children Page 42
