The colour had flooded back into the little girl’s cheeks and her eyes sparkled. ‘You mean it, miss?’ she breathed, not daring to believe. ‘You really mean it?’
‘I really mean it,’ Delia assured her. ‘I’ll be working at a nursery, and you’ll go to a new school.’
‘And never come back here?’
‘Never, I promise you.’
Rita’s reaction had brought tears to Delia’s eyes and she swore then that she would never, never let her new daughter down.
They had left Laurel Farm, as arranged, at the end of the following week, carrying all their worldly possessions in two suitcases. Delia had retrieved the rose-patterned dress from the common clothes cupboard and tucked it into her own suitcase. Apart from Rita’s picture of her father, the letter from her grandmother and an extremely battered-looking Knitty, Delia knew it was the only link Rita had with her life in England.
On the day they were leaving, Delia went to the office to collect the necessary paperwork, checking the forms carefully to ensure that they were correct.
‘Thank you for sorting this out,’ she said, managing to smile at her ex-boss. ‘But there is just one more thing I wanted to ask you before we go.’
Daphne Manton raised an eyebrow. ‘Well?’
‘Please will you give me the name and address of the couple who adopted Rosie, Rita’s little sister?’
‘No,’ answered Mrs Manton. ‘I will not.’
‘But surely it can do no harm now?’ pleaded Delia. ‘Just to know the name, so that maybe, one day, Rita can find her.’
‘She is nothing to do with Rita,’ snapped the superintendent. ‘All Rita has now is you, and I wish her joy of you.’
‘I don’t know how you can live with yourself, Daphne Manton,’ exploded Delia. ‘I don’t know how you can face yourself in the mirror. You’re a callous, cruel, mean-minded old woman, and I hope you rot in hell!’ And leaving Daphne Manton spluttering with rage, Delia stalked out of the door.
Daisy Smart jumped off the bus and walked the last two blocks to the hostel where she had a room. She had just spent the day with Rita, who now lived with Mrs Watson in Randwick. Daisy thought Rita extremely lucky to be living in a proper home, but she didn’t begrudge her luck. Somehow, Daisy felt, it was due to her. Rita had always had more courage than Daisy, to stand up for herself and Rosie. Since Rosie had been adopted, Daisy and Rita had become inseparable, until Laurel Farm closed and Daisy was sent to a children’s home outside Sydney. Even then Rita had not abandoned her friend. As soon as she and Mrs Watson moved into the little house in Randwick, she’d insisted that they visit Daisy and take her out for the day.
‘I wish she could come and live with us,’ she said, pleading in her voice.
‘I know you do, darling,’ Delia Watson replied, ‘but not only do we not have enough room for her,’ she raised a hand to cut off Rita’s protest that she and Daisy could share the tiny bedroom that was hers, ‘but I really can’t afford to keep her. You know how careful we have to be with our money.’
Rita did know and sadly, she let her protest lapse. She knew how incredibly lucky she was to have a legal foster mother to live with instead of being moved to yet another children’s home like poor Daisy.
‘I know, Deeley,’ she sighed, ‘but I feel so sorry for poor Dais stuck in that awful place.’
The day they walked out of Laurel Farm, Delia had taken Rita’s hand and said, ‘Since you are now officially my foster daughter, I don’t think you can call me Mrs Watson any more, do you?’
Rita looked at her in surprise. ‘What shall I call you then? We used to call you the Watchdog, Dais and me.’
Delia laughed. ‘I know you did, but I don’t think you can call me that either. My name is Delia. I know you won’t want to call me Mum or Mother, but what about Aunt Delia?’
‘Aunt Deeley,’ repeated Rita, tripping over the unfamiliar name.
‘Deeley,’ cried Delia. ‘I like that. Call me Deeley.’
Rita had been enrolled in the local school as Rita Stevens, but she was proud to be known as Deeley’s daughter.
Once a month on a Saturday, they took the train together and rescued Daisy from the grim institution where she lived. They took a picnic and went to the beach, played in the woods or went to the cinema. When Rita turned thirteen, Deeley let her go by herself and despite their different circumstances the two girls remained firm friends. At fifteen Daisy left school. She had to stay in the home until she was sixteen, but with more freedom and a little cash of her own in her pocket.
Rita stayed on at school until she graduated and was able to go to teacher training college, but they continued to meet on Saturdays.
As soon as she was allowed to, Daisy left the home and moved into Sydney.
‘Where will you live?’ Rita asked when Daisy told her of her plans.
Daisy shrugged. ‘Dunno, I’ll find somewhere. An ’ostel or somefink.’
She found a room in a girls’ hostel in Kings Cross.
‘Not a very salubrious area,’ Deeley remarked doubtfully when she heard.
‘It’s all she can afford,’ Rita pointed out. ‘And at least she can come and go as she likes. She’s got a new job at Woolworths, so she’s got her own money.’ Which is more than I have, she added silently. Rita didn’t envy Daisy her new freedom, it had been long enough coming, but she did envy her the small wages she took home each week. Deeley’s tiny income was stretched to the limit to allow Rita to stay on at school rather than get a job and bring in a regular wage, as Rita suggested she should.
‘No,’ Delia insisted, ‘it is most important you stay on. Education is everything.’
So Rita stayed on, passed her exams and went to college, and occasionally as she sat on the bus and looked out at the bustling streets of the city, at the crowds who thronged the pavements and crushed themselves into buses on their way to and from work, she would think about Rosie and wonder what had become of her. She must be out there somewhere, Rita thought despondently. I could pass her in the street and never know it.
Delia told her that she’d tried to get the name of Rosie’s adoptive parents from Daphne Manton. ‘I’m sorry,’ Delia said, ‘but she refused point blank to tell me their name, let alone their address.’
‘Oh, I know their name,’ Rita replied, ‘it’s Waters.’
Delia stared at her in amazement. ‘How on earth do you know that?’
‘Mrs Manton called him Mr Waters.’
‘And you’ve remembered all this time?’
‘I wrote it in my journal,’ Rita said, and she went and found the old exercise book that had been her first diary, and showed Delia what she’d written.
Today Rosie was took away to be adopted by some people called Mr and Mrs Waters. I wasn’t let say goodbye proply and Rosie was screaming becos she didn’t want to go, but they pushed her into a car and drove away. When I’m grown up I’m going to find Rosie and rescue her from them.
After that, without telling Rita, Delia had searched for Mr and Mrs Waters, but could find no trace of them. Eventually, when she had finally given up, she told Rita what she’d been doing. ‘I’m afraid they could be anywhere,’ Delia said. ‘Australia is so big, I don’t think we’ll ever find her now.’
Rita hugged her tightly. ‘I know I’ve lost her,’ she said. ‘And I think we have to accept that, but thank you, dearest Deeley, for trying to find her for me.’ She sighed. ‘She’d be quite different from the Rosie I remember, anyway, wouldn’t she? But thank you, thank you for looking.’
‘We’ll never find Rosie now,’ Rita had confided to Daisy one day as they sat in Centennial Park, sharing the sandwiches and bottle of ginger beer Daisy had brought with her from Woolworths. ‘Deeley’s done all she can, but we can’t find Rosie anywhere.’
‘You need a private dick,’ Daisy said.
‘Oh yeah?’ laughed Rita. ‘An’ where we going to find the money to pay one?’
Daisy shrugged. ‘I dunno, do I? Maybe
when you’ve finished all this college stuff and get yourself a job.’
‘Well, I sold another story the other day, so maybe when I’m a rich and famous author I’ll hire one then.’
Daisy laughed at that. ‘You and your writing,’ she teased. ‘I meant a proper job.’
36
Jean lay, rigid, on her bed and listened as the key turned in the lock. As always, Dad was locking her in after his evening visit. She heard him go downstairs, but she didn’t move. She heard her mother come in from her church meeting, but still Jean didn’t move. It wasn’t until she heard them come up the stairs together, go into the front bedroom and shut the door, that she slowly sat up and swung her feet to the floor. She could feel the stickiness between her legs, she knew the smell of him, on her body and lingering in the room.
She crossed to the chest of drawers and pouring water from the jug into the bowl that stood beside it, she took her flannel and scrubbed herself violently between her legs, across her stomach, round her breasts. As always she cleaned her teeth, brushing the taste of him from her mouth. It was what she always did, but tonight it was different. Tonight would be the very last time. Tonight she would leave this horrible house once and for all. She had made her plans over the last couple of months and now it was time to carry them out.
Her adoptive father had been a regular visitor to her bedroom for nearly ten years. At first he had only wanted to cuddle her, to kiss her, to have her fondle him, and if she did not he simply put her over his knee and spanked her. She was terrified of him, but her fear seemed to excite him. As she began to comply with his desires, he found he needed to become more violent, simply to see the fear in her eyes, her fear increasing his arousal.
On one occasion he made a mistake and she was left with a black eye. It was clearly visible in the morning, and Edna said, ‘Poor Jean, you’ve bumped you eye. I thought I heard you fall down the stairs. You must be more careful, darling.’
Gerald had threatened Jean that if she said anything to Edna about his visits to her room, she would be sorry. ‘It’s our little secret, Jeannie,’ he soothed after one of his more brutal visits. ‘Very private. If you say a word to anyone, even your mother, I’ll have to punish you. You do realize that, don’t you, little girl?’ He was gripping her face between his hands, forcing her to look at him.
Terrified, Jean nodded, and he had smiled his crocodile smile and said, ‘That’s a good girl.’
But when Edna commented on her black eye, Jean burst out, ‘I didn’t fall down stairs, Mum, Dad hit me.’
Edna looked amazed. ‘Dad did? He’d never hit you.’
‘He does,’ Jean insisted, ‘when he comes into my bedroom and makes me do things.’
‘He doesn’t come into your bedroom,’ exploded Edna. ‘He doesn’t make you do anything. You’re a wicked, wicked girl to say such things about your father.’
At that moment the door opened and Gerald walked in. ‘What’s this?’ he began, jovial as he always was when they were all three together. ‘What’s my little girl been saying about me?’
‘She’s got a bruise on her face,’ Edna said. ‘She says you came to her room and hit her.’
‘She what?’ Gerald’s joviality fell away. ‘Says I hit her?’
‘She says you came to her room, made her do something, and hit her,’ repeated Edna.
‘And you believed her?’ Gerald was incredulous.
‘No, of course not,’ said his wife. ‘She’s a very naughty girl to tell such lies.’
‘She certainly is.’ Gerald took hold of Jean’s wrist and pulling her out of the room, dragged her back upstairs. Once inside he locked the door and took off his belt.
After that, however, though the bedroom visits continued, he was more careful and there were seldom marks which couldn’t be explained away at school. His final warning, as he returned his belt to his trousers, had been, ‘If you tell lies like this at school, I’ll beat you till you beg for mercy. Understand?’ And Jean, sobbing with pain and fear, had nodded, so that he turned away satisfied. ‘You’re not going to school today,’ he said. ‘It’s better, as you’ve had a fall down the stairs, that you spend the day quietly here, just so we’re sure you haven’t hurt yourself too badly. I’ll phone the school and explain that you’ll be back on Monday.’
Now, aged nearly fifteen, Jean was going to escape. Over the previous months she had been collecting money. She wasn’t given pocket money as such, just the occasional sixpence or shilling, perhaps to be sure she had no cash, but she set about acquiring more and wasn’t too fussy where it came from. Often she raided Edna’s purse, taking a few coins here and there, hoping it wouldn’t be noticed. At school she went through the pockets of coats hanging up in the cloakroom, classroom desks, collecting odd pennies and shillings. Never taking all she found, though thieving was suspected, she’d never been caught and the coins joined her stash in an old flowerpot in the garden shed. She was certain Edna would’ve found it if she’d hidden it in her bedroom. One Sunday she was given a whole pound by a visitor to the church after she’d told him the history of the building. He had folded her hand round the note and said softly, ‘Put that in your money box.’ He gave her a wink and said, ‘Our secret.’ The familiar words chilled her, but she managed to smile and the pound joined the coins in the flowerpot.
Recently, on a day when Edna was out when Jean got home from school, she took her chance to pack some things into her old suitcase. With her ears cocked to hear the sound of the front door, she pulled it out from under the bed where it had been ever since she arrived. Opening it she found a childish frock lying in the bottom. She remembered that Edna had particularly disliked the dress, and Jean had for some reason loved it and had hidden it. She’d forgotten all about it over the years, but now here it was again. She knew it was special, but couldn’t quite remember why. Had she brought it with her when she was adopted? Yes, probably that was it, indeed that was probably why Edna didn’t like it. She shook it out, about to chuck it into a corner when she suddenly changed her mind and refolding it, placed it in the bottom of the case. Carefully she chose a few of her clothes that she thought would not be missed. She had no idea when she would be able to leave, but knew it must be soon. To the case she added some biscuits and a bottle of Edna’s sleeping tablets. She had stolen these some months ago to take after Gerald’s visits, helping her drift into deep sleep and fend off the nightmares which haunted her. Once the case was packed she took it out into the yard and hid it under the shed. Now she was ready to go the moment the opportunity presented itself.
Two nights later that opportunity came. Edna was out and Gerald appeared in her room as he always did on such occasions. He still maintained the pretence that Edna didn’t know what he was doing, what he was subjecting their adopted daughter to. As always Jean bore with his attentions, but thought with a jolt of angry triumph as he locked the door behind him, That’s the very last time he’ll do that to me.
Now all was quiet, she dressed quickly, pulling on slacks, a blouse, two jerseys for warmth and a light rain jacket.
She listened again at her door, but the house was silent, and sure that both parents must now be asleep, Jean opened the tiny window and peered out into the night. There was fitful moonlight as clouds drifted across the face of a quarter moon; enough to see without, she hoped, being seen. She hoisted herself up onto the sill and squeezed through. Gripping the opening, she lowered herself first onto the flat scullery roof below and then dropped down into the garden. The noise of her descent sounded very loud to her ears, and the moment she was on the ground she scurried to the shelter of the shed. She glanced back up at her window, but there was no sudden light in her bedroom, no light anywhere in the house, so taking her courage in both hands, she stuffed the money from the flowerpot into her pocket, picked up her case and slipped out onto the road. A quick glance up at her parents’ bedroom window assured her that it remained dark, and she set off down the street. Most of the houses were in darkness,
and by staying in the shadows Jean hoped to escape any inquisitive eyes. Moments later she was out of her own street and cutting through another towards the centre of the town. She’d looked up train times to Sydney, for she’d decided she must disappear into the anonymity of the city, and knew the first train was at 4.30 a.m. She could only hope that Gerald didn’t discover her flight before that and follow her to the station.
She hid in the domain across the road until the station clock showed 4.20, then she picked up her case and walked across the road. When she presented herself at the ticket office, the clerk looked at her in surprise.
‘You’re an early bird,’ he said.
Prepared for such a remark, Jean said, ‘Yes, got a job interview in Sydney. Exciting, isn’t it?’
‘Job, is it?’ said the man as he took her money and gave her the ticket. ‘Good luck to you, then.’
There were several others on the platform awaiting the early train, but they paid no attention to her, and when the train came into the station Jean hurried to board. Once inside the carriage she kept her head down; she was still terrified that Gerald might appear at the last minute and haul her off the train. But he did not. The whistle blew and the train drew out of the station, heading for Sydney.
When Jean alighted at Sydney Central Station, she was immediately engulfed in the crowds that thronged its concourse. People hurrying in every direction on their way to work pushed past those who stood looking at timetables, or ambled along at a more leisurely pace.
Determined to put as much distance between her and any pursuit as possible, Jean emerged from the station, case in hand, and started to walk. She trudged along the streets, turning down side roads and keeping away from the main thoroughfares. Now she had made the break and she was actually in Sydney, she had no idea where to go or what to do. Her planning had stopped at the actual escape, perhaps because she’d not really thought she would succeed. At length she stopped at a coffee bar and bought herself a sandwich and a cup of tea. As she sat at a metal-topped table in the corner, she looked out at the busy streets beyond. The first thing to do, she decided, was to find somewhere to sleep. She took her money from her pocket and looked at it. Five pounds and a few pence left. She took her time eating her ham sandwich and drinking her tea, but the place was filling up and eventually she had to leave. Further along the road she saw an information office and went inside. The woman behind the counter provided her with a map and when Jean asked her where she might find a cheap hostel, she tutted a little saying, ‘You shouldn’t be on your own, duck.’
The Throwaway Children Page 43
