‘No, all right,’ Rick agreed, ‘not go, not straight away, but we can write and send photos and stuff, and she can do the same for us. And I’ve got my paper round, I’ll start saving!’
‘You do that, love,’ Lily said. She looked across at Carrie who had been watching the two of them, while trying to come to terms, herself, with what she’d read in the letter; the dreadful news about Rosie, the wonderful news about Rita.
‘I can’t believe this,’ Lily murmured. ‘I can’t believe that there’s a letter from Rita after all these years.’
‘It’s wonderful to hear from her,’ Carrie said. ‘And you’re going to be a great-gran!’
Lily smiled. ‘Yes, I s’pose I am.’ Then her smile faded. ‘But Rosie? Our lovely Rosie. And how am I going to tell Rita about her mother? About what happened to her?’
‘Don’t know,’ said Carrie. ‘That’s a hard thing. Just write and tell her, I s’pose. No way of breaking it gently, is there?’ She reached over and took the old lady’s hand. ‘But just think how thrilled she’s going to be to find that you’re still here! That’ll make it easier for her.’
‘Will it?’ wondered Lily. ‘Whatever she did, Mavis was still her mother, and hearing that she was murdered, well, it ain’t going to be easy for her, is it?’ Silence lapsed round them as they all reflected on Mavis’s horrifying end.
When Carrie left, Lily and Rick went over and over the letter from Rita.
‘I just can’t believe it,’ Lily said, ‘Rita, married and having a baby. Just fancy that.’
‘When’re you going to write back?’ asked Rick. ‘Can I put a letter in too?’
‘Course you can, love,’ said Lily. ‘I’ll get one of them airmail letter things tomorrow and we’ll write it together in the evening. Now, finish your homework. You’ve got exams coming up.’
Rick retired to his bedroom to try to finish his history essay, and Lily slowly cleared away the tea things. Rita’s married, she thought as she stacked the dishes in the sink. And to a nice man by the sound of it, a man with sensible ideas, anyway. And going to have a baby; little Rita who’d only been nine years old when Lily had last seen her. But Rosie, her bright, sunny, trusting little granddaughter, was dead; literally frightened to death. Alone in the kitchen Lily buried her head in her hands and wept.
Over the years she had tried to imagine her granddaughters growing up, girls in their teens, young women grown, but she’d never really managed it. In her mind Rita and Rosie were frozen in time, remaining as they were in the photograph on her mantelpiece, two little girls in rose-patterned dresses. Now one was about to become a mother and the other was in her grave.
Rick is right, she thought when, finally, her tears ran dry, I’ve cried for Rosie, but I have to rejoice at finding Rita.
Stiffly she got to her feet and went to the drawer where she kept the letter she’d had from Rita all those years ago, and pulled it from its envelope. Dog-eared and torn down its folds, she spread it out carefully on the table, to read once more. It had been her only link with Rita for sixteen years, and now, now at last, she had another, and this time there was an address on the back; this time she could answer, she could write back and tell Rita she’d been lied to, that she, Lily, was still alive.
She lay in bed that night, trying to compose the letter in her head. There was so much to say, about Rosie, about Mavis, all of it difficult, and when Lily finally drifted off to sleep, she was no nearer to framing the words that would tell Rita that Jimmy Randall had murdered her mother, nearly sixteen years ago.
41
It was a sunny afternoon as Rita struggled home carrying a bag of school books to mark and two bags of shopping. When she got to her front door, she collected the post from their mail box, stuffing the handful of envelopes in with the books.
Deeley was coming round for supper, and Rita had stopped off to buy the ingredients she needed for the meal. She was not an adventurous cook, but she liked to try the occasional new recipe, and tonight it was beef stroganoff.
With the recipe book propped up in front of her, she was chopping the onions and mushrooms, when David came in, early for once.
‘Hallo, darling,’ he said, dropping a kiss on the top of her head. ‘What’s all that?’
‘Beef stroganoff,’ said Rita. ‘Deeley’s coming for tea. I did tell you.’
‘So you did,’ he agreed, ‘I’d forgotten.’
‘You’re nice and early,’ Rita said with a smile. ‘Good day?’
‘Yes, my last meeting was cancelled. Any post?’
‘In my school bag.’
David took out the post, flipping through the envelopes. Buried among them was an air letter. It was addressed to Rita and came from England, postmarked Belcaster. He stared at it for a moment and then turned it over to look at the sender’s name and address on the back. He glanced across at Rita, who was paying no attention to him.
She had told him that she’d finally decided to write to her mother, just the once, and though he’d thought it was a mistake, and had told her so, he also understood why she felt she must.
‘Rita,’ he said, and then paused.
Rita looked up. ‘Yes?’
‘What was your gran’s name?’
‘Gran? Lily Sharples. Why?’
‘Leave that for a minute, can you?’
Rita wiped her hands on her apron. ‘What’s up? I’ve got to get on, Deeley’ll be here soon.’
‘Come and sit down, darling,’ answered David, and held out his hand to her. She took it and he drew her to the table, pulling out a chair for her and then sitting down next to her.
‘David?’ Her eyes were anxious. ‘Is something the matter?’
‘No,’ David replied, carefully. ‘Something here for you.’ He held out the letter. ‘This was in the post.’
Rita took the aerogramme with shaking hands. ‘From my mother,’ she breathed.
‘I don’t think so,’ David said gently. ‘Look at the sender’s name.’
Rita turned the letter over, and as she saw the name Lily Sharples, and the address in Hampton Road, the colour drained from her face. White as a sheet, she looked up at David.
‘It’s from Gran,’ she whispered. ‘It’s from my gran.’
‘Looks like it.’
‘But she’s dead,’ cried Rita. ‘Deeley told me she was dead! Why did she lie to me? Why did Deeley lie to me?’
‘I don’t suppose she did,’ David said gently. ‘Deeley would never lie to you. I’m sure she believed it to be true.’
‘But why? Why would they tell me she was dead when she wasn’t?’
David shook his head. ‘I don’t know, darling. Perhaps she explains in the letter. Aren’t you going to open it?’
Rita continued to stare at the letter and David asked, ‘Shall I open it for you?’
‘No,’ replied Rita. ‘No, I’ll open it.’ With hands still shaking, she slit open the aerogramme and began to read. Within moments, tears were flooding down her cheeks, and she couldn’t read any more. Wordlessly she handed it to David.
‘You read it, David.’
David took the letter and glanced through it to see what had upset her so much, then he began to read.
My dearest dearest Rita,
Your letter arrived yesterday, and was such a wonderful surprise. We’re so dreadfully sorry to hear that poor darling little Rosie has died. I’ll never forgive that dreadful Vanstone woman for sending you both away when I’d told her I’d give you both a home. My heart broke when I read in your letter that Rosie had killed herself, poor dear child. But to have found you again, Rita, is a miracle. We knew you was in Australia, but we didn’t know where and the EVER-Care people wouldn’t tell us, so we thought we’d lost you. How wonderful to find you again. It seems from your letter that you thought I had died. No, my darling girl, I’m still alive and well and just so thrilled to have found you again. The sad news that I have to tell you is that your poor mother is no longer with us. She died many ye
ars ago at the hands of Jimmy Randall. It seems they had a fight and Jimmy killed her in a fit of rage. I am so sorry to be the one to tell you, but clearly as you wrote to her, you did not know. Since she died I have been looking after your brother Richard. We call him Ricky, and he has been looking after me. He is getting some snaps together to send you, but I couldn’t wait for them to be sorted, I wanted to write to you straight away. He’s going to add a bit to this letter.
I send you all my love, my dearest, and can’t wait to hear from you again, to hear about your David and perhaps see some pictures of you both.
And of course I’m thrilled to bits about the baby.
Gran
‘He killed her,’ Rita murmured, the tears continuing to stream down her cheeks. ‘That bastard, Jimmy, killed my mum.’
David dropped the letter on the table and took her into his arms. ‘Oh, my darling girl,’ he murmured, ‘I’m so sorry.’ He held her close, her head on his shoulder, as she wept for the mother who had been murdered all those years ago.
‘I never knew,’ she sobbed. ‘I always thought she’d forgotten us and… and… and she wasn’t even alive. Why didn’t they tell me? Why?’
‘Perhaps they thought it would upset you too much,’ soothed David, stroking her hair.
‘They needn’t have said he’d killed her, just that she’d died. After all they told me Gran had,’ she added bitterly, ‘and that wasn’t even true! They didn’t care about upsetting me then, did they?’
‘My darling, I don’t know,’ answered David, feeling completely helpless in the face of her distress.
Gradually, Rita’s sobs subsided. ‘She was always frightened of him, Uncle Jimmy, we all were,’ she said. ‘I can’t bear the thought that he beat her up so badly that she died. Poor Mum. Poor Mum.’
‘It was all a long time ago,’ ventured David, offering her his handkerchief.
Rita blew her nose. ‘I know, but it doesn’t really make it any easier, does it? She was my mother, whatever she did, and I did love her.’
Silence fell between them and they sat, their hands clasped in mutual support as they thought about what they’d just learned.
‘Perhaps,’ said Rita after a while, ‘perhaps that was why Mum let him send us away. Why she signed the papers to put us into Laurel House, to get us away from him. Perhaps she was scared for us… d’you think?’
‘Maybe,’ David agreed, though privately he thought it unlikely. But if the thought comforted Rita, then he was happy to go along with it.
Now she was calmer, he picked up the letter again. ‘There’s a bit written by Rick at the end. Shall I read that to you?’
Rita nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘he’s my brother.’
David started to read.
Dear Rita,
I’m your brother Rick, and I live with Gran. She never forgot you and there is a picture of you and Rosie on the kitchen shelf. It’s always been there. I’m sorry Rosie died, I’ll never meet her now, but I’m longing to meet you. I am so glad you have written and I hope you will keep on writing to us. I am going to send some snaps of Gran and me. We are both well. Please send some pictures of you as I don’t know what you look like now you’re grown up. Lots of love from your brother, Rick.
P.S. I’ve got a paper round and I’ve started saving so that we can come and see you.
Hearing this last, Rita gave a wan smile. ‘Bless him,’ she said. ‘What is he, sixteen? It’ll take him forever, but it’s a lovely thought.’
At that moment there was a knock on the door, and without waiting for an answer, Delia walked into the house. ‘Only me,’ she called. ‘Can I come in?’
‘Course you can,’ David called back. ‘We’re in the kitchen.’ He gave Rita a quick hug and then turned to welcome his mother-in-law.
Delia breezed into the kitchen, coming up short as she took in Rita’s tear-streaked face. She glanced from one to the other, and demanded, ‘What’s happened? What’s the matter?’
David said nothing, waiting for Rita to speak. He was very aware that Delia thought he’d done something to upset Rita, and he wanted Rita to be the one to set her straight.
‘Rita?’ Delia spoke gently. ‘What’s the matter, darling? It’s not the baby, is it?’
‘No,’ Rita assured her, ‘not the baby.’
‘Well then?’ Her gaze turned back to David.
Rita saw it and said quickly, ‘And it’s not David either, so don’t look at him like that.’
‘I’m not looking at him like anything,’ retorted Delia, though she knew she had been. ‘So, why the tears?’
‘Give her the letter, David,’ Rita said. ‘You can read it for yourself, Deeley.’
Delia took the letter and began to read, glancing up at Rita as she reached the bit about her mother, and then returning to it again.
‘Oh my darling,’ she breathed, ‘what a dreadful thing! And this is from the grandmother we told you was dead?’
Rita nodded.
‘But I don’t understand,’ said Delia dropping down onto a chair. ‘I don’t understand. There was a letter from Emily Vanstone in England, saying that your grandmother had had a stroke and died. I saw it myself.’ There was a break in her voice. ‘My poor girl. I believed it was true, why wouldn’t I? It was there in black and white. Oh, Rita, I’m so sorry.’
‘It wasn’t your fault, Deeley, I know that,’ Rita said softly.
‘Even so,’ Delia’s shoulders sagged under the weight of this new knowledge, ‘and your mother…’ Her voice trailed off as she couldn’t find the words.
‘My mother has been dead for years,’ Rita said bravely, ‘but I’d already lost her before she died, hadn’t I?’ Still clutching David’s handkerchief she blew her nose again. ‘But I’ve got my gran back, Deeley, and a grown-up brother. I’ve got a family again now.’
Rita didn’t see David’s expression at this remark, but Delia did and sympathized; they had both done all they could to make Rita feel part of a family. But she knew what Rita was really saying, that she had her childhood family back, that she hadn’t been forgotten over the years, and she understood how important that was. She just hoped David did, too.
‘I think we could all do with a drink,’ David said, and without reference to either of them he poured three large gin and tonics.
‘Here’s to your gran and your brother,’ he said, raising his glass to Rita. ‘To our English family.’ And Delia knew it would be all right.
Over the following weeks there was a flurry of correspondence between Rita and her family in Belcaster. Rick had sent her recent photos of her grandmother and himself. Gran certainly did look older, but Rita wasn’t surprised, after all she was in her sixties now, but she still had the same smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes, and though her hair was grey, it was still done in the same style, making her endearingly familiar, bringing the ready tears to Rita’s eyes. Rick, she decided, was a good-looking boy, intelligence lurking in his eyes and a shy smile on his lips. She studied his face to see if she could see echoes of his father, but Jimmy Randall’s face had dissolved into a merciful blur, and she could see no likeness.
She showed all the pictures to David, and he dutifully admired his new in-laws. Delia took far more interest. And Daisy? Families meant nothing to Daisy and she evinced no interest at all, simply saying, ‘Good snaps, Reet,’ and then telling her about the next athletics meeting she was going to.
When David’s parents heard about the surprising response to Rita’s letter, they were somewhat taken aback. Now the reality of Rita’s family back home had been exposed to all. Norah said as little as possible about them, simply saying that Rita must have been pleased to hear from them after all this time. She did not want to know that Rita’s mother had been murdered by her husband, nor, as they’d subsequently learned, that the murderer had never been caught. Her daughter-in-law the daughter, or at least the stepdaughter, of a murderer, was too much for her to accept with equanimity. It was bad enough that Rit
a’s sister had committed suicide years ago, and Norah was determined that if she had anything to do with it, the news should go no further than the immediate family.
Andrew had been shocked, too, at first, but when he’d seen the difference it made to Rita, the happiness that had infused her on learning that her beloved grandmother was still alive and well, he had hugged her and told her how pleased he was. He had become increasingly fond of his daughter-in-law, and her happiness delighted him.
‘I may never see them again,’ Rita confided in him, ‘but I’ll know they’re there.’
‘Oh, you never know,’ he said cheerfully, and then changing the subject said, ‘Not long to go now, have you? Thought of any names yet?’
‘Yes,’ replied Rita.
‘And we’re not saying,’ David put in firmly. ‘You’ll have to wait and see.
Rita gave up work at the end of term, and after Easter spent her time at home, preparing for the new arrival. Delia came round and helped her turn their tiny second bedroom into a nursery. Together, they made new curtains and painted the walls a restful apple green.
‘Can’t have pink or blue,’ David said, ‘in case it’s the wrong one.’
Once a week Rita went to antenatal classes, doing exercises, learning to feed and bath the baby, practising changing nappies on a life-sized doll.
‘Won’t be as easy on a real baby,’ laughed Delia. ‘They’re all arms and legs and won’t lie still!’
‘I thought you were going to start work on your novel,’ David teased her one evening when he came home from the office and inspected the ongoing work on the nursery.
‘No time for that,’ Rita said cheerfully, ‘though I did send in another story to your editor the other day.’
‘Certainly won’t be time for writing novels when the baby’s here,’ said Delia. ‘You won’t have time for anything then!’
As her time drew nearer, Rita became increasingly anxious about becoming a mother. Supposing she was no good at it. She’d had no experience with babies, she didn’t know what to do with them. Many of the other girls in the antenatal class already had children, or had helped with nephews and nieces.
The Throwaway Children Page 48
