The Throwaway Children (27 page)

It was the second time she’d come to Laurel House, and Betty suddenly remembered that the first time she’d asked for Rita and Rosie. Betty stood for a long moment, holding the letter in her hand, wondering. Their grandmother? Too old to have been their mother. Whoever she was, she must have written the letter, and Miss Vanstone, cruel bitch that she was, had simply thrown it away when the lady had gone.

At that moment, Betty, always alert to the sounds of the house, heard footsteps in the corridor outside and stuffed the letter into her pocket; when the Hawk opened the office door, Betty was vigorously polishing the sides of Miss Vanstone’s desk.

‘Ah, there you are Betty,’ cried the Hawk. ‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere.’

‘Miss Vanstone told me to clean her office straight away,’ Betty said, adding, with no hint of apology in her voice, ‘sorry if you was looking for me, Mrs Hawkins.’

‘I see. Well, when you’ve finished in here, come and find me. I’ve several jobs for you.’ The Hawk stalked out of the room, leaving the door ajar behind her.

‘Bitch,’ muttered Betty as she returned to her polishing. She still had the windows to do, and if the Hawk had jobs as well, she knew that meant that she’d be working till late. She was sure that the Hawk had left the door open on purpose, and as she couldn’t risk being caught off guard, Betty simply finished her cleaning and emptied the wastepaper basket, before closing the door on the office. As she’d expected, the Hawk kept her busy all evening and it wasn’t until she crept up to bed at last that she had time to consider the letter again, and decide what to do with it.

It lay, still sealed, on her bed. She was sorely tempted to open it, to discover who had written it. She hesitated; she could open it easily enough, but she had no way of resealing it, and she would have to do so if she sent it on to the Stevens girls.

Betty thought of the two girls: Rosie, a tearful and bewildered little girl, clinging to her sister in the alien world of Laurel House, and Rita, who had stood out so bravely against the bully Sheila Nevin; who had dared to run away, and take her little sister home. Rita had never jeered at Betty like the other girls. They had talked and Rita had told her how her mother had had another baby, but that she would soon be fetching them home.

Rita had been wrong there of course, but, thought Betty, picking up the letter once again, it looked as if there was someone who was trying to find them.

Rita and Rosie had been shipped off to Australia thinking no one cared what happened to them. Betty, on the verge of making the break from Laurel House herself, wanted them to know that someone had come to ask.

Next time I’ve to post a letter to Carrabunna, thought Betty, I’ll copy the address and I’ll send Rita her letter and maybe she’ll get found again. That, she thought with satisfaction, will be one in the eye for old Vanstone.

As she put the letter into her cloth bag, she counted the money she had hidden there. Two pounds, fifteen and threepence, the sum of her wealth. Among the coins so carefully hoarded, folded into a tiny square, was a green pound note. She had been collecting the coins for months, but the pound note had been a gift from God. It had swirled past her, a flash of green among the yellow and brown autumn leaves. It was a moment before Betty registered what it was, then darting out into the road she snatched it up, stuffing it into her pocket before anyone else could lay claim to it. A whole pound! It was the pound note that had sealed her determination to escape from Laurel House once and for all. If she could save another pound or two maybe, she’d head for London. Two pounds, fifteen and threepence until she stole the petty cash from Miss Vanstone’s desk… but only on the day she left.

That day came sooner than she’d dare hope. Three days after she’d found the letter, the Hawk called her into her office and said, ‘There’s post to go today, Betty.’ She handed Betty a package, wrapped in brown paper. ‘I want you to post this parcel, and Miss Vanstone has letters to go as well. Collect them from her office.’ She pulled out her purse, and peered into it, then she extracted a ten shilling note and handed it to Betty. ‘I’ve no change,’ she said crossly, as if it was Betty’s fault. ‘You’ll have to take this. Now, mind you bring me a receipt for the parcel, and make sure I have the right change.’

‘Yes, Mrs Hawkins,’ replied Betty dutifully. ‘Matron needs me to sort the laundry upstairs. Will it be all right if I go to the post when I’ve done that?’

‘Just as long as you catch today’s post with that.’ The Hawk nodded at the parcel. ‘It’s for my niece’s birthday.’

‘Of course I will,’ promised Betty. ‘I’ll just leave it on the hall table for now and pick it up as I go.’ The ten shilling note she folded and slipped into her pocket, where it seemed to generate a warmth of its own.

This is my chance, Betty thought. I’ve an extra ten bob in my pocket. Today’s the day.

She felt suddenly hollow inside. Could she really do this? She clenched her hands into determined fists. Today was the day. It had to be. If she didn’t leave today, then she’d never leave. She’d be stuck in this God-awful Laurel House for the rest of her life. This last thought brought her out in a cold sweat, and the decision was made.

Betty went to the office. ‘Excuse me, Miss Vanstone, but Mrs Hawkins said you had some letters for me to post.’

‘Ah, Betty, yes.’ Miss Vanstone looked up from what she was writing. ‘I should have them finished in about half an hour. I’ll leave them in the hall box when I go. Please make sure they catch today’s post.’ She opened her desk drawer and reached inside, handing Betty a florin. ‘That should cover the postage,’ she said, adding, ‘you may keep the change, Betty, it’ll only be a few pence.’

It was the chance Betty had been waiting for and she scurried up to her room to get ready. Having wedged the chair against the door once more, she retrieved her hoard from under the floor and laid it out on the bed. She took her Sunday frock from the hook on the back of the door and her change of underwear, comb and toothbrush from the locker by her bed. All she had in the world. With a quick glance round the room, she stuffed everything into the cloth bag and then tied it round her waist under her black stuff skirt. It made a peculiar bulge, so she retied it so that the bag hung down behind her knees. It made her walk with a strange waddle, but it was concealed, and she only had to get through the kitchen and hide it in the yard ready to pick up later.

With a final look at her bleak little attic, she closed the door. Never again would she go into that room.

When she reached the kitchen, Ole Smithy was standing, red-faced, at the stove.

‘There you are, Betty!’ she cried. ‘Where’ve you been? I need you to take over here,’ and without further explanation she handed Betty the huge wooden spoon she’d been using to stir a vat of custard, and disappeared. Betty gave the custard a hefty swirl and darted out of the door into the yard. She stashed her bag behind the dustbins and was back at her post, dutifully stirring the custard when Ole Smithy returned.

‘Now, my girl,’ she said, ‘you keep on with that, and mind you don’t let it burn. What were you doing upstairs, anyway?’

‘Just went up to be excused,’ replied Betty, trotting out the answer which had to be accepted.

‘Well, don’t disappear again, do you hear?’

Betty ducked her head submissively. ‘No, Mrs Smith.’

As soon as lunch was over and the girls were set to their chores once more, Betty went into the hall and collected the letters from the box. She was about to go back through the kitchen, when a thought struck her. Perhaps Miss Vanstone had already gone. Betty hurried along the passage and knocked on the office door. There was no answer. Betty knocked again just to be sure, and then eased the door open.

The room was empty. Betty went inside, closing the door quickly behind her. Then, she crossed to the oak desk. She pulled open the unlocked drawers, but as usual, there was nothing of value, so she turned her attention to the central drawer. It was locked. Betty pulled hard at the handle, but although it moved a little, it didn’t give. Frustrated, Betty rattled it hard, pulling and jerking in an effort to break the recalcitrant lock. She was about to give up, when she caught sight of the little metal paperknife lying on the desktop. She snatched it up and with all her strength, jammed its point in beside the lock, twisting it hard against the wood. Something seemed to give a little and she did the same again. At the third attack, the lock gave way and the drawer was open.

It was the work of a moment for Betty to empty the petty cash tin and grab the stamps, but just as she was about to shut the drawer again, she saw a small black address book and remembered the letter. She snatched it up and stuffed it into her pocket with the money. Then, pushing the drawer closed, she pocketed the paperknife and went to the door.

Now was the dangerous part. She opened the door an inch and listened. Silence in the corridor outside, and so, clutching the letters in her hand, she slipped out into the passage and hurried towards the kitchen.

‘Betty!’ The Hawk’s harsh tone brought her up sharp. ‘What are you doing there?’

‘Just going to the post, Mrs Hawkins,’ murmured Betty, the colour flooding her cheeks. She held up the letters.

‘In that corridor?’ The Hawk’s voice was laden with disbelief.

‘I just went to see if Miss Vanstone had any more letters before I went,’ answered Betty, falling back on her prepared excuse, ‘but she’s not there.’

‘No, she’s gone home.’ The Hawk raised an eyebrow at her. ‘You haven’t forgotten my parcel, I trust.’

‘No, Mrs Hawkins,’ she lied. ‘I was just going to collect it.’

‘I’ve several jobs for you,’ the Hawk told her. ‘Make sure you come up to the flat as soon as you get back.’

For the last time, Betty Grover ducked her head and replied, ‘Yes, Mrs Hawkins.’ She fetched the parcel from the hall-stand and went through to the kitchen, gathering up her coat and slinging it carelessly over her arm. In the yard, she collected her bag and concealing it beneath her coat, walked out through the back gate. In the road outside she turned in the direction of the post office, aware that the Hawk might be watching from a window. She walked quickly, heading for the nearest bus stop. A bus pulled up beside her and she got on. She had no idea where it was going, and she didn’t care. She simply needed to be far away from Laurel House before they realized that she’d broken into Miss Vanstone’s desk and wasn’t coming back. And by then, thought Betty, I’ll have disappeared, swallowed up by the world. Swallowed up by the world. She liked that idea and for the first time in days, Betty Grover smiled.

Betty looked out of the bus window. No one knew she was escaping, and no one cared. She wondered what the Hawk would do when she realized that Betty wasn’t coming back. Would she care? Or would she simply shrug and say, good riddance to bad rubbish?

The Hawk’ll be furious, thought Betty, ’cos I’ve had the courage to walk out, and I’ve taken her ten bob with me!

The bus stopped at the railway station and Betty jumped off and went to the ladies’ public convenience. Ten minutes later, she emerged with combed hair, wearing her Sunday frock. She’d been about to throw away the hated black uniform, but remembering she had little else, she reluctantly stuffed it into the bottom of her bag. With her coat over her shoulders and her bag on her arm, Betty walked to the ticket office and bought a third class ticket to London. One way. She was never coming back to Belcaster.

She’d counted her money and with the ten shillings the Hawk had given her, the florin from Miss Vanstone, and the money from the office desk as well as her savings, she now had almost four pounds.

If I’m careful, she thought, I can make that last until I find some work.

Sitting in a compartment by herself, Betty opened the Hawk’s parcel. Inside was a small brown teddy bear. He lay in tissue paper, and looked up at Betty with bright boot-button eyes. Betty lifted him out and pressed his soft furry face against her own. She had planned to sell whatever was in the package, but now she changed her mind.

‘You’d better come with me, Tedda,’ she told the bear, ‘you’re my lucky mascot,’ and she tucked him carefully into the top of her bag.

She opened each of the letters in case there was money enclosed, but there wasn’t, and she tore them up and watched as the fragments were whipped away in the turbulence of the train’s slipstream. Then she sat back and considered her future.

‘Whatever it is, Tedda,’ she said to the bear who regarded her solemnly from the top of her bag, ‘it has to be better than Laurel House.’

It was a week later, in London, that she wrote the Carrabunna address, found in Miss Vanstone’s address book, on the letter to Rita and Rosie Stevens and using all the stamps she’d taken from the desk, dropped the letter into a pillar box.

The
Pride of Empire
steamed into Sydney Harbour, on a chilly September dawn, giving a blast on her foghorn as she approached the great bridge.

‘Cor! Look at that!’ breathed Rita, staring up in amazement at the incredible steel structure arching across the harbour mouth.

‘This ship’s too big,’ cried Daisy as they drew nearer. ‘Our funnel ain’t gonna fit under there!’

‘Course it is,’ scoffed Sheila who was standing with them, ‘ships like this come in here all the time, stupid!’

‘It’s very high,’ whispered Rosie, clutching her sister’s hand. ‘Will it fall down?’

‘Don’t be silly, Rosie,’ muttered Rita. ‘Course it won’t.’ But, as they steamed slowly beneath it, they could hear the thunder of a train passing over their heads, the steady rumble of its wheels seeming so close that they were all glad when the ship was through and making her way up the inner harbour towards Pyrmont, where they would finally disembark.

They, along with all the other migrants left on the ship, were standing on the main deck, crowding the rails to gaze in wonder at the huge bridge and the city around it; the town stretching away to their left, with strange buildings clinging, higgledy-piggledy, to a rocky headland. Wharves, jutting out into the water with boats tied up alongside, were topped with warehouses, some of which seemed derelict. There were boats everywhere, ferries hurrying fussily across the water to pick up and deposit passengers all around the harbour, other small, private craft that chugged about on business of their owners, and boats under sail, skimming across the bay, seemingly unaware of the vast liner passing under the bridge.