The Throwaway Children (52 page)

‘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.’

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.’

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-care 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.’