The Throwaway Children (54 page)

‘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.’

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.’

‘Just for a night or two,’ Jean said quickly, ‘then my parents will be here.’

The woman looked at her askance, but she wrote down the names of two women-only hostels and marked them on the map. As she left the office, Jean looked back and saw the woman reaching for the telephone, and certain that she was reporting her to someone, she hurried away. She spent the rest of the afternoon wandering through the town. The woman had told her that hostels weren’t generally open during the day, and it was near to six o’clock when she finally risked going to one of those marked on her map. The door was opened by a woman dressed in a housecoat, a cigarette hanging from her lip who, in answer to her query, said, ‘No, nothing here. You might try Lawsons, in Flint Street, Kings Cross.’

Jean thanked her. Lawsons was the other one marked on her map. She trudged the extra mile to Flint Street, only to be met with the same answer. ‘No rooms free here. Sorry.’

‘Can you suggest anywhere else?’ she asked wearily.

The woman considered for a moment and then said, ‘Marks House, two streets over. They might have something.’ Jean thanked her and crossed the road.