The Throwaway Children (56 page)

When Daisy went into work next day she approached her supervisor to ask if there were any jobs going.

‘Might be some part-time,’ her supervisor said. ‘Why?’

‘Know a girl what’s looking for a job, that’s all,’ replied Daisy casually.

‘Bring her in to see me,’ said her boss, ‘and I’ll see what I can do.’

‘I’ll take you to see her when your face is better,’ Daisy promised Jean. ‘And in the meantime stay in. I’ll bring in food for the both of us. You just make sure old Lazy don’t see you with your face messed up. Steer clear of her, Jean. We ain’t meant to be here in the daytime, remember? So, stay in your room and stay quiet. OK?’

Jean promised, and all that week she stayed in her room. Daisy brought in food for both of them, and as they ate their meals Daisy told Jean a little about her own life.

‘Brought up in a kids’ home, me,’ she said. ‘Never had a proper home. Me mum dumped me on a doorstep and I ain’t a clue who me dad was. At least you know who your dad is.’

‘Yeah, well, Dad isn’t my real dad. I was adopted as a kid. Don’t remember much before that. Think I was on a ship.’

‘On a ship?’ Daisy looked at her sharply. ‘What sort of ship?’

‘Dunno, just a ship. Think there was lots of us kids.’

‘When? When was you on a ship?’

‘When I was a kid. Then I was adopted by these people, the Waters, and I went to live with them.’

Daisy’s mind was racing. She thought about Deeley’s and Rita’s fruitless search for Rosie and her adoptive parents. What had their name been? Daisy couldn’t remember.

‘You told Lazy that your name was Jean Smith,’ she said.

‘Well, I’m not stupid, am I?’ scoffed Jean. ‘I’m not going to tell her my real name, am I?’

‘But you’ve always been called Jean,’ Daisy said casually.

Jean shrugged. ‘Suppose so. I remember Mum telling me she’d always wanted a daughter called Jean.’

‘So, did she change your name to Jean, then? When you was adopted?’

Jean shrugged again. ‘Maybe. Christ, Daisy, I dunno. It’s all so long ago, what does it matter? I only have the haziest memory of any of it. Can
you
remember what happened when you were five?’

‘Some of it,’ answered Daisy. ‘My life was pretty much the same, always in a kids’ home. Except when we come to Australia. I come on a ship, too.’

‘Did you?’ Jean seemed uninterested. ‘Wonder if it was the same one?’

‘Doubt it,’ Daisy said. ‘There was lots of them.’

At the end of the week Daisy took Jean to Woolworths and she was offered a job as a cleaner, working in the evenings when the store had closed. To Jean it was marvellous. The anonymity of the work, hidden away until all the paying customers had gone, with a wage packet at the end of the week, was the security she’d dreamed of.

Jean settled into her work at the store and as she received each pay packet she handed her rent over to Mrs Glazer. She began to relax, feeling safe behind the locked door of her room. Surely Gerald Waters could never find her there. But she reckoned without Gerald’s determination to trace her.

Several weeks later she was walking home from work, and as she passed the police station at the end of the road, she saw a poster on a board outside which brought her up short.

HAVE YOU SEEN THIS GIRL?

JEAN WATERS, MISSING FROM HOME.

REWARD FOR INFORMATION

Underneath was a photograph of her in her school uniform, and though it made her look much younger, it was undeniably her. In panic she hurried back to her room and locked herself in. She wanted to tell Daisy what she’d seen, but when she banged on Daisy’s door, she wasn’t there.

The knock on her own door came next morning when she was still in bed. Sleepily she went to the door and opened it a crack. Mrs Glazer stood on the landing and when the door opened she put her foot into the gap so Jean couldn’t close it again.

‘Mrs Glazer…’ began Jean.

‘Miss Smith,’ sneered Mrs Glazer, ‘or is it Miss Waters?’

‘What?’ Jean managed to look puzzled. ‘Who?’

‘You’re a runaway, Miss Jean Smith Waters,’ said Mrs Glazer. ‘You’re a runaway, and the police are looking for you.’

‘No,’ said Jean, though the truth showed in her face. ‘You’re wrong. My name’s Jean Smith.’

‘Not what it says on the poster,’ said Mrs Glazer, triumphantly. ‘Says you’re Jean Waters and you’re missing. There’s a reward, too!’

‘Don’t be so silly,’ Jean said, rallying. ‘Who’d offer a reward for me?’

‘That’s what we’ll find out, isn’t it,’ crowed Mrs Glazer. ‘Your poor parents maybe.’ And in one smooth movement she had shoved Jean backwards into the room and snatched the key from the inside of the door. ‘You’re going to stay there till the police come and have a look at you,’ she said and slamming the door, she locked it behind her.

Jean sank down on her bed, her head in her hands, tears of despair coursing down her cheeks. Mrs Glazer had seen the poster and recognized her. The police would recognize her, too, and Gerald and Edna would come and claim her, drag her back to the nightmare of her former life.

‘No,’ she shouted at the empty room. ‘I won’t go. I’d rather die.’

She tried banging on her door in the hope that Daisy or one of the other residents might come to see what the matter was, but Daisy and the other girls had all gone to work and wouldn’t be back until the evening, and by then, Jean knew, it would be too late.

She went to the window, wondering if she might get out that way. It was almost as small as the window through which she’d escaped from the Waters’ house, but even if she could squeeze through, she was on the third floor of the hostel and the drop to the pavement was thirty feet or more. She tried leaning out of the window and shouting, but her voice was lost in the sounds of the street below, and though one or two people did look up, no one paid any attention to her cries. She went to the door and rattled the handle, but there was no way it would open. She could see through the keyhole that Mrs Glazer had taken the key with her.

She flung herself back down on her bed as visions of Gerald’s face, smiling with anticipation, filled her mind. She buried her head in her pillow to blot him out, but his face was imprinted on her memory. She could hear his voice, chilly with contempt, saying, ‘You’ve been a very wicked girl. I’m going to have to punish you. Take your clothes off.’

Jean blocked her ears, but she could still hear his voice, hissing his intent. All her safety, so carefully achieved, was gone. The police would come, Gerald would come, and the nightmare would begin again.

I must do something, she thought, but what? Her mind spun as she tried to think of something, some means of escape. Perhaps when Daisy comes home… But that’ll be too late. There’s nothing I can do.

Despair flooded through her and she lay back on her bed and wept. ‘I won’t go back,’ she moaned, ‘I’ll never go back.’

She went yet again to the door, hammering on it with her fists, but there was no response. If Mrs Glazer could hear her she certainly didn’t change her mind and come back. With her hands bruised and aching Jean finally gave up and turned back into her room. It was then that the bottle of sleeping tablets she had stolen from Edna caught her eye. It stood beside the bowl and ewer on the chest of drawers. Occasionally Jean still took one of the tablets, as she had on the night she’d been beaten up, a night she needed to sleep dreamlessly and forget, for a few hours, what had happened to her. Now she picked up the bottle and looked at it. It was still more than half full. She had the means to do as she’d threatened, but did she have the courage? She shook it gently, a bottle of tablets that would be the ultimate escape from Gerald Waters, the ultimate escape from a life of abuse and misery that had brought her to this despair. Had she ever been happy? Jean couldn’t remember. All recollection of her early life had been blotted out by the misery of later years. The only connection she had with it was a rose-patterned dress, something she was sure came from happier days.

Gerald’s malevolent face floated before her again and with sudden determination Jean poured herself a glass of water and opening the pill bottle, began to cram the tablets into her mouth, gulping and swallowing, until she had consumed every one. Then she opened her little case stored under the bed, and pulled out the dress. ‘My gran made it.’ Somewhere from the depths of her mind, Jean knew she’d said this. When, she didn’t know, but the very thought of it comforted her and she clutched the dress to her as she drifted off to sleep. She’d had a gran and that gran had made her a beautiful dress with roses on it.

After hearing that Jean thought she’d come to Australia by ship, an incredible idea was beginning to grow in Daisy’s mind. Could Jean, by any miraculous chance, be Rosie? She didn’t want so much as to hint at it to Jean; not until she’d been to see Deeley, until she’d been told the name of Rosie’s adoptive parents. No word to Rita, either. Raising her hopes only to have them dashed again would be the ultimate cruelty. Studying her carefully, Daisy wondered if she could see the childlike face of Rosie in the gaunt and scared face of Jean. She had fair hair, though scraped off her face and lacklustre it had none of the youthful curls Rosie had had. Her eyes were blue, but shadowed with permanent fear, nothing like the bright, round eyes of the five-year-old Rosie.

I’m just trying to make what she’s told me turn her into Rosie, thought Daisy despondently. There must be hundreds of little girls who arrived on a ship and were adopted by Australian families.

So, she kept her thoughts to herself, deciding that the best thing to do would be to speak to Deeley in private.

On her next half day Daisy managed to get off work early and went to catch Deeley as she left the nursery.

‘Daisy!’ Delia greeted her in surprise. ‘Hallo! What brings you here?’

‘Need to talk to you, Mrs Watson. Private. Without Reet.’

‘Rita’s got a late lecture at college,’ said Delia. ‘We can go home.’

‘No,’ Daisy insisted. ‘She might come back early.’ She glanced along the street and seeing a tearoom further along, said, ‘Can we go there?’

Delia shrugged. ‘If you really want to, Daisy. What’s all this about?’

They ordered a pot of tea, and once it was poured, Delia looked expectantly at Daisy. ‘Well, Daisy. Come on, tell me.’

‘What was the names of them people what adopted Rosie?’

Delia looked at her sharply. ‘Waters. Why do you want to know?’

‘I think I may have found Rosie,’ Daisy said. She spoke calmly, trying to suppress her rising excitement when she heard the name.

‘You what?’

‘I think I may have found Rosie.’ And she told Delia all about Jean.

Delia listened in horrified silence until Daisy had finished. ‘And you think this could be Rosie?’

‘Dunno, Mrs Watson, but she said her new name was Jean Waters. I couldn’t remember the name of the people you’d been looking for, but…’

‘It’s the same,’ murmured Delia.

‘We can’t tell Reet, not till we’re sure,’ Daisy said, ‘so will you come and see her? Come and talk to her?’

‘Of course,’ Delia agreed at once, and picked up her bag. ‘I’ll come now. Is she at your hostel?’

‘I hope so,’ Daisy said. ‘She should be. She’ll go out to work, but not till later.’

They arrived at the hostel door to be greeted by Mrs Glazer.

‘Ah, Miss Smart,’ she said, her eyes gleaming. ‘I think we’ve got a runaway upstairs.’

‘What?’ Daisy stared at her. ‘What d’you mean?’

‘I think you know what I mean, Miss Smart,’ Mrs Glazer smirked. ‘I’m not green, Miss Smart. I’m not stupid. You’ve been hiding her, pretending not to know her when she first came here.’

‘I didn’t know her,’ protested Daisy.

‘So you say, but I know better. This is a respectable house, Miss Smart, and I won’t have runaway girls here.’

‘Why do you think she’s running away?’ asked Daisy, wondering if it was just a guess and Lazy was expecting her to confirm it.

‘There’s a poster with her picture on it outside the cop shop up the road. Looking for Jean Waters.’

‘But her name is Jean Smith,’ Daisy said.

‘She
says
her name is Jean Smith, but it’s her all right. When I went up and faced her with it, I could tell. So I told her I was calling the police,’ Mrs Glazer said righteously. ‘Her poor parents must be out of their minds with worry. I locked her in and I called the police.’

‘And what did they say?’ asked Daisy.

‘Said they’d come as soon as they could.’

‘And did they?’

‘Not yet, but I expect them anytime.’ Suddenly aware of Delia standing behind Daisy, she said, ‘And who’s this, may I ask?’

‘A friend…’ began Daisy.

‘Friends of any sort must be out by nine o’clock,’ sniffed Mrs Glazer. ‘And if I find you’ve been hiding a runaway child, Miss Smart, you’ll have to go, too.’ With this parting shot, Mrs Glazer retired to her own quarters to await the police, leaving Daisy and Delia to hurry upstairs to Jean’s room.

Daisy banged on the door. ‘Jean! It’s me, Daisy. Can you hear me? Jean? It’s Daisy.’ She tried the door, but as Mrs Glazer had said, it was locked. Daisy called again, banging on the door with her fists, but there was no response.

‘What do we do now?’ Daisy turned to Delia in despair.

‘We go and demand the key,’ Delia said.

‘We can try, but she won’t give it us,’ Daisy said, ‘she’s a real mean bitch.’

‘Can but try,’ Delia said.

‘Perhaps mine’ll fit,’ Daisy suggested, taking out her key. It fitted the keyhole, but wouldn’t turn the lock. ‘No, no good.’

‘You go on trying to get Jean to answer you,’ Delia said, ‘I’ll go back down to Mrs Glazer.’

At that moment there was the sound of boots on the stairs and a puffing Mrs Glazer appeared followed by two uniformed police officers. The first, a sergeant, paused at the top of the stairs and glanced enquiringly at Delia and Daisy.

‘Well,’ he asked, ‘what’s going on here?’

Before Mrs Glazer could catch her breath to speak, Delia stepped forward. ‘Mrs Glazer has locked a young girl into this room,’ she said, indicating Jean’s door. ‘We’ve tried knocking, but she doesn’t answer.’