‘Do these people know about my dad, Miss?’ Rosie finally managed to blurt out.
‘Yes, dear.’ Violet always endeavoured to be truthful to children in her care. ‘But don’t let that worry you. They are good, kind Christian people and they offered to help you.’ She really hoped that the Bentleys would live up to the recommendation her colleague had given them, but her one and only meeting with them hadn’t been long enough to gauge if their motives for offering Rosie a home were pure altruism, or just image-enhancement.
Until five years ago, Violet had rarely needed to consider people’s motives. Nursing had been her life, and that profession wasn’t attractive to the vainglorious.
She’d begun in St Mary’s in Paddington where she’d risen to the position of theatre sister, and then on to the Queen Alexandra’s Royal Nursing Corps at the outbreak of the war. She had loved the Q A s and all the opportunities for travel that came with it. She’d been to India and Egypt and seen sights few of her present colleagues could even dream of.
In 1947, aware that time was running out for her, she’d left the Q A s. She wanted a husband and children, and although nursing in the Army brought her into close contact with men every working day, all the suitable ones were already married.
Going home to Somerset and becoming a social worker hadn’t turned out quite as she’d hoped. She bought a little cottage, learned to drive and adjusted to a civilian life, but an appropriate husband somehow eluded her. She was looking for a strong, dependable man, who had been in the Forces, preferably officer class, though she was prepared to consider an NCO. He had to have travelled as extensively as herself, and share her passion for classical music. She didn’t mind if he already had children from a previous marriage.
She had met several widowers in the course of her work, and had she dropped her standards a little, two or three of them might have almost fitted her requirements. But Violet wasn’t the kind to drop her standards under any circumstances. Now, five years later, she was a little disillusioned. Not at the lack of husband or child, that was just her fate, but because her work brought her face to face with some of the most unpleasant aspects of human nature.
She had been brought up in Somerset, yet she had no idea that incest was so prevalent in the country. In one appalling family she’d visited, the father had made all three daughters pregnant. Neither had she had any notion that there were so many slovenly and unfit mothers. At times she wanted to run back to the orderly world of hospitals, slip into a theatre gown and once again mix with intelligent, dedicated people who shared her high standards.
Yet when she was called into Bridgwater police station to see Alan Parker, she hadn’t an inkling that the few remaining strands of belief she held that truly barbarous acts only happened in cities were about to be pulled out by the roots.
Within twenty-four hours of taking Alan to a foster home in Taunton, she got the message that his sister was in hospital following a terrible beating and that the police were digging up the land surrounding May Cottage.
Even now, two weeks later, everyone was still agog about the discovery of two women’s bodies buried there. Rumours were flying around that there were still more out on the moors. The police had made an appeal for Ethel Parker to come forward, so they could rule out her being another possible victim, but as yet she hadn’t responded.
Cole was being held at Bristol prison, loudly protesting his innocence. Seth had finally been caught a week after the bodies were discovered. He had holed up out on the moors and the police eventually captured him because he made the mistake of building a fire at night. He was only charged with grievous bodily harm against Rosie, but Violet understood that the police were convinced he too was involved in the murders.
Norman, however, had been released. The police were satisfied that he neither knew about nor was party to the murders. Violet had heard he had gone to Cardiff to work. May Cottage had been emptied of its contents and boarded up as it had become something of a Mecca for morbid sightseers.
But the adult Parkers, their guilt or innocence, were not Violet Pemberton’s concern. Her role was to ensure the safety and well-being of the two children. Alan had been easy to deal with. Although he had asked for Rosie countless times in the first few days with his foster parents, he had quickly adjusted to his new life, and indeed responded well to Mrs Hughes, his new foster-mother.
Rosie, however, was an entirely different kettle of fish. Violet wished she’d met her before all this happened. She seemed so calm and controlled. Was that an act, a way of preventing anyone getting too close to her, or was she naturally so? While she was very relieved that Rosie was taking it all so well – she found disturbed adolescent girls difficult to deal with – she thought the girl’s quiet acceptance, her lack of tears or emotional outbursts, a little odd under the circumstances.
‘Are we nearly there, Miss?’ Rosie asked suddenly, interrupting Violet’s reverie.
‘Nearly. About five more miles now. Did I tell you that Kingsdown where the Bentleys live is only a short walk down a steep hill to the shops and the docks? Near by there are some very old quaint places, and an area called Clifton which is rather splendid.’
Rosie stared out of the window dejectedly. Everywhere seemed grey and miserable because it was raining; it looked and felt more like autumn than July and the middle of the summer. She didn’t believe she’d find anything or anywhere splendid, ever again. She didn’t think that she’d like living in a city either, and she was frightened of going to live with strangers.
‘When can I see Alan?’ she asked a few minutes later. She was deeply suspicious about Miss Pemberton taking him to Taunton, then placing her in Bristol. She had a feeling that the big distance between the two places was intended to separate them permanently.
‘We’ll talk about that in a few weeks when you’ve both settled down,’ the social worker said crisply. It was touching that Rosie clearly cared more about her little brother than herself, but also a little irritating. ‘Mrs Hughes feels that he needs time alone with them to adjust properly. But I’ve already told you, dear, that he’s very happy with them. He’s stopped wetting the bed, he’s eating well and looking forward to going to a new school in September.’
That all sounded very good to Rosie. She was quite satisfied he was being looked after properly. She just wished she could put into words how she needed to see Alan, just so she felt she still had somebody.
Then there were the nasty, dirty thoughts which tormented her all the time. Like remembering what Seth and Norman did to Heather, and Seth rubbing his ‘thing’ while she was screaming. She knew in her heart that Seth was really bad, perhaps even more dangerous than her father. Every time Sergeant Headly came to see her in hospital a little voice in her head kept telling her she should tell him this and explain why she thought it. But she just couldn’t. He was her brother after all, even if she did hate him. Yet all the same she kept hoping Seth would do something, anything, while he was in prison to make the police realize just how nasty he was.
As they drove into Bristol and Rosie saw big buildings, fancy shops and masses of people, she tried to put her problems aside and look enthusiastic. No one would know who she was here, they couldn’t point her out or whisper about her. Maybe Bristol would be a good place to live.
‘Here we are then,’ Miss Pemberton said brightly, finally stopping in a terrace of tall, grey Georgian houses. ‘Now, before we go in and I introduce you to the Bentleys, I just want to remind you of one or two things. I’m here to help you, Rosie. If you have any problems, anything you want to talk over with me, just drop me a line and I’ll come to see you.
‘You’ll be safe here. No one knows who you are. Mrs Bentley will just tell her friends you’re helping around the house. Just try to be a good girl, do as you are told, and you’ll be fine.’
Twenty minutes later Rosie was having a cup of tea in Mrs Bentley’s sitting-room. She’d seen over the entire four-storey house, from the kitchen in the baseme
nt to the room she was to have on the top floor, but now she was looking out of the window, aware that Miss Pemberton and Mrs Bentley were discussing her, but too engrossed in the view to listen to their conversation.
Kingsdown Parade ran along the top of a hill, but that wasn’t apparent until you stepped into the house and looked out of the back windows. Even in the summer rain it was a spectacular panoramic view of the city rooftops, with green hills in the distance and the river Avon winding its way through the city like a silver snake. Rosie hadn’t known Bristol was so huge; it looked as if there were enough houses for a million people and dozens of church spires. But better still than the view was the Bentleys’ garden down below; it was a bit overgrown with lots of trees and bushes, but it invited exploration.
‘Are you listening, Rosie?’ Miss Pemberton said, forcing her to turn back to the two women and appear interested. ‘Mrs Bentley was just asking me about your clothes. I explained that I’ve found you a couple of dresses and new shoes and I’ll get you a coat as soon as possible.’
Rosie blushed. She didn’t like being a charity case. Because the dress she’d been wearing when Seth beat her was ruined, Miss Pemberton had brought in the green dress, shoes and underwear she was wearing now, and another everyday dress and change of underwear. They were all lovely, the sort of clothes she’d always wanted, but she hadn’t expected Mrs Bentley would need to know they weren’t really her own.
She didn’t like the look of Mrs Bentley either. She was a big stern-faced woman dressed all in grey and held in firmly by strong corsets. Her hair was grey too, and that was kept in place by a hair net. She had said earlier that she had three grown-up daughters and boasted that she kept all their bedrooms ready for them just in case they came home unexpectedly, yet Rosie thought she sounded far too snooty to be motherly.
‘I expect Rosie’s frightfully overwhelmed,’ the woman said, looking at Rosie with one of those phoney, kindly expressions. ‘This house must be so very different from what she’s been accustomed to.’
Rosie smarted. She had been terribly aware of her Somerset accent from the moment she walked through the door because Mrs Bentley’s was so posh. Yet the suggestion that she came from a hovel riled her. The Bentleys’ house was big, but the carpets and furniture were all very shabby. The parlour at May Cottage was a great deal grander.
‘Rosie will soon find her feet here,’ Miss Pemberton replied, and Rosie had a feeling she didn’t like Mrs Bentley much either. ‘She’s been used to looking after her entire family, cooking, washing, and cleaning, and as I understand it, a very good job she made of it too. I’m sure she’ll be a great help to you, Mrs Bentley. Now suppose you tell her the house rules. Bedtime and so forth.’
Edith Bentley was an ideas person. She had a different one every three or four months. Her past ideas had ranged from collecting old Bibles to send to the missions in Africa, to knitting rugs for refugees and helping ‘unfortunates’. Her position in the local church usually meant she could get others to actually do the work, she merely co-ordinated it. Just after the war there had been a glut of unmarried mothers, and she’d found homes for most of them, only to find that most of the young mothers complained they were expected to do so much housework they had no time to look after their babies. Then there was a brief flirtation recently with ex-prisoners. She persuaded people to give them homes in return for odd jobs and gardening until they got on their feet again. Unfortunately some of them got on their feet in a more literal way than finding a permanent job: one wealthy woman in the parish came home one day to find her family silver gone, along with her maid.
When Mrs Bentley heard from a social worker acquaintance that Violet Pemberton was looking for a home for the murderer’s child, she immediately saw a golden opportunity to refresh her flagging reputation at the church, and get a little help around the house. Of course no reasonable person would assume the child to be dangerous just because of what her father had done, but most of Edith Bentley’s friends at St Matthew’s were twittery spinsters and they would be impressed by her bravery and compassion.
Edith was a little disappointed to find that Rosie Parker was an attractive, seemingly intelligent girl, despite her appalling rustic accent: she’d expected someone plain and a little simple.
‘I’ll expect you up at seven.’ Mrs Bentley lowered her glasses to peer at Rosie over them. ‘I shall make a list of tasks to be done in the mornings. We have lunch at one o’clock sharp as Mr Bentley comes home for it. After washing up the lunch things you can have some free time until five. I would expect you to be in bed by ten. I’m sure I don’t need to say that you must remain indoors during the evening. I don’t approve of young girls raking the streets. I shall give you two and sixpence pocket money on Saturday morning. You will have all your meals with us, but I think you’ll probably be happier down in the kitchen during the evening; there’s a wireless there you can listen to.’
Rosie sensed she was expected to say something. She looked quickly round the sitting-room, hoping for inspiration. She saw the many books and for the first time that day managed a real smile. ‘Can I read some of those?’ she asked.
During the first three weeks at the Bentleys’ house, Rosie contemplated running away many times. Mrs Bentley didn’t hit, starve or overwork her, but she never stopped carping from morning till night.
The woman found fault with everything, from the way she spoke to her lack of table manners and even the way she approached the simplest job. Rosie had long since given up trying to hold a conversation with her. Every sentence she uttered was corrected.
‘It’s “I didn’t”, not “I never”. We say “That is” not “thass”. Stop rolling those r’s! You sound like a farm worker.’ It was easier to stay silent than be reminded constantly of her ignorance.
She stood over Rosie as she ironed a shirt, insisting the collar had to be tackled first, then the cuffs. Embroidery on hankies or tablecloths had to be done over a thick wad of blanket. She screamed in horror when Rosie plunged dirty plates into hot water, they had to be rinsed off first in cold. When Rosie was making a bed, dusting a room or sweeping down the stairs, the woman watched her, keeping up a barrage of instructions. Not one word of praise ever came her way, and by the evening Rosie would go to her room and sob herself to sleep.
On the evening of the day she arrived Rosie had been buttering the bread for tea when Mrs Bentley went up to answer the front door. As she left the kitchen she told Rosie to lay the table.
Although the kitchen was in the basement it was a pleasant, bright room, painted light green with cream cupboard doors. They had all the modern equipment – a gas cooker and boiler – and not one piece of china was cracked. Rosie laid the central table for the three of them and made sure the knives and forks were the right way round. To her astonishment Mrs Bentley shrieked when she came back in and saw her handiwork.
‘What are you thinking of?’ she exclaimed, pursing her lips in utter disgust, as if Rosie had disembowelled the cat in her absence. ‘I meant the dining-room table. Only servants eat in the kitchen!’
Rosie was sent staggering upstairs to the dining-room on the ground floor with a tray piled high with things that looked absolutely unnecessary, but Mrs Bentley soon put her straight about the ‘niceties’ of table-laying and introduced her to previously unknown items such as jam spoons, butter knives, tea strainers, sugar tongs and napkins.
Since then every single meal had been an endurance test, as Mrs Bentley kept up a constant flow of instructions. ‘Don’t hold your knife like a pencil. Don’t you dare turn your fork to scoop up food. Use your right hand for drinking, bread and butter in the left. Sit up straight. Keep your elbows in.’
Mr Bentley never joined in these instructions, he just sat and ate his meals in silence. He was a dapper little man with a complexion like pale parchment, a thin moustache like a pencil stroke and dark hair shiny with brilliantine. He had a printing business in Bristol and even when it was hot, and after climbing the steep
steps from town, he never looked flushed. He never sat in his shirt sleeves, belched, swore or shouted.
Rosie wondered now after observing him during so many meals whether he had grown silent for the same reason she had, because his wife had worn him down. If she asked him a question he rarely said more than ‘Yes dear’ or ‘No dear’. When Mrs Bentley passed on a snippet of gossip, or mentioned something she’d heard on the wireless, he raised one eyebrow and replied ‘Really?’ But however odd Rosie found his silence, he always smiled and thanked her when she did something for him. She had a feeling he was sympathetic towards her.
Until her first Sunday with the Bentleys, Rosie had never been inside a church. She knew about God and Jesus because she learned about them at school and said prayers in assembly. But Cole hadn’t believed in churches. Rosie was pleased when Mrs Bentley said she had to go with them; it made her feel as if she was accepted as a member of their family, and she was curious about what a ‘service’ meant. But the moment she walked in, between the Bentleys, she saw heads turn to look at her and heard the whispers. ‘That’s her,’ ‘Here she comes!’ and ‘She looks quite ordinary, considering.’
Throughout that first interminable service she had smarted with shame and anger because Mrs Bentley had obviously told everyone who she was. She kept her eyes tightly closed during the prayers so she couldn’t see all of those nosy people watching her, and offered up one of her own that she should find the strength to rise above the stares, Mrs Bentley’s constant criticism and her terrible sense of guilt.
Rosie Page 10