Gull Island

by Grace Thompson

  He was also afraid that if Barbara did come back the following day, that damned girl would be with her. How could he cope with that madam again? She’d be a bad influence on Kate and Hattie, there was nothing more certain than that. His girls did as he told them and knew what was expected of them. How would they accept the presence of a wayward creature like Rosita? And would he be able to keep his hands off her?

  Since Rosita had left them the family seemed, to Graham at least, far happier. But for Barbara, the gap left had never been filled. For a while there had been letters written by the matron in the children’s home on Rosita’s behalf, assuring her ‘Auntie Babs’ that all was well and that Rosita had ‘settled amicably’. Those words stayed in Barbara’s memory and settled unnervingly on her guilty thoughts. ‘Settled amicably’? Her wilful daughter? She wondered just how they had persuaded the angry little girl to ‘settle amicably’ and she feared the worst. Later the notes were written by Rosita herself but they were brief, polite scrawls and, Barbara suspected, written to instructions.

  Each letter was a twist in Barbara’s heart. She knew she had given up her child for selfish reasons, abandoned her, and worse, pretended she was her daughter’s auntie, for the sake of a more peaceful life. Guilt kept her awake at night and she would stave it off, imagining how, one day, she and Kate and Hattie would go to bring Rosita back. But whenever she pictured the scene in her tormented daydreams, Graham would not be there. She would leave the happy vision knowing that while he lived, she and Rosita would never be reunited.

  In 1927 the letters had ceased. She continued to write, signing herself ‘your loving Auntie Babs’, but there were no replies. Rosita hadn’t even acknowledged the hand-knitted scarf she had made, or the copy of Wind in the Willows she had sent for her tenth birthday.

  She blamed Graham. It was his fault Rosita was no longer at the farm. He had beaten the little girl until there had been no alternative to sending her away. He had threatened her safety. It was he who had driven her away. The thought grew until she began to hate the man. He was a cruel monster who had robbed her of her love-child. Gradually she began to avoid his demands. By the time spring came and the sowing was underway, she no longer shared his bed.

  At Easter, the weather promised sunshine, and Barbara felt full of optimism as she set off to find Rosita. She would just see that she was all right, and give her the few pounds she had brought for her and the dress she had sewn during the previous winter when the evenings were long and the farm work less demanding.

  She wouldn’t even suggest she might one day come home. Not yet. When a few more years had passed and Rosita was grown past the difficult age, then she would come and gather her up, take her back and never let her leave again. The dream seemed real now she was on her way, and she glowed with the excitement of the story she invented. She forgot five years had passed and Rosita would now be a leggy ten-year-old, with few memories of the life she had once led on the farm.

  The home was a large country house set in a beautiful garden which the children were encouraged to enjoy. Barbara saw several groups of girls sitting with sketch books trying to set down what they saw. The grounds were surrounded by trees and newly unfurled leaves were making a background of a hundred different greens. The lawns were neat and the scent of newly cut grass was delightful. The air was filled with the humming of bees busily searching for pollen, their tiny beating wings filling the garden with the sound of summer.

  She went to the little room that was hardly more than a porch to wait for one of the girls to fetch her daughter. The door was wide open, giving a view of the front garden and the driveway. It was very beautiful. Surely Rosita had been happy here?

  ‘What do you want? We’re just back from Sunday school and I have things to do!’

  Rosita’s first words shocked Barbara sharply from the euphoric daydream of the affectionate greeting she would receive.

  ‘I – You haven’t written. I came to see if you are all right,’ Barbara stammered, staring at the tall, thin stranger with dark eyes who glared at her with such intense dislike. She faltered in her words, like a criminal. ‘You’re – I’m your—’

  ‘You aren’t going to say you’re my mother, are you?’ Rosita gave a supercilious glare. ‘A mother? You threw me out, didn’t you? Preferred him to me. Then pretended you’re my auntie.’

  ‘It was for the best,’ Barbara whispered. ‘Come out with me. I’ll see the matron and ask if we can go out for the afternoon and I’ll tell you all about your sisters and the farm. The pony I wrote to you about is still there. Perhaps you could come one day and ride him?’ Damn, she shouldn’t have said that.

  ‘I don’t want any favours! And I don’t want you!’

  Rosita ran off across the lawn, heading for the gate before disappearing in some trees, her skinny legs flying like those of a young colt, her shiny brown hair bouncing with each step.

  Barbara sat utterly still, her hands gripping her bag as if life depended on it. She stared out through the door, the spring flowers that filled the borders with the golden richness of hundreds of daffodils now unseen by tear-filled eyes. She was shocked by the reception, which, if she hadn’t been so filled with romantic imaginings, she might have expected. To allow five years to pass and then believe that Rosita would run into her arms? What a fool she was.

  She dropped her bag and went to stand at the door. A movement at the corner of the wall caught her eye and she stood perfectly still apart from her hand. Slowly the fingers crossed and she uttered a silent prayer. The figure approached her and she turned to smile at Rosita, who glowered back and said, ‘You can take me to the beach. I haven’t been since you put me in this prison!’

  ‘Which beach would you like to visit?’ Barbara asked quietly.

  ‘The one where Auntie Molly Carey lives, of course!’

  The matron lent them two bicycles to take them as far as the railway station and this time, both having some experience, they were proficient. The station master agreed to mind them until their return and they stepped onto the train with hope in their hearts. Barbara’s hope was to achieve at least an acceptance of her by her daughter. Rosita was tense with excited hope of seeing Richard.

  They arrived at the house on the lonely beach in the middle of the afternoon as Mrs Carey was putting a Yorkshire pudding mixture into a frying pan. They still had no oven. Made with birds’ egg substitute it looked appetizing, and the sight of the vegetables simmering on the two hobs and the delicious smell of meat hanging in the Dutch oven in front of the blazing fire made them pleased to accept an invitation to stay and share the meal.

  ‘Funny time to eat for sure,’ a smiling Mrs Carey said. ‘But by the time the papers are done and my Henry goes to his club for a pint to refresh himself, three o’clock suits us all best. Now, come here, darling girl, so I can give you a hug, Rosita, love. Such a time since we saw you, I’d hardly have recognized you! Tall you are, and quite a young lady.’

  Barbara was relieved to see that Mrs Carey looked well and the shelves at the sides of the fireplace were filled with food. Things had obviously improved for the family. Clean dresses and shirts hung behind the door and the windows, now mended, were dressed in cheerful curtains.

  But seeing beyond the obvious first impressions, she saw that the house was damp despite the huge fire. The walls were spotted with mildew. Pyramid-shaped patterns of black rising up in the corners showed the extent of the decay, weak places that had been infiltrated by insidious fungus that had been scraped off many times, and which had determinedly recolonized. Floorboards were rotten and Barbara saw that furniture had been wedged to prevent anyone walking on the dangerous areas.

  Most serious of all, the walls were cracking, wide gaps that would let in moisture, which in time would increase the damage. Where there was moisture there would be frost. Frost and thawing, expanding and easing, time and again. She knew from the old barn on the farm just how relentlessly that could destroy. The Careys had survived several winters
in the damp old place, but would they manage another?

  ‘Where’s Richard?’ Rosita asked, her voice softer than when she spoke to Barbara. ‘I thought he’d be here with the food ready and smelling so good. Better than anything I’m used to,’ she added with another glare for her mother.

  Mrs Carey looked anxious. ‘Richard? Oh, he’s around somewhere,’ she said airily. ‘Now,’ she added, quickly changing the subject, ‘tell me about yourselves. Barbara? You still at that farm? Where are Kate and Hattie? I’ve never seen them, you know, although you’ve told me about them in your letters. Bring them next time, why don’t you? And Graham too, mind. Welcome they’d all be.’ She glanced at Rosita as she spoke and watched the girl’s face tighten with silent anger. ‘Well, perhaps not, love. It’s our Rosita who’s the important one, isn’t it?’ She hugged the girl and added in a whisper, ‘Auntie Carey’s best girl you are and always will be.’

  Idris, Alun, Billie and Gareth arrived back from their various activities as the dinner was put out on assorted plates and bowls. They looked at Rosita, who glared back at them, tongue fully stretched. Without a word they went onto the beach with their plates and ate their meals huddled in a tight group that left no room for her to join them.

  After they had eaten, Mr Carey fell asleep. Mrs Carey gave Rosita an apple then guided Barbara away from the house and sat down against the sea wall. The other children took their plates down to the edge of the sea and washed them. Rosita darted around the end of the wall to listen to what was being said that Mrs Carey didn’t want her to hear.

  ‘The truth is, Barbara, we don’t know where Richard is. The police have been here three times looking for him and us without a clue as to what’s going on.’

  ‘They must have told you what they suspect him of?’

  ‘I think it’s burglaries. Henry knows, mind, but he won’t say, trying to keep it from me, he is, and him too worried to sleep.’

  ‘Burglaries? Richard wouldn’t do anything so stupid!’

  ‘Why not?’ There was bitterness in Mrs Carey’s voice. ‘It’s only what Henry’s taught him all these years. “Take what you can from those with enough to spare,” he used to say. Richard is fifteen now and almost a man. He’s only doing what he was taught to do. Remember what Henry used to bring home in his pockets and that bag of his? Starved we’d have been, mind, if he hadn’t helped himself to a bit of extra food. Richard doesn’t think it’s wrong to steal, he only thinks it wrong to get caught!’

  ‘And you think that’s why he’s staying away? So he doesn’t get caught?’

  ‘It’s what I think, yes, but where is he? How is he managing? I’m so frightened for him.’

  Barbara leaned closer to her friend and whispered, ‘Keep talking.’ Then, after saying something to encourage a reply, she stood up and peered over the wall, just in time to see Rosita haring along the path towards Luke’s cottage.

  ‘Kids, they don’t change, do they?’ she said sadly. ‘She’s still as prickly as she ever was.’

  Mrs Carey shared Barbara’s sigh.

  ‘She needs to be a survivor, mind, like our Richard. Submission is death to all hope. Somehow, I think Rosita and our Richard will never give up hope of something better.’

  Richard was in Cardiff. It being a Sunday, he was lying low and waiting for the day to pass. Tomorrow the plan he had been nurturing for years was to become a reality. Tomorrow, while Mam delivered the papers for the last time, he and his father would be signing themselves into a secure future.

  A tobacconist and newsagents business was available for £85. The rent of the property was cheap and he’d saved enough to pay it for six months. The accommodation, although shabby and neglected, was a palace compared with the house on the beach that he knew was about to collapse. Business was poor too but he knew that, with an effort, it would improve. He wondered ruefully whether his father would rise to the occasion.

  The money Richard had managed to accumulate had come from thieving, mostly from market stalls, both stall-holders and their customers. A few shillings or, when he was lucky, pounds here and there, like the time so long ago when he had taken £25 from the wholesalers’ box.

  The money he most enjoyed acquiring had been from Barbara’s father. He had seen him staggering home one winter evening, silly-drunk and alone. While appearing to help him, he had relieved him of two pounds seven shillings and fourpence halfpenny from a back pocket. Nothing before or since had given him greater pleasure.

  Lately, he had been more daring and had carried out a series of burglaries, but he knew it was too risky and had to stop. Twice he had almost been caught by the householder and once a policeman had arrived in time to see him and chase him for almost half an hour through the streets and lanes, until he had managed to find a ditch in which to hide. The ditch had been full of water, and the icy chill of it was still fresh in his memory.

  He knew it had been his brother Idris, Mam’s golden boy, who had told the police where he would be. A few days later, he had accidentally let slip the address of a house he intended to burgle and had watched from a safe corner while the police hid and waited to catch him. Pity it was dear little Blodwen who had died, he thought bitterly. Better for them all if it had been Idris!

  He’d been lucky, in spite of his brother’s attempts to have him arrested, but luck had a habit of running out. There was enough money now, and as long as his father did his share, things would be comfortable for the Careys at last.

  The shop his father would rent was in their own home town. It was in a good position at a junction of the main road amid the shops and the smaller road leading down to the station. Hundreds of people passed on their way to work. He had stood there watching for several days and saw how good the place could become once it was smartened up a bit. The present owner had thirteen cats and the smell was obviously what discouraged customers. Once his mam had cleaned it, the convenience of stopping to buy a morning paper and a packet of cigarettes or some chocolate just before getting on the train would soon appeal.

  Beside the awful smell of the place, it looked drab and unattractive. After a month or so business would grow. Mam would soon have it sorted. Dad was a kindly man but without the bite needed to succeed. No, Mam would be the one to get things going, once he’d taught her the business side of things. She might even persuade that useless Idris to help, although that seemed to be too much to hope.

  He went to the one café that was open and drank another cup of tea. There was nowhere else to go, nothing to do. He wanted to go home but he didn’t dare, not with golden boy Idris on the prowl.

  The police couldn’t find him now, not with the lease to be signed tomorrow. Once that was done and he had explained the books to Mam, he would go away. Far away, until the hunt for him had died down and his activities had been forgotten.

  Barbara stayed overnight in small bed and breakfast accommodation in the town and on the following morning took a taxi to the home to take Rosita out for the day. It was the promise of seeing Richard that persuaded Rosita to spend another day in her mother’s company but Barbara didn’t mind what the reason was as long as she was given a few hours to reach some kind of rapport with her difficult and resentful daughter.

  They met Mrs Carey with Jack and Gareth delivering the last of the papers. The boys, now seventeen and eighteen, looked shifty when Barbara asked about the work they were doing.

  ‘Collecting dole, the pair of them,’ Mrs Carey said with a sigh. ‘Still, something will turn up for them soon, sure to.’

  Both boys looked away and went into the house. Unknown to their parents, they had both signed up to join the army and in a few days’ time would be leaving for good.

  ‘Where’s Richard?’ Rosita asked after hugging the woman affectionately. ‘Did you tell him I was coming to see him?’

  ‘He didn’t come back, lovely girl.’ Mrs Carey glanced at Barbara. ‘Stayed out all night he did and Henry and me up watching the tide go out and come back in again without a mome
nt’s sleep between us. Gone into Cardiff, my Henry has. Says he’s going to look for him, but I think he knows where he is and what he’s been doing. Them two are cooking something up for sure. Been into Cardiff time and again, they have, and not a word of what they’re doing.’

  ‘We’ll come and see you later – we don’t want to add to your work by staying. It’s a mild day. I think I’ll take Rosita to the Pleasure Beach.’

  ‘I don’t want to go to the Pleasure Beach, I want to stay with Auntie Molly Carey.’

  ‘But not yet,’ Mrs Carey said softly, giving the girl another hug. ‘Best you give me the chance to get a meal ready for you all, and give Uncle Henry Carey time to find Richard and bring him home.’

  Barbara smiled her thanks at her thoughtful friend.

  Barbara and Rosita decided to catch the train into town, then walk across the docks to the beach. Rosita didn’t remember passing so close to the huge ships before. She had only seen them on their way, out to sea. They towered above her like manmade cliffs, their painted sides leaning outward, swollen with cargoes and people. There were so many she thought she could have walked across from one side of the docks to the other on their decks. Cork-filled tenders stopped them from scraping their sides against the dockside, gangplanks stretched up to the deck rails where people leaned over and shouted to those below.

  She said nothing to her mother and refused to answer when Barbara offered a comment. She just stared at the fascinating world around her. As well as sights, there were the assortment of smells: many kinds of fruit including bananas and oranges, and various types of wood including the sweet-scented cherry wood as lengths of pit-wood were unloaded for the coal mines in the valleys north of Cardiff. She was interested to see coal being exported. It was lifted from the light railway, still in its wagons, which were hoisted up on cranes, then tilted for the coal to be dropped straight into the cavernous holds of the ships.

  Men were standing around the dockside in groups, talking, shaking their heads, gesturing to the cargoes waiting to be loaded, cigarettes cupped in curled fists to protect them from the wind that blew in from the sea. Their clothes were torn and Rosita wondered what cargo they had been loading that had ripped the cloth so viciously. She looked at her mother, the question on her lips, but she didn’t ask. Instead she tugged at the shredded jacket of a docker and asked him.