When the croc had disappeared round the corner, Sean tossed his cigarette end on the ground and grinned. ‘Well then, kiddo,’ he said, ‘let’s get to it.’
Betty tested the back gate; it wasn’t bolted. A sharp push from Sean, and they were into the yard, and safe from prying eyes.
‘Where’s this window, then?’ Sean looked round him, noting a second escape route through the orchard.
‘Round here.’ Betty led him to the kitchen window, which, to her relief, was still open a crack; a fear that it had been repaired unfounded.
Sean grabbed hold of it and with a screech of un-oiled hinges, he pulled it wide.
‘Here,’ he said, ‘I’ll give you a leg up, then you can open the back door for me.’
Betty squirmed through and once inside looked round the all-too familiar kitchen, immediately recognizing the ever-present smell of boiled cabbage, and the general air of gloom.
‘Open the door!’ Sean hissed through the window, and jerked from her reverie, Betty hurried to let him in. He wrinkled his nose at the stale smell and said, ‘So, where’s Emily’s office, then?’
Betty took him through the cold and silent house, memories flooding back as she led the way to Emily Vanstone’s office. Sean paused, looking round, taking stock of what was there: the polished desk in the middle of the room, the metal filing cabinets against the wall, the silver clock on the mantelpiece, the paraffin heater in a corner.
To Betty, Emily’s desk looked just as it always had, polished to a shine, with the pen and blotter lying on the top; only the paperknife was missing, sold by Betty for half a crown on her first day in London. She’d warned Sean about the locked drawers and he’d come prepared with a sturdy pocket knife.
The lock on the centre drawer provided little resistance and when they pulled open the drawer they found the familiar cash box. Sean picked it up and shook it. It clinked loudly and was reassuringly heavy. He pulled a cloth bag from under his jacket and without attempting to open the tin box, stowed it in the bag. ‘Let’s see what else we’ve got,’ he said and quickly sorted through the drawer’s other contents. Apart from a new fountain pen still in its case and a few postage stamps, there was nothing further of value. The pen and the stamps joined the cash box in his bag, as did the silver clock from the mantelpiece, before he looked across at the metal filing cabinets standing against the wall.
‘What’s in them?’ he asked.
Betty shrugged. ‘Dunno – papers?’
‘I’ll have a dekko, you look through them other drawers.’
While Betty worked systematically through the side drawers, Sean set his penknife to work on the lock of the first filing cabinet. ‘If she keeps it locked,’ he said as he brought pressure to bear with the blade of his knife, ‘there might be more valuables. Ah! Got it!’
The cabinet drawer yielded to the knife and sprang open to reveal a range of manila folders, all neatly labelled. Sean ran his fingers through the files.
‘Here, Bet,’ he called, ‘look at that. There’s a file here with your name on it.’
‘What?’ Betty looked up from the last drawer, where she’d found an unused National Provincial Bank cheque book. Sean pulled out one of the manila folders and carried it over to Betty. When he saw the cheque book, he almost snatched it out of her hand.
‘We’ll have that,’ he said, as he handed her the folder. He turned his attention to the second filing cabinet but finding it only contained yet more papers, he said, ‘Nothing else of interest here. What about the Hawk woman’s rooms. You said she had stuff.’
Betty shuddered. ‘I ain’t going up there,’ she said flatly. ‘I ain’t never going into that woman’s place again.’
‘OK, OK,’ agreed Sean. ‘No bother, I’ll go and see what’s what. You go on looking downstairs. Never know what you might find, eh?’
Betty knew there’d be nothing else of value downstairs, until she thought of food. They could always do with food, so, with the manila folder tucked underneath her arm, she headed back to the kitchen to investigate the pantry. As she came through the door, she glanced at the old kitchen clock. They’d been in Laurel House only half an hour, but she felt stifled by the place and its memories, and she couldn’t wait to get out. She inspected the pantry and took a wedge of cheese from the shelf. There was bread, too, and some sausages.
They’ll make us a decent supper, she thought as she gathered them together ready to add to Sean’s bag. The huge pot of Sunday stew stood on the range but there was no way they could carry it, so the inmates would have their lunch. Sean was still upstairs somewhere, so Betty perched on the edge of the table and opening the file, she started to read.
Elizabeth Grover
Date of birth: 12/7/32
Father: John Grover (ex-convict) MIA presumed dead
Mother: Alice Grover (deceased)
Paternal aunt: Jane Marks
There were other details which Betty skimmed through and then, held together with a paperclip, there were some letters. The first was dated 4 January 1946, and as she read it, Betty felt suddenly cold. She didn’t recognize the address and she didn’t know the handwriting, but the letter itself…
Dear Miss Vanstone,
I believe my sister Jane left my little daughter, Elizabeth, with you when my wife was killed in an air raid. As she told you at the time, I was posted as missing presumed dead. She felt that this was best for Betty as she couldn’t look after her.
As you see I was not killed, but taken prisoner. Now I am home again and I am longing to fetch my little girl home to live with me. I am about to remarry, and my future wife and I look forward to having Betty home to live with us. Thank you very much for looking after her while I couldn’t. Please tell me when I can come and fetch her.
Yours truly,
John Grover
Betty stared at the letter. Her father wasn’t dead at all. The Germans hadn’t got him, he was alive. He’d come home and he’d asked for her; he wanted to come and fetch her. But he hadn’t. Why hadn’t he? Why hadn’t he come? The letter was dated two years ago; why hadn’t he come to find her? Had he changed his mind?
She picked up the next sheet of paper, which she realized with a jolt was a carbon copy of Emily Vanstone’s reply.
8 January 1946
Dear Mr Grover,
Thank you for your letter. I was indeed surprised to receive it, and I am pleased to know that you survived the war. However, not knowing this earlier, I arranged for Elizabeth to be adopted. Her adoptive parents are a charming couple from up north, living in the country. They are devoted to Elizabeth and she to them.
I am afraid it is not EVER-Care policy to reveal the names and addresses of the families who have come forward to give our children secure family homes. I regret that Elizabeth is now lost to you, but you may rest assured that she is well and happy herself. I wish you every happiness with your new wife.
Yours sincerely,
The letter was unsigned, but under the space for the signature was typed the name
Emily Vanstone
Founder of the EVER-Care Trust
Betty stared at the letter in disbelief. ‘How could she?’ she murmured in a grief-stricken whisper. ‘How could she do that? How could she tell him all those lies?’ With eyes blurred by tears, she turned to the next letter, dated 15 January 1946.
Dear Miss Vanstone,
I can’t believe what you told me in your letter. You gave my Betty away without so much as a by-your-leave. Not asking any of her family. You had my sister’s address, surely you should have told her what you were going to do. How could you just hand Betty over to strangers without even asking? I’m going to talk to a lawyer and then I shall be coming to see you. Please will you send me Betty’s new address so that I can at least let her know I’m still alive. If she has settled so well with these people, maybe she should stay put, but she needs to know I’m not dead and then perhaps we can at least see each other.
The letter was signed by
her father.
There was one more letter in the bundle, dated 19 January 1946, the second one from Emily Vanstone.
Dear Mr Grover,
I understand your distress, and regret it, but there is really nothing I can do to lessen it except to repeat that Betty is well and happy with her new family. When Mrs Marks brought her to us at EVER-Care, we became her legal guardians. This gave us an absolute right, as I’m sure any lawyer you may consult will confirm, to settle Betty where we thought best for her, in this case, with adoptive parents. We never divulge names and addresses of such parents, and I have no intention of breaking our rule in this case.
I regret that I am unable to enter into further correspondence with you on this matter.
Yours sincerely,
Again there was no signature, but the carbon copy of the letter had been initialled ‘EV’.
Betty dropped the letters onto the table beside her and sliding down onto a kitchen chair, buried her head in her hands and began to sob, deep heaving sobs that convulsed her whole body. When Sean came into the kitchen, his bag bulging with trinkets and ornaments from the Hawk’s flat, he stopped dead.
‘Hey kiddo!’ he cried, dumping the bag onto the floor. ‘What’s up?’
Wordlessly, still sobbing, Betty handed him the letters. He skimmed through them swiftly, and then as their import hit him, read them all again.
‘Fucking hell!’ he breathed. ‘The fucking bitch!’
‘He’s alive, my dad,’ Betty sobbed, ‘and she sent him away!’
Sean looked at two other papers in the folder. One was typed, a brief account of a meeting with ‘JG and lawyer’, and the other notes about Betty and her family. A handwritten note had been added at the bottom.
Entirely unsuitable as a father. Betty stays here. Saved from a life of depravity.
‘We’ll take these an’ all,’ Sean said, stuffing the file into his bag. ‘Come on.’ He was about to turn to the back door when he came up short. ‘Shit!’ he muttered. ‘If she finds your folder missing, she’ll guess who’s turned the place over.’ He hurried back to Emily’s office. The filing cabinet stood open, revealing at least a hundred similar files. He pulled out several files at random and up-ended them onto the floor. Papers flew everywhere, but though it certainly was a mess, if someone did bother to re-sort them, Betty’s file would still be missing. Then the small paraffin heater, standing cold and unlit in the corner of the room, caught his eye and the answer came to him.
‘Betty!’ he bellowed. ‘Come here and help!’
Betty appeared, red-eyed, in the doorway and watched as Sean pulled more and more folders from the cabinets, shaking their contents all across the room and out into the passage.
‘Sean!’ she cried. ‘Sean, what are you doing?’
‘Going to have a bonfire!’ he announced. ‘Going to burn the whole bloody place down. Emily fucking Vanstone kept you from a life of depravity, did she? An’ all them girls we saw this morning, too, I s’pose. Well, it ends here. With luck the whole house’ll burn down, and them kids’ll be took away from her.’
Betty stood transfixed, horrified. ‘Sean!’ she cried. ‘We can’t!’
‘We bloody can,’ retorted Sean. ‘Look lively.’ He handed her another batch of files. ‘Go and empty these all round the hall. We’ll go out through the kitchen.’
Betty still hesitated, the enormity of what he proposed enveloping her. ‘ S’posing it don’t catch,’ was all she could think of to say.
‘Will when I’ve finished with it,’ Sean assured her. ‘Now get on with it, girl, or it’ll be too late.’ He gave her a push, and she took the papers into the hall as instructed and tossed them all over the floor and up the stairs. Once she’d started she felt suddenly reckless. She’d show Emily Vanstone! She’d pay her back for the years of misery she’d lived through in this place. Not allowed up the front stairs? Well, she was going up them now, all right, going up them, strewing papers like confetti, all the way up to the landing.
‘Ready?’ called Sean, poking his head into the hall.
‘Ready!’
‘Right, go to the back door and open it,’ Sean said. ‘Take my bag and wait outside. Be ready to run… I’ll be coming out fast.’
Betty did as she was told, picking up Sean’s bag and stuffing in the parcel of food she’d packed earlier. She could hear Sean banging about further inside the house, but she followed his instructions and waited outside in the yard. Suddenly Sean erupted out of the door and grabbed her hand. ‘Come on, kiddo,’ he cried excitedly, ‘time to go! We can’t hang around, but whatever you do, don’t run.’
When they walked past the front gate of Laurel House, neither of them could resist the temptation for a last look at the house. Light flickered in the downstairs windows, and even as they watched, thin coils of smoke began to leak from those on the first floor.
‘How did you make it burn so quick?’ Betty asked breathlessly, as she scurried along beside him.
‘Paraffin,’ he replied. ‘Tipped the paraffin out of that heater in the office and spread it about a bit. Went up with quite a whoosh!’
‘Blimey!’ muttered Betty.
‘Time to go,’ said Sean. ‘Someone’s going to notice that smoke soon.’
Fifteen minutes later they were safely on the London train.
33
When the service at Crosshills Methodist Church ended, chivvied by Mrs Hawkins, the girls formed their usual crocodile and set off, back to Laurel House. As they were passing the park two fire engines swept round the corner, bells clanging wildly. The croc straggled to a halt, staring after them.
‘Walk on,’ shouted Mrs Hawkins from the back of the croc. ‘Mrs Smith, lead these girls on. There’s no need to gawp, you’ve all seen a fire engine before.’
‘Mrs Smith, I can see smoke,’ cried Janice, one of the pair leading the croc, forgetting the silence rule in her excitement.
‘So can I,’ cried her partner, Elaine, ‘an’ I can smell it an’ all.’
‘Not surprising, is it, dear,’ remarked the cook, ‘seeing as we’ve just seen fire engines in a hurry.’
As they continued their walk home the air was rent with more clanging bells, and another fire engine hurtled past them, closely followed by a police car. Above the houses a cloud of black smoke was rising, swirling and billowing in the wind.
Mrs Hawkins hurried to the front of the crocodile and calling a halt, ran forward to the street corner where the police car had pulled up, blocking much of the road.
As she reached the corner and pushed her way through the gathering crowd of by-standers, a large police constable stepped forward and barred her passage.
‘Sorry, madam, but you can’t go down this way, there’s a fire.’
‘I can see that,’ snapped Mrs Hawkins. ‘But I’ve thirty children with me, and we live in this street. I need to get them home.’
‘I’m very sorry, madam, but even so, you can’t go down this street. It isn’t safe. The fire brigade are dealing with the fire now, but it’s still burning out of control.’ Then with sudden realization he said, ‘Thirty children! Are they the orphanage children?’
‘The EVER-Care children. We live at Laurel House… oh my God!’ Mrs Hawkins clapped her hand to her mouth in horror as the realization hit her too. ‘It’s Laurel House, isn’t it?’ She pushed past him, edging into the road to see for certain.
The constable put a restraining hand on her arm. ‘Yes, madam, I’m afraid it is.’
Mrs Hawkins spun round and marched back to the waiting children. Taking the cook and the matron aside she spoke grimly. ‘It’s Laurel House. That policeman says it’s burning out of control.’ She glared at Mrs Smith. ‘You must have left something on the stove, you stupid woman, and now the whole bloody place is on fire.’
‘I certainly did not,’ returned the cook with some spirit. ‘Nothing was left on the stove, nothing was left in the oven. This fire has nothing to do with me and I won’t take the blame for it!’
‘For goodness sake,’ interrupted the Dragon, ‘that doesn’t matter now. The important thing now is to decide what we do with this lot.’ She jerked her thumb at the waiting children. ‘We can’t just stand in the street!’
‘We’ll go back to the church,’ said Mrs Hawkins. ‘They can wait in there until we find out what we’re to do with them. From what I could see there’ll be no going back to Laurel House for some time.’ She thought for a moment and then said, ‘You take them back to the church. If it’s locked, one of you go to the Manse and get the keys. I’ll go and tell Miss Vanstone what’s happened.’ She smiled grimly. ‘After all, they’ll be her problem, not ours.’
When they reached the church, the minister was just closing the doors. The Hawk left the Dragon to do the explaining, and set off in search of Emily Vanstone.
Although she knew the address, Mrs Hawkins had never been to Emily’s house. They were not social equals and in all the years she’d been superintendent at Laurel House, she had never received an invitation to Maybury House. As she strode through the town on her way there now, she began to think about what was going to happen to her, now that Laurel House was gone. She had probably lost her home and all her possessions. From what the policeman had said, and from what she’d seen herself, Mrs Hawkins was under no illusions; the EVER-Care home was gone for good.
Wonder how Old Vanstone’ll cope with that, thought Mrs Hawkins with a malicious smile, realizing that she was actually going to enjoy telling Emily about the fire. Her resentment at the way Emily had spoken to her and treated her over the years boiled up inside.
It took her nearly half an hour to walk to the more affluent area of Mountjoy where Emily lived. Maybury House was an attractive Georgian house, set back from the road with a broad drive sweeping through a large, well-kept front garden. Mrs Hawkins paused at the gates and looked at it.
Just the sort of house I’d expected, she thought with a sniff. Well, she’d never been invited to cross its sacred threshold before, but she sure as hell was going to cross it now, and she marched up the drive to the front door under its arched portico and rang the bell.
The Throwaway Children Page 39