A baby is so helpless, she thought now. A mother’s job is to care for him, keep him safe. She thought of her little brother, Richard. He would be sixteen now, and she’d only seen him once. He was Jimmy’s baby; perhaps her mother had been protecting him from Jimmy.
She didn’t protect us, Rita thought. Maybe she thought we were OK, or that I could look after Rosie. Perhaps it was either us or Richard, and he needed her more.
Rita knew, now, what it was to love a man, to want him with her always, to have his children. Could Mum really have felt about Jimmy what Rita now felt about David? Jimmy, a brute, who knocked her about, shouted at her, frightened her with his sudden rages? Rita couldn’t imagine being in love with a man like that. She wondered if her mother was still with him. Perhaps she’d left him. Rita hoped so; or more likely he’d pushed off and left her. He was the sort of man who’d do that, Rita thought. How had Mum managed with Richard when Gran had died? Had she had any more babies? Have I got brothers and sisters I know nothing about? she wondered. When she finally drifted into sleep, the questions which had begun to torment her had found no resolution.
For the next few weeks Rita was continually buffeted by thoughts of her mother.
‘Put her out of your mind,’ David said when she mentioned her to him. ‘You have to face the fact that, for whatever reason, however good it seemed, she gave you up.’
‘Perhaps she had no alternative,’ said Rita.
‘Harsh as it sounds, darling,’ David replied gently, ‘I don’t think that can be true. You and Rosie were her children, and should have been her first priority.’ He placed his hand on her stomach. ‘You’d never give away this little chap.’
‘Or chap-ess.’
‘Or chap-ess.’
‘No, never.’
‘No, never,’ David agreed.
‘What’s brought this on?’ Delia asked when she talked to her. ‘Why this sudden interest in your mother and her motives?’
Rita shrugged. ‘I don’t know, really,’ she admitted. ‘Perhaps because I’m going to be a mother myself. It’s made me more conscious of the difficulties she faced when she found she was expecting my brother, Richard.’
‘Other people have three children and manage without giving two of them away to look after the third,’ observed Delia. ‘Other people lose their children through no fault of their own and would give everything they have in the world to have them back.’
Rita put her hand on Delia’s arm, knowing she was thinking of her own son, Harry, who’d died so tragically young.
‘I know,’ she said. ‘I do know, Deeley, really I do. It’s just that I’m trying to understand what went on in her mind. She must have been under immense pressure.’
‘You’re being very generous to her, darling,’ said Delia. ‘Far more generous than I’d be, or than I am, for that matter. I can’t forgive her for doing what she did to you.’
‘But I’ve got you,’ pointed out Rita.
Delia took her hand and gave it a squeeze. ‘Always,’ she said.
‘Perhaps she thought we’d have a better life somewhere else. It would have been hell with Uncle Jimmy.’ She fell silent for a moment and then added softly, ‘It turned out hell for Rosie anyway.’
She talked things over with Daisy, too. Daisy had come over to Randwick one Saturday afternoon and they’d gone for their usual picnic lunch together in Centennial Park. As they sat under the trees, munching cheese sandwiches, Rita told Daisy about the baby and how, since she’d known she was expecting, her mother had somehow invaded her thoughts.
When Daisy heard this, she was characteristically forthright in her opinion. ‘Put her out of your mind, Reet,’ she said, ‘you ain’t been in hers for years.’
‘You don’t know that,’ Rita objected. ‘She might have been thinking about us all the time, wondering how we are, regretting what she did.’
‘Yeah, well, regrets ain’t no good, are they? Waste of time, ’cos you can’t put the clock back.’
‘No, I know that,’ sighed Rita. ‘And let’s face it, I’ve been very lucky, really, luckier than you.’
‘You was lucky the Watchdog took you,’ Daisy agreed, not for the first time. ‘God knows where the Manton bitch’d’ve sent you if you was left there with her.’
‘I wish Deeley’d had room for you, too,’ replied Rita.
Daisy laughed. ‘So do I, sunshine, but it weren’t to be, were it? You both did what you could, coming to see me an’ that, taking me out, an’ I’m grateful, so there’s an end to it.’ She gave Rita a playful punch on the arm. ‘So, what’re you thinking about then, Reet? What you going to do?’
Rita shrugged. ‘Don’t know. Did wonder if I might write to her.’
‘Whatever for?’ demanded Daisy.
‘Well, tell her about the baby and that… you know.’
‘No, I don’t,’ said Daisy roundly. ‘I wouldn’t let her near no baby of mine, not after what she done to you and Rosie.’
‘Well, she wouldn’t get near, would she? I mean, she’s in England and the baby’ll be in Australia.’
‘There’s planes,’ Daisy said, darkly.
‘Yeah, well, I can hardly see her getting on one of them,’ laughed Rita. ‘She ain’t got no money.’
Delia had often noticed that when Rita and Daisy got together, Rita slipped back into her childhood vernacular. It made Delia smile to hear them talking, but she was glad that Rita had learned to speak better English as she’d gone through school, and had picked up on Delia’s own, precise, use of language. Most of the time Rita spoke good, colloquial, English, her childhood accent replaced by an Australian one, but when she wrote, her language was fluent, flowing from her pen in a style both descriptive and well expressed. When Rita wrote there was little trace of her earliest years.
‘She might borrow some, or steal some,’ suggested Daisy cheerfully.
‘Not likely. Who’d lend it her? She won’t come, Dais!’
‘Then why write to her? Forget the silly cow, and get on with your life here. Ain’t it good enough for you?’
‘Course it is,’ cried Rita.
‘There you are, then. Hey, Reet, did I tell you?’ Daisy went on, determined to change the subject.
‘Did you tell me what?’
‘That I met this bloke…’
‘Oh Dais, you haven’t…’
‘No,’ laughed Daisy, ‘nothing like that. Honestly, Reet, you got a one-track mind!’
‘No, I ain’t,’ retorted Rita. ‘What is it like, then, if it ain’t “like that”?’
‘He’s called Pete and he come in the store,’ explained Daisy, ‘and we got talking…’
Daisy’s diversion had worked. For the rest of the afternoon they talked about Daisy and how Pete had got her into the athletics club ‘for peanuts, ’cos I’m so good, see?’, and chatted in the easy way they always had. Rita’s mother wasn’t mentioned again, and when they parted, Daisy to return to her bedsit in Kings Cross, Rita to walk home to David, it seemed that Mavis was forgotten.
40
Carrie Maunder came out of her house and looked down the road. Maggie had promised to look in today after she finished work, but she was so much later than usual, Carrie was beginning to wonder where she was. As she looked along Ship Street once again, she saw her neighbour. Madge Holt had moved into number 9 about six months ago, and been avid to learn more of its gruesome history.
When Mavis had been murdered there was talk of the council pulling the house down, but there was such a housing shortage after the war, with so many streets having been flattened, that the house had been reprieved and contract cleaners sent in. Following the big clean-up there had been several tenants, but none of them had stayed more than a couple of years.
Gradually most people forgot that number 9 was the scene of a murder, the horror of that dreadful day becoming a distant memory, slipping back into the recesses of even Carrie’s mind. Until, that was, Madge Holt moved in.
‘I’m not af
raid of ghosts,’ Madge asserted roundly. ‘The dead’s dead, and that’s an end to it.’ But gradually, over the following weeks, she returned to the subject of Mavis’s death, asking Carrie, as Mavis’s closest friend, exactly what had happened.
Eventually Carrie started avoiding Madge, ducking back into the house if she saw her. Now as she spotted her bearing down on her, overall flapping like a ship in full sail, she turned back to her own front door.
‘Mrs Maunder! Mrs Maunder!’ Madge cried. ‘Wait!’
Carrie sighed and waited. ‘Mrs Holt,’ she said with thinly veiled impatience, ‘whatever is the matter?’
‘I need a word, just a quick word.’
‘Have to be quick,’ Carrie told her, ‘Maggie’ll be here in a mo.’
‘Just need a word,’ repeated Madge. ‘Don’t know what to do, you see.’
‘Do?’ echoed Carrie. ‘Do about what?’
‘I’m trying to tell you,’ puffed Madge. ‘I got a letter.’
‘Yeah, so? Who from?’
‘Don’t know, but it’s addressed to Mrs Mavis Randall, you know the woman—’
‘I know who Mavis Randall was,’ interrupted Carrie, so sharply that Madge flinched.
‘Yeah, well, all right,’ she said. ‘Anyhow, the letter’s addressed to her, but at my address. Which was her address, of course, all them years ago.’
‘A letter? For Mavis?’ Carrie was incredulous.
Having finally managed to capture Carrie’s attention, Madge beamed at her. ‘It’s got Australian stamps on it, and an Australian postmark.’
‘Then I suspect,’ observed Carrie, ‘that it’s come from Australia.’ The irony in Carrie’s voice passed over Madge’s head entirely.
‘Yes,’ Madge said, nodding vigorously, ‘yes, I think you’re right. But who would be writing to her now, d’you think?’ She drew a blue airmail envelope out from the pocket of her overall.
Carrie took it and turning it over, saw the sender’s name on the back. Mrs R Harris, and an address in Sydney. ‘R’? Could it possibly be Rita, or Rosie? Surely not. Surely someone would have told them of their mother’s tragic death.
‘It’s got a name and address on the back,’ said Madge, ‘so I’d better send it back, don’t you think? Put, “not known at this address”… or,’ she suggested with a gleam of intense curiosity in her eyes, ‘perhaps we should open it, and write back explaining.’ She held out her hand for the letter, but Carrie stuffed it quickly into her trouser pocket.
‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘No, it’s not for us to open. I’ll take it round to Mrs Sharples.’
Madge flushed with annoyance, angry that she’d lost the initiative. ‘And who’s she, when she’s at home?’
‘Mavis’s mother.’
‘Her mother!’ Madge was incredulous. ‘Is she still alive?’
‘Very much so.’
‘Gawd, she must be ancient.’
‘Not at all,’ said Carrie. ‘She’s about sixty-five and alive and well. I’ll take it round hers. Up to her to open it.’
‘But—’ began Madge.
‘Thank you for bringing it over, Mrs Holt,’ Carrie said, ignoring the interruption, ‘that was very kind.’ And Madge Holt was left standing in the street, wishing she’d opened the letter herself before showing it to anyone else.
‘Mrs Maunder’s here, Gran,’ Rick called, as he stood aside to let Carrie in. ‘Go on through. Gran’s in the kitchen.’
‘Carrie!’ cried Lily, getting to her feet, ‘What a lovely surprise. What brings you here?’
‘Don’t get up, Mrs Sharples,’ Carrie said, and Lily subsided gratefully onto her chair. She had some arthritis in her hips now, and getting up from a chair was becoming more difficult.
‘Lovely to see you, Carrie,’ she said. ‘It’s been too long. How are you, dear? How’re John and the children? Well, not children of course now. Did I hear that Maggie got married last year?’
Carrie let Lily run on about the children, her own answers automatic as the aerogramme seemed to be burning a hole in her pocket. She’d wanted to rush round and give Lily the letter, but now she was here, Carrie wasn’t quite sure how to go about it. Perhaps she should have opened it first, after all. What if it was from Rita or Rosie? What if Lily had such a shock she had a heart attack? You never knew with older people, did you? She was suddenly aware of a silence and looked across at Lily and found her regarding her quizzically.
‘Well, Carrie,’ she said, ‘you didn’t just come round to talk about our children, did you? What’s up?’
‘It’s difficult,’ began Carrie.
‘Then spit it out,’ said Lily. ‘Difficult things should always be said straight out. Makes them less difficult, I always find.’
Carrie drew a deep breath and said, ‘OK. A letter came today. My neighbour brought it round. It’s addressed to Mavis….’
Lily stared at her, unable to speak.
‘It’s from someone in Sydney, in Australia…’ said Carrie, and when Lily still said nothing, she went on, ‘someone called R Harris. So I’ve brought it round to you.’
She pulled the letter from her pocket and passed it across to Lily. For a long moment, Lily held it, looking at the name and address on the front, then she turned it over and read the name and address on the back. Then she handed it back to Carrie.
‘You open it,’ she said. ‘You open it and see who it’s from.’
Carrie slit the aerogramme along its sides, and flipped it open. She glanced at the opening and then at the bottom. She saw the words Dear Mum and then that it was signed, your daughter, Rita Harris.
‘It’s from Rita,’ she said softly. ‘And she don’t know Mavis is dead.’
Lily stared at her for a moment, tears flooding her eyes. ‘Read it me,’ she whispered.
Carrie began to read.
Dear Mum,
I expect you’ll be surprised to hear from me after all these years. You didn’t want me and Rosie, well, not enough anyway, and maybe you don’t want to hear from me now. I expect you’ve got lots of other kids now, but I only know about Richard. Gran did write to me once, before she died, but though I wrote back to her I never heard from her again. I’m not really sure why I’m writing to you now, except that I’m going to have a baby in June, and I thought about you and thought you might like to know you are going to be a grandmother. Perhaps you are one already, but anyway, I thought you’d like to know.
My husband, David, wasn’t very keen on me writing to you, but I felt I had to do it, just this once. If you don’t answer you’ll never hear from me again, but if you do, then I will write to you occasionally and tell you how your grandchild is doing.
I also have to tell you poor Rosie is dead. She was adopted by some awful people when we first got here and they made her life hell. She ran away and when they were coming to find her she took sleeping pills rather than go back. She died because she came to Australia, because you didn’t want her.
I’ll say this to you only once. I don’t know how you could possibly have given us away like you did. Thrown us away, more like. I haven’t even had this baby yet, but I know I could never, ever, part with him or her. Still, I suppose it’s all water under the bridge now and it’s no good going on hating you. David says hatred twists your soul. I think he’s right. So, I don’t hate you any more.
From your daughter,
Rita Harris
Carrie looked up from reading and saw the tears streaming down Lily’s cheeks. She was at her side immediately, her arms round her, holding her tightly until her sobs began to subside.
‘Carrie,’ she whispered, ‘oh Carrie, we got our Rita back.’ And her tears began to flow again. ‘But Rosie, poor darling little Rosie…’
At that moment the door opened and Rick came back in carrying a book. ‘Gran,’ he began and then stopped short when he saw her in tears. He looked at Carrie. ‘Mrs Maunder? What’s going on?’
‘Your gran has had some good news.’
‘
Good news?’ queried Rick. ‘Don’t look like good news to me!’
‘I’ve brought her a letter that came today. It’s from Rita.’
‘Rita!’ gasped Rick, his eyes flying to the photo of the two little girls in rose-patterned frocks on the mantelpiece. ‘My sister, Rita?’
‘Yes,’ confirmed Carrie. ‘And you can see your gran’s a bit overcome.’
Rick dropped into a chair and Carrie handed him the letter. He read it through and then read it again.
‘She don’t know our ma’s dead,’ he said, ‘and she thinks Gran is.’
‘Nobody told her about her mother,’ Lily said through her tears. ‘Nobody bothered to tell her. It’s that bloody Vanstone woman again.’ Lily’s voice shook with rage. ‘But she must have told her I was. How could she? How could she have done such a wicked thing? Rita’s thought I was dead, all these years. What an evil, evil woman!’
‘Well, she’s dead an’ all,’ said Rick.
‘And I hope she burns in hell!’ Lily said viciously.
‘Forget her, Gran,’ Rick said. ‘She’s long gone.’
‘She killed our Rosie,’ said Lily bitterly. ‘She killed our Rosie as surely as if she’d stuck a knife into her. Our Rosie killed herself ’cos she was sent to Australia, ’cos some family what took her and was supposed to look after made her life hell. That’s what Rita said. An’ that woman sent her there instead of letting me look after her.’
‘Yeah, I know, Gran.’ Richard sat down beside her and took her hand. ‘But at least you’ve found Rita. Cry for poor Rosie, Gran, of course, but smile for Rita. Now you know where Rita is we can write to her and tell her you ain’t dead. We could go and see her. We could go to Australia.’
Lily did manage a smile, then, through her tears. ‘Steady on, lad,’ she said with a shaky laugh. ‘We ain’t made of money.’
The Throwaway Children Page 47