The Throwaway Children (48 page)

Betty tossed the paper aside and blew on her nails to dry them.

‘Yeah,’ she said, ‘that’s the place.’

‘And do they?’ demanded Sean.

‘Do they what?’

‘Do they kidnap kids and send them to Australia?’

‘Not ’xactly, no,’ Betty said, ‘but they did send kids out there. Telling them it was better. I’d have gone, anything must be better’n that place, but she didn’t send me.’

‘Who didn’t?’

‘Old Emily.’

‘The one in the paper?’

‘Yeah, her. She’s the cow what’s the boss,’ went on Betty, ‘she’s the one what holds the purse-strings. It’s her pays the Hawk and them others to keep the place running, but she don’t care what they do, as long as there ain’t no trouble.’

‘Paper says some woman’s saying they took her granddaughters. Said they’d been adopted when they’d really sent them to Australia.’

‘Yeah, I know. I knew them kids an’ all. They was sisters and their gran come looking for them.’ Losing interest in the subject Betty shrugged. ‘More important, Sean, d’you get anything today?’

‘Nope,’ Sean replied, ‘nothing.’ He flung himself down on the bed. ‘How much you got left, then?’

Betty opened her purse. She had precisely three shillings and tuppence three farthings.

‘That ain’t gonna get us far,’ groaned Sean.

Betty had met Sean not long after she first got to London. He was a good-looking charmer who lived off other people. He had got chatting to her in a seedy café in Poplar and soon learned that she was new to London, and even as he smiled at her, his eyes gleamed at the thought of an easy pickings. He’d intended to relieve her of the little money she had and move on, but something about her waif-like figure and the way her brown eyes glared fiercely at him from her pale, pointed face had given him pause.

Tarted up a bit, he thought, she wouldn’t be half bad. Not a looker, but she had something, something perhaps that Sean could use to his advantage. Men were always on the lookout for girls, and Sean already had one or two girls he looked after. Betty was, Sean decided, a definite possibility, so he suggested she shack up at his place, ‘just till you find yourself somewhere’.

Betty had discovered that in London even menial jobs were hard to come by, and though nervous about his offer, she’d accepted, relieved, at last, to have somewhere to sleep. His ‘place’ was one grubby room, with a toilet shared by six other lodgers, in a dilapidated house in Shoreditch, but at least it was dry and a huge improvement on the church porches that had been her shelter since she’d arrived. It boasted a narrow single bed, a wobbly table and a scarred bentwood chair.

‘It ain’t much,’ he said as he opened the door and ushered her in, ‘but the bed ain’t bad. Have a lie down and see.’

They’d both had a lie down and Sean had introduced Betty to another reason to go to bed. Despite being terrified at first, and cowering as far from him as she could, Betty had discovered that she rather liked what he was doing to her, and she shuddered as sensations such as she could never have imagined from her own private fumblings flooded through her.

Not usually a man of great sensitivity where women were concerned, Sean realized that, with a little care, a lot more could be unleashed in Betty. She proved to be a fast learner and to his surprise he found she gave him far more pleasure than the usual quick screw. He decided not to hire her out to his punters but to keep her to himself, at least for now. They’d stayed together and he’d taught her his trade. Already a natural thief, Betty had been a fast learner in this area, too.

‘Got to get some cash,’ he said now, ‘or we’ll lose the room. Mickey ain’t gonna take no excuses come Friday.’

Betty had been thinking about this, too, and now an idea struck her. She waved her hand at the discarded newspaper.

‘There’ll be cash in Old Emily’s desk,’ she ventured.

‘What? Her in the paper?’

‘Yeah,’ Betty nodded. ‘Trouble is getting to Belcaster.’

‘That ain’t a problem. We can hitch. What sort of cash are you talking about?’ Betty told him what she’d taken before she’d made her escape.

‘That’s not much,’ scoffed Sean. ‘Hardly worth going unless we get at least a fiver or more.’

‘It could be worth our while,’ insisted Betty, remembering the knick-knacks up in the Hawk’s abode. ‘There’s other stuff worth having in that place.’

‘Yeah, but there’s always someone there, ain’t there? We don’t want no trouble.’

‘Not on Sundays,’ said Betty.

‘Sundays?’

‘They all have to go to church, and Old Emily’s always in church. Shows everyone how holy she is.’

‘So,’ Sean said thoughtfully, ‘no one’s home on Sunday.’

‘Not in the morning, they ain’t,’ replied Betty. ‘We can watch them all marching along to church, check they’ve gone. Then we’ve got a good hour, hour and a half, before they all come back again.’

‘Hour’s plenty,’ said Sean, who was warming to the idea. ‘Don’t want to push our luck. How’re we going to get in?’

‘Kitchen window. It don’t latch proper. It’ll be stiff, but you can pull it open.’

The next morning found them beside the A4, and with Betty standing, thumb out, at the roadside, it wasn’t long before a large lorry drew up beside her and they had their ride.

They arrived in Belcaster on Saturday evening. It was cold and dark and there was rain in the air.

‘Where are we going to sleep?’ asked Betty, reluctant to go anywhere near Laurel House until she had to.

‘You tell me, kiddo,’ answered Sean. ‘’S your town.’ But Betty had been incarcerated in the orphanage for as long as she could remember, only emerging to go to school and church.

‘I dunno, do I?’ she snapped. ‘We better find somewhere. I ain’t sleeping rough here.’

Sean actually had nearly ten shillings he’d removed from the offertory box in a Catholic church in Shoreditch, but he didn’t want to use that if they didn’t have to.

‘I ain’t sleeping out,’ Betty repeated adamantly. ‘Come on, Sean, I know you got money. We got to find a proper room.’

Sean gave in, and they found a room in a pub; two bob each, but no breakfast.

With the key safely in Sean’s pocket, they set out to have a look at Laurel House. Following the landlord’s directions to Russell Green, they finally reached streets that Betty recognized, and she was able to lead him to the EVER-Care home. They strolled past, arm in arm, a couple walking out on Saturday evening.

‘Grim-looking place,’ Sean said as he paused to look over the hedge.

‘You don’t know the half of it!’ growled Betty, pulling on his arm. There was a light in the tower room, the Hawk’s nest, but otherwise the house stood in darkness.

At last Sean moved on, and with a wave of relief that left Betty feeling weak, they turned the corner into the next street.

‘Where do we watch from?’ Sean asked.

Betty led him along the familiar route towards Crosshills Methodist Church. ‘They have to pass here,’ she said. ‘You can stand there,’ she pointed to the park gates, closed now for the night, ‘and count the adults.’

Next morning Sean stood leaning on the gate, smoking a cigarette and watching the world go by. Betty was inside the park, well concealed by the bushy hedge. As she had predicted, the small crocodile of girls came past, led by a hard-faced woman, whom Sean assumed was the Hawk, the last few pairs being chivvied along by two other women. The Dragon and Ole Smithy?

As soon as she saw the Hawk, Betty turned her back. The sight of her arch-enemy make her feel physically sick and the sight of the girls, many of whom she knew well, walking obediently in twos, made her suddenly angry. She wanted to shout at them, ‘You don’t have to stay! Break out! I did!’

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.