19

The Pride of Empire steamed into Sydney Harbour, on a chilly September dawn, giving a blast on her foghorn as she approached the great bridge.

‘Cor! Look at that!’ breathed Rita, staring up in amazement at the incredible steel structure arching across the harbour mouth.

‘This ship’s too big,’ cried Daisy as they drew nearer. ‘Our funnel ain’t gonna fit under there!’

‘Course it is,’ scoffed Sheila who was standing with them, ‘ships like this come in here all the time, stupid!’

‘It’s very high,’ whispered Rosie, clutching her sister’s hand. ‘Will it fall down?’

‘Don’t be silly, Rosie,’ muttered Rita. ‘Course it won’t.’ But, as they steamed slowly beneath it, they could hear the thunder of a train passing over their heads, the steady rumble of its wheels seeming so close that they were all glad when the ship was through and making her way up the inner harbour towards Pyrmont, where they would finally disembark.

They, along with all the other migrants left on the ship, were standing on the main deck, crowding the rails to gaze in wonder at the huge bridge and the city around it; the town stretching away to their left, with strange buildings clinging, higgledy-piggledy, to a rocky headland. Wharves, jutting out into the water with boats tied up alongside, were topped with warehouses, some of which seemed derelict. There were boats everywhere, ferries hurrying fussily across the water to pick up and deposit passengers all around the harbour, other small, private craft that chugged about on business of their owners, and boats under sail, skimming across the bay, seemingly unaware of the vast liner passing under the bridge.

The Pride of Empire continued her stately progress up the harbour. All round the deck there was a buzz of excited conversation, a babble of languages from the melting pot of migrants aboard, as with a mixture of fear, hope, excitement, expectation and resignation, they gazed at the city, spreading amorphously away on either side of them. Their long voyage was finally coming to an end and they were about to be expelled from the safe haven of the ship into this strange, unknown city at the end of the world. The six-week journey, a curious interlude between their past lives in war-scarred Europe and their uncertain, future lives in Australia, was at an end.

The ship finally docked at Pyrmont. With much noise and shouting she came alongside the wharf and was made fast. When they at last disembarked, streaming down the gangplanks onto the quay and into the customs sheds, the crowd of immigrants fell into untidy lines, their meagre luggage at their feet, the buzz of their conversation muted by anxiety.

The Miss Dauntseys had gathered their charges together the evening before, speaking to each group in turn, giving them instructions on what to do when they disembarked.

‘All your luggage must be packed and ready this evening,’ Miss Dauntsey told the EVER-Care children. ‘We arrive early in the morning, and have to get off the ship straight away. Make sure you leave nothing behind or you’ll lose it.’

‘You’re to wear your best clothes,’ Miss Ellen added. ‘We don’t want Mrs Manton to think we’ve brought her a lot of scruffs.’

‘Sheila, you’re in charge of your group,’ went on Miss Dauntsey. ‘Make sure everyone stays together. I’ll be handing you over to Mrs Manton once all the formalities have been dealt with.’

‘What’s “formalities”?’ murmured Daisy.

‘Showing passports and telling them what you’ve got in your suitcases,’ Miss Ellen explained. ‘Don’t worry, it won’t take long.’

She was wrong. It took ages. Once ashore the children were separated into their original groups. The Laurel House group was the smallest, and as they stood together waiting for someone to come and collect them, they saw the other, larger groups of children shepherded away. Miss Ellen and Miss Dauntsey waited with them, looking anxiously about. Until they had handed over their charges they couldn’t leave the port themselves. Various groups of children were called, and either Miss Dauntsey or Miss Ellen came forward with the necessary papers, escorting each group out to where they were to be collected, passing on their guardianship.

The Laurel House girls shuffled their feet, sat on their cases, moaned and grumbled. Rita looked round the enormous shed at the stream of people who had disembarked from the Pride, pushing and shouting and gesticulating. All these people, she thought. All these people coming to live here… because they want to. I don’t want to.

‘How much longer?’ whined Susan Hart.

‘I’m hungry,’ wailed Rosie.

‘So am I!’ said Daisy.

They were all hungry. The excitement of their passage into the shelter of Sydney Harbour had kept the children on deck. None of them had gone below for their breakfast. Six weeks earlier, none of them would have missed the chance of a meal for any reason; but with six weeks of regular and satisfying meals, the fear of hunger had faded.

‘You should have gone to breakfast when you had the chance,’ remarked Miss Ellen, overhearing as she returned from handing over another group. ‘Never mind, Rosie, I expect Mrs Manton has made arrangements to feed you very soon.’

Paul had been part of the previous group, and as they’d stood waiting to be called forward, Rita had asked him where he was going.

‘Place called Molong,’ he replied. ‘Looks all right. It’s a farm.’

They’d said goodbye, and as he turned to rejoin the rest of the Molong group, he said, ‘Keep writing your stories, Reet. They’re quite good.’

‘And you,’ replied Rita, giving him a half wave as he followed the others out of the shed. He didn’t look back.

Rita watched him disappear, sad to see him go. Over the final few weeks, they’d become friends. While the other children continued to race round the ship, playing hide and seek, and deck tennis, running races and inventing new games to amuse themselves, Paul and Rita had spent many hours curled up in the library, reading, writing and sharing their thoughts. Watching him walk away into the new world which was Australia, Rita felt bereft, and fighting the tears that threatened her, she turned back to find Rosie. Rosie was still her responsibility, and it was with a rush of affection that she saw her sister sitting on her suitcase, kicking her heels against its cardboard sides.

‘You all right, Rosie?’

‘Yeah,’ replied Rosie, surprised. ‘Aren’t you?’

‘Me? Course I am.’

Eventually they were allowed to straggle out of the customs shed to a concrete yard beyond where a formidable-looking woman sat on a bench: Mrs Manton, Superintendent of Laurel Farm, Carrabunna, waiting to collect her new charges.

The woman stood up as they approached. She was tall and thin, her greying hair scraped back into an untidy bun under a small black hat. Her face wrinkled, her mouth downturned with permanent discontent, she peered at the children from small, mistrustful eyes. Dressed in a long black overcoat which almost reached her spindly, black-stockinged ankles, she wore black gloves and carried a capacious, black handbag.

‘She looks like a witch,’ muttered Daisy. ‘Or a spider. She’s going to be worse than the Hawk.’

‘May be OK,’ Rita murmured in reply.

‘Huh!’ Daisy looked her new guardian up and down. ‘Don’t you believe it, Reet.’

The little group came to a halt in front of her, all of them realizing as they saw the expression on her sallow face that their ‘holiday’ had indeed come to an end.

‘Here you are at last,’ said the woman by way of greeting. ‘I was beginning to think you were never coming through.’

‘Mrs Manton? I’m so sorry, but they dealt with the larger groups first,’ explained Miss Ellen. ‘I’m afraid your girls were last.’ She turned to the silent group at her heels and said brightly, ‘Well, girls, here’s Mrs Manton. She’s going to look after you from now.’

No one moved. Rita stared at Miss Ellen, suddenly realizing how important she’d become during the journey. She had shown her charges a kindness which was new to most of them. She and her sister had read to them, played with them, talked to them; something few adults had done before. Of all the children in their small group, only Rita and Rosie remembered being with loving adults, and those memories were fast fading. Looking at Miss Ellen now, Rita wanted to clutch hold of her and beg her not to leave them, but she knew with bleak certainty that there was nothing Miss Ellen could do.

‘Well, I must say goodbye,’ Miss Ellen said awkwardly. She hated the idea of leaving these girls to the mercy of the dry stick of a woman who was about to take them away. They’d been her particular charges during the voyage and she’d become fond of them, especially the little ones. She glanced at Mrs Manton, but that lady’s expression had not relaxed into one of welcome for the children who had come so far.

Rosie, suddenly aware that Miss Ellen was going away, let out a wail of misery. Miss Ellen reached out to her and gathered her into a hug. Moments later she’d hugged each of them, even Sheila, who at nearly fourteen might have rebuffed her, and then with tears burning in her eyes, she turned on her heel, hurrying away to collect her own luggage and join her sister in the immigration queue.

Mrs Manton turned to her charges. ‘Stop that yowling,’ she ordered, glaring at the three youngest, who, at the sight of her expression and at the tone of her voice, gulped down their sobs and dashed the tears from their cheeks.

Satisfied, Mrs Manton gave an abrupt nod, then looking over to the gate, she waved an imperious hand at a young, tow-headed lad wearing dirty overalls. ‘Colin!’ she called. ‘Get over here.’

The boy peeled himself away from the wall and, picking up the handles of a handcart, ambled over to them.

‘Load up the luggage, Colin, and be quick about it, we’ve got a train to catch.’

The lad stepped forward and grasping two of the suitcases, hefted them easily onto his cart. In a matter of moments he had all the cases stacked, and set off with the cart.

‘Form up in twos,’ directed Mrs Manton, turning back to the waiting children, ‘follow me and keep up.’

‘Please, miss,’ ventured Sheila, ‘where’re we going?’

‘To catch a train,’ replied Mrs Manton briskly. ‘Now, you older girls make sure the little ones don’t get lost.’ She waited for a moment as the older girls took hold of the younger ones, and then she turned on her heel and strode off, leaving her charges to follow. Rita held Rosie firmly by the hand, and from habit the rest of the group came together in pairs, forming a loose crocodile as they straggled out into the windswept street. Sydney was a city such as they’d never seen before. The streets were crowded and noisy. People hurried along, heads bent against the wind and the incoming rain. Traffic hooted and roared as cars and buses battled the congestion and the sudden clang and clank of a passing tram made Susan and Sylvia scream and cling on to Sheila and Angela.

‘Come on!’ Sheila yanked on Sylvia’s hand. ‘Don’t be such a baby! It’s only a tram!’ But even she kept a wary eye open after that.

Afraid of losing Mrs Manton in the lunchtime crowds, they scurried along behind her, dodging through the pedestrians thronging the pavement. A clock was striking two when they finally reached the railway station. There was no sign of Colin and the handcart.

Rita looked round nervously. ‘Where’s our cases?’ she asked Daisy.

‘How do I know?’ shrugged Daisy. ‘That boy’s got ’em.’

Mrs Manton led them into the station, pausing for the girls to gather round her.

‘Our train is in an hour,’ she told them. ‘You’ll have to wait here.’ She waved them over to some wooden benches that ran along a wall. ‘Sit there and keep quiet while I buy the tickets.’ As they sat down, she opened her bag and handed Sheila a brown paper bag. ‘You can share these out,’ she said, ‘and make sure no one moves before I come back.’

Sheila opened the bag and found it contained some rather soggy-looking egg sandwiches. There was just one each. It was quite a while before Mrs Manton returned with the tickets and by the time they’d all drunk from a drinking fountain and been to the lavatory, it was time for them to board the train. As they clambered into the second class carriage, Colin appeared and climbed in as well. There was no sign of their suitcases.

‘Where’s our stuff?’ asked Rita, an edge of panic in her voice.

‘Yeah, where’s my case?’ Daisy demanded.

‘In the van, of course,’ replied Colin, and immediately lay down on one of the bench seats, flipped his grubby cap over his eyes and went to sleep.

They were all tired, and it wasn’t very long after the train drew out of the station that most of the girls followed his example. The carriage was unheated, and Rita and Rosie huddled together, trying to keep warm. Rosie was soon asleep, her back curved against Rita’s, her hand under her cheek. Rita lay against her, listening to the rhythm of the wheels. ‘No way back! No way back! No way back!’

There was no way back for them now. They would live in another home until they were old enough to leave school and earn their own living, and then… what then? There would still be no way back. For the first time for weeks Rita allowed herself to think about home. On the ship she’d managed to keep such thoughts at bay. She’d been surrounded by new and exciting things, new places, new people, but now, on a cold train, rattling through the countryside, Rita was faced with the reality of her future life. She thought of Mum at home in Ship Street with baby Richard. Uncle Jimmy she tried to blot out of her mind. She tried to picture Gran in Hampton Road, but poor Gran had been knocked down by a car. Was she still in the hospital? If you’ve been run over, Rita thought, you must take ages to get better, specially if you’re old, like Gran.

She thought about Laurel House and the Hawk, and shuddered. Surely the spidery woman who had picked them up today couldn’t be as bad as the Hawk, could she?

Rosie was muttering in her sleep, and Rita pulled her closer, wrapping her arms round her to help keep them both warm, and at last, with the rhythm of the train unchanged and unchanging, she fell into an uneasy doze.

Carrabunna station was small, little more than a platform and a station house at the edge of the town. The grey light of a chilly dawn was stealing into the sky when the train began to slow and, with a squeal of brakes, stop beside the platform. Mrs Manton, who had been sitting elsewhere, hustled them off the train into the early morning chill, shouting at them to stand still while she counted them. Bleary-eyed with sleep, and shivering with cold, they stood waiting. Colin was busy at the guard’s van, pulling out his handcart, still loaded with the suitcases. No one else left the train, and the moment they were all safely on the platform, the guard blew his whistle and the train chugged away into the darkness.

Colin set off up the narrow road pushing the handcart, their suitcases jumping together as the cart bumped its way along the rough road. As they followed in his wake, the grey light grew stronger, but they were able to make out a little of the countryside.

It was very cold, the wind biting, cutting through the thin coats which they had all been given as part of their new wardrobe. Dressed in their best clothes, as Miss Ellen had told them, they were all wearing the short white socks and sandals they’d been given, and the wind beat mercilessly at their bare legs as they trudged along the road into Carrabunna.

The town was silent and it seemed to the girls, trailing along the early morning street, that the whole place was deserted. No one saw the weary little procession as it passed and they saw no one. Somewhere in the distance a dog barked; it was the only welcome they received.

A painted sign, hung beside a wide, wooden farm gate, read: Laurel Farm EVER-Care Children’s Home. Mrs Manton led the straggling line of tired children through the gate of their new home and across a cobbled yard to a long, low building. She opened a door at one end, and a welcomingly warm light flooded into the yard.

‘Follow me,’ she instructed, ‘and make sure you wipe your feet!’

The exhausted group did as they were told, anxious to get out of the keen wind. Inside they found themselves in a concrete-floored cloakroom. There were pegs on the wall and a line of wooden benches, with wire lockers underneath, ran down the middle. Most of the lockers contained a pair of shoes, and there were coats hanging on some of the pegs. It was hardly warmer than it had been outside.

‘D’you think we take our coats off? whispered Daisy, looking round.

‘Dunno,’ replied Rita, ‘but I ain’t going to. It’s too cold.’ She reached over to Rosie who was starting to unbutton her coat. ‘Keep your coat on, Rosie, it’s cold.’

For a moment they all stood there, wondering what they were supposed to do, then Mrs Manton reappeared, calling them through into a large room, empty except for a table at one end.

‘Sit!’ she instructed.

They sat down on the wooden floor and waited. Mrs Manton picked up a clipboard from the table and ran her eye down a list.

‘Now then, answer your names.’ When this was done, she said, ‘Good, we haven’t lost anyone. Now, here at Laurel Farm we all live in cottages. You’ll each be assigned to a cottage, and that’s where you’ll eat and sleep. Your cottage is your home. There is a house-mother to look after you, so each cottage is one big happy family.’

Her words were greeted with silence, as no one knew if they were expected to speak. She peered at them over her spectacles. ‘Now, I’ll tell you which cottage you’re in, then you’ll be taken there and you can get settled in.’ She consulted her list. ‘Sheila Nevin, you’ll be in Ash Cottage. That’s the senior girls’ cottage. Angela Gardner, Dora French and Mary Shannon, in Elm. Daisy Smart and Rita Stevens, Oak. Sylvia Brown and Susan Hart, Pine, and Joan Cameron and Rose Stevens, Larch.’

She looked up again and said, ‘Everyone know where they’re going?’

‘Please, Miss…’ began Rita. She’d seen the look of fear on Rosie’s face when she heard she was not going to be in the same cottage as Rita.

‘Mrs Manton,’ corrected the superintendent. ‘Well?’

‘Mrs Manton. Please. Mrs Manton, couldn’t I go into Larch with Rosie instead of Joan? Then Rosie and me’d be in the same cottage. We’re sisters.’

‘Rita, is it? Well, Rita, you’re all sisters here, and you, Joan and Rose will live where you’re told… just like everyone else.’ She paused, and when Rita said nothing she added, ‘Is that understood?’

Rita was whispering, ‘Yes, Mrs Manton,’ when Rosie began to wail. ‘I want to be with Rita. Reet, I want to be with you.’

‘Be silent, child!’ snapped the superintendent. ‘What a disgraceful noise. Another sound from you and you’ll get six of the best.’

Not knowing what six of the best was, Rosie continued to wail, until Rita grabbed her, pulling her sister against her, so that her cries were muffled. She hissed in her ear, ‘Shut up, Rosie, or she’s going to spank you!’

Rosie’s wails subsided, but her shoulders continued to heave with dry, shaking sobs.

‘Now then, where was I?’ continued Mrs Manton. ‘Oh yes. Colin has left your luggage in the yard, so you must pick up your own suitcase on the way to your cottage. You’ll be fetched in the next few minutes.’

Even as she spoke, there was a knock at the door, and a girl came in. Her dark hair was cut straight and short about her ears, she wore a grey checked dress and no shoes.

‘Good, here’s the first of our guides. This is Jane, she’s in Elm. Dora, Angela and Mary, go with her. She’ll take you to your cottage.’ As the three girls hesitated Mrs Manton snapped, ‘Look lively! We haven’t got all day!’ And with anxious glances at the others, the three girls stood up and followed their guide from the room.

Moments later there was another knock and a second girl appeared, dressed identically to the first, pudding basin haircut, grey dress and no shoes. Gradually all the girls were taken to their cottages. When Louise arrived to take Joan and Rosie to Larch, Joan stood up, but Rosie continued to cling to Rita.

‘Come on, Rosie,’ Rita encouraged, softly. ‘Go with Joan and I’ll come and find you later, when we’re all settled in.’ She stood up, pulling Rosie up with her, and then disengaged the child’s fingers from her arms and gave her a little push. ‘Go on, Rosie,’ she urged, ‘go with Joan. I’ll find you later, I promise you.’ Rita could see Rosie was about to start crying again, and she gave a beseeching look to Joan, who reached out, took Rosie’s hand and saying, ‘Come on, Rosie,’ almost dragged her away. Audrey from Oak arrived as Rosie and Joan disappeared and moments later Rita and Daisy were out in the yard where their suitcases awaited them.

When she had dismissed the English girls to their various cottages Daphne Manton went through to the house she shared with her husband, Joe. He was sitting in front of a smouldering fire, reading a newspaper.

‘Everything go all right?’ he asked as his wife came in.

Daphne flopped into a chair on the other side of the fireplace and kicked off her shoes, holding her cold toes to the warmth.

‘Yes,’ she said wearily. ‘All present and correct.’ She glanced down at the clipboard she still carried, with its list of names and assigned cottages. ‘Don’t know how they’ll fit in, though.’

Daphne had been dismayed when she’d received a letter from her cousin Emily some weeks ago saying that she was sending children out from Laurel House. There had been no migrant children since before the war, and the girls who now inhabited Laurel Farm were nearly all Australian-born, children left orphaned or deserted by their families, cast upon the charity of strangers. One or two of the senior girls had vague recollections of coming over on a ship, but most of the earlier migrant children had moved on now and as always, newcomers would be regarded with mistrust.

Well, Daphne had thought at the time, she’ll send them whatever I say, so they’ll just have to muck in with the others.

Emily had enclosed a typed list with her letter, naming the children she would be sending, and three of the names had handwritten comments beside them.

Rita and Rose Stevens. Sisters. These girls should be separated. Rita is a difficult child and a bad influence on her sister. Rose is very babyish… time she grew up.

She’d done as Emily had advised when assigning the new arrivals to their various cottages, and separated the sisters, but that was only a short-term solution; she had other plans for Rosie, which, if they came to fruition, would deal with the situation on a permanent basis.

Sheila Nevin. Can be a trouble-maker, but usually comes to heel.

That comment didn’t worry Daphne either. She was used to the odd trouble-maker, and was well able to deal with those.

Rita and Sheila. Now she had met them, and already had a run-in with Rita, she would, Daphne decided, keep a sharp eye on those two.

‘Emily’s sent me a whole pile of paperwork,’ she told Joe with a sigh. ‘It’s so long since we had any kids from England, I’d forgotten how much was involved. And I bet there’s a long letter, too. You know Emily.’

‘Why not wait till you’ve eaten?’ suggested Joe. ‘Irene’s come over to cook your breakfast. She’s waiting in the kitchen to know what you want.’

‘Scrambled egg and bacon,’ said Daphne, ‘and some toast and tea.’

‘I’ll go and tell her,’ and Joe went in search of the senior girl, Irene, whose job it was to cook for the superintendent and her husband.

Daphne leaned forward and poked the fire, so that the smouldering log blazed with welcome warmth. It was an extravagance, having a fire in the daytime, and one she would never have countenanced in any of the cottages, but she was grateful for its heat today after the long and chilly train journey.

‘Be ready in ten minutes,’ Joe said, looking round the door. ‘Told her to bring it in on a tray so’s you can stay by the fire. I’m off out to the chooks.’

Daphne decided Joe was right to suggest that she leave the letter from Emily until she’d eaten. After all it had taken six weeks to get here, another half hour wasn’t going to hurt, so she sat back, relaxing into her armchair, her feet to the fire, to wait for Irene.

When she’d eaten her breakfast, she poured herself another cup of tea and finally turned her attention to the foolscap envelope. Inside there was the expected letter from Emily, and all the personal records of the ten girls who had arrived that day. She tackled the letter first.

Dear Daphne,

Well, here they are. Quite a mixed bunch, but all of them children who, for various reasons, needed both a change from Laurel House and a completely fresh start. They’re all used to living in a home like yours so they should settle in with you quickly provided you stand no nonsense. I do suggest you keep an eye on Rita Stevens. I think I mentioned her before.

‘Yes, you did Emily,’ muttered Daphne, ‘and I did what you told me.’

Sheila Nevin is a bit of a bully, but like all such she’s also a coward, so I suggest you take an extremely firm line with her right from the start.

Things are changing here quite a bit, and the trend is to foster children in families rather than keep them in institutions like ours. The Labour government has rewritten the rule book with lots of socialist twaddle, meaning that society as we’ve known it is being turned on its head. Of course, we here at Laurel House are working hard to maintain our standards, and would urge you to do the same. It is vital that children such as ours should know their place in the world and keep to it. Too much education can only make them dissatisfied, leading to unhappiness and discontent. I am sure you’ll agree with me.

I am arranging for further funds to maintain these children and plan to send another group out to join you in the near future.

Daphne raised her eyes to heaven when she read this. Where did Emily think she was going to put more children? She’d had to squeeze in the ones who’d arrived today.

I know it isn’t easy to make ends meet, but I’m sure there are economies you can make. Have you considered you might keep a pig? Could Joe build a sty?

Could Joe build a sty? Daphne almost exploded. Joe was going to have to build another bloody cottage, if Emily was determined to keep sending more children from England. And she was certainly going to have to send more money. Economies indeed! How Emily thought they could all live on the funds provided in such tough financial times, Daphne couldn’t imagine. Of course, it was no problem to her and Joe. They had their comfortable house, adjoining the central block, from where she could keep her finger on the pulse of the place. She just took money whenever she needed to. A little work on the books made the deception easy and they lived in comparative comfort, but the rest of the place was run on a shoestring. The five house-mothers lacked any qualifications; they were women grateful to find employment of any kind, and would never query the difference in salary. Daphne was, after all, the superintendent, Joe was the outdoor manager, both very responsible jobs. It was only right that they should earn considerably more than a house-mother, a gardener or an odd-job boy.

Now she scrutinized the details in front of her. The only two she was worried about were the Stevens girls. Attached to their documents was a handwritten note in Emily’s writing.

These girls come from a dysfunctional family. The widowed mother is feckless. She has remarried and has had another child. There is no room for them in the new family, and the stepfather is thought to be violent and abusive. Watch Rita, she’s already absconded from Laurel House, taking Rosie with her. Rosie is a submissive child, biddable enough once out of Rita’s influence.

I certainly will be watching that Rita, thought Daphne. The last thing we want is girls running away from here.

Attached to each girl’s report was her birth certificate, family details, and the legal guardianship document signing her over to EVER-Care. The immigration authorities would have the names of the girls who arrived, but they wouldn’t have the more intimate details.

Occasionally Daphne Manton was approached by adoption agencies, representing couples wishing to adopt. Most of them wanted babies, which she couldn’t provide, but she had placed one or two of her charges in families. She had no idea if those adoptions had been successful, but she’d never been asked to return the adoption fee, and none of the children had been sent back.

Recently she’d been approached by a couple, older than usual, who wanted a daughter. Gerald and Edna Waters had come to her on a recommendation from the minister at the Methodist church they attended in Fryford, just up the coast from Sydney. He had heard that Laurel Farm was an orphanage run by a Methodist charity, and they had made an appointment to visit. When they arrived, Mrs Manton had sat them down in her sitting room and discussed in detail what they were looking for. With luck, she’d thought, there should be a good-sized fee.

The Waters were both in their forties, but had only been married for a year or so, and wanted to adopt a little girl of four or five.

‘Need to have her house-trained,’ said Gerald Waters with a bark of laughter. ‘Too old to cope with nappies and potty training, aren’t we, dear?’

He turned to his wife for corroboration. Edna Waters was a small, whey-faced woman, standing little more than five feet, beside her husband’s six feet four.

She glanced up at him with a half-smile and said, ‘We’d like a daughter, and Gerald’s right, we don’t want a baby, but we do want a child young enough to become our own. You know,’ she went on earnestly, ‘a little girl young enough to forget her early life, whatever it has been, who can truly belong to us.’

‘I doubt if any of the children here are the sort you’re looking for,’ Daphne Manton had said, ‘they’ve been in care too long,’ adding as she saw the disappointment on the Waters’ faces, ‘but there are some children arriving from England in the next few weeks, and one or two of them are the right age. Of course I haven’t met any of them yet, but I’d be happy for you to meet them when they get here and see what you think.’

‘Oh, yes,’ cried Edna, clasping her hands together in delight. ‘Yes, we’d love to see them.’

‘Are they the sort of girls we’d want?’ Gerald sounded doubtful. ‘I mean, well, English girls? We don’t want a slum kid.’

‘They’ve been living in our Belcaster home for some time,’ Daphne told him. ‘They are perfectly well behaved… we allow nothing else. But of course if you don’t wish to—’

‘Oh we do, we do,’ interrupted Edna. ‘Of course we do, don’t we, Gerald? We’ll come and see them as soon as they get here, just tell us the day.’

They were coming tomorrow. If they were going to choose one of the new arrivals, Daphne wanted it done and dusted straight away. Daphne considered the girls who had just arrived. Rosie Stevens seemed the obvious choice, but you never knew. She would bring the three youngest girls in for inspection, and Rita. She’d bring Rita in as well. She was pretty sure, from Edna’s enthusiasm, that they would take one of the three youngsters, but there was just the possibility that when they saw the Stevens sisters together, they might take both, and that would not only relieve her of one of the problem kids Emily had landed on her, but would also ease the overcrowding their arrival had caused.

If one of the other girls was adopted by the Waters couple, that information would be added to her file, so that records were kept straight, but there would be no mention of the adoption fee that would be paid. That would be a matter purely between Gerald Waters and Daphne Manton.