After the first week at school, the days began to run into each other. There was a sameness about each day which made for extremely humdrum living. The routine was unchanging, and despite the severity of the regime, everyone knew what was expected of her, both at Laurel Farm and at school.
In Larch, Mrs Watson didn’t mind how they passed their short leisure hour at the end of the day. Most of them sat around and chatted, or played the games that Mrs Watson had scrounged from somewhere. Rita used the time to read, and it wasn’t long before she had devoured the few books on the living room shelf. Every evening she sat up in bed and wrote her journal. She enjoyed recording the events of each day. She wrote about school and things that had happened at Laurel Farm, but she also wrote about the people around her, the other girls and the staff. And she wrote about Rosie, letting her sadness seep onto the page and ease the ache of her loss. Sometimes she wrote stories. She often thought of Paul Dawson, from the ship, and wondered if he was still writing stories as well. He had finally let her read some of his before they reached Sydney, and she’d thought they were very exciting.
Now that she didn’t have to hide what she was doing, she tried her hand at similar stories. Rita thought they weren’t as good as Paul’s, but she enjoyed writing them, letting her imagination roam across the remembered places of home and the new and unfamiliar landscape that surrounded her now. Her stories were a means of escape from the gritty, grey days that made up her life, and she was never happier than chewing the end of her pencil trying to find the exact word she needed.
Rita had settled into school particularly well. She enjoyed the work, and though she was nothing like as keen as Daisy on the physical exercise, she was happy enough to join in the PT classes with everyone else. Miss Carson had quickly spotted that Rita was an intelligent child, with an enquiring mind; it delighted her, and she set out to foster that intelligence. Rita, Miss Carson saw, enjoyed learning for the sake of it, and it wasn’t long before she was encouraging her to borrow books from the school bookshelf. She also noticed that Rita wrote well. From the first day, when she’d written about her journey out from England, Miss Carson had realized that this child had a creative talent which should be nurtured, and she encouraged her to continue recording her thoughts and ideas.
Mrs Watson had spotted Rita’s potential as well, though she never singled her out for any special attention. Rita might be bright, but she was treated the same as everyone else. She knew Rita missed her sister, but there was nothing Mrs Watson could do about that; Rosie’s adoption was something else that Rita must accept and get used to.
One evening a few weeks after Rita and Daisy had moved into Larch, it was Rita’s turn to do the ironing and she was warming the iron when Mrs Watson came in and said, ‘Ah, Rita. I’ve some ironing to be done as well. Please come and fetch it now.’
Rita didn’t look very pleased. She thought there was enough in the basket already, but she obediently set the iron aside and followed the house-mother. There was, she knew, never any point in arguing with the Watchdog.
When they reached Mrs Watson’s quarters, Rita followed her inside, and was surprised when she closed the door behind them.
‘I’ve got something for you, Rita,’ she said, ‘but I’d rather the others didn’t see it.’ She fixed Rita with a firm gaze. ‘Can I rely on you for that?’
Rita, who had no idea what she was going to be given, nodded. ‘Yes, Mrs Watson.’
‘Not even Daisy?’
Rita hesitated. She and Daisy had become inseparable. They had been close friends before, but since Daisy had rescued Rita from the cellar, and Rosie had been taken, Rita had shared everything with Daisy, and to Daisy it seemed that at last she had the sister she’d always wanted.
‘I’m sorry, Rita,’ said Mrs Watson, ‘but I must insist. If I give you this, you mustn’t show it to Daisy, all right?’
‘All right,’ Rita said, but she crossed her fingers behind her back.
‘Well, I’m going to trust you,’ said the house-mother. ‘Here you are then,’ and she handed Rita an envelope.
The letter had arrived that morning. Mrs Watson had been on her way into Carrabunna to buy some notepaper and stamps, and as she walked to the gate, Mrs Manton had shouted after her, asking her to collect the mail. When she got to the post office, she bought her own stamps and then asked if there was any post for Laurel Farm. Miss Drew, sitting as always behind the counter, swivelled round on her chair and reached into the Laurel Farm pigeon hole.
‘Here you are,’ she said. ‘Not much, but there is one from England addressed to two of the kiddies. They’ll like getting that, won’t they?’
‘I’m sure they will,’ agreed Mrs Watson, even as she doubted they’d ever see it. She thanked Miss Drew and took the small bundle of letters. Glancing through them she found that all but one were addressed to Mrs Manton, most looking like bills. Only one was for anyone else, and that was addressed to Miss Rita and Rosie Stevens. Mrs Watson stared at the envelope for a moment before tucking it into her bag with the rest of the post.
She finished her errands and then walked slowly back up the lane to Laurel Farm, thinking hard. A letter for Rita… and Rosie. Too late for Rosie, but Rita? Who would have sent it, and how did they have the Carrabunna address? She knew that it was never given out. It was one of Miss Vanstone’s strictest prohibitions. Once a child had been taken in by the EVER-Care Trust, she lost all contact with anyone from her previous life; all ties cut, no further contact with friends or extended family. It was one of the things that Delia Watson most disliked about EVER-Care. To her it indicated a lack of humanity. She knew that many of the children in their care were, perhaps, better off at Laurel Farm, but she felt that cutting them off from everything known and familiar was cruel, leaving them with no roots or sense of identity. But, now, here was this letter for Rita.
It’s got the right address on it, she thought, so Miss Vanstone must have allowed it to be sent. She took it out of her bag again and leaning on a field gate, scrutinized it once more. The names, Miss Rita and Rosie Stevens, were written in a neat hand, but the address underneath was an untidy scrawl, obviously written by someone different. It had a line of stamps all along the top, the postmark that cancelled them was London, and the date, over six weeks ago.
Mrs Watson had a lot of time for Rita. She knew her to be a courageous little girl, who had braved all that her short life had thrown at her. She thought of what Rita had told her about her family; that her mother had remarried, a baby brother, something about a grandmother? So, who could have written? The address was certainly written in an uneducated hand. Could it be the mother’s? If so, surely the child had a right to read what her mother had written.
What am I going to do? she wondered. But in her heart she already knew. ‘The address is right,’ she spoke aloud, trying to convince herself, ‘so it must have been given to the person who wrote the letter, and the only one who could have done that was Emily Vanstone. In which case, I can give it to Rita.’
If she gave the letter to Mrs Manton, she would insist on opening the letter first and might not pass it on. Rita might never know someone in England had written to her.
But, if I give it to Rita directly, Mrs Watson thought, and don’t mention it to anyone else, there’s no reason why Mrs Manton should ever know. Her decision made, Delia Watson put the letter back into her handbag, but in a different compartment from the rest of the post.
Her chance to give the letter privately to Rita came that very evening. She knew a moment’s hesitation, as the girl waited expectantly. Was this a mistake? But looking at Rita’s eager face, she stuck to her earlier decision and reaching into her bag, passed the letter across.
Rita took it, staring at it in surprise. ‘Who’s it from?’ she asked.
‘How should I know?’ asked Mrs Watson briskly. ‘I haven’t opened it. It’s your letter.’
Rita tore the envelope and extracted the letter. She took one look at the signature and gave a little cry.
‘Well?’ Mrs Watson couldn’t contain her curiosity.
‘It’s from my gran,’ whispered Rita, holding it out for the house-mother to see. Mrs Watson did not take it, but she could see that the letter was written in the same neat hand that had written Rita’s name on the envelope.
‘Well, you’d better read it then.’ Mrs Watson spoke more gently this time, and turned away, so that Rita could do so unobserved.
‘She thinks we’ve been adopted, me and Rosie,’ Rita said quietly when she’d read the letter. ‘She thinks we’re together somewhere, but she don’t know we’ve gone here.’ She passed the letter over. ‘You read it,’ she said.
Mrs Watson glanced through the short note. Rita’s quite right, she thought as she read it again. This grandmother has no idea they’ve been sent to Australia.
Mrs Watson felt a wave of relief; at least now she knew that Miss Vanstone had indeed sanctioned the letter. She handed it back and said, ‘Did you know your grandmother had been in hospital?’
Rita looked up. ‘Yes, she got run over and they took her down the General. We was living with her then, but when she was hurt, Auntie Carrie, next door, looked after us till Mum come home from her honeymoon.’
‘I see,’ responded Mrs Watson quietly. She waited for Rita to go on.
‘And when Mum come home, she was took to hospital to fetch the baby, so we was took to Laurel House.’
‘It looks as if your grandmother hasn’t been told you’re here,’ Mrs Watson said carefully.
‘No, she ain’t,’ snapped Rita. ‘She’s been told a lie. She’s been told we’re adopted, me and Rosie. She thinks we’re together, and,’ her voice broke on a sob, ‘she’s told me to look after Rosie, and I can’t!’
The look of total misery on the child’s face pierced Mrs Watson’s own carefully preserved carapace, and for the first time since she had laid her son in his coffin she pulled a child into her arms and held her close.
For a moment Rita stiffened, about to push her away, and then she relaxed and allowed herself to be held.
After a moment Mrs Watson released her and sitting down on a chair, waved Rita to another. ‘Sit down, Rita,’ she said. ‘We’ll have to have a think about what we’re going to do next.’
Rita sat, still clutching Gran’s letter in her hand, and looked bleakly across at her house-mother. ‘She don’t know where we are,’ she said flatly.
‘You could write and tell her,’ suggested Mrs Watson. ‘How about that, Rita?’
Rita’s expression brightened a little, but she said, ‘I can’t. I ain’t got no paper or stamps.’
‘I’ll give you those, but I’ll have to read the letter before you send it. Those are the rules here. All right?’
Rita nodded and looked down to read Gran’s letter again. There was no mention of Mum, or baby Richard. Rita wished Gran had said something about them, but at least she knew Gran was all right and getting better from her accident.
‘I’ll find you some paper and an envelope,’ promised Mrs Watson, ‘and tomorrow evening you can write your letter.’ She got to her feet. ‘You’d better get back to the ironing now. Shall I look after the letter for you till tomorrow evening?’
Rita shook her head violently. ‘No!’ she almost shouted. ‘No,’ she repeated in a more moderate tone, ‘thank you, miss. I’ll look after it.’
Back in the kitchen at the ironing table, Rita thought about her letter. She could feel it, tucked into her knickers, and longed to take it out again, but she didn’t want anyone to see it. It was too special, too private to be shared with anyone else, even Daisy, just now. She would tell Daisy and show her the letter later, after all, she’d had her fingers crossed when she’d promised not to, so that didn’t count, but just for now she wanted to hug the secret to herself. As she ironed the weekend overalls, she thought about what she would say to Gran in her reply. There was so much to tell her, but the most important thing was about Rosie. She’d lost Rosie.
When it was bedtime at last, Rita went into one of the lavatories and shutting the door, pulled out her letter again. It was already looking a bit dog-eared, but she sat on the toilet seat and read it through again. Remember, wherever you are you are my best girls. Rita could hear Gran’s voice in her head, and despite her determination, she found that, at last, the tears were pouring down her cheeks, and it was some time before she was able to go back into the dorm.
‘You been crying?’ asked Daisy, looking at her suspiciously. ‘What’s up?’
‘Nothing,’ replied Rita as if surprised by the question. She gave a meaningful glance at the others. ‘I’m fine, Dais. Do you want to go over your twelves for the test tomorrow?’
They sat together on Rita’s bed, chanting the twelve times table, and when it was lights out, Rita slipped the letter from under her clothes and fell asleep with it held tightly in her hand. When she awoke in the morning, she put it in her school bag, so that it would be with her all day.
The letter from Gran filled Rita’s thoughts.
Daisy tackled her in the playground. ‘What’s up with you, Reet?’ she demanded. ‘You been in a funny mood ever since last night. You ain’t thinking of bunking off again, are you?’
‘No,’ replied Rita. ‘Got things on my mind, that’s all.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like mind your own business, Dais,’ Rita snapped uncharacteristically. ‘I’ll tell you when I’m good and ready.’
Daisy’s cheeks reddened. ‘Suit yourself,’ she said, turning away, ‘but I thought we was mates.’
Rita, immediately contrite, grabbed her arm. ‘Sorry, Dais, sorry. Don’t be like that,’ she begged. ‘Course we’re mates, but I just can’t tell you yet. I will soon, promise.’
‘Promise?’
‘I said, promise.’
‘OK, only you was crying last night, and I weren’t the only one what noticed.’
‘I just got to sort something out, Dais, that’s all. I’ll tell you all about it soon, honest.’
Mrs Watson handed Rita some sheets of notepaper when she got back from school. ‘When you’ve written it, I’ll find you an envelope.’
Rita slipped the notepaper into her school bag, and when she had finished her homework that evening, she pulled it out, and began to write.
Once she’d started the words flooded from her pencil, and before she knew it she’d covered three sheets of paper, pouring out to Gran exactly what had happened to them both. As she wrote about Rosie, she felt the tears welling up in her eyes, and she forced them back. One day she would find Rosie again, and that was a promise she made to Gran in the letter.
Delia Watson looked at the letter Rita handed to her and knew at once that she couldn’t send it as it was. It would have to be censored. She read it through again and looked up at Rita. ‘What a lot you’ve written,’ she said lightly. ‘Now, here’s the envelope. You address it to your gran, then I’ll post it tomorrow. It’ll need lots of stamps for England.’
Rita looked anxious. ‘But I ain’t got no stamp money.’
‘Never mind,’ Mrs Watson reassured her, ‘I’ll buy them for you. Write the address, and we’ll get your letter on its way.’
Rita wrote the address in Hampton Road carefully on the envelope, adding ENGLAND, when prompted by Mrs Watson. Then she put the letter into it, licked it up and handed it to her house-mother. ‘You promise you’ll post it?’ she said, her eyes fixed on Mrs Watson’s face.
‘I promise I will.’ Rita gave a quick glance at Mrs Watson’s hands, but her fingers weren’t crossed, and Rita felt reassured.
Later that evening, Mrs Watson took out the letter Rita had written and carefully unsealing it, read it through again. Dear Gran, she read…
I got your letter the other day. Thank you for writing to me to tell me you are better. I am glad you ain’t in horspidal no more and your leg has got better. Rosie and I ain’t with a family like you said, nobody’s took us but we ain’t at Laurel House neither. We tried to come home to Mum and to see baby Richard, but the horrid lady from the children’s office took us back to Laurel House. Soon after that we was told we was going to Australia. We wasn’t allowed to tell Mum we was going, but I think she knew anyway. It was cos Uncle Jimmy wanted to get rid of us.
We come here by ship and it took more than six weeks. The ship was lovely and we had a good time on board. The food was lovely. Lots of times the weather was very hot. We learned to swim in the pool on the ship.
We saw lots of places on the way, but we wasn’t aloud get off the ship. When we got to Australia some people got off before we did at Perf and Adalayed but we was going to Sidney. When we landed we come to this home. It is in a little town a long way away called Carrabunna.
When we got here we was put into cottages. Rosie was in a different one to me. My cottage mother was called Mrs Garfield. Two days after we got here, we was all called together and had to put on our best clothes. We ain’t got many, but Rosie wore the dress you made, but mine was too small. It made us both cry when we thought of you back at home and us so far away. Then a man and a lady come and looked at us all. We had to stand still and strate and then turn round. They walked along the line looking at us all, then they said to Mrs Manton they’d have this one, and the man put his hand on Rosie. Then they took her away. She didn’t want to go with them, and she started screaming. I ran over to hold on to her, but they pushed me away. Then we was all told to go back to the cottages. Rosie went on screaming, and they dragged her away. I waited by the gate to say goodbye but Rosie was put in a car and I couldnt. Mrs Garfield shut me in the cellar all night. When I came out I went in a different cottage called Larch.
I ain’t seen Rosie no more. She has gone to live with them people, and I dunno where she is. It is very lonely here without her and I hate it, but when I get out of here, I’ll go and find her again.
We all go to school here and I am here with some of the girls who came from Laurel House. It was cold when we arrived, because it was winter here, not like England. Spring has come now and it is a bit warmer.
I don’t like it here and wish I could come home. I wish Rosie was here too.
Please write to me again soon.
Lots of love from Rita xx
Mrs Watson opened a bottle of Indian ink and working through the letter, blacked out the most damning parts. One page she removed entirely, and when she was satisfied, she slipped it back into its envelope, using some clear glue to reseal it. Next morning she walked to the post office, bought the necessary stamps, and dropped the letter into the box. She had kept her promise. Rita’s letter had been sent.