Gull Island (17 page)

After a test given by the teacher she was given a desk in the new school. She quickly realized that even here she was unable to keep up with the others. At playtime she ran away and tried to get back to Auntie Molly Carey.

She ran away three times, once being brought back by the local doctor on his horse and trap, once by a friendly policeman and the third time, when she had managed to reach the beach, by Richard.

‘Safe there, you’ll be,’ he assured her. ‘Better than with old Prothero for sure. Be patient. Time will pass and when you’re grown up you’ll be as free as a wild goose.’

‘A swan,’ she wailed. ‘I don’t want to be a goose, I want to be a wild swan.’

He was surprised at her vehemence. He couldn’t know that crossing her mind was the rhyme from her only book:

She knew she was cruel and had been a crying baby, and she might grow up to be a goose, or worse, a gaby – which she was told was someone simple – but she didn’t know what to do about it.

Accepting Richard’s advice to be patient and wait until she was old enough to survive alone, Rosita became subdued and surly. She accepted the thick, heavy clothes and the boots she was given with ill grace, hating being made to look exactly like the others. She forced herself to give in to the rules that everyone followed without protest. Giving the impression of
silent acceptance, although seething with fear and fury inside, she ignored the attempts at friendship from those sharing the long bedroom and did what was asked of her sullenly and without joy.

At school her record continued to be poor and in the home her belligerent attitude meant she had little chance of making friends. She did have one person to whom she could talk. Surprisingly, the lady in grey, whom she now knew to be Matron’s assistant, made allowances for her temper when she could, and tried to help with her written work. In the hours of recreation, when the children were offered a variety of pastimes, she would sit, with chalk and slate, and encourage her to practise writing and reading. Rosita’s aim, the clever lady realized, was to read her favourite book for herself and this was the tool she used.

A month after her arrival at the home, the children were invited to a Christmas party given by the local organization in a church hall. They were each given a small gift, handed to them by an elderly man in a Father Christmas outfit. Most of the girls got dolls or books. Rosita pretended not to be interested but hoped for a doll. It might be fun to have a pretend friend. Opening her parcel, which seemed to be the right shape, a smile flickered on her lips. On opening the coloured paper and finding a horse and hay cart, Rosita remembered the farm that was her home and all the anger and frustration burst out of her.

She screamed and kicked those near enough to be a target. Her face was a mask of despair and she pushed away anyone attempting to hold her. She gripped her fists into tight balls and looked for some way of venting her misery. Picking up a vase from a side table, she threw it through the window with a crash that sobered her immediately.

Sobs came then. Why wasn’t she with her mother and sisters? Why had Mam said she hadn’t got a mother and left her with these strangers? She cried furiously, standing in the middle of a hesitant circle of adults, while the other children kept back against the walls. She threw down the offending toy, gratified to see it broken. Then she poked her tongue out at Father Christmas and ran from the room.

It was the grey lady who found her, led to the corner of the building by her sobs. She picked her up and without a word of censure carried her back to the bus that was waiting to take them back to the home. She undressed her, bathed her and put her to bed. She encouraged her to talk, listening quietly to the release of the girl’s bewilderment and pain.

She was allowed to stay in bed the following day and the grey lady came and read to her. One of the girls, called Mary, came too and sat nervously beside her, wanting to talk but afraid of a rebuff. Although they didn’t speak, Rosita was comforted by her being there.

On Christmas Day there was a parcel from ‘Auntie Babs’, but Rosita refused to open it and it stayed in Matron’s cupboard for the duration of Rosita’s stay.

She ran away once more, early in the spring of 1923, but she was afraid, having forgotten the direction that would take her to Auntie Molly Carey. If she went the wrong way she might find herself back at the farm, with Graham angry with her and raising the cane. The image made her grip her thighs in remembered agony. She sat in the corner of a field for most of the day then went quietly back.

She and Mary became friends, at least as much of a friend as Rosita was capable of at that time. Slowly the months passed with life getting easier. School was still a trial but in the home Rosita became an avid reader, getting much pleasure from reading aloud to Mary and occasionally to others as well.

The anger seemed to have left her, only returning for a brief period after each of Barbara’s rare visits. She never referred to Kate and Hattie, frowning and asking who they were when Barbara mentioned them. But she secretly agonized over their abandonment of her. Why did everyone hate her so?

She often took the scrap of paper out of her book and read the names of her grandparents written by Richard Carey. Her grandparents hated her, for sure. Mam and Graham hated her, Graham hit her and Mam let him, then they locked her away. Kate and Hattie never came to see her, or even sent a message when her mother came, so, she reasoned, they must think I’m dead. Or they hated her too and didn’t want to see her ever again. She dealt with this by refusing to admit that she had sisters and told everyone she was a solitary orphan, her only relation being Auntie Babs, who hated her.

I
N
A
PRIL
1928, Barbara began to worry that something was wrong with her eldest daughter. Five years had passed since she had pretended to be her aunt and placed her in the home. The visits she had initially made had ended after a few months. Matron had advised her to wait a while as it always upset Rosita and unsettled her. A renewal of the visits had always been intended but had never happened.

Since then she had written every month and the matron had encouraged Rosita to write a short note in reply. Now weeks had passed and no letter had appeared. There couldn’t be anything seriously wrong or Matron would have let her know, but guilt was never far from the surface of her mind and, even with Graham’s obvious disapproval, she had to go and see for herself.

On Easter Sunday, she set off with a small bag swinging from her
shoulders
, leaving eight-year-old Kate and seven-year-old Hattie behind. She wore a fashionable long cardigan she had knitted and a long pleated skirt and simple top. On her head was a full-crowned hat with a smallish brim, on which she had sewn wax cherries and a large butterfly made from feathers.

In the bag were a few clothes. Although it wasn’t her intention to be away more than a day or two, it was wise to be prepared for the
unexpected
where Rosita was concerned. She hoped she would just go to the home, discover the reason for the lack of letters, spend a day with her then return to the farm.

She was excited at the break in the monotonous daily routine. She had been increasingly restless over the past months. She was twenty-seven and feeling that life should hold more than the repetitious grind that she and Graham endured.

Graham watched her go, a burly, anxious-looking man wearing thick trousers and a Welsh flannel shirt without its stiff Sunday collar, the sleeves rolled up to the middle of his powerful forearms. He leaned on a shepherd’s crook, afraid she would stay away for a long time. Although he stood there
until she was out of sight, she didn’t turn and give a final wave, which disappointed him.

He stayed for a while longer, half hoping she would come back and give that reassuring wave, aware that he was acting like a child. Then he walked up the hill to check on the sheep. There were still a few waiting to give birth. He stopped for a while where his land dropped sharply down to the river below. Some long-ago land-slide had formed what the locals called the
cwm
.

The wind blew his hair back from his face, revealing the thin line of pale skin around the hairline that the sun failed to reach. He thought of Barbara sitting on the bus that was taking her away from him. He had never felt secure in his marriage; always afraid that her previous life would one day call her back.

He wondered if she would come back this time or was this the day it would end? Would he wait for the buses that came and went and be
disappointed
? He considered vaguely what he would do. He knew that although she hid it well, she had never been completely happy with him, but they worked well together and apart from the loss of Rosita she had seemed content enough. Perhaps it was him being much older than her that made him always afraid of losing her?

But no. It was more than that. Over the past months she had become more and more distant. Thinking about that daughter of hers for sure. Nothing but trouble that one had caused since the moment of her birth. His frown deepened as he walked on and he hit out angrily at the nettles that barred his way.

He was also afraid that if Barbara did come back the following day, that damned girl would be with her. How could he cope with that madam again? She’d be a bad influence on Kate and Hattie, there was nothing more certain than that. His girls did as he told them and knew what was expected of them. How would they accept the presence of a wayward
creature
like Rosita? And would he be able to keep his hands off her?

Since Rosita had left them the family seemed, to Graham at least, far happier. But for Barbara, the gap left had never been filled. For a while there had been letters written by the matron in the children’s home on Rosita’s behalf, assuring her ‘Auntie Babs’ that all was well and that Rosita had ‘settled amicably’. Those words stayed in Barbara’s memory and settled unnervingly on her guilty thoughts. ‘Settled amicably’? Her wilful daughter? She wondered just how they had persuaded the angry little girl to ‘settle amicably’ and she feared the worst. Later the notes were written by Rosita herself but they were brief, polite scrawls and, Barbara suspected, written to instructions.

Each letter was a twist in Barbara’s heart. She knew she had given up her child for selfish reasons, abandoned her, and worse, pretended she was her daughter’s auntie, for the sake of a more peaceful life. Guilt kept her awake at night and she would stave it off, imagining how, one day, she and Kate and Hattie would go to bring Rosita back. But whenever she pictured the scene in her tormented daydreams, Graham would not be there. She would leave the happy vision knowing that while he lived, she and Rosita would never be reunited.

In 1927 the letters had ceased. She continued to write, signing herself ‘your loving Auntie Babs’, but there were no replies. Rosita hadn’t even acknowledged the hand-knitted scarf she had made, or the copy of
Wind in the Willows
she had sent for her tenth birthday.

She blamed Graham. It was his fault Rosita was no longer at the farm. He had beaten the little girl until there had been no alternative to sending her away. He had threatened her safety. It was he who had driven her away. The thought grew until she began to hate the man. He was a cruel monster who had robbed her of her love-child. Gradually she began to avoid his demands. By the time spring came and the sowing was underway, she no longer shared his bed.

At Easter, the weather promised sunshine, and Barbara felt full of
optimism
as she set off to find Rosita. She would just see that she was all right, and give her the few pounds she had brought for her and the dress she had sewn during the previous winter when the evenings were long and the farm work less demanding.

She wouldn’t even suggest she might one day come home. Not yet. When a few more years had passed and Rosita was grown past the difficult age, then she would come and gather her up, take her back and never let her leave again. The dream seemed real now she was on her way, and she glowed with the excitement of the story she invented. She forgot five years had passed and Rosita would now be a leggy ten-year-old, with few
memories
of the life she had once led on the farm.

The home was a large country house set in a beautiful garden which the children were encouraged to enjoy. Barbara saw several groups of girls sitting with sketch books trying to set down what they saw. The grounds were surrounded by trees and newly unfurled leaves were making a
background
of a hundred different greens. The lawns were neat and the scent of newly cut grass was delightful. The air was filled with the humming of bees busily searching for pollen, their tiny beating wings filling the garden with the sound of summer.

She went to the little room that was hardly more than a porch to wait for one of the girls to fetch her daughter. The door was wide open, giving
a view of the front garden and the driveway. It was very beautiful. Surely Rosita had been happy here?

‘What do
you
want? We’re just back from Sunday school and I have things to do!’

Rosita’s first words shocked Barbara sharply from the euphoric daydream of the affectionate greeting she would receive.

‘I – You haven’t written. I came to see if you are all right,’ Barbara
stammered
, staring at the tall, thin stranger with dark eyes who glared at her with such intense dislike. She faltered in her words, like a criminal. ‘You’re – I’m your—’

‘You aren’t going to say you’re my mother, are you?’ Rosita gave a supercilious glare. ‘A mother? You threw me out, didn’t you? Preferred him to me. Then pretended you’re my auntie.’

‘It was for the best,’ Barbara whispered. ‘Come out with me. I’ll see the matron and ask if we can go out for the afternoon and I’ll tell you all about your sisters and the farm. The pony I wrote to you about is still there. Perhaps you could come one day and ride him?’ Damn, she shouldn’t have said that.

‘I don’t want any favours! And I don’t want
you
!’

Rosita ran off across the lawn, heading for the gate before disappearing in some trees, her skinny legs flying like those of a young colt, her shiny brown hair bouncing with each step.

Barbara sat utterly still, her hands gripping her bag as if life depended on it. She stared out through the door, the spring flowers that filled the borders with the golden richness of hundreds of daffodils now unseen by tear-filled eyes. She was shocked by the reception, which, if she hadn’t been so filled with romantic imaginings, she might have expected. To allow five years to pass and then believe that Rosita would run into her arms? What a fool she was.

She dropped her bag and went to stand at the door. A movement at the corner of the wall caught her eye and she stood perfectly still apart from her hand. Slowly the fingers crossed and she uttered a silent prayer. The figure approached her and she turned to smile at Rosita, who glowered back and said, ‘You can take me to the beach. I haven’t been since you put me in this prison!’

‘Which beach would you like to visit?’ Barbara asked quietly.

‘The one where Auntie Molly Carey lives, of course!’

The matron lent them two bicycles to take them as far as the railway station and this time, both having some experience, they were proficient. The station master agreed to mind them until their return and they stepped onto the train with hope in their hearts. Barbara’s hope was to achieve at
least an acceptance of her by her daughter. Rosita was tense with excited hope of seeing Richard.

They arrived at the house on the lonely beach in the middle of the
afternoon
as Mrs Carey was putting a Yorkshire pudding mixture into a frying pan. They still had no oven. Made with birds’ egg substitute it looked appetizing, and the sight of the vegetables simmering on the two hobs and the delicious smell of meat hanging in the Dutch oven in front of the blazing fire made them pleased to accept an invitation to stay and share the meal.

‘Funny time to eat for sure,’ a smiling Mrs Carey said. ‘But by the time the papers are done and my Henry goes to his club for a pint to refresh himself, three o’clock suits us all best. Now, come here, darling girl, so I can give you a hug, Rosita, love. Such a time since we saw you, I’d hardly have recognized you! Tall you are, and quite a young lady.’

Barbara was relieved to see that Mrs Carey looked well and the shelves at the sides of the fireplace were filled with food. Things had obviously improved for the family. Clean dresses and shirts hung behind the door and the windows, now mended, were dressed in cheerful curtains.

But seeing beyond the obvious first impressions, she saw that the house was damp despite the huge fire. The walls were spotted with mildew. Pyramid-shaped patterns of black rising up in the corners showed the extent of the decay, weak places that had been infiltrated by insidious fungus that had been scraped off many times, and which had determinedly recolonized. Floorboards were rotten and Barbara saw that furniture had been wedged to prevent anyone walking on the dangerous areas.

Most serious of all, the walls were cracking, wide gaps that would let in moisture, which in time would increase the damage. Where there was
moisture
there would be frost. Frost and thawing, expanding and easing, time and again. She knew from the old barn on the farm just how relentlessly that could destroy. The Careys had survived several winters in the damp old place, but would they manage another?

‘Where’s Richard?’ Rosita asked, her voice softer than when she spoke to Barbara. ‘I thought he’d be here with the food ready and smelling so good. Better than anything I’m used to,’ she added with another glare for her mother.

Mrs Carey looked anxious. ‘Richard? Oh, he’s around somewhere,’ she said airily. ‘Now,’ she added, quickly changing the subject, ‘tell me about yourselves. Barbara? You still at that farm? Where are Kate and Hattie? I’ve never seen them, you know, although you’ve told me about them in your letters. Bring them next time, why don’t you? And Graham too, mind. Welcome they’d all be.’ She glanced at Rosita as she spoke and watched the
girl’s face tighten with silent anger. ‘Well, perhaps not, love. It’s our Rosita who’s the important one, isn’t it?’ She hugged the girl and added in a whisper, ‘Auntie Carey’s best girl you are and always will be.’

Idris, Alun, Billie and Gareth arrived back from their various activities as the dinner was put out on assorted plates and bowls. They looked at Rosita, who glared back at them, tongue fully stretched. Without a word they went onto the beach with their plates and ate their meals huddled in a tight group that left no room for her to join them.

After they had eaten, Mr Carey fell asleep. Mrs Carey gave Rosita an apple then guided Barbara away from the house and sat down against the sea wall. The other children took their plates down to the edge of the sea and washed them. Rosita darted around the end of the wall to listen to what was being said that Mrs Carey didn’t want her to hear.

‘The truth is, Barbara, we don’t know where Richard is. The police have been here three times looking for him and us without a clue as to what’s going on.’

‘They must have told you what they suspect him of?’

‘I think it’s burglaries. Henry knows, mind, but he won’t say, trying to keep it from me, he is, and him too worried to sleep.’

‘Burglaries? Richard wouldn’t do anything so stupid!’

‘Why not?’ There was bitterness in Mrs Carey’s voice. ‘It’s only what Henry’s taught him all these years. “Take what you can from those with enough to spare,” he used to say. Richard is fifteen now and almost a man. He’s only doing what he was taught to do. Remember what Henry used to bring home in his pockets and that bag of his? Starved we’d have been, mind, if he hadn’t helped himself to a bit of extra food. Richard doesn’t think it’s wrong to steal, he only thinks it wrong to get caught!’