The Forgotten Home Child

by Genevieve Graham

  “What a long summer it was without you!” Charlotte cried, hugging her tight. She pulled back, and her smile vanished at the sight of tears in Winny’s eyes. “What’s happened?”

  In halting sentences, Winny told Charlotte about Mary’s death.

  Charlotte stood frozen, then she slowly shook her head. “No. Not Mary.” Her voice cracked as she said Mary’s name, then she began to cry. “I’m so sorry, Winny. It’s so unfair. How could Mary end up with someone so cruel? And yet I end up… Oh, I wish I could have done something.”

  How many times had Winny felt the same aching helplessness over these past few months?

  “There’s nothing you or I could have done,” Winny said. “But I think you can help me now.”

  “Whatever you need, Winny. You know that.”

  “Before she died, Mary wrote me a letter. She asked me to find her son.”

  “You mean to keep him?”

  She nodded. “If I pass my exams, Mistress Adams has agreed to release me from service so I can attend nursing school. I’m going to become a nurse, just like you. And I’m going to adopt him.”

  “Oh, Winny, that is good news.”

  “But I need your help.”

  Charlotte leaned forward. “Whatever you need.”

  “You said the Carpenters were thinking of adopting a baby for a long time, right? I mean before you came along.”

  “Yes. They changed their minds when they heard about Barnardo’s children.”

  “Since they know how the process works, do you think they might know how to find Mary’s baby? He was born in the Toronto Maternity Home.”

  “Leave it with me. I’ll find out what I can.”

  Winny didn’t have to wait long. The next day, Charlotte had news. According to Mr. Carpenter, the maternity home was attached to an orphanage. If Mary’s baby hadn’t been adopted already, that’s most likely where he would be. At the word orphanage, the ground dropped under Winny’s feet. She should have expected it, but still… She couldn’t let Mary’s son live the same life she had lived.

  Charlotte agreed. “But have you thought it through, Winny?” she asked tentatively. “I hope you don’t mind, but when I asked Mum and Dad about the orphanage, they pressed me for more information. So I had to tell them about Mary, and about her baby. They were heartbroken. And they want to help.”

  “How?”

  “Well, you’ll need a home for starters. When you go to Toronto, I mean.”

  She went on to say that the Carpenters had suggested that Winny live with Charlotte in Toronto when it came time for school. They had already planned to rent a room for her there, and knowing how much it would mean to Charlotte to have Winny with her, they offered to cover the cost of a two-bedroom apartment instead.

  Winny couldn’t believe her ears. “That is so kind of them. How can I ever repay them?”

  “They know how much you mean to me, Winny. It’s the least they can do.” Her eyes twinkled unexpectedly. “You’ll also need a husband.”

  “What? What for?”

  “It’s a requirement of adoption.”

  Heat surged to Winny’s cheeks. “Where am I going to find a husband in time?”

  “You’re not,” Charlotte replied. “Mum telephoned her nephew Jeffrey to ask for his help. I’ve met him a few times when the Carpenters brought me to Toronto. He lives there. He’s twenty, and a brilliant lawyer. And he’s ever so handsome. Blind as a bat, but his eyes are still lovely. Anyhow, he has agreed to pose as your husband,” she said, pink with joy. “He says he’ll come with you for interviews or whatever you need. Don’t worry, Winny. He’s a really good sort.” She wrinkled her nose. “And he knows how I feel about orphanages.”

  “Charlotte, I don’t know what to say. Truly. You’ve thought of everything.”

  “I’m just so happy I can be of help. Without you and Mary, I would still be that scared little mouse sitting in the corner in Barkingside.” She squeezed Winny’s hand. “I’m glad to return the favour.”

  With Charlotte’s help, Winny wrote a heartfelt letter to the orphanage, and a month later she received the adoption paperwork. As she filled it in, her hands shook with a mixture of excitement and apprehension. It was really happening.

  * * *

  The school year flew by, and in the spring both she and Charlotte passed their exams and qualified for nursing school. Every day, Winny’s future became a little more real.

  On the morning she was to board the train to the city, Winny packed up her trunk with her belongings, including what she had brought with her from Barkingside and the new clothes and shoes Mistress Adams had bought for her to wear in Toronto. When everything was packed, Winny snapped the latches closed and set the trunk on its side.

  David appeared in the doorway and held out his hand for it. “I’ll miss seeing you around,” he said. “Do write when you find time, won’t you?”

  “Of course,” she said, giving him a hug. “Do you have any idea how much you helped me out here? I don’t know how I would have survived without your friendship, David.”

  “It goes both ways, Winny.” He looked at his shoes briefly, then back at her. “Take care of yourself. You’ll be a terrific nurse. And that baby will have the best mother. Lucky fellow.”

  He put her luggage in the truck, and she slid into the front seat beside Mistress Adams. As they drove away past the fields, Winny stared out the window. I will never come this way again, she thought.

  They rode in silence until they reached the station, and through the window Winny could see Charlotte was already there, waiting on the platform with the Carpenters. When the truck was parked and the engine shut off, she turned to Mistress Adams to say goodbye, but the woman surprised her by taking her hand.

  “I must tell you, Winnifred, that I have grown unexpectedly fond of you,” she said, stiff as ever. “I’m sure you are aware that when you first arrived here, I had rather low expectations. But despite my prejudices, you proved me wrong. You’re wearing a sweater made from yarn you made. You can milk a cow with your eyes closed and practically juggle eggs. You’re no longer the confused little girl I picked up at the train station almost two years ago but a smart, capable young woman on her way to becoming a nurse.” She swallowed hard, and Winny felt the woman’s fingers tighten around her own. “I know I wasn’t easy on you. I know I was unfair—I see that now—and I’m sorry.”

  She reached into her purse and withdrew an envelope. “This is for you.” She pursed her lips. “This money is from both my sister and myself. My share is to help you with your schooling. My sister’s share is for the baby: I told her your plan to adopt the child. She said if you do not find him, you may keep the money, because she will always regret not putting a stop to her husband’s vile actions. I’ve already written to Barnardo’s and told them to release the money they’re holding in trust for you. I’m not sure if they can do that before you are twenty-one, but I hope they will.”

  Winny stared at the envelope, thinking what a strange thing it was for two women she’d hated for so long to give her their hard-earned money. She would bear scars forever from the things Mistress Adams had said and done to her, and Mary’s baby would be a permanent reminder of the torture her sister had allowed to happen. The money, she supposed, was meant to be an apology. A sad, insufficient apology that could never fix what they’d done. But Winny would accept it, and she would leave all this ugliness in the past.

  She tucked the envelope inside her coat pocket. “Thank you, Mistress Adams,” she said. “For believing me when it mattered most. And for encouraging me to go to nursing school.”

  “Your mother would be proud of you, Winnifred. And you’ll make a wonderful mother yourself.” Her eyes glistened with tears, which she swept away when the train whistle hooted. “Now, off you go. You don’t want to miss your train.”

  Winny nodded, swallowing the unexpected lump that had formed in her throat, and she got out of the truck. Clutching her trunk in one hand, sh
e ran toward the platform where Charlotte was embracing the Carpenters and bidding them farewell. Winny did as well, thanking them once more for all their generosity. Then the girls boarded the train, arm in arm, their hearts overflowing with excitement.

  PART – three –

  twenty-three WINNY

  — Present Day —

  I remember that day so clearly, the way my heart took flight the moment the train chugged out of the station, away from my life on the farm.

  “Were you scared?” Jamie asks, looking up from his laptop. He usually does his homework in his room, but tonight he’s brought it down to the kitchen table.

  “There’s no way she’d be scared,” Chrissie says. She’s wearing one of her mother’s old bracelets, another treasure she’s uncovered in the last few days. “I bet you couldn’t wait to be out of there, Gran.”

  “I felt like I was starting all over again,” I say. “Like I’d turned a page, and this time I would finally get to write my own story.”

  “Yeah. I can see that. When I’m eighteen—”

  “You’re gonna leave your terrible mother behind?” Chrissie teases.

  He wraps an arm around her shoulder, at once both her growing son and her best friend. “Never. I was just thinking about what a kid does these days when he’s that age.”

  “Are you going to go to college?” I ask.

  “Maybe,” he says. “I kind of like the idea of learning all those trades, you know? Being handy. That way I could take care of myself no matter what.”

  “You could be like your great-grandfather and become an automobile mechanic,” I suggest.

  He tilts his head, considering the idea. “I do love cars.”

  “Whatever you do, you have to graduate high school first,” Chrissie says. “What’s your homework?”

  “History of Canada,” he says wryly. “You know, there’s nothing about Home Children in the curriculum. When I asked my teacher about them, he didn’t have any idea what I was talking about. He thought I meant the kids sent to Canada from England during the Second World War.”

  Chrissie snorts and reaches for his laptop. She types for a few seconds then shows us a black-and-white photograph of a pair of well-dressed, though dazed-looking, children. “Those were the ‘Guest Children,’ ” she says. “The ones they sent over here to keep safe. I read they were treated like royalty.”

  “Lucky for them,” I say quietly. The mention of war brings memories of another kind to my mind, and I feel a new weight settle on my shoulders. We’re almost at that part of the story.

  She passes Jamie back his computer. “I imagine those children weren’t from the streets or orphanages.”

  Since I started telling them about my life, Chrissie has developed a keen interest in history. When she’s not working at the hospital, she divides most of her time between the kitchen and her mother’s boxes in the basement. When she’s not busy with everything else, she’s been digging up all kinds of information about Canada’s British Home Children, and she’s filled in a lot of blanks for me. Some of what she’s discovered has shocked me. When she told me over 100,000—some even estimate it could be over 120,000—children were sent over here, as well as thousands more to Australia, New Zealand, and South Africa between 1869 and 1948, I had to excuse myself and go to my room. It was too much for me to bear thinking of all those poor little souls.

  Now she sets her chin in her hand and looks at me with that expression that says I am about to learn something new. “Have you ever tried going online to trace your ancestry?”

  “Sweetheart, I barely know what ‘online’ means.”

  “That’s not true. I took you to that library course.”

  “Oh, I’ve probably forgotten what they taught me by now,” I grumble. “Anyway, I don’t think I’ll get very far with that if I can’t even remember my parents’ names. If I ever knew them, even.”

  Of all the things I dislike about being geriatric, it’s the absences in my memory I despise the most. It’s as if my brain has decided I already know enough, or have seen enough, and it has turned off a switch. On the other hand, there are many things I wish I could forget, but they will never go away.

  She taps her fingers on the table. “I bet I could figure that out somehow. The archives have lists where you can look up—”

  “I think you have enough on your plate. Don’t you worry about it.”

  She lets out a sigh, and I can tell she’s disappointed that I haven’t asked her to find out more. It’s just that I’m not all that certain I want to know more. She sits taller and offers a tentative smile. “Well, there’s something else I want to talk about. I found something online today, and I thought you might be interested in seeing it.” She glances at Jamie. “Tomorrow’s Saturday, so you could come too, if you want.”

  “We’re going out?” Jamie and I ask at the same time.

  “We can go in the morning. After breakfast. It’s supposed to be a nice day.”

  “Where?”

  “I’ll show you tomorrow. I promise it’ll be interesting.”

  Jamie’s pinched expression speaks volumes.

  “It won’t take all day,” his mother assures him. “And afterwards we’ll get lunch.”

  * * *

  I’m not usually one for surprises, but Chrissie was right: it’s a beautiful day, and I do enjoy getting out to see things. It’s difficult for me to do that these days, since I grow tired so easily. None of us speak as we drive away from the house, so Chrissie turns on the radio. I watch the summer colours blur past my window then disappear in a rush as we pull onto Highway 401. Chrissie is a good driver, but I look away, intimidated by the cars speeding around us. We drive west, then merge onto Highway 427. After a few minutes, Chrissie takes an exit ramp, and when I realize we are in Etobicoke, I feel nerves dance all over my body. How long has it been since I was here? I wonder if it’s still the same. I look over at Chrissie and try to read her expression. Why has she brought us here? What does she know?

  “Come on, Mom,” Jamie says from the backseat. “You have to tell us now.”

  “Almost.”

  I’m not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed when she drives in a completely different direction from the one I was expecting. Instead, she goes east along Bloor Street and slows as we approach the gates to a cemetery.

  “Park Lawn Cemetery, Paradise Mausoleum,” Jamie reads. “A graveyard? Mom, you haven’t been in a graveyard since—”

  Since Susan, I think, my heart skipping a beat.

  “I know. But this is different.” Chrissie places one hand over mine. “I didn’t tell you before because I wasn’t sure how you’d react, but I really wanted to see this, and I really wanted you both to come with me.”

  She drives slowly through the entrance and along a little road that winds between gravestones, some of which look to be well over a hundred years old. The cemetery is a massive space of immaculate green, hushed and shadowed beneath watchful trees. This is a place for the dead, but the living are here as well, strolling through the grass, enjoying the peace. A deer stands about twenty feet away from the car, and her soft doe eyes take us in, but she isn’t bothered.

  “A few years ago,” Chrissie says, “a woman named Lori Oschefski discovered something in this cemetery.” She pulls to the side and parks. “We can walk from here.”

  Jamie helps me out of the car then wanders off the path a bit, intrigued by the ancient stones. Chrissie takes my elbow and leads me past wide, granite gravestones etched with names, dates, and fond remembrances, all of which are fading with time. When we stop walking, we are in a quiet, nondescript spot beneath towering maples.

  “This is what I wanted to show you,” she says, gesturing to one monument that stands taller than the others.

  It looks like a rectangle atop two more, like an angular snowman. But something on the top stone looks unusual. I squint as we approach, curious about the circle cut in the middle of the stone, then I see it all at onc
e. The brass orb is a ship’s portal, just like one I peered out of when I was fifteen years old, standing on my tiptoes and searching for land. And above the portal is a plaque that reads “British Home Children.” My gaze falls to the inscription below it, etched with names, words, and numbers.

  STANLEY LESLIE ALLEBONE:

  DIED APRIL 8 1915,

  AGED 8 YEARS 6 MONTHS

  MARGARET PIKE:

  DIED APRIL 18 1927,

  AGED 10 YEARS 9 MONTHS

  BENJAMIN BUTTERWORTH:

  DIED NOVEMBER 13 1898,

  AGED 15 YEARS 1 MONTH

  CHARLOTTE YARD:

  DIED JUNE 16 1914,

  AGED 12 YEARS 9 MONTHS

  The list goes on and on, and I can’t find any words.

  “These are two mass graves,” Chrissie says gently. “Seventy-five British Home Children are buried here.”

  Seventy-five children, I think, remembering all the little faces crowded on the dock so long ago. I wonder if any of these names belong to children I once knew.

  “More specifically, fifty-eight of them are Barnardo’s children. Seventeen infants were buried here as well, babies of Barnardo girls.” Her finger goes to a specific name. “Like this one.”

  EVELYN WRIGHT:

  DIED MAY 4 1918,

  INFANT DAUGHTER OF

  BRITISH HOME CHILD

  MAUD EMILY WRIGHT

  “For decades, nobody knew their bodies were even here, then Lori started a GoFundMe page, and between her and other Home Children descendants, they raised enough money to make and erect this monument.”

  Jamie crouches by the memorial, runs his fingers over the words engraved on its base. “Oh my God, Gran.” His heart is in his blue eyes. “This was you.” I hear the catch in his voice, and I am nearly undone.