The Forgotten Home Child

by Genevieve Graham

  “Gran,” Chrissie says, and I look up. “You had nothing to be ashamed of.”

  My eyes fill with tears and I blink them away. “After all these years, I can finally see that.”

  Chrissie wipes her face, and Jamie hands us tissues.

  “You know people get therapy for this stuff nowadays, right?” Chrissie says, blowing her nose.

  “I’m a little old for therapy, don’t you think?”

  My granddaughter is picking at her nails just like I did. “I went for therapy.”

  “Did you? Did it work?”

  “I suppose it did.”

  It’s my turn to reach for her. “Chrissie, I’m sorry.”

  She shakes her head. “You shouldn’t have to apologize after all you survived. I just wish things had been different. I wish Mom was here.” She looks across the room at Jamie. “At least we know now.”

  “What happened to Billy?” Jamie asks, his voice low.

  I let out a long breath. “I don’t know. When we never heard from him, we assumed he’d eventually gone to Vietnam and died there. There were no official Canadian troops there, so he would have had to register with the American army, like a lot of the Canadian men did. I remember writing to the U.S. Government, demanding they let his grieving parents know where his body was, but they never did. The world is a big, ugly, mud-covered place, and I imagine there are so many unnamed corpses rotting under the soil—in other countries as well as here in Canada—that no one will ever know who they all are.”

  I can tell from Jamie’s expression that my answer is not good enough. He wants to know more about his great-uncle. How I wish he could have met him.

  “What happened after he left your house that night?”

  “Jack went after him the next morning. He went to the Veterans’ Centre and demanded information, but they knew nothing. Or they refused to tell him. Either way, we never heard another word about him.” I remember the sorrow in Jack’s eyes when he’d come home that day.

  How ironic that, as a child, I had spent many years hoping never to be forgotten, trying to find my lost friends. My son appeared to have forgotten all about us, and he had never wanted to be found.

  “Jack was never quite the same after Billy left, but neither was I. Suddenly a big part of us was gone, and we mourned his loss. He left because of us, and it took a toll.”

  Chrissie sets her chin in her hand. “The stories about Jack from when Billy was a teenager don’t sound anything like the Pop I knew. I remember him as being a quiet but gentle man. When Jamie was born, he couldn’t keep his eyes off him.”

  I nod. “Nowadays, I am fairly sure Jack would have been diagnosed with PTSD. He saw and suffered so much—working under Master Warren, riding the rails, serving during the war, then losing Cecil right in front of him—and he didn’t know how to handle all that. None of us did. Drinking helped dull the noise, but it made him a worse husband and an angry father. The drinking stopped the day Billy left. It was like the door slamming behind Billy jolted Jack back to real life, and he fought his demons so he could come back to Susan and me. In his own way, he was happy,” I say fondly, thinking of his smile. “And he lived over eighty years, which I imagine would have been cut much shorter had he never left the streets of London.”

  “It must have been hard for Grandma Susan to lose her big brother so early,” Jamie says.

  “It was. It was hard for all of us. But maybe because she was so young, she bounced back more easily than we did. She asked after him for a couple of years, less and less as time passed, then she stopped.”

  Chrissie and Jamie sit in silence, stunned by the end of the story.

  Then Jamie says, “I wonder how things would have turned out if Mary had lived.”

  I manage a smile. “I wonder that every day.”

  * * *

  The next afternoon, when Jamie is still at school, Chrissie sets a plate of tea and cookies before me. It’s always tea and cookies, isn’t it? The universal medicine for pain of the heart. She needs to talk about something. I can tell, because she’s been scratching at her nails since yesterday.

  “I want to talk about Mom,” she says, staring at her tea. “Hearing all your stories and finding out where Mom came from has me missing her even more. It kind of breaks my heart to think of her never knowing all this about her own past. She loved you and Pop very much, and she never would have thought less of you.”

  “I know. She was the light of our lives. I’m sorry I never told her.”

  “She never even told me about Uncle Billy. She kept your secret for you.”

  “I suppose it was just one more sad story that didn’t need telling. I guess she was a lot like me that way.”

  Chrissie shifts in her chair. “I think she knew it was important to you. But it must have been very hard, keeping a secret that long.”

  I take a sip. “It becomes a part of you, I suppose. It did with me.”

  “Mom had another secret,” she says slowly. “I just found out about it last night.”

  I feel a twinge of apprehension. “Oh?”

  “You know that I’ve been going through Mom’s things lately. It’s been hard, but I needed to remember a lot. It’s one of those steps of grief they talk about. Anyway, after you’d gone to bed last night, I went into the basement to go through more of her boxes.” She hesitates. “I think I found something that you’d like to see.”

  She disappears for a moment then returns with her hands overflowing with neat stacks of envelopes. The little piles are held together with elastic bands, but she’s holding them so I can’t see what is written on them.

  “Don’t keep me in suspense,” I say. “I’m far too old for that.”

  She puts the first bundle before me and removes the elastic band. The paper on the top envelope is translucent from age, but I’m still able to see the postmark, dated 1955. It’s addressed to Susan. The return address says the letter is from Billy Miller, 25th Canadian Infantry Brigade.

  “Oh,” I murmur, and my fingers scramble to open the envelope. Chrissie reaches across, helping me when my twisted fingers cannot manage.

  Dear Susan,

  I promised I would write to you, didn’t I? Don’t be worried about me. I am having a great time out here. We’ve been spending most of our time training. They say we’re going to ship off soon…

  “Billy,” I sigh.

  Halfway down the letter he writes,

  I need you to make me a promise. I want to keep writing to you, but you must promise not to tell Mom and Dad. They can’t know where I am. Can you keep this secret? If they find out, I will have to stop writing to you. I sure hope you don’t, because I miss you already. I want to hear all about your life! How’s grade 6?

  Poor, poor Susan. I know what it is to be sworn to secrecy and what it demands of you. What a tangled web of secrets to be caught up in.

  I reach for the second letter, but Chrissie covers my hand with her own.

  “Gran,” she says. “Billy did go to Vietnam, but he didn’t die there.” She spreads the bundles in front of us and her eyes hold mine. “These letters only stopped in 2016, after Mom died.”

  My mind whirls. What does this mean?

  “I haven’t read all the letters, Gran, just the first few. It’s not really my place—though with your permission, I would love to.” She squeezes my hand. “But because of his return address, I know where he was two years ago.”

  Two years ago.

  “If he’s still alive, I can find him for you,” she whispers.

  A tear rolls down my cheek. “Would you please, Chrissie?”

  She nods. “Wait here, Gran.”

  I lose track of time, listening to her voice through the wall, and I wonder if this can be real. Billy’s been gone so long. Where has he been? What has he been doing for all these years? How old would he be now, our little Billy? I do the math in my head, my fingers drawing in the air. He would be eighty-one. Old and grey. I’ve missed so much.

&n
bsp; Chrissie comes back in, her cheeks flushed. “I found him, Gran.” She sits down, watching me cautiously, as if I’ll keel over from a heart attack. I fear she might be right.

  “He lives right here in Toronto. I spoke with his son. If you’re up for it, he’s bringing him over tomorrow morning at ten.”

  * * *

  The next morning I put on the prettiest dress I own, and Chrissie helps me with my hair. Then there is nothing else to do but wait, and I sit in my armchair by the window.

  “You okay, Gran?” Jamie keeps asking.

  “What time is it?”

  “Nine thirty.”

  “Ask me again in a half hour,” I tell him, then I look at Chrissie. “If he comes, that is.”

  “Oh, he’s coming,” she says, beaming. “And I can’t wait to meet him.”

  When the doorbell rings, I am a bundle of nerves. Every inch of me is tingling. Chrissie leaps to her feet but Jamie stays with me and holds my hand. I give it a squeeze.

  “You wanna get up?”

  I nod. He puts a strong young arm under my elbow and helps me to my feet.

  And then I am standing in front of Billy.

  “Mum,” he says.

  I can’t speak, I’m shaking so hard. Tears fall off my face.

  He stares at me, and I see he is afraid.

  “Billy.”

  “I was a fool,” he says, wrapping his arms around me. My fingers hook into the back of his sweater, and I never want to let go. His back jerks slightly, and I know I am not the only one crying. “Such a goddamned fool. I should have come back to you. I should have told Dad how sorry I was. You didn’t deserve all those things I said. I never should have left you. I never stopped loving you, Mum. Never stopped missing you.”

  I loosen my grip and reach up to touch his wet cheek. He is a good foot taller than I am—of course I have done a good amount of shrinking over the past sixty-odd years—and his hair is a dignified grey. But his eyes are the same. They are no longer cushioned by a child’s soft, healthy skin, but I know those vivid blue eyes—Mary’s eyes, Jack’s eyes.

  “We thought you were killed in Vietnam.”

  “I’d hoped you would. I… I kind of lost my mind after the war, and when I found it again, I couldn’t face what I’d done to you and Dad. I thought it would be easier if you just forgot all about me.”

  “How could I ever forget you, Billy? You were my heart.”

  “Oh, Mum. I’m so sorry.”

  He hugs me again, and by now everyone in the room is sniffling. I hear them all around me.

  “Who are all these people?” I ask, looking at the unfamiliar faces.

  Billy clears his throat. “This is your family. My lovely wife, Shelly, and our sons and our daughter. We left the ten grandchildren at home.”

  “Ten grandchildren!” I exclaim.

  “Pleased to meet you,” Billy’s first son says. He’s got to be at least fifty. “I’m Jack.”

  I throw my arms open, feeling like my entire world just blossomed into a million flowers, and I embrace my new grandson, tears now mixing with laughter. Billy’s two other sons and daughter step up for a hug, and I see the Miller in each of them.

  Look at your boy, Mary. Look what we did, Jack.

  * * *

  The others depart after a short visit, but Billy doesn’t leave my side all day. He returns the next morning, and his stories are like a balm to my soul. We’re both desperate to make up for lost time, and I cannot get enough of the sound of his voice, the love in his eyes. Before he leaves for the day, Chrissie makes sure Billy and I both understand how to do video calls on her computer.

  After two eventful days, I go to bed early. All alone in my bedroom, I marvel at the quiet. My heart still sings for Billy, and I smile as I pull the duvet up to my chin, the soft familiarity of my mattress a far cry from the barn and the sheep. Ninety-seven years old. I never dreamed I might live this long. That’s more than enough years for anyone.

  Last week I was a childless widow. Now my family has more than doubled, and my son has forgiven me. He has freed me.

  It’s time. I close my eyes and take a long, deep breath. As I let it out, I see Jack’s smile shining through the darkness, and I long for him with my entire being.

  There’s only one place where I’ve ever truly felt like I was home.

  “I’m coming, Jack,” I whisper, my lips curving into a smile just for him. “Wherever you are, I’m coming.”

  A Note to Readers

  I first learned about the British Home Children a few years ago, when I stumbled upon an article about them online. The article said that starting in 1869, more than 120,000 destitute British children between the ages of three and eighteen were taken from England’s streets, orphanages, and homes, and then shipped across the ocean to work in other countries, where it was thought they’d have a chance to lead better lives. This went on for nearly eighty years, until 1948. The more I read, the more intrigued I became. The idea of improving their young lives sounded plausible, but then I read on and discovered the alarming truth. Once the children arrived in their new country, there were few to no checks and balances in place. What could go wrong? Some of the children did benefit from the scheme. Those were informally adopted and their lives improved unquestionably. Most of the children, however, did not. The majority became indentured servants, working as farm labourers and domestic servants.

  Here’s what got to me: Where were all the children shipped? Here, to Canada. I was filled with questions. How could something so significant have happened here without it becoming general knowledge? Why had I never learned about this in school?

  How could I not write their story?

  British immigrant children from Dr. Barnardo’s Homes at landing stage, Saint John, New Brunswick. (Isaac Erb / Library and Archives Canada / PA-041785)

  My initial challenge was finding information. There were a few books and articles, but in general, no one seemed to be talking about it. When I asked around, I was met with a lot of blank stares. Then I found the website for the Canadian British Home Children, and from there, multiple Facebook pages for British Home Children descendants. Most of the members on those pages have at least one British Home Child in their family tree, and everyone shares a common goal. They are there to learn more about their family history, but most of all they want to raise public awareness about some of Canada’s earliest and youngest pioneers, the children who helped make our country what it is today.

  As you’ll remember from the novel, Winny’s granddaughter Chrissie connects with other descendants in a Facebook group just like the real ones. If you believe you have a British Home Child in your family tree and are looking for information, I highly recommend you join one of these groups. Every member is an eager volunteer waiting for people to post questions, and I have seen descendants matched up with their ancestors within hours. It’s incredible to watch. They’re also passionate about adding the history of the British Home Children to the Canadian school curriculum—something that Winny’s great-grandson, Jamie, alludes to in the book.

  When I mentioned to the groups that I was writing a novel based on the British Home Children, I was welcomed with open arms and immediately invited to the Nova Scotia British Home Children Descendants’ reunion to speak about my book. Here in Nova Scotia, most of the children had been brought over by Middlemore Homes, an organization based in Birmingham, England. In fact, more than fifty organizations were involved in the child migrant scheme. I focused on Dr. Barnardo’s in this book because they brought in the largest number of children by far.

  When I went to the reunion, I already had a sense of the larger history and a basic plotline in mind, but that wasn’t enough. I needed to understand the children’s experiences more deeply. I handed out surveys, mixing generalized questions about their ancestors with more personal ones, and within a week, I had more than two hundred responses. Many of them broke my heart. When I asked the descendants what kind of people their ancestors were (
based on what they either remembered or had been told), the answers were mixed, but the adjective that kept showing up was bitter. Almost every one of them said their relative’s greatest pain came from never knowing what had become of their families. Their responses shaped the core characters of Winny, Mary, Jack, Edward, Cecil, Quinn, and Charlotte.

  The carpentry shop at Dr. Barnardo’s Boys’ Home Stepney Causeway, in 1905. (Mary Evans / Peter Higginbottom Collection)

  List of trunk contents for girls at Homes for Waifs and Strays from Our Waifs and Strays, March 1885.

  Everything you read about in The Forgotten Home Child happened to the actual Home Children. The trunk Winny built and carried with her was real, as was the list of contents. Ill-fitting shoes like the ones she wore were not uncommon. Some children were forced to work in the snow in bare feet. The children’s exhaustion and hunger were all well-documented. One descendant wrote to me about her grandmother falling asleep in a haystack in the barn and being whipped for it. The granddaughter said, “When I grew up, she lived with us and she would take my school books to learn. When I would go to retrieve them, she would jump up and state, ‘I am not sleeping!’ ” The poignancy of that story, and the fact that decades later it still impacted that woman so deeply, wouldn’t let me go, so I wove it into Winny’s tale.

  There were many other, even more difficult stories to accept. A large percentage of the girls, like Mary, suffered sexual abuse and rape. Many boys were beaten to death, like Quinn, and other children committed suicide. In 1905, fourteen-year-old Arnold Walsh arrived in Canada and was sent to work for a wealthy farmer in Quebec, where he lived in the barn. After seven months, he froze to death. Authorities discovered his undersized coffin buried in a pile of manure. A later autopsy showed he was undernourished, poorly clad, had severely frostbitten hands and feet, a fractured skull, and his body was full of pitchfork holes.