Although some people avoid this problem by waiting until their adoptive parents have died before researching their family background, there is still nearly always an underlying fear of rejection. What if their birth parents find it difficult to deal with the past? What if they don’t want to be reminded of it?
There were literally thousands of mothers and fathers in Britain who were affected – a large, silent group of people – and from a social-work perspective we had no knowledge of how they would respond to these new developments.
Nationally, there was a reluctance to fund adequate services to cope with these issues, and many social workers had to face the tasks without the necessary training or adjustments to their workload.
In 1984 I decided to establish a small project to explore this area. I thought it would be helpful to bring people together to talk about their experiences of adoption from their different perspectives. I wanted to find out what adoption had meant to them at different stages in their lives.
I put a small ad in the local paper, having no idea if anybody would respond, and eventually received a handful of replies – one from as far away as Surrey. Because it wasn’t an ‘official’ department project, I had no funds and had to arrange meetings outside work hours.
My bosses at Nottinghamshire Social Services were quietly supportive but feared I was stepping into a minefield.
I called the service Triangle, since it was open to all the adult members of the adoption triangle: birth and adoptive parents, as well as adults who had been adopted as children.
We met every fortnight in an attic room in a building shared with other self-help organizations. The furniture was sparse but there were just enough chairs for the seven or eight members who attended the Thursday evening meetings. It was adequate, but cold in winter. However, at least it provided a forum: adoption was one of those vital issues like sex or death which seemed to be rarely discussed in a relaxed atmosphere. We’d sit there with our coats on, deep in debate, until the caretaker asked us politely to leave the building. ‘I don’t know what you talk about in here,’ he used to mutter, ‘but none of you seems to want to go home.’ Sometimes the conversations would continue on the pavement, or in the pub if we finished reasonably early.
The group had been running for two years when, one winter night in 1986, something happened that was to turn my world completely upside down.
2
My home town boasts many attractive features, but the evening rush-hour traffic is not one of them. Nor, at the unfestive end of December, is the weather. As my car crept slowly across Trent Bridge, thunder rumbled overhead and lightning flashed across the dark sky. By the time I reached the city centre, rain was hammering against the windscreen and the wipers were finding it hard to cope.
I turned up the radio to catch the news headlines. 4 December 1986 was dominated by two major scandals. Admiral James Poindexter had just resigned as the American president’s National Security Adviser, and Lieutenant-Colonel Oliver North, a member of the National Security Council staff, had been dismissed. President Reagan had been forced to admit that he had been involved in secret negotiations with Iran for eighteen months trying to free American hostages, and that he had authorized the transfer of ‘small amounts’ of arms to Tehran. It had also emerged that ‘Ollie’ North not only made a profit on the deal, but passed it on to the Contra rebels fighting the left-wing Sandinista government in Nicaragua when Congress cut off official US funds. Reagan pronounced: ‘I was not fully informed of one of the activities undertaken in connection with this initiative.’
The second major news item concerned progress in the Spycatcher trial. Sir Robert Armstrong, Britain’s cabinet secretary, had apologized to an Australian court for unintentionally giving misleading evidence. He said that he had been ‘economical with the truth’. Sir Robert was the Government’s chief witness in the action to try to suppress publication of the memoirs of Peter Wright, the former MI5 officer. In a courtroom clash Mr Wright’s lawyer demanded of him, ‘Can any of your evidence be trusted?’ It seemed the case was going badly for Her Majesty’s Government.
I found myself shaking my head in disbelief. Government-sanctioned conspiracies and cover-ups were a long way removed from the everyday life of a forty-something wife, mother and social worker.
I turned off the news and listened to the wipers on the windscreen. My mind drifted back to a letter that had been waiting for me when I got home from work. The envelope bore an Australian stamp which surprised me.
A few weeks earlier I’d received the first letter from Madeleine, a married mother in her forties who lived in Adelaide. She’d heard about the Triangle group from a friend of hers visiting Nottingham, and turned to me for help.
‘I was four years old when I left England,’ she wrote. ‘I was living in a children’s home because my parents were dead, and was put on a boat with other children and sent to Australia. I don’t even know if my name or birthdate are right. All I know for certain is that I once lived in Nottingham.’
Although I sensed her desperation immediately, my first reaction was that this couldn’t be right. Surely Madeleine had been adopted or had left these shores with a guardian. I couldn’t see how it was possible for a four-year-old to have been sent off alone 12,000 miles across the world.
I wrote back to Madeleine saying that she must be mistaken.
Now a second letter had arrived and her swift reply was positive and definite. I quickly found myself accused of being arrogant and uncaring. Yes, Madeleine was sure about her facts. ‘You don’t forget things like that,’ she wrote. ‘I still have nightmares. I simply want to discover my roots.’
Madeleine had spent forty years in Australia and still felt she didn’t belong. She had no sense of background or heritage. A key part of her identity had been left behind somewhere in Britain. Now she wanted to find it.
As I slipped her letter into my pocket, I was still sure Madeleine was mistaken, but this time I would complete some basic research before writing back to her. She believed it was the truth and deserved some answers.
Outside the rain had eased slightly as I found a parking spot outside the large Victorian house in Mansfield Road. I switched off the engine, grabbed my overcoat and made a dash for the doorway.
3
The chairs were arranged in a circle around an old wooden coffee-table. Few of them matched, and some had sagging seats, but the room was quite comfortable and what it lacked in heating was made up for by the warmth of the company.
Marie was talking as she spooned coffee into the mugs. A quiet woman of about fifty she had been adopted when she was young. She often spoke in short, apologetic sentences that tailed off, as if she could never quite believe that anybody was listening to her. Her eyes were downcast as she spoke now, fixed on what she was doing; she didn’t have the slightest idea of the impact her words had on the group.
‘All my life, I felt something was missing,’ she said. ‘I was brought up as an only child, left home, and trained as a nurse at a London hospital. Then, one day, out of the blue, I remembered I had a brother. The more I thought about it, the clearer it became to me that he was younger than me and his name was Harold.’
Every person in the group was entranced. Normally so quiet and reserved, Marie had told us more about herself in those few sentences than in the previous twelve months.
‘What can you remember of your own childhood?’ I asked gently, wanting to keep her talking.
‘I know I was adopted somewhere in England, though not in Nottingham, when I was about ten years old. It’s hard to explain, but I know my adoptive parents changed my Christian name to Marie.
‘I lived with them in the South of England and when I eventually left home I went straight into nursing training. Nobody hid the fact I was adopted and I always wondered, and thought about, who I was.
‘Then from somewhere – who knows where these things come from – I remembered I had a brother. Somewhere I had a brother.
‘I didn’t know where to start looking for him, but eventually I began trying to trace his birth certificate.’ Marie paused and for a moment I feared that she wouldn’t finish.
‘I found it,’ she whispered as if it came as a complete surprise to herself.
‘His name was Harold and he was just eleven months younger than me. He hadn’t been adopted so I thought that maybe he was still with our mum and dad.
‘I put Harold’s certificate in my bag and kept it there for ages. I often took it out and looked at it wondering, Where is he? Will I ever find him? Sometimes I used to run my finger over his name.’
‘Did you ever try to trace him?’ somebody asked.
Marie smiled sadly and nodded.
‘For all I knew Harold could have lived around the corner from me. I had no idea where he was or how to find him. I turned to the Salvation Army which had arranged my adoption.
‘I sent off a letter, unsure of what would happen. I expected them to write back, asking for more information – information I didn’t have. In the meantime, I tried hard not to build up my hopes. A letter did arrive, but not from the Salvation Army. It was post-marked from Australia and when I opened it the first words were: “Dear Marie, I’m Harold Haig and I think I’m your brother.”’
‘That’s amazing,’ said someone.
‘You must have been thrilled,’ echoed another.
Marie’s face told a different story. There was no sign of joy or a happy ending.
‘Did you get to meet him?’ asked a chorus of questioners.
Marie lowered her head and explained that Harold’s letter had arrived almost twenty-five years ago, just as she was about to marry. As part of their honeymoon they were going to New Zealand to visit her husband’s brother and decided to return home via Australia so she could meet Harold.
‘It wasn’t easy,’ said Marie. ‘We had nothing to fill in twenty-five years except a handful of letters. I arrived on the doorstep with my husband and, from first sight, I knew it was true. It was lovely to see Harold, my brother.
‘But the visit was very brief. My husband and Harold were from different worlds. Harold was artistic and unconventional, my husband was very English and reserved. They didn’t get on and we weren’t there long before my husband decided we should leave.’
‘Harold and I didn’t write – not after a time, anyway. Perhaps my husband was jealous. Raising children and nursing took over and although we weren’t in contact I thought about Harold a lot. And then one day in the Seventies, it was Christmas Eve, my husband answered a knock on our door and there stood Harold.
‘I was shocked and thrilled at the same time, but again it was difficult. I wanted to talk to Harold, I wanted a brother, but there were tensions between Harold and my husband. They argued and Harold stormed back to Australia.
‘Periodically I wrote to him, never sure if he got the letters, but I have always held out the hope that we’ll meet again.’
Marie seemed exhausted and drained, sitting on the edge of an armchair and close to tears. I didn’t want to press her but I couldn’t let it rest.
‘How exactly,’ I asked, ‘did Harold get to Australia?’
She shrugged. ‘Somebody just sent him as a child.’
‘Who sent him?’
‘I don’t know. He said somebody put him on a boat.’
‘With your mother and father?’
‘No. He went on his own.’
‘This is bloody ridiculous,’ somebody said, and several conversations seemed to spark up at once as people shook their heads in disbelief and fired off more questions.
But I didn’t join in; I didn’t say a word. All I could think about was the letter from Madeleine in my overcoat pocket. It suddenly seemed far more significant and disturbing.
4
I had visited St Catherine’s House dozens of times before. It was always the first step in any search for the relatives of adopted people who sought my help. Headquarters of the General Register Office, and a Mecca for genealogists, the building houses some 260 million records of births, marriages and deaths in England and Wales, indexed in 8,500 bulky volumes.
Three days after Madeleine’s second letter arrived, I took the early train from Nottingham, to take advantage of the cheap return fare and make the most of a day’s research in London.
A day spent at St Catherine’s had never been my idea of fun. The journey took 100 mind-numbing minutes on British Rail, followed by a mad scramble on the London Underground in the middle of the early-morning rush hour. Then two short stops and up and out into the wind tunnel of a walk along Kingsway to the grey, bleak building commanding one of London’s busiest junctions.
The building itself was not designed with the consumer in mind. This is a world of harsh electric lighting and poor ventilation, where the bureaucrat is king. In the summer, crowds of schoolchildren and American tourists are nearly suffocated as they attempt to assemble the branches of their family trees.
St Cath’s is like a medium-sized library without the peace and quiet. There are up to two thousand visitors a day frantically searching through the indexes, a strange mixture of people, some of whom simply need a copy of their own birth certificate for administrative reasons, and others in the painful grip of a search for lost relatives. I can recognize the latter because their faces are so anxious and they lean low over the pages.
Eye strain, backache and sore arms are the occupational hazards of regular visitors who must wrestle with the large, cumbersome volumes stored in an endless series of metal racks. Every day brings drama and disappointment, but like some patron saint of lost souls, St Catherine rewards patience and diligence.
An orderly queue already snaked around the side of the building when I arrived. A man was selling roasted chestnuts near the entrance and the warmth of the burning coals and his smile contrasted totally with the bleak, grey surroundings. I caught sight of a newspaper headline – the Government had successfully applied for an injunction against Spycatcher and the British press was not at liberty to publish extracts.
Once inside, I crossed the lobby and quickly took my place among the rows of colour-coded volumes where I was hoping to find the registration of Madeleine’s birth. With this, I could order her birth certificate which, in turn, would give me details of her birthplace, the names of her mother and father, their address and their occupations.
The volumes for the 1940s are arranged in quarters for each year, with surnames in alphabetical order. If Madeleine had given me the correct details, I might only have five volumes to search.
After looking through three, I found Madeleine’s entry. She was right: she had been born in Nottingham. I breathed a sigh of relief as I completed the pink application form to order a copy of the full birth certificate.
There were about eight people in the queue to order certificates, each clutching their forms and their cash or cheques. The clerical staff behind the glass screens became irritated with a man who hadn’t completed the form correctly and the queue became restless.
I felt my own search had had a positive start, but my confidence was tempered by the frustration of knowing that it would take three days before a copy of Madeleine’s certificate would arrive in the post. Experience taught me not to be impatient. Discovery often comes in a series of sudden leaps forward punctuated by lengthy delays or complete halts. It was like driving a car for the first time, the results are quite unpredictable.
I knew that I would have to come back: Madeleine believed she was an orphan which meant that ultimately my search would take me to the bleak black records of death to discover when her parents had died.
The Australian High Commission is only a short walk from St Catherine’s House on a landmark site at the corner of Aldwych and the Strand. I had no idea what I wanted really, but decided it wouldn’t hurt to ask a few questions.
All week I’d tried to find any reasons why Madeleine and Harold might have been sent to Australia without their families. None of my
colleagues could help. A few thought I was joking when I asked them and one looked wistfully at me and said, ‘No, but I can think of one or two joyriders I’d happily nominate for a free passage.’
In truth, I still found it hard to believe myself. Perhaps they’d misunderstood what had happened, or had had a guardian caring for them. Maybe they were sent out to stay with relatives.
It was mid-afternoon and already the day had provided a look at all four seasons. Now it was raining and I dodged the puddles along the Strand, staying clear of the sheets of water thrown up by passing cars.
The colourful travel posters selling sunshine and tropical beaches seemed to mock rather than entice as I arrived at Australia House and walked past the visa section towards a young man who dealt with general enquiries. His Australian accent surprised me on such a typically English day.
‘Hello. I wonder if you can help me. Is it possible for children to migrate to Australia without their parents?’
‘Yes,’ the official said, ‘if the parents or guardian give their written consent, complete the necessary paperwork, and arrange for a close friend or relative in Australia to take responsibility for the child.’
‘Well, do you have any records of children who were sent to Australia just after the war, in the late nineteen-forties, without their parents?’
‘That was before my time,’ the young man said. ‘I’ll have to ask upstairs.’
I stood back from the desk and he turned slightly away from me to telephone for advice.
Slowly I watched his demeanour change. It seemed that the enquiry wasn’t exactly routine.
‘Just another few minutes,’ he said, dialling a new number. I began to feel uneasy. Maybe I’d asked the wrong question. Perhaps I didn’t know what I was talking about.
Eventually he apologized and said, ‘Someone is coming down to speak with you.’
Empty Cradles (Oranges and Sunshine) Page 3
