The Child Migrants Trust was finally on a firm footing – at least while the funds lasted. As it turned out, this was not to be for long. In March 1991 I received a letter from the Department of Health in London. Our application for a further grant had been refused.
This was a major blow. I had already appointed Joan Kerry, a qualified social worker, to counsel and prepare mothers and families of former child migrants. She had travelled thousands of miles in England, Scotland and Ireland, helping mothers deal with their sense of confusion and betrayal when they learned that their children had not been adopted in Britain but had been shipped to children’s homes in Australia. This work was vital but I had no idea where I would find the money to keep it going.
In the meantime, another unforeseen development had arisen: I received a call from an Australian television producer called Penny Chapman. The name meant little to me, but Penny explained that she was coming to England to try to arrange a co-production deal for a drama that she was very excited about.
‘It’s about the child migrants. We’re going to dramatize their story, the voyage, the abuse, the anger. Can I come and see you?’
Penny had already sold the idea to the Australian Broadcasting Corporation and was hoping to talk with the BBC about a joint production deal.
The writers, Sue Smith and John Alsop, wanted to consult with me for the programme but my commitments were already daunting. I was dealing with reality. The people who could tell them what really happened were the child migrants themselves.
I had other, more urgent, matters to worry about. Thankfully, my frosty relationship with the charities and agencies was beginning to thaw. After being initially very antagonistic and uncooperative, there was a definite move to mend bridges.
Over time it became easier to ask them for information about individual child migrants. There was a recognition on their part that it was a situation that would not go away. Those agencies that employed professional social workers began to change their policy. Gradually they grew to recognize the needs of the child migrants, and to appreciate the work of the Trust.
Unfortunately mistakes were still made and some charities found it difficult to change their attitudes and develop more flexible policies.
Joan Corby is a child migrant who first wrote to me in July 1988. Born in 1936, she was eleven years old when she left a children’s home in Birmingham and was sent, on board the SS Ormonde, to the Fairbridge Farm School at Molong, NSW.
Joan was told her mother had died in a bombing raid during the war and that she had no brothers and sisters.
She wrote:
My chief grievance is that I was sent from my native land after the war, when there was no longer any danger of England being occupied by the Germans. Therefore, unless there was another reason for migration, I needn’t have been sent away. I still passionately love my native land and I feel as if I have been exiled unnecessarily and through no fault of my own, and I wish to return to the land of my birth.
Another grievance is the fact that we were torn from our relatives and never had the chance to maintain family ties. Consequently I have walked through life as an orphan under great hardship, mainly spiritual hardship. I am grieved also that it is forty years now since I was exiled and till now nothing has been done to right what I see as a wrong. And, in fact, the wrong until now has not even been acknowledged.
I cannot make head or tail of the reasons why I should have been sent away in the first place and ask you if you know of any reason for this, legally or socially, bearing in mind that England’s doors have been open to refugees from all parts of the world and yet we child migrants have never been invited back officially. This seems unjust to me.
If you can help me, please do so as I don’t know where to turn. This exile lies very heavy on my heart.
I wrote back to Joan, assuring her that I would do what I could to find her family, but that it could be a long search and I needed her help. She had to give me as many details as possible about her childhood in England – names, dates, addresses, etc.
Unbeknown to me, Joan had already approached the Fairbridge Society and asked for her personal file. When I heard from her again, the inconceivable had happened. Fairbridge, despite my warnings, had simply sent Joan her file through the post. Their only effort at minimizing the impact was a crude and cruel blacking out of important information.
Joan was faced with a censored file, attached to which was a letter from the Fairbridge Society which stated: ‘I hope you find this interesting rather than upsetting.’
Joan quoted from the censored letters. One line read: ‘… as you say —— point in disclosing all the facts —— would not help Joan to know that —— had six illegitimate children by —— others.’
It made no sense, but the implications were obvious. The Fairbridge file gave the unmistakable impression that Joan’s mother had six illegitimate children by different men.
Joan also learned that the maiden name she had kept until her marriage was different from that on her birth certificate. Instead of being Joan Haymes, she was Joan Haynes.
Her devastation was not surprising. She wrote to me: ‘I fear there is insufficient time to right the wrong done to my mother – I can only pray that she or some of her other children are still alive …’
In the subsequent months, the Child Migrants Trust could find no evidence of Joan having any brothers or sisters. Although the search continues, I seriously doubt that her mother had six illegitimate children. I think Joan is probably an only child.
Perhaps there was a mistake due to poor record-keeping, or a clerical mix-up. Similarly, her details may have been deliberately falsified, years earlier, to prevent Joan ever finding her mother. Whatever the reason, it was cruel blow to a very vulnerable human being.
24
On Australia Day, 26 January 1991, I flew to Perth, arriving in the early hours of the morning. The receptionist gave me a smile and a stack of telephone messages from former child migrants who were eager to see me. Some simply said, ‘Welcome to Perth, call me when you can.’
I couldn’t sleep. Perhaps my body was telling me that it was the early evening in Nottingham. I decided to order a pot of tea from room service and unpack some of my clothes until the tea arrived. I would need a jacket, blouse and skirt in a few hours’ time and I could see that they would need pressing. I always feel awkward calling housekeeping at three in the morning for an iron and ironing-board. By the time the tea arrived, I had fallen asleep on the bed.
Australia Day was to be one of the hottest on record in Perth and when I woke, I could already sense the furnace being stoked by the early-morning sun. There was one particular child migrant whom I had to see that day, Michael, who first wrote to me in November 1989.
Dear Margaret,
I realize the difficulty you must face in putting the jigsaw together for those who seek your help. I would like to add my case to your already overloaded list. Thus, I seek your help.
I was brought out to Australia at the age of nine years, arriving in Australia during 1947 on the ship Asturias and went to a Christian Brothers’ institution, where I remained until 1955.
I am writing to you seeking your assistance and that of the Child Migrants Trust in the hope that I may know who I am, to whom I belong and who might belong to me.
I am encouraged in this by the programme Lost Children of the Empire. The work and research you are engaged in gives me the first hope I have ever had in my quest to the answers I seek about myself. I have for the first time in my life been able to talk about my past. Prior to the screening of the programme I was embarrassed to do so. Now I am not.
To assist you I enclose a copy of my birth certificate.
I recall, whilst in a children’s home in Lancashire, England, in the 1940s, a lady (my mother?) visited me. I enclose a small note the nuns gave me when I returned to the children’s home in 1972 in the hope of finding my mother.
After more than forty-two years, it would
be nice to know that I belong to someone, someone belongs to me and that I can share myself with those who are mine, thus giving me a peace of mind and a joy that I have never known and, up to now, I never thought could be mine.
A letter such as this has not been easy to write and is difficult to conclude. I close by saying what you are doing is appreciated. I hope to hear from you soon.
Yours sincerely,
Michael
It was a rather formal sounding letter, but I sensed an unwritten urgency between the lines. Yvonne and I began the search for Michael’s mother in St Catherine’s House. We began with a long list of birth registrations over a twenty-five year period of women with the same name as his mother. Nothing looked immediately hopeful. There was a registration for a woman with three Christian names, but Michael’s mother only had two; Michael was born in Highgate, London, this lady was born in the North of England.
The problems were compounded by the fact that Michael’s documentation contained conflicting information. His surname was spelt differently on important documents and his date of birth was also incorrect on papers he received from the agency who had arranged his migration. To make matters worse, the records contained no reference to Michael’s mother or father.
Michael recognized me when we met in the hotel lobby. He complained about the hot weather, which he still found oppressive, and I noticed he bore little trace of an Australian accent.
‘The heat hasn’t been a problem to me so far,’ I explained. ‘I usually only travel from the airport to my hotel.’
Michael was surprised that I hadn’t seen anything of Perth on my previous visits. In my room on the eighth floor, he stood at the window enjoying the view over the river and pointed out to me various places of interest. He told me how the city had changed since the America’s Cup yacht races were held off Fremantle several years earlier. It was more vibrant now, he said, there were more tourists and taller buildings.
Settling into a chair, he asked if he could smoke.
I handed him an ashtray and smiled, saying, ‘Most smokers need a few cigarettes when they come in here.’
Despite the relaxed introductions, I didn’t find it easy to get Michael to talk about his early childhood and the search for his mother. It touched a raw nerve and eventually he explained that he had decided many years ago to suppress his feelings of hurt in order to survive. This was his way of coping. However, I knew he wouldn’t be ready to undertake the painful journey to find his mother until we developed a trusting relationship.
Over tea, he told me of his interest in politics, current affairs and history – especially British history. He held firm views about his British origins.
‘Do you consider yourself British or Australian?’ I asked.
He firmly put me in my place. ‘British, of course!’ he insisted, as if there was only one possible answer. ‘I’m only domiciled here. It’s not my home, I am trapped here, my home is in England. They took our childhoods, our identity, our families. But they can’t take my nationality from me.’
His anger and sense of injustice were suddenly exposed and it gave me the opening I needed to gently explore his childhood.
He told of arriving in Australia at the age of nine and being subjected to the humiliation of being fingerprinted.
‘I felt like a criminal,’ he sighed, looking at me for some reaction.
‘It’s not the first time I’ve heard about it,’ I said. ‘I’m not surprised you remember it so clearly.’
Michael was anxious to know if I had any news of his mother. I handed him a copy of her birth certificate. ‘That’s the first hurdle,’ I smiled.
Michael was thrilled. It was the first tangible piece of evidence he’d ever seen that proved she was a real person and not just a figment of his imagination. He felt optimistic and confident that she would be found.
‘This is still only the very beginning,’ I warned him. ‘We could find no trace of a marriage for her or any subsequent children. We are now searching for other family members who may be able to help.
‘And you have to remember, your mother is now over seventy years old. There are no guarantees that she’s still with us.’
Michael nodded in agreement. When he left the hotel he looked reassured and relieved. The search was going forward and every day brought us closer to the truth.
* * *
In March, when I returned to the office in Nottingham, I was immediately given two new pieces of information uncovered while I was in Australia. They concerned the woman with three Christian names whom we were seeking as possibly being Michael’s mother.
‘Would you like the good news or the bad news first?’ Yvonne asked.
I hesitated. In our work ‘bad news’ is often a kind way of saying that someone has died.
I replied, ‘It’s not Michael’s mother, is it?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
These were the very words I was dreading. A death certificate had been found which was almost conclusive; only a few minor details had to be confirmed. The ‘good news’ was that a distant relative had been located. But this relative by marriage had never met Michael’s mother and had no information to give us about her.
Michael had told me of his plans to visit the UK at the end of April. It meant that I had less than a month to establish without any doubt that his mother had indeed died. In view of the need for more personal enquiries, I decided to take over the research myself.
After meeting Michael, I knew that he would find it exceptionally difficult to come to terms with the fact that his mother had died. In fact, she’d been dead for over thirty years.
A friend, rather than a relative, had registered her death, so it was quite possible that Michael would not even meet someone who had known her. I needed to try to find someone who could at least tell him a little about the mother he never knew; somebody who could describe her as a real person, a living, breathing human being.
I telephoned three cemeteries before I managed to establish where Michael’s mother had been buried. I also made several enquiries to firms of undertakers. Eventually, I was given some details of those who had attended the funeral. I travelled by car to Leeds to find the street where Michael’s mother had been living some thirty years ago. I found the street quite quickly but to my utter dismay a small block of offices occupied the space where the house should have been. Only four houses had been demolished along this narrow winding road; Michael’s mother had lived in one of them.
I called at the main library and consulted the electoral rolls to discover which adults had been living in the house at about the same time. There were four listed. I also checked neighbouring houses to see if there was anyone still living on the street whose names appeared in the earlier records. No such luck.
It was almost dark when I left the library in Leeds. Light rain began falling and I hurried to my car. Twenty minutes later I was standing outside the main entrance to the cemetery, knowing that I would venture no further. For me, this marked the boundary of what was private to Michael and his mother.
I telephoned him in Australia and wrote to him. I didn’t mention his mother and nor did he. He knew that I wouldn’t tell him anything over the phone.
Michael confirmed his travel plans and I agreed to meet him at Heathrow Airport.
A few weeks later, I made the journey south and found Michael standing by his luggage trolley. We shook hands and he seemed pleased when I welcomed him ‘home’.
We had a cup of coffee, then took the underground to St Pancras Station to travel north to Leeds. Michael became relaxed and lively as the journey progressed, and enjoyed the changing view from the window seat. We discussed a variety of topics but Michael never mentioned his mother.
She was, of course, the main reason for his visit home; yet I knew that Michael wasn’t ready to face all the implications of our research, especially the possibility that she was no longer alive. When he was ready, I would break the news to him.
For th
e next two weeks, Michael visited friends and was introduced to a distant relative we had found for him. He would telephone me every couple of days and I told him that I was prepared to see him whenever he was ready.
Finally we met five days before he was due to return to Australia.
Michael came to the Trust office and when I asked him where he wanted to talk, he chose to sit in the room with the family dining table and its four matching oak chairs. He put the table between us. It was just as I expected. He needed to stay in control of his feelings and emotions and the distance helped him do that.
We faced each other and as soon as Michael had finished his cup of tea, he said, in a direct, firm voice, ‘I think you’ve been trying to prepare me for something. Come on then, tell me, I’m ready now. I can be stoic when I have to be.’
I knew that Michael’s mother had been dead for more than thirty years, but for him she would die that day. The moment the death certificate passed from my hands to his, all Michael’s hopes would be lost for ever.
‘I have a certificate,’ I said, ‘sadly, a death certificate, which may well be your mother’s – but I would like you to look at it and give me your opinion.’
Michael studied the document for some considerable time before he looked up and said quietly, ‘Yes, it’s her.’
He had several questions about how and where his mother had died and where the funeral had taken place. Fortunately, I was able to answer most of them, because I had contacted the coroner’s office to obtain all the available details.
Sadly, I had also discovered that Michael’s mother had returned to the children’s home looking for him. She went to collect him only to be told that he had been sent to Australia.
Empty Cradles (Oranges and Sunshine) Page 21
