‘The blankets inspected were miserably thin, being, I believe, ex Army and American Forces stock; two and three blankets to a bed and totally inadequate both in quantity and quality to provide necessary warmth for children of tender years sleeping on these verandas subject to the chill conditions of winter …
‘Practically all pyjamas seen under the children’s pillows were grubby and dirty, damp with urine …
‘It must be remembered that this Home was built for an entirely different purpose from that for which it is now being utilized but its general deterioration must be of concern to the Roman Catholic Authorities. Castledare is catering for children who are still little more than babies, who need love, affection, care and attention which a child of such age would get from a mother …
‘There appears to be no organized medical parade nor any woman qualified to attend to the welfare of these young children. Epidemics have been experienced before in institutions and, in particular, Castledare some years ago had an outbreak of “Vincent’s Angina” [a type of trench mouth] which caused no end of expense to the authorities and suffering to the children, and it is possible that infantile paralysis would sweep through this Home with disastrous effect, and, in view of the present conditions mentioned in this report, would be difficult to control.
‘The children appeared to be quite healthy and it is hoped will remain so, but the fresh complexion may be the result of a new climate and fresh air in a new country. Lying in wet beds and dirty clothes will eventually take its toll.’
Is this the historical context that the charities and agencies claim I had ignored?
I have always accepted that, for whatever misguided reasons, governments and agencies did what they thought was right at the time. But what I can’t accept, is that they were warned. They knew what was happening to the child migrants – and apparently did nothing.
34
What began as a trickle of requests for help became a flood. By the end of 1992 the Child Migrants Trust had received more than 20,000 enquiries since its inception. We had two full-time family researchers, a social worker in Australia, another in the UK, and Yvonne.
We were working long hours, piecing together the histories of literally thousands of families. Thankfully, we no longer continually had to travel to London and sift through hefty volumes at St Catherine’s House. At great expense, the Trust had managed to buy the birth, death and marriage records on 12,000 microfiche. This saved us a tremendous amount of time and energy, and money in the long run.
Still, I was always conscious of the fact that I lived and worked on the opposite side of the world from the very people we were trying to help. My visits to Australia were always hectic affairs with no time to become a part of the migrants’ lives or to understand their way of life.
Similarly, there were some child migrants who I felt would never approach me for an interview in a Perth hotel room. These migrants had suffered more than most and despite my attempts to make my hotel room warm and welcoming, it was still daunting for these people to enter a large hotel.
I felt it was necessary to spend a longer period in Perth and establish myself in a house where child migrants would feel comfortable either just dropping in for a coffee or sitting down for a meaningful discussion.
On 4 December 1992, after months of preparation, I flew to Australia. The Trust team had been working until the early hours in the morning preparing me for the journey. Yvonne, in particular, had to ensure everything I would need was packed safely in the black boxes. Meanwhile, Joan Kerry, our social worker, was crisscrossing the UK, preparing families for the eventual reunions with their sons and daughters. These had been made possible by the work of John Myles and our new researcher Beverley Rutter, who had joined the team when John and Penny married and started a family.
I had to present my annual report to Nottinghamshire County Council in the morning; then catch an afternoon train to reach Heathrow by 8.00 p.m. Whatever happened, I couldn’t miss the flight.
Before the meeting at County Hall, I arranged a preview of The Leaving of Liverpool for the councillors. This took on a special significance because it was now almost five months since the drama had made such an impact in Australia yet it was still not scheduled for showing in Britain. The BBC had jointly financed an award-winning show, which was now sitting in a vault at Television Centre, London. Why?
Several MPs were among those watching the drama when I arrived. Looking around the room full of familiar faces, I saw a councillor with tears rolling down his face. Here and there, tissues were dabbed at moist eyes.
As I stood to speak, a question interrupted me mid-sentence. ‘When is the BBC going to transmit The Leaving of Liverpool?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Have they bought it?’
‘Yes. It’s a co-production.’
‘How much have they paid for it?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I want that found out this afternoon,’ a councillor demanded. ‘Has the BBC given you an explanation?’
‘No.’
‘Right. I want questions in the House about this. Which MPs are here? I want questions immediately. It looks as if this programme is being stopped.’
The Hon. Joan Taylor, the Chair of Nottinghamshire Social Services Committee, tried to explain that I had a plane to catch, but the councillors wanted answers and explanations. Eventually I got away, and dashed for the train.
The cross-party support and affection shown to me at County Hall that day gave me the added strength I needed. I felt that they all knew the personal risks involved in my going to Perth; these didn’t have to be spelled out or spoken out loud.
Four months was a long time to be away from my family, but at least I knew that Merv and the children were going to join me over Christmas and New Year. It was the children’s first visit to Australia and Rachel and Ben were very excited. At last they were going to see the country they had heard so much about from the migrants they had met in Nottingham or who had written them letters.
While I flew to Perth to organize the rent of a house, Merv and Ben flew directly to Melbourne to be joined by Rachel and my brother-in-law, John. I would eventually join them a few days before Christmas, then we would all fly to Perth for a proper Down Under celebration.
Perth has the ambience of a large country town rather than a city. It dozes on hot days and doesn’t wake until the air cools in the evening. For a long time I had little fondness for it – the very thought of what had happened there bleached the colours and almost polluted the air.
I rented a house on Dalkeith Road, in Nedlands, not far from the University. It was a single-storey, brick dwelling, referred to by the locals as a ‘Nedlands Fortress’. The art deco interior was cool and relaxing, with fringed lampshades and stained-glass windows.
I knew immediately that the kitchen and family room would be the focal point for visitors, so I filled the large Welsh dresser in the kitchen with photographs of child migrants – both as youngsters and adults. The notice-board in the kitchen started with only a few notes about local services but within days was overloaded with cards, invitations, press cuttings and letters.
I unpacked my suitcases and then began sorting through the boxes and organizing my office in the study. Suddenly I thought, I’ve been here before. It reminded me of when I first started working in the upstairs bedroom at my home in Nottingham. All I had then was a telephone, a desk and commitment.
I didn’t tell many people initially that I planned an extended stay in Perth, not only for security reasons but also because I wanted to pace myself and not be deluged with requests. It was only when I sat beside the telephone that I realized how difficult it was going to be without some basic office equipment.
Surprisingly quickly, the news spread and soon the house in Dalkeith Road was full of flowers and cards. Everybody wanted to help – perhaps seeing it as their chance to be more involved. I explained what I needed and soon the Department of Family Services
provided us with a fax machine, while the child migrants found a filing cabinet, photocopier, word processor, desk fan and a pushbike.
Despite this support, it took all my courage for me to stay in Perth. I knew that I couldn’t afford to be intimidated by the threats. The only way to feel safe was to confront it – to brazen it out. I wanted to give out the message: ‘I’m here! I’m staying! I’m going nowhere!’
When I flew to Melbourne, the family were already settled in Canning Street. A group of child migrants who had met through the Trust were excited that we were spending Christmas in Australia as a family. To welcome us to Melbourne, they invited us to a meal at an Italian restaurant in Lygon Street, not far from Melbourne University.
It was a light-hearted evening and at some stage one of the child migrants mentioned a raffle they were holding to raise some much needed funds for the Trust in Melbourne. Although every bit of financial support helped, I felt sad to think that migrants had to raffle a bottle of whisky to help somebody find their mother. Governments should have been paying for this, not the child migrants themselves.
During the meal, a friend leaned across the table and jokingly asked Ben, ‘What are you going to give this raffle then, young man? What are you going to give?’
Ben looked up at her and without drawing breath, said, ‘I gave you my mother.’
He was twelve years old and he managed to stun the table into silence with his razor-sharp reply.
All I could think was, Out of the mouths of babes …
The woman put her arms around Ben and said, ‘Oh, you did! That’s right, you did and we love you for it.’
In the previous seven years, we had not been able to take a family holiday. I had never taken leave. Yet even then, with the whole family in Australia, I managed only a few days off.
We flew to Perth for Christmas. Desmond delivered a tall Christmas tree with lights and decorations; Jackie and Ron gave me house plants, Eileen and Pauline baked cakes and provided extra bedding and blankets for the house. It was, to us, something quite special and unexpected. The child migrants were all pulling together and it created a different kind of family gathering, born out of an unspoken optimism and a shared faith.
On Boxing Day, I took a photograph of Merv and Rachel relaxing on the bedspread as they did the crossword. It was very important to me. After all that had happened, my family was still intact. We were still very close, so together and weathering the storm.
I thank Mervyn for that. He has always been such an enduring source of quiet strength and altruism over the years. His sense of justice was as deeply affronted by his research into child migration, as mine was by meeting those affected by it.
After my second trip to Perth and that terrible Christmas in 1988 I remember asking him one morning, ‘Why me? How did I get so involved in all this?’
He was shaving with his back to me, but I saw his smile in the mirror. He said, ‘It’s that well-known mixture of the right person, in the right place, at the right time, with a smashing family.’
After the New Year, the family slowly returned to England. Rachel and John were the last to leave. I remember walking to the taxi queue at the airport and thinking, The house will seem completely empty. Last week there were five of us, now there’s just me.
The taxi-driver said to me, ‘You look as if you have the worries of the world on your shoulders.’
If only he knew. I had to go back to this empty house, and I didn’t know if I could put the key in the door, let alone walk inside.
Merv had sensed my trepidation when he left, but he also understood that I couldn’t run away. I couldn’t live my life being scared of a place or a person.
35
I didn’t think it possible for me to feel comfortable in Perth. I always arrived from England in the small hours of the morning when it was dark, still and hot. All I could ever see as we came in to land were the street lights and occasional cars; there were few other signs of life. My mood was always sombre, for I knew I was bringing so much with me that was going to change so many lives.
This time it was different. I got to know the people. I lived among them and made Perth my home. I wanted to be able to work more normal working hours and do ordinary things like cook and shop, and meet people who weren’t child migrants. I wanted to get physically fit by running every morning.
I should have known that this sounded too good to be true, but it all seemed possible at the outset. For the first few days I was able to get up early and run along the beach. Even at six-thirty in the morning the sand was dotted with people, jogging, fishing or walking their dogs.
I had brought with me a large selection of tapes of my favourite music and a trunk full of books. At five in the morning the classical music began playing. The builders working next door would yell over the fence, ‘What was that you were playing this morning, Margaret?’
After those first few days, I thought everything would be all right.
I could not have been more mistaken.
* * *
On the first weekend after Merv and the children had gone, I spent Sunday evening listening to some opera and reading. It was such a luxury.
I went to bed feeling relaxed and ready to sleep. I had chosen a bedroom at the front of the house which had a window overlooking the veranda and the large front garden. The house was set well back from the road so there was no traffic noise, particularly when the curtains were drawn and the windows closed.
When I’m away from home I leave the bedside lamp turned on. I like the soft light because I don’t want to wake up suddenly in a strange room in the dark and forget where I am.
I woke from a deep sleep at about one in the morning. There was a loud banging.
Disorientated and anxious, I couldn’t tell where the noise was coming from but I knew it was very close. The hammering began again and I looked towards the window. Somebody was outside.
The blows grew louder and the window rattled. Then I heard a man’s voice.
‘We’ve found you! We told you we would. We’ll find you anywhere. You’ve been warned. You’re dead this time! We’ll fucking finish you off for good!’
I didn’t think, I just moved.
Jumping out of bed, I ran through the hall into the kitchen and family room. There were french windows which led on to the back garden. These were open but the mesh screen door to keep out insects was closed. Blinded by panic I ran straight into the door and was thrown backwards on to the floor.
Dazed, I crawled to my feet and threw open the screen door. The voice was shouting from the veranda.
The garden was in darkness and I ran blindly through it. At the bottom, near the fence, there was a bench. When I reached it, I somehow felt safe. I sat down and froze, turning to stone.
Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I heard a car start up and drive away, but I didn’t move. I couldn’t move.
It was daylight when I finally stood up and walked towards the kitchen. I had been sitting on the bench for seven hours. I could hear the sounds of people going to work and children going to school.
I can’t totally comprehend what happened to me that night. The shock has never gone away.
The Federal Police were very helpful and supportive, but they could do little to comfort me or to make me feel less vulnerable.
I told very few of the child migrants what had happened and they each found their own way of dealing with it. Every day people rang, often just to check if I was OK. Alan Osborne would visit around lunch-time, checking the gardens and gates. Desmond, Eileen and Jackie called most days. Harold flew over from Melbourne and spent ten days in a self-contained granny flat in the back garden.
That night changed me; it affected me deeply. Someone had come to my home, to my veranda, to the window beside my bed, and threatened to kill me.
How did they find me? What would have happened if the window was open?
Any thoughts that I had about leading a normal life in Perth totally disappeared. I was n
ever going to be completely free to run in the mornings or leave the windows open to catch the breeze. Whenever I left the house, I couldn’t come home without first checking it room by room, the doors and windows, the gate. It was the same before I went to bed. I would leave the lights on and re-check all the locks. I never had a full night’s sleep again. And soon the workload became so heavy, that my hours were as long as usual, and as tiring.
The telephone barely stopped ringing; I was nervous about picking it up. I had an answering machine, but I didn’t want child migrants to call and hear a disembodied voice on a machine.
In January, the 7.30 Report, a current affairs show on ABC television, produced a report on the men from Bindoon talking about the abuse they suffered. I left the house during the programme and returned to find a death threat on my answering machine. It wasn’t the last. The calls would come at unusual hours late at night and early in the morning.
I was determined to keep the dark side of Perth in perspective. It was something that I had to deal with.
When Frazer Guild of the Sunday Times in Perth came to interview me, he asked, ‘Is your life being threatened, Margaret?’
He was sitting on the very veranda where the incident had occurred. ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t want to answer that,’ I replied.
Frazer knew the shorthand answer was yes, but I am indebted to him for respecting my wishes not to give these cowards, whoever they were, any news space. It also allowed me to continue with my work and not alarm the child migrants.
Empty Cradles (Oranges and Sunshine) Page 29
