by M J Lee
The old nun turned to the young woman. ‘Would you like to say a few words, Miss Anstey?’
She stepped forward and slapped her hands in front of her as if in prayer. Harry noticed that she wore the whitest of white gloves and a matching hat covering her short dark hair. When she spoke, her accent was strange; high and drawling, not like anything else he’d ever heard.
‘Hello, children, my name is Claire Anstey. I’m Australian and I’m going to escort you to my home country. We’re going to have a good time together on the ship, but you must remember to listen to me and do everything I tell you.’
Harry looked at her. She smiled back at him, and winked. He was going to like this woman.
Ginger put his hand up. ‘Please, miss, are we really going to see kangaroos?’
‘Of course you are. There a lots near Perth, where we’re going.’
‘And when are we coming back? I don’t want to miss my dad when he comes to get me.’
Miss Anstey glanced across at the Mother Superior, whose voice when it came had an edge of threat. ‘I’ve told you before, Jones. Your father is in jail, he will not be coming for you, ever.’ Then the voice modulated to that of a gentle old woman. ‘Now, when Sister Tomasina calls your name, you are to walk over to the table, collect your name tag and number, and put on your hat and coat.’
‘Ernest Laurie,’ Sister Tomasina shouted.
Ernie stood up, adjusted his shorts that were already too small, and walked over to the table. Sister Tomasina ticked a sheet of paper in front of her, handing a tag to Ernie to wear round his neck. ‘You are number 417, Laurie. Do not forget the number and do not lose your tag. Put on your hat and coat and wait over there.’ She turned over the second sheet of paper. ‘Dora Astley.’
The procedure was followed until she shouted, ‘Keith Jones.’
Nobody responded.
Louder now. ‘Keith Jones...’
Harry nudged Ginger in the ribs. ‘That’s you.’
He stumbled up and ran over to the table, collecting his tag.
‘Harold—’
Before she had said his surname, Harry was already at the table. He had a question to ask. ‘Sister…’
‘Here’s your tag. You are number 423.’
‘Sister, I wonder…’
‘What?’ answered Sister Tomasina, without looking up from her papers.
‘What if my mum comes for me while I’m away?’
‘She won’t.’
‘But she might, Sister, she sometimes comes to see me.’
Sister Tomasina glared up to the heavens. ‘See this here?’ She thrust a sheet of paper in front of his face. ‘It’s your mother’s signature. She knows you are going to Australia, so why would she come here for you?’
Harry stared at the scrawl just above Sister Tomasina’s finger.
‘But she wouldn’t want me to go away without saying goodbye. I know she wouldn’t. She always says goodbye.’
‘Well, this time she didn’t. Now go and get your hat and coat. You’re keeping Miss Anstey waiting.’
Harry put the tag with its block letters, 423, around his neck.
Why hadn’t his mum come to say goodbye?
Chapter Twenty-One
June 19, 2017
Delph, Lancashire, England
‘Are you sure, David?’
David Beggs’s eyes went up to the ceiling as he recalled the past. ‘I remember my mum and dad telling me. You see, I missed Harry so much and wanted to know when he was coming back. They said he had gone to Australia. I guess the home must have told them.’
‘What does it mean, Jayne? Why was he sent to Australia?’ asked Vera.
Jayne tapped her laptop. ‘I’ve only dealt with one of these cases before. He was one of the child migrants and I helped him trace his relatives in England.’
Vera frowned. ‘Child migrants? I don’t understand. How can children be migrants? And I’m pretty sure my mother didn’t sign any papers for him to go to Australia. I mean, she wanted him back, didn’t she?’
Jayne scratched her nose. ‘It’s a difficult story, Vera, not one many people know about. From about 1870 to the 1960s, Britain exported nearly 130,000 children to the colonies – mainly Canada, Australia and New Zealand.’
‘“Exported”? You’re talking about children, Jayne, not bits of machinery. They weren’t cargo.’
Jayne sighed and spoke softly. ‘Not cargo, no, but workers. Farm hands and domestics, mainly.’
‘But you said they were children, Jayne.’ Her dad spoke for the first time.
‘They were, some as young as four years old.’
‘I don’t understand.’ Vera leant forward and touched Jayne’s hand. ‘Please explain it to me clearly.’
Jayne took a deep breath. ‘As I said, about 130,000 children left the United Kingdom for the colonies. From 1870 to 1928, they were sent to Canada to work on farms and to be servants. After the First and Second World Wars they were also sent to Australia.’
‘You said they were children – how old were they?’ Robert asked.
‘Most were aged between four and twelve years old. A few were in their teens, but not many.’
‘Four to twelve… How could they send children so young? Were they orphans?’
Jayne shrugged her shoulders. ‘Some were orphans, but most weren’t. Perhaps they were from broken homes, or a parent had died, or their family had simply fallen on hard times...’
‘Or they were illegitimate, like Harry.’
Jayne nodded. ‘Or they were illegitimate. Anyway, they ended up in a variety of children’s homes run by charitable organisations.’
‘It was the charities that sent them?’
‘All the famous ones were involved: Barnardo’s, the Salvation Army, the Catholic Church, the Fairbridge Society, the Anglican Church. Even the Methodists.’
‘But why, Jayne?’
‘It was a different time. I think the charities believed they were doing the right thing; taking these children from broken homes or a difficult upbringing and giving them a new life in the colonies.’
‘But Harry wasn’t from a broken home. He was illegitimate but my mother wanted him back.’
‘And my mam and dad loved him, they wanted to adopt him,’ David said quietly.
Jayne shrugged her shoulders. ‘What I don’t understand is that these child migrants were supposed to have nobody left in England, that’s why they were sent abroad.’
There was silence in the room, save for the clock ticking on the mantlepiece and the gentle music of an ice-cream van off in the distance.
‘Would you like an ice cream?’ David asked. ‘He always comes around at this time. It’s my little treat for myself.’
They all shook their heads.
‘You don’t mind if I go? Only it wouldn’t feel right without a ninety-nine for my lunch.’
David was up from his chair with all the energy of a teenager going out on his first date, and through the front door before the ice-cream van had a chance to escape.
When he had gone, Vera spoke quietly. ‘Well, I never expected that. Australia… Harry went to Australia.’
‘We don’t know if he did, Vera.’
‘But David just told us he went there in 1952.’
‘We need to check the files properly. It wouldn’t be the first time a children’s home had written one thing but done another.’
‘And how are we going to do that? If he wasn’t adopted, there won’t be any records, will there?’
‘True. But we now know which home he was in – St Michael’s.’
Vera frowned again. ‘I remember the church when I was growing up. St Michael’s on Harris Road. There was a home attached to it. We used to go for Mass there sometimes, when Mum wanted a change of priest. She didn’t get on well with Father O’Malley. Said he was too modern for her taste. She liked a more traditional service. The priest at St Michael’s was very old school.’
‘Good, I can pay it a visit. S
ee if they have any records of their children in 1952.’
David bustled through the door, carrying his ice cream with a chocolate flake sticking out of the top. ‘Have I missed anything?’
‘We were just talking about St Michael’s.’
‘The church is still there but the home is gone, knocked down years ago. One of those bloody road-widening schemes the local councils were so fond of back then. Knocked every bloody thing down so people could drive to wherever they were going five minutes quicker. Bloody choughs.’
Jayne thought for a moment. ‘Never mind, the records were probably sent to a central location. One of the Catholic migrant organisations will have them.’
‘Is there anything else we can do, Jayne?’ asked Vera.
‘Well, we can check the passenger registers for Australia. Do you know when Harry left, David?’
He shook his head. ‘I’m pretty certain it was 1952, not long after he went back to the home, but I can’t be certain.’
‘It’s easy to check other years too. And there’s always the Child Migrants Trust.’
‘There’s an organisation for these people?’
‘Set up in the late 1980s by a woman called Margaret Humphreys in Nottingham. For the last thirty years they’ve been very successful at reuniting these children with their parents. In all that time they’ve been the one group who have been consistent with support and help.’
Robert leant forward. ‘But they can’t be children any more. If they went to Australia after the war they will be the same age as Vera.’
‘Shhh… Robert, going on about my age.’
He smiled at her. ‘You’ll always be twenty-one to me, Vera.’
‘Get away with you.’
Vera slapped his hand playfully but Jayne could see she was pleased at the flattery. ‘Some are older than twenty-one. Most are into their seventies now.’
‘That means their parents would be in their nineties. Can’t be many still living.’
‘I don’t think there are many, Vera. But the children still want to know if they have relatives. Can you imagine never knowing if you had a family or not?’
Again, there was silence in the room before Vera spoke. ‘It must be awful. So many years separated from the ones you love. No wonder it drove Mum to distraction.’ She gripped the edge of the chair. ‘We have to find Harry, Jayne. Whatever it takes, we must find him.’
Chapter Twenty-Two
April 13, 1952
Tilbury Docks, London, England
There weren’t any bands or cheering crowds of people as the ship pulled away from the docks in Tilbury. The rain was sleeting down and a grey-brown mist hung over the derricks and wharves like a shroud. Harry was standing next to Little Tom and one of the Astley sisters, with Miss Anstey behind them.
They had come down on a train yesterday from Manchester. It was the first time any of them had ever been on a railway. They crammed into a single second-class compartment with Miss Anstey, all fighting for a place next to the window. Of course, Ernie won, being the biggest and the eldest, and he invited Harry to join him. They spent the rest of the trip looking out of the window as the green and pleasant English countryside whistled past in front of their eyes.
‘It’s like something from the movies,’ said Harry.
‘What is?’
‘Looking through the window. It’s like there’s a whole world out there. Like a movie rolling past.’
‘Dunno, never been to the movies. Have you?’
‘Went with me mum on me birthday. We saw Horatio Hornblower, and some newsreels. It was terrific.’
After a couple of hours, a man with a trolley came round offering them tea, but only Miss Anstey took a cup.
‘With sugar?’
‘Two, please.’
‘You’ve got a lot of kids with you.’
‘They’re orphans. Taking them to London.’
‘Poor kids. Bombed out, were they?’
‘I don’t really know the stories, I’m just their minder.’
The man with the trolley gave them all a Cadbury’s Fudge. ‘Now, you tuck in to those, kids. If I’ve got any sarnies left over after I’ve done the train, I’ll come back and see you right.’
As they were nearing London he came back with another man, who was wearing a large hat like an officer. ‘This is the lot I was telling you about, Bill.’
The man with the hat stared at them and they stared back, silent.
‘Give ’em whatever we’ve got, George. I’ll fiddle it somehow.’
George came back five minutes late with cheese and tomato sandwiches, ham rolls, shortbread biscuits and two boxes of Mars bars. ‘Don’t eat it all at once, kids, you’ll be sick as parrots.’
That night, they ate everything they have been given in the dormitory of one of the Catholic homes in London. Miss Anstey had tucked Harry into his bed with his soldier, and then kissed him on the forehead.
‘My mum and Mrs Beggs always kissed me goodnight.’
‘Do you like it?’
Harry nodded.
‘Okay. Every night, I’ll tuck you in and kiss you goodnight. That’s a lovely soldier. A guardsman, isn’t it? What’s his name?’
‘Trevor.’
She laughed. ‘A funny name for a soldier. Who gave him to you?’
‘Me mum.’
A frown creased Miss Anstey’s forehead. ‘But I thought you were an orphan?’
‘No... I’ve got a mum. She’ll be waiting for me when I get back from Australia.’
Another frown. ‘Hmmm. Goodnight, Harry. Sleep tight and don’t let the bed bugs bite.’
‘I won’t, miss.’
The ship gave three long toots from its whistle, waking Harry from his dream of Miss Anstey kissing his forehead. One of the sailors unhitched a rope from the bow of the ship, throwing it on to the dock to be caught by another man. Harry felt the throb of the engines beneath his feet becoming stronger. The bow swung away from the dock and the breeze ruffled Harry’s hair.
Little Tom turned to Miss Anstey, tugged her skirt and asked, ‘What time do we arrive in Australia?’
‘What time?’
‘Will it be after bedtime?’
She laughed. ‘Yes, Tom. In fact, we’re going to be on this boat for quite a while. At least six weeks.’
‘So we won’t be back in England for me tea?’
She laughed again. ‘No, Tom, we won’t.’
‘What are we going to eat then?’
‘Don’t worry. See those men in white coats?’
Little Tom nodded.
‘They’re called stewards and they will give you a cup of tea any time you want it.’
Harry stared out at the mist rising from the river, a grey-brown haze which enveloped the wharves and clung to the brick walls. In the distance, the lights of London were just being switched on, fighting their way through the smog, a dim glow warming the dusky sky as the boat pulled away from the dock and headed slowly, inexorably downstream towards the open sea.
He wasn’t going to think of his mum.
He wasn’t going to think of Mrs Beggs.
He wasn’t going to cry.
A gob of sick rose from Harry’s stomach into his throat as he watched the river widen and the shore vanish into the mist.
Chapter Twenty-Three
June 19, 2017
Oldham, Lancashire, England
Even with the satnav, they became lost three times before Jayne finally found the area they were looking for. There were patches of the old Oldham Vera recognised, and she gave a running commentary to her life and a city that had changed.
‘I had my first kiss over there. I was fourteen and it was with Neville Harrison. He was the school dreamboat – looked just like Mick Jagger, only thinner. Tried to put his hand up my skirt but I put an end to that.
‘Used to be a corner shop there,’ she said, pointing to a piece of waste-ground strewn with litter, plastic Coke bottles and discarded McDonald’s wrappers. �
�Gave you six gobstoppers for threepence and an extra one if you gave him a smile. Lovely man, he was, Mr Turner. Had a heart attack one day and keeled over. The place wasn’t the same without him.’
‘And that’s where I used to work on a Saturday, wrapping up the fish and chips whilst Mr Harkins stood over the hot fryer. When he closed at seven, I used to get as much scraps as I wanted plus two haddock and chips and two plaice and chips. Mum used to love it – the one night she didn’t have to cook. On the way home, I’d stop in at Turner’s and buy a block of Wall’s neapolitan ice cream for everybody. Three different colours it was – pink, yellow and brown – but they all tasted the same to me.’
Jayne parked outside the church, stopping the running commentary. Vera got out with her, but Robert stayed in the car.
‘Are you feeling okay, Dad?’
‘Fine, lass, just a bit tired. I’ll rest here, you go ahead.’
‘We won’t be long, Robert. You wrap up well.’
‘Aye, I will, love. Might have a little nap, it’s been a long day.’
They strode across the road to St Michael’s. It was a squat little church, built from the local stone, blackened with age and pollution. There were no large spires or elegant stained-glass windows to adorn it. Just a single small tower standing next to a simple nave, like one of the guardsmen at Buckingham Palace.
A notice on the door stated bluntly:
Due to a shortage of priests, Mass will only be said in this church on the last Sunday of every month. We apologise for the inconvenience.
The notice was signed by the Diocese of Salford. Beneath it was the same message in Polish.
Jayne stared up at the single blackened tower, its stone finger pointing directly up to heaven.
‘It wasn’t a rich area. Poor Irish, mainly,’ said Vera. ‘Many came during the famine and stayed. There used to be riots around here during Holy Week. The local Protestants didn’t like the parades and suchlike. Just an excuse for a barney, if you ask me.’
Jayne looked around. ‘Still not the richest area.’
