by M J Lee
Vera looked up as soon as Jayne walked through the patio doors.
‘It’s arrived, hasn’t it?’
Jayne nodded, handing the envelope over to her.
Even her father seemed to find some extra energy, leaning forward in his chair.
Vera’s hands hovered over the top of the envelope. ‘I don't think I can open it.’ She held out her hand and Jayne could see it was shaking. ‘I haven’t been this nervous since I said “I do” to your dad.’
Her father touched the back of Vera’s hand. ‘Open it, love. You have to find out the truth.’
His voice wasn’t strong and he seemed to have something stuck in his throat.
‘Will you sit back and rest, Robert Cartwright,’ Vera chided him, tucking the blanket beneath his legs. ‘This envelope can wait, your health is more important.’
Robert pushed her hands away. ‘I don’t think my health can survive you not opening the envelope, Vera.’
She stopped fussing and picked it up. ‘Okay, okay, here goes.’
She ripped the side open, carefully avoiding tearing any of the pages inside. There was a small packet of photocopies plus a typed letter within.
Vera scanned the letter quickly. ‘It’s from Caritas. Here are all the documents they have regarding Harry.’ She carried on reading quickly. ‘They caution us against contacting Harry directly without talking with them first. The initial contacts should be handled carefully to avoid emotional trauma for both parties.’ She held the packet in her hands and looked at Jayne and Robert. ‘It means he’s alive, doesn’t it?’
‘We won’t know unless you open it, will we, love?’ Robert ended the sentence with a fit of coughing.
Jayne moved to sit by his side, putting her arm around him. ‘Take it easy, Dad.’
‘I’ll take it easy when Vera opens the bloody packet.’
‘Okay, okay.’ Vera tore the packet open. ‘There’s a contents list; Caritas does seem organised.’ She began reading. ‘There’s the original document Mum signed when she placed him with the home, but we’ve seen that already.’ She laid the photocopy aside. ‘The next is a letter from Mum, dated May fifth, 1952. It’s in her handwriting.’ Vera coughed twice and began reading:
‘Dear Sister Mary,
‘I visited St Michael’s on May 2nd to see both yourself and my son, Harry. I waited for over two hours but I was told by Sister Tomasina that you weren’t available and Harold was no longer in the home.
‘I made it clear when I placed my son with St Michael’s that as soon as my circumstances would allow, I would return to take him home. That’s why I only allowed him to be fostered with the Beggses rather then adopted by them.
‘My husband and I are now ready to provide a stable and loving home for Harry. We are moving back to Oldham in the near future and have already found a house to live in. It’s not much, but it’s a start. My husband is aware of Harry’s background and the circumstances of his birth and is willing to accept him as his own son.
‘Please let me know a date and a time when we can pick up Harry from St Michael’s and bring him home.
‘I have waited and longed for this day for seven years. I am so happy it is finally here.
‘Yours in Christ,
‘Freda Atkins (formerly Duckworth).’
For a moment there was silence around the small table. Off in the distance, Jayne could hear a blackbird calling, establishing its territory against a rival. Above her head, the wind rustled through the old branches of the oak tree sheltering this spot from the sun. Next to her, she could hear her father’s breathing, a clear rasp on the end of every breath.
‘She wanted him back,’ said Vera quietly. ‘This must have been the letter she wrote in 1952.’ She opened the next letter. ‘And here is the Mother Superior’s reply she kept in her Bible.’ Vera’s voice cracked. ‘No wonder it broke her heart.’
Robert took hold of his wife’s hand. ‘There, there, love, it’s alright.’
‘I can’t read any more. Jayne, can you do it, please?’
Jayne took the remaining letters and opened the one on top. ‘This is the letter your father wrote, Vera. He’s angry at the Mother Superior.’
Jayne began reading:
‘Dear Mother Superior,
‘I am shocked and outraged after reading your letter. How could you slander a kind and loving woman like my wife in such an awful manner?
‘We have been unable to visit Harry for the last six months due to my work taking me to Manchester. It was only by chance that we found he was no longer being fostered by the Beggses but had been reclaimed by the home because “there was now space”.
‘To find out he has now been adopted without permission from my wife is a travesty. How could you do such a thing? My wife fully admits she has made errors in the past, but we have talked about this and are now ready to accept Harry into our home. I will adopt him as my own son and provide a loving home for him and our own children.
‘Your attitude and callous disregard for my wife’s feelings have made me doubt the church’s integrity in this matter. I ask that you get Harry back from the family so we can look after him properly and give him the warmth and love only his mother can provide.
‘Yours sincerely,
Norman Atkins.’
‘That sounds just like Dad. He was slow to anger, but woe betide anybody who got in his way when he was.’
Jayne opened the next piece of paper. ‘It’s the Mother Superior’s reply. The one your mother kept in her Bible.’
‘Why didn’t they carry on trying? Why did they stop looking for Harry?’
Robert patted the back of his wife’s hand. ‘Times were different, love. Remember the Mother Superior said Harold had been adopted by a Catholic family, one that could give him a good life. Maybe they thought he would be better off where he was. From what you told me, your mum and dad didn’t have much when they went back to Oldham.’
‘When I came along, they were living in a dingy back-to-back.’
‘So, I wonder if they thought it was best for him. And remember, people were more devout than they are now. Your mum believed everything the church told her.’
‘And I guess I came along, followed by my brother...’
‘You’re not to blame, love, it’s a decision your parents made. They thought it was for the best.’
‘But it troubled Mum, that’s why she told me everything. She must have thought about Harry every day, wondering how he was, what he had become.’
‘There’s one more photocopy,’ said Jayne, holding up a sheet of paper.
‘Perhaps it’s the name of the family who adopted him?’ said Vera.
Jayne scanned the document. ‘It’s a movement order. He was sent to Australia.’
‘I... I... I don’t understand. The Mother Superior said he was adopted...’
‘The document is quite clear.’ Jayne read the details aloud. ‘It’s a movement order for “Harold Britton, on April thirteenth, for the SS Otranto, passage to Australia via Gibraltar, Port Suez, Aden and Ceylon, destination Fremantle, Western Australia”. He was being sent out as part of a group from St Michael’s by the Catholic Child Welfare Council. The document – it’s a ticket really – is signed by a Father Stinson.’
‘What’s going on, Jayne?’ her father asked. ‘Was he adopted or was he sent to Australia?’
‘If I’m right, Dad, he was sent to Australia. I found him on the passenger list of the SS Otranto in April 1952.’
Vera’s face was ashen, her mouth slightly open.
Jayne peered at the bottom of the document. ‘And there’s a signed release clause from a parent or guardian. The signature is scrawled but it looks like Freda Duckworth.’
Vera snatched the paper out of Jayne’s hands and peered at it. ‘That’s not my mum’s signature.’
Chapter Thirty-Eight
June 12, 1952
St Joseph’s Farm and Trade School, Bindoon, Western Australia
The fi
rst two weeks at Bindoon were tough for Harry. The constant back-breaking work and lack of food made him feel tired all the time. The evenings after the rosary was said and the lights had gone out were his only time of peace.
Little Tom had been moved out on to the veranda with the rest of the bed-wetters. There, the smell of piss was so strong that Harry gagged every time he visited his friend. The younger boy didn’t seem to notice it any more.
‘At least I don’t have to take a cold shower in the morning. None of the monks bother with me any more.’
Harry had got used to the rickety bed, the lack of a pillow and the roughness of the bed clothes, but he still slept fitfully, awoken by the slightest sound; the opening of the dormitory door, a boy shouting in his sleep, the sound of Brother Dawe’s sandals as he visited the room at night.
He didn’t think he could have survived without Slimo. The boy had been there two years and knew the ropes; which of the brothers to avoid, which to butter up and which ones would help you if you asked.
Not all of them were as quick with the strap as Brother Thomas, Brother Dominic or Brother Keaney. The one who took them for their lessons after the morning’s building work had been completed, Brother Sylvian, was one of those. He treated them well, trying to teach them a love of reading and writing. But Harry was often so tired in the classroom, his head resting on his arms.
One day he was woken with a gentle tap of the shoulder.
‘Sure, you won’t learn much like that, Harold.’
Harry blinked his eyes open. Everyone was looking at him.
‘What did I just say?’
‘I dunno, Brother Sylvian.’
The brother shook his head. ‘Lessons are for learning, not sleeping.’
‘I’m tired,’ said Harry.
The monk returned to the head of the class, forty pairs of eyes following him. ‘Pray to God you sleep better at night. Do you pray to Him, Harold?’
Harry was puzzled. ‘I say my rosary like everyone else.’
‘But do you pray to Him?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Do you celebrate His grace? Do you dedicate yourself and your body to His glory? Do you ask Him to give you succour in your hour of need?’
‘I... I don’t think so.’
‘Then maybe you should, Harold. He will listen to you. God listens to children and helps grant their wishes. But you have to believe in your prayers.’ Brother Sylvian’s kindly eyes scanned the whole class. ‘Do you believe in your prayers, children?’
‘Yes, Brother,’ they chorused in unison.
‘If you do, your prayers will be answered.’ He clapped his hands. ‘Now we will return to the parable of the five loaves and two fishes. I’m going to tell you this story from the Bible and, after I finish, I want you to write what you remember in your best handwriting.’
Harry tried to write the story. The words were there in his mind, but somehow they never appeared on the white paper in front of him. Or, if they did, they were a mass of crossings out and backward words. It was the same with the letters he wrote home; each page ended in a mess. But he still wrote them anyway, telling his mum what he had done and giving them to the brothers to post for him.
At the end of the week, Brother Sylvian read out a list of names, asking them to stay behind. Harry’s was one of them, along with Little Tom and twenty others.
‘Now, boys, we have been assessing your progress over the last few weeks. It has been decided you all are better suited to a more vocational style of training – spending more time in the kitchens, the dairy and the piggery, in constructing the new buildings or in the orchards.’
Little Tom put his hand up. ‘Does that mean we won’t come to school any more?’
‘Of course not, you will all still have to attend lessons – there will just be fewer of them and we will concentrate on learning your letters and your catechism.’
‘Catechism?’ one of the other boys asked.
‘Stories from the Bible that will help you become good Catholics. We must feed your soul as well as your body.’
‘As long as it’s not porridge, I don’t care,’ said Little Tom.
Brother Sylvian smiled. With the other monks, such a cheekiness would have been the occasion for a beating, but with him there was just a gentle rebuke. ‘We should be grateful for what we receive, Thomas. Gratitude is a positive emotion which will always stay with us, even in the darkest hours.’
He checked his watch. ‘I see it is time for lunch. Run along now. Report to Brother Dawe afterwards. He has urgent repair work for you all. Remember, we all serve God in our own way and it is to Him we owe immense gratitude. After all, didn’t He give us His only begotten son, Jesus Christ, to help us atone for our sins?’
Chapter Thirty-Nine
July 15, 2017
Buxton Residential Home, Derbyshire, England
Jayne picked up her mobile phone and called Caritas, switching on the loudspeaker so Vera could hear.
She was put through straight away to Mrs Traynor, the same person who interviewed them three weeks ago.
‘I’ve been expecting your call, Mrs Sinclair. It’s normal when the enquirers receive a packet of documents.’
‘We have a few questions.’
‘Ask away and I’ll answer as best I can. We’re here to help.’
‘There seems to be a discrepancy in the documents. In some letters, the Mother Superior, a Sister Mary, writes that Harold Britton was adopted. But in another, a movement order, he is being sent to Australia as one of the child migrants.’
There was a long silence at the end of the phone before Mrs Traynor answered. ‘I’m afraid the movement order is probably the correct document. If the child had been adopted there would be other supporting documents. Names and addresses of the adopting parents, follow-up visits, even reports from the priest of the adopting family’s parish.’
‘But none of those documents exist.’
‘None that we can find.’
‘So you believe he was sent to Australia.’
‘In the absence of any adoption papers, I think that is the case.’
Jayne had to ask the question. ‘Why did Sister Mary lie?’
There was another long silence at the end of the phone, followed by a long, sad sigh. ‘It is something the church regrets immensely. Nobody can look into the hearts of people back in the fifties. Why lies were told. Why the truth wasn’t made obvious to people. All we can do today is try to make up for the wrongs committed then as best we can. To help relatives and friends come to terms with what happened. I’m so sorry, Mrs(?) Sinclair, I don’t know why the lies were told.’
Vera had tears in her eyes. Her voice broke as she spoke. ‘There’s one other thing bothering me, Mrs Traynor. The signature at the bottom of the form is not my mother’s. She never knew Harry was sent to Australia.’
‘Is that Mrs Thompson?’
‘It is.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know about the signatures, Mrs Thompson. The church required a signature from a parent or guardian before any child could be sent abroad.’
‘But my mother wanted Harry back. She didn’t want to send him to Australia…’
‘I can hear you are upset, Mrs Thompson, and I understand why. I did some research on Sister Mary to see if I could ask her, but unfortunately she passed away in 1967.’
Vera couldn’t speak any more; tears were streaming down her face. Robert was leaning over, his arm round her shoulders, trying to comfort her.
‘Is there anything more we can do, Mrs Traynor?’ he asked.
‘We have given you everything we have in England on Harold Britton. The next step would be to contact Australia for the records they have of his time there. I see he was sent to Western Australia. There are two ways to find out more. You could contact the Child Migrants Trust in Nottingham, I think they have an office in Perth. Or there is a place called the Tuart Centre in Fremantle. I could send you the contact details if you like?’
>
‘Thank you, Mrs Traynor, for all your help,’ said Jayne
‘I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more use.’ There was a pause before she spoke again. ‘We recognise how traumatic these events can be for relatives. We do offer counselling to people to help them during this difficult time.’
‘Thank you for your offer, Mrs Traynor,’ said Vera, wiping away her tears. ‘If I need anything, I will contact you.’
‘The offer is there, Mrs Thompson.’
‘Thank you for your help.’ Jayne switched the phone off. ‘What do you want to do, Vera?’
Vera’s mascara was running and a tear had traced a single line through her carefully applied make-up. ‘We must find Harry. Or at least find out what became of him. We owe it to my mum.’
Chapter Forty
September 26, 1952
St Joseph’s Farm and Trade School, Bindoon, Western Australia
Harry understood Brother Sylvian’s words about gratitude when he was told what he had to do that afternoon.
‘Brother Keaney has decided we are to build the stations of the cross on the road leading to the school. It will be an example of our love for Jesus. The Archbishop will be visiting in two months so we must have it ready for his Eminence,’ Brother Dawe announced.
The Italians, who supervised all the building, laid out the positions of each individual station by placing stones marked with white paint along the road leading from the main gate to the church. The boys had to drag a cart laden with stone from the quarry along the road, depositing each load beside the white stone. Supervised by Brother Keaney, they selected rough rocks for the foundation before moulding the quarried stone and mortaring it into place to build a pedestal.
If a cart became stuck in the soft earth, or the boys stopped to wipe the sweat from their brow, Brother Keaney’s voice was heard shouting, ‘Hurry along there, you bastards. I want Gethsemane finished today.’
