by M J Lee
He was still beaten by the brothers, of course, but not so often. He knew how to read their moods and when to avoid the bite of the weighted strap, the swipe with the back of the hand or the punch with the clenched fist.
There was another reason, too. The incident with Brother Thomas.
It happened one day in the dairy. Brother Thomas had crept up behind him and pushed his body down over the metal cage where they kept the cattle feed.
Harry had twisted around quickly, pulling out the small knife he kept to cut the ropes that bound the hay. Brother Thomas had jumped back, wary of the determination in Harry’s eyes.
‘No, you don’t want to be doing that, Harold.’
‘Leave me alone.’
The brother held up his hands in mock surrender, backing away from the knife. ‘I was just joshing with you. Can’t a body have a wee bit of fun these days?’
‘Leave me alone,’ Harry repeated, waving the knife in front of him.
Brother Thomas had backed out of the dairy, quickening his pace as he crossed the yard. Harry expected the worst that evening, at least a beating with the cane from Brother Quilligan.
But nothing happened.
When he went into the dining room, not one of the brothers looked at him, not one of them said a word. Since then, they had been wary of him, leaving him alone most days to look after the animals on the farm.
Most afternoons, when he had fed the pigs and watered the cattle, he skived off to sit beneath a Kari tree.
Somehow, this one had survived Brother Keaney and grew on its own in the middle of the bush down by the creek. He and Slimo had discovered it one day as they were looking for rabbits.
About halfway up the trunk, they had both inscribed their names and the date. Slimo and Harry. Dec 1955. Actually, Slimo had inscribed Harry’s name as he could write better, even with a knife.
Harry would sit beneath the tree and try to remember his mum and Mrs Beggs and his life in England. But each time it became harder and harder, as if they were on a train pulling out of a station, their faces receding into the distance until he could see them no more.
He tried to recall his mother’s voice. Or the smell of her hair. Or the touch of her lips. But he couldn’t. Not any more. It was all too long ago and too far away.
After the fight with Brother Thomas, he went to the Kari tree to escape, to find peace, to remember his mother, and Mrs Beggs and Slimo.
He took the knife and cut into the bark, removing his name, leaving an ugly gash in the tree.
He was nobody.
Not any more.
That’s what the brothers had told him, and it was true.
He would vanish into thin air like he had never existed.
A nobody with no name, no face, no past, no present and no future.
Nothing.
Chapter Fifty-One
September 5, 1959
St Joseph’s Farm and Trade School, Bindoon, Western Australia
The end to Harry’s life in Bindoon came a week after his 15th birthday.
There were fewer boys in Bindoon now; the boatloads that used to come from England had slowed to a trickle. More Maltese and some Aussie lads had arrived in the last few years, but Harry didn’t really associate with them.
All the St Michael’s boys who had come to Bindoon with Harry had left. Ernie, never the same after his beating, had been sent to Castledare, another orphanage. Little Tom had passed his exams earlier in the year and had been sent to one of the Christian Brothers’ schools in Perth. The brothers had high hopes he would make them proud. Slimo had never come back since he had left for the farm in Murchison. The rest had vanished when they left the place, never to return,
The lack of boys meant Harry spent more and more time on the farm; driving the tractor, looking after the cows, pigs and chickens virtually alone, and making sure the vineyard was pruned and sprayed. He hardly ever went to school. As the brothers said, there was no point. He would never make much of himself. Farm work was going to be his future for the rest of his life.
In the last year, his body had changed. The constant manual work had helped him develop a wiry frame; lean and strong. He was still hungry all the time, but his little perks around the farm kept him going; a squirt of milk from the cow’s teat in the morning, a few eggs from the chooks, what he could steal from the pigs, and whatever stone fruit was in season in the orchard.
He lived by his wits, only socialising with the other boys when he was forced to do so by the brothers. Most of the time, he remained alone.
As he was packing his things to leave, Brother Quilligan came to him.
‘We’re going to miss you, Britton.’
Harry carried on packing.
‘The farm won’t be the same without you. None of the other boys has your way with the animals.’
Brother Quilligan adjusted his cassock over his large stomach and sat down on the bed. It creaked and groaned beneath his weight.
‘Will you not stay for another year?’
‘I won’t, Brother Quilligan.’
‘Why not, for heaven’s sake? This is your home.’
Harry stopped what he was doing and stared at Brother Quilligan. This man, with his cane and his strap and his punishments, no longer frightened him. ‘Can you pay me four pounds a month?’
‘You know we can’t, Britton. This is a school, not a business.’
‘Then you have your answer.’
Brother Quilligan stood up quickly. ‘Trust me, you won’t amount to much, Britton. None of you boys will ever amount to anything. We give our lives to you, and what do we get in return? Nothing.’ He marched over to the door, turning before he went out. ‘With such an attitude, you can make your own way into town. There’ll be no truck for you.’
Harry smiled. ‘Mr Townsend is coming for me in ten minutes. He’ll wait on the main road.’
The monk raised his finger and pointed directly at Harry, his face reddening. ‘You should be grateful for all we have done for you, Britton. You were nothing when you came here, and you’ll be nothing when you leave.’ He marched out of the dormitory, slamming the door shut behind him.
Ten minutes later, Harry was walking down the long driveway leading to the main gate, carrying the same suitcase that was given to him in Afflecks six years earlier.
Behind him, the buildings that were built with the sweat, blood and tears of an army of young boys blended into the hills. On his left, the stations of the cross stood next to the road, each one bearing a picture of the suffering of Christ, each one a reminder of the suffering of the boys themselves.
Up ahead the farmer, Mr Townsend, was standing beside his truck beneath the arch, smoking a cigarette and waiting for Harry.
‘You took your time.’
‘Aye, about six years.’
The farmer threw his cigarette into the ditch beside the road. ‘Is that all you’ve got?’
Harry slung the brown suitcase in the back. ‘Yeah.’
‘Not much.’
‘No.’
‘Anyway, you won’t need anything on the farm. Not a lot there but sheep.’
‘I know.’
‘What did you say your name was again?’
‘Harry.’
‘Harry what?’
‘Just Harry.’
The farmer put the truck into gear and pulled away. ‘Don’t say much, do ye?’
‘No.’
‘We’re going to get on fine.’
The truck accelerated away up the hill. Harry was tempted to look back as they reached the crest. But he didn’t.
Instead, he remembered the words of Brother Dawe all those years ago. ‘We’re going to make men of you.’
Well, the brothers had succeeded. The child had gone, and a man remained. Harry Britton was dead and another Harry had taken his place.
It was time to forget the brothers and begin again.
Chapter Fifty-Two
August 6, 2017
Buxton Residential
Home, Derbyshire, England
‘Are you ready, Vera?’
Jayne’s step mother fanned herself with her hand. ‘As ready as I’ll ever be. Don’t keep me in suspense any longer, my old heart can’t handle it.’
‘After last time, Duncan insisted on taking you through the documents one by one. He wants to explain them to you himself. He made me promise not to open them until you were listening.’
‘That’s good news, isn’t it? It means there are some documents, at least?’
‘I hope so…’
They were sitting in the Matron’s office. Jayne had requested a quiet area where they could make the FaceTime call to Duncan in Australia. Anywhere away from Victoria sponges and Argentinian Tangos.
It was a small room with a tall aspidistra taking up half the space. This plant was the Matron’s pride and joy. She spent hours cleaning its leaves and encouraging it to grow even larger. Not that there was any more space for it.
‘Shall I call him now?’
‘Get a move on, Jayne, before Vera has a heart attack.’
Her dad’s voice was stronger now. He had been diagnosed with anaemia and put on a course of iron tablets. They were still looking for the cause, but at least he was looking cheerier these days and not sleeping as much.
Jayne opened her laptop and clicked on the FaceTime graphic, selecting Duncan’s number in Perth.
His face popped up on her screen within thirty seconds. ‘G’day!’ His teeth shone white in the video.
‘Hello, Duncan, you have some news for us?’
‘I do, Jayne, some good and some not so good.’
‘Sounds ominous.’
‘Is Vera there?’
‘She is, and so is my dad.’
They both waved at the screen. Vera said, ‘Is he really in Perth? Looks like he’s just next door.’
‘I’m definitely in Perth, Vera, and it’s ten fifteen at night here. Today was a bit cold, though, it’s just coming to the end of our winter. But enough of the chit-chat, I’m sure you’re dying to know what I’ve discovered.’
‘You don’t know how true that is,’ said Robert.
‘The people at Tuart Place have come back to me with copies of the documents provided by PHIND. In Harry’s file they found three documents. I’ll put the first one on to split screen so you can see it.’
‘I’ve also opened it on an iPad here.’
‘Thanks, Jayne. What you’re looking at is the first page of Harry’s arrival record at Bindoon.’
name: Harold Britton
date and place of birth: August 25, 1944. Oldham, Lancashire.
parent's names (if known): Freda Duckworth (Miss)
age at departure from the United Kingdom: 8
shipping details: SS Otranto. Tilbury, Port of London. April 13, 1952.
name and location of sending order in the United Kingdom: St Michael’s Home, Oldham, Lancashire.
destination in Western Australia: Christian Brothers
initial residence, as well as any transfers between homes and schools; and location of records on the subject, including medical, social, educational, baptismal, and immigration records – as well as sources of any records available in the United Kingdom:
Arrival: Bindoon. May 1952.
Departure : Sept 1959.
Documents: Commonwealth of Australia Department of Immigration form for Child Migrants.
‘As you can see, this shows us the details of his arrival.’
‘It’s pretty basic,’ said Vera.
‘There’s not a lot of information, is there?’ said Robert.
‘Not a lot,’ said Duncan. ‘I asked for the Commonwealth of Australia form, but they said it wasn’t part of the documents they were holding. They thought it may have been lost by the brothers.’
‘Lost?’ shouted Jayne’s father. ‘He wasn’t a bloody lump of cargo. How could they have lost it?’
Vera patted Robert’s arm. ‘Don’t get upset, dear, Duncan’s only telling us what he found.’
‘Sorry, Duncan, I didn’t mean to go off at you. It just makes me so bloody angry.’
‘S’alright, mate. The people at Tuart can only give me what’s in the records. Some of the stuff was never received by them.’
‘What else do you have, Duncan?’ asked Jayne.
‘The next one is more interesting, if still very sparse. It seems to be a record of his time at Bindoon.’ Duncan split the screen again and added a new document. ‘The handwriting varies in legibility, I’m afraid.’
Name: Harold Britton
Birth: August 25, 1944
Arrival in Bindoon: May 28, 1952
Notes:
June 12, 1952: This child is educationally deficient. Unable to read and write with any fluency. Recommendation: Farm work and religious education. Brother Sylvian
Dec 28, 1952: Absconded from the school on Christmas Day with one other boy. Punishment administered. Keaney.
May 24, 1955: Harold seems to be well settled in the school. His care and diligence on the farm has not gone unnoticed, but he still seems to have little aptitude for learning. Sleeping in Catechism class. Brother Dominic.
Jul 2, 1958: Child punished. Brother Quilligan.
Sept 2. 1959. Britton placed with Mr Townsend, owner of Moodiarrup Estate, Great Southern. W. Australia. Quilligan.
‘Is that it? After seven years in Bindoon, there are only five notes?’ said Vera.
‘That’s all there is.’
‘What about his educational achievements? What did he learn?’
‘I’m sorry, Vera, there’s nothing else. Just this one sheet attached to his arrival document.’
‘He ran away, Vera, look – on Christmas Day. He must have been so unhappy.’ Robert pointed to the screen.
‘Poor Harry, what did they do to my brother?’
‘There’s one more attachment to the file that you should see, Vera. Please open document three, Jayne.’
Jayne brought it up on the iPad.
‘This is a cutting from the Perth Mail of May 1952. The brothers must have kept it for their records, putting a copy in Harry’s file.’
On the screen appeared a page from the newspaper. Beneath a headline saying ‘More Child Orphans arrive in Fremantle’ was a short article and two pictures. The first picture showed eight children, a woman, two nuns and three brothers surrounding an older, white-haired man in a long gown. It looked like a football team photograph, as if they were all off shortly to play some game.
Underneath was another photograph, of a young, pretty woman standing in front of a boy dressed in a school uniform, her hands resting on his shoulders. Both were smiling into camera. The caption read, ‘Miss Claire Anstey of Perth with one of the orphans, Harry from Oldham. Welcome to Australia, Harry!’
‘Do you think it’s him? Is that our Harry?’ Vera said excitedly.
‘The dates are correct and the cutting is in his file, so I think it probably is.’
‘And if you look at him, Vera, he’s a spitting image of the boy with the soldier in your mother’s photograph.’
‘Oh, Harry, what a beautiful boy… He looks so happy in this photo.’
Jayne stared at the picture. ‘And the woman, Claire Anstey, looks like she really cares for him. See how close both of them are.’
‘I’m afraid that’s all I have from PHIND,’ Duncan said. ‘I could go into the state records. His missing Immigration Form may be there.’
‘Thanks, Duncan, this is really useful. But let me get the chronology right in my head.’ Jayne scratched her forehead, while Vera and Robert continued to stare at the cutting from the Perth Mail. ‘Harry arrived in Bindoon in 1952 and left in 1959 to go and work on a farm in Moodiarrup.’
‘That’s right, Jayne. And that’s where the documents end. There seems to have been no follow-up after he left the school, nor did the brothers keep track of him. He just vanished.’
‘What? What do you mean, Duncan?’ said Vera.
‘
I checked with the current landholder of the address mentioned in the final document. He told me one of the previous owners was a Bruce Townsend, but he died in 1968. There are no records of a Harry Britton ever working at the place. In fact, there’s no records of anybody working there. Apparently, Mr Townsend didn’t believe in records, didn’t like paying tax.’
‘So what do we do next, Duncan?’
‘I’ve checked for Harry Brittons in the old telephone directories of the time, but there are no Brittons listed.’
‘He might have never owned a phone.’
‘That’s true, Jayne, but—’
‘But what?’ Vera interrupted.
‘But I’ve researched the lives of these Child Migrants. Many of them didn’t do very well after they left the homes. A lot of them became drifters, moving from one farming job to the next. Others ended up on the streets or in jail. Alcoholism seems to have been very common.’
‘I’m not surprised, the way they were treated,’ said Vera. ‘I’ve been reading about what happened. It was a scandal, a disgrace.’
‘And that’s what is even more surprising. The story of the Child Migrants broke in the 1990s. In 1994, the Christian Brothers issued an apology. There have been class actions, state inquiries, government Royal Commissions, even a badly run scheme for redress. As we speak, there is a Royal Commission investigating sexual abuse in the Residential Care Homes and Schools of Australia. I’ve checked all the records available…’
‘And?’
‘Harry is not mentioned in any of them, nor has he come forward to give evidence or claim redress.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning when he left Bindoon in 1959, he just vanished into thin air.’
‘Nobody can just vanish, Duncan, not in this day and age. There must be a record for him somewhere.’
‘I know, Jayne, but it looks like he did. I’ll keep looking and checking the documents, but it’s not going to be as easy as we thought.’
‘Please keep going, Duncan. I’ll work at my end, perhaps I can come up with something.’
