Well into her senior years, Joyce never forgot the depth of distress that overcame her when she realized, after watching her sister Marjorie and brother Kenny walk away from the Middlemore Emigration Home in September 1937, that they were not coming back. In 1994 she wrote a letter to me: “It was the worst day of my life. I was ill in sick bay a long time, they said I was ill with a broken heart because they had taken them away and left me.” Then, in August 1938, they sent her younger sister Audrey to Canada, leaving Joyce all alone this time. The children were herded and prodded and moved about with little concern for their needs.
Ten-year-old Marjorie and her eight-year-old brother, Kenny, left Birmingham for Canada in September 1937. It was traumatic for Marjorie and her brother to leave their sisters, Joyce and Audrey, behind at the emigration home. They had no say in their lives; they were not given the chance to say goodbye or to take any little treasures that they may have accumulated during their six-month stay. They were not told where they were going or why. The only avenue open to them was to do as they were told. By the time Marjorie boarded the ship in Liverpool, on September 10, 1937, at 6:00 p.m., she had shut down her emotions and pulled a cloak of protection around herself as the shores of her country disappeared. Trying to forget her past was the only way she knew how to face her uncertain future.
Crossing the Atlantic Ocean on the shallow-bottomed Canadian Pacific Railway (CPR) vessel the Duchess of Atholl left Marjorie in a haze of seasickness, as the vessel pitched and swayed its way through the September storms. Marjorie’s seasickness was mixed with acute homesickness and a longing for her family, most especially her two sisters left behind in Birmingham. On the evening of September 18, after disembarking in Montreal, the group boarded a CPR car reserved for them and headed west. Once in Vancouver, British Columbia, they boarded the CPR ferry the Princess Elaine to Nanaimo, and then the Vancouver Island Coach Lines Limited bussed them on the last leg of their journey.
Marjorie and Kenny arrived at the Fairbridge Farm School near Cowichan Station on Vancouver Island on the afternoon of September 22, 1937. Marjorie had turned eleven on the train the day before. The twenty-eight British child migrants had travelled over six thousand miles from England. They were little empire builders with the purpose of maintaining “white stock” in the colonies.
Marjorie’s first year at the farm school was fraught with fear, frustration, loneliness, anger, homesickness, and a growing resentment toward all the adults in her new life. Nightmares plagued her sleep, and a struggle to accept her new life plagued her days. Her younger brother Kenny was placed in a boys’ cottage, and she had very little daily interaction with him. In a January 2014 conversation, Marjorie recalled that time:
I couldn’t do anything for Kenny at the farm school. He was on his own. I think that is what ruined him. No one understood him when he grew up. No one knew what we had all been through. He tried to tell me about the bad stuff on the boys’ side, but he always held back, and we were always interrupted. I could never help him. It kills me to this day to have to admit that. You didn’t dare walk over to the boys’ section, so I couldn’t help him. The boys and the girls at the farm school had separate pathways, and we were punished if we were found on the wrong path.
It was a bittersweet day when Marjorie’s younger sister Audrey (now known as Bunny, a nickname she received during the voyage over to Canada that has stayed with her) arrived in August 1938. My mother recalled that day in an interview with me:
When she got off the bus, Kenny and I were there to meet her. She was so scared she peed her pants as she grabbed my hand and hung on desperately. She was so little. She was only eight years old. Once she got off the bus, she was told to go and stand in a certain spot, and I went with her. She wouldn’t let go of my hand. She was glad to see me. She recognized me right away. Bunny was too afraid to cry; she just hung on to me.
She was so afraid that she used to sneak into my bed at night. My first cottage mother, Mrs. Read,[6] wouldn’t allow this, and we were both punished when she found Bunny snuggled in with me. Then my next cottage mother, Miss Bishop, who we called D. Bitch, behind her back, of course, was even worse. She was a horrid, crazy, cruel little bitch of a cottage mother. She was just plain mean. She would sneak into our dorm room and check, and if she found Bunny snuggled with me she would make her get out. Then I had to listen to Bunny sobbing. But she had to cry quietly because if D. Bitch heard her, she would be strapped for crying. It was hard. I promised Mum I would look after her, so that is what I kept trying to do. Some of them were real bitches. Some of them? No, most of them. They were bitches from hell.
Having her little sister with her gave Marjorie someone to love, someone to care for, and a little sense of family. It was also someone to build memories with. However, it did not take away the pain of the loss of her family nor the frustration of being sent so very far away.
Marjorie tried to keep her memories of her family alive, but the pain and passing of time were more than she could control. It was a double-edged sword: keeping her memories of her family helped her feel less abandoned in her new world, but the memories were too painful to hold on to, and terror filled her as the loneliness stole in and engulfed her. She couldn’t win. The details of Marjorie’s childhood in Whitley Bay and her months at the Middlemore Home became deeply buried, but she clung to an emotional attachment to her family even when she could no longer conjure up a clear image of them.
Fairbridge Farm School half-yearly report for Audrey, March 1939.
Fairbridge Farm School half-yearly report for Marjorie, March 1940.
In the spring of 1940, her progress report from her cottage mother told of her ongoing inability to settle in and accept her new life: “Marjorie has not fitted into the cottage life as well as the other girls.”[7]
Marjorie’s formal education ended with the June 1941 school term. It was farm school policy that when children turned fifteen years old they were called trainees and spent the next year working on the farm in preparation for their placement in the community the following year. Jock Bennett, a former Fairbridgian, said of his final year at the farm school that they worked hard for twenty-five cents a week; he called it slave labour. It may be that the farm school relied on the free labour of the trainees in their yearly budget and as a way to keep costs down.
At sixteen, the girls were put in private homes as domestic servants and the boys as farm hands on various farms and ranches on Vancouver Island, the lower mainland outside of Vancouver, and in the interior of British Columbia. The Fairbridge Society took half of their low wages with the promise that it would be returned to them when they turned twenty-one, but few ever saw this money again.
The story told in this book opens with Marjorie’s arrival at the farm school and documents her day-to-day life and the struggles she faced during her incarceration there. It ends in the winter of 1942, when she was placed out to work as a domestic servant in Victoria, on southern Vancouver Island, British Columbia.
Chapter 2
A Difficult Year: Forced Adaptation to a New Daily Routine
The difficulty of providing employment at home, under existing circumstances, we admit, but that difficulty is an argument, not for emigration, but for a change in our social system. We deny that there is a surplus population in England.… There is a part of the population ill-fed, but not because there is not enough food, but because the wealth of the country is locked up in a few hands.
— Quoted in Blackburn, The Children’s Friend Society
Children, who are still growing in body and mind, take to their new lives … as easily as putting on a new coat.
— Fairbridge Farm School, Annual Report, 1936
Marjorie lifted her head to look out the bus window. Mistrust of the world permeated every fibre of her being. She could no longer rely on her own senses. Unfamiliar feelings caused chaos within. She felt mixed up. Exhaustion filled her
. She squeezed her eyes shut. She felt like crying, but even her tears were confused and dried up. Homesickness was so thick it filled her belly, threatening to come up all over the front of her travelling coat. Where had they sent her? She was so far from Whitley Bay, and the land was very strange. The view out the window grew bleaker and bleaker the farther they travelled. Where were the houses? Where were the towns? Where was she? Could she trust these people not to harm her? Hansel and Gretel came to mind, and she tried to push away the gnawing fear. The forests were unlike anything she had ever seen before.
The bus stopped at a rugged, wild, and unfamiliar place, and the chaperone told the children, “Here is your new home.”
Marjorie clung to a little white box as she stepped from the bus. In it was a piece of birthday cake that the chef had handed her as she got off the train in Vancouver that morning. It was in celebration of her eleventh birthday. Her birthday had been the day before, but she hadn’t said anything to anyone until breakfast that morning, and she’d just blurted it out because the chef was nice to her. He also gave her a Canadian penny as a souvenir. It had leaves on it and was inscribed with the word “Canada.” Marjorie was surprised at how small it was. The chef said that it had her king on it, King George VI. She wanted to say that he wasn’t her king — she didn’t have a king anymore — but she quietly slipped the penny into her coat pocket. She carried her cake on the bus tour around Stanley Park during their morning’s drive. She carried it onto the eleven o’clock sailing of the Princess Elaine ferry between Vancouver and Nanaimo. She almost dropped it on the ferry, when, for a brief moment, she dared to hope. As the ferry passed some land just before docking in Nanaimo, she heard someone call it Newcastle. Maybe, just maybe, it was her Newcastle, and this nightmare was about to end. But it was Newcastle Island and not Newcastle, England, and having this bit of familiarity ripped away left an empty feeling. She carried her cake off the ferry and onto the waiting bus. She looked at her cake on the bus and could see that it was getting battered, and the icing was sticking to the lid. She tasted the creamy icing, but it stuck to her throat and she couldn’t swallow. She dropped the box when it was jerked out of her hand as the bus careened around a bumpy, winding section of the dusty dirt road. She would have lost it for good if Kenny hadn’t caught it as it skidded down the aisle. She held her cake tight, crumpling the box a little, as she stood panic-stricken on the bus, terrified to walk down the steps. Holding this box was like holding on to hope. Would eating her cake mean that she accepted her new life?[1]
As she stood, she said over and over to herself: I don’t want a new home. I want my home. I don’t want a new life. I want my mother. I want my family. I don’t want a new family. She watched her little brother Kenny. He looked as worn out as she felt. They had been travelling for ages now; she had lost count of the days. Where were her sisters? Did they miss her as much as she missed them? She tried to remember what her mother looked like, but the image was already becoming faded.
“Okay, children. Quiet now. When I call your name, step forward and I will tell you which cottage you will be in and who will show you to your new home. You will find your suitcases with your house leaders. Quiet, please! Just listen for your names. Kenny Arnison, Strathcona Cottage; Marjorie Arnison, Attwood Cottage; Frederick …”
In her heart, Marjorie knew her nightmare was just beginning, and it was one that she could not wake herself from. She stood where she was told to stand. Obedience was akin to survival. She felt light-headed, alien, alone, and uncertain. Cautious. She watched her younger brother move over to his group. They gave each other a slight wave. They were discrete, as they had learned early on not to draw unwanted attention to themselves, but the little wave was an acknowledgement that they both still had each other, giving them one known person here in this strange land and a connection to their past, to their family.
When all twenty-eight newcomers were assigned to cottages, two girls already at the farm school led Marjorie and the new girls down the path. Kenny and the group of new boys followed the two older boys they were assigned to in the opposite direction from his sister. He was used to being separated now; it was just part of the drill. The lead girls whispered to one another as they neared one of the buildings. Marjorie stopped dragging her suitcase and tried to hear what they were saying. It sounded like “Should we warn them?” Warn us about what? Marjorie’s tired heart sank. There seemed to be so much to be afraid of now.
Marjorie looked up, saw a large woman standing in the doorway, and automatically scanned her face, trying to get a sense of what to expect and to see if she looked friendly. On this journey she had come into contact with some who put her at ease, while others put her in immediate survival mode as she kept out of striking distance. The woman before her waddled like a duck when she walked. Marjorie gasped as she attempted to stifle a panicky giggle. Her nerves had become unreliable and she couldn’t foresee whether laughter or tears would pour out when faced with alarming situations. Mostly she just tried to remain silent, but that wasn’t always possible. This woman did not look welcoming. There was only sternness in her face with no trace of a smile. Marjorie’s instinct was to run; yet she knew she had nowhere to run to.
“Hello, girls. I am your cottage mother, my name is Mrs. Read. Come in and I will explain the rules. I expect obedience and absolutely no nonsense. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The girls were shown where to hang their coats. It was a warm September day, so they were happy to be free of the heaviness. Next they were shown where they could unpack their suitcases. The tour continued up the stairs. As Marjorie climbed, she counted eighteen stairs. Next the girls were shown into a dorm crowded with cots. The cottage mother assigned a cot to each new girl. Above each cot was a small shelf for a few personal items. All the while she rattled on about the rules: Make your bed, and make it properly the first time or there will be penalties. Keep your area tidy. No talking after lights out. Dinner is in one place and breakfast and lunch in another, and the schedule changes for the weekend. The bell by the dining hall[2] must be obeyed. Do not be late for meals, for school, for chores, for church. Do not walk on the boys’ path. Do not fraternize with the boys. There will be no hanky-panky allowed. The cottage mother pressed again that obedience would be the key to their happiness.
“Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, ma’am,” a chorus of tired voices responded.
“Okay. I will show you the kitchen. Follow me.” Mrs. Read stepped quickly from the room, and the new girls instantly followed. They passed a closed door.
“This door leads into my rooms, and you must never enter unless you are invited. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
As the girls approached the kitchen, they were told, “You will learn how it works and what you each need to do every day starting tomorrow. But now it’s time to go to the dining hall where there are some refreshments waiting. Okay, girls, line up and let me look at you.”
The tired newcomers were used to being lined up; they automatically formed a row.
“You. What is in that dirty, crumpled box you’re carrying? Are you bringing filth and germs into my cottage?”
“No, ma’am.” Marjorie looked at her precious box with horror. “The chef gave it to me because it was my birthday yesterday.” Her voice trailed off.
“Your what? Speak up. How do you expect me to understand the lot of you if you don’t speak clearly? Give that to me you little street urchin.” Mrs. Read wrestled the box out of Marjorie’s hand and crammed it into the wood stove before Marjorie could utter a word of protest. One lone tear slid down her cheek. What did it matter? Everything else was gone.
As Kenny reached his cottage, he looked up and saw a thin woman standing in the doorway. She looked like a mad little bird. Her sharp features were anything but inviting. Kenny had no idea how astute his initial observation was, as
this cottage mother turned out to be wickedly mean and had a foul temper. Miss Bishop acted like a vulture and would swoop down and strike when the children least expected it. Before Marjorie left the farm school, she, too, would endure years of abuse from this woman.
And so began Marjorie and Kenny’s first day at the farm school.
The next morning was Thursday, a school day. There was no time for the new children to get used to the farm life; it carried on, and they had to catch up to it and fall in line as quickly as possible. The fall school term had already begun, and morning classes started right after breakfast. The clanging of a metal spoon on the frame of one of the iron cots jarred Marjorie from her fretful sleep. The cottage mother ordered everyone up. The girls scrambled to get dressed, get washed, and make their beds, and then they lined up by the door, ready to go to the dining hall for breakfast.
Marjorie shivered in the cool morning air. She looked for the coat she had been wearing yesterday, but it was no longer there. In its place was a row of different coats, not the nice ones that they wore to travel in. The ones hanging now were ragged and worn. She wanted to take one, but she didn’t know whether she was allowed. Then she remembered her penny. She had forgotten to take it out of her pocket. Nothing mattered. It was just a silly penny. And besides, she could not see any shops where she could spend it.
Marjorie walked out with the girls and joined the other groups making their way to the dining hall. She automatically looked for Kenny, but he was nowhere to be seen. When she entered the dining hall, she saw him already sitting with his cottage mates. Marjorie found out later that his cottage, Strathcona, was at the opposite end of the village from hers.
Marjorie quickly fell into the routine at the farm school; the children were kept so busy that they had little time for reflection. Her day was regulated from the moment the cottage mother woke them up in the morning to the moment Marjorie lay her head down at night. The dining hall bell, the day school bell, and her cottage mother’s yell further regulated the day.
Marjorie Her War Years Page 4
