Marjorie Her War Years

by Patricia Skidmore

  All freedoms, especially the freedom to be herself, had been taken away. Her opinions, her needs, her wants and desires were not important to the plans that her new wardens at the farm school had in store for her. She was a number, a cog in the child migration wheel, and the system only worked if she obeyed.

  She had no choice but to go along with their demands; there was nowhere to go and no one who cared to hear what she wanted. Fighting the system took away the few moments of play that she was lucky enough to get. Punishment for fighting the system came with the knowledge that it would only get worse for those who did not comply. Each day that Marjorie awoke at the farm school, she fought it less and less. It was pointless. She would bide her time, bury what she couldn’t cope with, and keep hope alive for a time when she could get away.

  The fall went by, and soon it was early December and talk of Christmas had begun. It would be her first Christmas away from her family. As the snow fell silently outside, Marjorie decided to write a letter to her mother. Her chores were done for the day, giving her a bit of time before bed. She needed to try to keep some memories, because without them, her family in Whitley Bay was fast becoming a dark hole. Nothing. A type of amnesia.

  Dear Mum,

  I miss you. Why did you send us to this horrible place? Don’t you love me anymore? I love you and miss you so much. I hate our cottage mother. She is mean and ugly, and I want to come home. Kenny’s cottage mother is an old witch, too, and he hates it here and wants to come home, too. I miss Joyce and Audrey, and I can’t look after Kenny because they keep him separated from me. Please can you come and get us? There are some bad people here. We need you. I don’t want to be here for Christmas. I want to be home with my family.

  Love from your daughter, Marjorie

  She sealed her letter and put it in the cottage mail basket, feeling happy for the first time in ages.

  The next morning Mrs. Read pulled Marjorie out of her bed. She could see in her cottage mum’s eyes that she was in trouble. She quickly searched her mind, trying to remember what she might have done.

  “You horrid little liar! How dare you write such rubbish?” Marjorie could see her opened letter in Mrs. Read’s hand!

  “Why did you read my letter?” Marjorie was angry, but her voice cracked, showing she was more frightened than furious.

  Mrs. Read didn’t reply. She tore Marjorie’s letter up and threw it at her. “Pick that up and put it in the fire. You can miss breakfast, and while we are gone I want you to mop the kitchen floor and fill the woodbins as punishment. If you dare to write such rubbish again, you will be sorry. You are an ungrateful little wretch after all that we have done for you. No more lies! Have I made myself clear?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Marjorie wanted to wipe off some of the cottage mum’s spittle that had landed on her face, but she was too afraid to move. Mrs. Read turned and stomped back to her sitting room. Marjorie wiped her face and bent down to pick up the pieces of her letter. Her hopes of rescue were gone. How could her mum rescue her if she didn’t know that she needed to be rescued? Tears welled up and couldn’t be stopped no matter how hard she tried.

  “Stop that snivelling, you little guttersnipe.” The witch had suddenly appeared behind her. “You were brought here to learn to work, and by my word I am going to see that you do it properly. Pick up that mop and get started. If I see any streaks, you will mop the floor again. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Marjorie watched the girls from another cottage with envy. It was a lovely spring day, the air was warm, and the leaves were starting to bud out. It was the kind of day that made you forget all about the long, cold winter. The girls’ laughter reached across to Marjorie. She watched as they surrounded their cottage mother. One girl had linked arms with her cottage mum, and another held her hand; their arms swung gaily as they walked along. At lunchtime, on the way to the dining hall, Marjorie grabbed her cottage mother’s hand but was quickly slapped away.[3]

  “Don’t you touch me!” Mrs. Read hissed.

  Marjorie jumped back, hurt and confused. She needed someone to care. Why wasn’t she in the other cottage with a nice cottage mother? At that moment she missed her sisters more than anyone. Where are they? What did they do with them? she wondered.

  Later in the day, two cottage mothers were chatting over coffee: “Can you believe one of my girls tried to hold on to me today! I can’t allow myself to get close to any of these girls. How on earth could I keep control over them?” Mrs. Read’s eyes rolled skyward.

  “Yes, you have to keep your distance. The next thing you know they’ll want to climb up on your lap.” Miss Austin laughed.

  “Oh my goodness, what a thought! Nestling with a guttersnipe! What is this world coming to? The problem with being trapped way out here, miles from even the small town of Duncan, is that we can’t look for a better job. We’re stuck here with these wretched British brats.”

  “Well, we’ll just have to stay on our guards while we’re here. I don’t trust my girls. Some mornings I think they would just as soon knock me down the stairs as say hello.”

  “I know what you mean. One of my girls tossed a piece of firewood at me, and it nearly hit me. They’re little animals! Anyway, I taught her a lesson; she’ll think twice next time. I swear that these children are the spawn of the Devil.[4] And getting them to do their chores on time and properly! Well, I could pull my hair out at times, I get so mad. Useless British trash, really. They should have stayed in the old country; then they wouldn’t be our problem. Why they were brought here, I really cannot understand. I bet England is getting the better deal — cleaning up their stock and keeping this country British at the same time. Mark my word, it will be Britain that comes out on top, not us.”

  “I thought Canada needed these workers to take the jobs that our children refuse to do?”

  “Yes, I guess we need workers, but what kind of workers will these children become? Well, just let me say it won’t be my fault because they are almost impossible to teach.”

  The two cottage mothers chatted on, sharing the bits of news that circulated around the farm. One had heard of parents trying to have their child returned to them in England. It was funny, as they knew that the farm school was not about to give up any of its wards. This made Marjorie’s cottage mum recall a letter she saw by mistake in the principal’s office. The mother of one of her girls was using a friend to try to get her daughter.

  “Imagine.” Mrs. Read smirked. “The mother wanted her back, and this girl was born out of wedlock. I saw the mother’s letter, too,” she continued. “Here, I’m quoting, ‘I will be glad if you are able to get my daughter.’ What on earth was she thinking? The girl was hardly worth the effort it took to look after her, and the mother was in no position to take care of her daughter let alone come up with her fare back to England.”

  “Really? Which girl was it?” News like this interested Miss Austin.

  “I better not say. I think the administrators told the parents that it would be most disturbing for a child to make a readjustment, and they assured the mother and her friend that children, without exception, prefer to stay in Canada. They told the mother that the girl must remain in Canada and learn at the farm school to make her way as a Canadian.”[5]

  “Canadians, my foot. It will take more time than we have to turn these brats into something useful to Canada.”

  The cottage mothers may have been able to chat to each other, but Marjorie had no one. Still, she had to unburden herself. Cottage life unsettled her. She couldn’t write to her mother — not the truth, at any rate — and she was afraid to confide in the other girls. Shortly after she arrived, a girl in her group spoke openly when asked how she liked her cottage mother. Without hesitation, she said that she thought she was a mean old witch. She was punished for it, as the conversation was reported back to her cottage mother, and the retaliation was harsh and qu
ick. The news spread in the cottage, letting all the children know that it was best to bury feelings and be very careful about whom you trusted. It was the same for the boys. On one of the rare occasions that they were able to sneak in a quick visit, Kenny told Marjorie that he’d tried to talk to his teacher about the unfair treatment he was given when he was strapped for something a big kid had done, but instead of any understanding he was punished again and told he wouldn’t have been punished in the first place if he didn’t deserve it. The rules were unfair. At times Marjorie felt completely bottled up and ready to explode. Then, an idea came to her. She couldn’t send a real letter to her mum, but she could write a pretend letter to her. No one could stop her. No one could read her thoughts. She could pour her heart out without fear of being punished. Marjorie lay back in her cot and began:

  Dear Mum,

  Why did you send us away? I want to come home. I hate it here. I miss Joyce and Audrey every day. I miss you, and it has been over one year now since I last saw you. I feel so alone. I hardly ever see Kenny, and he seems so sad. There are so many bullies here, and they go after the little ones like Kenny.

  The girls in my cottage are mostly okay. Some are bossy, and I don’t know who I can really trust, but the mean thing in my cottage is the cottage mother. And she is not a mother. She is a nasty old thing, and I hate her. And I am not the only one. The other day she was fighting with one of the big girls and the girl tossed a large piece of firewood at her, almost hitting the cottage mother on the head. The old witch deserved it, but, of course, the girl was really punished and we all had to watch. There is no fairness here.

  I will tell you about a normal day at this awful place — well, there is nothing normal about anything, really. We are forced from one thing to another. Go here, go there, do this, don’t do that. Our cottage mother yells at us all the time, even when we try our best to do our jobs properly. For a normal school day, we get up and make our beds. Then we get dressed and washed. We have twelve cots jammed into our dorm, so we have to be careful when we make our bed. We have no privacy to get dressed. We go to the dining hall for breakfast, and we take our dishes and cutlery from the cottage, and then we come back to our cottage to return the dishes and cutlery to get them washed. While the dishes are being done, the ones not on dish duty bring in firewood, sweep the floors, and clean the bathrooms and the cottage mother’s room. I hate going into her room. It is smelly just like she is. Then we go to school for the morning, and for lunch we go back to the dining hall. My cottage mother put me at the end of our table, and when the food is served I usually get mine last, and the oatmeal never has any sugar left, and the best things are already taken. I don’t care. I get so mad it feels like an explosion, and so I try very hard not to care.

  Remember how we would always share everything and make sure we all got some? We don’t do that here. We have to fight for everything, but you get punished for fighting, so you have to make sure no one sees you fighting. And the cottage mother has her favourites, and I am not one of them, so it doesn’t matter if she doesn’t see me ’cause I get blamed anyway.

  After lunch we go back to school, and after school there are chores. If we are on punishment duty, we stack firewood or chop kindling and fill the furnace room and bring in wood for the cottage mother’s fireplace. I carry a lot of firewood. The chores change all the time. If you’re on supper duty in your cottage, you help get supper ready. We call it tea, but they call it supper. Everyone has supper in the cottage during the week.

  The kitchen stove in our cottage is heated with wood and not coal. I had to chop and carry all the wood last Saturday. I did chores all day, and I didn’t have much free time. Sometimes we get to play in the playing fields. The boys and girls are allowed to play together on the playing fields, and I sometimes get to talk to Kenny when he is there. Not much, though. Big kids call him a baby if he wants to talk to me. On Sunday we go to church. Some kids go into Duncan for church. And, Mum, there is one duty master who the big girls call a sex maniac and say that he tries to get his jollies with the girls. The big girls told us to avoid him. This is not a good place. Please come and get me.

  Love,

  Your daughter, Marjorie

  P.S. I hope you remember me.

  P.P.S. I dreamed about you the other night. You were singing. I was in a different room, but I could hear you clearly as if I was right beside you.

  Marjorie would have given anything to be able to see her mother, to talk to her, to hug her and let her know that her new life was horrible. She would have held her and not let her go. She fell asleep that night with a lighter heart. It felt good to tell someone her troubles, even if it was just herself.

  Spring turned to summer. The day school’s second wing was being built. Other cottages were being built, too. The farm was in full swing with the days devoted to garden chores and preserving the food they were growing. The farm school had lots of visitors and everyone had to be on their best behaviour. Several photos were taken where the children were told to smile their biggest smiles. Marjorie and Kenny had to be in two group photos. One was of all the children who had come from the Tyneside area of England where she and Kenny had come from, and one was of all the children who had come from the Middlemore Emigration Home. Marjorie didn’t want to be reminded of Middlemore, and seeing all the Tyneside kids together just made her sad. Marjorie was also introduced to the swimming hole on the Koksilah River. She had learned to swim in the pools at Whitley Bay and was already a strong swimmer, so she was allowed to swim out to the raft. Swimming was the best part of summer.

  One afternoon in mid-August, Marjorie came in from the fields, hot and dusty and in no mood for anything other than a cooling swim in the Koksilah River. As she neared the cottage, she could see her cottage mother in the doorway. She eased away, thinking she might avoid her, but no luck. Mrs. Read had to repeat herself before Marjorie fully understood what she was saying. She stood stunned. Her cottage mother told her to close her mouth or she’d be catching flies.

  Her sister Audrey was coming. They had left Liverpool the day before and would arrive at the farm school in a couple of weeks. Marjorie didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She was excited that she would get to see her sister but felt bad that Audrey had to come to this place. She asked about Joyce, but Mrs. Read said that she had heard nothing about a sister named Joyce. Marjorie turned and ran, wanting to tell Kenny the news. She didn’t even care if she had to break the rules by going on the boys’ path to find him.

  Every day Marjorie asked the same thing: “Is Audrey coming today?” “No, not today,” was always the answer. Then one morning Mrs. Read said, “Not today, but today we are going to walk to Cowichan Bay to pick blackberries.” Marjorie protested, crying that she didn’t want to go in case Audrey showed up, but the cottage mother told her to stop being so silly.

  The girls stopped by the old Stone Butter Church[6] in Cowichan Bay to have their lunch. The church was just an empty shell of a building, but there was something fascinating about it. The large openings for the windows had no windowpanes. Marjorie and some other girls climbed up on the windowsill to eat lunch. Their feet hung into the church, and the warm afternoon sunshine fell on their backs. Why someone would build the walls and ceiling of a church and then go away and not finish it simply did not make any sense to her.

  After lunch Marjorie was thrilled to walk down the road to the beach at Cowichan Bay. It was a long walk, but it was worth it. For a moment the beach smells and the sounds of the seagulls brought her right back to her home at Whitley Bay, and she was playing on the sands again. She closed her eyes and breathed in the salty ocean air. She wanted the moment to last and last. She stood and savoured this treat. It was powerful and familiar and so unexpected. She stood quietly with her eyes closed tightly. Her senses tingled with happiness as she felt the ocean breeze on her face. She kept her eyes closed and smiled to herself. The magic was broken when Mrs. Read shouted a
t her, asking her if she was daft, standing there with her eyes closed. She felt her balance slipping; she opened her eyes and looked around. Marjorie tucked this special moment away to savour later. She was finding that there were some things that no one could take from her. She picked up a few seashells and put them in her pocket. Her Whitley Bay beach had the best sand in the world. Cowichan Bay was muddy, but the salty ocean smell touched her like a present. The seagulls swooped and dove in the sky just like her Whitley Bay gulls. They made her homesick, but this new homesickness, when mixed with the ocean smells, had a strange comfort to it. She was on the beach and away from the farm, and that was all that mattered for the moment. She hadn’t known the beach was so close to the farm school and close enough to walk to. The girls headed the five miles back to the farm, carrying their buckets of blackberries, but Marjorie carried a lot more than blackberries back with her. She was happy for the outing and a break from the garden chores.

  Sisters Audrey (Bunny) and Marjorie at the Old Stone Church, 2014. The waters of Cowichan Bay can be seen on the far right of the photo.

  The Vancouver Island Coach Lines arriving at the remote Prince of Wales Fairbridge Farm School with another party of children.

  Audrey (Bunny) and her party of twenty-eight children on the Duchess of York (left). The girls are reunited. Audrey (Bunny) and Marjorie at the farm school (below).

  Marjorie heard the bus coming before she could see it. Her sister Audrey was almost here. She had helped to get her cot arranged. She wanted it to be placed next to hers, but that was not allowed. She asked her cottage mother over and over again about whether Joyce would be coming with Audrey, too, but was told that Joyce was not assigned to the cottage and if she kept asking she would have to do extra chores. Mrs. Read hoped that Marjorie might settle in better once her sister arrived. It had been almost a year now, yet she still acted homesick and was difficult and argumentative.