Marjorie Her War Years

by Patricia Skidmore

  The two girls looked at each other and shrieked with laughter.

  “That will teach the old battleaxes! Shh! What was that?”

  They looked toward the entrance and saw someone standing in the shadows. They were having conniption fits until they realized that it was just one of the boys. He poked his head inside and said, “That was good. You should ask if you could give the sermon this Sunday!” His laughter echoed in the empty building.

  “What are you doing here?” they yelled at him, but he didn’t answer. They heard the door slam shut as he left.

  “Well, he won’t tell for sure. He hates them as much as we do.”

  My Memory of Things Gone By

  A long time ago in the British Isles, War raged on over thousands of miles.

  Thousands of children were displaced, separated forever in total disgrace.

  Their dates of Birth and names were changed, put in homes to be rearranged.

  Little did they know what horror waited, your turn would come and you were gated.

  Brothers and Sisters, how would I know, could be in the bomb shelter with me below.

  Tin dishes and rations on a plate could not match the sadness or their fate.

  Little faces cold as stone, never knew we would not go home.

  Discipline was cruel and so unjust, some kids would cry till their heart would bust.

  A few of us survived this cruel ordeal, there was no love and some would steal.

  On a great Troop Ship I sailed the North Atlantic, it was rough and some were frantic.

  It did not bother my little soul; my tiny heart was full of holes.

  Being shipped alone to a foreign land, I learned survival and took a stand.

  I did not know the feel or meaning of love, and put my faith in the man above.

  By the age of ten I became a man, hard outside, but soft as a lamb.

  I still have trouble with the word called love; the man never replied that lives above.

  Over sixty years have now gone by, and those awful people can’t apologize.

  I’m not as lonely as I was, I don’t look for my mummy up in the stars.

  The big thought missing in my life is how your own people create such strife.

  One day these people will be judged as well, and God will send them straight to hell.

  — Tom Isherwood, former Fairbridge boy

  “Did you hear what he did?” Marjorie asked her friend.

  “What did he do now?”

  “Well, Kenny told me their cottage mum wanted to know where the boys had their forts hidden in the woods, so she demanded that he take her and two other cottage mothers as well. Well, you know, you cannot just say no to a cottage mother, so he had no choice but to agree. Kenny said the big boys were really angry at being betrayed by one of their own, but in the end they didn’t have to worry because he really got them good.” Marjorie wished she could have seen the cottage mums’ faces.

  “Spit it out! What did he do?”

  “He took them deep into the woods well away from their forts and up and around twisty trails and over logs until they were completely lost, and then he ran like the wind and left them up in the woods. He didn’t show them anything. Kenny said that they could hear the cottage mums yelling and screaming for ages before they found their way back.” Marjorie giggled at the thought of one of them finally getting back at the mums.

  “Did he get it?”

  “You bet he did. Kenny said he really got the strap, and then they gated him and he had punishment duties for days. But he told the other boys that it was worth it.”

  Marjorie loved it when she and Kenny managed to talk. She was able to find out some of what was happening on that side of Fairbridge, and she loved hearing his stories. He didn’t say too much about how he was doing, though. He clammed up whenever she asked him. He seemed sad or broken all the time. He told her that his mean old cottage mother informed all the boys in his cottage that they needed whipping because that was the only way to get the bad out of them.

  “I’m not bad, Marjorie. I’m not. But when I told her I’m not bad she whooped me, and she said I was bad all the way through and I was lucky to be here as if I stayed in England I would be in jail. Then she made me thank her. Why are we here? What did we do? Sometimes I hate our mum for sending us here. I am not bad.”

  Marjorie assured him he was not bad, but the cottage mothers were definitely bad. She whispered to him that they were all mean old bitches. Kenny gave a little laugh. She hated that they separated boys and girls. She could not help her brother. It was frustrating. She tried to understand why the boys and girls could not walk on the same pathways. It just didn’t make sense to her. Sometimes the new kids would make a mistake, but they learned quickly.

  Marjorie knew the Fairbridge routine. More kids arrived, and they sent away the older ones to work, making room for the newcomers. At least that was the plan. The war had stopped England from shipping very many kids to Fairbridge. It was probably still too dangerous, but seven boys had arrived last month, and they were supposed to get another larger group next month. Maybe the war was going to be over soon, and it was getting safe again to bring kids over.

  Marjorie was glad that she did not have to travel on the ocean. She still had nightmares about all the children drowning. They would not get her on one of those boats. That was another reason why she tried to be good. She didn’t want them to send her back now. What if the Germans torpedoed her ship!

  Marjorie and a few of the other fifteen-year-old girls in training worked long, hard hours for their final year at the farm school and were paid a quarter a week. Marjorie made sure the younger girls knew what was coming and often told them about how they were going to really enjoy being slaves to the Fairbridge matron and to the farm school when they turned fifteen.

  Training was what Fairbridge called it when they were getting ready to send the girls out into service. They had to do a lot of serving in the dining hall. They served mainly the staff, but they also had to put on their uniforms and serve visiting guests. They were supposed to be pleased about this and were constantly reminded to smile and look happy. However, the only time Marjorie looked happy and could smile a big smile was when she saw one of the kids spit on a cottage mother’s plate before placing it on the table.

  The trainee girls also took turns being in charge of the matron’s house. They had to polish silver, dust, wax floors, clean rugs, and do all her housework. She was not satisfied until her house was sparkling. Marjorie hated it when they had to do something over and over again. The matron would tell them, “You might as well do it right the first time, girls, because it’s not done until it’s done right!” Then she’d smile that full-of-herself smile, and the girls would have to do it over again. It was impossible to know when it would be good enough. The matron had a magical formula that only she knew. They could polish and polish until they could see their reflections, and she would come along and give one last wipe. She had to show the girls that she could do it better.

  Marjorie thought the worst part was when they had to serve her breakfast in bed. She hated going into the matron’s dark room. It was creepy, and it smelled funny. Once she almost dropped the breakfast tray because she was in such a hurry to get out. It never helped to show your fears because the cottage mum never understood. She didn’t know that you were being clumsy because you were in such a hurry to get out of her room; she thought you just needed more practice.

  “Stupid girl!” the matron said to Marjorie. “Why can’t you try harder? What placement will we find for you if you cannot do better? What are you going to do if no one wants you? It will never do if you expect to find yourself in the gutters here. Oh, no, British Columbia will not put up with that. You have to earn your keep or they will ship you back. With this war on, who knows what will happen to you or if you’ll even make it back.”


  Marjorie shuddered at the thought of drowning out in the middle of the ocean. She didn’t mean to be clumsy, she wanted to explain, but how could she tell the matron that she just didn’t like coming into her smelly sleeping chamber?

  “I will try harder, mum,” she promised the matron on many occasions. She had no other choice but to try harder. Nevertheless, fear was a powerful thing, and no matter how hard she tried, she came down with a case of the nerves as she carried the breakfast tray into the matron’s room. The teacup and the teapot always seemed to jangle together, increasing her anxiety.

  Her anxiety also had another side to it. Throughout her entire time at Fairbridge, Marjorie was complicit in making the cottage mum’s tea with the water that was used to boil her eggs. The thought that this might poison the mum excited Marjorie, but it also frightened her. She couldn’t stop; it rattled her composure something awful. Marjorie waited nervously every Sunday afternoon to hear the good news: The matron is dead. The wicked witch is gone! Just like the old witch in the Wizard of Oz. She loved that film. A group of girls and their cottage mother had walked all the way into Duncan to see it when it came out. Seeing the bad witch get what she deserved gave Marjorie hope.[3]

  The matron kept telling the girls that they would be going out to service in Victoria soon, and it was very important to give Fairbridge a good name. “Otherwise, the girls coming along after you won’t be wanted. You older girls are the ambassadors for Fairbridge. You need to set a good example. You don’t want people to think that we don’t train you properly, do you?” Then she would smile that smile.

  “No, ma’am” was all that Marjorie would say. But inside she was screaming! She hated serving these people. Couldn’t they tell that many of the kids hated them almost as much as they seemed to hate the kids? At least that’s what it felt like most of the time. Some were good to the kids, though, why couldn’t they all be?

  Marjorie wanted to ruin it for the other girls. She wanted everyone in Victoria to know what a rotten deal they were all getting up at Fairbridge. She didn’t know one girl who was happy about having to be someone’s serving girl. The girls coming after her would probably be happy if she helped to ruin Fairbridge’s name. Then maybe they could choose to do something they wanted to do with their lives.

  The thought scared her. What if they kicked her out of Fairbridge? What if no one wanted her in Victoria? Where would she go? Marjorie held on to her hatred of Fairbridge and kept it close to her chest. She was afraid of what they might do to her if she disobeyed. She was afraid of what revenge an unhappy Fairbridge, an unhappy king, and an unhappy England might direct toward her. They might throw her back into the sewers where she came from. And that must have been where she came from, as they told her that over and over again. She didn’t remember living in the sewers. All she really remembered was the beautiful sandy beach at Whitley Bay. She didn’t remember very much about her life in England anymore. When she yelled back that she would find her mother, she was laughed at and told, “You won’t be able to find your mother. We will make sure of that. The sewer we put you back in will not be anywhere near your mother. And besides, your mother doesn’t want you. Why do you think she sent you away?” All alone and in the sewers, now that was a nightmare that Marjorie must avoid at all costs. Even though she yelled that her mother did want her and her mother loved her, she worried that was nothing more than a childish dream. She had to hang on to the belief that someone wanted her and loved her. If she didn’t have that, she would have nothing.

  Last Christmas she’d received a letter from Joyce and her mother. Not two letters, but both writing on the same one. Joyce had been sent home from Middlemore. She was sixteen, and the home didn’t keep the children past that time, her mother explained. The pain was so great that Marjorie just had to block it out. She didn’t write back. She no longer wrote letters in her head to Joyce, sharing the thoughts and feelings that she dare not write down. It was childish, anyway. She would never write to her mother again. She hated her. She felt so betrayed. She felt so alone. It was as if a big door had slammed shut in front of her. She had always held on to the belief that things would eventually work out and she would find her way home. Now, for the first time, she felt sure that she never would.

  Marjorie hated writing letters. All their letters had to pass inspection. It wasn’t easy to write how she was feeling. She quickly learned to keep those feelings to herself. She had no way of letting her mum know that she wanted to come home. Maybe when she turned sixteen next year they would send her back to her mum just like they had with Joyce. Then she got mad at herself for having such stupid hopes. It only made the disappointments harder to live with.

  And now she wouldn’t write to Joyce anymore. Joyce didn’t need her. Joyce was back at home, and she had their mother. And she had Phyllis, Jean, and Lawrence. Her mother told her that both her older brothers, Fred and Norman, were fighting in the war. Marjorie choked back a huge sob. And they had a new little brother, Richard. He was almost two and a half years old now. How could her mother have done that? She’d sent Marjorie away and then had another baby!

  It all started going wrong last year, right around her birthday. There was the sinking of the City of Benares, and then having to come back to the farm, and having to get the same mean old cottage mum, even after all her hoping. It was harder, she thought, because she had become used to the nice treatment over her summer at Fintry.

  She’d fought her cottage mum fiercely when she first got back, but she simply got the worst of it. Marjorie tried to keep out of the old battleaxe’s way, but living under the same roof made that impossible. Slowly she stopped fighting her and tried her best not to rile her mum. What was the point? She might as well give in. She was no match for any of them.

  Then there was the letter from her mother and Joyce.

  She had carried the dream that her mother would come for her even though she was so far away. She carried that close to her heart, and in her darkest moments that was what helped her keep hope alive. Now she knew her mother would never come for her. Why should she? She didn’t need her; she could just have more children.

  It had been a difficult year. She would get out of here one day, and she would never come back. Tears were coming, so she started to hum a few lines from “There’ll Always Be an England” to try to hide them. A large sob escaped. What did she care? England didn’t want her. There was no England for her, and she felt like a nobody in Canada. Would she ever feel wanted?

  Chapter 13

  Bullies! It’s Not Fair!

  The tragedy — the absolute tragedy — of childhoods lost.[1]

  Without doubt, this is the most catastrophic child sexual abuse legacy within our living memory.

  — Margaret Humphreys, 2017[2]

  Down on Misery Farm (boys’ version)

  Down on Misery

  Down on Misery

  Down on Misery Farm School

  Where you work all day

  And get no pay

  Down on Misery

  Down on Misery

  Down on Misery Farm School

  When I leave this blasted Fairbridge

  Oh, how happy I will be

  And gone are the days

  When I was young and free

  Now are the days

  When I work in slavery.[3]

  Marjorie had no idea how right she was to worry about the safety of the children at the farm school. The policy of silence was firmly ensconced and the records buried away from the public eye. It wasn’t until the 2017 Independent Inquiry into Child Sexual Abuse: Child Migration Programmes released their March 2018 report that some of the accounts of sexual abuse of the children at the Prince of Wales Fairbridge Farm School became public knowledge:

  Fairbridge U.K. thought it was unwise to reinstate Mr. Rogers after he had been found guilty of “immoral relations” with Fairbridge boys. In January
1944, Sir Charles Hambro (Fairbridge U.K.’s chairman) wrote to Mr. Logan, stressing that they “cannot sacrifice the children to some adult who creates suspicion of injurious behaviour.” The Bishop of Victoria wrote to Gordon Green (Fairbridge U.K.’s secretary) suggesting that the (unnamed second) duties master accused of sexual misconduct should have been sent to prison, and that Mr. Logan should be replaced, but neither of these events occurred.[4]

  From the shadow of the trees, Marjorie kept a close eye on Kenny and his pals as they worked on bringing firewood into their cottage’s woodbins. One boy clumsily piled kindling onto another’s outstretched arms. It fell for a second time. He quickly scooped it up, looking nervously over his shoulder. She thought of her brothers and sisters at home. It had been over four years since she last saw them. And her new little brother, did he look like Kenny? The boys jumped as an older boy walked past. He did not touch them; he didn’t need to. He had firmly established who was boss. The cottage mother poked her head out of the cottage door, her ever-present cigarette hanging from her lips, and asked if she had to wait all day for a bit of kindling. Her cigarette bobbed up and down as she spoke. A long, slender ash flew up into the air before landing at her feet.