They excitedly called to their mum, secure in the knowledge of a job well done.
“What is all this yelling about? Why are you disturbing me?” The boys’ smiles disappeared. Miss Brown seemed angry.
“Mum, we just wanted to show you the woodpile. We got all the wood stacked.” Kenny barely spoke above a whisper.
“Speak up, boy! I can’t understand you when you mumble.” She walked down the stairs toward the boys. “What do you want?”
“The wood, ma’am. Look, we got the wood all stacked and the kindling, too.” Kenny was beaming with the pride of a job well done.
“You disturbed my peace and quiet to show me this? Look at that pile. It’s crooked!” She reached out and pushed on the woodpile until it fell over. All their hard work lay in a heap. “A two-year-old could have done a better job. They should have left you on the streets where you belong. You will never amount to anything! You won’t live to see twenty-one. Do you hear me? You are nothing! Pick up that wood and do it properly this time.” She curled her upper lip, baring her teeth, and her cigarette nearly fell out of her mouth. She looked like a trapped animal. “And don’t expect your supper until it’s perfect. Am I understood?”
“Yes, ma’am,” their terrified voices answered in unison. She stomped up the stairs and yelled for them to do a better job or else.
The boys bent down to rebuild their pile. They had it about half done when they noticed two of the older boys staring at them. These were the meanest bullies in their cottage. Everyone jumped to get out of their way.
“I see you babies have been crying.” The taller of the two bullies walked closer and shoved one of the boys. He tripped over the fallen firewood and landed on his backside. He sat there and looked up at the older boy, trying to anticipate what he might do next, his young mind searching for a way out. “Get outside. It’s time to teach you a lesson.”
The bully pushed Kenny through the doorway. He fell and stayed where he was. The others followed. They could see the cottage mum peering out the window, but she quickly stood back. They knew there would be no help from her.
“Well, you cry babies. I think we need to toughen you up. You, what’s your name again?”
The boy was too terrified to answer.
“Well, stupid, we want you and that little wimp Kenny there to run to the gate and back. I will personally thrash the loser. Go!”
The two little boys knew tears wouldn’t help, but they came running down anyway. “Stop that snivelling. Wipe the tears off your gobs or I’ll smack you now. Run! And don’t look back!”
The two bullies stood with their arms crossed, pleased smirks spread across their faces. For a fleeting moment it crossed Kenny’s mind that maybe the four of them would be able to tackle these two bullies. But he knew that they were no match, even with four against two, and if they were able to get them down, then what? The rest of their lives would be made miserable. The bullies would follow them and one by one get even with them, over and over again, and that was something they could count on.
The boys had no choice. Doing the bullies’ bidding had become routine for them. They ran off. When they returned a few minutes later, running neck and neck, wondering how to avoid a beating, the bullies were gone, but that didn’t stop them from looking over their shoulders for the rest of the day.
Kenny wondered what he had done wrong and why he had to come to this horrible place. Some of the cottages had nice cottage mothers — he knew because one of the boys that he came from England with had told him so. He tried to understand why he couldn’t have a nice cottage mother, too.[8]
On another day, the little band of four- and five-year-olds were happily climbing a fence. They were known as the Baldy Bean Gang because they all had ringworm and had to have their heads shaved. They wore matching bandanas. A nearby duty master called to them. He gave the first boy to reach him a jackknife and told him to cut one of the thin willow branches. Puzzled, the little boy obeyed. He had never held a jackknife before.
As he walked away the duty master yelled, “Be careful. The knife is sharp.”
It only took a couple of cuts to free a long, slender piece of the willow. Pleased with himself, the boy quickly ran back to show his companions.
“Okay, you boys. Pants down and stand facing the fence with your hands on the railing.”
Whack! Whack! Whack!
“Now you know better than to climb these fences. Get along to wherever you’re supposed to be.”[9] The bruises on the boys’ buttocks and legs were felt for days.
Mr. Sampson, a boys’ duty master, briefly watched from the shadows of the cottage doorway as two lads pummelled each other in front of the cottage. The match was uneven; an older boy was pounding on the face of a younger boy. Blood mingled with the dirt and the tears of anger and frustration on the younger boy’s face. He kept yelling, “I’ll squeal on you! I’ll squeal on you!”
Mr. Sampson shouted for the boys to stop fighting and to get inside. He quickly got to the bottom of the fight. The older boy had been forcing the younger boy to have sex with him. Recently they had been put in the same cottage and the younger boy had had enough, as now his abuser expected to do it to him more often. Mr. Sampson was shocked. He sat the boys down and gave them a talk on the “harmfulness of sexual perversion.” Satisfied with the boys’ promises not to carry on this practice, he let them go without a whipping and without reporting them. Of course, reporting on any of this would be pointless, the duty master thought. The principal would only say that the British are oversexed. What rubbish! The young victims have no one to turn to, and they suffer because of that attitude. As he went over the incident in his mind, the duty master thought about his recent diary entry: “Had I known what I was letting myself in for, I probably wouldn’t have taken the job as duty master.” The job left him emotionally drained.[10]
Once out of sight, the older boy threatened the younger one with silence or else. He had every intention of carrying on the practice, leaving the young boy with little or no recourse. A strict talking-to didn’t worry the older boy in the least and certainly would not have taken the little boy out of harm’s way or this bigger boy’s reach.
Marjorie heaved a sigh as she filled the basement tub with water. She knew Kenny was telling her the truth when he told her stories about what went on in the boys’ cottages. She dumped the socks in and grabbed the washboard. She always got the worst of the chores. The longer she was at the farm school, the greater her frustration grew. She scrubbed vigorously, taking her exasperation out on the socks. She knew that she could not change any of the bad things that went on here, and her powerlessness ate away at her.
Her big sister Phyllis had told her what the Fairbridge man in Whitley Bay had said to their mum when he came calling for them to sign the papers. Funny, sometimes she couldn’t remember anything about her family, then clear memories came out of nowhere and flooded her. The man had said, “You’ll be giving the children a better chance, a better life. You owe it to them. You’ll be doing them a favour, and one day they’ll thank you for it. Mark my words; they will grow to hate you if you leave them here in this squalor.”
How could any parent fall for such lies? Marjorie wished she could write to her mum and tell her to warn other mums. Do not send your children here, not if you care about them. It’s not a land of milk and honey. A better life? What nonsense! Far from it! We are slaves, and we have no rights, and no one loves us. We have no one to turn to. The kids know what punishment to expect if they dare to break any of the rules. And the most important rule: don’t talk about what goes on here. It didn’t matter anyway, as there was no one she could trust to tell. Everything had to be held in. At times she felt close to bursting as she tried to push away the fury that bubbled up whenever she thought too long about what had happened to them. It was not right. She was trapped here until she was old enough to get out. It was not fair! Their cottage m
others told them over and over again to be obedient and to be thankful for what the Fairbridge Farm School gave them. She wanted to scream that it gave her nothing but grief, and furthermore it was not what the farm gave her; it was what it took away. Her cottage mum said that it was about time that she forgot her family. Never! She never would, and they couldn’t make her.
Marjorie’s talks with Kenny worried her for days afterward. She wished she could just forget all the badness that he told her about. Sometimes she could, then at other times, like when she saw the fear on Kenny’s and the other boys’ faces, it made all the bad stuff about the farm school come right back to her. She knew she would be leaving soon and she was glad, but there was something about seeing more little children arrive that haunted her; some of these little ones would be here for almost ten years. Well, what could she do about it? She couldn’t help them.
She sighed again and looked out the window. As she scrubbed the crusty socks, she hummed to herself.
Cheerio!
Here we are
Working hard
On our Fairbridge Farm …
Our Empire home
For we love our Island home
Our Empire home in Canada.
Fury filled Marjorie. They made everyone sing these songs until they were firmly stuck. She didn’t love her home here. She didn’t want to be in Canada. It wasn’t her Fairbridge Farm.
Snow was falling. Large light flakes drifted down, quickly covering the ground. If the snow continued all afternoon, they could go sledding up behind the barn. Last year they went sledding in the moonlight. It was wonderful being out in that special light. The snow made everything so bright, just like daytime but softer.
Gathering, chopping, and stacking firewood was a chore that all Fairbridge children knew well because all the buildings were heated by a wood furnace and the kitchens all used wood cookstoves.
After dinner the farm school children ran out to play in the snow. Kenny ran up to his sisters, ready to launch a snowball. The girls ducked, and it missed both of them. Marjorie ran after him and threw one back. It missed Kenny but hit one of the little boys who had recently arrived at the farm. Marjorie dusted the snow off his head and said she was sorry. He just stood there. He said he didn’t mind.
Marjorie said goodbye and ran off to help Bunny. A group of girls had ambushed her. She gathered up a handful of snow and rubbed it into the face of one of the girls. They all collapsed in a heap of snow and laughter. They lay on their backs making snow angels, looking up at the sky. For a moment, they were quiet. Just then, a large owl flew over them. The girls watched. The owl didn’t make a sound, as if it was never there.
Chapter 14
Christmas Eve: Survival Is the Most Important Thing[1]
We believe that this is called a Christian country — from the Queen to the beggar we all lay claim to the character of Christians — we boast that our property and persons are free — and yet the most outrageously tyrannical, unnatural, and un-Christian practices are tolerated, or cloaked under a sympathetic regard for the poor and their offspring.… There is a callous indifference to the feelings of the poor … which outrages belief.
— “Transportation of Children by Parish Officers,” The Operative (London), February 3, 1839
Lost Love
As you celebrate your Christmas Eve
In the traditions of your own way,
Take a moment to pause and remember
How sad it was for a home child that day.
A hundred thousand British children
Set sail toward Canada’s shore,
To be tagged and shipped to farmers
Seeing their Moms and Dads no more.
To a land called milk and honey
These children went to live.
Their little hands became calloused
From the hard work they had to give.
How sad a Christmas Eve would be
To a home child so far from home and family.
As the carollers sang “Silent Night,”
Tears fell as he cried with fright.
At Christmastime a child should be
Gathered around his Christmas tree,
Not way off in a distant land
Made to live and work like a man.
Christmas bells are ringing
Around this time of year.
Families gather merrily
To spread their Christmas cheer.
Take time out this Christmas
To think back on the past.
And remember all the home children
Whose lives were shattered like broken glass.[2]
Marjorie sat on the edge of the bed and looked around her beautiful bedroom. Her quarters came with her own sitting room and her own bathroom, too. It was absolutely grand, yet she was absolutely miserable. She put her head on the fancy pillows of her bed and cried and cried. It was a trick of fate that she found herself in a room that most girls could only dream of, only to find that it meant nothing to her. She would much rather be back in their crowded little Whitley Bay flat, sleeping on the floor with all her family around her, than be in this luxurious room all alone. I have all this comfort but no one to comfort me.
Marjorie had become used to her life during her five years at the Fairbridge Farm School. She was never alone. She always had the companionship of the other girls, especially her sister and, to a lesser degree, her brother. It took a long while before Marjorie realized that they actually had each other’s backs and that most of the girls in her cottage had become her “family.” Over the years, trust had built up between many of them, and even the mums’ pets would stand together with the other girls against the adults when necessary. She may have longed for a smaller group or a quieter life such as she had experienced during the summer of 1940 while at the Fairbridge Fintry Training Farm, but the loneliness here swallowed her up, and it was more than she could take.
Marjorie lacked the skills to cope with this. All the training and preparation Fairbridge put into getting her ready to be a servant girl in Victoria had not prepared her for the tremendous feeling of isolation that she found in the midst of one of the busiest cities in British Columbia. Fairbridge was isolated from the larger outside community. But here in Victoria, Marjorie was isolated from everything that was familiar to her. She found herself in a situation where she felt stranded all day, every day, with a woman who was confined to a wheelchair. It was just the two of them. A nurse came in occasionally to help with things like baths, so Marjorie didn’t have to do that, but she was the main companion, plus she was responsible for all the cleaning and the cooking. The lonely evenings stretched out, never-ending like the garden rows she had to weed at the farm school. She woke up in the mornings to such quietness. She had never slept in a room all by herself before. She missed the chatter of her roommates.
They sent Marjorie out to work on September 11, 1942, ten days before her sixteenth birthday. At the farm school, being one of the senior girls, she felt so grown up and her confidence grew. Here in Victoria, she was unsure of herself. Her employer was a lovely person, but it wasn’t enough. Marjorie didn’t feel prepared or trained for the task at hand. She had plenty of training in the Fairbridge Hospital, but no one had trained her to care for an elderly wheelchair-bound patient all on her own. The new hospital was a busy place. Here it was lonely.
Marjorie fell back on her bed and hummed a tune, trying to control her tears. It was funny how songs came into her head and brought memories with them. She recalled working in the hospital after the Pearl Harbor attack last year. Sometimes they could pretend that the war would not touch them, but after the attack, the whole school had a blackout enforced on them. The new hospital didn’t have any blinds, so on a cloudy dark day in the winter, when normally they’d put the lights on as early as three o’clock, they had to do e
verything in semidarkness. It was much too early to put the patients to bed, and it was too dark for Marjorie to read to them. The nurse made it easier for the patients by leaving the ward doors open so the children could talk to each other. Then it started. One child began to sing “There’ll Always Be an England.” Before long, they had all joined in. It was eerie working in the hospital on those dark evenings, jumping at every unexplained noise, waiting for the bombs to fall on them. Singing seemed to help make their fears disappear for a while.
Marjorie sat on the edge of her bed. The responsibilities coupled with the loneliness were too much for her. She wanted to go back to her real home and be with her own mum. She couldn’t stay here.
She stood up and paced about her room, feeling desperate. Like a trapped animal, she surveyed her cage. She looked at the things in her room but felt no comfort in seeing them. Mrs. Kent had put a little radio in her room. She said it was to keep her company. It was such a luxury, a radio just for herself, but she had not turned it on yet. It seemed too out of the ordinary, and, besides, it reminded her of other hopes and dreams dashed last spring. She hated thinking about the radio program they had broadcast from the farm. The radio people had come to Fairbridge to interview the principal and the kids. When it was her turn, the radioman asked for her name and what she did at the school. She didn’t like speaking into the microphone. She felt shy, but part of her wanted to yell out for someone to help her find her mum so she could get out of this place. She remembered that her mother had a radio once. She had to pawn that one, but maybe she’d gotten another one. She remembered the voices coming out of her mother’s old radio. She prayed that her mother would be listening. She tried to yell for help, but everyone was looking at her, and so she simply said, “My name is Marjorie. I work in the laundry.”[3] And that was it; her chance at rescue was over. She should have yelled out. She didn’t know what happened to her voice; it just got stuck. She had forgotten how to ask for help.
Marjorie Her War Years Page 19
