Oranges and Sunshine: Empty Cradles (12 page)

I told him not to worry. ‘You visit the charities and handle the publicity. I’ll talk with the child migrants.’

We left England in March 1988 and flew via Hong Kong to Perth.

Landing early in the morning, I was struck by how almost clinically clean the airport was. The staff wore shorts and white, knee-length socks – which looked quite odd until I walked outside and the heat hit me. By mid-morning it was 42° Celsius, 120° Fahrenheit; I’d never felt anything like it.

To save the Trust money on accommodation Philip Bean, a trustee, had contacted former colleagues at the University of Western Australia. They offered to let us stay in the halls of residence. My small room was in a building ironically called St Catherine’s College – a large modern building.

The university also offered us a small house in which to work, away from the campus and relatively central. It had a small lounge area with comfortable chairs, a kitchen and an office. Although not air-conditioned, there were large desk fans.

Early next morning, David was interviewed on a local radio station and while he was still on the air, the telephone rang.

It seemed strange to be thousands of miles away from home and to be saying ‘Child Migrants Trust’.

A rather angry voice, asked, ‘Who sent you?’ Before I could answer he continued, ‘And what took you so long?’

I smiled, thinking he meant that I’d been slow in answering the phone.

‘I want to know why it’s taken you so long to come and see us? The British government sent us here years ago. They didn’t want us. Just left us here to rot. They don’t answer my letters.’

I tried to explain that I wasn’t from the Government and, what’s more, I felt sure that it wasn’t the British people who didn’t want him.

‘I doubt whether anybody even realizes you’re here,’ I said kindly.

My caller, Bill, became very tearful and distressed.

‘I’m almost seventy-five years old,’ he said. ‘I’ve never been home but I’m still British. I’ve been here more than sixty years.’

I tried to explain why I was in Perth, but Bill wasn’t listening. He was too upset and I could hear his wife in the background trying to calm him down.

There was a knock at the door and I asked Bill to hold the line for a moment.

David was still talking on the radio – answering callers’ questions. I was expecting him back to help me but he had become an instant talkback star.

I opened the door. A woman asked me, ‘Are you the lady from England?’

‘Yes, I think so.’ I smiled.

‘You must be with that pale complexion. So what’s the weather like in the old country?’

‘The old country?’ I asked.

‘Much colder than here,’ she said. ‘Oh, it was cold when I left.’

‘And when was that?’ I asked.

‘November 1950. We had gloves and scarves.’

‘We? How many were you?’

‘Oh, there were about sixty of us on the boat. We were collected from all over England. And there were kids from Scotland and Ireland. It was very hot when we arrived here. A bit like today.’

Outside it was already forty plus.

‘You’d better keep out of the sun,’ she said. ‘My God, we burnt. Our arms were burnt raw within days.’

I told her to come inside. Bill was still on the phone and I made arrangements for him to come and see me later that day. Then I began arranging furniture in the sitting-room for the first interview.

There was another knock on the door. This time a man stood there.

‘Is this the place the man spoke of on the radio? I’ve had a hell of a time finding you.’

Graham was in his late forties. ‘I’m an orphan from England. God, it’s taken years. Have they forgotten about us?’

Before I could answer him, the door rattled again.

‘Good morning,’ I smiled at the six people who were now standing in front of me. ‘I think we’d better get organized here.’

By the time David arrived back from the radio station there must have been more than twenty people waiting. The veranda and garden were full with people, sitting, standing, talking, smoking and waiting their turn. Some were on their own, others with husbands and wives. Some recognized each other from long ago.

David made cups of tea and cold drinks in between answering the phone. He was making appointments for later in the day or the following day, but many said they’d wait, regardless of how long it took.

‘I’ll wait all day if necessary. I’ve waited all my life,’ said one woman.

The desk fans were humming but offered little respite. Perspiration trickled off me.

I arranged a settee and two armchairs in the sitting-room and began the first interview by trying to explain what I was doing.

‘I’ve come to Perth to talk with people who were child migrants; people who arrived in Australia without their parents.’

‘You mean you’ve come all this way to see us?’ the first woman asked.

‘Yes, I’ve come to see you.’

As soon as I said it I could see the physical relief on her face. She asked, ‘Can I hold your hand?’

I was taken aback but went over and sat beside her on the settee. She took my hand.

‘Where do you want to start?’ I asked.

‘Do you think I’ve got any family? Cousins, anybody? I’m not fussy. Anybody. They told me that my parents were dead. Do you think that’s true?’

‘I don’t know, but I can find out. I’ll need your help.’

‘How can I possibly help you? I don’t know anything about myself.’

‘Well, let’s start with your name.’

‘Ann Theresa.’

‘Are you married?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you have a family?’

‘Two children. They’re teenagers now.’

‘When did you marry?’

‘Getting married was very painful for me. I couldn’t tell people who I was. I didn’t have a birth certificate. I felt ashamed.’

The tears just flowed down her face.

‘What did we do wrong?’ she asked. ‘Can you find out why they sent me? What did I do wrong?’

‘You did nothing wrong, Ann.’

She looked at me as if I was being kind to her.

‘Do you know how old you were when you came to Australia?’

‘Eight.’

‘What could an eight-year-old possibly have done that was so bad?’

She smiled a little.

‘Can you remember when your own children were eight years old?’ I asked.

‘I remember them at every age.’ She paused and squeezed my hand.

As she wiped away tears, I explained to her, ‘We have to view this like a journey. You have to help me understand, somehow, the milestones of your life so far, and from there we will take another journey. Neither of us knows where it’s going to lead. I know it’s going to be painful but you have to help me.’

Ann nodded her head.

I asked, ‘What are your earliest memories? What can you remember about England?’

‘I can remember a lady visiting me. I was in a room and this lady came with a man who used to put me on his shoulders. Sometimes they took me for bike rides.’

‘Was she elderly or young?’

‘I think she was young. She used to sit me on her knee.’

‘Who do you think this lady was?’

‘I think she was my mother.’

‘Why do you think that?’

‘She had a fur collar on her coat and I used to like to put my cheek on it. And then she would put her hand on my bottom and give me a nice pat. Only mothers do that to their children, don’t they?’

Ann was describing an intimacy. She didn’t know where or why, but it was the physical closeness that she remembered.

‘Did you like those times?’ I asked.

‘Yes. But I’ve never had them since. Do you think it was my mother?’

It was hard to answer. ‘It’s not important what I think, Ann. Only what you think.’

‘I think it was my mother,’ she said.

‘Why do you think you came to Australia?’ I asked.

‘It must have been that nobody wanted us in England. I’ve never forgotten England. It’s my home. It’s my birthplace, but they just didn’t want me.’

It had been two hours since we began talking and Ann’s voice was beginning to show the strain. Gently, I managed to discover a few more important details – the name of her children’s home in Liverpool, the boat on which she arrived and her date of birth.

‘I’m going to go back to England and this is what I’m going to do: I will visit the children’s home where you used to live, and the school. If they’re still there, I’ll take photographs and post them to you. I shall get you a full copy of your birth certificate which will have the names of your parents or at least your mother.’

‘And you’ll try to find my family?’

‘Yes, that’s what I’m going to do.’

When Ann got up to leave she threw her arms around me and gave me a hug. She said, ‘Are you going to come back and see me?’

‘Yes, of course I will.’

‘When?’

‘I don’t know. But I will come back.’

As I watched her leave I couldn’t help noticing the look of relief on her face.

David was in the office still taking phone calls and handing out cold drinks. He was desperate for me to finish.

All those waiting looked up at me.

‘If all these interviews are going to take two hours, we’ll be here for days,’ I told David. ‘We’ll have to send these people home and make appointments for them to come back.’

‘The day diary is already full,’ he said. ‘I’ve been making plans to see people in the evening at their homes.’

My shoulders drooped a little further. ‘It’s going to take a lot longer than I imagined.’

‘I thought as much. Are you going to be OK?’

‘Yes, but it’s a bit daunting.’

By four-thirty that afternoon I’d managed to interview three more child migrants. Their stories were remarkably similar as was the painful process of extracting from them even the most basic details which I needed to begin the search for their families. I was finding it difficult to take notes while they talked. I wanted to maintain eye contact to show that I was concentrating fully. Often I waited until they’d finished and left before filling several pages of my notebook.

David interrupted me as I was writing my notes.

‘There’s somebody outside who wants to see you. It’ll only take you a moment.’

Ann was waiting in the entrance hall. She’d gone home and returned with her husband. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘But I had to come back. I wanted my husband to meet you. I wanted to make sure this was all real.’

After she’d gone, David took me aside. ‘I know it’s getting late but there’s somebody else who I think you have to see today. He’s been waiting since this morning and he’s very distressed. He’s full of so much anger. I tried to arrange for him to come tomorrow but he insisted on waiting. If we don’t see him, I think he’ll wait outside all night.’

When Graham came into the sitting-room, I sensed immediately what David meant. He was a powerful looking man in his mid-fifties. He had fair skin but the Australian sun had etched deep wrinkles around his eyes and across his forehead.

‘And who sent you?’ he said, quite sceptically, before he even sat down. ‘What are you here for? Because if you want to know what happened here at Boys’ Town, Bindoon,’ he almost spat the name out, ‘then I’m the right bloke to tell you.’

Before I could answer him, he asked, ‘What do you know about Boys’ Town, Bindoon?’

‘Sorry, but I’ve never heard of it. The only Boys’ Town I’ve heard of was in an old Hollywood film that I saw years ago.’

‘And what do you know about the Christian Brothers?’

‘I’m sorry, but I’ve never heard of the Christian Brothers.’

A mischievous smile flitted across his face. ‘Well, the brothers are going to love you.’

He was very aggressive, pacing around the room. I couldn’t make eye contact with him or get him to sit down.

‘What I want to know is, why the British government sent us out here to Australia to be used as slave labour? And I’m talking about the Forties, Fifties and Sixties, not the nineteenth century.’

He paused, and in an instant his shoulders sagged and the swagger disappeared. He turned to me, looking directly into my eyes for the first time, and said, ‘We were just innocent little boys. Some of us only four or five years old.’

This man didn’t want to hear why I was there or what I was trying to do. He only wanted to talk about what had happened to him.

‘We built that bloody place. We built it with our bare hands.’

‘What place?’

‘Bindoon. We built Bindoon. We mixed so much cement the dust burned our feet and the sores on our knees and hands. We were slave labourers. Have you been there? Have you seen it?’

‘No.’

‘After we did the buildings, we built the Stations of the Cross. They’re made of stone. The boys built them. They represent what we lost – all of us. But who was crucified?’

After half an hour of this, I was so shell-shocked by his anger and pain I almost felt that I was responsible for sending him to Australia. That it was somehow my fault.

I didn’t know how to reach him – to convince him that I believed him, I didn’t doubt for a minute what he was saying, but he had to calm down and explain things from the beginning.

Finally he paused for a moment, staring at his hands. I quickly asked, ‘Have you any family?’

The effect was astounding. The fight went out of him.

‘I suppose somebody gave birth to me.’

‘What can you remember about England?’ I asked.

He told me his recollections were sparse but he could remember the war and being evacuated from London to the countryside. He was in a children’s home and had been there ever since he could remember. There were no memories of a mother or father visiting him or of birthdays and Christmases.

‘We were just innocent little kids. We didn’t know why they sent us here. We had no idea.’

Graham was about ten when somebody came to the children’s home and asked him if he wanted to go somewhere where the sun shone all the time and they would get pocket money every week. The place was called Australia and Graham had no idea where it was or how long it would take to get there.

‘I left my friends behind. I remember being so sad about leaving them. I still think of them – they don’t know how lucky they were. At least in England we had warm beds and regular meals.