A British Home Child in Canada 2-Book Bundle. Patricia Skidmore
Street brownstone and imagined the squeaky, rusty old gate and ten-year-old Marjorie running across the lane to Cullercoats Primary School. It was torn down years ago, but standing there I felt I could see Marjorie running across the alley to the school. Marjorie and Joyce stood by the Rockcliffe School, the last school they attended in Whitley Bay, and memories of skipping school and running to play on the beach came back to them. We visited the other houses where the family had lived and the other schools the children attended.
A fuller picture of her childhood slowly emerged. Together we pieced her last few months at home with her mother, and then her journey from the Whitley Bay train station to Newcastle upon Tyne, down to Birmingham, and eventually to London, and finally up to Liverpool. The crossing of the Atlantic aboard the Duchess of Atholl, landing in Montreal and the train ride to Vancouver, the ferry to Nanaimo, and finally the last bus ride to Cowichan Station on Vancouver Island. These events all had dates attached to them now. We had a framework to work from, and with it details of her childhood and her journey to Canada emerged.
The pieces of the puzzle were coming together to portray a picture, each piece helping to unlock her painful past. But there was still one pain that needed addressing: the feeling of betrayal towards her mother that Marjorie had carried for seventy years. By the time Marjorie turned ten, she had not seen her father for almost four years, thus, removed from her mother’s care, it was natural for her to blame only her mother for sending her away and not keeping her safe.
My grandmother managed to get to Canada for a brief visit with her “Canadian” children in 1969. It would be the only time after being sent away that Marjorie would see her. It was not a successful visit. Marjorie wanted answers and her mother could not give any. My grandmother returned to England, the bond with her daughter still as broken as ever.
During our visit to England we were able to visit my grandparent’s grave. They are buried at the Greenwich Cemetery on Shooters Hill, Eltham, London. As Marjorie stood by the grave, she was able to tell her mother that she forgave her and that she finally realizes, after all these years, that it was not her mother who sent her away. Marjorie had been told so frequently by her English family members that it was to her mother’s “eternal distress that she lost her children to Canada.” To know that they both shared this “distress” at being parted helped Marjorie’s healing and allowed her to forgive.
In February 2010, Marjorie received a call to be present at the formal apology that the then-British-prime-minister, Gordon Brown, was scheduled to give to all child emigrants sent from Britain to the colonies from 1619 to the 1970s. The 350-year history of child migration was finally being recognized for what it was for so many of the children — a shameful part of British history. Marjorie waited for seventy-three years to hear it. In her heart, she knew from the start that it was wrong to separate her from her family and send her to the colonies.
When the prime minister took Marjorie’s hand during his very personal and individual apology to each of home children present, he looked directly at Marjorie and said to her, “I am truly sorry.” I sensed that she fully believed that he was sorry for what happened to her and even appeared to be a little shocked at the whole phenomena of child migration. With that recognition and understanding, she was finally able to shed the last of her shame.
This is Marjorie’s story. It is a story of a little girl who learned at a very young age that it would do no good to cry, no matter how frightened she was. The only person who could stop those tears was 6,000 miles away. When Marjorie was removed from her mother’s care, they not only took her away from her family, her community, and her country, they took away the love of the most important person in her world — her mother. It is a story of loss and a story of discovery. It is a story of healing and of forgiveness.
This is also my story. As a little girl I struggled to accept my mother — this woman without a past. As a teenager I simply left. After my first son was born, I wondered how I could be a good mother if I couldn’t be a good daughter. It took many years to find a way to walk together with my mother. I needed answers and it was not until I fully understood that she wasn’t keeping anything from me, that we could truly communicate. She had lost her past. Together we went and found it.
What’s in a Name?
Many of the British child migrants sent to Canada between 1833 and 1948 are known as “Home Children” or “British Home Children.” Marjorie was one of the 329 children sent to the Prince of Wales Fairbridge Farm School, near Cowichan Station on Vancouver Island, British Columbia, between 1935 and 1948. This group — the only British child migrants sent directly to British Columbia, Canada — most often refer to themselves as “Child Migrants” or “Former Fairbridgians.” Children sent to the Fairbridge farm schools in Australia and former Rhodesia have been called Child Migrants or Former Fairbridgians, but most frequently “Old Fairbridgians.” The narratives have changed over the centuries, from ridding Britain of its “idle young people” (see chapter 13, note 1), to child rescue and Empire settlement. Stories of the kidnapping of children run throughout most of the history of child migration. Today, even though many migrants were happy to be sent to the colonies, there are numerous stories that centre on loss: loss of county, loss of records, loss of family and roots. Regardless of what the stories are or what these children are referred to as, they were all part of the British child migration movement, which went on for over 350 years — from 1618 to the mid 1970s.
One
Butterflies Prevail
Nervous. Pacing. Wandering abroad.
Wondering what? Wondering aloud ...
If there can be a resolution in this clime
For this loss carried over a lifetime?
Westminster Palace, London, England,
February 24, 2010
Emotions hung heavy, like late fall fruit dangling precariously in a forgotten orchard. Faces open, fearful, waiting; cheeks glistening with the ancient tears of pain held for years. For some, this pain was the only connection to their past.
Sixty-five or so men and women had been brought to London — back to their land of birth. They had waited a long time for this moment — their moment. Dressed in their town clothes, they mixed and mingled, nervously sharing bits of their stories. I, too, was there, having accompanied my mother to England.
“I was five, but my papers said I was three, and they changed my name. It made it hard to find my way back, you know.” One woman offered me this bit of information.
“Yes, I can only imagine.” I wanted to provide more, but what could I give? Besides, the woman had already moved away. It was an apology she was looking for, not my attention.
British Prime Minister Gordon Brown presenting a personal apology to the former child migrants brought to London for this occasion, on February 24, 2010.
Photo by Patricia Skidmore.
“They sent me to Australia and my brother to Canada. That wasn’t right you know, to split us up like that.” The man wore his uneasiness like a shield. “I had no one,” he muttered as he too walked away.
“I know. It happened too many times,” I replied after him.
I walked by an elderly man, cradling a framed photograph, his face lined with a record of a life long-lived. “It’s me mum,” he told me, pushing back a tear. “It took me twenty years to find her, and I only saw her just the once before she passed. Just the once.”
I found it difficult to know what to say. Others talked to me, but only in passing while they paced about. Wandering, waiting, wondering. Would they finally find what they were looking for? The room seemed crowded, but this group represented just a tiny portion of the whole number of children and families affected by Britain’s 350-year policy of migrating children to the colonies. Even though I knew better, I still found it difficult to believe that, at fifty-nine, I was older than some.
I