Empty Cradles (Oranges and Sunshine)
About the Book
In 1986 Margaret Humphreys, a social worker from Nottingham, investigated a woman’s claim that, aged four, she had been put on a boat to Australia by the British government. At first incredulous, Margaret discovered that this was just the tip of an enormous iceberg. Up to 150,000 children had been deported from Britain and shipped off to a ‘new life’ in distant parts of the Empire, right up until 1970.
Many were told that their parents were dead, and their parents were told that their children had been adopted. In fact, for many children it was to be a life of horrendous physical and sexual abuse far away from everything they knew.
Margaret and her team reunited thousands of families before it was too late, brought authorities to account, and brought worldwide attention to an outrageous miscarriage of justice.
Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
Foreword
Acknowledgements
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Epilogue: 13 December 1993
Picture Section
About the Author
Copyright
EMPTY CRADLES
Margaret Humphreys
To all the child migrants and their families,
particularly those who have suffered in
silence for so long,
with respect and admiration.
Foreword to the new edition
When Jim Loach first asked to make a film based on Empty Cradles, I was concerned that the lives of former child migrants should be captured on the big screen in all their complex humanity. I must confess that I dreaded seeing myself, my family and my colleagues twisted out of shape to suit the drama. My fears were unfounded. I would have been its fiercest critic if it had fallen short, but Jim’s film, Oranges and Sunshine, is sensitive, compelling, finely crafted and absolutely true to the spirit of this book.
Inevitably, revisiting that time has been a bittersweet experience.
We were so very hopeful then.
The Child Migrants Trust survived on a shoestring, sometimes on less, and we knew that we were engaged in a race against time – to reunite child migrants with their elderly parents before it was too late.
I believed the publication of Empty Cradles in 1994 would be a major step forward in our campaign. I thought the scandal of what one British MP described as ‘war crimes without the war’ could no longer be swept under the carpet. There would be sufficient funds to achieve our objectives. The churches and charitable agencies involved would admit the devastating consequences of their past policies and, as far as possible, set out to make amends. There would be public recognition of the wrongs these remarkable people had suffered – first as children then as adults – at the hands of a succession of governments which seemed to have forgotten them. That recognition was hugely important both to them and to their families.
We really hoped that our struggle had passed the tipping point. I vividly remember sitting in the waiting area at Edinburgh airport in May 1997, having shared another remarkable and emotional reunion. After a telephone call promising a Westminster Health Select Committee inquiry, tears of relief rolled down my face – surely, now, they would be believed; surely now they’d be granted their birthright.
Sadly, my optimism was short-lived.
Twelve long years were to pass before the Australian Prime Minister, Kevin Rudd, made a public apology. Early in 2010, Britain’s Prime Minister Gordon Brown followed suit in the House of Commons, for ‘this shameful episode … this failure in the first duty of a nation: to protect its children.’
These were milestones indeed, and I salute the courage and stamina of those who remained true to the cause. Sadly, for many, it was already too late. And for scores of others, the dark shadow of what happend to them in those terrible so-called Children’s Homes still weighs heavily upon them and their loved ones.
Our work has taken us on a long, hard, bumpy road. And as I write, the journey is far from over.
Margaret Humphreys
Nottingham, December 2010
Acknowledgements
Empty Cradles tells the story of seven of the most difficult, demanding and rewarding years of my life. I have witnessed so many tears of joy and sadness, so much laughter and sorrow in my work that doing justice to the range and intensity of these emotions remains a daunting challenge. For legal and ethical reasons, some of the accounts of the children’s experiences of abuse have not been described in fine detail. Similarly, I have respected the wishes of those who have asked to remain anonymous and changed certain names and details to preserve confidentiality. Sadly, this means that those concerned cannot be acknowledged publicly, but have been thanked by me in private.
Many individuals and organizations have helped me directly or indirectly through their support for the Child Migrants Trust.
In Australia, I wish to thank all the ministers and civil servants concerned at the Department of Immigration and Citizenship, the Australian Federal Police, the Department of Child Protection, Western Australia, the Department of Human Services, Victoria and at Lotterywest, CEO Jan Stewart. Former Senator Andrew Murray and Robert Fisher, former Agent General, Western Australia, remain sources of wise counsel and friendship. Professor Geoff Gallop provided consistent support and advice. Tim Adam, the Trust’s public officer, has also given loyal and sustained support.
In Britain, I am especially grateful to all the Trust’s staff, especially Sue Bush, Pauline Mace and Ian Thwaites, for their long, dedicated record of service, and to past and present Trustees, including Manfred Dessau, Profesor Pat Higham, Mike Hoare and the Hon Joan Taylor, for their long term commitment.
Nottinghamshire County Council gave outstanding and consistent support to the Trust’s humanitarian work over many years and deserves full recognition for its visionary initiative.
The Department of Health has funded the Trust over many years and has developed an increasingly productive and professional partnership.
Liverpool Social Services Committee, Rotary International and West Bridgeford Rotary Club have all made vital contributions at different times.
I am also indebted to an increasing number of Members of Parliament who have brought the needs of former child migrants and their families before influential and wider audiences. Vernon Coaker, a local MP, and other members of the All Party Group on Child Migration, as well as the Health Select Committee, particularly former chairmen David Hinchliffe and Kevin Barron, deserve special mention for their interest, involvement and advocacy.
; The International Association of Former Child Migrants and their Families, especially its President, Norman Johnson, has played a significant role in promoting social justice for the international child migrant community.
I am particularly grateful to all whose experiences as child migrants are described in the following pages, and their families.
Mark Lucas, my agent at LAW, and Michael Robotham, who assisted with the writing, both shared the growing pains and teething troubles of this book for longer than they care to remember. My thanks to them both for their inspiration, guidence and patience. At Transworld, my appreciation to Patrick Janson-Smith, Marianne Velmans and their colleagues for all their commitment.
Finally, I must thank my family in Nottingham, London and across the world, who made it all possible – especially Mervyn, Rachel and Benjamin, whose love and understanding have sustained me throughout.
At a time when empty cradles are contributing woefully to empty spaces, it is necessary to look for external sources of supply. And if we do not supply from our own stock we are leaving ourselves all the more exposed to the menace of the teeming millions of our neighbouring Asiatic races.
In no part of Australia is settlement more vital than for Western Australia, which, while it contributes only one-twelfth of the total population, occupies one-third of the whole commonwealth …
The policy at present adopted of bringing out young boys and girls and training them from the beginning in agricultural and domestic methods … has the additional advantage of acclimatizing them from the outset to Australian conditions and imbuing them with Australian sentiments and Australian ideals – the essential marks of true citizenship …
His Grace the Archbishop of Perth, welcoming British
boys arriving in Australia on the SS Strathaird,
August 1938
Prologue
Perth, 1988
Opening 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. There were kids from Scotland and Ireland too. 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 arranged a settee and two armchairs in the sitting-room and began explaining why I was in Perth.
‘I’ve come 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 woman asked.
‘Yes, I’ve come to see you.’
I could see the physical relief on her face.
She asked, ‘Can I hold your hand?’
I was taken aback but sat down 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. Until I married, I didn’t even have a birth certificate. I felt ashamed.’
The tears began flowing down her face. We sat there for a long time until I had to go out and get tissues because her skirt was becoming soaked with the tears. She kept saying to me, ‘I’m sorry, I can’t stop. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’
The flood of tears washed away any thoughts that the interviews could be given a specific time limit. Even the most basic questions were charged with such emotion.
‘What did we do wrong?’ she asked. ‘Can you find out why they sent me? What did I do wrong?’
‘You did nothing wrong.’
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 and squeezed my hand. ‘Do you mind if I ask you some questions?’
‘No, that’s why I’m here. Ask anything you want.’
I thought she was going to ask me about something I wouldn’t be able to answer. I knew so little about the child migration schemes.
‘Do the daffodils and violets still grow on the side of the streets, and are there still chimney pots?’
I laughed, it came as such a surprise.
‘You see, I remember the chimney pots and I’ve never seen a chimney pot in Australia.’
‘Yes. Yes. Yes.’ I told her all the daffodils and tulips were out on the day I left, and all the blossoms on the trees. She was just mesmerized. She wanted me to describe how things looked and smelt and felt.
‘You see, when I was in England we used to walk to school and home at night and I was very happy there. But when we came here …’ She began sobbing. ‘When we came here …’ She took a deep breath. ‘When we came here we were prisoners. We didn’t have that freedom.’
Although it seemed a silly question, I asked, ‘Did you want to come to Australia?’
She looked at me incredulously. ‘I thought I was going on holiday. They told me I was going on holiday. Said I would be away for six weeks. I didn’t know where Australia was.
‘I felt very strange on the boat and I can remember looking at the English coast and I thought, I’m never going to see this place again. I think I knew really – deep down – that I wasn’t meant to come back.’
I had never seen such pain and sense of loss. Until now, in my work with adoptees, I was used to talking with people who had a small piece of their identity missing. It was just a slice. But the child migrants weren’t missing a slice. Their lives were blank sheets of paper. If I had handed this woman a sheet of paper and said, ‘Write down everything you know about yourself,’ she would have handed back a blank sheet of paper.
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.’
She nodded her head.
I asked, ‘What are your earliest memories? What can you remember about leaving England?’
‘When we were on the boat, somebody told me that we would be going to families. I knew it wasn’t a holiday then. They said there was a family especially chosen for me who were waiting for me in Australia. But that wasn’t to be. No-one was waiting.
‘We were taken by bus to an orphanage miles out of the city – all the land looked burnt and dry and it was hot and there were flies everywhere. I just hated it.
‘I arrived with only a suitcase. In the children’s home in Liverpool I’d had a few toys, not much, but I wasn’t allowed to bring anything with me.’
‘What about photographs?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Any letters?’
She shook her head.
‘We slept in dormitories. They didn’t let us go out to school. Lessons, if you can call them that, were at the orphanage. There were about sixty girls – some Australians but most of us were English. The Australian girls used to poke fun at us because of the way we spoke.
‘For the first few months I was there I used to cry myself to sleep every night. I wasn’t the only one. We used to put the sheet over our mouths to muffle the sobs.’
‘What were the differences between the children’s homes in England and Australia?’ I asked.
‘Within two days of arriving at the orphanage I was scrubbing floors on my hands and knees. The people in charge didn’t know who I was, they didn’t seem to care where I came from. Back then I had lovely long hair that was plaited and fell down my back. I loved my hair. In that first week I was called on to the veranda and a woman told me to turn around. I was scared because I didn’t like being singled out. She picked up my plait and tugged on it. Then I heard the scissors. “You can’t have long hair,” she said and then she hacked it off.’
It had been two hours since we began talking and her voice was beginning to show the strain. When she got up to leave she threw her arms around me and gave me a hug.
‘We knew you’d come. I knew that some day, somebody would come and ask about us. What took you so long?’
I couldn’t answer her. Where would I start?
‘Why do you think you came to Australia?’ I asked her.
She paused and thought for a moment.
‘It must have been that nobody wanted us. I’ve never forgotten England. It’s my home. It’s my birthplace, but they just didn’t want me.’
1
My family had been rooted in Nottingham for generations. My grandfather was an astute businessman who owned several houses in one of its leafier suburbs. My parents survived the Depression there, and then the uncomfortably close attentions of the German Luftwaffe. Bombs fell on the well-known football and Test cricket grounds on either side of Trent Bridge, not far away, but the house I was to grow up in was spared.
My two older sisters were already teenagers when I came into the world in 1944, but they were not old enough to be conscripted into the war effort. My father dealt with the casualties of the conflict as an ambulance driver.
My parents were very close. Their lives revolved around the family and each other, with the local church providing an added sense of rhythm and purpose. As committed Methodists who attended church regularly, their religion was woven into the fabric of their everyday existence. My father had sworn a pledge of abstinence, and nothing stronger than a well-brewed cup of tea ever passed his lips. Although his liver must have enjoyed excellent health, his lungs consumed at least a full packet of cigarettes a day.