CHAPTER 3

The Dr. Barnardo receiving home was a very ordinary-looking building. Nothing except the sign above the door indicated its purpose. Quinn forced his feet forward to cross the street, nerves jumbling in the pit of his stomach. What would he learn today about the fate of his brothers? Silently, he offered up a prayer for good news as he entered.

A large coatrack and umbrella stand graced the musty entranceway. Quinn walked down the hall to what appeared to be a reception desk. A rather severe-looking woman sat entering information in a large book. She looked up when she noticed him and scanned him from the top of his hat to the shoes he’d recently shined in his room at the YMCA.

“Can I help you, sir?”

“I certainly hope so.” He mustered his most charming smile. “My name is Quinten Aspinall. I’m looking for information on my two brothers. I believe they came here about four or five years ago from the Dr. Barnardo’s Homes in London, and I’d like to find out where they are now.”

Immediately her features hardened. “I’m sorry, sir, but I am not at liberty to give out that type of information.” She shut the leather journal in front of her with a decisive slap.

Quinn stepped closer to the desk. “I understand there are rules of propriety that must be followed. But surely you can tell immediate family members about their status.” He reached inside his jacket. “I have identification if that helps.”

The woman rose, her harried gaze darting to the staircase leading to the upper level. “I’m afraid I don’t have the authority—”

“Then might I speak with the person in charge of this establishment?”

Her hand fluttered to the high collar of her blouse. She let out a breath and nodded. “One moment, please, and I’ll see if Mr. Hobday has time to speak with you.” She gestured to a bench against the far wall.

“Thank you.” Quinn bowed slightly and took a seat.

The woman started up the staircase. Once she was out of sight, Quinn went straight over to the journal on the desk. His heart pumping, he quickly opened the first page. There he found a neatly scripted list of names and dates.

He flipped the pages, scanning for any entries in 1914 while listening for the sound of approaching footsteps. After hearing Mrs. Chamberlain’s accounts of the dire conditions some children lived in, Quinn wasn’t taking the chance of being denied information on his brothers. Perspiration slicked his palms as he attempted to move quickly through the journal. Finally, a name jumped out at him. Aspinall, Harrison, age 7. Mr. T. Wolfe, Caledon, Ontario.

Quinn quickly memorized it while continuing to scan. On the next page, he found Aspinall, Cecil, age 11. Mr. A. Simpson, Collingwood, Ontario.

Mentally repeating the information, he closed the book and made sure it looked the same as the woman had left it, then returned to the bench. He wiped his damp palms on his pant legs and made an effort to slow his breathing, wanting to appear calm and in control when the director appeared.

At last, footsteps sounded on the staircase, and the woman came into view, followed by a slim gentleman who looked to be about forty. Quinn got to his feet as they approached.

“This is Mr. Aspinall,” she said to the man before returning to her desk.

“Thank you, Mrs. Allen.” He came forward, hand extended. “I’m Mr. Hobday, the superintendent of this establishment. Won’t you come into my office where we can speak in private?”

Quinn followed him down a hall to a large room with long rectangular windows that faced the front street.

“Please have a seat.” Mr. Hobday gestured to the chairs in front of his desk.

“Thank you.” He sat and waited until the man took his place, praying for the right words to convince the fellow to give him the information he wanted.

“I understand you’re looking for your brothers, Mr. Aspinall.” The superintendent folded his hands on the desktop.

“That’s right. Harrison and Cecil Aspinall. They came over in 1914. My mother became ill and was unable to provide for them. I was away at war and had no idea she’d placed them in Dr. Barnardo’s Homes.” Quinn swallowed the bitterness that arose every time he thought of his mother’s actions. Why hadn’t she told him how dire her circumstances had become? If he’d known, maybe he could have done more to help or even postponed joining the war.

“Most unfortunate.” Mr. Hobday shook his head. “However, you need to understand that by placing the children in the care of Dr. Barnardo’s organization, your mother relinquished her parental rights. They are now bound by their individual indentures to their employers until the age of eighteen.” He shuffled a stack of papers. “I’ll tell you plainly that the farmers don’t take kindly to any interference with their workers. You’d likely be run off the property with a shotgun if you attempted to see them.”

Quinn’s hands tightened into fists. Mr. Hobday made it sound like his brothers were prisoners working out their punishment. He could almost picture them in iron shackles, tethered to the barn wall. Quinn fought to regulate his breathing. He could not afford to lose his temper and alienate this man. Despite the information he’d memorized about his brothers’ whereabouts, Quinn might need Mr. Hobday’s help at some point in the future. He’d prefer to have the superintendent as an ally rather than an enemy. “I understand the delicate nature of your business, sir. It must take extraordinary skill to balance the orphans with all the people who wish to obtain their services.”

The lines on the man’s forehead eased. “Indeed, it is a thankless job at times.”

“Tell me, Mr. Hobday, is there any sort of follow-up once the children have been placed? To ensure everyone is . . . happy with the arrangement?”

“Yes, there is.” The man’s shoulders relaxed, and he looked Quinn in the eye for the first time. “We send inspectors out to interview the children and the employers. The inspectors take their job very seriously.”

“I see. And how often does this occur?”

“Once a year.”

“That infrequently? A child could be suffering for a full year before anyone comes to check on them.”

The man’s frown reappeared. “If a farmer is unhappy with the child, believe me, we hear about it forthwith.”

“No doubt.” Quinn leaned forward. “But what happens if the child is unhappy, or worse yet, maltreated? What recourse does he have then?” He couldn’t help but think of Mrs. Chamberlain’s sister. What options did Annie have when she found herself in an unbearable situation?

Mr. Hobday’s mouth pursed with displeasure. “I’m sure you understand we cannot cater to the whims of ungrateful and often unruly children, Mr. Aspinall. Every child is out of sorts at first. But gradually most of them settle in and become good workers.”

“Most? What about the others?”

“Some run away or create such havoc that the employer is forced to return them. In those instances, we keep the boy here for an attitude adjustment, a retraining of sorts, and then attempt to place them on a more suitable farm.”

“Do you keep records of these individuals?”

“We do.” He shifted his weight on the chair, causing it to creak.

“Would you mind checking to see if either of my brothers experienced this type of ‘retraining’? It might ease my mind to some degree, without jeopardizing the terms of your confidentiality.”

He held the man’s annoyed gaze for several seconds before Mr. Hobday inclined his head. “Very well.” He pulled open a bottom desk drawer and withdrew a leather book. Then he put on a set of spectacles and opened it. “You said 1914 was the year of arrival?”

“I believe so, yes.”

He scanned the pages, running a finger down the inked paper, until he stopped. Carefully he removed his glasses and looked up at Quinn. “It appears Cecil ran away from his first placement. Several times, in fact.”

Quinn straightened on the chair, his heart racing. This was the first tangible account of one of his siblings. “Does it say why?”

“Apparently he didn’t like the family he was living with.” The man set his jaw.

Quinn held back a barrage of questions, knowing Mr. Hobday would not answer them. The situation must have been dire for his brother to run away. “What happened to Cecil then? Did he come back here?” It struck Quinn then that the information he’d memorized earlier might no longer apply since Cecil had been moved.

Mr. Hobday looked back at the book. “Yes. He stayed here for a month and was then placed on a new farm. The inspector’s report several months later indicated that Cecil was adjusting well to the new location.”

A measure of tension trickled from Quinn’s tense muscles. That was at least a relief. “But you won’t tell me where he was placed.”

“Not the exact farm, no.” A long pause ensued. Finally, the superintendent let out a heavy sigh. “All I can say is that he was sent north to a town called Elmvale. But be advised, Mr. Aspinall, any interference with these children will not be tolerated. Do I make myself clear?”

Quinn rose. “Perfectly.” He pointed to the ledger. “Are there any more entries for either of my brothers?”

Mr. Hobday replaced his glasses and continued to peruse the listings. “Nothing further for either boy.”

“Thank you. I appreciate your time. And your candor.” Quinn paused. “I’ll keep your advice in mind.” He headed for the door.

“Mr. Aspinall.”

“Yes?”

“Please don’t do anything to jeopardize your brothers’ contracts. I cannot stress how important this is. If your brothers leave before the terms are complete, not only will they forfeit any money owing to them, they could be subject to legal ramifications.”

Quinn swallowed. “Surely you don’t mean jail?”

“In some cases, that could be the penalty. More often it involves a hefty fine.”

“I understand, sir. Thank you.” Quinn put on his hat and continued out the door. It appeared these indenture contracts held far more weight than he had imagined. But he’d come too far to let anything sway his mission, legal implications or not.

If his brothers decided to leave their employment and return to England, they would have to take their chances.