What began as a trickle of requests for help became a flood. By the end of 1992 the Child Migrants Trust had received more than 20,000 enquiries since its inception. We had two full-time family researchers, a social worker in Australia, another in the UK, and Yvonne.
We were working long hours, piecing together the histories of literally thousands of families. Thankfully, we no longer continually had to travel to London and sift through hefty volumes at St Catherine’s House. At great expense, the Trust had managed to buy the birth, death and marriage records on 12,000 microfiche. This saved us a tremendous amount of time and energy, and money in the long run.
Still, I was always conscious of the fact that I lived and worked on the opposite side of the world from the very people we were trying to help. My visits to Australia were always hectic affairs with no time to become a part of the migrants’ lives or to understand their way of life.
Similarly, there were some child migrants who I felt would never approach me for an interview in a Perth hotel room. These migrants had suffered more than most and despite my attempts to make my hotel room warm and welcoming, it was still daunting for these people to enter a large hotel.
I felt it was necessary to spend a longer period in Perth and establish myself in a house where child migrants would feel comfortable either just dropping in for a coffee or sitting down for a meaningful discussion.
On 4 December 1992, after months of preparation, I flew to Australia. The Trust team had been working until the early hours in the morning preparing me for the journey. Yvonne, in particular, had to ensure everything I would need was packed safely in the black boxes. Meanwhile, Joan Kerry, our social worker, was crisscrossing the UK, preparing families for the eventual reunions with their sons and daughters. These had been made possible by the work of John Myles and our new researcher Beverley Rutter, who had joined the team when John and Penny married and started a family.
I had to present my annual report to Nottinghamshire County Council in the morning; then catch an afternoon train to reach Heathrow by 8.00 p.m. Whatever happened, I couldn’t miss the flight.
Before the meeting at County Hall, I arranged a preview of The Leaving of Liverpool for the councillors. This took on a special significance because it was now almost five months since the drama had made such an impact in Australia yet it was still not scheduled for showing in Britain. The BBC had jointly financed an award-winning show, which was now sitting in a vault at Television Centre, London. Why?
Several MPs were among those watching the drama when I arrived. Looking around the room full of familiar faces, I saw a councillor with tears rolling down his face. Here and there, tissues were dabbed at moist eyes.
As I stood to speak, a question interrupted me mid-sentence. ‘When is the BBC going to transmit The Leaving of Liverpool?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Have they bought it?’
‘Yes. It’s a co-production.’
‘How much have they paid for it?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I want that found out this afternoon,’ a councillor demanded. ‘Has the BBC given you an explanation?’
‘No.’
‘Right. I want questions in the House about this. Which MPs are here? I want questions immediately. It looks as if this programme is being stopped.’
The Hon. Joan Taylor, the Chair of Nottinghamshire Social Services Committee, tried to explain that I had a plane to catch, but the councillors wanted answers and explanations. Eventually I got away, and dashed for the train.
The cross-party support and affection shown to me at County Hall that day gave me the added strength I needed. I felt that they all knew the personal risks involved in my going to Perth; these didn’t have to be spelled out or spoken out loud.
Four months was a long time to be away from my family, but at least I knew that Merv and the children were going to join me over Christmas and New Year. It was the children’s first visit to Australia and Rachel and Ben were very excited. At last they were going to see the country they had heard so much about from the migrants they had met in Nottingham or who had written them letters.
While I flew to Perth to organize the rent of a house, Merv and Ben flew directly to Melbourne to be joined by Rachel and my brother-in-law, John. I would eventually join them a few days before Christmas, then we would all fly to Perth for a proper Down Under celebration.
Perth has the ambience of a large country town rather than a city. It dozes on hot days and doesn’t wake until the air cools in the evening. For a long time I had little fondness for it – the very thought of what had happened there bleached the colours and almost polluted the air.
I rented a house on Dalkeith Road, in Nedlands, not far from the University. It was a single-storey, brick dwelling, referred to by the locals as a ‘Nedlands Fortress’. The art deco interior was cool and relaxing, with fringed lampshades and stained-glass windows.
I knew immediately that the kitchen and family room would be the focal point for visitors, so I filled the large Welsh dresser in the kitchen with photographs of child migrants – both as youngsters and adults. The notice-board in the kitchen started with only a few notes about local services but within days was overloaded with cards, invitations, press cuttings and letters.
I unpacked my suitcases and then began sorting through the boxes and organizing my office in the study. Suddenly I thought, I’ve been here before. It reminded me of when I first started working in the upstairs bedroom at my home in Nottingham. All I had then was a telephone, a desk and commitment.
I didn’t tell many people initially that I planned an extended stay in Perth, not only for security reasons but also because I wanted to pace myself and not be deluged with requests. It was only when I sat beside the telephone that I realized how difficult it was going to be without some basic office equipment.
Surprisingly quickly, the news spread and soon the house in Dalkeith Road was full of flowers and cards. Everybody wanted to help – perhaps seeing it as their chance to be more involved. I explained what I needed and soon the Department of Family Services provided us with a fax machine, while the child migrants found a filing cabinet, photocopier, word processor, desk fan and a pushbike.
Despite this support, it took all my courage for me to stay in Perth. I knew that I couldn’t afford to be intimidated by the threats. The only way to feel safe was to confront it – to brazen it out. I wanted to give out the message: ‘I’m here! I’m staying! I’m going nowhere!’
When I flew to Melbourne, the family were already settled in Canning Street. A group of child migrants who had met through the Trust were excited that we were spending Christmas in Australia as a family. To welcome us to Melbourne, they invited us to a meal at an Italian restaurant in Lygon Street, not far from Melbourne University.
It was a light-hearted evening and at some stage one of the child migrants mentioned a raffle they were holding to raise some much needed funds for the Trust in Melbourne. Although every bit of financial support helped, I felt sad to think that migrants had to raffle a bottle of whisky to help somebody find their mother. Governments should have been paying for this, not the child migrants themselves.
During the meal, a friend leaned across the table and jokingly asked Ben, ‘What are you going to give this raffle then, young man? What are you going to give?’
Ben looked up at her and without drawing breath, said, ‘I gave you my mother.’
He was twelve years old and he managed to stun the table into silence with his razor-sharp reply.
All I could think was, Out of the mouths of babes …
The woman put her arms around Ben and said, ‘Oh, you did! That’s right, you did and we love you for it.’
In the previous seven years, we had not been able to take a family holiday. I had never taken leave. Yet even then, with the whole family in Australia, I managed only a few days off.
We flew to Perth for Christmas. Desmond delivered a tall Christmas tree with lights and decorations; Jackie and Ron gave me house plants, Eileen and Pauline baked cakes and provided extra bedding and blankets for the house. It was, to us, something quite special and unexpected. The child migrants were all pulling together and it created a different kind of family gathering, born out of an unspoken optimism and a shared faith.
On Boxing Day, I took a photograph of Merv and Rachel relaxing on the bedspread as they did the crossword. It was very important to me. After all that had happened, my family was still intact. We were still very close, so together and weathering the storm.
I thank Mervyn for that. He has always been such an enduring source of quiet strength and altruism over the years. His sense of justice was as deeply affronted by his research into child migration, as mine was by meeting those affected by it.
After my second trip to Perth and that terrible Christmas in 1988 I remember asking him one morning, ‘Why me? How did I get so involved in all this?’
He was shaving with his back to me, but I saw his smile in the mirror. He said, ‘It’s that well-known mixture of the right person, in the right place, at the right time, with a smashing family.’
After the New Year, the family slowly returned to England. Rachel and John were the last to leave. I remember walking to the taxi queue at the airport and thinking, The house will seem completely empty. Last week there were five of us, now there’s just me.
The taxi-driver said to me, ‘You look as if you have the worries of the world on your shoulders.’
If only he knew. I had to go back to this empty house, and I didn’t know if I could put the key in the door, let alone walk inside.
Merv had sensed my trepidation when he left, but he also understood that I couldn’t run away. I couldn’t live my life being scared of a place or a person.