Oranges and Sunshine: Empty Cradles (39 page)

I walked into the main restaurant and there, at a long table, a group of very familiar faces greeted me. The warmth and friendship of the occasion was overwhelming. There was a sense of pride and a feeling that the child migrants were now being given recognition.

Two speeches were made, both brief but not lacking in depth or humour. The sentiments expressed were memorable. Desmond said that I was like a sister to them; the sister they had never had.

Maureen Mac spoke on behalf of the women who spent their childhoods at Nazareth House, Geraldton. ‘Margaret, you treat each and every one of us as an individual.’

Words like these are not said easily. We were all working together and we shared respect and trust for each other. I remember looking at the faces around the table and thinking what a remarkable journey we had all taken together.

That night I decided I wanted to arrange a celebration, of sorts, for my friends in Perth. But there were so many and I felt the same about all of them. I knew that the garden at Dalkeith Road couldn’t cope with more than sixty people, so I left the invitations to Desmond, Eileen and Alan.

In the six years that I’d been visiting Perth I had never been to a traditional Australian backyard ‘barbie’, but a fortnight later, on a Saturday evening, a large crowd gathered at Dalkeith Road where the garden had been transformed by fairy lights, balloons, tables, chairs and music. Child migrants had come from everywhere – men and women from all the schemes, many of whom had never been gathered together before.

I had a large cake made – a replica of the one which launched the opening of the Child Migrants Trust office in Nottingham, with the flags of all the countries involved in the child migration schemes.

During the evening, the Geraldton women sat in a row and sang the songs from their time together at Nazareth House. Many were the same songs that the boys used to sing and some grew misty-eyed at the familiar words.

The child migrants shared their different experiences; some talked of having returned home to meet their families, sharing the pain and the happiness. We weren’t there to fight governments, or to talk about compensation; there was no bitterness or rancour. Instead, only genuine regard and affection. It was a tribute to how they had survived.

The Order of Australia medal was recognition for them. It was an official acknowledgement that the child migration schemes had taken place. At last, their voices had been heard.

Four months in Perth had extended to almost five months. Everybody had worked together, and my time away from home had been worth while. I managed to interview hundreds of child migrants while the team in Nottingham worked tirelessly to find their families. Telephone calls and faxes were flying backwards and forwards both day and night.

Leaving Perth was never going to be easy. Normally, I prefer leaving Australia without emotional farewells. This time we said our goodbyes at the barbecue, with the singing of ‘Now is the Hour For Me to Say Goodbye’. The song had become almost our theme tune.

As my sixteen bags and boxes were stowed on my flight, I was happy to be going home and satisfied that the Child Migrants Trust was no longer a distant office in a distant land. It truly belonged to the people it served.

I had missed my family, friends and colleagues dreadfully, and when I got home I wanted Ben to recite every detail of his day at school; to catch up with Rachel’s life.

I spent a week immersing myself in family life and becoming part of their daily routine again. The house looked different; not in any specific way, just different – I’d been away a long time.

It wasn’t made any easier by the fact that I returned to England a slightly changed person. I have never slept properly since that night in Perth. Sometimes I fall asleep and wake in utter panic with my heart racing. For a split second it’s all happening again – the banging on the window, the voice. I think I’m going to die – not at the hands of a murderer, but because my heart will beat too quickly.

During my stay in Perth, the Child Migrants Trust had continued the search for families and arranged reunions with mothers, fathers, brothers and sisters. These were now taking place every month.

No matter what was happening politically and legally concerning child migration, the Trust had never been distracted from its initial goal: to reunite families. This was our purpose and, at the end of the day, the only thing that was truly important.

My trip had also shown me that public awareness of the tragedy of the child migrants was far greater in Australia than in Britain. It had become a national issue and it was rare to find anybody in Australia or New Zealand who hadn’t heard about the child migration scandal.

Unfortunately, this was not the case in the UK. After six years of endeavour, I still had not had a single meeting with a British government Minister. Finally, on 18 May 1993, Mr Tim Yeo, the Parliamentary Secretary at the Department of Health, agreed to meet an all-party delegation from Nottinghamshire County Council. I had two goals. The first was to explain the needs of British child migrants; the second, to appeal directly to the Minister for funding to help reunite them with their families.

Mr Yeo described the meeting as ‘helpful and informative’ and released a statement afterwards saying that he intended opening discussions with the Australian government. He promised nothing more.

If I was to raise public awareness in Britain, it was vital that the BBC screened
The Leaving of Liverpool
. It had been almost a year since the drama was shown in Australia and yet the mini-series wasn’t even listed in the Corporation’s forthcoming schedules.

Joan Taylor of Nottinghamshire County Council arranged for another debate and the councillors went for everybody. Letters were fired off to John Birt, the director general of the BBC, Marmaduke Hussey, the Chairman, Alan Yentob, the BBC1 programme controller, and each of the BBC directors. Meanwhile, questions were tabled in Parliament asking whether the mini-series had been shelved because of pressure from either the Government or the charities involved.

Not surprisingly, I was soon
persona non grata
with the BBC. When the
Nottingham Evening Post
rang the BBC to ask why the programme hadn’t been shown, off the record, a press officer said, ‘Don’t take any notice of that bloody woman from Nottingham.’

The official BBC explanation was: ‘The mini-series missed its slot in 1992 because we were looking to do some further editing on the programme to make it suitable for transmission.’

Further editing? There was an unpleasant ringing in my ears.

Eventually, the BBC announced that it would screen the drama. The mini-series was scheduled at short notice for mid-July – television’s silly season – and there were plans for only limited pre-publicity. This meant no launch, no television plugs and no cast interviews. For whatever reason, the BBC had ensured that
The Leaving of Liverpool
would struggle to attract an audience.

Martin Jacobs, an actor who played a leading adult role in the drama, rang me.

‘They’re not going to do anything to help promote it, Margaret. Nothing at all.’

‘I know. I know. It’s a crying shame. Is there nothing we can do?’

Martin suddenly announced: ‘We’ll do it all ourselves. We’ll start tonight. You and I will do the publicity.’

This was a completely new challenge. In the next four weeks Martin and I cranked up a promotional campaign at no cost to the BBC. The British public were going to know about this television programme, even if we had to yell from the rooftops or walk down the high street carrying sandwich boards.

Using our contacts in the press we arranged major articles in every national newspaper. We did press briefings, television interviews, radio spots and previews. The BBC had produced no detailed press packs so we had Penny Chapman send us the left-overs from the Australian launch.

In the midst of this avalanche of publicity, the BBC must have wondered what the hell was happening.

But there was still another unpleasant surprise waiting. I’d always assumed, come transmission night, that the BBC would provide the Trust with phone lines to take calls from viewers. Having seen the impact of the mini-series in Australia, this was vital. I had never lost sight of the fact that there was a large silent Britain-based group of grieving mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters who had lost part of their families. It would come as a shock to many that the children they had become separated from, for whatever reason, had been sent overseas. Sadly, the BBC didn’t understand this.

‘We have no budget for that,’ was the reply.

Right! I thought. I’ve had enough of this. I requested a hearing and was told that Alan Yentob, the channel’s most senior manager, was dealing with the issue personally. I wrote him a long letter, to which I have never received a reply.

Then I wrote to John Birt. Somebody else replied on his behalf and insisted the decision was final.

Nottinghamshire County Council, which has from the very first day been the Trust’s most caring and committed supporter, was also appalled by the BBC’s attitude. Right across the political spectrum, the councillors and local MPs shared this view.

Defeat loomed. The Trust had no money for switchboards and telephones. We struggled from day to day on a shoestring budget. Now I was in another corner.

Explaining the situation to Joan Taylor, I vented my frustration and disbelief.

Finally, she said, ‘Margaret, stop worrying. We’re not going to let this happen. We’ll fund the help-lines. We’ll put the telephones in, we’ll pay the charges. You just make sure the BBC put the numbers on screen.’

I was absolutely elated. Yet again Notts had proved to be the conscience of the world on this issue. But soon my mood changed. I couldn’t believe it! The BBC refused to screen the numbers. It was regarded as ‘not necessary’.

On 13 July, I appealed directly to MPs in a committee room at the House of Commons. David Hinchliffe, a Labour front-bench spokesman on health, chaired the meeting. After years of hammering on these same doors for moral and financial help, I was determined to get a little understanding from Westminster.

As our cross-party delegation entered St Stephen’s entrance of the House of Commons, I was besieged by television cameras and reporters from Britain, Canada, America, Australia, France and Germany.

It was an historic event. To my knowledge it was the first time MPs had been directly told about the experiences of British child migrants. Until then, I don’t think they appreciated the horrors of the schemes and the grave injustice.

The next morning’s newspapers said it all.

The
Independent
reported: ‘A charity representing thousands of child migrants separated from their families after the Second World War has fiercely criticized the BBC over its refusal to publicize a telephone help-line …

‘The [Child Migrants] Trust is already suspicious about a year-long delay in showing the programme in Britain.

‘A spokesman for BBC1 has dismissed any suggestion of a conspiracy and said the corporation did not publicize help-lines after drama programmes …’

That afternoon questions were asked in the House of Commons, with two MPs demanding an inquiry into why the BBC refused to screen the help-line numbers. They accused the BBC of ‘outrageous and irresponsible’ behaviour.

The following morning, less than forty-eight hours before
The Leaving of Liverpool
was due to be shown, a statement was released by the BBC. A spokesman said, ‘We are now offering this help-line number to viewers. It was always considered and no decision had finally been taken. Today it was decided to display the help-line phone number.’

In late June, the Christian Brothers had quietly arranged advertising space in WA’s major newspapers. A message was prepared by Brother Gerald Faulkner, and published on 3 July. The headline, in white on black, read:

THE CHRISTIAN BROTHERS
CHILD CARE INSTITUTIONS
Clontarf (1901–1983); Castledare (1929–1983);
Tardun (1928–1965); Bindoon (1936–1967)

In the statement that followed, the Christian Brothers finally apologized for the physical and sexual abuse suffered by former children in its care:

Such abuse violates the child’s dignity and sense of self-worth. It causes psychological and social trauma that can lead to lasting wounds of guilt, shame, insecurity and problems in relationships.

We, the Christian Brothers of today, therefore unreservedly apologize to those individuals who were victims of abuse in these institutions. We do not condone in any way the behaviour of individual Brothers who may have perpetrated such abuse.

In apologizing, however, we entreat people not to reflect adversely on the majority of Brothers and their co-workers of the era who went about their work with integrity and deep regard for the children entrusted to their care.

The statement went on to launch a spirited, albeit hollow, defence of the child migration schemes and the role played by the Christian Brothers. This, they insisted, was very minor compared to that of the relative governments.

Between 1901 and 1983 some 4,000 boys, mostly orphans, child migrants and State wards, were cared for in Christian Brother institutions in WA.

Most of the children who came to these institutions were from deprived backgrounds. Many were child migrants from the UK and Ireland, brought to Australia in a scheme initiated by the Commonwealth government and with which several voluntary organizations, including the Australian Catholic Church, actively co-operated …

We cannot and do not excuse any abuse that took place in our institutions nor do we wish to minimize in any way the damage caused.

However, for those looking to apportion blame for such incidents, the following must be borne in mind:

The events took place mostly thirty to fifty years ago and many of the people named as accused, victims or witnesses, are dead or unable to be contacted. While the passage of time does not diminish the seriousness of the incidents, it does make it extremely difficult to uncover the full truth; and