Free Oranges and Sunshine: Empty Cradles by Margaret Humphreys

I would owe Fairbridge two years’ farm work because I’d been at high school,’ George said. ‘I offered to do the farm work, but he told me to remember my sister and if I didn’t take this apprenticeship, he would make things difficult for her. That convinced me.’
    George did a lot of different jobs over the next twenty-four years – very few of them fulfilling – and then at the age of forty he decided to go to university. He subsequently went into business and became a millionaire. But he refused to give Fairbridge any credit for his success. ‘I feel I owe them nothing,’ he told me. ‘I had to do something to show that despite them I could win.’
    George didn’t know what had happened to his parents but he thought his sister, Rita, may have returned to the UK. He wanted to find out if he had a family.
* * *
    During the next three days, I spoke to six more former child migrants. None of them had been sent to Australia to be adopted by families – all had grown up in institutions that did little to prepare them for life outside their walls.
    A few consistent strands had begun to emerge from the stories. The former child migrants all told of leaving Britain on a boat and heading for a ‘new start’. One woman, who had been in a children’s home, described being summoned by the Mother Superior one evening, when she was ten years old.
    ‘She was a strict lady and I thought I was going to be in for some kind of telling off. “Have a seat, my child,” she said. Then she started talking about being sent to Australia. Blimey, I thought, have I been that bad to be sent away? Mother Superior said that I had been chosen, that it was a wonderful opportunity, not some kind of punishment. But that night in bed, I cried. I was so frightened of leaving the only home I’d ever had, of leaving my school friends, my sisters, of leaving my best friend Pearl and never seeing any of them again.’
    Almost without exception, each person I interviewed in Melbourne insisted that their parents were dead because that’s what they’d been told. They were orphans and most, like Madeleine, had no birth certificate or documentation; no letters or photographs. There was nothing to tie them to the past except distant memories.
    Marie had arrived in Melbourne the day before me and Harold had met her at the airport.
    He knew from Marie’s letters that I was a British social worker who wanted to talk to him, but was totally underwhelmed by the prospect. ‘Why does this bloody Margaret want to see me? I hope when she gets here she has a good holiday.’
    I arranged to meet them for supper at the Travelodge. Marie was absolutely radiant – I could barely recognize her. For the first time I saw her strong, happy and relaxed instead of timid and shy.
    Harold had a tremendous presence and when I saw him next to Marie, the physical similarities between them were striking.
    That evening we spoke little about the past. It was simply wonderful seeing a brother and sister together after so many years. At times I felt as if I shouldn’t be there. Harold and Marie were completely wrapped up in each other.
    The next day, on a drive to the Dandenong Ranges, outside the city, I managed to see Harold alone. All morning he’d avoided me, disappearing for a cigarette whenever the conversation touched on a subject that made him feel uncomfortable.
    As we walked through a beautiful garden, Harold pointed out the brilliantly coloured galahs that squawked in the trees. He told me that he had no recollection of his mother. He had no photograph or abiding memory to cling to, yet when he was a child, not a day passed when he didn’t want to find his mother. Everything in his voice and body language told me that this was still the case.
    Harold had married when he was in his early twenties and had three children, a boy and two girls. But not even fatherhood could melt the block of ice inside of him. Ever since his mid-twenties he’d suffered from