The Vanished Child

by M J Lee

  They hadn’t seen land since they had left Ceylon almost two weeks ago. The boats had come out to greet them when they arrived in the port of Colombo, and the fare to go onshore had been one shilling and sixpence, or two rupees in local currency. Of course, none of them had any money, so at first they thought they couldn’t go. Then Miss Anstey and her new friend, Mr Grey from the Fairbridge Society, decided to treat them all, Protestants and Catholics both. They had wandered round the markets and visited the temples, shrugged off the sellers of the carved wooden statues (even though Harry had wanted to buy one for his mum), and avoided the coloured ices because Miss Anstey said they were bad for your stomach.

  But what Harry would always remember were the elephants. Now, he had seen pictures of them before, but nothing showed how big they were. When he stood next to one of them, he only came up to the top of its leg, the big, flapping ears wafting gently over his head.

  Miss Anstey had given him a banana to feed to it. He started to peel the banana, but before he could even get it open, the trunk swung across and ripped it out of his hand, stuffing the banana into its gaping mouth, skin and all. Ginger and Ernie thought this was hilarious; an elephant who was bananas.

  They walked around the town a little, seeing the local children playing in the street and even swimming in the dock. They didn’t have much, those children – not even clothes, as they were often wearing nothing but a pair of shorts – but they seemed happy with big, beaming smiles.

  Ernie tried to talk to them, but they all ran away. He was so big now, he even scared adults.

  ‘Look, there’s the town,’ Ginger shouted now, as they leaned eagerly at the balustrade. ‘It must be Fremantle.’

  Miss Anstey joined them at the gang rail with Mr Grey. Harry noticed they were holding hands. He supposed that’s what adults did when they liked each other. He hadn’t seen much of either of them since leaving Colombo. Miss Anstey still came to tuck him in every night, but she did it quickly, not spending long in his cabin. Sometimes, she and Mr Grey even missed lunch and dinner – they must have been very hungry, Harry thought.

  ‘Look, there’s the harbour. I can see the derricks.’ It was Ginger again. He had the best eyes of any of them. At night, they sometimes sat on the promenade deck and stared at the stars. It was always Ginger who pointed out the brightest ones shining down on them.

  ‘Have you all packed your cases?’ This was Miss Anstey.

  They all nodded.

  ‘Good. When we dock, we’ll be met on the quay and one of the brothers will take you to your new home.’

  ‘How long will we stay here, miss? I want to go home for my tea.’

  Miss Anstey put her arm round Little Tom. ‘This is your new home, Tom. Australia. It’s my home too.’

  ‘But what about England?’

  ‘England’s a long way away. You’re stayin’ here. Don’t you get it? You’re never going back.’ This was Ernie at his most brutal.

  Little Tom took one look at his face and shut up. There was no point arguing with Ernie.

  The ship moved quickly up the channel and edged closer to the docks.

  Miss Anstey shouted to all of them: ‘Get your cases and follow me.’

  Harry tried to slip past her. In the excitement, he had forgotten to say goodbye to Friedrich. But Mr Grey grabbed him by the collar. ‘This is a slippy one, Claire, how do you keep track of him?’

  ‘I don’t, Alf.’ She took Harry by the hand and led him back to the others and their waiting cases. ‘You stay with me, Harry. Won’t be long before we have to go ashore.’

  The ship docked against the wharf, gave three toots on its whistle and, as if by magic, the gangplanks began to slide out from the ship to nestle against the harbour buildings.

  ‘We’re home,’ said Miss Anstey.

  Chapter Thirty

  June 20, 2017

  Eyam, Derbyshire, England

  ‘After your last visit, I got to thinking.’ Vera’s brother slurped loudly from his cup of tea. ‘I went through all of Mother’s stuff. Dad put it in a couple of boxes before she died. I don’t think he could bear looking at it.’

  They were back in the cramped living room, surrounded by books, papers, clothes and all the other detritus of a man who never threw anything away. Jayne had picked up Vera and her father from Buxton before driving over to Eyam. This time, they had all declined the offer of tea. Once bitten, twice shy.

  ‘Anyway, to cut a long story short, I found her old Bible. The one she carried with her. Wouldn’t let it out of her sight.’

  He produced the old, well-thumbed book. On the cover, the gold paint of the words had nearly vanished and the spine was beginning to crack. ‘Anyway, I looked through it.’ He opened the first page. Pasted on the right-hand side was an ornate frontispiece.

  Presented to

  Miss Freda Atkins

  On 4th May 1933

  To Commemorate her first Holy Communion

  ‘She loved her Bible, she did,’ said Vera sadly, remembering her mother before church on a Sunday, grasping the Bible in her white-gloved hand. ‘Nobody else was allowed to touch it. Only her.’

  Charlie took another slurp of tea. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like a cuppa?’

  They all shook their heads.

  ‘Anyway,’ he began again, ‘I held up the pages and shook it.’

  ‘You thought there might be money inside, didn’t you?’

  Her brother’s face went bright red. ‘How could you say such a thing, Vera? I was only checking for you.’

  ‘I know you too well, Charlie.’

  ‘Well, if that’s your attitude, you can—’

  Jayne held up her hands. ‘Can you two fight later?’ Her voice softened, becoming emollient. ‘What did you find, Mr Duckworth?’

  ‘Two letters. They were hidden behind the cover. I thought they were just padding. You know how Bibles have that spongy feel to the covers...’

  ‘But it wasn’t,’ said Jayne, interrupting him before he launched into a lengthy explanation of the different textures of Bible covers. ‘Do you have them?’

  He handed over the letters to her.

  ‘Can you read them out?’ It was the first time Jayne’s father had spoken since they had arrived at Charlie’s house. He seemed pale and tired. Perhaps all the travelling was getting to him, she thought.

  Jayne opened the first letter. ‘It’s from the Mother Superior of St Michael’s Home. It’s dated May tenth, 1952, and is addressed to a Miss Duckworth.’

  ‘But Mum was married then. Why didn’t she use her married name?’

  ‘Perhaps the home knew her as Miss Duckworth. After all, it was her name when she left Harry in their care.’ This was Charlie speaking, before he slurped his tea loudly yet again.

  Jayne coughed once and began to read the letter:

  ‘Dear Miss Duckworth,

  ‘Thank you for your letter dated May 5, 1952.

  ‘I am sorry I was not available to see you when you visited St Michael’s on Monday, May 2, but I’m sure you’ll appreciate that running an orphanage with forty children is a time-consuming and difficult business, and we do not have time to speak with every parent who simply turns up at the door.

  ‘Regarding Harold, I am very happy to inform you he has been adopted by a good Catholic family and taken into their loving arms. We are sure they will be able to provide the material, educational and spiritual guidance to create a better life. Before he left us to be with his new family, Harold expressed a desire to become a priest. We are sure, if he has a vocation, and with God’s grace, this family will be able to help him secure his desire.

  ‘Yours sincerely,

  ‘Sister Mary

  ‘Mother Superior.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Vera, shaking her head. ‘David Beggs was sure Harry had gone to Australia. His parents told him Harry was a child migrant.’

  ‘And I found a Harry Britton on the passenger list of the SS Otranto. The dates matched and the
record said he was from St Michael’s. But this letter says he was adopted. Both can’t be right.’

  ‘Read the other letter.’ Charlie was pouring himself another cup of the brown, tar-like liquid he called tea.

  Jayne frowned and unfolded the second letter. ‘This one is dated June fourth, 1952, and it’s addressed to your father, Vera.’ She began reading:

  ‘Dear Mr Atkins,

  ‘Thank you for you letter of May 25, 1952.

  ‘You may not be aware of all the relevant facts of the decision to put Harold up for adoption.

  ‘He was placed in our home on March 28, 1945. Subsequently, he was fostered to the Beggs family in 1947, as it was felt he would benefit from being in a caring family environment. In September 1951, the Beggses returned him to us. From that date until his adoption in May 1952, we note that your wife only visited him once according to our visitor’s book and we have no record of any visit after New Year. We had no letter from Miss Duckworth in that time explaining her absences, nor was any money forwarded to maintain Harold’s upkeep.

  ‘This was an act of deliberate desertion and it was evident that someone had to assume parental rights and act on the child’s behalf. Rather than be upset, your wife should consider herself fortunate. Harold has been adopted by a loving, Catholic family and will enjoy a far healthier and brighter future than she could possibly give him.

  ‘I enclose a copy of the document your wife signed when she gave the young Harold over to us. As you can see, it makes it explicit that his future wellbeing is in our, and God’s, care.

  ‘I would warn you against making any attempt to retrieve him. He has settled into a new life and is very happy. Any attempt to remove him would be detrimental to his health and wellbeing.

  ‘Yours sincerely,

  ‘Sister Mary

  ‘Mother Superior.’

  ‘The bastards, how dare they accuse my mother of neglect? What were the words she used?’ Vera took the letter. ‘“Deliberate desertion”. Mum was making money to give Harry a better life, to get him back one day.’

  Jayne shook her head. ‘I don’t understand. I was certain the person I found this morning was Harry. Everything matched up. It had to be him.’

  Jayne looked at the second sheet, attached to the letter with a rusted staple. It was a carbon copy in light blue of a document dated March 28, 1945. ‘This looks like the paper they made Freda sign when she placed Harry in the home.’

  Regarding Harold Britton, born August 25, 1944.

  I am presently unmarried and was unmarried at the time of the conception and birth of said child. Because of the circumstances of birth and having in mind the best interests of said child, I hereby agree to permanently surrender care, custody and parental authority over said child to the Sisters of Mercy.

  It is agreed that the Sisters of Mercy shall have the sole and exclusive guardianship of said child and the right to place him/her in a foster home and to consent in court to his/her adoption. It is further agreed that the undersigned will not induce him/her to leave the institution or family with whom he/she might be placed.

  I will contribute ten shillings and sixpence (10/6) each week to the said child’s upkeep and maintenance whilst he/she remains in the care and the management of the Sisters of Mercy.

  I agree and pledge not to interfere with the custody, control, care or management of said child in any way or encourage or allow anyone else to do so.

  Signed by Freda Duckworth.

  Witnessed by Sister Mary, Mother Superior, St Michael’s Home for Orphans, Oldham, Lancashire.

  Jayne sighed. ‘It looks like she had no rights. This allows the nuns carte blanche to do what they want with Harry.’

  ‘She never told me she used to pay them money every week. No wonder we were always broke,’ said Vera.

  ‘It was a lot of money back then, was ten and six, love. I think I was only earning three quid a week back then and I had a skill.’

  Vera was silent for a long time, biting her bottom lip, before she said, ‘Perhaps that’s why my mum and dad gave up. The nuns didn’t want their money any more as he was already placed in a good home.’

  ‘What do we do next, Jayne?’ asked her father.

  She thought for a moment. ‘Two things. First, if he was adopted then we can file for the adoption papers to find out where he was sent and which family adopted him.’

  ‘What’s the second thing to do, Jayne?’

  ‘What we should have done in the first place. Contact the Catholic Church and find out exactly what documents they have on Harry.’

  ‘Perhaps they have nothing?’ said her father.

  ‘It’s a chance we have to take, Dad. But we have to work this out. We have to find out what happened to Harry.’

  Chapter Thirty-One

  May 28, 1952

  Fremantle, Western Australia

  They all trooped down the gangplank in twos – the Astley sisters in the lead, followed by Little Tom and Harry, then came Ernie and Ginger and, in the rear, Miss Anstey with Fred and Georgie.

  Harry glanced back at the ship. Friedrich was standing at the gang rail in his oily overalls, a wry smile on his face. Harry waved goodbye. Friedrich turned towards the funnels and pointed upwards. The whistle gave three long toots and a cloud of white smoke billowed from the ship.

  Harry laughed as Friedrich gave him the thumbs-up sign.

  ‘Come along, children.’ Miss Anstey chivvied them along. Harry noticed her eyes were red, as if she had been crying. Where was Mr Grey? He was there on the promenade deck surrounded by the Fairbridge children, still on the ship.

  Harry felt an arm on his shoulder.

  ‘Move along, hurry up.’ It was Miss Anstey pushing them into a large high-ceilinged warehouse. Queues of passengers formed in front of desks with uniformed men sitting behind them. The families who had been on-board were lined up, presenting their passports and documents.

  Miss Anstey led the children to one side. ‘This way, children.’

  They were faced with a stern-looking man in a blue uniform, with sideburns stretching to touch the side of his mouth.

  ‘You lot the Catholics?’

  ‘We are,’ Miss Anstey answered.

  ‘How many?’ he said, looking down at his clipboard.

  ‘Eight.’

  ‘Small group today. Still, the bishop has turned out to greet you,’ he sniffed.

  ‘Can you take us to him?’

  ‘Will do. But first you need them to line up in front of Terry at the desk.’

  She hurried them forward. Harry and Little Tom were first now.

  ‘Hold out your right hand.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Harry, worried this man was going to punish them, like the sisters, with a ruler across the knuckles.

  ‘You got to be fingerprinted.’ His accent was strange, like he had a bunch of marbles in his mouth and everything was a question.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s the law. Hold out your hand?’

  Harry did as he was told, followed by Little Tom. The officer grabbed his hand, dabbed all four fingers in an ink-soaked blue pad and rolled them across a form. Then he took Harry’s thumb and repeated the procedure.

  ‘You’re done. Wait over there?’ He pointed to a place past the table next to a noticeboard.

  They stood there whilst the other children had their fingerprints taken.

  ‘I thought they only did it to thieves and robbers,’ said Little Tom.

  Harry shrugged his shoulders. ‘Dunno, maybe it’s what they do in Australia.’ He tried to wipe the blue ink off his fingers by rubbing them against his trousers.

  ‘But none of them are having their fingerprints taken.’

  The other families who had been on-board the ship were having their documents stamped and being ushered into separate lines marked ‘Onward Travel’ and ‘Perth’.

  ‘Is it because we’re Catholics?’

  ‘Don’t think so.’

  The boys from Fairbrid
ge had also disembarked and were now having their fingerprints taken at the table next to theirs. Miss Anstey had taken the opportunity to chat with Mr Grey. Her eyes were red again.

  They were gradually joined by the other children from the home, all trying to get rid of the blue ink. Finally, Miss Anstey gathered them together. Harry noticed she didn’t have any blue ink on her fingers.

  ‘Now, children, we are going to meet a very important man. You must be on your best behaviour.’ She went around the group, tidying them up. ‘Straighten up your jacket, Ginger. Don’t forget to put on your cap, Harry.’ All the time, wiping her red eyes with her handkerchief.

  She led them down a corridor into a vast open area. Beneath a sign marked ‘Bindoon’ and another marked ‘Castledare’, a white-haired man in a black skirt, purple sash and purple skull-cap stood, his hands clasped in front of him as if in prayer. Behind him were two nuns and three brothers dressed in black cassocks. Behind them was a crowd of people, some with cameras in their hands, others with notebooks.

  Harry felt his hand being grabbed by Little Tom. ‘I’m scared, Harry.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Tom, it’ll soon be over.’

  The white-haired man stepped forward towards Miss Anstey, his hand outstretched, palm downwards. ‘Welcome to Australia.’

  She nodded and made a little curtsey with her legs, bending forward to kiss the large, red ring on the man’s index finger but saying nothing.

  ‘Archbishop, can we get a picture of you with the orphans?’

  ‘Of course you can, of course, but I’d just like to say a few words to welcome the poor children to our wonderful country first.’ He held up his hands for quiet. The reporters raised their notebooks to make sure they reported his words correctly. ‘Don’t worry about getting it all down. Brother Michael here has it all typed out for you. And afterwards, there will be a few sandwiches and bottles of beer. I know reporting is a very hungry, and thirsty, profession.’