The Vanished Child

by M J Lee

  The men in front of him laughed in unison.

  Harry and the rest of the children stood holding their cases. Miss Anstey had her head down, looking at the ground.

  The Archbishop brought his hands together as if in prayer. Harry noticed the skin on his face was smooth and shiny, with a slight red glow to the cheeks.

  When the Archbishop began speaking, the words came out full and loud. ‘We are gathered to welcome some orphans from the towns and cities of England.’

  I’m not an orphan, Harry thought, but said nothing.

  The Archbishop continued. ‘At a time when empty cradles are contributing woefully to empty spaces, it is necessary to look for external sources of supply. And if we don’t supply from our own stock, we are leaving ourselves all the more exposed to the menace of the teeming millions of our neighbouring Asiatic races. In no part of Australia is settlement more vital than for Western Australia, which, while it contributes only one twelfth of the total population, occupies one third of our whole Commonwealth...’

  He paused for a moment to brush a fly away, which had been buzzing around his face. One of the sisters stepped forward to help him. Finally he continued. ‘The policy at present adopted of bringing out young boys and girls and training them from the beginning in agricultural and domestic methods, has the additional advantage of acclimatising them from the outset to Australian conditions and imbuing them with Australian sentiments and Australian ideals – the essential marks of true citizenship.’

  The fly returned with added ferocity. The sister stepped forward and swatted it with her sheaf of notes.

  ‘So, it is with great pleasure that I welcome these young men and women to Australia. I am certain that, in the future, under the considered guardianship of the good Christian brothers and the Sisters of Mercy, they will become good Catholics, good Australians and good members of our society. Thank you all, and may God bless you.’

  ‘Archbishop, could we have a picture of you with the orphans?’

  ‘Of course, where would you like me to stand?’

  ‘Where you are is perfect. We’ll gather the orphans around, with the ship in the background.’

  Harry felt Miss Anstey’s arm on his shoulder. He put his case on the ground and walked over to where the bishop was standing. He was soon joined by the others as they formed a circle around the man.

  Harry could smell the strong odour of cologne as he stood near the Archbishop, the purple sash shining next to his head.

  ‘Smile, kids,’ shouted one of the photographers.

  As the flashbulbs went off, Harry blinked. The light was too bright. Somehow, the image of the photographers, the reporters, the brothers and sisters, and the white-haired man in his purple sash, was imprinted on the inside of his eyelids. He only had to close his eyes and he could see it again, a frozen moment in time.

  ‘Can you be part of the group too?’ one of the photographers shouted at Miss Anstey. She walked over to stand behind Harry, resting her hands on his shoulders.

  The lightbulbs went off again and again. When they had finished, the photographer who had shouted took her aside. ‘Can we do one with you and a child? Human interest, you know.’

  She stood close to Harry once more, hands on his shoulders as the lightbulbs flashed, taking shots of just her and him.

  ‘Thanks, miss. Your name is…?’

  ‘Claire Anstey from Perth.’

  He wrote in his notebook. ‘And the kid?’

  ‘My name’s Harry from Oldham.’

  ‘Okay, Harry from Oldham. Welcome to God’s Own.’

  When they had finished all the photographs, and Miss Anstey had received her blessing from the Archbishop, the man departed into a large black car parked next to the quay.

  As soon as he had gone, the reporters and photographers hurried away to find their sandwiches and beer, leaving the children with Miss Anstey, the three brothers and the two sisters.

  One of the brothers started shouting out names. ‘June and Doris Astley.’

  The two sisters raised their hands.

  ‘Go with Sister Anastasia to St Joseph’s.’

  ‘Can’t we stay with the boys?’ said June.

  ‘Of course not. There are boys’ homes and girls’ homes. We don’t believe the mixing of sexes to be beneficial to the young mind.’ He glanced down at his clipboard. ‘Keith Jones, Fred Whatmough, George Rice.’ These three boys put their hands up more slowly this time. ‘You must go with Brother Michael to Castledare.’

  ‘I don’t wanna go with ’em. I wanna stay with Ernie and Harry.’

  ‘You are going to Castledare. They are going to Bindoon, to the Boys Town,’ he said forcefully.

  ‘I wanna go to the Boys Town, too.’

  ‘Can’t they all go together?’ Miss Anstey said. ‘They’ve become such good friends on the ship and they all come from the same home.’

  ‘I’m afraid not. We don’t have room for everybody to remain together. I’m sure you understand, Miss Anstey, that space is at a premium.’ He placed his hand on Ginger’s shoulder. ‘The two places are not far apart. You’ll be able to see each other on Sundays. And maybe we’ll be able to move you later.’

  ‘It’s time for me to go now, children,’ said Miss Anstey brightly, changing the subject.

  She gave each of them a hug, saving a special long embrace for Harry. ‘I’m going to miss you,’ she whispered in his ear.

  ‘Me too,’ he replied, holding up Trevor for her to kiss.

  One of the brothers stepped in. ‘If we don’t leave now, Miss Anstey, we’ll be late for dinner at Bindoon.’

  She stepped back. ‘Of course, Brother.’

  Harry felt his hand being taken and he was led to an old bus with Ernie and Little Tom.

  As the bus drove away, he watched Miss Anstey waving to him, mouthing the words ‘Goodbye, I’ll miss you’. He didn’t see Ginger, Fred, Georgie, or the Astley sisters. They had already vanished.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  June 23, 2017

  Salford, Manchester, England

  It didn’t take long for Jayne to find out where to go. Oldham was part of the Roman Catholic diocese of Salford and all records were available by contacting the Caritas Centre in the Cathedral Close.

  When she rang, the phone was immediately answered by a confident, professional voice. ‘Caritas, how can I help?’

  Jayne explained the situation; her client’s half-brother may have been adopted from St Michael’s or he may have been sent out as a child migrant.

  ‘Well, you are able to access the records but obviously we would have to check your identity and that of the relative first.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘We are committed to confidentiality. These persons may still be alive, and it would be wrong for us to simply give out their past records to anybody. We have a duty of care to them and to their records.’

  Jayne thought about it for a moment. ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Plus they may have put a veto on the records.’

  ‘A veto?’

  ‘Some adoptees do not what to be contacted. They may not be ready to meet their birth mother or relatives, or have simply moved on, leaving the past behind. Either way, if there is a veto in place, I’m afraid we can’t release the records.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Now, when can you come in for an appointment?’

  ‘Do we have to come in?’

  ‘No, the process can be completed by mail, but we always advise all those seeking adoption records to sit down with us. Sometimes the process can be unsettling, and even traumatic. We provide services to support both parties through this time.’

  ‘I think that may be for the future. At the moment, we just want to find out the records the church holds on my client’s relative.’

  ‘Nonetheless, we would have to check your identity and that of your client. A simple photo ID would be sufficient, preferably a passport. Now when can I pencil you in? I have a spot fr
ee tomorrow at three o’clock.’

  The following day, Jayne picked up Vera and drove to Salford. Her father wasn’t feeling well and wanted to say in Buxton to rest.

  ‘Shall I get a doctor to see you, Dad?’

  ‘No, no, not at all.’ Her father, like many people of his generation, had a morbid fear of ‘troubling’ doctors with minor ailments, preferring to suffer in silence. ‘I’ll be okay, just under the weather a little, that’s all. You two go off and I’ll rest here.’

  ‘Are you sure, Dad?’

  ‘Positive. I know when I’m tired.’ He ran his fingers through his thinning hair. ‘Anyway, I don’t really want to go back there. Brings back too many memories.’

  ‘What do you mean, Dad? I don’t understand.’

  Robert let out a long sigh. ‘You know my dad was born in the area?’

  ‘Salford?’

  ‘Just off Chapel Street, not far from the cathedral. Right rough it were in the twenties. Tenements, back-to-back houses, a pub on every corner. You should read “Love on the Dole” if you want to know how it was. Policemen used to walk around in threes. It wasn’t much ’

  ‘I’m sure it’s different now – that was a long time ago, Robert. Times change, you know,’ said Vera.

  Times may have changed, but as Jayne saw very quickly, the area had not.

  The Catholic cathedral still stood; solid and imposing, a rock of solidity in the world. But the surrounding area was going through the process euphemistically known as ‘urban renewal’, which involved knocking down the existing houses and widening all the roads so commuters could stream past to their homes in the suburbs without seeing the dereliction of the inner city. All that was left were the shells of derelict pubs and shops, acres of waste-ground strewn with rubbish, and pothole-pitted side roads. A situation guaranteed to remain until a developer recognised the area was due for gentrification, and decided it was time to build some new apartments.

  The whole place had the feeling that an urban war had been taking place. A war on communities and the human spirit.

  Luckily, the welcome they both received from the woman at the Caritas Centre was warm and typically northern; honest, down-to-earth and friendly. Jayne liked her immediately. After checking their identification, Jayne produced Harry’s birth certificate, which had arrived in the post that morning. ‘This is the man we are looking for. He was placed in St Michael’s as a young child.’

  There was some difficulty explaining the discrepancies in the name of the birth mother with that of Vera, but Jayne showed the woman the letters and the birth certificates. After taking photocopies, she was happy to proceed.

  ‘We do have some records from St Michael’s during this period – I have worked on one other case there. But the records are spotty, so I would like to manage your expectations. The nuns at the time were overworked and sometimes they were not as diligent in their record-keeping as they should have been. However, if he was adopted as the letter suggests, then we should have some records to show where he was placed. If he was part of the child migration scheme, there is a central registry in London of all child migrants sent abroad by Catholic agencies during this period.’

  ‘How long will it take?’ asked Vera.

  ‘We’ll be as quick as we can, but I should remind you if there is a veto on the documents, we will not be able to release them.’

  ‘That means the person has decided he doesn’t want to meet any relatives, is that right?’ asked Vera.

  The woman nodded.

  ‘What do we do then?’

  ‘I’m afraid it means that Caritas cannot release any documents unless the adoptee removes the veto.’

  Jayne stood up and held out her hand. ‘Thank you for your time. You’ve been very helpful.’

  ‘Please contact us if you require anything else. I’ll let you know if I am sending any documents to you. In the meantime, here are a few brochures explaining the process and also some advice on the support services we provide for families.’

  Vera took the documents. ‘What do we do now, Jayne?’ she asked as they were leaving the building.

  ‘We wait, Vera, it’s all we can do.’

  Vera sighed. ‘It’s been over sixty years, I guess I can wait a few more weeks.’

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  May 28, 1952

  St Joseph’s Farm and Trade School, Bindoon, Western Australia

  The bus had been driving across the same parched, dry landscape for nearly three hours before they came in sight of Bindoon Boys Town. The driver had stopped on top of the ridge overlooking it to let them view their new home.

  Below them, a group of beige stone buildings nestled in the valley, one topped with a small dome. Others still had scaffolding surrounding and supporting them. Harry could see children climbing like zealous ants across the half-completed buildings. What were they doing?

  Around the buildings, there were the beginnings of an orchard and a vineyard. Off to the right, along the ridge, a statue of Christ the Redeemer glared down on the buildings and the people below.

  The driver turned round in his seat and faced them. ‘My name’s Brother Dawe, and that—’ he pointed down to the buildings below, ‘that’s going to be your home for the next few years, my lovelies. Here, we’re going to make men of you.’

  Brother Dawe put the bus in gear and raced down the drive, through the gates and up to the main building with its distinctive dome.

  A tall, thick-set man with a mop of white hair and a sharp aquiline nose was waiting for them, warming his hands in front of a brazier. He was wearing a khaki outfit that was almost soldier-like, with high boots laced up till just below his knee.

  ‘That’s Brother Keaney, he’s the head of the home,’ said Brother Dawe. ‘A word in your English ears. I wouldn’t cross him if I were you. He knows how to deal with miscreant boys.’

  As the bus screeched to a halt beside Brother Keaney, Harry noticed the long, thick stick resting against the metal of the brazier.

  They all picked up their suitcases and piled off the bus.

  Brother Keaney scanned them up and down. ‘A sorry shower of shit, Brother. Couldn’t you do any better?’ The accent was Irish, like a cow chewing its cud and speaking at the same time.

  ‘Sorry, Father, there were only eight Catholics bound for Fremantle on the ship, and three of the boys were already down for Castledare.’

  Brother Keaney sniffed. He reached out and squeezed Ernie’s bicep. ‘This one looks like he could do a spot of work. Have you done any of the building, boy?’

  Ernie shook his head.

  ‘Well, I’m sure you’re going to find out how.’

  ‘What time is dinner?’ Ernie asked.

  Brother Keaney laughed. ‘Oh, you’ve missed dinner. But you still have time to help the lads over there before you say your rosary and we switch off the lights.’

  He pointed to a half-constructed building on the left. A group of boys were laying the roof, while others carried hods laden with tiles up to them, all supervised by one of the monks sitting on a barrel below.

  ‘Now, leave your cases here and change into these.’ He handed each of them a dirty khaki shirt and a pair of shorts.

  ‘Where’s the changing room?’ asked Little Tom.

  ‘Sure, you’re standing in it.’ Brother Keaney pointed to the ground with his stick.

  ‘Here?’

  ‘As good as anywhere. Hurry along now, my Biddies, you don’t want to catch your death of the cold.’

  Ernie began to undo his jacket and shirt, folding them neatly and laying them on his case. He was followed by Harry and Little Tom.

  ‘Hurry along there, you heard Brother Keaney,’ chivvied Brother Dawe.

  Eventually, all three were stood in their vest and shorts in front of their neatly folded piles of clothes from Afflecks in Manchester. Ernie began to pull the dirty khaki shirt over his head.

  ‘No, no – not like that, my Biddies. We don’t believe in skivvies in Bindo
on. Our lads are tough.’

  ‘You mean, take off my vest and underpants too?’ asked Harry.

  ‘We have a bright one here, Brother Dawe, even if he looks a wee bit young. He’s going to go far in Bindoon. That’s exactly what I meant, young lad.’

  It was Ernie who went first again, pulling off his vest and putting on the dirty old shirt. Then slowly, reluctantly, he let his underpants drop to the ground and pulled on the shorts, all the time watched by Brother Dawe.

  The others followed him.

  ‘And the boots too. We don’t want to be wearing our good boots on the building, do we?’

  They all took off their shoes and socks, laying them next to the suitcases.

  ‘Good, looks like you’re ready for a bit of graft. Brother Dawe, show them where the work is.’

  Harry reached down, took his soldier out of his case and stuffed it into the pocket of his shorts.

  ‘What do we have here?’ Brother Keaney used the metal tip of his stick to prod the guardsmen sticking out of Harry’s pocket.

  ‘It’s my soldier. Mum gave him to me for my birthday.’

  ‘Let me look at it.’

  Harry hesitated for a moment. Brother Keaney held out his hand.

  ‘You heard the brother,’ said Dawe.

  The stick began to raise threateningly.

  Harry reached into his pocket and passed Trevor across to Brother Keaney. The man peered at it down his long, straight nose. ‘We don’t abide with such baubles in Bindoon. You’re here to become a man, not to play with toys.’ He tossed the soldier on to the brazier, where it lay still on the coals for a few moments before being engulfed by flames.

  ‘You—!’ Harry lunged forward, only to met by the point of the stick driving into his chest.

  ‘You have work to do before you say your prayers. Show them where it is, Brother Dawe.’

  ‘This way, you lot.’

  All three of them were hustled across the yard to where the boys were laying the roof. Harry took one last look at Brother Keaney warming his hands in front of the glowing embers of his soldier, the orange light dancing across his face.