Oranges and Sunshine: Empty Cradles (4 page)

Although I sensed her desperation immediately, my first reaction was that this couldn’t be right. Surely Madeleine had been adopted or had left these shores with a guardian. I couldn’t see how it was possible for a four-year-old to have been sent off alone 12,000 miles across the world.

I wrote back to Madeleine saying that she must be mistaken.

Now a second letter had arrived and her swift reply was positive and definite. I quickly found myself accused of being arrogant and uncaring. Yes, Madeleine was sure about her facts. ‘You don’t forget things like that,’ she wrote. ‘I still have nightmares. I simply want to discover my roots.’

Madeleine had spent forty years in Australia and still felt she didn’t belong. She had no sense of background or heritage. A key part of her identity had been left behind somewhere in Britain. Now she wanted to find it.

As I slipped her letter into my pocket, I was still sure Madeleine was mistaken, but this time I would complete some basic research before writing back to her. She believed it was the truth and deserved some answers.

Outside the rain had eased slightly as I found a parking spot outside the large Victorian house in Mansfield Road. I switched off the engine, grabbed my overcoat and made a dash for the doorway.

The chairs were arranged in a circle around an old wooden coffee-table. Few of them matched, and some had sagging seats, but the room was quite comfortable and what it lacked in heating was made up for by the warmth of the company.

Marie was talking as she spooned coffee into the mugs. A quiet woman of about fifty she had been adopted when she was young. She often spoke in short, apologetic sentences that tailed off, as if she could never quite believe that anybody was listening to her. Her eyes were downcast as she spoke now, fixed on what she was doing; she didn’t have the slightest idea of the impact her words had on the group.

‘All my life, I felt something was missing,’ she said. ‘I was brought up as an only child, left home, and trained as a nurse at a London hospital. Then, one day, out of the blue, I remembered I had a brother. The more I thought about it, the clearer it became to me that he was younger than me and his name was Harold.’

Every person in the group was entranced. Normally so quiet and reserved, Marie had told us more about herself in those few sentences than in the previous twelve months.

‘What can you remember of your own childhood?’ I asked gently, wanting to keep her talking.

‘I know I was adopted somewhere in England, though not in Nottingham, when I was about ten years old. It’s hard to explain, but I know my adoptive parents changed my Christian name to Marie.

‘I lived with them in the South of England and when I eventually left home I went straight into nursing training. Nobody hid the fact I was adopted and I always wondered, and thought about, who I was.

‘Then from somewhere – who knows where these things come from – I remembered I had a brother. Somewhere I had a brother.

‘I didn’t know where to start looking for him, but eventually I began trying to trace his birth certificate.’ Marie paused and for a moment I feared that she wouldn’t finish.

‘I found it,’ she whispered as if it came as a complete surprise to herself.

‘His name was Harold and he was just eleven months younger than me. He hadn’t been adopted so I thought that maybe he was still with our mum and dad.

‘I put Harold’s certificate in my bag and kept it there for ages. I often took it out and looked at it wondering, Where is he? Will I ever find him? Sometimes I used to run my finger over his name.’

‘Did you ever try to trace him?’ somebody asked.

Marie smiled sadly and nodded.

‘For all I knew Harold could have lived around the corner from me. I had no idea where he was or how to find him. I turned to the Salvation Army which had arranged my adoption.

‘I sent off a letter, unsure of what would happen. I expected them to write back, asking for more information – information I didn’t have. In the meantime, I tried hard not to build up my hopes. A letter did arrive, but not from the Salvation Army. It was post-marked from Australia and when I opened it the first words were: “Dear Marie, I’m Harold Haig and I think I’m your brother.”’

‘That’s amazing,’ said someone.

‘You must have been thrilled,’ echoed another.

Marie’s face told a different story. There was no sign of joy or a happy ending.

‘Did you get to meet him?’ asked a chorus of questioners.

Marie lowered her head and explained that Harold’s letter had arrived almost twenty-five years ago, just as she was about to marry. As part of their honeymoon they were going to New Zealand to visit her husband’s brother and decided to return home via Australia so she could meet Harold.

‘It wasn’t easy,’ said Marie. ‘We had nothing to fill in twenty-five years except a handful of letters. I arrived on the doorstep with my husband and, from first sight, I knew it was true. It was lovely to see Harold, my brother.

‘But the visit was very brief. My husband and Harold were from different worlds. Harold was artistic and unconventional, my husband was very English and reserved. They didn’t get on and we weren’t there long before my husband decided we should leave.’

‘Harold and I didn’t write – not after a time, anyway. Perhaps my husband was jealous. Raising children and nursing took over and although we weren’t in contact I thought about Harold a lot. And then one day in the Seventies, it was Christmas Eve, my husband answered a knock on our door and there stood Harold.

‘I was shocked and thrilled at the same time, but again it was difficult. I wanted to talk to Harold, I wanted a brother, but there were tensions between Harold and my husband. They argued and Harold stormed back to Australia.

‘Periodically I wrote to him, never sure if he got the letters, but I have always held out the hope that we’ll meet again.’

Marie seemed exhausted and drained, sitting on the edge of an armchair and close to tears. I didn’t want to press her but I couldn’t let it rest.

‘How exactly,’ I asked, ‘did Harold get to Australia?’

She shrugged. ‘Somebody just sent him as a child.’

‘Who sent him?’

‘I don’t know. He said somebody put him on a boat.’

‘With your mother and father?’

‘No. He went on his own.’

‘This is bloody ridiculous,’ somebody said, and several conversations seemed to spark up at once as people shook their heads in disbelief and fired off more questions.

But I didn’t join in; I didn’t say a word. All I could think about was the letter from Madeleine in my overcoat pocket. It suddenly seemed far more significant and disturbing.

I had visited St Catherine’s House dozens of times before. It was always the first step in any search for the relatives of adopted people who sought my help. Headquarters of the General Register Office, and a Mecca for genealogists, the building houses some 260 million records of births, marriages and deaths in England and Wales, indexed in 8,500 bulky volumes.

Three days after Madeleine’s second letter arrived, I took the early train from Nottingham, to take advantage of the cheap return fare and make the most of a day’s research in London.

A day spent at St Catherine’s had never been my idea of fun. The journey took 100 mind-numbing minutes on British Rail, followed by a mad scramble on the London Underground in the middle of the early-morning rush hour. Then two short stops and up and out into the wind tunnel of a walk along Kingsway to the grey, bleak building commanding one of London’s busiest junctions.

The building itself was not designed with the consumer in mind. This is a world of harsh electric lighting and poor ventilation, where the bureaucrat is king. In the summer, crowds of schoolchildren and American tourists are nearly suffocated as they attempt to assemble the branches of their family trees.

St Cath’s is like a medium-sized library without the peace and quiet. There are up to two thousand visitors a day frantically searching through the indexes, a strange mixture of people, some of whom simply need a copy of their own birth certificate for administrative reasons, and others in the painful grip of a search for lost relatives. I can recognize the latter because their faces are so anxious and they lean low over the pages.

Eye strain, backache and sore arms are the occupational hazards of regular visitors who must wrestle with the large, cumbersome volumes stored in an endless series of metal racks. Every day brings drama and disappointment, but like some patron saint of lost souls, St Catherine rewards patience and diligence.

An orderly queue already snaked around the side of the building when I arrived. A man was selling roasted chestnuts near the entrance and the warmth of the burning coals and his smile contrasted totally with the bleak, grey surroundings. I caught sight of a newspaper headline – the Government had successfully applied for an injunction against
Spycatcher
and the British press was not at liberty to publish extracts.

Once inside, I crossed the lobby and quickly took my place among the rows of colour-coded volumes where I was hoping to find the registration of Madeleine’s birth. With this, I could order her birth certificate which, in turn, would give me details of her birthplace, the names of her mother and father, their address and their occupations.

The volumes for the 1940s are arranged in quarters for each year, with surnames in alphabetical order. If Madeleine had given me the correct details, I might only have five volumes to search.

After looking through three, I found Madeleine’s entry. She was right: she had been born in Nottingham. I breathed a sigh of relief as I completed the pink application form to order a copy of the full birth certificate.

There were about eight people in the queue to order certificates, each clutching their forms and their cash or cheques. The clerical staff behind the glass screens became irritated with a man who hadn’t completed the form correctly and the queue became restless.

I felt my own search had had a positive start, but my confidence was tempered by the frustration of knowing that it would take three days before a copy of Madeleine’s certificate would arrive in the post. Experience taught me not to be impatient. Discovery often comes in a series of sudden leaps forward punctuated by lengthy delays or complete halts. It was like driving a car for the first time, the results are quite unpredictable.

I knew that I would have to come back: Madeleine believed she was an orphan which meant that ultimately my search would take me to the bleak black records of death to discover when her parents had died.

The Australian High Commission is only a short walk from St Catherine’s House on a landmark site at the corner of Aldwych and the Strand. I had no idea what I wanted really, but decided it wouldn’t hurt to ask a few questions.

All week I’d tried to find any reasons why Madeleine and Harold might have been sent to Australia without their families. None of my colleagues could help. A few thought I was joking when I asked them and one looked wistfully at me and said, ‘No, but I can think of one or two joyriders I’d happily nominate for a free passage.’

In truth, I still found it hard to believe myself. Perhaps they’d misunderstood what had happened, or had had a guardian caring for them. Maybe they were sent out to stay with relatives.

It was mid-afternoon and already the day had provided a look at all four seasons. Now it was raining and I dodged the puddles along the Strand, staying clear of the sheets of water thrown up by passing cars.

The colourful travel posters selling sunshine and tropical beaches seemed to mock rather than entice as I arrived at Australia House and walked past the visa section towards a young man who dealt with general enquiries. His Australian accent surprised me on such a typically English day.

‘Hello. I wonder if you can help me. Is it possible for children to migrate to Australia without their parents?’

‘Yes,’ the official said, ‘if the parents or guardian give their written consent, complete the necessary paperwork, and arrange for a close friend or relative in Australia to take responsibility for the child.’

‘Well, do you have any records of children who were sent to Australia just after the war, in the late nineteen-forties, without their parents?’

‘That was before my time,’ the young man said. ‘I’ll have to ask upstairs.’

I stood back from the desk and he turned slightly away from me to telephone for advice.

Slowly I watched his demeanour change. It seemed that the enquiry wasn’t exactly routine.

‘Just another few minutes,’ he said, dialling a new number. I began to feel uneasy. Maybe I’d asked the wrong question. Perhaps I didn’t know what I was talking about.

Eventually he apologized and said, ‘Someone is coming down to speak with you.’

Ten minutes later an older man appeared. His more authoritative air matched his formal blue suit. I was afraid that he was going to ask me far more questions than I would ask him. I had to think quickly and look confident despite my ignorance.

‘My name is Margaret Humphreys. I’m a social worker from Nottingham. Do you hold the records for all the children who were sent to Australia in the nineteen forties and fifties?’

The man stiffened.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Those records are no longer held at Australia House. They were sent to Canberra several years ago.’

Although he might have been taken aback by my enquiry, I was absolutely stunned by his response. There was a moment when we both just stood there looking at each other. I couldn’t gather my thoughts quickly enough to respond.

To break the silence, he repeated himself. ‘The records of the children have been sent to Canberra.’

I knew that Canberra was the capital of Australia, but little more. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘are there any records here in England?’

‘I think that’s the sort of enquiry that you should address to your own government, don’t you?’

Long after he’d turned on his heels and left, I stood in the doorway trying to make sense of his answers. Outside, the rain had eased and been replaced by a crisp wind that tugged at the open umbrellas of commuters spilling out of offices.