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Winifred’s Sorrow

Where are my children?

I want them home!

Where are you taking them?

They must feel so alone.

February 8–9, 1937

Winifred felt the eyes of her children glued to her as the train pulled away. The brave face she worked so hard to keep fell to pieces once the door shut after them. When the train pulled away, it wrenched something deep inside of her and the tears followed fast and furiously. She did not want her children to see her like this. She had been holding herself together for days, fighting to curb the growing feeling of defeat. For the sake of her remaining three children, she had to find the strength to continue. If they took them away too, then there would be no point — no fight left in her. She tried to be brave so they could remember her that way. Lord knows, they would need to be brave.

Winifred watched the train disappear. In her heart of hearts she felt it was the last time she would ever see these four. It was bad enough when they took her older sons. No one told her the worst was yet to come. At least she had a chance of seeing her boys again. Fred and Norman were in the country somewhere, but these four would not be staying in England. She tried to find a way to explain to her little children what was going to happen to them. But it was beyond her understanding why her country would ship young children so far away. She had struggled over the past week for the right words, the right time, but when she started, she faltered. The words stuck in her throat. She was a coward, afraid of what her own failure would look like in their eyes. In the end, she thought it was best not to tell them, that way she could pretend it was just a nightmare, at least until they left.

Winifred stood on the platform and tried to see the purpose of everything. The horrid man told her that the children would stay in Newcastle for a day or two, and then they would send them to the Middlemore Emigration Home in Selly Oak on the outskirts of Birmingham. She wrote that down right away, not wanting to lose track of where they were. Birmingham was so far away. She would never be able to visit them. She wanted to smack that man when he told her that it was men like John Middlemore that made this country great. He told her Middlemore’s first home for children had opened in 1872 and they had been emigrating children of the poor ever since. He told her that Middlemore Homes now worked closely with the Fairbridge Society and assured her that Kingsley Fairbridge’s plan was sound. He opened a book and read from it:

Every year tens of thousands of boys and girls seek admission to the labour market only to be told that there is no need of them, and they are flung back on to one or other of the great human scrap-heaps which lie at the gates of every one of our great cities — derelict little vessels on the Ocean of Life, children doomed to a blind alley existence and the squalor of the slums.[1]

He said her children would go “from these slums to sunshine.” The man was daft. Obviously, he had never seen her children play in the sun down on the Whitley Bay sands — a site to gladden any mother’s heart with its fresh air, sea breeze, sun, and sand. Her children had all the ingredients for a healthy life; she just needed a little more help from her husband. That damn letter — that was not the kind of help she needed.

The Prince of Wales is featured in this Fairbridge Society appeal for funding, which appeared in the The Times on March 11, 1925. This funding was to provide “for intensive training of 200 happy little embryo Empire builders.”

Online newspapers, 17th to 18th century, Burney Collection, Newspapers, Gale Group.

A Christmas Charities poster that appeared in The Times, December 14, 1931.

Winifred could have strangled that wretched man too, when he told her, “Your children are being given a chance.” His lip curled as he continued. “Children like yours have no future here. The country has no need of all this flotsam and jetsam. It is the best thing for the children, your family, and the entire country. Do your duty, woman.”

It is not our fault that we are poor, she thought, her frustration growing by the moment. There are no jobs. Maybe they would have a better chance; there was little work around here for their men, let alone their children. That was her only hope, that he might be right. Will they keep their promise and send her information on where she can write to them? Would the Fairbridge Society send her children to Canada or to Australia?[2]

He had spat out that this was a chance of a lifetime for her children and it was selfish of her to think only of herself.[3] He had the authority to take the children anyway, with or without her say, because her husband had given his written consent. She felt bullied and pushed around by that man. Cornered. How can she forgive her husband for deserting her now — to leave her alone and penniless with their nine children and then a simple letter from him takes away years of her hard work and struggle? She only hoped that one day her children would be able to forgive her and understand that she ran out of options. How could she let them know that she never wanted to let them go? She would do her best to get her babies back. But how could she get them back if they were in Australia or Canada? She prayed for them to stay together. If they had each other they might not be so afraid.

It was with misgiving that she took Joyce aside just before they left the flat and told her that it was up to her now to look after the little ones. Did she do the right thing? Her urgency, her tone of voice, had frightened Joyce, she could see it in her eyes. Joyce would have to grow up quickly now.

Phyllis gently took her mum’s arm and pulled her back across the platform through the station building and down Station Road. Winifred’s eyes glanced down the tracks one last time before she followed her daughter. She leaned heavily on Phyllis. Their wet cheeks glistened in the February morning sun as they plodded down Whitley Road and opened the door to their flat. Side by side, they trudged up the stairs. Jean and Lawrence’s red eyes stared from the far corner of the room. Lawrence jumped up and ran to his mum. Jean did not move. “Where are they? What have you done with them?” She cried out from her corner, but the sharp look from her mum hushed her.

Phyllis tossed and turned that first night. She missed the comfort and the warmth of her younger siblings. Were they okay? She tried to imagine where they could be, and what they were doing but simply could not. Her mum had said very little ever since they stood together, watching the train pull out of the station. She felt shame when she remembered that for a second she was jealous. For ages she had wanted to get out of Whitley Bay and momentarily was envious of her younger sisters and brother.

One of many Fairbridge farm school appeal posters. This one appeared in newspapers such as The Times and the Illustrated London News from 1954–55.

Phyllis glanced over at her mum sitting on the orange box, staring off into space. Phyllis thought of getting up and trying to get her to bed, but the look on her face made her change her mind. She looked lost, worn out, but mostly unreachable.

A poster for the Prince of Wales Fairbridge Farm School, reproduced from Fairbridge publicity materials. Perhaps this was meant as a reference to “The Battle of Waterloo was won on the playing-fields of Eton,” as said by the Duke of Wellington, Arthur Wellesley.

University of Liverpool Archives, Special Collections Branch, Fairbridge Archives, Arnison Family Records, D296.F1.

Phyllis looked through the pamphlets that had been left. They claimed that the society was giving children the chance of a full and happy life in the British Commonwealth. Her brother and sisters would be trained in countries where they were wanted. Why didn’t England want them? Why would they take little children from their families? Why would her country choose to send little children so far away? If they could find money to ship her brother and sisters off to another country and care for them there, why then, they should give that money to her mum so she could take better care of her children. At home, where they belonged! Children should not have to grow up away from their mother and their families. Phyllis could not understand the logic.

Her mum seemed so miserable that it scared Phyllis. She hoped that her father would stay away for good. It was his fault that they were in this situation. She had her sixteenth birthday a few weeks ago and would try to find a job and help. Maybe they could get enough money and bring the children back home. Phyllis closed her eyes and pictured her three sisters. She did not want to forget their faces; she was already having trouble remembering Fred and Norman. Then she thought of her little brother, Kenny. He was so young, and he would be so alone. At least the girls had each other. Would they forget about her? She wiped at her tears and tried to be quiet so as not to disturb her mum or wake up Jean or Lawrence, the two little ones snuggled closely beside her. Phyllis finally fell asleep, but it was a restless sleep.

Winifred sat on her orange box for the second night in a row. She felt drained. Her heart burdened her with its weight. It seemed like it could fall right out of her chest and crawl down Whitley Road after her children. It required too much effort to move. She hoped she was dreaming. Maybe she would wake up and she would find her little ones all tucked in, asleep, where they should be. Her tired mind convinced her that if she did not move, everything would be normal.

By dawn’s early light, she was cold and stiff. She could plainly see that her four little ones were not there. They were gone. Gone. Where did they spend the night? Where will they be tonight and tomorrow, and all the other tomorrows? Sadly, she climbed in beside Phyllis. How could one body feel so drained, yet still carry the weight of so much sorrow. As she fell asleep, she wondered where the strength would come to cope with this latest loss.

Phyllis felt her coldness. It would take a long time for her mum to warm up. It would take forever to forget.