 |
|
C-BERSS EX-PRESS
December 2001
Issue 4, Vol 4
|
|
| |
 |
All Newsletters : December 2001 : and After All That...
and After All That...
Danny's Story
The following account of life as a former child migrant comes from a much longer story written by a C-BERSS client who has agreed to share his story but wishes to remain anonymous.
Like many of my fellow child migrants, my earliest memory is of a time when I was already in care in a large institution in the UK. I am trying to tie my shoelaces but as usual can’t get it right. Across a playground I can see a group of kids. They have just started school but to me they are the “big boys.” Sister Bernadette helps me with the laces and tells me that when I can do it for myself I’ll be ready to join those big boys. How hard I try after that, but when the move comes I feel lost for a while and Sister Bernadette is not there to run to.
Generally I enjoyed my school days in that orphanage. Warm classrooms and the company of children my own age, many of whom I’d known since we were infants. Bath time was always something to look forward to … the big bathroom with about twelve baths in it and billowing clouds of steam. It was a wonderful experience to have a kind young nun bending over the side of the bath tending to us.
I soon became aware that many – it seemed to me like all - of the other children had visitors every Sunday while I had none. The weekly violin lessons I hated so much at least spared me from seeing all the visitors, but the longing for a family of my own never went away. So I was delighted and excited when I heard that my best friend and I were going to live in a real home with our own mum and dad and brothers and sisters. In no time I had packed my things, collected my few treasures from the hole under a tree where I cached them and was ready to leave the orphanage for the first time.
We had three wonderful years in a foster-home. I became very attached to our “Mum” who treated us well, as did her three teenage daughters. The terrible day that I always dreaded finally came when the Principal arrived and after tearful farewells we were taken back to the orphanage. Soon after that we were on our way to Australia.
I was nine when I arrived at Castledare. The Brothers in their long black dresses seemed very strange at first and I was frightened and crying as were a couple of other boys. But we soon settled in. The Brother in charge was a big man with a kind face, like I imagined a big dad would be. He had a gentle style and always seemed to have time for us. The farm and the riverside environment were a giant playground for us. Huckleberry Finn had nothing on what we had at our disposal. For some time we were to see many boys from our first orphanage arrive at Castledare. We knew many of them and would extract as much information as we could about the Sisters and the home itself. As old hands, we would look after them until they gained their independence.
When holidays came around I was always placed with a host family and without fail was treated with kindness and generosity. I never wanted to leave these homes and the pain of separation was sometimes intense. Contact with families always stirred thoughts of the family I didn’t have and I would ask the adults around me if they knew anything about my real mum and dad.
When the time came to leave Castledare, I took it for granted that I would be heading the same way as my best friend who had been my constant companion for as long as I could remember. I had to be dragged kicking and screaming off the bus that would take him to Tardun. I was going to Clontarf.
This was a much harder school than any I had been in before. The regime was tyrannical, the work hard and the punishments extreme, at times sadistic and perverse. One day while working in the garden I was caught talking. One minute I was bent over weeding; then with a terrible pain in my backside I was flying across the garden. The pain was so unbearable that I could not sit down for days. My second year teacher would wander up and down the rows peering over boys’ shoulders at their work. If it was not up to the mark or if he caught you copying, he would punch you in the side of the head and send you flying across the boy next to you. Often I saw stars this way.
I never stopped wondering about my parents. While still at Clontarf I obtained the address of the orphanage where I was first placed and wrote to them, but they gave me no information that would help me find my mother.
One theme that runs through most of my memories of Clontarf is hunger. I seemed to be always hungry and looking for ways of getting a little extra food. We made kylies and hunted for fish in the river. We caught gilgies. We trapped and ate black cockatoos. We collected mussels and cooked them on a sheet of iron over a fire. Assigned to look after the chickens, I would supplement the inadequate institutional diet by boiling up to a dozen eggs in a tin over a fire.
Hunger obviously sharpened my wits. My finest hour came when I landed the plum job of waiting on the chaplain. He would often inform me that he would be out at a particular mealtime. Instead of letting the kitchen know, I would simply take the meal up to his room as usual and eat the lot myself. No one was any the wiser.
One thing I am grateful to Clontarf for is the lesson on work as there was never any end to it. We learnt that if you wanted anything then you must work for it. At the time I hated it as did many boys but I know now that it prepared me well for later years. When the time came I was happy to be leaving Clontarf but a bit sad too. I had many friends and despite the hard times I had felt secure there.
I have no complaint about the life I have had since. I had many adventures, challenging and interesting jobs all over Australia meeting all kinds of people. I had a twenty-year military career and fought in a war. I have been happily married for 32 years and our two children are now young adults and doing well. I found my mother and learned the story of my birth and early life. Our contact has been patchy due to the jealousy of her two husbands but I hope to visit her again soon. I try not to drag too much baggage from the past with me. I believe hatred is self consuming. Instead I get up in the morning and tell myself how bloody lucky I am. And I can honestly say that, if I had to go through it all again to get to where I am now and to live the life we live in Australia, I would.
|
|
cberss.org