of the water. She quickly grabbed it. It was a half penny from 1926, the year she was born. What a lucky day! She would give it to her mother, then she could be a helper too. She quickly tucked it safely into her pocket.
“Come with us and learn to shine,” she sang happily while she filled her pail. As the winkles plunked in the bottom of her pail Marjorie thought about the dinner they would have that night. She loved to sit around the pot of cooked winkles, digging out the meaty parts with a pin. They were best with some butter, but it had been a long time since they had butter. But with Norman and Fred’s winnings and her half penny they just might have some that night.
Courtesy of the University of Liverpool Archives, Special Collections Branch, Fairbridge Archives, Special Collections, D296.E1 .
The Fairbridge Society wrote “This is a consent” across the letter received from Thomas Frederick Arnison, Marjorie’s father, thus sealing her fate.
Marjorie leaned back against the door on the stoop. She rubbed absently at her blistered heel. Her feet were getting cold. Oh, the feast they had for tea that day, she could almost taste it. Their pails were filled to the brim with winkles. Norman and Fred waltzed in with some bread and butter and some chocolate. Her tummy growled in remembrance. Maybe she should run down to the beach now to look for winkles. No, it was too late as it would be dark soon.
An odd noise from their flat distracted her, but she tried to ignore it. It kept getting in the way of her remembering the better times. It was the same feeling she had when she woke out of a nice dream and tried to go back to it, but couldn’t because whatever woke her up was too noisy and demanding.
Numbly, Winifred clutched the letter. She watched one of the men as he questioned Joyce, while the other, a medical examiner, she was told, took Kenny aside. She thought of her two older sons. Where had she gone wrong? They were good sons. They really helped out with the family. But when Fred got caught stealing they sent him away to Borstal.[5] He doesn’t belong in a boy’s detention home, she thought. Her son was only trying to help her. She had argued with the man who took him away, but to no avail. The officer left her with a bad taste and a sense that she, too, was “bad” for depending on her older children. But all the families hereabouts did the same, especially the ones who had lost their husbands — through death, or desertion, or like her husband, who left to look for work elsewhere. Really, it wasn’t their fault that there was no work here. It was difficult to survive. They couldn’t just sit by and starve.
Deep down, though, Winifred blamed herself for not stopping her sons. She knew she encouraged the two of them by taking the money they brought home. She never asked where it came from. She did not ask and they did not tell. It was their silent agreement. What else could she do? Without their help she would have given up long ago. There was no steady work for her boys. They had to do whatever they could. There was no way she was able to feed her nine children, keep clothes on their backs, and put a roof over their heads with the little money her husband sent home. The daily shame was hateful. She had to lie about the number of children she had before a landlord would even consider renting to her.
The last move had been the hardest. She was at a breaking point. It was just after Christmas — what had happened to the charitable Christmas spirit? No one would rent to her. She was desperate and so swore to the owner of this flat that she only had three children. She recalled one other time that she had to send Fred, Norman, Phyllis, Joyce, and Marjorie away, with strict instructions to wait until after dark before sneaking back to their new home. She could always count on Fred and Norman to take care of the younger ones in those times. It was harder to expect the girls to do things like that. It was a sad day when they took her older boys away.
Winifred could not imagine what that was like for Fred. Norman was sent away shortly after Fred. Norman was sent to a farm school. It was better than being put in Borstal. They took him down to Castle Howard,[6] near York. That was not too far away, maybe only about a hundred miles, but it might as well be at the other end of the earth. She knew that she would never be able to find the money to visit him.
Norman sent a letter home right away saying that Castle Howard was like a huge beautiful palace. Imagine, they gave him all new clothes and boots — nice new working clothes and a new suit for Sundays. He wrote that he was enjoying learning about farming. She had a difficult time believing him though since Norman was always trying to make everybody happy. She could tell that he missed his family, and she missed both her boys, more than anyone would ever know.
Winifred’s worst fears had come true, and a shudder went through her when she thought of how she had lied to the landlord about having only three children. Was this God’s way of punishing her? Could her lies have anything to do with making it come true? How could this be happening? Losing six of her children in just under a fortnight. It wasn’t fair. She simply could not make ends meet with Fred and Norman gone. It pained her to see her children’s hungry faces, their bare feet and their ragged clothes. Something had to be done, but what could she do? Nothing. Not by herself at any rate. She needed help, but they were offering her the wrong kind of help. Maybe her children would be better off, but it did not seem right.
“Okay, Audrey, come over here, it’s your turn.” The man’s voice showed his impatience as he turned to Winifred, “Where is your other daughter? Marjorie, isn’t it?”
Winifred sighed, “Yes. She should be along any minute.”
“Well, for your sake, she better be,” he snapped at her, flaunting his authority. “I told you to have them all here! The medical examiner has taken out time from his busy schedule.”
Winifred’s voice cracked as she assured this nasty man that she told her children to come straight home after school. She turned and asked Joyce to run along and see if she could find her sister. Joyce started to get up, but stopped when she heard the door. Winifred looked down and saw Marjorie standing at the bottom of the stairs.
Marjorie had been sitting on the stoop, unaware of what was going on in her flat. Something was different about this day, though. It was hard to place at first and then she realized — it was too quiet. Lawrence and Jean were usually playing noisily, running up and down the stairs to the flat, shrieking with laughter, happy that school was out and everyone was coming home. Kenny often played on the sidewalk or in the back alley with some of the neighbourhood boys. But no one was around today. She turned the door handle, expecting the little ones to charge down to greet her; instead, as she stepped over the sill, the sound of strange men’s voices startled her.
Maybe it was her father! She could hardly remember the last time she saw him. It was years ago, she was probably only six or seven. A funny feeling erupted in her stomach and made her head spin a bit. Would she like her father? Would he like her? She could barely remember him. Would he recognize her? She did not recognize the strange voices. Maybe this was not her father. Maybe it was the landlord and they have to move again. She liked it here now and the possibility of changing schools again made her mad. As Marjorie closed the door and stepped inside, she thought of turning around and running away and hiding until the coast was clear. She could see her mum at the top of the stairs. Lawrence and Jean were clinging to her skirt. Her mum’s face told her that something was terribly wrong. Marjorie reached for the door handle.
Marjorie’s Commonwealth emigration form. Note Marjorie’s own signature on the bottom of the sheet.
University of Liverpool Archives, Special Collections Branch, Fairbridge Archives, Arnison Family Records, D296.E1.
“Is that Marjorie?” The strange voice filtered down to her.
“Yes, it is,” Winifred replied. “Marjorie, come up here will you?” Her mum’s tone left no room for argument. Marjorie