the dreaded workhouse system. The Victorians drew a distinction between the “deserving” and “undeserving” poor. The workhouses were not penal institutions but were often made as sparse and unpleasant as possible to deter “the indigent” or “the work-shy” from becoming a burden on the parish or the state. Generations of the working poor lived in fear of ending their lives in the workhouse. Conditions were equally grim for younger people in these institutions so it is hardly surprising that the first orphanages were greeted as welcome alternatives.
Adoption became increasingly common during and after the First World War and the first official legislation to regulate the process was passed in 1926. This process continues to the present day with successive legislation aiming to correct previous imbalances or to protect the rights of the child. There have been seismic changes in social and cultural attitudes, of course, particularly from the 1960s. Back then adopted children were largely the offspring of unmarried mothers who gave up their children rather than face the social stigma. As social attitudes shifted and as divorce and remarriage became more common, legal frameworks adapted to reflect the change. The number of adoptions in the UK peaked in 1968 and has declined steadily since, reflecting dramatic social change. A child adopted in the UK today is more likely to have been in local authority care because they are considered to be “at risk” of neglect or abuse.
For a variety of reasons, the days of the old-fashioned orphanage were numbered. Society had changed and the institutions had failed to keep pace. We were blissfully unaware of the changes looming for institutions like Princess Alice Drive, as it was then known. We could see that money was tight. We could see that funding and sponsorship would decrease. We could not foresee that the home would close in the early 1980s. As far as we were concerned it was a steady job and one we were likely to enjoy. Brenda did much of the cooking and the caring, we got on well with the domestic staff, a truly great bunch of people. We kept records, arranged visits, and protected the children’s welfare. We chased after them when they ran away. There was space for our two boys to run around and we had accommodation. We thought we had it made. We had a regular wage, a roof over our heads, and were perhaps, at last, fulfilling our mission to help others.
As it turned out, our time at Princess Alice Drive proved to be among the hardest of my life. It was the closest I ever came, according to both Brenda and John Ellerington, to a nervous breakdown. The confrontation with Eddie nearly pushed me over the edge.
We entered residential childcare by a roundabout route—Bible college.
“Leaving t’pit? What are you doing that for? Where’re you going?” asked the men at the coalface at Kellingley Colliery.
“Bible college. The Birmingham Bible Institute.”
“Bible college? Hey up Mick the Vic’, we knew you were religious, but we didn’t know you wanted to be a proper vicar!”
Mick the Vic’ was my nickname at the coalface and in the pit-head baths on account of my faith.
“I don’t want to become a vicar.”
“What then? A missionary?”
“I’m not sure I want to do that either.”
“Then what are you going to Bible college for?”
If I was honest, I had no idea.
All I did know was that I had a sense that I wanted to make a difference, to do something with my life that involved more than working, earning money, and going on vacation. It started at one of the Bible conventions we attended at Filey on the Yorkshire coast. I first met Brenda there and we continued to attend during our courtship and early years of marriage. Each year, from 1955, some 8,000 people or so would gather at Butlins vacation camp in the second week of September for what was then a unique blend of fun, fellowship, and Bible teaching.22
Ours was a vacation romance. Filey Week, the late 1960s, and I was bowled over by a girl from the southwest three and a half years my senior. She was pretty, she was bubbly, she was friendly. There were only two problems. She was older than me, a big deal for teenagers in those days, and she lived hundreds of miles away.
Brenda returned to Devon after the vacation and left no contact details. There were no cell phones, internet, or social media back then and many people didn’t even have a landline. From Yorkshire, I went through directory inquiries looking for families with Brenda’s surname, Down. It turned out to be a common Devon surname. I worked through the list, calling from a public pay phone in the street. Eventually, with a huge sigh of relief, I got a positive response.
“Brenda Down? Yes, we know her, she’s Tom Down’s daughter and he’s one of twelve siblings. That’s why there are so many Downs around! Why are you looking for her?”
It took Brenda fifteen hours on a private hire bus to get back to her parents’ farm from Yorkshire. She was greeted by her mother’s abrupt inquiry: “There’s been some fella here trying to contact you. What’s all that about?”
We started dating. Brenda made the long journey north to visit me. I traveled to Devon for long weekends when my shift patterns allowed, a round trip of 700 miles. That’s a long distance in UK terms. None of Brenda’s friends ever moved far from their farms or villages. It was a big deal for a girl from a remote dairy farm to marry a miner from the north of England. There were strong cultural differences and very different dialects and accents. I spoke with a very “broad Yorkshire” dialect back then. My parents took to Brenda immediately, very pleasantly surprised that this neat, sensible, and levelheaded farmer’s daughter had taken a shine to their son. Ever deferential, my mother took her aside. “We’re pleased you’re seeing our Mick, but you’re too good for him, you know.”
We married in 1971. We rented a very small terraced house in a run-down area. Brenda found our routine very different from anything she had known in the farming community and even more so when the children were born. I often worked nights. I worked hard and I worked long hours and gradually we were able to afford our own property on a new housing development. Brenda has always been a homemaker, neat and efficient. She was in her element. She had grown up on a farm amid the muck and dung, with animal feed bags for doormats, her father preoccupied with his dairy herd. Then she moved to a poorly lit terraced street with her new husband working long shifts down the mine. At last, now she had a home of her own and space and time to fix it how she wanted. Mark was born in 1973, Kevin in 1974. We had a regular wage and a decent home.
Then everything changed. I left my job, sold our house, and we went to Bible college.
The nagging itch was there for some time. Brenda felt it too. At the Filey Weeks, there would often be an appeal from the platform speakers for people to dedicate themselves to the mission field. Missionaries would visit our churches and echo that call. That was the atmosphere we imbibed. I sent off for prospectuses and brochures from various colleges, only to shove them in a drawer and forget about them. The following year the nagging sense returned with a vengeance. What’s more, Brenda agreed. She needed no persuasion. We both felt it was the right thing to do.
I opened the drawer, opened the brochures, and sent off letters of application.
I wrote first to Elim Bible College, the seminary for my own denomination. They turned me down. Of course, they dressed it up in spiritual sounding language. “We do not believe it is the Lord’s will for you at this time.”
Of course, I knew the real reason. I was uneducated. I had no qualifications. All I knew was how to play sport and dig coal, to repair heavy mechanical equipment down the mine.
I was the first in my family to get a coveted grammar school place. My parents were so pleased they bought me a bicycle to recognize my achievement. Grammar schools were intended for those expected to go on to university or into “the professions.” To get there you had to pass the eleven-plus examination. Otherwise you would go to a secondary modern school or a technical college.
I hated school. I was always the boy who left the school grounds without permission to retrieve the ball when it was kicked or knocked over the wall.