for our help in the search for her father:
June 2000: I received a letter from my half-brother in Canada and have since spoken to him on the phone. I also wrote to my father in Australia who, because of his age (87) and the fact that he is finding the situation a bit overwelming (no surprise there, I suppose!), asked his eldest daughter from his Australian marriage to write back.
I received a friendly letter from her. She is just nine months older than me and her brother and two sisters are younger. It is obvious that my father had an affair with my mother whilst he was married to his second wife.
The children were all born in London, England, and they emigrated to Australia in 1960. I must admit that I had always assumed my father was a single man having a good time and did not want to be trapped when my mother became pregnant.
What a shock and what a man!
November 2000: My trip to Canada was a bit of a mixed blessing. I found it a bit overwhelming as there were so many of them and only one of me! I received a very warm welcome from everyone and I have made what I hope to be some lasting connections with some members of the family. I am in contact on a regular basis with my half-brother’s two children.
As for the family in Australia, I am in regular touch with them via e-mail and hope to visit there next year. My only regret is that I didn’t do this years ago — but better late than never, I suppose.
It only remains for me to let you know how very, very grateful I am to you both for carrying out this search for me — I think my life can never be the same again! It must give you both an enormous amount of satisfaction to reunite so many families and indeed to see so many errant fathers face up to their past, if not the responsibility for their past. Many thanks. Christine.
Postscript: In April 2002, Christine went to Australia, where she had a warm welcome from her father’s family. She stayed with her eldest sister and met with all the others and enjoyed the country very much.
Unfortunately, there was one other member of the family she did not meet, and that was her father. His health had been very fragile for over a year and he was almost ninety-one years old when he passed away, only a few weeks after Christine booked her flight.
Christine Wilson (right) with her Canadian family.
Canadian Bastard
by Sandra Connor
I was born in July 1944, to a sixteen-year-old English girl and a Canadian serviceman named Duncan Thomas Campbell. My father was sent to the Sicily landings, and by the time he returned late in 1945 or early 1946, my birth mother had already found another soldier to comfort her. Unmarried, and pregnant again with her second child, she gave up the baby girl to strangers and I was brought up by my grandparents, who raised me as their own.
Living in a small village where Canadians had their medical army base, I suppose there were many of us, but we didn’t know — and we certainly didn’t know each other. But all the things you say on your Project Roots website are true for me — the “Canadian bastard” from whom very little was expected and very little given.
At the age of nineteen I went to Canada, and within three weeks I found my Canadian birth father in Toronto. We met, and I was introduced to his wife and my half-siblings. Unfortunately, he died when I was travelling in Australia in 1968, and over time I lost touch with his family.
I now live in Canada and am the mother of two adopted boys in their early twenties. We do research into family trees and I find that I cannot get any information on my Canadian father as I have no legal right to his files. I know that he came from Nova Scotia, and that’s as far as it goes. I suppose that I should count myself lucky that we met, and I do. But I was too young to appreciate the experience, and my father died before I had a chance to ask more meaningful questions.
Being called a “Canadian bastard” was a painful experience that many war children recall with sadness to this day.
I am now looking for my English half-sister, born in 1946 and given up for adoption by our birth mother. My sister may not even know that she is half-Canadian, but I have the name of her birth father, which may help in my search.
Looking back, I can say my life has been a success story. I live in Canada, am proud to be Canadian and, at the age of sixty-one, am glad to finally read about the terrible things we Canadian war children endured.
I am thankful to Project Roots for bringing the public’s attention to our stories. We were the forgotten ones, unable to speak our thoughts for fear of upsetting our adoptive parents. What a pleasure to know we are really not “alone.”
Looking for Harry Potter
by Christine Coe
I realized that I was different from other Irish kids at quite an early age. Their mums and dads were all younger than mine, their parents weren’t so strict, and there was fun and laughter and hugs among them all.
I still loved my five brothers and sisters and my parents, even though I was scared to death of my father. He was a very strict disciplinarian who thought nothing of beating me with a stick or shoe or whatever came to hand.
There was a real stigma surrounding any child who didn’t have a dad, and I wasn’t allowed to play with the little boy who lived down the road because he didn’t have one. He was awful anyway, and was always fighting and calling my friends and me names.
One day when I was fourteen, I was standing at a table doing my homework. I looked out the window and saw that awful boy looking through our gate.
“What’s that horrible boy looking in here for?” I asked my mum.
She replied that I shouldn’t speak about him like that, as I wasn’t any different. I looked at her in amazement. She went on to say that she had something to tell me: that I wasn’t really her daughter — my eldest sister was my mum and she was my grandmother. My mind ran riot, all the lies, all the little digs from my “brothers and sisters.” Now I understood why!
All they would tell me is that he was a Canadian pilot and he was killed in action during the war, but I didn’t believe them. Somehow I was going to find my dad.
Well, their obedient, well-behaved daughter disappeared after that, and in her place was a rebellious, out-of-control teenager in the 1960s. When my “father” beat me I would scream at him that I would be happier dead and that he should kill me if that was what he really wanted.
Harry Potter, Christine’s father, in a picture taken during World War II. Her mother last saw him in December 1943, and the last thing he said was, “I will return for you.”
I was packed off to England to live with my real mum when I was sixteen. By this time she had made her own life, and I wasn’t part of it. She was good to me and bought me clothes and things, but she was terrified that someone would find out I was her daughter. She worked all hours, from early morning to late at night, so we hardly had any time to get to know each other.
Finally, one day I asked
