had deeply instilled in her that she was a British guttersnipe, but she kept going. And she kept her children going and she kept us together.
I was going to ask my mother to read my manuscript, her story, but I realized that I wanted to read it to her, with her. A sudden shyness almost overwhelmed me. I held my manuscript, hesitant to open it — to share it, even with this newfound friend of mine.
“I call this chapter ‘Winifred’s Children’ and it starts while you were still living with your mother in Whitley Bay. I wished I got the chance to know my grandmother. I think she must have been a strong woman to pick up the pieces and carry on the way she did.”
“I forgive her, you know, now that I realize that she didn’t just throw us away. I still blame my dad, though, and the government and the Fairbridge Society. How could they send us away?” Mom asked, obviously not expecting a satisfactory answer.
“This is the story I am going to tell to your great-grandchildren. I want them to know what it was like for you. You are an important part of Canadian history. Your experience and the experiences of the child migrants should be in the school history books.” I cleared my throat and prepared to present my findings.
A British half penny dated 1937, the year Marjorie left Whitley Bay and was sent to Canada.
Photo by Patricia Skidmore.
Two
Winifred’s Children
Winifred’s children
Screaming — they came
Into this world
One after the other
She loved them all
September 21, 1936
“Mum, Mum, can I have a half penny? I want a half penny! I won’t go to school until I get one!” Marjorie put one foot down and gave herself a push. The screeching worsened with every swing of the gate. The back door to their brownstone house remained closed. Her mum peeked through the hole in the curtain. Marjorie persisted, her voice becoming hoarse.
It was no use. She would not get a half penny, not even today. What to do? Her school friends expected her to have money for her birthday. She pictured herself walking into the shop after school and picking out a tasty sweet. Her first choice would be a bag of lucky tatties[1] — just like the other kids bought. The taste of the powdered cinnamon sugar as it melted on your tongue was divine. Each one had a prize in it. What would her prize be?
A sudden gust grabbed her demands and sent them scuttling up the lane with the other bits of debris. The gate’s old rusty hinges creaked once again as the school bell rang. Marjorie jumped off and ran across the lane to the schoolyard. She thought of going to the beach instead of to her classroom, but she had on her new birthday dress. A new dress was something to show off. With a quickened step, she headed for the girls’ entrance.
Marjorie is standing in front of the John Street brownstone house in Whitley Bay in 2007. The Cullercoats School that Marjorie attended in 1936, now demolished, was across the alley from the house.
Photo by Patricia Skidmore.
The second bell rang out. Oh no! She should be sitting in her desk. Marjorie tore across the rest of the deserted yard, running like the wind. Seagulls circled overhead, playing in the incessant breeze. Their raucous cries seemed to mock her: “Late again! Late again!”
Why should she care if she was late today? It was her tenth birthday — double digits! She stopped to smooth the dress her mum gave her that morning. It was wrapped up and sitting by her feet when she awoke. It had a pocket that would be perfect to keep a half penny safe until after school. Sadness came over her when she realized that she would not be able to show everyone the treasure in her pocket. Her friends might ask to see her money. What can she say — that she lost it? No, she would say she already spent it. Yes, yes, that would be better. She would say how the tasty sweets melted in her mouth. That was why she was late this morning. Yes! She went to the shop before school.
Winifred Arnison sighed as she watched her daughter cross the schoolyard. The fall term was still new at the Cullercoats Primary School. Her children were finally settling in. Moving so often was not easy for them, and moving schools only added to their distress. And it distressed her because she didn’t know how to explain to them why she was not able to provide them with any security. And now she would have to tell the children that they would be moving yet again. She would try her best to stay in this school district, but she knew she could not promise anything. They all needed some stability in their lives, but there had been no word from her husband for a long while.
Marjorie grabbed at the old brass door handle with two hands as she skidded up to the girl’s entrance at the school. She swung it open and flew in. There were other times when she snuck into her desk after the bell and avoided punishment. Would today be a lucky day too? She dashed down the hallway. Almost safe. Then, yelling out in surprise, she found herself flying head-first down onto the freshly polished floor. Her teacher was about to close the door when the noise in the hallway caught her attention. Marjorie grinned up at her.
“Marjorie! Get up. You are late again! Go to your desk!” The teacher was not impressed. But, really, she thought, what was the use? There was no one to encourage the children in this family to come to school. What can you expect? Many families were in the same boat. It is not the children’s fault. In these troubled times many of the men had left the area to look for work elsewhere. The council had informed the school that Marjorie’s father had deserted this family. Maybe they were better off without him.
She wanted to help these families. Their children were so thin and they had a hungry look about them. She watched Marjorie slip her slight frame into the desk. There was a pleased manner about the girl today. Was it because she avoided the strap? The girl had on a different dress, but her feet were bare and her straight dark hair could use a good brushing.
The front cover of a six-page Child Emigration Society (Fairbridge Society) pamphlet, dated December 1912, which appears to be among the first appeals for money made by the Society. The need “To Safeguard the Empire” is stressed throughout. According to the pamphlet, Britain’s poor and orphaned children are the little soldiers for the job.
University of Liverpool Archives, Special Collections Branch, Fairbridge Archives, D296.F1.
As Marjorie’s teacher, she had taken it upon herself to contact the local attendance officer during the first week of the fall term — something had to be done — but not a word had come back to her yet. She wondered whether it would be appropriate to approach him again. The pamphlets sent to the school by the outfit called the Fairbridge Society[2] intrigued her. Their emigration scheme was very compelling. With the backing of the Royal Family, it had to be a sound program. The Fairbridge Society was one of the many sending agencies emigrating England’s poor children overseas to a better life in the colonies, and the Tyneside area was a good place to gather up children. The high rate of unemployment in the area had taken its toll on many families. Imagine the luck for these children — the opportunity to begin a new life in the colonies, away from their poverty-stricken parents and their bad habits. The Fairbridge farm school scheme was a good one, too. It
