Kite girls got together in Canada. They searched and found each other
On the 1st July 1998, I started a probationary period in a new job. I had achieved another ambition and had become a real estate person, albeit for three months only. However, I did sell one house in that time and I felt I had carried out my job in a professional way. After being driven around all day and enjoying that first day feeling, we had drinks at the office (there were two other rookies that day). I was called to the phone (which in itself was unusual being my first day). With trepidation of something amiss at home I took the call. My girlfriend Judy, whom had helped me with my quest of finding my long lost family was on the other end of the phone.
Unbeknown to me she had taken it upon herself to write to the 12 addresses in the Barnardo’s files I had received upon my father’s death. Until he died, Barnardo’s were unable to divulge any information. I still remember the day I had the envelope handed to me. I spent two hours at a McDonald’s burger outlet pouring over 500 sheets of paper and feeling numb with the realization that I was finding the truth. All those years of asking and being dissuaded finally had come to the contents of one envelope. But those stories are for another day, and another post and for the book that may now get written.
That day in 1998, my friend had rung to tell me, she had an email from a Chuck Statham to say that he was indeed the son of Dorothy Kite and that my dad’s eldest sister Elizabeth was still alive. I burst into tears that could have flooded the Mississippi River and my new boss walked in to see me red-faced and crying on my first day as a cool, supposedly, suave business woman. I do believe he may have doubted his decision to hire me that night… I loved that job and had it not been a sensitive time in my personal journey, it may have had a longer life, but our journeys are never straight forward and losing that employment funneled me into a contact center place that helped later down the years. I earned enough money to go to Canada in the summer of the next year.
It took 30 hours to arrive in Toronto and when I walked out of customs I saw my dad’s eyes in the body of my cousin Charles Statham. The next day I met my Aunt Elizabeth. We were in the car together and though I can’t remember exactly what she said, it was something like, ‘I think I love you’.
I remember my words well. I said back without any musing about how I felt. It stays with me in my heart. I had found my Aunt Elizabeth, the person my middle name could have been after. ‘I loved you before I met you Elizabeth’, I answered. She had remained in her small house in Galt, north of Toronto since the war and if she had not, I would never have found her, or known of what had happened to Dad’s sisters.
They had been sent from the Barnardo’s holding cottages at Barkingside to various places in Canada as maids or servants. Elizabeth to a chicken farm and she would tell of the frozen hands and the scratches from the chickens. I was told by her granddaughter that she never ate chicken again in her life . The girls somehow found each other in Canada and when Maud was finally well enough she also was transported to Canada. Sometimes they ran away to have some time with each other and then rounded up again and sent to another place.
Each sister made a place for themselves in Canadian society and all married. I believe all but one had only one child (Grace adopted two) and a second cousin led me to believe the poverty they grew up in made them determined to give their child what they missed. This of course is what most parents want for their children since civilization stood on two legs, but the chill of a Canadian winter without shoes and warm clothes was never going to fade from their memories.
I spent three weeks with my cousins and found the other side of my presence in this world, even my weird and unfunny sense of humour. I have great sympathy for those among us who have not known their parents. I knew my father and I knew my mother’s background but even though I looked like her, my pale English skin and love of British history and the Royal family always made me want to know more.
Now I knew lots more and saying goodbye to Bud (Elizabeth’s son) was a moment that still can bring a tear or two and can linger. When I returned to Australia I was once more helped by my beautiful friend; who has since left our world and I let my quest slide because my journey was beginning to be complex. It is now 15 years since that emotional trip and each year it has been harder to get back and to focus.
My dad’s story is not unique. There are thousands of Barnardo’s children all over the world and not just Barnardo’s Homes were sending children to the colonies. Britain had prison ships moored at the docks only 50 years before my dad was born. They were overrun by the poverty the industrial revolution brought upon the country. Australia wanted lads of good British and white stock who could work the farms and didn’t have a formal education. Canada, their own reason for servant girls and I will one day understand that.
There are many boxes of papers and photos in my home and I now have more confidence in my ability to express what is in my heart and soul on paper in a way I am comfortable with. I have great hope that this blog will reach you Patricia, if you are still alive, or Christopher and Lynda.
I believe Emma died in 1977 and that she did make one trip to Canada to rejoin her sisters. They did try to reunite with my father but he always felt abandoned and that his sisters only wanted financial help thinking he was a rich Aussie in the land of riches. Sadly he never found peace, even in his last moments with his son beside him. He was, as my mum used to say, ‘a street angel and a house devil’. His inner demons never let him free, but there were times when he would smile and laugh, perhaps when he caught a fish or playing with our dog Trixie among the daisy weeds on the front lawn. When I visual those rare moments, even the night he put a skyrocket through the back windows into the house (he was drunk), even then his real self would emerge and his eyes would dance and the world would light up.
I was 41 years old when he called me on the phone to wish me happy birthday. I will never forget that night. Whether he was intoxicated I can’t remember, but he said, ‘I love you Bub’. It was the first time he had told me he loved me.
I loved him but I never realized how much I missed his love until these last few years. His life affected his children in so many ways and perhaps that has been the case in both the English and Canadian arms of the family. It was a blight upon the social and political culture of the time and though there have been apologies from our Prime Minister in recent times the damage cannot be reversed.
I have told you a bit of the Canadian link but the English link, Emma and descendants, are the last piece of the jigsaw. Keep reading my post Number 4.
Please find me.
Lynette
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