Oranges and Sunshine: Empty Cradles (29 page)

‘The reason no-one fought back or complained is that nobody would listen. You couldn’t stand up to the brothers.’

Desmond found a routine in his life by going to school and playing sport. He was obviously a bright kid, but the motivation wasn’t there, and slowly his grades deteriorated.

‘I often thought about Ireland and my mother. Who was she? Why had she left me? But mostly I wondered what I’d done wrong. I reckoned I must have done something wrong to be sent away.’

A week before Christmas in 1955, when Desmond was eleven, the boys piled onto a bus for a journey to a place where Catholic families were waiting to billet them over Christmas. Brother Doyle was driving and as the bus crossed a narrow bridge it collided with a truck.

‘I remember this smashing of glass and it was cascading over me in tiny pieces. I woke up with something on top of me. There was a big hole in the bus. I was lucky. Where I was sitting all the seats were pushed up into the back and I was buried under them. I was one of the last people off the bus.

‘I remember looking across and seeing poor Davey lying there, bleeding, and I felt sorry for him. Brother Doyle pulled some seats off me and carried me to the shade of a tree. A group of boys were there, saying the rosary.

‘Cars were pulling off the road. Two of us were put in the back seat of this green car, Lawrie Tormey was next to the driver in the front. Dessie McMullen was sitting next to me and his leg was hanging on by nothing more than a piece of skin. I kept wondering if I should pull his leg off rather than leave it dangling there. His face was bloody and he couldn’t open his eyes because they were covered with dried blood.

‘I remember the driver was upset that we were putting blood all over his car.

‘He took us to the Princess Margaret Hospital. They thought Dessie was going to die so they put him in a special glass room which must have been intensive care. Tony Bugeja and I were in Ward One. Dessie lost one leg, but Tony lost both of his.

‘I was lucky. I had these flaps of flesh hanging off my knee. They thought I would lose the leg but instead they put in ninety stitches. You can still see the scars, and afterwards, I couldn’t even kneel down in church.

‘I remember lying in casualty for ten hours, because there were so many people injured who needed treatment more than I did. A nurse called Jackie came down and sat with me. I’m still good friends with her. They had to cut my clothes off and I was frightened because I had no underwear.

‘I spent five weeks in hospital and it was a good time. There was no fear. We had nice meals and goodnight kisses from the nurses. I don’t remember the brothers visiting us, not until days later. A Maltese priest arrived one day.

‘The bus crash was a big story in Western Australia. One kid died and four boys lost limbs. We used to laugh when Tony would say, “Scratch my feet, go on scratch them,” but, of course, he had no feet. I would pretend and he’d sigh and say, “A bit harder, scratch a bit harder.”’

I asked Desmond if anybody had told the boys’ parents about the accident. Were they notified that their sons had died or been injured?

He looked at me. ‘We were orphans, Margaret! As far as we knew, we didn’t have families.

‘The crash was an accident – I don’t blame the brothers. But afterwards there was no acknowledgement of trauma or grief, even towards the boys who lost limbs. They could have shown us some compassion and caring.’

Desmond reminded me of a story that I’d heard about Douglas Bader, the British war hero, visiting Clontarf about ten months after the bus crash. He came especially to see the boys who, like him, had lost limbs and were learning to cope.

One child migrant, Charlie Gatt, who lost a leg in the accident, had told journalists how he was given new clothes before meeting the Battle of Britain pilot. Bader gave each boy a signed copy of his autobiography,
Reach for the Sky
, but Charlie said the books were taken from them afterwards and he had not seen his copy since then.

For Desmond, the bus accident became symptomatic of his loveless childhood.

‘Not long after the crash, I remember being asked in confession, “Do you love God?” I couldn’t answer. I didn’t know what love meant. How could I know what love means?’

When Desmond was fifteen, a local factory owner, an Aquinas old boy, came to the school, looking for an apprentice to learn how to sharpen tools. It wasn’t an official scheme but Desmond could see his grades weren’t getting any better.

He took the job and unsuccessfully tried night school. Work took over, although he found time to join the local surf club and become president of the Young Christian Workers’ Club. He stopped going to church.

Desmond found a girlfriend, and moved into her parents’ house. She soon found another boyfriend but Desmond stayed on as a lodger. Slowly, over time, he became part of their family.

‘This family treated me like a son. Here was comfort and protection. Someone concerned if I didn’t eat enough. Someone who asked me if I wanted an extra sausage. At Clontarf we got cold stews and the uneaten food was served up again the next day. It came back to the table like a pot of marmalade or a salt shaker.’

Months and then years passed – twenty-two years – as Desmond worked hard and lived with the McAllister family, growing ever closer and feeling a part of their lives.

‘The mother asked me to call her “Mum” but I couldn’t. Somewhere I hoped that I had my own mother. If so, I still wanted to find her – just to say I was OK. But I didn’t think about her as much; not every day.

‘It was a long time between leaving Clontarf and beginning the search for my mother. I just put my head down and made some money – I worked up to eighteen hours a day, seven days a week. Life was about paying your way and that’s all that mattered. I wanted to make a million quid – not for flash cars, or holidays, or houses. I wanted to make sure that nobody was going to control my life again.

‘I never married. It doesn’t bother me because I’m quite satisfied being single.

‘You see, a part of me died in Clontarf, but I can live with that now. I am what I am. I’ve managed to make myself into a person out of the left-over bits and pieces.’

Desmond did make his million dollars. He achieved what he set out to do and retired at forty-five after selling his tool-sharpening works. For years he would tell other migrants to forget about their past – ‘You’re grown up, get on with your life’ – yet all the while, he wanted to find his own family.

He would recall how in 1974 he went to Ireland, looking for his mother. He hired a car in Belfast and drove to Londonderry to visit the nuns at Nazareth House where he’d once lived as a child.

‘I wanted them to say, “Desmond, we know the problem, we know who you are; here’s how you got here,”’ Desmond said.

‘They’re supposed to be an open house with open hearts. That’s what they taught me. I was God’s little soldier, all grown up – the man they said I should be.

‘I sat down and had a cup of tea and the Mother Superior brought out two photographs, one of me at school and the other a going-away picture.

‘“Do you know where my mother is? Can you help me find her?” I asked. “We don’t know,” was the response. And that was it. There were no records or visitors books or school reports. I pleaded with them to look again.’

The next day Desmond went back and the Mother Superior handed him a letter his mother had written:

Dear Sisters
,

Thank you for looking after me several months ago. I would very much like you to take care of my little boy for two months while I get back on my feet. I’ll be back to collect him
.

The following day Desmond drove to County Donegal and the area where he was born.

He had no address, or point of reference. He simply drove through the streets, all day and into the night, totally lost in every sense. He was looking blindly for his mother and didn’t even know where to begin.

‘Finally the police pulled me up and asked what I was doing. “I’m looking for my mother,” I said. “Where does she live?” they asked.

‘I didn’t know what to say. It was seven-thirty in the morning and I realized it was hopeless. It was as if this policeman had held a mirror up to me and I had to push it away.’

Eventually Desmond flew back to Australia feeling dejected and disappointed. In Perth, he tried to conceal his pain by telling his friends that he had had a great time.

I first met Desmond in the Parmelia Hilton in Perth in October 1991. He didn’t have an appointment. I was due to see another child migrant named Don at 2.30 p.m., but the receptionist rang to say that two men were waiting for me in the hotel bar.

This was unusual. It was the first time anybody had waited in the bar at lunch-time and I wasn’t eager to walk in looking for them as I didn’t know what either man looked like.

The receptionist eventually pointed out the two men and I introduced myself to Don who was quite nervous. Desmond said, ‘I’m coming with him.’

‘Well, I normally see people on their own,’ I replied. ‘You’ll be all right on your own, Don. But if you want your friend to come that’s OK.’

‘I’m Desmond McDaid,’ Desmond said in a matter-of-fact way, as if I was supposed to know him. ‘I’m coming with him for moral support – aren’t I, Don?’

I wasn’t happy about this. Desmond struck me as pushy. As we waited for the lift, I turned to Don and shook his hand and said, ‘I’m very pleased to meet you.’ When I extended my hand to Desmond he simply ignored it.

When I tried again, Desmond said, ‘I don’t shake Sheilas’ hands.’

I wasn’t sure what ‘Sheila’ meant at that point but I soon realized.

In my room, I felt Don would need a sensitive approach. He was obviously nervous and quite shy. When I sat down I asked him again if he wanted Desmond to stay.

‘Any beer in the fridge?’ asked Desmond.

‘I don’t normally offer alcohol during interviews,’ I replied.

He went on, ‘I’ve brought Don along. I’ve picked him up in my car. I don’t know if you realize this but I’ve been trying to make an appointment to see you.’

I politely suggested he make an appointment on his own and I would see him then, but he stayed put.

At that point, Don looked very uncomfortable and embarrassed. I resumed my conversation with him, hoping Desmond would sit still and offer quiet moral support, but every time I asked a question, Desmond interjected. All my non-verbal signals, giving a clear message to Desmond to shut-up, were ignored. I asked him several times if he would be quiet.

Halfway through each question, Desmond would interrupt, talking about his own situation. ‘I’ve been looking for my mother for years. I’ve spent thousands of dollars and found nothing.’

‘We’re not talking about you at the moment. I want to talk with Don.’

In the middle of all this, Desmond turned to me and said, ‘Have you ever been skydiving?’

Don looked agitated. I put my notebook and pen down, turned to face Desmond and said, ‘No, actually, I haven’t, have you?’

‘No, but I’d love to try. I used to have a girlfriend who was a stripper, and we used to talk about jumping naked to see what we could get up to on the way down.’

Who on earth is this man? I thought. Which planet does he come from? I had never met anyone so blatantly rude, crude and obnoxious. It took everything I had to turn away from him, bite my bottom lip and not react.

Desmond continued to hijack the interview until I told him that if he didn’t keep quiet he would have to leave.

I tried talking to Don again. I knew he was desperate to find his mother, and it was entirely possible that she was still alive. I had to listen to his every word and it was very difficult with Desmond present. Every few minutes, Desmond would drop in a reference to how much money he had or how he’d retired in his mid-forties.

He was acting like a child seeking attention. His every action was a plea: Me. Me. Me.

Yet despite the interruptions, I knew that I couldn’t simply throw him out. Desmond also needed help in his own right.

When he called me ‘Sheila’ again, I stopped him and told him my name was Margaret. From then on he referred to me as Mrs Humphreys.

He quietened down a little and I continued to speak with Don. I explained to him exactly how I planned to proceed with his case and that I was hopeful we would find his mother. He was very relieved and seemed unburdened. Unfortunately, I still had this very demanding ‘three-year-old’ wanting more and more attention.

‘Finding mothers is impossible,’ declared Desmond. ‘I had the best in the business looking for my mother. It can’t be done. Nobody could do it better. I’ve even had private detectives looking and nothing.’

I ignored this statement, but Desmond was undeterred. ‘When am I going to see you?’ he demanded.

‘Well if the experts can’t find your mother, what can I do, a mere Sheila?’

Desmond mumbled and stuttered. ‘I want an appointment. I need one.’

‘I’m sorry, I can’t see you this time. But if you would like to send me the papers collected by your experts I’ll study them carefully.’

Desmond wasn’t satisfied. ‘I’ve had the Catholic Welfare mob working on this, they’ve had it for two years. I ring them up every two months and there’s just nothing, nothing.’

The organization he referred to was, I believed, the Catholic Migrant Centre.

As they left, I shook Don’s hand once more. When I turned to Desmond he again refused my outstretched hand.

Going back to my room I shook my head in disbelief at the gall of this appalling man. What lay behind the smokescreen of boasting and bravado?

The following day Desmond’s papers were hand-delivered to the hotel. Twenty-four hours later, I opened the door to an obscenely large basket of red roses. I didn’t really have to open the card, McDaid’s name lit up in neon lights in my head. I sent the roses to a local hospital where they would be more appreciated.

Over the next four months I managed to begin research on Desmond’s family background. I wrote a letter to him explaining that there were two possible marriages for his mother. The letter contained a request for twenty dollars to pay for both certificates because I particularly wanted this so-called, self-confessed, ‘did-I-ever-tell-you-I-was-a-millionaire’ to pay for them. After all, Desmond had made it patently clear that there was nothing he couldn’t buy or afford.