to be seen talking to the likes of me.
As I was getting ready to leave a woman came up to me who apparently worked for a Catholic charity.
‘So you’re Margaret Humphreys, are you? You’re the Margaret Humphreys?’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ I said. ‘There’s only one of me.’
She said: ‘Well, I thought I would come up to you before I leave this conference and say something to your face. I want you to know that because of you, Monsignor Crennan in Sydney has been very ill. Those dreadful articles in the Observer weren’t truthful and they upset him deeply. He’s now a very sad man and it’s all down to you.’
She was obviously upset and I didn’t want to make things worse. I simply told her that I too knew a lot of sad people in Australia.
Although daily media interest in the Child Migrants Trust slowly waned, I found myself fielding calls from documentary – and film – makers who sensed an opportunity to bring some real-life drama to the screen.
I was still wary of any publicity, and concerned that the issue was handled sensitively. There were benefits in publicizing the Trust but not at the expense of hurting the child migrants.
On the other hand, a deep-searching documentary would give them a chance to tell their stories for the first time.
I finally settled on Joanna Mack and Domino Films. Joanna was well known for producing a series called Breadline Britain , which gave moving, first-hand accounts of living in poverty in Britain. She had recently started to work as an independent producer, and she struck me as a quiet, thoughtful person who listened attentively to others. Her calm professionalism reassured me.
Joanna and I both agreed that I had to stay close to the production to ensure that the child migrants were given professional counselling and were ready to be interviewed. This meant that Domino Films would pay for me to visit Australia again, as well as Canada and Zimbabwe.
However, we set strict boundaries. Joanna would work on the documentary and I would help her, but Domino Films would not be involved in my own work. My clients were off-limits unless they themselves chose otherwise.
I planned to leave after the New Year and spend a fortnight in Australia but before then I had to find some way of dealing with the sacks of mail arriving each week. The workload was impossible.
Thankfully, it was made a little easier by Yvonne Barlow, a friend who had also been a member of Triangle. She offered to help with the searches at St Catherine’s House.
Yvonne knew all about a person’s need to discover their roots. In 1977, while holding her new-born daughter, Lucy, in her arms, Yvonne had suddenly realized that she herself had been adopted. Not surprisingly, it came as an enormous shock.
Because of her own search, she knew her way around St Catherine’s House. She also had the patience and total commitment that it took to plough through volume after volume. Yet, from my point of view, she had two even more important qualities – I could trust her and she didn’t mind taking IOUs.
With someone to mind the office, I felt happier about going away. I even managed to enjoy the lead-up to Christmas, opening the cards that arrived from child migrants in Australia.
It was so cold on Christmas Eve that we had a log fire blazing in the hall. Rachel and Ben had decorated the tree; the presents were wrapped, and the drinks were flowing. At about 6.00 p.m. there was a knock at the front door.
I opened it and found a half-frozen man standing on the doorstep, holding a torn newspaper cutting in his fingers.
‘Are you Margaret Humphreys?’ he said in a broad Australian accent.
I owned up immediately.
‘You the person in this article?’
‘Yes.’ I nodded, wondering where on earth this man had come from.
‘Well, I just got off a plane from Australia and I haven’t been back here since I was five,’ he said through chattering teeth. ‘I’ve been all over trying to find you. Here’s
As I was getting ready to leave a woman came up to me who apparently worked for a Catholic charity.
‘So you’re Margaret Humphreys, are you? You’re the Margaret Humphreys?’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ I said. ‘There’s only one of me.’
She said: ‘Well, I thought I would come up to you before I leave this conference and say something to your face. I want you to know that because of you, Monsignor Crennan in Sydney has been very ill. Those dreadful articles in the Observer weren’t truthful and they upset him deeply. He’s now a very sad man and it’s all down to you.’
She was obviously upset and I didn’t want to make things worse. I simply told her that I too knew a lot of sad people in Australia.
Although daily media interest in the Child Migrants Trust slowly waned, I found myself fielding calls from documentary – and film – makers who sensed an opportunity to bring some real-life drama to the screen.
I was still wary of any publicity, and concerned that the issue was handled sensitively. There were benefits in publicizing the Trust but not at the expense of hurting the child migrants.
On the other hand, a deep-searching documentary would give them a chance to tell their stories for the first time.
I finally settled on Joanna Mack and Domino Films. Joanna was well known for producing a series called Breadline Britain , which gave moving, first-hand accounts of living in poverty in Britain. She had recently started to work as an independent producer, and she struck me as a quiet, thoughtful person who listened attentively to others. Her calm professionalism reassured me.
Joanna and I both agreed that I had to stay close to the production to ensure that the child migrants were given professional counselling and were ready to be interviewed. This meant that Domino Films would pay for me to visit Australia again, as well as Canada and Zimbabwe.
However, we set strict boundaries. Joanna would work on the documentary and I would help her, but Domino Films would not be involved in my own work. My clients were off-limits unless they themselves chose otherwise.
I planned to leave after the New Year and spend a fortnight in Australia but before then I had to find some way of dealing with the sacks of mail arriving each week. The workload was impossible.
Thankfully, it was made a little easier by Yvonne Barlow, a friend who had also been a member of Triangle. She offered to help with the searches at St Catherine’s House.
Yvonne knew all about a person’s need to discover their roots. In 1977, while holding her new-born daughter, Lucy, in her arms, Yvonne had suddenly realized that she herself had been adopted. Not surprisingly, it came as an enormous shock.
Because of her own search, she knew her way around St Catherine’s House. She also had the patience and total commitment that it took to plough through volume after volume. Yet, from my point of view, she had two even more important qualities – I could trust her and she didn’t mind taking IOUs.
With someone to mind the office, I felt happier about going away. I even managed to enjoy the lead-up to Christmas, opening the cards that arrived from child migrants in Australia.
It was so cold on Christmas Eve that we had a log fire blazing in the hall. Rachel and Ben had decorated the tree; the presents were wrapped, and the drinks were flowing. At about 6.00 p.m. there was a knock at the front door.
I opened it and found a half-frozen man standing on the doorstep, holding a torn newspaper cutting in his fingers.
‘Are you Margaret Humphreys?’ he said in a broad Australian accent.
I owned up immediately.
‘You the person in this article?’
‘Yes.’ I nodded, wondering where on earth this man had come from.
‘Well, I just got off a plane from Australia and I haven’t been back here since I was five,’ he said through chattering teeth. ‘I’ve been all over trying to find you. Here’s
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