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The Forgotten Home Child

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The Home for Unwanted Girls meets Orphan Train in this unforgettable novel about a young girl caught in a scheme to rid England’s streets of destitute children, and the lengths she will go to find her way home—based on the true story of the British Home Children.

2018

At ninety-seven years old, Winnifred Ellis knows she doesn’t have much time left, and it is almost a relief to realize that once she is gone, the truth about her shameful past will die with her. But when her great-grandson Jamie, the spitting image of her dear late husband, asks about his family tree, Winnifred can’t lie any longer, even if it means breaking a promise she made so long ago...

1936

Fifteen-year-old Winny has never known a real home. After running away from an abusive stepfather, she falls in with Mary, Jack, and their ragtag group of friends roaming the streets of Liverpool. When the children are caught stealing food, Winny and Mary are left in Dr. Barnardo’s Barkingside Home for Girls, a local home for orphans and forgotten children found in the city’s slums. At Barkingside, Winny learns she will soon join other boys and girls in a faraway place called Canada, where families and better lives await them.

But Winny’s hopes are dashed when she is separated from her friends and sent to live with a family that has no use for another daughter. Instead, they have paid for an indentured servant to work on their farm. Faced with this harsh new reality, Winny clings to the belief that she will someday find her friends again.

Inspired by true events, The Forgotten Home Child is a moving and heartbreaking novel about place, belonging, and family—the one we make for ourselves and its enduring power to draw us home.

Chapter One: Winny one WINNY


— Present Day —

My life is spilling onto the street, and I am as helpless as a child to stop it. Through the living room window I watch my treasured Ulster coat tumble into a mound on the pavement, followed by a flutter of faded grey cotton when my frock lands on top. The old woollen stockings, mended so many times, slip out and cushion the books as they fall, then come my boots.

My granddaughter, Chrissie, is staring down at the little pile with a sort of guilty curiosity, but she sobers when she glances toward the house and sees my stricken expression. She stoops and gathers my things, placing them gently back inside the little wooden trunk I have kept with me for over eighty years. As she snaps the rusted hinge closed, I curse the rotted metal for releasing a secret I have kept to myself for so long.

Moments later, Chrissie comes into the house and quietly sets the trunk on the floor next to the rest of my things.

“I’m sorry, Gran, the hinge broke.” She puts a warm hand on my shoulder, and I pray she will be able to contain the questions flickering in her eyes. “But that’s the last of it,” she says, and I exhale. “I have to go pick up Jamie from school—it’s my turn in the carpool. Will you be okay for a bit?”

She’ll only be out for a few minutes, and yet I am glad she asked. I’ve never been comfortable being alone. The silence is too loud, full of so many voices I’ve loved and lost.

I pat the arms of my chair. “I’ll be fine. I promise to sit right here and not die while you’re gone.”

Chrissie frowns slightly but grabs her keys and heads to the doorway, where she pauses and glances back at me.

“I’ll be fine,” I say again, ashamed of my snide remark. I had only been trying to lighten the mood, but it came out wrong. I’m thrown off by the scene in the street. My gaze drops to the trunk, and I wonder if I have enough balance to carry it all the way to my room and put it away before she sees it again. Out of sight, out of mind.

I had hoped the trunk would outlive me. That once I was gone, someone could dust it off, open the latches, and discover the treasures old Gran had hidden away. Without me to tell the story, no one would be able to figure it out. It would remain forgotten. Like the rest of us.

I watch Chrissie drive away and my chest tightens with gratitude. My dear granddaughter has become quite protective of me ever since she lost her mother, my daughter, Susan, two years ago. Susan and I had shared an apartment, which had suited us both beautifully. Until she’d gotten sick, the high point of our week had been playing bridge at the Seniors’ Centre or shuffling through the mall to see the lights and the people. I should have valued those moments more, but I had always assumed I would be the one going first. It didn’t turn out the way I’d hoped, but I am grateful to have had a long and enduring bond with my daughter. Not all of us can be so lucky. It has been difficult living without her, but it is getting easier. These days I see Susan less and less as a woman in pain. My memories of her now are of when she was so small she needed to hold my hand everywhere we went. So small I couldn’t resist hugging her on impulse, marvelling that she was mine. And his, of course.

Just after Susan’s seventy-first birthday, cancer stole her from me, and it was obvious to everyone that I could no longer look after myself. Every morning and every night my creaking joints and wasting muscles remind me that the sand in my glass is running low, so when I moved from the apartment to the Shady Pines Retirement Home, I resigned myself to sitting and waiting for that last grain of sand to fall. Shady Pines was not the worst part of my life, but it was not how I’d imagined it ending. Chrissie and her son, Jamie, saw through my facade and asked me if I wanted to come live with them. I jumped at the chance. The two of them are a small but good family, and I love them with all my heart. They have no idea how important it is for me to be with family. It’s all I’ve ever wanted, really.

The front door swings open, bringing a curtain of fresh summer sunshine into the kitchen along with my tall, dark, and handsome great-grandson. When Chrissie’s husband left her for another woman ten years ago, Jamie became the man of the house by elimination. Jamie is sixteen, smart, and the spitting image of his great-grandfather.

“Hey, Gran,” he says, shrugging out of his backpack. “Enjoying the new digs?”

“I am.” I smile. “Thank you.”

Chrissie bustles in behind him and makes her way to the kitchen. She had set a chicken to roast to celebrate my first night in their house. I’ve lost track of how many first nights I’ve had in my life. How many times I’ve had to start again.

Over dinner, Chrissie pries out details about Jamie’s day from him, and I listen as he talks about his math teacher, his soccer game, and the fact that one of his friends is getting a car. Jamie is a teenager with teenager things on his mind, but he is a good boy, and he loves his mother. It’s easy conversation, and it takes me back so many years. I almost feel like I’m home again.

“I have homework,” Jamie says when he’s done clearing the plates. He edges toward the door, his eyes on his phone. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Gran.”

“Actually,” Chrissie says quickly, “I wanted to talk about something with you and Gran.”

He winces, then glances apologetically at me. “Yeah, sure.”

“Let’s go to the living room. It’s more comfortable there. I’ll bring cookies.”

They help me shuffle to my armchair, and Chrissie sets me up with a cup of tea. She is a nurse, following in my footsteps and those of her mother, and she always seems to know what I would like before I ask for it. There’s something reassuring in that.

She sits beside Jamie, across from me. “I just thought maybe we could do this sometimes after supper. Get to know each other a bit.”

Jamie’s expression is pained, and I can’t really blame him. I’m sure he’d rather be doing just about anything other than talking to his ninety-seven-year-old great-grandmother.

“Don’t look that way,” she scolds, and I see regret in her eyes. “It’s just that now that your grandma is gone, we can’t ask her things about when she was growing up, you know? We can’t hear any more stories from her. Don’t you ever wonder where our family comes from, Jamie?”

Unease stirs in my chest. I do not want to have this conversation, but I can hear the sadness in Chrissie’s voice. She yearns to know more about her family. About her mom.

He gives a weak shrug. “I guess. But isn’t that what the internet is for?”

“Oh, my life wasn’t interesting,” I assure them. “I can tell you stories about your grandmother, but to be honest, we lived a pretty average life together.”

Chrissie gestures with her chin toward the trunk, which hasn’t been moved since she first brought it inside, and I am instantly reminded of all that it holds.

“I was wondering if you could tell us about the little suitcase,” she says. “I don’t mean to be snoopy, but it looks like it holds more than an average life.”

I’m sitting perfectly still, and yet I feel myself toppling backwards, as if a lifetime of secrets is unravelling before me. My gnarled fingers curl around the arms of the chair, holding me in place.

“Gran?” Jamie is by my side now, and oh, it is as if eighty years have flown away.

My hands unclamp. “You look so much like your great-grandfather.” The thought sticks in my throat. “So, so much like him.”

He grins, and again, it’s as if I’m looking at my husband, the way he was at Jamie’s age—though he had been underfed and toughened by street life. But when he smiled, he lit up my world.

“Do I?” He settles back on the couch. “What was he like?”

“I loved Pop,” Chrissie tells him. “He was quiet, and he…”

She pauses, so I help her out. “He had a bit of a temper.”

“Maybe, but I didn’t see that very often. I was going to say that he was a good man. He always had time for me. And he loved Mom so much. That was obvious.”

“Yes, he did.”

“He wasn’t from Ireland, was he?” she wonders. “I mean, he didn’t have the same accent as you.”

“I thought I’d mostly lost mine,” I say. “I haven’t been there in a very long time.”

Jamie shakes his head. “Nope. You’re still real Irish. I wish I had an accent.”

I wink and reach for my thickest brogue. “Come on you, boyo. Oi’m not the one who’d be havin’ an accent.”

Jamie grins and takes a bite of a cookie as his mother leans toward me. “Mom said your family left for London when you were little, is that right? And you had four brothers? Why did your parents decide to leave Ireland?”

How long had it been since I’d thought of my little brothers? I imagine they’re all gone now. “London was where everyone was going. Jobs, money, a better life.… Almost all the English, Irish, and Scots living in the countryside moved to the city back then.”

“Was it better?”

“No. Just more crowded.”

“What about Pop?” Chrissie asks. “Where was he from?”

“Oh, he was from London.”

“Did he have any brothers or sisters?”

“He had a sister,” I reply, then I stop, unable to say any more.

Only one person in the whole world knows my story, and he has been gone for fifteen long years. Not even my beautiful daughter, Susan, knew the humiliating truth about her parents.

Chrissie and Jamie are watching me, waiting, and my heart races as if I am standing on the edge of a cliff. I am ashamed to tell my story, but now I have no choice. My family deserves a history. As much as I don’t want to talk about my past, I do not want them to wonder, as I always have, about their roots. I am haunted by the truth that I have kept from everyone I know, everyone I love.

Everyone but him, of course.

Nowadays, doctors have words to describe the way our minds can construct a wall to keep it strong—blocking painful memories in order to help us survive. But youth no longer maintains my walls, and I feel them giving way, brick by brick, spilling long overdue sunlight onto my truths. I have seen enough days to know we have no say over any of them. Life picks us up and drops us where it will. My friends and I were thrown into a whirlpool, and we did what we could, but we were only children after all. We had no idea how to swim.

I take a deep, shuddering breath and stare at the trunk. “I never expected anyone to ever open that trunk.”

“I really am sorry, Gran. I don’t want to upset you, and you don’t have to tell us anything if it’s too hard to talk about. We all grieve in our own ways.”

“I know, sweetheart.” I hesitate, daring myself. “Jamie, can you put that trunk up on the table here?”

It looks small in his hands, and the once-dark wood has faded to a dull, lifeless brown. It’s the size of a small suitcase, like those bags they call carry-ons these days. I still remember when it was my carry-all. All my worldly possessions in one little box.

When he sets the trunk before me, I stare at it, wondering where to begin. I tentatively rest my hands on its surface, feeling the familiar grooves and coarse lines. Like my hands, the wood shows the ravages of time—though not nearly so vividly—and my fingers go to the long, deep scrape on top, then the notch on the back corner. The trunk and I both bear scars.

I turn it around so they can see the letters of my name carved into the back. “I made this trunk when I was a little girl.”

Jamie looks impressed, and he runs his young fingers over the old seams.

“What’s in there, Gran?” Chrissie asks.

If only she knew what she was asking. The answers will change the way she and Jamie see their own lives.

With a sigh, I unfasten the latches and the old trunk creaks open. I haven’t looked inside for a very long time, but other than the fact that its contents had been hastily repacked that afternoon, nothing has changed. I pull out an old hairbrush and comb, then I fold back a piece of material and dig out my copy of The Pilgrim’s Progress. Such a terrible book to give to children. I set it aside, then sort through the bits and pieces of cloth until I find my soft, black leather Bible.

This is where I must start, I realize. The cover falls open, and I slide the book toward Chrissie so she can see the sticker where my name is printed on the inside of the cover.

“?‘A memento of the old Country from the British and Foreign Bible Society,’?” she reads, then she looks to the page on the right. Her finger taps a black-and-white photograph of a stately, spectacled gentleman with waxed ends on his moustache. “Who’s this?”

“Dr. Thomas Barnardo,” I say softly. His name hasn’t passed my lips in probably seventy-five years, and yet I still speak it with a twisted blend of admiration and loathing. “I’m afraid I haven’t told you the whole truth about our family and how we ended up here.”
The Forgotten Home Child
Genevieve Graham
Reading Group Guide

Topics & Questions for Discussion

1. Did you know who the British Home Children were before reading this book? How does this chapter in history shape your understanding of Canada as a British colony and as its own nation?

2. Winny’s family moves from Ireland to England for a better life, but they experience tragedy, poverty, and hunger. Compare and contrast her early life with Mary and Jack’s, and discuss the different events that drove them to the streets along with so many other children. What might this say about the economic reality of England at this time?

3. In the present-day storyline, Winny says that Dr. Barnardo “was a well-intentioned man with a good heart.” After reading this book, what do you think of Dr. Barnardo and his Homes, and later, his plan to send children to Canada? Was there any merit to his actions? Where did his plan go wrong? And why?

4. Winny and her friends were told that Canada was a land of opportunity and that there were families waiting to take them in as their own, but in most cases, this was far from the truth. Why do you think there was so much hostility toward the Home Children? Do you think Canada is more welcoming to newcomers now? What prejudices still exist today?

5. Canada was a country struggling through the Great Depression and on the brink of another world war. Did knowing this historical backdrop change how you saw the actions of Mistress Adams and Mistress Renfrew? In what other ways does the author complicate our view of these families and even elicit our sympathies?

6. When Winny arrives on the Adams farm, she finds solace in picturing the faces of her friends. Discuss the importance of remembrance in the novel. What are some other key scenes where Winny or Jack remember their friends? How does this act evolve throughout the novel? For instance, when is it healing? And when is it too painful?

7. Mary and Winny are closer than friends; they see each other as sisters, and Winny goes on to adopt Mary’s son, Billy, as her own. Consider the theme of family in the novel. What other close ties beyond blood relations do we see? What do these portrayals say about the value of family and belonging?

8. Both Mary and Quinn die as a result of their mistreatment. In the author’s note to readers, she shares that Mary’s and Quinn’s experiences were not uncommon. How did learning this change your understanding of this history?

9. The Home Children make their own trunks at Barnardo’s Homes to bring to Canada. Winny keeps hers for her entire life, but Jack abandons his. Beyond being luggage, what is the role of the trunks in the novel? What do they come to symbolize?

10. Why does Jack connect with the messages in The Communist Manifesto? How does this reference contextualize Jack’s personal story within a larger socioeconomic lens?

11. Winny often says that the loneliness was the worst part of her experience. How does her past continue to isolate her from those she loves in her later years? How does seeing the British Home Children memorial in the Park Lawn Cemetery change that? What might this tell us about the importance of historical commemoration?

12. When Winny goes to adopt Billy at the maternity home, the matron recommends not telling Billy that he is adopted. Discuss the portrayal of adoption by comparing and contrasting Charlotte’s and Billy’s experiences.

13. At their graduation from nursing school, Winny and Charlotte are called “the future of Canada.” When war breaks out, Jack, Edward, and Cecil enlist to fight for Canada. How were the Home Children fundamental to Canada’s growth and nationhood? How does their mistreatment complicate their sense of identity?

14. In what ways did the war change Jack’s life when he returned to Canada? Consider the novel’s references to communism. Do you think Jack achieved the equal and fair treatment that he sought while reading The Communist Manifesto? Why was Jack still unhappy?

15. Winny tells Jack that she feels like home when she’s with him. Discuss the meaning of home in the novel. What does the word come to symbolize?

16. Winny and Jack carry the shame of being a Home Child for their entire life. How did their experiences affect their ability to love, trust, develop relationships, and lead normal lives? How did their trauma affect them differently? Discuss the lingering effects on their own family.

17. Why does Winny open up about her past after so long? How does sharing her experiences help Chrissie work through her own grief and bring Winny, Chrissie, and Jamie closer together?

18. Throughout the novel, many characters wish to know more about their family history, including Billy, Chrissie, and Jamie. How are their motivations the same? How are they different? Why is knowing their personal history so important to their sense of self and family?

19. Discuss the theme of forgiveness in the novel. In your opinion, do Mistress Adams and Mistress Renfrew do enough to atone for their actions? Should Winny’s family forgive her for keeping secrets? Do you think it’s possible to forgive a wrong even if it is never forgotten?

20. Consider the dual timeline structure of the novel. How does this reflect the experience of the Home Children?

21. Discuss the significance of the title The Forgotten Home Child.

Enhance Your Book Club

1. Have you ever looked up your own ancestry? Are you wondering if you are one of the 12 percent of Canadians descended from Home Children? Visit the British Home Children website here: https://www.britishhomechildren.com/. Or dig deeper in their Registry, where they have catalogued more than 70,000 of the children: http://www.britishhomechildrenregistry.com. And check out the Government of Canada immigration records: https://www.bac-lac.gc.ca/eng/discover/immigration/immigration-records/home-children-1869-1930/immigration-records/Pages/search.aspx.

2. Read the poem “Forgotten Children” by Walter Richard Williams. How does this novel overlap with and differ from the poem’s summary of the Home Children’s experiences? In what ways is this book also a testament to the lives of the Home Children?

3. Though the Home Children are not well-known, Guest Children, or "the lucky ones," were equally little known. Read more about them here: https://ingeniumcanada.org/channel/articles/digital-archives-canadas-guest-children-during-second-world-war. How did their situations differ from Home Children? Why do you think they were treated much better?
Photograph by Bryghton Towns

Genevieve Graham is the #1 bestselling author of The Forgotten Home Child, Tides of Honour, Promises to Keep, Come from Away, and At the Mountain’s Edge. She is passionate about breathing life back into Canadian history through tales of love and adventure. She lives near Halifax, Nova Scotia. Visit her at GenevieveGraham.com or on Twitter and Instagram @GenGrahamAuthor.

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“If there’s one thing that defines The Forgotten Home Child, it’s the essence of the past. In these pages, one family discovers the truth about their personal history and realizes that while our pasts are imperfect and multi-faceted, and can bind us or set us free, in the end, they inform our identity. Genevieve Graham captures the reader’s attention from the beginning in this exquisite journey to the heart of what makes us human.”
— ARMANDO LUCAS CORREA, bestselling author of The German Girl and The Daughter’s Tale

“Drawing on a dark, yet little-known chapter in Canada’s history, Graham paints a searing portrait of a childhood shattered by isolation and brutality. I was profoundly moved by this tale of courage, fortitude, and the heart’s ability to open again in the wake of great injustice. The Forgotten Home Child is a powerful and engrossing read, brimming on every page with both heartbreak and hope.”
ROXANNE VELETZOS, bestselling author of The Girl They Left Behind

“Brings alive in the imagination the lives of what were once called Barnardo children—kids who came from England to Canada to be adopted into families here. While historically not all of the stories were positive, Graham evokes the experience of a groundswell of young immigrants from which many in this country are descended.”
— Toronto Star

“Graham . . . has crafted a sensitive, moving tale of a group of displaced children and their search for belonging on our shores. This little-known piece of our nation’s history couldn’t be in better hands.”
Canadian Living

“Another gem from one of my favourite historical fiction authors! Graham reveals our past—both the shame and the hope of it—in the truest possible light. In doing so, she offers promise that the future can be changed by the telling of such important stories. This novel is heartbreaking yet romantic, distressing yet charming—and perfect for fans of Joanna Goodman and Jennifer Robson!”
MARISSA STAPLEY, bestselling author of The Last Resort

The Forgotten Home Child is a poignant, edgy, and skillfully written portrayal of a Home Child’s experience that typified so many. The absence of any sugar coating makes this story come to life and brings a level of reality that is often lacking—an emotional journey well worth reading.”
LORI OSCHEFSKI, CEO of the British Home Children Advocacy and Research Association

“[A] page-turner. . . . Graham writes about ordinary people living at important moments in Canadian history, from the displacement of the Acadians to the Yukon Gold Rush to the Second World War. In The Forgotten Home Child, she ensures the British Home Children are remembered and honoured.”
— Winnipeg Free Press

“Graham has immense talent when it comes to making our nation’s history interesting and weaving a riveting story around historical facts.”
— Niagara Life Magazine

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