Fragment 10: The Life & Times of a Social Experiment

I discover more about my roots!

Sep 23, 2023

Image: Franklin D. Roosevelt and Winston Churchill in London’s Mayfair. The Anglo-American alliance. Shutterstock

My journal entry for Tuesday 23rd June 2009 starts thus: “Today, for the first time in my 63 and two-thirds years I discovered the name of my father.”

That was one hell of a day. More about it shortly. But, first, a few thoughts. My original intention when embarking on these fragments was to deal with everything in strict chronological order. I’ve now changed my mind: the narrative thus far has brought home to me the importance of my origin story … or lack of it. For a long time I dealt with the mystery of the circumstances surrounding my birth by ignoring it. No, that’s not true. Rather, I substituted a creation myth. And, like perhaps all creation myths, it was a story that I could simultaneously believe was true while knowing that it was not.

What I did know was that however the heck I’d come into this world, it had not been ‘normal’. I knew this because, it seemed always to be referred to in hushed and earnest tones. “We specially chose you.” Even, “We love you for who you are.” Weren’t other kids specially chosen? Weren’t they loved for who they were? And, of course, there had been the episode at Barton in the Beans school when another adopted child had been subjected to a dose of Lord-of-the-Flies’ style abuse.

So it seemed that I was different, as in ‘not normal’. To try to make some kind of sense of it I lighted upon the creation myth that I was a child of the universe. That, I grant you, is a pretty vague idea but it seemed to serve the purpose I required of it at the time: “I am different to all others in some particularly significant way that I do not as yet understand. I must therefore have a different and special genesis. Therefore, I must be a child of the universe.”

Not a logical argument, maybe, but in a way, of course, it’s true. It’s true for all of us. Whatever our origins, we are all individuals, separate from all others. That’s not the issue. The complication arises because, as Hannah Arendt so succinctly put it, “Men are conditioned beings because everything they come into contact with turns immediately into a condition of their existence.” My takeaway, from comments made to me and experiences I had, was that the conditions of my existence were different from that which was ‘normal’.

I know, I know, I keep putting that word in inverted commas. I do so because I’m fully aware that, in one way, there is really no such category as … well … ‘normal’.

Anyway, what did being a child of the universe imply? Well, I made up the designation and therefore, of course, I was at liberty to make up the rules that went with it. The chief gift that I awarded myself was that I was special and some rules that applied to others simply did not apply to me. Again, I know, this is really, really vague, but it did seem to help.

There was, however, one major problem which was that my very existence was underpinned by a screaming insecurity. It took me a long time to even recognize my fear - nay, abject terror - of rejection, let alone deal with it. Back to this later but, for now, let’s go to the events of Tuesday 23rd June 2009.

To begin at the real beginning …

As already explained in this series of fragments, George and Nellie never kept from me the fact that I was adopted. They told me that I had originally been named Roger Wilson and that my birth mother was Dorothy Wilson. That was the sum total of information that I had about it all.

For years I pushed down any desire to know more, maybe because the bits I did know seemed, at best, surreal. In my forties, the desire grew but I still did nothing about it. Then, in 2009, with my wife’s support, it finally felt safe to do so. Thus it was that, after conducting some research, I drove, on Tuesday 23 June 2009 (half a century after that first walk up the hill to Market Harborough Grammar School) to the Action for Children offices in Horsham, Surrey. There, a very kind lady took me through the slim file of papers that exists.

First is a letter date-stamped as having been received by the National Children’s Home & Orphanages on 7th September 1945 - that’s Birth minus 7 weeks:

Dear Sir or Madam,
I have been recommended by Miss Gillbard of the Plymouth Moral Welfare Society to write to you & state my case. I am expecting a baby either at the end of October, or beginning of November, and having an aged grandmother 86, who has to be cared for, am in no position to keep the child. It will be necessary for me to return to work as soon as my health permits, in order to provide means to live.
Could you I wonder assist me in any way and help me to arrange for the adoption. Of course, I am quite aware that it would take time, and naturally I understand that payment is required until such time, but if you could do anything I should be very relieved & grateful. These mistakes have to be paid for, and I pray God you can help me.
I have enclosed a stamped addressed envelope, and will be anxiously awaiting your reply.
Yours very sincerely
Miss D Wilson

Oh dear! “These mistakes have to be paid for.” I found it disconcerting, to say the least, to learn that I was classified as a mistake - or at least the result of a mistake - that had to be paid for. But my Mum, 25 years old at this time and around eight months pregnant, was in difficult circumstances. The National Children’s Home & Orphanage’s reply is dated one week later, 14th September:

Dear Miss Wilson,
In reply to your letter of the 6th inst., we sympathise very sincerely with you in the distressing circumstances, and will gladly help if we can.
We are not able, however, to do anything until we are informed of the birth of the little one. When this is reported to us, we will issue the necessary Forms for if the baby is normal and healthy and so suitable for adoption, we will do our best in this direction.
However, as you will understand, we cannot act immediately, and it would be necessary for you to make arrangements for the care of the little one until we have a vacancy for him or her.
We shall expect to hear from you again.
Yours sincerely

Oh dear again! So, taking this letter at face value, my Mum was not simply in difficult circumstances but, rather, ‘distressing circumstances’. It may be as well that I did not get access to this file of papers any earlier than I did because, when younger, I might have been even more upset and angry at the implication that the situation was somehow my fault. Or perhaps that’s me being over-sensitive?

The next item on file is dated 12th November 1945 - Birth plus 2.5 weeks - from Miss Gillbard (with the amazing official title of Moral Welfare Officer) of the City of Plymouth Maternity and Child Welfare Department in the Medical Officer of Health’s Department, writing to the National Children’s Home & Orphanage:

Dear Miss Crutcher,
Some weeks ago Miss Wilson wrote to you making application for the admission into one of your homes or the adoption of her expected child. Miss Wilson gave birth to a baby boy on 26/10/45. Miss Wilson has no home. Her mother is dead, & her father acts as a chef at an hotel in Barnstaple.
We thought her aunt was going to care for the little one pending its reception into a home, but the aunt has changed her mind and this poor young mother has nowhere to take her baby. I know how full all of your Homes must be just now, but I wonder if you could find a place for this little boy?
I have not seen him yet but they say he is a lovely baby.
I shall be most grateful if you can help us.
With kind regards,
Yours sincerely
Miss Gillbard
Moral Welfare Officer

Well, I suppose I should at least be grateful for the fact that I get a bit of good PR here, and that ‘they’, whoever they were, were kind enough to label me a lovely baby. But the whole chain of communications sounds utterly Dickensian, doesn’t it? What had caused the untimely death of her mother, my grandmother? And what had happened to my great-grandmother, who my Mum mentioned in her letter but doesn’t even get a mention here? And, not least, was my grandfather a competent chef? Whatever, the doughty Moral Welfare Officer’s letter got a prompt reply, dated 14th November 1945:

Dear Miss Gillbard,
re Wilson application
In reply to your letter of the 12th inst., we will gladly help if at all possible, but cannot receive the little one for a few weeks as we already have a waiting list of urgent cases which have been accepted for admission.
However, we will do our best as soon as practicable if you will kindly fill in as much of the enclosed Forms as you can and return to us. The Medical Form must be filled in by a Doctor.
It must be understood that this application is being considered for adoption only, and should the little one prove for any reason unsuitable for such an arrangement, we could not retain him as a permanent admission.
Yours sincerely
Encs.

Mum seems to have got on the case pretty sharpish, returning the forms with an accompanying letter:

Miss Crutcher
Dear Madam,
I am enclosing the completed form, and birth certificate of my son, which Miss Gilbard asked me to send on. I am very grateful to you for your help and I know that when it is convenient my son will have good care and attention prior to adoption. It is very heartrending for me to have to do such a thing, but in the circumstances I have no alternative and if you could help me as soon as possible I should be more than grateful.
Trusting the enclosed will meet with your approval.
I remain Yours very Sincerely
Miss D. Wilson

This was accompanied by the completed Forms, signed on 17th November 1945. The Forms include the following information:

I had been named Roger Frank Wilson.
My father is Henry Costello, a 32-year-old American soldier – married! That’s all, except that my mother’s last contact with him was in March 1945. Perhaps he never knew of the pregnancy? Or perhaps he did and chose to scarper?

Aargh! by David Pinder

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