The young children exuded anxiety and trepidation. Their wide-eyed stares and thin, haggard faces spoke eloquently of their strenuous ocean crossing, and made a compelling picture. Their tragic story could be told over and over again in hopes of finding homes for these orphans.
Four-year-old curly-headed Emma was in John's arms. Mary followed close behind, clutching his coat tail. They stood almost rooted to the spot when their feet touched dry land. A newspaper photographer snapped their picture in that instant before they were caught up in the crush of the crowd. It was to be their last family photo.
A small group of government officials awaited their arrival. An older gentleman with a dark handle-bar mustache took charge. With an officious sounding voice, he cleared his throat and read aloud; “Those under five years of age will go with Mrs. Raynor and be in her charge.”
A small, plump lady standing at his side raised her hand as a way to identify herself and, along with several young women, she proceeded to pluck the youngsters from the crowd. John gave Emma a quick hug, kissed her on the forehead and handed her to one of the women. Emma, clutching the scruffy little rag doll that Mary had given her, began to cry. Mary stood motionless and watched in quiet desperation. She had no idea that they were to be separated once again. As tears began to roll down her cheeks, Mary's shoulders began to slump in despair. With that, John protectively took her by the hand.
“The following girls will be sent to Stratford under Mr. Murray's charge.”
Mr. Murray, a tall serious-looking gentlemen in his forties, was an inspector from the agency office in England, sent to Canada to run the “Distributing Home” in Stratford. He stepped forward while the names were read aloud. Mary was in a daze but quickly realized her name must have been called because John clenched her hand even tighter and started to move toward the group of girls that was forming.
“No, John, please don't leave me. I want to be with you. I'll be good as long as I can stay with you. Please, John! Please!” Mary begged him as she gripped his hand tighter.
John's blue eyes, the same cobalt blue as Mary's, filled with tears as he pried her fingers loose and literally handed her over to Mr. Murray who grasped her hand firmly. John bent down, grabbed his sister by both shoulders and whispered, “I have to, Mary. I ain't got no choosing in the matter. Pa said.” He bit his lower lip, got up and turned away. John never looked back at the sobbing child, for he was crying himself. This memory stayed with Mary for years, often recurring in nightmares that would awaken her from a fitful sleep. She would play out the scene in her mind time and time again, re-experiencing the empty feeling the parting left inside.
Along with a handful of girls approximately her age, Mary was taken to Stratford, Ontario. Here she would stay at the Strathcona Home for Girls, and for some time be under the care of Mr. Murray, until a suitable placement could be found. A temporary shelter for girls between the ages of five and eighteen, the home endeavored to place girls with families in need of a domestic.
Less than two months after her arrival, Mary was summoned to the parlour. She had never been in this room before. While somewhat frightened for fear the directive should mean she was in trouble, she was also excited. It could mean that, finally, she would have a home. Little did Mary realize that the following scene would affect her for the rest of her life.
She entered the room cautiously. The parlour had a dark, red carpet, and was furnished with several large wing chairs and a pretty floral settee. Her eyes widened as she tried to take in all she could. Never had she seen such a beautiful room. She saw lots of fancy trinkets and photographs, a fireplace and a smoker placed near a very comfortable looking maroon armchair. A vase of yellow flowers had been set in the middle of a little table. Standing near the fireplace was Mr. Murray, and beside him a stranger.
The stranger was almost six feet tall, with a reddish-brown scruffy beard and mustache. Wearing somewhat shabby grey pants and a coat, the man had his hands crossed in front of him. He was holding a black hat. Awed by the sight, Mary stopped and looked up.
Mr. Murray broke the silence. “Come in, Mary. Don't be shy. This is Mr. Jacques. He has a farm nearby and needs a girl. You will be going to live with him and his family.” He paused for a moment, and then continued with a smile. “You're lucky to find a home so quickly. Now run upstairs and collect your belongings. Mr. Jacques would like to leave right away.”
Mary said nothing and neither did Mr. Jacques. Silently turning away, she left the room and went upstairs. Mr. Murray held up the letter he had written which authorized Mr. Jacques to take Mary into his custody. A signature was required. The farmer looked at the letter for a moment and handed it back.
“I never had much schooling, just three days. Didn't care for it and never went back.”
Mr. Murray did not react to this news in any way. His job was to place the children, not be judgemental. So he proceeded to read the letter to Mr. Jacques:
“I, Daniel Jacques do hereby and herewith, God being my helper, take in Mary Janeway, an orphan with no family. I promise to provide a good Christian home and to feed, clothe and shelter her to the best of my ability. I also promise that she will be sent to school, weather permitting, until the age of sixteen. In return I expect the child to work diligently, be respectful and obedient. An inspector from the federal government will visit once a year and talk to the child in private, at which time he must be satisfied the child has been obedient, been given enough food and clothing and an adequate place to sleep. In witness whereof I have hereunto set my hand, on the sixth day of June, in the year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and ninety-two. Signed, Sealed and Delivered in the presence of us.“ 4
Mr. Murray set the document on the table, handed Mr. Jacques a quill pen and put his index finger on a blank spot on the paper, Mr. Jacques marked it with an “X.”
Mary threw what little she owned into her old and battered red suitcase, now held together by a thick leather strap. Besides her best dress, the little pink and yellow flowered pinafore which she put on, she owned two dresses she had inherited at the orphanage. One was a faded grey colour and far too long on Mary. She had already been told numerous times, “You'll grow into it.” Why would she want to? She hated it. The other one was brown and white and although she didn't like the colour much, at least it fit her. Her winter coat, long since outgrown, had been left behind before her voyage to Canada. She had three pair of underwear, three undershirts, a pair of socks, shoes that were almost too short and one and a half flannel nighties. The half nightie which was too small for Mary now, had only one arm in it and the flannel was worn paper-thin. But it was her favourite. It had been a Christmas present from her parents a few years ago, the last Christmas they had together. Other than a now much-worn photograph, the nightgown was the only reminder that once she had been part of a family.
Mary held the dog-eared picture in her hand. She sat and looked at it a long time before carefully placing it underneath her clothes in the suitcase. A photograph, taken by a visiting friend, showed a tall, skinny dark-haired boy holding a chubby toddler on his lap. Of course, Mary had been too young at the time to remember any of the circumstances. Ma had told her about it much later. She could remember as though it were yesterday.
Mary climbed on Mama's lap when Emma finally fell asleep. It meant that she could spend a few minutes with her alone. Mama affectionately wrapped her arms around her daughter and squeezed her tightly.
“Mary, when you were born, John was so happy.” She let out a big sigh. “You were real tiny. Most were afraid to touch you, never mind hold you. Not John. He acted as if he knew you were special right from the beginning. And he was right. Why, he helped to care for you. It was almost as if you were his baby. Now you'll understand that picture better,” she said, kissing the top of her curly head tenderly. Mama loved telling that story over and over again as much as Mary loved to hear it.
Finally Mary packed a small rubber ball. Each child at the orphanage had been given one last Christmas and cautioned