This was now the computer age and everybody, more or less, was easily traceable. It took Olga just a few minutes on her computer to come up with the address of several Johnsons, one of them my cousin Linda who, in turn, led me to my dad.
Linda and another cousin, Jeff, were friendly and helpful. I sent Linda pictures showing the family likeness, which I think is obvious, and saying that if there was any doubt I would happily arrange a DNA test, which I subsequently tried to do. But I hadn’t reckoned on the cold refusal of my father to show any interest in me, or agree to anything which a court didn’t order.
To say he didn’t want to know was an understatement: Linda told me he was a Shriner (a branch of Freemasonry) and a member of the Lutheran Church, and it was obvious that the last thing he wanted was me rattling a few skeletons round his doorstep. I thanked Linda for not doubting me and explained all the reasons why I was telling the truth. If I had wanted a “Canadian family” or to live in Canada, I already had my birth certificate stating that I was the son of a Canadian serviceman — my mother’s husband Franklin. So I could get a Canadian passport at any time. Because I am married to an American I could also get U.S. residency and, eventually, citizenship, so I was not motivated by a desire to move to Canada.
As for money, my wife and I presumed that if we ever traced my father he would probably be a bum on the streets. What other kind of man would abandon an unborn child and never inquire as to his welfare? In our view, he would need our help, not the other way around, and our help would have been gladly given.
I had two phone conversations with Patrick Johnson at that time, both of which were a trifle odd. He claimed to have flown to Britain with his wife in 1984 or 1985 and spent some time looking for me, even asking the police my whereabouts. We moved from the home in Alton, from which I had written the letter, in 1985, but we sold the house to close friends who could have located me in two minutes. I also told him in my letter that I edited the local paper, so finding me would not have taxed Sherlock Holmes. Mr. Johnson also claimed his wife has written me a letter, but I didn’t receive it. Very odd.
In his first phone call he said coldly, “I am not your father” — which begs the question of why he would claim to have tried to find me. After his first phone call, I dashed over to Guildford to talk to my mother and she was contemptuous of his denials.
I called him back and he said something that struck me as curious: “I can’t change my story now.” He admitted he had “been intimate” with my mother, but claimed it was only before his wedding in December 1943. My mother disputes this and says that in 1944, when both she and Patrick operated different switchboards in the Farnborough area, Patrick chatted to her and asked her over to the Canadian hospital to meet him. This led to their affair, which lasted some time. She was then posted away, and they resumed their relationship in 1945. She says he was aware she was pregnant and sent her the postcard wishing her luck.
Patrick claimed to know the name of my “real father” but wouldn’t reveal it. How this ties in with his claim that he didn’t see my mother after his marriage, I don’t know . . . I think that Patrick is ashamed of “playing around” shortly after his wedding. Had my conception happened first, perhaps he would have admitted it. However, the dates make him look bad, and he is ashamed to admit fathering me.
He promised to see me when he next came to England, in the summer of 1999, but I felt this was too long to wait. Foolishly, in 1998 I wrote a long and detailed letter to Johnson about my life, hoping this would interest him in my family. Instead, he has subsequently used it to make unpleasant points about me.
I last spoke to Patrick Johnson on September 3, 1999, when the phone rang at home at 9:30 p.m. He had been on his annual summer trip to the Isle of Wight, an island off the coast of Britain, where his first wife came from. He stays there with his late wife’s sister, who, I understand, lives in a house bought by Johnson.
He was calling from Liphook, a village in Hampshire around thirty miles from where we live in Fleet. But even though I could have been there in under an hour, he refused to allow me to come and meet him. This was the only time I felt really upset at his attitude: I knew this would be my only chance to see him, because of his advancing years and because he had already warned me not to call on him in Canada.
Had I known where he was calling from, I would have driven there anyway, but he was careful not to reveal this, although he said he was staying with relatives of his first wife. Mr. Johnson told me he was getting a lift to the airport in the morning to fly home to Canada. I begged him to see me, but he hadn’t the guts to do so, despite having promised that he would — a promise he had used simply to buy some more time.
He was very cold, guarded and kept trying to ring off. He did say he was making a tape about his wartime affair with my mother, which he would send me and also make available to his children on his death. He said he had consulted a solicitor on the Isle of Wight, and he expected a response from me once I had heard the tape. His prime interest seemed to be in limiting any possible damage to his precious reputation.
A Canadian soldier arrives in Canada after five long years overseas. Who knows if he left a child behind?
When I got the tape I decided I would make no further effort to contact Johnson. It contained a ridiculous, one-sided attempt at smearing my mother — the only person who kept me out of an orphanage — and was full of self-justification and excuses. It is one of the most disgusting statements I have ever heard, an opinion shared by the Rains, who could scarcely believe their ears. It seems, you see, that this strapping Canadian soldier was entirely overpowered and seduced by this little seven-stone, five-foot Englishwoman. What a terrible experience it must have been for him. I am surprised he didn’t seek immediate counselling.
So much for Johnson. The good news was that cousin Linda came over with her new husband, Bart, and spent her honeymoon with us in Hampshire in 2004!
Linda and Bart are a wonderful, outgoing Canadian couple and we spent some happy days seeing the sights and showing them England, where Linda’s father and uncles had spent their wartime years.
Our children, Daniel and Anne, at last had some relatives to relate to on my father’s side, where previously there had been a void. We have kept in touch since their return to Canada and we have a standing invitation to visit them.
Linda also brought loads of family history and pictures with her: at last my German/Canadian roots were revealed!
I phoned my half-brother Dale, in Ottawa, but he showed no interest, so at the time of writing Linda and Bart are our Canadian family. We are delighted to know them, and even if we never meet any other “Johnsons,” we will have succeeded in expanding our family in a wonderful way.
Awkward Moments
by Celestine
At the end of March 1989, I flew to Toronto to meet my Canadian father, Louis, for the first time. During the whole flight I was so nervous and the same thoughts kept racing through my mind. Did I look like him? I was not as good-looking as my English mother, Libby. She had beautiful long, curly, blonde hair and dark-brown eyes. I was just a plain dark blonde with straight hair cut in a bob.
I had seen a photo of Louis in the service, a handsome young soldier, but he never did send me a photo of how he looked now. So I tried to draw a picture in my mind: maybe his hair was all grey or white, or maybe he had no hair at all? Were his eyes like mine — not blue and not green, sort of in between?
It was not his fault that he couldn’t raise me: it was Libby’s. She left my father when she became pregnant. Libby didn’t love him the way he loved her. She was so young, only seventeen years old. My grandparents raised me, so I grew up thinking they were my parents and Libby was my sister.
I found out much later that Louis wanted to marry Libby, but my grandparents were against it. Besides, she didn’t really care about Louis. Libby liked to have fun, go out, and be carefree, and she did until she was in a bad accident that left her disabled.