Open Writing

It is a slightly discoloured, much handled, much loved piece of paper 21 cm x13cm, with no monetary value, but the 19 words in the telegram changed my life forever.

It left New Zealand at 11.12pm and then via London through to Dromore in Northern Ireland, finally finished up in Mullerfernaghan, probably by jaunting cart or bicycle at 12.45pm on 7th May seventy odd years ago. It was just addressed to our surname at Mullerfernaghan, Dromore, Northern Ireland. The message was hand written and simply read, “Nomination family and self approved. Can you accept accommodation Ionic sailing Southampton twentieth instant? Wire reply. New Zealand Government.”

That gave my parents just thirteen days to prepare themselves and five “littlies” under seven years, to pack up, travel to Belfast then to Southampton, for a long sea voyage and a new life at the bottom of the world.

Fortunately, Mum and Dad had taken us to Belfast several weeks beforehand to outfit us for the trip, but for some government bungling we would have been in New Zealand at least two months earlier. My parents' main worry was that we would grow out of our new clothes before we were accepted. However, that did not happen.

My father had a good job in Belfast, but the Irish economy was in the doldrums and prospects long-term for his children were poor. Even though my grandfather had been a businessman and my father a skilled craftsman, the prospects of anything other than labouring in Ireland (if one could get a job at all) were grim. Hence the final big decision.

Before we could be accepted as desirable citizens in New Zealand we had to have a sponsor (who was my grandfather who lived in Dunedin), suitable accommodation, permanent work for my father and all of us had to be vaccinated against smallpox. As an extra my parent had us all christened too, though goodness knows what for.

At the time of the arrival of the New Zealand government’s acceptance, I was six years old. As I grew older I realized that piece of paper had been my passport to paradise. Certainly a treasure beyond price.

But where was this New Zealand? What or who were Maoris? We had never heard of them. Were they cannibals? Did they live in mud huts and wear grass skirts? All our Irish relatives were quite concerned for our safety and survival and my grandmother was particularly distressed as the families said farewell to us. She thought she may never see her son or grandchildren again. I was not overly worried or concerned about the tears, as on the map my parents had shown me, New Zealnd was only 12 inches away from Northern Ireland. Such childish innocence!

As the years have passed, occasionally I have had fleeting thoughts of what I might have been. Perhaps the wife of a potato farmer, in my long black skirt and apron, with a little black shawl around my shoulders, and my hair in a bun, with maybe wisps of it around my face, and no makeup whatever. My dad wouldn't allowmakeup. Would I have rebelled against the him, as I did as a New Zealand teenager?

It is unlikely that I would have found the opportunity to learn the skills I now take for granted, such as driving a car, using an electric typewriter, having a computer, using a microwave or furthering my love of drama, the theatre, ballet floral art and my craft work.

My brain would have developed differently, living in a country with such political and social unrest. Would my talents and aspirations have escaped the environmental trap or remained dormant for the rest if my life?

These are questions I have never had to answer. That little piece of paper made me the person I am today, both inside and outside.