A late apology and a painful legacy for children transported into a nightmare

One of the thousands of British youngsters promised a better life in Australia, when he arrived on the other side of the world in the early 1950s he was immediately stripped of the few belongings he had. Even his shoes were taken and he was forced to walk barefoot on the cold stone floors of a church-run orphanage he was told would now be home.

Occasionally, when the bishop dropped by, he and the dozen or so other children who shared a dormitory were hastily given sandals. However, when the official visit was over, the little luxuries were packed away and harsh reality returned.

"Our feet were always cold," says Mick, now 64. "In the winter we would stand in cow pats just to keep warm."

The Child Migrant Programme ran from the 1920s to the 1960s and was billed as a win-win situation for all concerned. The British government were able to ease the burden of poor families on the state. Countries like Australia and Canada got to boost depleted post-war populations and the scheme was backed by various philanthropists and reputable charities who talked of a promised land of milk and honey where children rode to school on horseback and picked fruit by the side of the road.

Sadly for many, the fairytale never happened. Children were taken without consent, families were lied to and any possibility of a happy ending was quickly snuffed out. Mick was just six years old when found himself thousands of miles from home and the web of deceit began almost as soon as he arrived.

"I came over with a group of other children and quite quickly we realised we were never going back," he says. "We were told our families were dead. It was as simple as that. There was no one to go back to.

"The first place I stayed was an orphanage in Newcastle, a couple of hours' drive from Sydney. There was a steelworks nearby and big river ran past it. As kids we'd see boats coming and going and we used to think if only we could build something which floated then may be we could escape too."

Over four decades, an estimated 150,000 youngsters, aged between three and 14 years old, were shipped abroad. On arrival, many were separated from their brothers and sisters and subjected to years of physical, emotional and sexual abuse.

Crying themselves to sleep in starkly furnished orphanages, they were taunted for being the "sons and daughters of whores" and those that wet the bed were stripped naked, humiliated in front of the other children and plunged in freezing cold showers.

Food was meagre and on empty stomachs the boys were forced to work as manual labourers, while the girls were little more than slaves. Cruelty was commonplace with children flogged for the most trivial of misdemeanours and in some homes sexual abuse and rape by Christian brothers was rife.

It's only in recent years that the extent of the scandal has been laid bare and after an official apology by the Australian Prime Minister towards the end of last year, Gordon Brown yesterday publicly acknowledged Britain's shame. In a statement to the House of Commons, the PM announced the creation of a 6m fund to help reunite families torn apart by the scheme, but more importantly said an unconditional sorry for the lives that had been wrecked.

As he spoke about the vulnerable children who had been neglected and the brutal institutions which had been guilty of the most heinous crimes, politicians on both sides of the house were unusually quiet, but it was a group of 40 Forgotten Australians in the public gallery who listened most intently of all.

"It's been a long time coming," says Mick, who was part of the

delegation. "But it was worth it. All we ever wanted was for someone to say it was wrong and that they were sorry. It's still hard to think back to that time. Sometimes families would come to the orphanage to pick a child, but I never got chosen. I didn't have a family, the only adult in my life was a nun, a big, callous woman who would pick you up with one hand and beat you with the other. Every so often the

atmosphere in the orphanage would change. The bishop would come and for a while everything would be okay as they showed him how well they were looking after us. But it was all a sham and as soon as his back was turned the abuse would start again."

When Mick was 12 years old, he moved to another children's home in Sydney and three years later he was left to fend for himself. Eventually setting up a successful company fitting window frames, he married and had children of his own, but he was forever haunted by the events of his childhood and what happened to those even less fortunate than him. Many arrived without passports or birth certificates and, having been sent to remote farms and orphanages, were never heard of again.

"We weren't seen as individuals," says Mick. "We were dispensable and those that ran the homes went out of their way to ensure we felt worthless. I'm still close to a few of the other lads I met in the orphanage. We still get together for reunions. It's good to have someone who understands exactly what you went through, but I know an uncle of mine came out around the same time as me and no one knows what happened to him. He just disappeared."

While Mick believed his mother was dead and he had no other family in England, his wife was not so convinced. Shortly after they met, she began writing letters to the British and Australian authorities hoping

to find some answers. Repeatedly drawing a blank, in 1989 the couple heard of a Nottinghamshire social worker called Margaret Humphrys who had set up the Child Migrants Trust and was almost single-handedly campaigning on behalf of the castaways. A year later, Mick not only met his mother, but found he had six half brothers and sisters and numerous aunts, uncles and brothers all living in Leeds.

"To all of the child migrants, Margaret Humphrys is a guardian angel," says Mick. "She was willing to speak out when no one else was and she was the one who reunited so many families. I remember the day I found out I wasn't alone. I was in my 40s and finally I had a mum. When you haven't said that word since you were six, it sounds strange, very strange. I had been born in Bolton, but not long after I was sent away, my mum settled in Leeds.

"When I made that first trip back to Britain, my mum was very ill in hospital. She didn't even know I was coming, but as soon as I walked into the ward she recognised me. She reached for her purse and took out an old photograph of me in a pram. She had carried that with her every day of her life. It was a really emotional moment, it meant I had never been forgotten."

Two weeks later, Mick's mum died, but he still visits England every two years and while he still struggles to forgive those responsible for his long exile, he has slowly come to terms with what happened to him.

"Who can I blame? My mum didn't do anything wrong, she was a victim just as much as I was and it's impossible to forgive something as abstract as a Government or a political system.

"I lost my childhood in that orphanage, but the wrongs which were done to us have now been recognised and I learnt long ago that when you hold a grudge, the only person you end up hurting is yourself."