Attending St. Mary's Convent/School

Roy Daniels , You don't say what years you were at St Mary's ! . Get in touch with delvinjohnflynn72@gmail.com . we have a group of us who mostly 'fondly' remember dear old St Mary's and we would love to have your story and comments on our chat site . We have members in Australia and Canada too all who lived at St Mary's . Come aboard . God Bless from Michael monaghan .

Hi Roy and Michael
I am so glad I found this. I attended St Marys about 1957, I too have fond memories of the place. With the exception of one of the Nuns who was there at the time.
But for me St Marys was basically a catholic boarding school. Some might even say an orphanage. But when I was about four or five I ended up there. I don’t even remember actually going there. Curiously, I don’t even remember missing my mother and family. But there I was. Even started my infant schooling there. Some of you readers of this might think Aah poor fellow! However, overall my childhood there wasn’t too bad at all.
The place was run by a group of catholic nuns and a couple of catholic priests. By and large they were very kind and let us have the run of the place. We were constantly given energetic games to play. Overall, there was a lot of boisterous fun to be had. Especially when we had to attend mass on Sunday. I was in the choir and our singing position was on the balcony to the rear of the church. Looking back I feel a bit sorry for the poor folks sitting below in the pews for obvious reasons!
If you have any more memories I would be very grateful to hear them
Best Wishes
Barry Norman

My name is Michael Murphy, and I was at St Mary’s from 1954 to early 1964, when my mum took me back, and we moved to Hammersmith, London, just before my 11th birthday - four and a half years later I was a boy soldier at Rhyl, and served for 44 1/2 years, leaving in 2013.

I don’t have too many memories of my time at St Mary’s, and certainly don’t have any photos, as I ripped them all up - in a fit of temper tantrums - when we moved to London.

I went to Gravesend a few years ago, to see if the home was still there, and sadly it was demolished some years earlier.

I am desperate to find out why I was placed in St Mary’s in the first place; sadly my mum and dad have both passed on, so I can’t ask them.

If anyone out there could point me in the right direction as to who would be best to contact, I would be eternally grateful.

Regards

Michael (Mike) Murphy

Hello, my name is Trish Woodward nee Baxter. I am searching for information on my dad James William Bernard BAXTER . He was born in Newcastle but we think on the death of his mother he was sent to Gravesend. But this would have been between 1918 and 1927. Was the convent in existence then? Is there any documentation anywhere about who lived in the convent/ orphanage? Any help much appreciated x

Hi my name is Maureen Hafner. I was born in 1953
I attended At. Mary's school from 1957 then went on to the junior school in Edwin Street behind St. John's Catholic church. The names Michael Murphy and Barry Norman rings a bell. Maybe you remember me me. Let me know if you do. Email. mozrocares@hotmail.co.uk.
Maureen.

"We Were Just Children": Survivor's Letter from St Mary’s Orphanage
Subhead:
Decades after leaving a Catholic orphanage in Gravesend, I’ve finally found the strength to share what happened behind those walls.
Byline:
By Richard Canhan

We were just children.
Innocent. Small. Vulnerable. I was three years old when I was placed into St Mary’s Children’s Orphanage in Gravesend, along with my brother Gary, who was two. It was April 1961. And that was the day my childhood effectively ended.
Our mother, overwhelmed and alone, signed an agreement with the Southwark Catholic Rescue Society. She believed—hoped—that the Catholic Church would care for us, raise us with love and faith. We were her boys, and she trusted them.
She couldn’t have known what we were about to face.
Documents Tell One Story. My Memories Tell Another.
Recently, through the Freedom of Information Act, I obtained official records of our time in care. Cold, administrative language. Terms like "a bit scruffy" and "undisciplined" to describe two toddlers. Notes on our mother being “not very bright.” A clinical tone that utterly misses the human story beneath it.
But those papers also confirmed what my brother and I had long suspected and feared—our memories were real. They weren’t imagined, or exaggerated, or a child’s confused dreams. The pain, the fear, the punishments—it all happened.
Gifts Taken, Blankets Withheld, Love Absent
Visitors would sometimes come, often bearing toys, sweets, and warm clothing. But as soon as they left, so did the gifts. We never saw them again. And we learned quickly not to ask.
I remember being cold all the time. We weren’t allowed an extra blanket, even in winter. “You need to toughen up,” they told us. My brother, who had a bladder problem, was forced to sleep in wet sheets, with the window jammed open to let the cold air in.
When we rebelled—by tossing rugs out the window—we were punished. Harshly. Collectively. Even if we hadn’t done anything.
The nuns. The very people meant to protect us. Their image of purity and compassion didn’t match the hands that struck us, or the voices that shamed us, or the silence we were forced to endure.
Memories That Never Faded
I’ve often wondered if it’s really possible to remember so much from such a young age. For years, I doubted myself. But trauma doesn’t play by the rules of memory. It imprints itself deep in the bones, in the reflexes, in the nightmares.
Even the parts I can’t remember feel like holes torn into the fabric of who I was supposed to be.
What I do remember is the loneliness. The fear. The constant mistrust. I barely spoke. I was called rude, cold, rebellious. But I wasn’t any of those things—I was surviving.
I Wanted Something. I Just Didn’t Know What.
By age ten, I was already lost. Smoking cigarettes, playing in train tunnels, setting fires—not to hurt anyone, but to feel something. To be seen.
I didn’t see the building as a home. So I set it alight. Another day, I set my classroom on fire. Then, as if by cosmic intervention, I was hit by a car two days later.
I wasn’t seriously injured. But I took it as a message: enough.
We Weren’t Alone
Decades later, the truth continues to surface. Other children, now adults, who were at St Mary’s have come forward. Their memories mirror ours.
Richard Asplen wrote of his time in 1957:
"A loveless institution, administered by delusional women… I endured fear, anxiety, and corporal punishment in the bath house.”
Michael Freeman, who was just four years old, said:
“Wicked women, torturing tiny little children. I wish those criminals could see me now.”
Their words echo mine. And in them, I finally found a strange comfort: we were not alone. And we were not crazy.
The Scars That Don’t Show
What happened to us wasn’t just neglect. It was betrayal—by the Church, by the system, by the adults who looked the other way. It left scars. Ones you don’t see.
I never trusted authority again. I struggled to form relationships, to believe in my own worth. People thought I was antisocial, a loner. Maybe I was. But they never saw what shaped me.

Why I’m Speaking Now
I’m not writing this for pity. And I’m certainly not writing it to open old wounds. They’ve never really closed.
I’m writing this because, for the first time in my life, I have confirmation. Documents. Witnesses. Testimonies. Proof.
Proof that we were failed. That what we experienced was real. That the Catholic Church, through its institutions, allowed suffering behind closed doors. And that suffering has followed us every day since.
To Those Who Ask Why We Don’t Just Move On
We do try. Every day. But how do you move on from a stolen childhood? From the knowledge that the people meant to care for you inflicted pain instead.
Some of us survived. Some didn’t. Some of us are only now beginning to understand the impact those years had on our lives, our choices, our relationships, our mental health.
We were just children. And we deserved better.
________________________________________
If you were placed in care at St Mary’s in Gravesend, or another institution run by the Southwark Catholic Rescue Society, and would like to share your story, support is available.