by Katie Khan
Thea sits at Isaac’s shoulder, leaning forward, but as he turns through pages and pages with no joy, she sits back, then slouches in her chair. She wishes she was allowed to bring a pen in with her – doodling has always helped her think.
‘Hmm,’ Isaac says after a while, almost admitting defeat. ‘This registry only captures about 10 per cent of the agreements and crew lists. So …’ He moves back to the computer terminal, and brings up all the available reference documents for the Royal Navy. ‘Aha!’ he says, and Thea sits bolt upright in her chair. ‘The Register of Seamen’s Tickets. They’re numerical – but they also record the sailor’s name.’ He looks at her archly. ‘This is where we get to be spies; we have to view the register on microfiche.’
‘Goodie.’
Isaac sets up the system and they both lean forward.
‘We need to request a date range,’ Thea says, and Isaac types 1880–1900. ‘Oh, shit – there are 283 volumes.’
‘You didn’t use to swear,’ Isaac says, starting to scroll.
After a few minutes he says: ‘Here we go. Here we fucking go. “Admiral Joseph Coleman of Bedfordshire, England, Royal Navy officer recruitment: 1886. Termination of service: 1910.” Twenty-four years in the Royal Navy.’
‘And that’s definitely our guy?’
‘Oh, this is good – Admiral Coleman has several linked documents.’
‘Great,’ Thea says cautiously, remembering the 283 volumes they’ve already surfaced.
‘This. This is very good.’ Isaac turns the wheel to bring up the records of baptisms, marriages and burials between 1845 and 1998. ‘Joseph Coleman became a father while in the Navy. To little baby Frederick, and bonny wee Ailsa.’ Isaac removes his phone from the clear plastic bag and jots the names down in his phone’s notes section, taking photos of the documents as he goes. ‘Huh,’ Isaac says, hovering his finger over the Navy register. ‘His record also links to the Merchant Navy register, so he presumably joined as a civilian after being discharged, but …’
‘Go on.’
‘But “Admiral Joseph Colman” in the Merchant Navy –’ Isaac makes Thea scoot forward – ‘is spelled with no E.’
‘Typo?’ she says.
‘Maybe.’
‘Incorrectly linked documents?’
‘Not likely.’ He reads through Joseph Colman’s entry in the Merchant Navy register, scrolling the microfiche against his corresponding seaman’s ticket. ‘Look – he moved the family up to Scotland.’ Isaac points out an address, dated 1902. ‘Admiral Joseph Colman in the Merchant Navy lived in Musselburgh, East Lothian.’ He looks over his shoulder at Thea. ‘Didn’t you always say you’re half Scottish?’
‘My dad’s side,’ she says, adding by rote, ‘I don’t have the accent.’
‘Here.’ Isaac hands her his phone as he clicks into the other linked documents for Admiral Coleman. ‘Google the origin of the surname “Colman”.’
Thea unlocks his phone with his passcode and opens a mobile browser window. ‘It’s loading,’ she says. ‘Do I want the search results from ancestry.co.uk or surnamedb.com?’
‘Either,’ Isaac says. ‘Even Wikipedia will do; we just want the gist.’
‘Here we go: “Colman”. “This interesting surname” –’ Thea smirks, reading aloud from the phone screen – ‘“is a Scottish variant of Coleman, which has a number of possible origins, the first being of English origin …”’ She trails off, looking at Isaac. ‘Could it be that simple?’
Isaac glances at the microfiche registers in front of him, at the two names, Coleman and Colman, and the two addresses: one in Bedfordshire, the other in East Lothian. ‘It really could be. Dropping a letter because the common name in your new country, where you’ve just moved your young family, is spelled without an E, sounds like a no-brainer to me.’ Isaac signals at himself. ‘Look at my family during the war.’
Thea sits back, stunned.
‘Have you ever traced your family tree?’
She groans. ‘No, I haven’t, Isa. Is there no other way to work out whether Joseph—’
‘And his kids, Ailsa and Frederick Colman—’
‘Is my ancestor?’ She looks at him, pleading. ‘From here. Or online.’
‘I’m thinking,’ he says, ‘I’m thinking. How can we put together a family tree in a few minutes? Okay … yes.’ As pens are banned in the reader’s room in case any visitor becomes tempted to vandalize an original record, Isaac draws a rudimentary family tree on an app on his phone, using his finger as a pen. ‘So we have Admiral Joseph Coleman, spelled two ways – plus his son Frederick Colman, and daughter Ailsa Colman. Let’s presume, because of the era, she changed her surname when she got married.
‘Now, what’s the name of the oldest relative you can remember?’ he asks, then blanches as Thea looks like she’s been punched, the wallop of her family’s absence striking her anew. ‘I’m sorry. I wouldn’t ask if—’
‘My grandmother was called Daphne, and my granddaddy was Peter Colman.’
‘Thank you,’ he breathes. ‘And were they … elderly … when you were a child, relatively speaking?’
‘I don’t know, exactly.’ She considers his question. ‘They’d both died by the time I was ten.’
‘I see. So we’ll add Peter Colman and his wife Daphne to our tree, further down. If we suppose your grandparents were, what, seventy-something, when you were a child? That could put them as being born in the 1920s. That leaves us two generations, maybe only one, to connect Fred and Ailsa with Peter.’ Isaac puts his tongue in his cheek, thinking. ‘That could be possible.’
Thea looks at the lines he’s drawn with his index finger across the screen, the scrawled names forming her family tree. She watches as Isaac writes ‘THEA’ at the bottom, connecting her to Peter and Daphne, leaving a big gap between. ‘Alistair,’ she says quietly, though he hasn’t asked, and Isaac looks at her, alert. ‘And my mum was Ruth.’
Without saying a word he draws ‘Alistair and Ruth’ carefully, tenderly, knowing that the visibility of their names above Thea’s could wound her. He speaks very gently. ‘Can you open the computer –’ he points at the terminal on the desk – ‘and click on the section marked “Wills and death duties”? For Frederick Colman,’ he adds quickly.
Thea does as he suggests. ‘They only have wills up to 1858,’ she says, reading through the blurb and clicking a button with instructions. ‘“For wills proved in Scotland up to 1925 go to scotlandspeople.gov.uk” … That could be the one?’
Isaac nods. ‘Open it; let’s search Frederick Colman, Musselburgh.’
Slowly, over the next quarter-hour, they connect the dots between the children of Admiral Joseph Coleman, seller of the painting of the Unknown Woman, and Thea. As they discover no will for his son Frederick, and instead an online record of his death certificate showing he died in 1917 during the Great War, they move on to the admiral’s daughter Ailsa, discovering she left everything to her own children in her will – who all bore the surname Colman. ‘I guess you would,’ Thea says, ‘rather than let your family name die out.’
Isaac agrees, adding a vertical line down from Ailsa Colman on the makeshift family tree, the branches drawn with his finger given a cursive flair. ‘In the instructions about finding wills proved in Scotland,’ he says, ‘where do we look after 1925?’
She goes back to the help page. ‘The National Records of Scotland.’ She hits the button, loading the site. ‘Let me guess – I search Ailsa’s children’s names for their wills?’
‘Aye,’ Isaac says, attempting a Scottish accent then immediately dropping it with a grimace. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if …’
‘No way.’ Thea looks up at him, letting her hand fall from the mouse. ‘No fricking way.’
‘Back to not swearing, I see,’ Isaac says, leaning across her to read it. He hits print, looking round for the reading room printer. ‘This is what I hoped to see. “Testament testamentar of Jonathan Colman, deceased 1952.” Cancer, how very sad.’
The last will and testament of Ailsa’s son bears an itemized list of everyday belongings, which Isaac picks up from the printer. ‘“To my son, Peter Colman,”’ he reads quietly, back at their desk, ‘“I leave—” yada, yada, yada.’
Thea’s mouth hangs open. ‘Peter Colman – my grandfather?’
‘I would say so,’ Isaac says.
Thea nervously twists the band bearing the brilliant-cut diamond that sits above the joint on her ring finger.
‘Ailsa Colman is Jonathan Colman’s mother. And Jonathan Colman is your grandfather’s father.’ Isaac does the maths, the connections making his head swirl. ‘Your grandfather’s great-grandfather sold the painting to the National Portrait Gallery in 1908.’ He prevents himself from doing a hop and a skip, picking up their phones and the clear plastic bag holding Thea’s ID. ‘This is more than I’d hoped for. Much more.’
Thea gazes at him, still in shock.
‘I did ask for hard proof to connect that painting to me,’ she says quietly. ‘Something even a scientist couldn’t deny.’
‘You did.’
‘I think you might have found it.’
‘Where did you get the rings?’ he asks. ‘Did you inherit them?’
‘I’ve always had them,’ she says.
Isaac looks thoughtful as he catches sight of the covering page of Thea’s bank statement, gathering the rest of their stuff and helping her to her feet. ‘You look exactly like the sitter in the painting. The sitter in the painting is wearing the exact same rings as yours, exactly how you wear them. And you’re related to the seller, with a direct line of provenance. Can I make one more leap?’
‘Will you get the proof to back it up?’
‘It’s you in the painting,’ Isaac says, ‘I know it is.’
Fifteen
They stand outside the National Archives in the fading light, the day saturating into greys and blues as they face each other with rising elation. ‘It’s you in the painting,’ Isaac says again.
‘Do you really think so?’
‘I used to want you to be wrong about time travel,’ he admits, and she tilts her head at the non sequitur.
‘I know you did.’ Thea shrugs, not moving her gaze from his face.
‘This search – I guess this is my way of making amends.’
She speaks quietly. ‘I know.’
‘I was so sure you were wrong, I even suggested Ayo might want to double-check your physics,’ he says, to which she scowls, though it would only be good science to peer-review her work. ‘But I believe you really did it. You went back in time.’
‘We don’t have proof of that.’
‘We almost do,’ he says as he smiles at her oddly. ‘It’s you. I knew it was you the minute I saw it.’
‘So what comes next?’ She moves back and forth on the spot, finding his certainty infectious.
Isaac looks at his watch: 4.45 p.m. ‘I have a vague idea, but we’ve only got about fifteen minutes to try it. Can we jog?’
Thea looks horrified. ‘Jog? I don’t jog.’
‘Imagine you’re late for a lecture,’ he calls as they take off down the road. ‘If you don’t make it on time, you have to do the walk of shame through the front of the lecture hall.’
‘I do so enjoy disappointing professors,’ she says, as a swell of rain drips down onto them from the trees, and they run in the shelter of the endless brick wall that lines Kew. ‘It’s my new hobby.’
‘You have changed.’ He throws a glance her way, relishing this return to how they used to rib and joke with each other at Oxford.
‘And yet I still can’t run,’ she says, breathless. ‘Where are we going?’
‘The bank.’
She stops running. ‘Which bank?’
‘The one we passed near Kew Gardens station. Most banks close at five, so will you please keep up?’
‘The bank?’
‘Thea – please will you trust me on this?’
She picks up her pace to jog alongside him. ‘I do.’
‘Good.’ Isaac laughs as they harrumph along towards Station Approach, their trainers squelching with the dregs of the rainy afternoon. They’re both tired, though they won’t admit it – the thrill of discovering something new at each step has kept them going. More than that; it’s a thrill to rediscover their friendship, and to feel close once more.
Isaac feels the confusion of his feelings keenly.
They may not talk about Commemoration Week, but with his emotions flaring like this it’s not far from his mind. They’ve been close since they first met, but something else tickles at the edges of their friendship for him, and it’s nearly always been unreturned. They’re too busy for Isaac to think about it much, now – too busy proving what Thea has managed to achieve. How she might change the world. But he senses a flux in her, the potential that his feelings are – for once – possibly returned. If he’s not careful, the thought could send him into orbit.
They arrive at the bank in Kew as the security guard bolts the entrance door. ‘Please,’ says Isaac, ‘we’ll only be a minute.’
‘Sorry, mate. Last counter service is at 4.55 p.m.’
Thea steps forward. ‘Oh, please – we’ll be very quick. We won’t keep you late.’
‘Nope,’ the guard says, putting Thea and her charm (or lack thereof) firmly in her place. She reaches for Isaac’s wrist and waves the watch under the man’s nose. ‘See? It’s only 4.54 p.m.’
Reluctantly the guard lets them through and they rush past.
‘Not quite as charming as you were at the gallery,’ she quips, ‘but just as efficient.’
Isaac tips an imaginary cap at Thea. ‘Sometimes it’s nothing to do with charm – just plain pedantry.’
‘That’s lucky. I have that in spades.’
They join the queue at the counter, and Isaac anxiously rubs his temple as an elderly lady counts out her pennies for the poor teller behind the glass.
‘Why are we here?’ Thea whispers, and with an eye on the clock, Isaac nudges her forward.
‘Get your passport and bank statement out,’ he says, as they edge towards the front, ‘and ask for your full account history.’
Baffled, Thea does as he asks, handing over her bankcard and ID, waving her paperwork.
The teller looks at Thea like she’s mad. ‘Statements going back how long?’
‘Since the account was started. Please.’
‘Your current account or your savings account?’
Isaac leans forward. ‘Savings.’
The teller speaks aloud as she types: ‘Theodora Colman, Savings Trust Plus. You want monthly, or yearly?’
‘Yearly is fine,’ Isaac says quietly, ‘or decades, if that’s easier.’
Thea tilts her head, confused.
The printer under the counter begins to rumble, and Isaac bites his thumbnail. Thea glances at him, but he notices she doesn’t question him – yet – as she graciously accepts the first ream of paper handed to her. ‘I hope you have a good reason to murder these trees,’ she whispers, as she tucks the statements into her giant bag.
‘I think I do,’ he replies, taking the next batch from the teller. ‘Do you mind if I look?’
‘No,’ Thea says, ‘I don’t mind. I’m surprised you’d ask.’
‘I’m not looking at the balances, in case you’re worried—’
‘I’m not.’ They flash a quick smile at each other, accepting the final wedge of paperwork before making for the exit past the furious-looking security guard, who had to stay ten minutes late without overtime, as they head out into the autumn evening.
‘Can you tell me—?’
‘One second.’ He turns through the pages, then looks up at her apologetically. ‘May I have the ones in your bag? I’m sorry,’ he says, ‘I promise I’m not being too personal. It’s just a hunch …’
Out on the pavement, back in the drizzle, they huddle together against the wet. Isaac curves over the paper to protect it from the damp, squinting as he
flips back, and back, and back chronologically through the paperwork towards the start of the account, looking for the first entry.
‘Isaac,’ Thea says. ‘Why do you think it’s me?’
He looks up. ‘Who?’
‘The painting. Why do you think the Unknown Woman is me? Honestly?’ she says.
‘Because she’s beautiful,’ he says without hesitation. ‘Look at every other painting of Lady Margaret Beaufort we’ve seen today. Her appearance changes, depending on the artist, or the period of the painting – though they all have the same visual fingerprints; she always looks devout, starved, pious, or angry. But this girl …’ He holds the postcard in the clear plastic bag, sheltering it from the rain. Together they look at the nineteenth-century portrait, the deep reds and warm golds, the neat features and tucked-over hands. Even from only the size of a postcard they can see the tenderness in the portrayal the artist has given her – the painting was not undertaken as a piece of cold, studied work. Isaac smiles. ‘This girl is lit from within, like you.’
Thea takes a deep breath, staring down at the papers in Isaac’s hands; when she looks up, he’s no longer looking at the statements, but at her. ‘What are you looking for here, Isa?’
‘How did you pay for the barn?’
‘The barn?’ She frowns.
‘How did you have the money to create the glass house? Or a replica laser? Or, in fact, to pay for your entire Oxford tuition fees without a loan? You must know how rare that is.’
‘I came into some money when I was a child,’ she says uncomfortably. ‘When my parents …’ Her voice trails off.
‘And I can see that – here in your statements, when you were twelve, nearly thirteen.’ He holds out the piece of paper, but she doesn’t take it. ‘Most of the money in your account didn’t come from that inheritance, Thea. The money was deposited into your account in 1908.’
‘What?’ She reaches for the sheet of paper, but Isaac rustles through the pile, looking for another.
‘See here? This bank account has existed in your name since 1908.’