by D J Wiseman
By Sunday, the need to be constructive got the better of her. What if Phoebe was not the golden ticket after all? Surely she was duty bound to follow up on her other ten candidates who, in her excitement, she had completely forgotten. One by one she looked up their death entries and made notes of the references. So simple was the exercise that in no time at all her list was complete. It had filled an hour of her time but without any satisfaction. She was left staring at the notepad, completely at a loss as to what she might do next. The grey and dreary day beyond her window had seeped into her home and with it a great wave of depression, a deep anticlimax, swept over her. The excitement of the chase, the clear purpose and direction, both had vanished, leaving her adrift and rudderless. The pleasures of her stay in the lakes each turned to dust as she recalled them, a deceptive mirage of happiness dissolving as quickly as it had appeared.
Lydia remained enveloped in this cloud of gloom for the next two days as she fiddled her way through work, avoiding any chance of direct conversation with Gloria until the Wednesday, when she was cornered by the coffee machine.
‘Meet anyone that took your fancy then?’
‘I don’t think I know what my fancy is these days,’ she replied with as light hearted and uninformative an answer as she could manage.
‘No, Lydia, I don’t think you do. What did you get up to then?’
‘Oh, you know, walked a bit, read a bit, just pottered around really. It’s a lovely area.’
Gloria shook her head to emphasise just how hopeless a case Lydia was. ‘I bet you found time to check out a few tombstones though. Met a few dead people, eh? Go on, say you didn’t.’
God, she hated Gloria, hated her shallow monochrome view of life, hated her trying to foist it on the rest of her narrow world. Mostly she could tolerate the stream of nonsense, the fixation with sex and shoes, the daily recounting of the gruesome details of the previous night. Oh how she was tempted to shock her once and for all, if only she had something to shock her with.
‘No, no meetings with the dead,’ and then added straight faced, ‘but you know, they often have a lot more of interest to say than some of the living.’
‘If you say so, Lydia,’ Gloria retorted as she flounced off, the sarcasm passing her by completely.
It was no better at home where she could settle to nothing. No sooner had she sat down than she needed to get up and prowl the house, which for the first time in the eleven years that she had lived there, felt cramped and unwelcoming. Like her clothes, all her other possessions had acquired a shabby second-hand quality. Once, for no apparent reason, Lydia found herself suddenly close to tears as she washed a few pans after her supper. Her meals, repeated with little variation for so long that she could not remember a different time, became tasteless. Her sleep was punctuated with fearful dreams, waking her with no memory of their content, only the fear. Each morning she blinked into the day as tired as the night before, so that by the end of the week she did not know whether the weekend was a blessing or a curse.
It turned out to be a blessing. Saturday’s post brought three letters and Lydia knew instantly from the colours of the paper showing through the envelopes that these were a death certificate and two birth certificates. Before she opened them, she sat at her desk and carefully arranged her workspace. If they contained what she so fervently hoped they contained, the day ahead of her would sweep the week’s depression away. The death certificate would be opened first because that was the order in which she had done things. Carefully she flattened the folded document. It was as sad in its way as everything else Lydia had come to understand about Phoebe Marshall. The date of death was given only approximately: ‘ About 17th July 1983’. And under cause of death ‘ Myocardial infarction, Ischaemic Heart Disease’, which was certified by the coroner ‘after post mortem without inquest’. The informant was a police constable, the date of registration 23rd July, the place of death Bride’s Cottage, Bridekirk. The place of birth was given as Essex, confirming it was almost certainly the Phoebe whose birth certificate she would be reading in a moment. Heart failure, a coroner, a police constable, these new details only served to underline the air of melancholy that surrounded this lady. Lydia could see her body in the cottage, or worse, in the garden, discovered by the milkman or a neighbour. The police are called, an ambulance arrives shortly after, no sirens or lights. Days later a doctor examines the remains and a constable is despatched to the registrar. Later still, the neighbour goes through her things, sorts through her papers, and finds some reference to S. It could even have been S who arranged and paid for the funeral. A will! There might be a will, the thought had not occurred to her until that moment, but now she had the details of death, finding a will would be a real possibility. And that might tell her much about this Essex girl who came to final rest in Bridekirk.
Lydia opened the two birth certificates and knew in one glance that she had a brother and sister. Here was Phoebe Isabella and her younger brother Albert William Francis. Both born at Coggeshall, Essex, both born to Isabella Marshall formerly Joslin and Francis Marshall, an insurance agent. ‘Formerly Joslin’, she savoured the two words that could unlock the Longlands picture. Lydia felt a smile on her lips for the first time in ten days. She took great care to record the details from the certificates into her table of information. Then, in a most deliberate manner she opened the Longlands album. Second left in the second row there is Isabella, but there is no Francis recorded in the caption. Are these the Joslins in their Edwardian prime? A search through the 1901 census would surely establish the family once and for all. And then there was Isabella and Francis’ marriage to find, and after that maybe other children.
So totally had Lydia become engrossed in Phoebe, her death and her place in the journal, she almost overlooked her original purpose. All those months ago she had set out to re-unite the Longlands album with some yet to be found family member. If she could truly establish the surname, then reunion would surely follow. She set about her task with renewed vigour. First stop were the Marshalls, Isabella and Francis. Plenty of matches in the 1901 census to Francis but none that were married to an Isabella, so she turned to Isabella Joslin. Two possibilities in Essex, one of which was in Bocking. There she was, she and her parents Albert and Pitternelle, her brother Joseph and sisters Alice and Aletha. Aletha! Alice’s presumed twin now had a name, and an unusual name at that, maybe a mistake in the record, but in due course a birth certificate would establish that. Now Lydia could put a name to ‘self’, something which gave her a huge sense of achievement. And because she was thorough, she also noted another Alice, Alice Speen, domestic servant recorded on the census form. Could she still be with the family ten years later? Was it Alice Speen who forever adjusted the curtains at the upstairs window? The address was ‘Bocking End’, no mention of Longlands. It did not matter that every name from the photograph was not represented, what mattered most was that nothing in the census contradicted the theory that Lydia was building. Census and photograph were entirely consistent, only when theory and record disagreed would she question that theory.
Saturday morning turned into the afternoon and evening before Lydia rested from her searches. Even then it was only because her eyes were sore, her back and shoulders ached and she felt faint from hunger. She was completely satiated with Joslins and their variants. From census to census she had worked back to Joshua, born around 1800, a farmer at High End Farm, Bocking in 1841. And then with no census to rely on she had used all the other sources she could find to look for Joshua’s marriage to Constance Jolly in 1825 and from Constance she found her parents John and Martha. They in turn gave her Constance’s sister Prudence and brothers Nathaniel and John. Lydia had to keep reminding herself that all this was provisional, all depended on the actual records, but it didn’t dim her enthusiasm. At every generation, every change in circumstances she had trawled through the birth and marriage index to find likely entries for her subjects. Killing them off would come later, even though it ran t
he risk of false trails now. In the fullness of time she would need to see copies of the critical entries in the registers to verify the picture that she was building. At least a dozen of those entries appeared essential even at this stage, which could be costly. She would start with the most important and order the certificates one by one, so that not only would the expense be spread but she would not waste her money if there was a broken link in the chain. And if the certificates endorsed her work, then it would be time to think of studying the actual parish records, not just other people’s often faulty transcriptions.
Not content with the Joslin and Jolly ancestors, she started working with the children of the marriages. It was not with huge success, but she found that Prudence had married a James Dix. Then by pure chance as she entered the wrong dates into a marriage search, she noticed that ‘Papa’ had apparently been married before he and Pitternelle had wed. And his first wife was Isabella Dix, daughter of Prudence. She went through her records and repeated all the relevant searches. There was no mistake. She knew the information could not always be trusted, especially where some of her sources were sloppy researchers who posted their guesses as fact. But, if the records were to be believed, then ‘Papa’ Albert’s first wife was a close cousin. Lydia sketched out the relationships and yes, sure enough, first cousins once removed. Nothing unusual in that in 1874, no more than her probable death a year later, which would make Isabella Dix only one among tens of thousands of women who had not survived their first pregnancy. Perhaps that was why, when Pitternelle had borne his first daughter in 1881, he had found it natural to name her Isabella. Such things escape the parish record and the census enumerator but Papa can scarcely have plucked the name from thin air.
Some food, her first glass of wine since Loweswater, and a dreamless sleep set her up for more of the same on the Sunday. She turned her efforts to finding likely identities for the remaining faces in the Longlands photograph. Gradually she made her lists and they were satisfyingly short. In part she relied on the Joslins having their children in and around Braintree and in this she was not disappointed. The family appeared to have been successful farmers, well established in the surrounding area for several generations. No ‘Ag Labs’ amongst the Joslins. A likely date for the birth of Albert and maybe even his marriage would be easily verified with yet another certificate. Likewise for Beatrice, another Albert, and Harriet, children or grand children perhaps, but most importantly, with names in the album. Late in the afternoon Lydia prioritised her list of critical certificates to be ordered. She decided on three to start with, ‘Papa’ Albert Joslin and his marriages to possibly Isabella and certainly Pitternelle, together with his probable eldest son Albert’s birth certificate. With nearly twenty more ‘criticals’ on her list Lydia was sincerely hoping that these three were not duds, she could hardly afford expensive failures at this early stage.
In the weeks that followed, Lydia found her normal equilibrium restored. Even Gloria became, if not likeable, then at least bearable. She continued her researches, doing at least one thing nearly every day. Over this time she sent for and received fifteen certificates of Joslin birth and marriage. She allowed herself just one death, that of Nathaniel Joslin in 1887. To her immense satisfaction the informant was ‘Papa’ Albert, doing what an eldest son has to do. Each of the envelopes was eagerly anticipated, and much to her relief only two appeared to be irrelevant to her immediate quest. Nonetheless, she still tabulated the information they offered, knowing that one day they might fit into some obscure corner of her jigsaw.
Before she knew it, the calendar had clicked into December, which was not so much winter as an endless extension of autumn. Warm damp days followed one another in a clammy cycle. The annual invitation to her brother and his family to join her for a Christmas meal was met by the annual polite refusal. This in turn was followed by Lydia agreeing to spend Christmas day with Brian and Joan and their girls. The enforced ten-day break from County Council payroll administration, or ‘Human Resources’ as they currently liked it to be known, loomed ahead of her, an unwelcome gap in the routine of her life. Worse still, before that lay the drudge of shopping for a few gifts, and the prospect of the Christmas meal with her colleagues from the office.
‘No, Derek, you squeeze in here between me and Lydia.’
Derek was Gloria’s current infatuation. The meal was strictly ‘no partners’, just the eight women from the section, but an evening entirely without male company had clearly not been on Gloria’s agenda, so Derek turned up just as the dessert was being served and dutifully squeezed in where he was told. A big man, well over six feet, and heavily built, maybe in his late forties and certainly a good deal older than Gloria. He nodded a half smile before turning his attention to Gloria and his back to Lydia. This was a relief, since an hour and a half of full-on Gloria was about as much as Lydia could stand, and she had just calculated that in another twenty minutes she could safely take her leave.
‘Derek, say hello to Lydia. Lydia, this is Derek, he’s a detective, a real detective. You two should have plenty to talk about. Lydia’s investigating a murder, aren’t you?’ Gloria was extremely pleased with herself, although Derek was less taken with the idea.
‘Oh, are you?’ he offered lamely, with no hint of genuine interest.
‘No, not really, just a little project I’ve been working on. Anyway, it was all a long time ago.’
‘Oh I thought she meant now.’
‘No, the, er, death was a long time ago.’
‘That would make it all the harder.’
‘It’s for fun really, I enjoy the puzzle and seeing if the pieces can be made to fit. I suppose that would be a luxury for you.’
‘Yeah, it’s not all Morse in Oxford. Paperwork mainly, bloody great mountains of it. That and computers. It’s all computers, analysing this and checking that. If not computers then it’s boffins, forensic stuff, little wisps of chemicals or a hint of DNA. Don’t matter if you get caught in the act, no little wisp then you’re off. Not many puzzles left in the job now. Only how to work the bloody computers, eh?’
‘I can imagine,’ said Lydia, and she could. She looked at this big dull man breathing beer in her face and wondered if he had ever solved a puzzle in his life. Perhaps he hadn’t needed to. ‘That’s a pity if you don’t enjoy what you do,’ she added, before remembering her own far from interesting employment.
‘It’s a living, pays the bills.’
‘That’s something.’
‘You two having a good chat, then? Comparing notes?’ Gloria interrupted. ‘How is it lover, shall we go on somewhere in a minute?’
Oh yes please, thought Lydia, go on somewhere right now, take this guardian of the peace and go anywhere. The opportunity for her own escape soon presented itself, as other members of the group began talking of one more drink and then which club to go to. No one expected Lydia to join them and she was able to slip away without any fuss, as relieved to be gone as she imagined her workmates would be to see her go.
The night was cold, St Giles still glistening from a shower as she made her way towards the lights of the shops. Crossing Beaumont Street she turned to walk down past The Randolph. A few steps from the entrance she stopped. Ahead of her Stephen Kellaway was getting out of a car, the door held open for him by the hotel porter. Lydia stared in astonishment, jostled by the others on the pavement as she stood in their path. There was no mistake, the black tie and dinner jacket could not disguise him. He would not see her if she did not approach him, she could turn away or walk right up to him. He would be friendly and greet her warmly, take her in for a drink, enquire about the journal, encourage her, take an interest. It would be the second time that they had met in a hotel entrance. Lydia moved to the side, closer to the building, steadying herself against the brickwork with one hand while the other went to her hair, a damp and frizzy mop. As she stood gulping air, a woman, radiant in evening dress and million-dollar hair-do over shimmering earrings, descended the steps to welcome Ste
phen with a kiss on each cheek. Taking his arm, she guided him up and into the Randolph. The car drew away. Beaumont Street returned to its business. Of the scene that had played out, only Lydia remained, pinned to the wall.
The walk to her little house in West Street took no more than fifteen minutes, but it might have taken an hour for all Lydia knew. She travelled in a daze, her footsteps mechanical, the direction instinctive. Her breathing was all wrong and she could not find its proper rhythm. Confused thoughts and contradictory images flickered through her head one after another. After a while she began to berate herself for such stupidity, what on earth could she have been thinking about? To have simply said hello, to have just acknowledged the happy chance would have cost her nothing, now she could never contact him or meet him, the burden of her shrinking into the shadows at the sight of him would be too great. If he knew how she had reacted there could never be even the most casual of friendships.
On the Tuesday after Christmas, Lydia decided on her next course of action. Quite deliberately she had pushed the whole business of Joslins and journals out of her mind and enjoyed herself more than usual with her brother and his wife. She even agreed to stay over for a night, something she’d done only once before and that when the girls had been mere toddlers. Joan was a little less condescending, Lydia’s presents a little more appreciated, the scarf and gloves from Brian and Joan a little more appropriate. Surprisingly refreshed, the dead days until her return to work no longer threatened. She would be occupied by the belated Christmas present that she gave herself. It took the unusual form of four hundred stamps and envelopes. These would be used to send letters to two hundred Joslin households in the hope of finding a link from the living to the Longlands album.