‘You’re well matched, he seems to be good for you, I’ve never seen you so happy.’
‘I am.'
We sat on the sofa and chatted for a while, before she took herself off to the kitchen, rejecting my offers of help.
‘Can you turn the TV on? I’d like to catch the news.’ She called from the kitchen. I switched on the flat screen TV, the news was just starting. Again coverage of the forthcoming election dominated the news. There were sound bites from the leaders of the three main parties, followed by the latest polls, which showed an increasing degree of support for the BNRA, who had called for a mass rally in Trafalgar Square for Sunday. ‘It’ll probably be a good idea to steer clear of that at the weekend; I wouldn’t want to get caught up in that with some of the people who support that lot.’ She said coming in from the kitchen. ‘Steak and salad okay? I’m afraid I haven’t had much time to shop recently.’
‘Fine’ I replied ‘Are you sure I can’t help?’
‘You could lay the table; the cutlery is in the drawer over there. I set up the table and laid out the cutlery. Within a few minutes she had returned bearing two plates loaded with salad and a piece of sirloin steak. She put the plates down and then brought in a basket of freshly cut French bread and some butter. ‘Do you want a drink?’ she asked. I shook my head.
As we ate, she asked ‘What do we do next?’
I finished my last mouthful of food. ‘That was good, thanks.’
‘Where do we go next then?’
‘I think we need to try and find more about our friend Miller. We need to try to track down his full name to start with.’
‘How do we go about that? Where can we look?’
I smiled. ‘Got an internet connection?’
‘Wifi. I’ll go get my laptop.’ She left the table and returned with a new Sony laptop. I pushed my plate with its finished meal away from me. I clicked on the internet browser and called up the 1911 census, a search page appeared, asking for first name, last name, year of birth, place of birth and location. I typed in ‘Miller’, followed by ‘1909’ as the year of birth plus or minus three years either way. Then hit search. There were over 6800 records, which were too many to display.
‘Bugger!’ I cursed. I thought for a minute then changed the parameters to narrow the search to within a year of his 1909 date of birth. This reduced it to something over 4000.
‘Shit!’ I cursed again.
‘Try typing the initial W into the forename box.’ Lisa suggested, but that only gave us names with the letter W listed instead of the full Christian name. I returned to the previous page and hit the ‘View results’ button. The first page of names came up on the screen, starting with Miller, Abraham, then Miller, Abram.
‘Good, they’re in alphabetical order by forename, we should be able to jump to the Ws.’ I said.
Lisa was looking over my shoulder. ‘Try jumping to page twenty-five’ she said pointing to the line of boxes at the top of the page. I clicked on the number. The list started with Miller, William. I tried page twenty-four, in the middle of the page was Miller, W. Henry.
‘Okay, keep a list of these names’ I said. Scrolling down the list, I read out ‘Miller, Walter Henry; Miller, Wilfred Henry; Miller Wilfred, Howard…’ The list ran on until we reached ‘Miller, William Henry’ there were eight of them.
‘Super’ Lisa exclaimed. ‘How do we differentiate these?’
‘List them by district and county.’ The list continued to grow. By the time we reached ‘Miller, Woolfe Henry.’, we had a total of twenty-three names.
‘So how so we know which one?’
‘We’ll need to buy the detailed results, we’re looking for a household with a woman with either a German forename or place of birth, or both I just hope that he’s been listed with his middle name, or this could cost us a fortune. Pass my jacket.’ I used my credit card to buy credits. ‘We only need to view the transcript until we find the right one.’ One-by-one we called up the entries, our number of credits declined. By the time we got to half way, we had to purchase more credits. At number twenty-two, we reached ‘Miller, William Howard’.
‘That’s it!’ Lisa exclaimed ‘Look ‘Head of household Miller Alfred, Vaughan aged 32, Army Officer, born Richmond, Yorkshire. Then we’ve got his wife, Miller, Lisl Marie, 27, born Wedemark, Hannover, Germany. Get the full copy.’
‘Got a printer?’ I asked calling up the page.
‘Yeah, wireless, it’s in the box room, just hit print.’
We examined the full copy, ‘This tells us his address in 1911 and place of birth. Born in Maidenhead, Berkshire and resident at 30 Lupus Street, Pimlico, London. There appears to be a live-in housekeeper too, so they were not badly off.’
‘Mmmm, army officer in 1911, I wonder…’ I murmured. Then I went back to the laptop, typed for a minute. ‘Yes! Got him, I thought that as a professional soldier, there was a good chance of him being a casualty in the First World War, a lot of professional officers were. I checked with the Commonwealth War Graves Commission and here it is, 28703 Major Alfred Vaughan Miller, 1st Battalion Middlesex Regiment, died 17th October 1917, buried at Tynecot Cemetery, Ypres. His father died when he was eight, which would have meant the family living on an army pension. We might find records in the National Archives in Kew.’
‘If I try that tomorrow, you could continue to dig into the mother….shit, look at the time, it’s nearly 2.00 am. You can’t travel back to Docklands at this time in the morning. I’ll make you up a bed in the box room.’
‘You sure? I don’t want to impose. I could call a cab. I mean it’s not proper me staying here, when your boyfriend is away.’
‘You’re staying! You’re not my teacher any more, I’m an adult and if I choose to invite a friend to stay in the spare room, it’s perfectly proper. James would have no problem, honestly. Unless you’re planning to jump on me.’ She laughed.
‘No, you’re perfectly safe; I’m too knackered for that.’
She made up the bed in the small box room. ‘You use the bathroom first; give me a call when you’re out.’
I washed and went into my room. ‘It’s all yours.’ I called. I closed the door, undressed and climbed into bed. When I turned the light off, I fell asleep at once.
Chapter 5
The morning sun streamed in through the thin curtains to wake me. At first I was confused by my unfamiliar surroundings. Only slowly did I realise where I was. I looked at my watch and was surprised to see it was nearly nine. I rolled out of bed and pulled on my jeans and opened the door into the sitting room. Lisa was sitting at the table working on her laptop.
‘Hi, I wondered when you’d emerge, you could sleep for England’ she said looking up. ‘I’ve left you one of James’ tee shirts and some clean socks, I didn’t go for boxers, that’d be a bit icky.’
‘Thanks’ I went into the small bathroom and washed and showered.
‘There’s a new toothbrush in the cupboard, I got one when I collected the papers earlier.’
I got dressed, the tee shirt was a bit tight, but otherwise I looked okay. Lisa came in from the kitchen with two mugs of coffee. After a late night and with no makeup save a little mascara, she still looked amazing. Just for a moment, I forgot my situation and my age. Sucking in my stomach, I crossed the room and sat down with her at the table.
‘Anything in the papers?’
‘Just the usual election stories, there’s a whole article here written by Sinclair. He’s going on about foreign ownership of British companies, claiming that they protect jobs in their home countries at the expense of British jobs. He makes the same claims about energy companies making more profit from their British customers than they do at home. He calls it ripping off Britain. Of course he doesn’t say what he’d do about it. What could he do? Renationalise all the utility companies? Then he reverts to the same old theme of Britons of British descent – i.e. whites – coming first. How does he get away with this xenophobic crap? I think he’s a very
dangerous man and God help us if he gets any sort of power. One of my colleagues has been looking at links between Sinclair’s BNRA and a violent bunch of ultra-right thugs called Storm 45, but she could not find enough evidence to prove anything and Sinclair’s lawyers were all over us, threatening law suits. There was some pressure behind the scenes too, or at least that was what was rumoured.’
‘He seems very sensitive about his image, perhaps because it’s all the BNRA have. I agree though, I think he’s a deeply unpleasant and dangerous man. I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him.’ I replied.
After a breakfast of cereal and toast, we left the flat. We agreed to work separately today and to phone each other with the results tonight. Lisa got on the first bus and left with a wave and a smile on her way to Kew. I took the next bus back to Queen Mary’s, where I could use a computer. If Lisl Miller was twenty-seven in 1911, she must have been born in about 1884, which would make her 125, if she were still alive, which was unlikely. Therefore there had to be a death certificate, but since she could have died any year since 1911, it was going to be a bitch to find it. I started to search the death certificate records starting with the 1960’s when she would have been a septuagenarian. A frustrating hour passed with no joy. Then it struck me, there would probably be a record of the widows pension paid to her in the archive where Lisa was. I left the library, as phones were frowned upon and I phoned her to ask her to prioritise it. Within the hour she sent me a text, ‘Pension paid until 1980.’
I searched the records online and sure enough there it was. I had to use my credit card again to purchase a full copy. Lisl Marie Miller had died in Forest Row, Sussex, cause of death pulmonary oedema. I saved it, then emailed a copy to Lisa and one to myself.
A thought occurred to me, if Miller had continued with the BUF, then it was possible that his exploits could have appeared in the newspapers. I grabbed a sandwich on the run as I took the tube to King’s Cross. I walked up towards Euston to the new British Library. Registration was a pain, but at last I got access to their newspaper archive. I confined my search to local papers like the Evening Standard. In the course of the afternoon I managed just two hits. A W. Miller appeared in Bow Magistrates Court, charged with affray, during a BUF march in April 1936. In a second article, William Howard Miller had failed to answer bail on charges under the Firearms Act in August 1939; the judge was told by the police that it was believed he had fled the country. I made notes on both articles then headed for my hotel.
Lisa phoned at six, she had found the service record of Miller Senior, but it had not added much to our investigation. She had read my email and readily agreed that as the next day was Saturday, we would go down to Forest Gate to see if we could uncover anything more about Lisl, as she seemed to be our best bet of picking up Miller’s trail again. She would meet me at the hotel at 8.30. My evening without Lisa’s company was dull. Not a good idea, I began to dwell on Jane and my defunct marriage again, the bleak future I envisaged was all I could see. Worse still I began to recall all the good times we had, as a couple, as a family, times that would not happen again. My stomach sank; my hands began to shake like a recovering alcoholic as again I struggled to hold back the tears sitting in my room. I phoned my daughter Claire, who was very sympathetic and supportive, but she was up to her eyes with her dissertation. She promised to visit as soon as she had a moment and rang off. I turned in early, but found sleep difficult to come by. Eventually I gave up and read until the early hours, when fatigue finally helped me to drift off.
I met Lisa as arranged, I still felt tired after a poor night’s sleep. We set off down the A13 before venturing on to the M25. Forty minutes later we pulled in at the services for coffee. Reinvigorated by the caffeine, I set off for Forest Row. We turned off on to the A22, passing the unusual sight of a Mormon temple at Newchapel, its tall spire pointing skywards from the rectangular building like the gnomon on a sundial. Half an hour later we reached Forest Row, a pleasant village, where the A22 opened up into a square, with the Chequers, a 15th century inn occupying the left and the church dominating the view ahead. We pulled off the road and drove to a car park. We crossed the road to the church, the Church of the Holy Trinity. It appeared to be built in a late mediaeval style, with a slender tower topped by a steeple. On closer inspection, the stone church dated from the Victorian era. A claret coloured sign confirmed my suspicions.
‘Built in 1834,’ I said ‘the Victorians had a thing about building in a fake gothic style. Let’s split up, you start with the grave yard, if the church is open I’ll give it the once over, then join you.’
The church was open, but deserted. I pushed open the oak door and entered, finding the cool, dark interior refreshing after the heat of the July sun. With no vault, there was no need to look for memorials set into the floor, so I began to look around the walls. There were a number of polished brass plaques set into the north wall and reading them was not easy in the gloom, but none of them related to a Lisl Miller. I walked round the altar and began to read those set into the south wall. In the south west corner I found what I had been searching for. Set into the wall was a brass plaque about nine by six inches, it had engraved on it:
Lisl Marie Miller
1884-1980
Beloved wife and mother
R.I.P.
This was an interesting find, with her husband dead since 1917; the most likely person to have such an inscription made was her errant son.
The big question was, could we find out any more? I left the church, squinting in the dazzling sunlight to try to make out Lisa in the graveyard. She saw me first; she was talking to a small, stooped, white haired old woman, who was laying flowers on a nearby grave. She shook her head to warn me off. I sat in the sun until the woman left and Lisa waved me over.
‘I’ve found it! It’s over here,’ she led me to a well-kept grave with a marble headstone. ‘What’s more I met someone who knew her. That old lady was visiting her husband’s grave. I told her Lisl was my great aunt and I was tracing my family history. The old lady said she used to work at The Gables, a rather expensive nursing home just up the hill. Lisl lived there and the two of them became friends. She said Lisl had often spoken to her of her childhood in Germany and how she lost her husband in the war. Apparently, Lisl suffered great hardships in the 20s and 30s, taking in laundry and sewing to make ends meet. The woman told me Lisl had few visitors. Her big regret was her son, apparently she was always talking about him, she hadn’t seen since before the war. He disappeared in France when the war began and was never seen again. That must be our William!’
‘Good going Lisa,’ I said
‘Naah, I just got soooo lucky, I can’t believe it.’
‘More than luck, I bet the old woman wouldn’t have spoken to me.’
‘But this doesn’t get us much further forward; we already knew that William Miller had gone to France just before the war.
‘Yes, but that bit about her struggles in the depression, it doesn’t gel with her spending her declining years in a posh nursing home. Where did the money come from? Add that who had the plaque place in the church. If she had not seen William since 1939, it rather buggers my theory that it was him’
‘That’s a good point; maybe we could visit the nursing home and see what we can find out.’
‘Let’s go look the place over and then see where we go from there.’
We walked up the hill a quarter of a mile. A sign on the other side of the road read ‘The Gables, Private Nursing Home’. Set back in it set back in its own grounds behind a privet hedge, was a large Victorian mansion.
‘We just can’t go barging in there demanding to know how Lisl Miller managed to pay for such a place. Let’s go down to the Chequers and have some lunch, while we get our story straight.’
We walked down the hill to the pub, ordered our food and soft drinks at the bar then settled at a table near the inglenook fireplace, which fortunately did not have a fire in on a hot July day.
> ‘Right, how do we blag our way in?’ I asked. ‘Any ideas?’
‘What about we say you’re my dad, and Lisl was my mother’s aunt. We could invent some excuse as to why we need to know who paid.’
We sat around the table and ate lunch, whilst we concocted our story. Once finished, we left to try it out. We took the car up to the nursing home and crunched up the curved gravel drive. We walked up the broad staircase, which had been augmented by a wheelchair ramp. I rang the bell. The door was answered by a woman in a green nurse’s uniform; she wore a badge that said ‘Helen, Care assistant’.
‘Good afternoon,’ I began ‘I’m sorry to arrive without an appointment, but would it be possible to speak with the proprietor or the administrator?’
‘I dunno if Mrs Coleridge is in.’ she said.
‘Mrs. Coleridge?’ asked Lisa.
‘She’s the boss. I tell you what, I’ll get Sister Thomas, mebbe she can ‘elp yer.’
She picked up a phone and summoned assistance. A brisk, middle aged woman with a starched blue uniform and a kind face bustled down the staircase into the reception area.
‘Yes, can I help?’
‘We’d like to see someone with regard to a former patient, who died about thirty years ago. She was my late wife’s great aunt, her name was Lisl Miller. My daughter here had been tracing the family tree and found out that Lisl died here in 1980.’ I started.
‘I discovered that my great, great aunt had suffered terribly in the Great Depression, but she ended up here.’ Lisa continued smoothly. ‘I know our side of the family didn’t have the resources to keep her here, but I’d like to find out who did. During my researches I’ve come to be quite fond of Lisl and would like to write to them to thank them for taking such care of her.’ It wasn’t the best story in the world, but it was the best we could come up with at short notice.
‘I’m sorry, our Administrative Manager is not in today. All of our financial records are computerised and I’m afraid I don’t have access to them. Even if I did I’m not sure what our policy is on disclosing financial details. So I can’t help you.’
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