by M J Lee
Mark thought for a long while before asking his next question.
'Do you think we'll ever be able to prove the marriage?'
'Honestly, I don't know. The records in Gretna may tell us something. If not, we'll go to the Central Depository for Scottish Records in Edinburgh.'
'You're hoping the internet records missed something.'
'It's always better to check the original files. Sometimes, names get written incorrectly or misspelt. Or pages can be missed. Or pages may be so corrupted they can't transcribe them. And if they used an optical reader, then one never knows what can happen. Computer errors are often much worse than human error.'
'So there is a chance?'
'There's always a chance. There's always a record somewhere, it's just a question of finding it.'
'We only have four more days left. After then, the statute of limitations kicks in and it no longer matters what we discover, the crown gets everything.'
Once again, he lapsed into silence. Jayne wondered if his main concern was with his great grandmother's reputation or with the money. It didn't matter to her either way any more. She only cared about one thing; the person in the picture in Holloway Prison.
After a short stoppage for roadworks north of Lancaster, they raced through the hilly country of the North with the mountains of the Lake District a misty brown presence on their left. The road rolled up and down, with occasional farmhouses in dour grey stone, dotted through the rolling hills.
A large sign announced they were crossing the border into Scotland. Jayne immediately exited the motorway, following the signs for the village. In just five minutes, they reached a T-junction and opposite them a sign proudly proclaimed 'Gretna Green. Famous Blacksmith's Shop.'
'So this is it then, where my great grandmother said she was married.'
'It's the place where thousands of young people, eager to get married, rushed over the border to commit themselves to each other over a blacksmith's anvil.'
'I wonder if my great grandmother was one of them, or whether it was all just one of her fantasies.'
'The only way to find out, is to ask.'
Chapter Thirty
Holton Hall, Derbyshire. April 24, 1916.
'You can't marry this shopgirl. I forbid it.' His mother's hand slapped the table shaking the china teacups.
'My mind is made up, Mother. I love Rose and she loves me.'
'Rose, is that her name? Sounds positively lower middle class. I suppose she has a sister called Daisy?'
'She's an only child. Her mother died some time ago, and her father died in 1914.'
His mother stood up. 'At least that is some relief, we won't have some lower class parents wandering around the rooms, picking up the china and asking how much it cost.'
'Mother, you go too far. Mr Clarke was a haberdasher not anything else.'
'Oh well, that is just perfect, we won't want for warm winter coats, will we?' she said with heavy irony.
'James, say something, tell your son what a fool he's being.'
David's father sat in his usual chair, a book resting on his lap. He obviously wanted to be back in the library where he belonged, nestled amongst his beloved butterflies, fungi and rhizomes. 'Marjory, he's old enough to do exactly as he pleases.'
'Old enough?' his mother shouted, 'he's still a boy.'
'Old enough to die for his country,' his father mumbled before returning to his book.
His mother strode over to the fireplace and pulled the cord. Walters, the butler, opened the doors immediately as if he had been listening outside. 'Yes, madam?'
'Fresh tea, this is cold.'
'Yes, madam.'
David needed something stronger. 'Bring me a whisky, Walters.'
'Yes, sir.'
'But it's only five o'clock, David. Is this what the army has taught you, how to drink?'
'And it's done a good job, Mother.'
His mother licked her lips. She walked over and sat down beside him, carefully smoothing the silk of her dress to avoid creases. She took his hand in hers. It was a soft hand, small and pink, a hand unused to doing anything except applying cream to a face.
'We do understand what you are going through, you know. War makes everything seem so urgent, so necessary. Only last week, Colonel Dawson in Matlock lost his son. I attended the service to commemorate the boy. There was the colonel in the front row, blubbering away, wishing he had told the boy he loved him. I tell you, David, I was quite shocked. What is the world coming to? What's happened to standards and decorum?'
'I knew the son, Mother. Ronnie was his name. Shall I tell you what happened to him? He was caught in a chlorine attack at Ypres. He wanted to get his gas helmet on but decided to tell his men to put on theirs first. He charged up and down the line, shouting to his men. Until the gas got him.'
'A canary in a coal mine.' David's brother, Toby, had spoken for the first time. He was leaning on the mantlepiece, dressed in an elegantly tailored lounge suit, smoking casually, without a care in the world.
Lady Lappiter sniffed haughtily. ’I do wish you wouldn't practise such a disgusting habit in the house, Toby.'
'I'm not practising, Mother, I'm actually rather proficient.'
'Disgusting habit. Put it out.'
David's brother sighed but extinguished the cigarette in the ashtray by his elbow.
His mother took David’s hand again, trying a different tack. 'You know, the Smythe girl…'
'Emily?'
'Cousin to Lord Ampleforth. You used to play with her as a child.'
'Mother, she came here to visit with her uncle. You used to force us together. I would have been much happier playing with my toy soldiers…'
'Look where it's got you.' His mother left the implication hanging in the air. 'Anyway, she was visiting over in Bakewell and I happened to hear she has come into a sizeable fortune from some uncle who manufactured ladies' underwear.' His mother sniffed as if something terrible had managed to work its way into her nose.
Walters returned with the tea and David's whisky. 'Shall I pour, madam?'
His mother waved him away as one would get rid of an annoying fly. 'What was I saying? Yes, that's it… anyway, she's in Bakewell at the moment staying with the Anstruthers. She would make a fine wife.'
'So now you are selling me off to the highest bidder.'
'Not at all, David.' His mother held out her arms in the picture of innocence. 'In the long term, she would make a far better choice.'
David slammed his whisky down onto the table. His father looked up from his book and then immediately returned to it. 'Mother. I'm going to marry Rose and there is nothing you or anybody else can do to stop me.' He stood up. 'And now, if you will excuse me, I have to get a train, Rose is waiting for me.'
He strode out of the room, followed by his mother and brother. The father looked up once more from his book, shook his head slightly, and continued reading.
His mother caught up with him in the hallway as Walters was helping him put on his army greatcoat. 'You must not marry this girl. I will not have it, do you understand? I will never be able to face my friends and tell them my son had married a shopgirl…'
'And I could never face myself unless I married Rose. Goodbye Mother, I'm sure you'll think of something to say to your friends. You were always a proficient liar.'
With those words, he pulled open the door and strode out to the car waiting to take him to the station.
'Toby,' his mother hissed, 'don't let your brother out of your sight. Don't let him do anything stupid.'
'But, Mother.'
'Follow him. Just do it.'
Toby sighed, took his coat, and joined his brother in the car. 'I've been sent to watch over you.'
'Don't get in my way, Toby, I will marry her.'
His younger brother took a cigarette out of his silver case, and lit it. 'I don't intend to, David. But tonight, I will do anything to be away from her.' He blew a long stream of smoke out of the window towards the house
.
The driver put the car in gear and it moved off down the driveway. David looked back over his shoulder, seeing his mother framed in the stone arch of the Hall. She looked like she was made of the same stone as the rest of the building.
Old, cold, pitted, stone.
Chapter Thirty-One
Gretna Green, Scotland. March 31, 2016.
'Our ancestor was married in Gretna Green, could we check the records?'
'Oh, how wonderful. I'll be happy to help you.' The woman's soft burr was typically lowland Scots. Her badge proclaimed her as a guide with the name of Annie. Jayne had approached her as soon as they entered the old blacksmith's shop.
'They were married in late April 1916.'
'Ooh, a war wedding. There were a lot of those, I'll tell you. Were they married here at the blacksmith's?'
'Does it matter?' asked Mark.
'Not really, but we do like to know. It was our cottage industry during those days. People were on leave and they wanted quick weddings. None of the living in sin we see these days. Now let me just get on one of the wee computer things and I'll check the records. Please follow me.'
She carried on talking as they walked over to the computer. 'Have you come far on this lovely day?'
'From Manchester,' replied Jayne.
'Ooh, so far.' The 'r' lasted almost as long as the rest of the sentence. She put on her reading glasses and entered her password into the computer. The machine whirred for a moment before a home page flashed up. 'What was the name of the groom?'
'David Russell,' answered Mark.
The woman typed the name into the field. 'And the bride?'
'Rose Clarke.'
'A lovely name Rose. It's my daughter's name. She's married with three kids now and lives in London. Don't know what she sees in the place, myself.' She typed in the name as she spoke and pressed return.
The machine clicked and whirred like an asthmatic alcoholic.
'No results, I'm afraid. What was the date, again?'
'Late April 1916. April 25, to be exact.'
Annie typed in the date. Again the machine whirred and clicked as it searched through its database.
'No results, I'm afraid. Are you sure they were married here?'
'Positive. My great grandmother remembered coming here clearly.'
'Well, the records start when the family took over in 1887. They are pretty good after 1920, but some are missing from the earlier period. It depended on the blacksmith preacher.'
'Blacksmith preacher?'
'Well, if they were married in the shop, then he would have entered a record in the book.'
'The book?' asked Jayne.
'Aye, the family kept all the original records from those days.'
'Could we see the book for the period?'
Annie frowned. 'Well, it's highly irregular, and all the records are in the database.'
'I am a genealogist.' Jayne handed over her card. 'I'm working with Mr Russell to discover his family tree. His great grandmother said she was married here in 1916.'
Annie stared at the card. 'Well, I suppose you are a genealogist and you have come a long way. Let me have a chat with my boss.'
'Thank you, Annie.'
The guide strolled over to enter a door into the back room.
'It's not looking good,' said Mark.
'Perhaps they missed a page or lost that particular record. But we won't know unless we see the original book.'
A few seconds later, Annie appeared carrying a large red volume. 'This is the original registry book.' She laid the volume down on the counter. 'Now you said the date was April 25, 1916, didn’t you?'
She opened the volume. On each page a list of names, signatures, and names of witnesses was inscribed in a variety of handwriting styles.
'April 22, 1916.' Annie turned the page. 'April 23, April 24.' She turned the page once more. 'April 26.' She went back one page and looked again. 'Strange, April 25 isn't here. Maybe he didn't write down the records for the day? Or there weren't any marriages? Are you sure it was April 25?'
'My great grandmother always said it was that date.'
'Could I take a look?' asked Jayne.
Annie stepped back.
Jayne turned the pages carefully. April 22, four marriages, three were of soldiers; two privates and a corporal. April 23, one marriage, a civilian. April 24, two marriages, both private soldiers. April 26, four marriages. One was a captain in the Scots Guards, marrying an 18-year-old girl. She turned over all the pages until the end of the month.
Definitely no David Russell or Rose Clarke listed. She went back to April 24 and turned the page once again, examining it closely. 'Is it common for there to be no records on a day?'
'It happens. The blacksmith preacher may have gone to Dumfries or Edinburgh.' She shrugged her shoulders. 'Perhaps nobody wanted to get married.'
Jayne lifted up the book and examined it closely. Was there a small stub of page in the binding? She moved the book so it caught the light. There was a sharp edge hidden there as if the page had been cut out.
Annie held out her arms wanting the book returned. Jayne closed it and handed it back.
'You could try the Central Depositary of Records in Edinburgh. If someone was married in Scotland, a copy of the certificate was always sent there.'
'Thank you, Annie, you've been a great help. I think we will go to Edinburgh tomorrow and check the records.'
'I'm sorry we couldn't find what you were looking for. It's a shame really, I could have printed a lovely certificate for you for just ten pounds.'
When they were outside, Mark asked, 'What now? There were no records. Strange it should be the day my great grandmother said she married.'
'The page had been cut out.'
'What?'
'Somebody had cut the page from the record.'
'We need to go back inside…'
Jayne held his arm. 'The page was cut a long time ago, Mark, probably when your great grandmother married. The edge of the cut was the same faded yellow as the rest of the paper.'
'So what do we do now?'
'Well, it tells me something was going on in 1916 we know nothing about.'
'You think my great grandmother did get married here?'
'I don't know, Mark, but something smells funny, all my instincts tell me something is wrong, very wrong.'
'Let's go to Edinburgh and check there.'
Jayne shook her head. 'It's late and the registry office will be closed by the time we arrive. I think we should check into the hotel and have a glass of wine. Wine helps the brain solve problems. Little known fact, that.'
Chapter Thirty-Two
Didsbury, Manchester. March 31, 2016.
Herbert Small sat in his car outside the house. That morning, he had followed Mrs Sinclair as she had driven to Sale, picking up Mark Russell before driving north.
Well done, Mrs Sinclair, you're going to Gretna Green. Exactly what I would have done.
He followed them to the point where the M61 joined the M6, the main road heading to Scotland, before turning off and heading back to Manchester. He wasn't sure how long they would be away, but he was sure with such a long drive, she wouldn't make it back before late evening.
He took the next exit off the motorway and drove back to her house, waiting for that wonderful time when Manchester sits down to its dinner and the streets go quiet.
He checked her road once more.
Empty.
The gloves were lying next to him on the car seat. He put them on and stepped out of the car, picking up an official-looking notepad and folder. Just another researcher asking for people's opinions on washing machines or yogurt or political parties.
Walking confidently up the drive, he rapped on the door as he had done before.
He checked the street once again. Still empty. Taking out the jemmy from his pocket, he forced it into the gap between the lock and the door jamb, forcing the door open with a soft pop.
One more look
down the street and he stepped into the house, closing the door behind him.
‘Mrs Sinclair, for an ex-policewoman your security is pretty lax. No alarm. Only one lock on the door. No security at all. You should be ashamed.’
He walked down the hall to the kitchen. There was a loud squeal on his left and he jumped back in fright. A black and white cat raced past him and up the stairs to the second floor.
He’d forgotten about the bloody cat.
The computer was still on the counter on one of those modern kitchen islands. He was hopeless with computers so there was no way he was going to be able to access her files, but on his last visit, he noticed Mrs Sinclair kept paper copies of her research in box files.
He found the file he was looking for and opened it. Inside were the fruits of her research so far. Not bad, Mrs Sinclair, you've come pretty far in just a couple of days.
He took the files and placed them with his notebook.
On the counter next to the computer, he noticed a clear acetate file with two envelopes inside. This had been lying next to her when he visited previously.
He glanced at the clock. Better get a move on. She might be back any time soon. He took the acetate file and slid it into his notebook. Plenty of time to see what's inside the envelopes later.
Now was the time for some fun. He picked up the laptop and threw it down to the floor as hard as he could. The screen smashed and stuck out at a strange angle. He stomped on it a few times, breaking the keyboard and completely shattering what was left of the screen.
Then he opened the fridge door and threw the food, wine, chocolate, butter, cheese, milk and eggs around the kitchen, making certain to cover the wall. He hadn’t had so much fun since he was a kid torturing a cat with hot water.
He opened the cupboards, emptying all the crockery he could reach onto the floor. What a lovely sound it made as it smashed into the wooden parquet.
The clock ticked onto 7 p.m. No time like the present. He picked it off the wall and tossed it into the pile of crockery, food and computer parts on the floor.
What a mess you've got me into.