by Vicky Adin
Shivering in the cooling evening air, she put aside the papers, shut the curtains against the darkening skies and turned on the heat pump.
The whole day had gone without a word from Jason. Maybe he’s flying and in the wrong time zone, she thought, always willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. Everyone knew she had a soft spot for Jason. He’d been an easy-going, lovable child, the living image of his father. He was softhearted in many ways and would do anything to please people if asked, but he could equally be thoughtless with his carefree attitude. In that, he was nothing like his father, who was the most caring person she had ever known.
She poured herself a glass of wine and bustled around the kitchen, opening and shutting the fridge and cupboards, trying to decide if she wanted something to eat. Cheese and crackers would do.
Everything seemed too hard. Whilst she knew procrastinating wouldn’t help, she wasn’t ready to face whatever it was, even though she had the hunch something momentous lay concealed in the papers spread over the coffee table.
In an effort to avoid thinking about it, she tried Jason’s cell phone. It went straight to voicemail. “Damn,” she muttered, not bothering to leave a message. Feeling cheated, she put the phone down. He would recognise the number and call if he wanted to. She would have liked the chance of a long conversation with Jason, but, as usual, hadn’t been able to get hold of him. How would they ever find a connection again if they didn’t talk?
She was no further ahead here either, having spent the afternoon reading and rereading the lawyer’s letter and the one from the obscure Great Aunt Constance. The formal letter said they believed Megan was the great-granddaughter of this mysterious older sister – the one who had written the diary referred to in Constance’s letter – but nowhere had she found a name for this young woman. The lawyer, in very formal tones, had said its omittance was deliberate. Legally, Megan was required to prove who she was before they ‘could confirm if, indeed, she was whom they believed’. The official paperwork the lawyer wanted in return was too longwinded, monotonous and confusing with far too many pages and attachments. She put it aside to consider it later.
The bulk of the package held the most intriguing item, an extremely old, faded and somewhat battered box containing the diary mentioned in Great Aunt Constance’s letter, but it was the letter that vexed her the most. Why had it taken so long to find her? And how could she begin to find out the sister’s name?
She reached for the box.
Earlier, when Megan had untied the nearly threadbare ribbon and tentatively lifted the lid, both she and Sarah had gasped, astonished by the journal lying within the folds of the fragile satin lining, inside its original and somewhat tatty box. Megan had a passion for beautiful old things and thought this one of the most beautiful compendiums she’d ever seen – and it was obviously much loved.
Now she gingerly picked up the book, overlayed with creamy leather and heavy gold embossing, and rested it on her knee. A gold clasp held the gilt-edged pages in place, and two flamboyant intertwined and indecipherable initials decorated the centrepiece: IT or TT maybe. Some of the embossing around the clasp and close to the spine, where unknown hands had held it, was no longer visible.
For some time, Megan stared at the keepsake, gently rubbing the soft leather. Why would someone leave something so exquisite lying around forgotten all these long years?
She flicked the clasp open and turned to the first page. Almost transparent with age, the paper was of exceptionally fine quality. The initials on the front were repeated on the fly page. It was dedicated:
To my darling daughter, as she embarks on her trip of a lifetime.
Father, 1910
Megan turned a few more pages, searching for a clue to the author’s name, without luck. Whoever she was, this daughter, the planned journey would be a lengthy one. Going back to the beginning, she read through the enviable list of place names: a stopover in Bath, two weeks in London, a month in Paris, then train journeys throughout Europe and finally to Italy, to spend the summer in Florence – a journey of twelve months. If the mysterious daughter did indeed travel to all of those places she most certainly had embarked on a trip of a lifetime.
With nothing consistent about the places, other than their European and romantic reputation of the time, the list gave Megan little to go on. She couldn’t even say where the journal had originated. Cornwall presumably, since the lawyer’s letter had come from there.
Megan read late into the night. Her wine glass sat empty alongside the plate, yet she couldn’t recollect finishing it. The tension in her neck and shoulders eventually forced her to shut the journal and, using the letter from Great Aunt Constance as a bookmark, carefully put it back in the box. She hadn’t thought of Tony for hours and was grateful something new had occupied her time. Most evenings she sat bored and fidgety, pretending to watch TV while her heart broke a little more. Now other thoughts were flying around her head.
After making a hot chocolate she checked her emails one last time. ‘Thinking of you’ wrote Jason. Happy he’d remembered, she smiled; her day complete, it was time for bed.
As she finished her nightly routine rubbing in night cream, Megan stared at her reflection in the mirror. Questions raced through her mind. Did she look like any of the people she’d just read about? Did her children?
Her skin was clear even if she did look weary and drawn. She had high cheekbones in an oval shaped face and thought her nose fitted. The lady at the lipstick counter once told her she had almost perfect rosebud lips. She wasn’t pretty in the traditional sense, or vivacious, but she quite liked her face – she thought it gave her a congenial appearance.
Fair-haired Sarah didn’t quite look like either of her dark-haired parents – her mouth was larger than Megan’s – while Jason looked too much like his father for comfort.
She changed into her fine cambric nightgown, relishing its softness and vintage design, and wondered if her ancestor had worn something similar. With that in mind, she turned back the sheets, climbed into bed and, settling comfortably on the pillows, picked up her Kindle. She tried to read while she sipped her drink but couldn’t concentrate on the words in front of her while the words from another book floated in her mind. Finally, turning out the light and snuggling down to sleep, her thoughts drifted to the mysterious woman in the diary and the woman known only as Great Aunt Constance.
She woke from a restless sleep in the middle of the night, instantly knowing why. Reaching for the set of Tony’s pyjamas she secretly kept under the pillow – just to remind her of his smell when sleep eluded her – she clutched them to her.
Tony’s voice resounded in her head. “Of course you should, sweetheart. There’s nothing stopping you. Go on. Do it. Find your family.”
She turned to his side of the bed, pulled the duvet up and, still smiling, fell into a dreamless sleep.
Isabel’s Journal
30 October 1910
I am so cross. Mother fussed over all the things we’d put away, refolding everything until all were packed properly and ‘to my entire satisfaction’, she had told the maid in that haughty voice of hers. She really was tiresome. I was fed up with her tut-tutting over things I had chosen and replacing them with her choices. And then giving me instructions on how I was to wear this gown or that, and which hat and gloves or parasol and shawl or brooch, until I could have screamed with it all. Really! As if I can’t dress myself.
Finally, the driver brought the coach around to the front and the footmen loaded my trunks and hatboxes. I waited impatiently at the top of the stone steps leading to the driveway. The large, heavy wooden doors stood open behind me. It took all my willpower not to race down those few steps to escape as fast as I could, but that would have been most unladylike. I had to walk slowly as Mother liked and say goodbye to the staff lined up like statues along the way. Honestly, it’s all so stuck-up and old-fashioned.
Not before time, my journey began and I took great enjoyment with the pas
sing landscape. Never mind I’d known it all my life and ridden it many times, today everything seemed fresh and pleasing and encouraging. I felt suddenly freer than I’d ever felt before. I didn’t want to delay one moment more. Our destination was the Redruth train station where I was to meet my companion who would bring me the newest of experiences.
Chapter 4
Megan woke the next morning feeling better and far more cheerful than at any time during the past year. Maybe the traditions of previous eras, with their strict observance of a mourning period, have some point after all, she thought, noticing she had colour in her cheeks.
With a lighter heart, she hurried through her morning routine, singing softly as she hung out the washing, and completed her chores in record time. She had things to do. The beautiful September day helped. The sky was a rich, clear blue as only a New Zealand sky could be. The sun shone on her face, and with sharpened senses she listened to the birds chirping their morning songs.
Having made her decision in the middle of the night to do as the lawyer suggested and trace her family tree, she had no idea how to start. She opened up the computer and Googled the Edwardian period, when the journal was written. The search brought up many websites on the fashion of the time, which held her attention as she scanned through the pages and lingered to admire this dress line or that hat. Once, in another lifetime, she really had loved her little boutique full of vintage clothes, jewellery, laces and other trappings of eras past, but now she had other things to do.
She changed the search request and found numerous sites about the modes of transport, but they gave her far too many details about style and function to answer her questions. She saved some of those to a bookmark folder for future reference and kept looking. Another search brought up pages of history – another fascinating topic. Tony had been an avid historian, and together they would read copious books, watch documentaries and talk endlessly about their current historical period of interest.
For once, thoughts of Tony brought a smile to her lips. British history was something he’d thought too mundane and too ‘like ours’ insofar as our history was so inextricably linked with Britain. Megan disagreed. The two of them had often indulged in a happy argument about whether Britain was ‘home’ to generations of New Zealanders – him included, if he’d cared to admit it – or whether we had managed to break free and become our own people and proud of it. Tony was only a first-generation New Zealander while she ... well, that’s what she was going to find out. She thought she was at least third-generation: herself, her mother and her grandmother, something she took care to point out.
“Yes, yes, you have the advantage there,” Tony would argue, “but just look at our laws – and our buildings. All based on British regulations and designs. And don’t forget our armed forces – the army, in particular. Our ancestors – and not so long ago either – fought for the British.”
Megan couldn’t help but retaliate. Then Tony would smile that special smile of his, and she knew he’d deliberately provoked her. He’d always told her she needed to learn to speak up more rather than remaining quiet to keep the peace. Something that went against everything Grandma Julia had taught her.
With his amazing memory, he could recite history as well as he could describe his own backyard, while she was always afraid of making a fool of herself if she got it wrong. She also trusted his judgment more than her own. Always had, except now there was only her judgment to trust. He would no longer act as her logical side while her emotional one ran riot. She could almost hear him telling her to calm down and think ... and face up to things she couldn’t change.
When she tired of scanning the history pages, even though they’d sparked a memory and given her some ideas, she stopped to stretch, surprised to see the morning had disappeared. Her stomach rumbled. She was hungry; another surprise and another first. She hadn’t truly felt hungry in a long time. Over lunch, she made up her mind to go to the city library and see what they could offer.
A quick change into her dress jeans and a mesh top that fitted perfectly, a brush of her thick, wavy hair and some soft rose-coloured lipstick, and she was in the car and on her way. She felt rejuvenated. Halfway into the city she began to have doubts again. It had been a long time since she had driven over the harbour bridge, and the traffic seemed so much heavier than she remembered. Her confidence started to evaporate, but by the time she had taken the exit into the once-familiar streets and found the parking building easier than she’d expected, she felt better.
Then she discovered she’d forgotten to bring a pen and notebook, which simply epitomised her last year. Some days she could forget her name. Frustrated at her lack of thought, she joined the mass of people clustered at the lights, wondering if she could ask someone where to find a stationer’s. She looked around at the people. Despite the mix of ages, genders and nationalities, most of them were not paying the slightest attention to their surroundings. Either engaged in animated conversation in languages she couldn’t understand – sometimes with the person next to them, but more often into the phone clutched to their ear – or with their fingers and thumbs flying over the tiny keyboards, they seemed oblivious to anything else. Had she really got that much out of touch in such a short time?
The lights changed and the buzzer sounded, signalling the flock to move and be on their way. Megan crossed the road into the narrow lane that once served as an access way and was pleasantly surprised to discover it now housed specialty stores, cafés and bars. A few steps along the street, she found a card shop and stopped in to buy a simple notepad and cheap pen, but she couldn’t help lingering. Filled with elegant notebooks and journals artistically displayed on shelves alongside boxed gift cards and stationery sets, this was truly a lovely space. It brought back memories of her boutique. As she thought about those days, she was unsurprised to find she didn’t miss them or the shop. Tony was the one she missed. Maybe the time was right for her to tackle something new after all.
Eventually she chose an ornate notebook with an antique floral pattern for her research notes and an elegant – although expensive – gold and black pen with a fine point.
“Is there anything else you’d like today?” asked the shopkeeper.
Megan started to say no but then noticed a journal on the shelf behind the counter.
“Could I look at that, please?” she pointed.
The sales assistant took the journal from its resting place and handed it to Megan. “Beautiful, isn’t it? I’ve only this minute put it out. I’ve never seen anything quite like this before. It’s Italian-made, so I couldn’t resist.”
Megan could hardly believe what she saw. The cover of soft cream calfskin with a large gold Celtic knot design stamped into the oval centrepiece was uncannily like the century-old diary belonging to her mysterious ancestor. A brass clasp held the gold-edged pages together.
“Are you thinking of travelling?”
“Um. No.” She stared briefly at the woman. Her question triggered an unexpected thought. There was no reason why she shouldn’t travel. “But then again, maybe, yes.” Megan ignored the price tag. “I’ll take it.”
The woman laid it within folds of tissue in a protective box almost exactly like the original sitting on her table at home. To complete her delight, the sales lady then placed Megan’s purchases in a patterned carry bag evocative of times past. Some things were meant to be.
By the time she finally arrived at the library it was after three o’clock. She asked at the desk where to find the history section, and after getting out her new notebook and pen, she headed up the first page with a flourish and put the date on the second line. She was ready.
Two hours passed as she trawled through indexes of books and flipped through pages looking for information, with little written in her notebook to show for her efforts. She had found nothing so far that helped in the slightest. Looking around at the myriad of books before her, she wondered how she would ever find the information she wanted. She needed a better
plan.
“This section will close in fifteen minutes,” said the librarian from behind, startling her. “Can I help you with anything?”
“Actually, yes. Please. I’ve decided to trace an ancestor who travelled in Europe in the early part of last century. But I’m a bit lost.”
“You’re in the wrong section, really. No wonder you’re lost. Come with me.”
Megan gathered her belongings and followed the woman.
“The family history section is open until eight o’clock tonight. I’ll introduce you.”
With the next librarian’s help, Megan found a host of references to birth, death and marriage certificates. In a short while, she was perched on the edge of the seat. Her handwriting became a scrawl but she didn’t care, she would worry about deciphering it all later. Right now, the answers she wanted seemed to pour out of the pages in front of her. In her excitement, she lost track of time.
The librarian disturbed her again. “We’ll be closing soon. Would you like to take any of the material with you?”
Laden with books, printouts and photocopies, as well as a list of websites she could tap into from home, her head was buzzing with ideas. With everything crammed into her carry bag, Megan made her way out of the library. Much to her surprise, it was dark.
After paying the exorbitant car parking fee Megan turned the car for home, humming a tune while she thought about what to do next. With less traffic on the road, the return journey was much quicker, but it had still given her time to reach a decision. She’d barely got inside and was still unloading when someone began hammering on the door. Startled, she rushed to unlock it when she heard her daughter’s voice.
“Mum!!” cried Sarah. “Are you all right? I phoned and phoned. Where have you been? I’ve been so worried. I tried your cell phone and sent you a text. Why didn’t you answer? Didn’t you have it with you?”
For a minute, Megan couldn’t get a word in edgeways until Sarah took a breath and wrapped her arms around her mother’s neck.