by Vicky Adin
“Going once ... Going twice ...”
The tension amongst the bidders, the onlookers and the sellers was palpable. No one could tell who was the most excited but finally came those magic words.
“Sold!” Down came the hammer. “To the lady in blue.”
Applause broke out, and Megan heard the pop of champagne corks. Something inside her burst. Elation? Euphoria? She didn’t know what to call it; it sounded so OTT she couldn’t put it into words but a huge sense of release. Gone was the black despair that had dogged for her so long.
Congratulations were offered to all. Papers signed, hands shaken and hugs given.
Her new life was about to begin.
Megan’s Diary
Day One – 1 November 2010, London
I am here! And beginning to feel more like it’s the start of my new adventure, but unlike my young counterpart, whose life I’m following and who couldn’t wait to get away, I am now beset with doubts. There are so many firsts for me. The first time I’ve travelled without Tony – and all alone. Terrifying. The first time I have only myself to rely on and worry whether I am up to the task. The first time I’ve abandoned my family. Is abandoned too strong a word? Possibly, but I have left them behind by going away so far, for who knows how long, and now this – my first entry in my journal. Where will I start? My young ancestor began with her packing and the coach journey to an unknown future, so I will follow her lead.
The farewells at the airport were more of a wrench than I’d have imagined. But finally, with all the words said and the last-minute checks done, there were no more excuses, I had to go through the gates.
Whatever excitement I might have felt about what lay ahead was instantly curtailed by process and protocols. I hadn’t realised before how bereft of atmosphere and how soul-destroying airport departure halls are. People move anxiously here and there, trusting no one, following endless lines. Tears flow, bags are rigorously guarded and the need to get going is tempered by the long queues and relentless wait. One can only watch one’s fellow travellers and wonder what their stories might be – and whom they will tell.
Once on the plane and settled into my seat, I investigated the options available to keep me entertained. Hoping against hope that I might see it all through new eyes, but I’m too old for that and know long flights are an endurance test. There are always the physical discomforts giving travellers something to complain about, but it was the loneliness that tormented me. With no one to talk to, the hours were interminable. The couple beside me sat turned slightly towards each other, and whilst they didn’t talk much, just occasionally sharing a comment about something in the movie or book each of them was engrossed in, they shared that silent and sympathetic communication between couples I once had. I felt trapped in my seat, hardly able to move and restless to the point of screaming, yet perversely unwilling to disturb my neighbours. And the only person to notice or care was me! I felt resentful, an emotion I don’t usually have to cope with.
The seemingly never-ending hours that turned into days finally ended. I dragged myself off the plane, feeling thick and heavy in mind and body, made it through customs at the same slow pace one expects but hates and lugged my suitcase onto the train, trying to adjust to the crowds of people everywhere.
I am here. Exhausted, drained and desperate for sleep, yet pent-up and edgy. My young relative was full of enthusiasm for what lay ahead. Can I admit to an underlying sense of anticipation too? The war of emotions churning inside me is too hard to put into words, which is just as well. I must not allow this journal to become a junkyard for my thoughts. This is a story of life: her life, my life.
But right now, I have to sleep. Tomorrow is a new day.
Chapter 7
Megan awoke feeling surprisingly alert and ready to get moving. After luxuriating in a hot shower, she dressed simply in trousers and merino top, and bounced down the stairs to the dining room for breakfast. She was starving and looked forward to a traditional English breakfast to make up for what the airlines called food. Excitement coursed through her as she watched the countless people passing by the window. She was itching to join them.
Warmly wrapped in a coat and scarf, she headed out into a grey and cold November day to join the throngs and soon located the office she was looking for. Like many London buildings, this one was old and steeped in history, with long corridors, wood-lined walls, imposing doorways and a hushed expectation. It was home to many records, far too numerous to consider searching unless one knew where and how to look. She had decided to engage advisors, researchers and record keepers to help her wade through the myriad of details to find what she was looking for. She hoped her contact, Mr Gordon McKenzie, would prove a worthy starting point.
“Good morning.” Megan gave the receptionist her name. “I have an appointment.”
The girl smiled. “Please take a seat while I tell Mr McKenzie you are here.”
Moments later, a man’s deep, rich voice greeted her from behind. “Good morning. Mrs Marsh?”
Megan’s researcher came as quite a surprise. For a start, he was younger than she expected, somewhere in his late twenties maybe, and seemingly far too young to be the owner of such a fine baritone voice. Perfectly groomed in a dark pinstripe suit, white shirt and subdued tie, which he’d knotted in an accomplished Windsor, he wore glasses that magnified his unusual green eyes.
He appeared a young man any mother could be proud of. She immediately thought of Jason – her well-groomed and successful son and, unexpectedly, wondered how well she still knew him.
The man extended his hand. “I’m Gordon McKenzie. I believe I have some interesting papers for you to see. Please follow me.”
They walked down a passageway, passing a row of doors, until he stepped aside and ushered her in front of him through an open doorway. The room was exceptional and elegant with its high ceiling, ornate decorations and classical windows. It took her breath away. In the centre sat a highly polished, antique boardroom table.
“Please take a seat,” Gordon invited.
On the table sat several large books and two pairs of white gloves.
“Thank you for seeing me, Mr McKenzie.”
She removed her coat and scarf, and the young man hung them on the coat stand out of the way.
“I’ve taken the liberty of drawing up a chart using some of the information you gave me, to make it easier to follow. I’ve also located several certificates and records that will back up your initial research. I trust you will be satisfied.”
His formal, well-modulated English sounded almost pompous, and his unobtrusive manner was a curious contrast to the more casual Kiwi manners she was used to, nevertheless, she warmed to him. She had learnt a similar if lesser degree of formality from her grandmother.
Grandma Julia, whose own upbringing was steeped in late nineteenth-century mores, had insisted on clear speech, correct grammar and polite manners at all times. She said correctness was the mark of a lady. Words like restrained, obedient, polite and respectful were the core principles. Even all these years later, she found it hard to be the free spirit so many Kiwis adopted naturally.
Mr McKenzie rolled out a long sheet of paper and anchored the corners with paperweights. He stood beside the chair, leaning slightly towards her with one hand on the table as he pointed to the bottom of the chart. She caught the aroma of his expensive aftershave and noted his well-kept fingernails. This Keeper of the Records was a meticulous man.
“Let me explain.” His deep voice resonated in her ear. “I’ll start with you – what you already know and what you were able to tell me from your New Zealand discoveries. Here you are at the bottom in Generation Five. Megan Montgomery born 1958 in Auckland.”
“Yes, that’s me.” Smiling up at him, she hoped he would become a little friendlier.
“You married Anthony Michael Marsh in 1976.”
“Right again.”
A flicker of a smile almost creased the side of his mouth.
“Your husband was born in 1952 and died last year, in 2009.” With hardly a break, he added, “My condolences on your loss.”
“Thank you. That’s why I’m here, trying to move on.”
Megan sensed his hesitation and wondered if he would say something but decided he was too polite.
“So, moving back one generation to Generation Four, we have your mother. Caroline Blackwood, born 1936 in Auckland, married in 1957 to your father, David Montgomery. I note they both died at a very young age in 1959 – as a result of a car crash, I believe you said – when you were just a few months old. Your grandmother raised you. Is that correct?”
“Yes,” answered Megan. “You’re getting good at this,” she teased.
This time he did smile. “I sincerely hope so,” he replied, straightening his already straight tie. “It seems 1959 was a momentous year for your family. Do you know anything about your father’s side of the family?”
“No. I don’t think I ever heard my grandmother speak of them. After the accident, I think Grandma Julia shut herself off from everyone else.”
“If my memory serves me, you said your paternal grandfather, Malcolm Montgomery, was the driver and was also killed in the accident. From my experience, that could well be the reason your grandmother never spoke of it.”
“I thought that too,” she agreed.
“Do you wish to find the paternal side of the family as well?” he enquired further, looking more interested.
“Not at this stage, thanks. I really want to find the author of the diary I’ve inherited. I understand it came from my grandmother’s side, but I don’t know her name.”
Mr McKenzie nodded. “Very well. We then come to Generation Three, your grandparents. “Your grandmother, Julia Trevallyan (1912-1975), married at the age of seventeen to Jeremy Blackwood, thirteen years her senior. As you know, he also died in the car accident of 1959.”
She nodded, so far nothing new – except ... “Tell me, why was my grandmother’s name Trevallyan?”
Megan was confused by this discrepancy. She had never given her grandmother’s maiden name any thought, but if Great Aunt Constance was a Trevallyan, how could Julia, a niece and a generation further on, also be a Trevallyan?
“That is part of the mystery you are trying to resolve. These are the facts at this stage. I do have other documents and certificates to show you ... There is something extra. Details you do not seem to have discovered in your searches. Your grandmother Julia gave birth to two earlier children. A stillborn boy in 1931 and another son, Carl, in 1933. He lived a few days only.
Megan stared at him in horror with a gut-wrenching feeling that only a mother could understand. “She lost two other children? Heaven help her. No wonder she never spoke of her past.”
Losing a child at birth, or near enough to it, would be terrible, but to lose two – and then to lose your precious daughter to a car accident would have been devastating. Enough to damage the strongest woman.
The distress on Megan’s face must have registered with Gordon.
Softly he said, “I believe we should continue ... So, to Generation Two, your great-grandparents. I can find no record of your great-grandfather. Your grandmother has shown up one Isabel Trevallyan.”
“Isabel?” Megan interrupted. “Spelt with an ‘a’? What a coincidence. My granddaughter is named Isabella.”
“That’s a nice happenstance. It’s much easier to trace families who carry on a name, either as a middle name or as a derivative, but to do so without knowing is a delightful story.”
Now he was being rather too correct in his speech. ‘Happenstance’! Who uses words like that these days? But there was something more curious in what he’d said.
“How odd, her name is also Trevallyan. Was that her married name – did she marry another Trevallyan – or her maiden name? Wouldn’t it have been unusual for a woman to keep her maiden name in those times?”
“Yes, it would. Please let me continue. I have more information.”
He obviously doesn’t like being interrupted, thought Megan. Questions would have to come later.
“Isabel Trevallyan was born in 1892. She had an elder brother Francis, two years her senior, and a younger sister Constance.”
“Great Aunt Constance of the letter!” exclaimed Megan. “I’m here because of her.”
“She would, in fact, have been your great-great aunt and ten years the junior.”
“Do you know what happened to my great-grandmother?”
“I’m sorry, no. I can find no further records for Isabel, including her death certificate.”
“Oh, is that because she died in New Zealand?”
“No, not at all. I’ve checked the New Zealand end, and there is no evidence of an Isabel Trevallyan in New Zealand at all. Nothing.”
Megan blanched, staring at him in disbelief. If she had understood him correctly, there were no records for Grandma Julia’s mother, Isabel Trevallyan, or her father, whoever he was.
Megan threw question after question at her informant trying to find some answers but he couldn’t tell her anything more. Isabel had just disappeared.
Noticing her pallor, Gordon hesitated. “Are you all right? Shall I continue?”
Megan nodded. Bad news doesn’t get any better by avoiding it.
He returned their attention to the chart. “Lastly, we have Generation One – which is as far back as I have delved – your maternal great-great-grandparents, Gerald Trevallyan and Eleanor Pengelly. Gerald was born in 1854 and died of heart failure at the age of fifty-seven in 1911. Eleanor was made of sterner stuff, living to the age of seventy-three and departing this world in 1937. The death certificate stated senile decay as the cause of death, although it was common practice to use that explanation for many things, including dementia. I think this information will give you something to work from.”
“Thank you, Mr McKenzie. I appreciate everything you’ve done. You’ve done an amazing job,” she concluded, waving her hand expansively over the chart.
“It’s been no trouble at all, Mrs Marsh. No trouble at all.”
“You must spend an awful lot of time looking for other people’s families. I hope everyone appreciates you. But tell me, do you enjoy what you do?” With her love of the past, Megan was inordinately interested in other people’s reasons for wandering down memory lane into bygone days.
She had fanned a flame. His passion for the subject flared and his formality fell away like a sheet falling off the line. “Oh yes, I do, very much. Family history is like a mysterious, twisted knot with no beginning and no end. I find it a fascinating subject and am always excited to unearth a new link in the chain,” he said ardently. “Unravelling secrets, revealing truths and making connections is a just reward.”
Slightly embarrassed by his unexpected torrent of enthusiasm, he coughed and busied himself tidying up some papers.
“And can you prove all this through certificates and other documents?” Megan reverted to business, giving him time to resume his customary demeanour.
“Yes, most certainly, there is attested proof to back up everything on this chart,” he confirmed, back to his normal self.
He paused. “However, there is one more item.”
Putting on a pair of white gloves, he moved to the other side of the table and picked up one of the books. Carefully setting it down on a stand, he turned to a previously marked page. “Gerald Trevallyan was a wealthy mine owner and farmer in Cornwall. His estate was quite substantial in those days, and they kept meticulous records, which we have here.” Gordon pointed to the largest tome. “I believe your great-grandmother Isabel was the author of your diary. I have found something that could be of great interest. In 1910, at the age of eighteen, Isabel’s father gave her a generous allowance and sent her away to act as companion to a Mrs Baragwanath.”
At last! She had a name.
The mysterious author of the journal was one Isabel Trevallyan, her great-grandmother!
* *
* * *
A week later, armed with all the information Gordon McKenzie had provided and additional notes she’d taken, Megan packed up her suitcase, collected her hire car and headed southwest to Cornwall. It seemed the obvious place to start her search. Isabel had been born in the coastal village of Portreath, not far from Redruth, and the lawyer representing Constance was based in Truro. Cornwall had to be the first link in the chain.
Megan tried to capture the excitement of London that Isabel wrote about during her time there. She too went sightseeing, visited galleries and saw a show, and had enjoyed every moment, but the time had come to move on.
After an hour or so on the motorway, Megan found she was gripping the steering wheel tighter and tighter as the minutes ticked by. She was not used to driving long distances. Tony had always driven when they were together, and these busy English motorways unnerved her. She pulled off to rest. Maybe it would be better to follow the minor roads and take her time. There was no rush to find this lawyer in Truro.
At a small English pub dating back to the 18th century, festooned with drinking mugs hanging from the rafters, Megan pulled out Isabel’s journal. Even though she was doing this part of the journey the opposite way to Isabel – on her way to Cornwall, rather than from there – she reread the early pages where the girl described her journey: First to Redruth by coach, because her father’s prized possession, the new automobile, was only used on rare occasions. There, she met Mrs Baragwanath and caught the train to Truro, changing lines to take the London train as far as Salisbury where they stayed the night. After viewing the cathedral the next day, they took another coach to Bath since the rail line was too inconvenient.
The pair went to a lot of trouble to get there, so she assumed Bath was still ‘the’ place to be seen, even in 1910. Megan decided she would enjoy her trip too and stopped along the way, just as Isabel had done. When travelling with Tony, she had always enjoyed their stopovers in pretty English villages with ancient market places, and shopping in quaint stores that offered customers a taste of years gone by. She hoped his absence would not be too noticeable this time. She studiously avoided the tacky souvenir shops and found shops with quality linens and cottons, or china and ceramics, or glassware, but overall, antique shops became her favourite haunts.