by Hazel Holt
After this encounter I felt so exhausted that before going back to my blackberries I made myself a strong cup of tea. When I was sitting drinking it, on an impulse, I got up and took out my father’s Bible again and on the flyleaf I added the dates of my parents’ deaths, my marriage to Peter, the date of his death, the date of Michael’s birth and marriage and, finally, that of the birth of Alice.
‘There,’ I said to no one in particular when I’d finished, ‘that’s better.’
CHAPTER TWO
One of the jobs I really hate doing is taking all the crockery and glassware from the dresser in the kitchen, washing it and putting it all back again. I try to do it twice a year, but this year I’d resolutely closed my eyes to it and, as a result, when a particularly strong ray of sunshine came through the window and focused on the open shelves, I was appalled to see how badly it all needed doing. With a sigh I began to take the plates and dishes off the shelves and stack them on the kitchen table. Although I hardly ever fry anything nowadays, there was an unpleasant film on everything from that mysterious, invisible grease that seems to hang in the air of even the best regulated kitchen – and goodness knows no one would ever describe my kitchen like that.
Because some of the china was old (some of it my mother’s, some even my grandmother’s) I had to wash it all by hand so I filled the sink with warm soapy water, switched the radio on and set to work. Once I got down to it I quite enjoyed the pleasure you can get from a mindless task. The noise of the front doorbell cut sharply through the mellifluous sound of Delius’s ‘Walk to the Paradise Garden’. I made an exclamation of annoyance and went to answer it, still wearing my apron and rubber gloves. On the doorstep were Bernard and Janet Prior.
‘We were in the area,’ Bernard said, ‘and felt we must call and see you.’
‘You’d better come in,’ I said grudgingly, and led the way into the sitting room. ‘Sit down while I just go and turn the radio off.’
I went into the kitchen and removed my rubber gloves and apron, turned off the radio, cast a glance at the table full of crockery and the sink full of soapy water, both of which now seemed infinitely attractive, and went slowly back into the sitting room.
They were both sitting side by side on the sofa and I saw, with apprehension, that Bernard had already opened the briefcase he had with him and was laying various papers out onto the small table beside him.
‘How long are you down here for?’ I asked.
‘I’m not sure yet,’ Bernard said, still sorting through the papers, ‘it all depends on how much material there is.’
‘Material?’ I inquired innocently.
‘Yes, didn’t Marjorie write to you? She said she was going to do so; she was really enthusiastic about my project.’
‘I believe she did say something about you doing a sort of family tree.’
‘Oh much more than that,’ Bernard said reprovingly, giving me what I always thought of as his ‘headmasterly stare’. ‘What I intend to do is to make what is virtually a family history, going right back as far as records will take me.’
‘I wouldn’t have thought,’ I said provocatively, ‘that our family was of sufficient importance to have that sort of treatment.’
He gave me the stare again as if I was a recalcitrant pupil. ‘But, my dear Sheila,’ he said ‘it is precisely our sort of family – not of the highest echelons of society, not known to the world in general, but of good solid stock, the backbone, you might say, of England – that should be chronicled in this fashion.’
I didn’t say anything and he went on. ‘I have, of course, thoroughly investigated my branch of the family down from our common grandfather, but since my father was one of seven children there is a great deal to do concerning his siblings. Then,’ he continued, ‘when I have fully established exactly what information we have about those descendants, I will go back from our grandfather to previous generations.’
‘It sounds like a lot of work,’ I said, ‘but I suppose you’ve got time on your hands now you’re retired.’
‘One makes time for what is important,’ Bernard said. ‘As a matter of fact I do a certain amount of charitable work as well as being a lay preacher at my local church.’
‘How splendid,’ I said, thinking with pity of the objects of his charity and the members of his congregation.
‘Now then,’ he said, taking out a pair of spectacles, ‘I believe you have the family Bible with certain entries that I may not have.’
Reluctantly I got to my feet to fetch it, knowing that this would all take a very long time.
‘I’ll put it on the large table,’ I said, ‘since it is so heavy.’
‘Excellent. Janet,’ he went on, ‘will be making notes for me as we go along so that I will have an accurate record of all the information at our disposal.’
Sure enough Janet had a notebook and pen at the ready and I moved away from the table so that she could join him there.
‘Would you like a cup of tea or coffee?’ I asked.
‘Herbal tea if you have it,’ Bernard said. ‘No milk, no sugar.’
‘I think I’ve got some somewhere. For you too, Janet?’ I asked.
She nodded but didn’t vouchsafe an audible answer.
I found a box of peppermint tea bags at the back of one of the cupboards, a relic of a bout of indigestion a year ago. I sniffed them and they still smelt fairly minty so I thought they’d be all right. As a sort of gesture I made myself a cup of hot chocolate. I lingered in the kitchen as long as I could but eventually I took the tray back into the sitting room.
They had made themselves quite at home, sitting on either side of the table, Janet writing busily while he called out the names and dates of past generations of Priors.
‘I hope peppermint tea is all right,’ I said as I put the tray down. Bernard waved me away and went on with his task. Repressing an impulse to back into the kitchen and leave them to it, I sat down and slowly drank my hot chocolate.
‘There seems to be some discrepancy here,’ Bernard said, looking up and fixing me with a stern glance. ‘My records have 1867 as the date for William Prior’s birth,’ he said. ‘Here it is given as 1869.’
‘Oh, is it?’ I said. ‘I suppose one of them must be wrong.’
‘Obviously. Do you have any idea why the date here should be different?’
‘I haven’t the faintest idea,’ I said.
‘Did your father say anything that might be relevant?’
‘I don’t think we ever talked about it really.’
Bernard made an impatient exclamation and I felt obliged to make some sort of comment.
‘I suppose there could have been two Williams. I mean, children – children of large families – often died young and the parents sometimes used the same name for the next child. It happens occasionally in Victorian novels,’ I said helpfully.
He regarded me thoughtfully for a moment. ‘It is a possibility. I will bear it in mind.’
‘Do drink your tea Janet,’ I said, ‘before it gets cold.’
She looked at Bernard as if for approval and then got up and fetched the cups from the tray.
‘I hope it’s as you like it?’ I said.
‘It’s lovely,’ she replied, sipping it quickly as if anxious to get back to her task.
He drank his more slowly, looking round the room. ‘That,’ he said nodding in the direction of a photograph on the bureau, ‘is your father, of course, and that is your mother. Now she was a Gray, was she not? A local family, I believe.’
‘Exeter,’ I said. ‘Not exactly local.’
‘I see.’
Janet made another entry in her notebook, which somehow annoyed me. ‘Anyhow,’ I said, ‘that’s not relevant, is it?’
‘All connections are relevant,’ Bernard said sternly. ‘The connections of families by marriage can be vitally important.’
‘Hardly in our case,’ I protested. ‘It’s not like alliances in noble families!’
‘I th
ink you underestimate the scope of my work, I intend to spread my net wide.’
I relapsed into what I fear was sulky silence – Bernard has that effect on me – and they worked on, slowly and meticulously. I was amazed that copying the information on two leaves of the Bible should be taking so long, but every so often Bernard would stop and compare the information there with some of his own notes. I listened, for want of something better to do, to the ticking of the clock, and when it struck half past twelve I could bear it no longer.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I said brightly, ‘but I’m afraid I’ve got to turn you out now. I’ve got a lunch appointment at one o’clock and, as you see,’ I gestured to my old skirt and apron, ‘I’ve got to get changed.’
Bernard looked up. ‘Oh dear, then we will have to continue another day – that is a pity. I had hoped to have all this information before we go to the County Record Office in Taunton.’
‘Some other day,’ I said, carefully not specifying which one. ‘I’m a bit busy this week. Where are you staying? Perhaps I could let you know when I’m free.’
‘We usually have our caravan, but since we may be down here for some time and caravan parks are not always open at this time of the year, we are renting a cottage just outside Dunster. However, it will be easiest if I leave you my mobile number.’ He gestured to Janet who scribbled a number on her notebook, tore out the page and silently gave it to me.
I got up to take it and remained standing hoping that it would impress upon them the need to go. Finally when all the papers were back in the briefcase Bernard stood up.
‘Well, I will hope to hear from you soon, Sheila,’ he said, looking regretfully at the Bible lying on the table. ‘It is a great pity there was not time for me to complete that stage of my research. Perhaps when I come again you will be kind enough to look out any photographs that may be relevant.’
‘Yes, of course,’ I said ushering them out into the hall. ‘I’ll see what I can find, though I’m not sure what I’ve got – I’m afraid I’m very disorganised.’
Bernard made no reply but his silence was eloquent.
I went out with them to their car, less for politeness than for a desire to make sure they were really going.
‘Thank you for the tea,’ Janet said. And, mercifully, they were gone.
I went back slowly into the house. The animals, who, prompted by some mysterious instinct, had made themselves scarce during the visit, suddenly reappeared and demanded food and attention.
‘Where were you when I needed you?’ I asked them. ‘I’m sure they’re the sort of people who are allergic to animal fur.’
They followed me hopefully into the kitchen where the piles of crockery and the sink full of cold water was a dismal sight. I fed the animals and poured myself a large glass of sherry before addressing the task ahead of me.
‘I really did behave rather badly,’ I said to Michael and Thea when I was telling them about it. ‘Not rude exactly, but as unhelpful as I could be.’
‘I don’t suppose he noticed,’ Michael said. ‘He’s got a hide like a rhinoceros.’
‘No I don’t suppose he did,’ I agreed, ‘but it was still bad manners. And not really fair to poor Janet. It’s not her fault her husband’s a tiresome bore.’
‘I expect she’s used to it. Anyway, Ma, for goodness sake don’t let him anywhere near us.’
‘He’s determined to talk to all members of the family,’ I said.
‘Don’t you dare!’
‘Does he have any family?’ Thea asked.
‘I believe there’s a son and a daughter. I seem to remember that he doesn’t get on well with one of them, but I can’t remember which. Mind you, I don’t imagine he was particularly easy to get on with – it could be difficult to be the child of a headmaster at the best of times, and I imagine he’d have been pretty dire.’
‘Poor little beasts,’ Michael said. ‘Still, I suppose they’re both grown up now. Perhaps they’ve escaped.’
‘Actually,’ Thea said, ‘a basic family tree would be quite interesting.’
‘Oh yes, I’m all for that, but not done by someone like Bernard and not in the sort of detail he seems to be going in for. No, a straightforward family tree would be nice. Useful too for Alice, for the years ahead when she has to do a project on it at school – I gather it’s a very popular thing with them nowadays.’
‘Both my grandparents died when I was quite little,’ Thea said, ‘and Daddy never talked about the family, especially after Mummy died, and now – well, I see him so rarely and it’s never a suitable time to bring the subject up.’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘I often wish I’d asked my parents more, but you always think there’s plenty of time for things like that, and then, quite suddenly, there isn’t.’
‘Oh well,’ Thea said. ‘I’ll put the kettle on, shall I? There’s just time for a quick cup of tea before I have to go and collect Alice.’
The phone was ringing as I opened the door and I made a dash for it, nearly falling over Tris who’d come to welcome me. After all that effort it was only Anthea.
‘Have you had any more thoughts?’ she asked.
‘Thoughts about what?’ I asked when I’d got my breath back.
‘The over-60s talk,’ Anthea said impatiently. ‘Have you thought of anyone? The time’s going on and we have to make a decision soon. Now,’ she went on coaxingly, ‘are you really sure you won’t…’
‘Absolutely sure,’ I said firmly. ‘No, hang on a minute. I’ve had an idea. I might just be able to persuade someone I know to give a talk on genealogy. It’s very popular now, especially with people who’ve just retired, they’re all mad to trace their ancestors.’
‘Who is this person?’
‘A sort of cousin of mine,’ I said. ‘He lives in Bristol, actually, but he’s down here for a bit doing some research and I might be able to persuade him to stay on and help us out.’
‘It might do, I suppose.’ Anthea was never one to be enthusiastic about other people’s ideas.
‘He’s an ex-headmaster,’ I said temptingly, ‘so he’s very used to addressing large gatherings.’
‘Well, all right then,’ Anthea said grudgingly. ‘See what you can do about it and get back to me.’
I smiled as I put down the phone. If I managed to arrange things and the talk was a success, I knew very well that Anthea would claim the credit for it all. Still, if Bernard gave the talk that would get Anthea off my back. I knew from bitter experience that she could, over a period of time, wear me down and I really didn’t want the time-consuming bother of preparing something suitable for the over-60s. Of course I knew that ringing Bernard about the talk meant that I’d have to arrange a date for him to visit me again, but I felt that it was a reasonable price to pay. And, in a way, I felt a bit guilty about the off-hand way I’d behaved when he came before. I could hear my mother’s voice reminding me that politeness costs nothing.
When I went to look for it I couldn’t find the piece of paper with Bernard’s mobile number on it, but I finally ran it to earth shut up in the family Bible – the obvious place to have looked, I suppose. When I dialled the number Bernard replied right away. Obviously one of those people who expect to be rung and are poised to respond immediately.
‘Bernard, it’s Sheila. I just wondered, will you be here on the 19th?’
‘Quite probably. Why do you ask?’
I explained about the over-60s and how interested they all were in genealogy and said how they’d be thrilled to have the benefit of his advice on the technique of tracing their ancestors, and how he would be the perfect person to talk to them, etc, etc. To my delight he took the bait straight away.
‘Yes, I think I could manage that date,’ he said. ‘I very much doubt if I will have finished my research down here before then, and I do feel it is very important, as I think I said to you, that we should all be aware of our family history. Perhaps you would be good enough to fill me in on the details – time and place, o
f course, and the length and scope of the talk. We can discuss it at more length when I visit you.’
‘Yes of course,’ I said, ‘and it’s so good of you to agree. I know everyone will be most excited.’ I paused for a moment, but knew I had to go on. ‘It would be lovely to see you and Janet next Monday – about 2.30 if that suits you? I’ll see what photos I can dig out.’
‘That will be excellent. I am aiming to make it a pictorial record as far as possible.’
‘That’s fine then,’ I said. ‘I’ll look forward to seeing you both.’ I put the phone down.
‘And don’t look at me like that,’ I said to Tris who was regarding me quizzically with his head on one side, ‘if it weren’t for white lies the world would almost certainly grind to a halt.’
CHAPTER THREE
I do wish I was the sort of person who puts photographs into albums. Mine – the more recent ones anyway – are stuffed into shoe boxes or even lie, curled up at the edges, loose in drawers. My father used to be very conscientious about his photographs. I can see him now, sitting at the table with a box of ‘photograph corners’, as they were called, sticking them onto the pages of the album and then painstakingly sliding each photograph neatly into them. Of course, in those days, people took fewer pictures. Each exposure was carefully considered, there was no quick snap, snap, snap that people go in for now, taking a whole series of pictures to get one particular shot. My father would have considered that dreadfully wasteful.
Our old family photos – the formal, framed ones – hang in the spare room and what I still think of as Michael’s room. I unhooked them from the walls and laid them on the bed. Sepia representations not just of people but of a vanished way of life. I took up the group photograph of my grandparents and their children. It was probably taken a few years before the Great War, possibly the last time the whole family was together. My grandfather, bearded and stern-looking, my grandmother in her best silk dress with elegant pin-tucking down the front and her pince-nez on a gold chain pinned to her bosom, the younger boys in sailor suits, the girls with their hair freshly brushed into ringlets and, standing at the back, John, nearly a man, so soon to be off to war, and killed so young on the Western Front.