Card pictures of a bird and its cage, finely detailed in watercolour, are looped together on silk threads. For Sarah Yelloly with her mother's affection and love, Aug 1837. I pull gently at the threads, but nothing happens.
On a larger piece of octagonal board, a house and garden, the flowers dewy and bright. With a fine blade, someone has made tiny slits all over the surface of the picture and at the centre is a loop of brown ribbon. Very gently, I lift it, and the house becomes a three-dimensional version of itself Underneath, painted on the card itself, two mice are busy attacking a piece of cheese:
This wire-fenced mansion
Mr Souri's Hall
Is now on sale
And may be viewed by all
Lift up the latch
And peep into the house
But move with caution
Lest you scare the mouse.
A letter has been written by a child on a piece of paper edged in black. The initials in relief at the top, A.M.S. Anna Suckling?
My dear Uncle Sam,
I have got the toothache and couldn't eat no dinner hardly. I am very sorry that I didn't say goodbye and I'll ask him where he was that I didn't say goodbye. Which station did you stop at and how did you find your chicken and Grandmamma's horses and how is Harris and please how is Phyllis and Vilet and I forget the others and how is Aunt Sarah's room and all her things and I'll ask him how is the pony chaise and Constance and me and Anna were going to breakfast with Grandmamma and Aunt Sarah and Aunt Harriet, are you not surprised to hear it and I hope it will be fine tomorrow and I send my love to you.
Aunt Sarah and Aunt Harriet. This is from your sister Anna's daughter, also Anna.
A fold-out painting of Temple Bar in London, done by Sarah, quite crude yet ferociously detailed. And a small sampler of the alphabet, stitched in red cotton, also signed Sarah Yelloly 1819.
And then something that I instantly recognise. A small white card printed with the following words:
ADMIT
Thos Howe & wife, & George & Maria to a SUPPER on Tuesday next, July 26th, at ¼ before six o'clock.
They are to bring a Knife, Fork, Plate and Mug with them
By order of
S.A. Severne Esq
It has to be one of the invitations to your sister Sarah's wedding supper in the capacious bam. Admit Thos Howe &wife, & George & Maria . . . Straight away I see a family, husband and wife and two children, making their breathless way towards the bam on a late-summer's afternoon, knives and forks and plates clutched in their hands. Long shadows in the hedgerows, music slipping across the fields.
How, then, did the card survive all these years? Did the Howes drop it on the ground as they went in, leaving it to be kicked around on that hay-strewn bam floor? And did your sister pick it up later and decide to pocket it as a memento, slipping it fondly between the pages of her Bible, or else lodging it among the pressed flowers and sketches in the top drawer of her writing desk?
Something else: wrapped in a piece of paper with Sophy Yelloly written on in pencil, is a tiny painted envelope with forget-me-nots on the front tied with a pink bow. A handpainted view of Snowdon on the back.
Inside in tiny writing: Robert from Sophy and Snowdon from the [illegible]. In the little envelope are two bits of what look like very old paper, a tiny black piece and a larger transparent one. Nothing written on them. I put them back, somehow subdued by the sense that I've just intruded on something intimate and private.
Another envelope: Harriet Yelloly Flowers from: the Field of Waterloo July 23rd 1847. Inside, some long-dead mouldering stems and petals, brown and dried out. And a piece of folded paper containing watercolour cut-outs of wigs and hats which look like they were made to fit on paper dolls.
There's an 1837 edition of the catechism and a Table of Etiquette showing how one should properly address the King of England as well as various peers of the realm.
A sketch of Clare Castle, Suffolk, drawn from an old print. And some engravings of other British landmarks - Snowdon, Conway Castle etc - pulled from a book and saved. Are these what you copied when you painted your album?
A whole bunch of little watercolour cut-out dolls and figures, some of them with cotton carefully threaded in and knotted, as If they were about to appear in a toy theatre. The best one is a jester - red hat, green waistcoat and red-striped tunic, yellow stockings with garters and inward-pointing feet in red shoes. If you jiggle the cotton his head moves.
Deeper in the trunk, there's an envelope with a coin inside: Royal Medical Society to J. Yelloly Esq. SIG SOC REG MED CHIR LOND. Non Est Vivere Sed Valere Vita. Also, a copy of a letter, undated, but written by your father to The President and Members of the Court and Assistants If the Honourable Artillery Company:
Gentlemen,
The late Act of Parliament for the defence of the kingdom afforded me as a Physician exemption from that military service which everyone, except medical men and clergymen, were called upon to perform. I did not however consider it right, in the present momentous crisis of affairs, to avail myself of this privilege, and therefore became a member, nearly three months ago, of the Hon Artillery Company, well assured that in this corps, my humble services would be respectably and usefully directed.
Within a short time it has been suggested to me that as my profession may even be more useful than military services . . .
A folded-over piece of brown paper has the words:
Miscellaneous manuscripts chiefly written by our dear Groome when he was a young man, for sweet Sophy my sister to whom he was engaged. She died of consumption before their marriage.
Woodton - A Satire - Oak Room, Woodton, April 27th 1837 presented by me, R.B. Groome and dedicated to the Lady Sophy by her Humble Servant The Author.
And that's almost it. Except that, at the very bottom of the box, under Robert Groome's collected poetical works, are two faint pencil sketches done by your sister Anna. Two girls.
The first has a sharp, intelligent face, slender nose, hair piled on top of her head, a couple of long ringlets hanging down. Earrings. A rope of pearls around her neck. It's captioned My Dearest Jane and is dated September 1838, three months after her death.
The other girl is younger, her hair loose, curls tumbling down to her shoulders. Her dress is a young person's dress - sash and bows. On the back is written: My Beloved Sister Mary and the same date. It's you, drawn three months after your death.
The only difference between the picture of you and the one of Jane is that, although your hair and clothes are drawn with care and in some detail, unlike Jane - for reasons unknown to anyone but Anna - you have no face.
Last of all, right at the bottom of the trunk, among the hairs and dust and a few stray pins, some slim notebooks.
Sarah's Journal if a Visit to London May 1829. And four volumes of a journal written by your brother Sam when he was living in London and in Ipswich and seeming to span the years 1835 to 1838, the year you died.
But that's not all. There are two others. One flimsy and small, dated July 1828. Another, dated 1830, fatter and bound with an emerald green silk ribbon. The handwriting is neat, but childish. The author is Mary Yelloly aged thirteen and a half My heart speeds up. These are your journals.
My stepfather was a chartered surveyor and when I was thirteen and a half he brought me something he got free at the office. A white, ring-bound Halifax Building Society diary with pictures of Winston Churchill and Charles Dickens on the front. On 1 January 1974, I wrote: I have decided to keep a diary. I hope it will be a comfort for me to read through it occasionally and see how lucky I am.
Your journal for 1830 - covering just a few brief summer weeks when you were that age - is a thin brown home-made book about 8 inches by 4, a few sheaves of rough brown paper gathered together and stitched, a bit of green silk ribbon threaded through.
The lines and margins have been drawn by hand. The handwriting is faded - brown ink, twirls on some of the larger capital letters.
My o
wn teenage diary is written mostly in Biro.
Monday, 13 May 1974:
Back to school. Went into Arboretum in art. Drew primroses. Had a lecture on Macbeth in the afternoon. Oh why am I so sad? I don't like Daddy, imagine, my own father! He is on the verge of a nervous breakdown, Mummy says he is mentally ill . . . Lily (my doll) is staring at me . . I think she knows. Now I'm crying. Oh dear.
Thursday, 13 May 1830:
From 8 to 12
Heard Ellen her music. Had breakfast. Went to Mrs Hudson wrote English Ex, practised half hour.
12 to 2
Squeezed lemons helped to divide A's margins put on [illegible] .
2 to 5
Had dinner. Helped to make cake then made part of a frill practised half hour.
5 to 7
Had tea made lemon sponge had fruit turned out lemon sponge the Hudsons came.
7 to 10
Read.
Thursday, 25 July 1974:
We 3 made a beautiful cake for Mummy's birthday. Mummy came in and found Mandy and I fighting. She was so angry. I apologised and I meant it but she sent me up to my room when I told her the truth. I hate her for it.
Friday 26 July
Quite a nice day.
Saturday 27 July
I'm afraid I don't understand myself
Sunday 28 July
An extraordinary weekend. I don't know if I enjoyed it or hated it.
Monday 29 July
Fairly ordinary day. Didn't do much. Baked a cake, finished my novel, wrote my diary. Felt a bit sick in the night.
Tuesday, 31 May 1830:
1 From ½ 8 to 10
Worked at chemisette, had breakfast.
10 to 2
Bound screen. Made sago. Had luncheon.
2 to 5
Read prayers, bound part of screen. Took a walk down Trowse.
5 to 11
Had dinner. Worked at chemisette. Finished chemisette.
Wrote journal.
Wednesday June 1st
½ 8 to 10
Took some inks spots out of chemisette.
What I Must Achieve 1974
Write to tea company
Finish my novel
Write to Dr Barnardo's
Make some pies
Write to RSPCA about little dogs in Trinity pet shop
Books Which I Have Read 1830
Tales of the Crusades
Flirtation
Grandfather's Tales
The Country Curate
Part of Mrs Beroc's [?] Journal
Caleb Williams
Rhoda
I began writing my first real novel in the bitter winter months after our daughter was born. Our boy was just two, his little brother (though we didn't know it then) just a couple of months from being conceived.
It was pure coincidence that my father decided to kill himself the night our girl was born, but it didn't feel like it. New Year's Day 1991 was exactly when she was due (and when, in the early hours, after we had drunk a little too much champagne, she decided to come). It was also the time for suicides. As the edge of the old year tipped into the new, our daughter (6lbs 120Z, blue-eyed, pale-skinned, no hair) slipped into the world and my father - drunk on whisky and gulping exhaust fumes - slipped out.
I could hardly take it in. Cushioned by happiness and hormones, I was unable to experience the full shock of it. It really took another whole year - and the birth of another baby (7lbs 140Z, black hair, ruddy-faced) - before it really hit. Then I made up for it. As if!'d finally grasped what had happened, I panicked.
I developed scary headaches, saw flashing lights, felt I could not breathe. My heart raced. Sometimes I felt as if someone was sitting on my chest.
I tried to focus, literally and metaphorically, on my newborn baby, but his small face was getting further and further away. Convinced I was about to die, I finally saw a neurologist, who told me I was fine and said: By the way, what a lovely baby boy. He told me all I needed was a bit of rest.
I don't know if! believed him. I wanted to believe him. I said I believed him. I didn't believe him.
As far as I can remember, I continued to care for my three small children quite normally throughout this time, but what if! didn't? I didn't think my hysteria extended to them. They were my darlings, my saviours, they were all I desired in this life. I did not believe for one moment that they could pick up on what I was feeling. But what if I was wrong? What if they did?
In photos taken at the time - one baby on my lap, one in my arms, one at my feet, I look: fine, happy and shiny and pretty. Or: thin and young and petrified. It all depends what you're looking for.
I remember then, just as now, finding fast cars a bit too much to deal with. The impulse to stop, to pull in. And I remember thinking about death quite a lot too - not especially my father's death, just death generally.
And I remember a good friend of ours coming to tea and bringing her toddler, who was the same age as our boy. And I know that we spread a rug and some toys on the lawn and all lay around laughing and talking and drinking tea in the sunshine and daisies, so it must have been a happy afternoon. But in my memory, the proportions are all wrong and it's dark and skewed and it doesn't look like my life.
Two startling things about this time. First, that it passed. I came out of it. And second, by the end of it, about six or nine months after that third baby was born, I'd written a novel.
I don't know whether it was before or after the novel was published that my boy wrote me his first letter, but I still have it now on my wall in a little clip frame. Written on an upside-down postcard, the letters are individually drawn, like stick animals. You wrote a good novel I love you very much [ou, Julie
He never in his life called me Julie except on that card. And he didn't know what a novel was. Nobble, he used to call it. He was about four years old. He was delicious. I loved him so much. We loved each other.
I suppose I would like to think that little scribbled postcard might survive the next two hundred years.
We meet up with some people the addiction counsellor put us in touch with - the couple she told us about, who have two sons who are both addicted. We meet in the members' bar at the top of the Tate. Sky pouring in through glass.
They are slightly older than us - attractive, good-humoured, friendly and charismatic people. The kind of people who, in more innocent times, we'd choose to have a drink with anyway.
The mother tells us their story. It's worse than ours, if only because it involves two children and a whole lot more years. As she speaks I feel tears welling up in my eyes, but I don't know whether they're for her or for me. Certainly there's something heart-stopping about hearing a total stranger reveal themselves in such an open, undefended way. The loss of children. Not many things are worse.
We all drink coffee. And we tell them our story too. And the light spills in and downstairs people are wandering through white spaces, leaflets in hand, looking at art.
We tell them how much it means, that they're willing to talk to us about this, sharing like this.
At least you know you're not alone, says the man, who has colourful socks and, when he's not talking about his children, twinkling eyes.
Out there all over the country, plenty of families are dealing with this, says the woman, flicking a look at the London skies. Far more than anyone realises. Seriously. It's a whole new way to lose your kids.
I look closely at her face and I recognise the weight of grief behind her eyes. Her face, but also mine. A whole new way to lose your kids.
SOS (SAME OLD SHIT)
Welcome to the loamy darkness,
between slick bodies
and the glow of mobile phones,
a meaningless moment in which to forget,
get off with strangers, loose our heads.
In which to forget there's a world outside,
come on cheer up, we're here to socialise,
in here there ain't no serial killers,
to pick off girls of the night.
But somehow though everyone's smiling.
For me something's not quite right,
can't sleep, can't eat,
can't force myself to go along for the ride,
I suppose I have two options for how to see out tonight;
the conversation's dwindling, and so is my thrills,
I can keep popping till all I can say is pills,
bouncing off walls till the morning trills.
Or I can go home and sleep,
grab a bite to eat.
All sounds fucking boring to me.
5
THE FIRST TIME julia Yelloly and I are due to meet we have to cancel because snow lies thick all over Suffolk and the trains aren't running.
Now, on a warmish Sunday afternoon a couple of weeks later, I'm waiting on the road outside All Saints, Woodton when a pale yellow car turns on to the road. Primrose yellow. She's already waving to me as she pulls up and parks half on, half off the grassy verge.
Your great-great-great-niece.
She's thirty-something, dark wavy hair, lively eyes. She's been in Bungay training for a triathlon and she has on blue trousers and a red fleece. No make-up. Cheeks blazing with cold. I ask her if she realises that her car's the exact same colour as the old Yelloly coach, and she laughs but I'm not sure she knows what I'm talking about.
After several weeks of emails, we're shy with each other, both talking too fast, interrupting then apologising, falling over each other's words. Together we make our way through the little wrought-iron gate, up the gravel path and into the dim silence of the church. After standing a moment to look again at your family plaques, we settle ourselves in a pew about halfway down the aisle. There's no one else here. Just us and the vaulted ceiling, stained-glass windows and Yelloly written over and over on these walls. Your familiar coat of arms with its frothing red plumes. Spes Mea Christus.
The Lost Child Page 12