by M J Lee
He remembered it so well. The Cloud was a prominent hill a couple of miles south of Macclesfield, near Congleton. They had gone for a day out when they were courting. He had borrowed a couple of bicycles and she had made a picnic hamper of cheese, bread, a few apples and a couple of bottles of Bass pale ale. She didn't approve of drinking, but thought a couple of bottles were a man's right on a Sunday afternoon. They had pedalled to the top of the hill, with its views over Cheshire down below, when a squall of rain had come over and soaked them both. He remembered holding her close as they sheltered beneath the rowan tree, feeling the heat from her body and smelling the strange heady mix of damp and sweet perfume off her clothes.
They were married soon afterwards.
He returned to the letter as another Very light rose into the night.
Jack Davies has asked again about your allotment. He wants to take over the bit where it backs on to his to grow his carrots. I said I would ask you, but I don't like the man. He wants to increase the size of his allotment at your expense. He's been angling after that bit of land for years. Shall I tell him to wait until you get home? It can't be long now, you've been gone over three months and they all said it would be over by Christmas.
John, Alice and Hetty all miss you. Hetty is doing well at school and Mr Flowers said she could do really well if she knuckled down. She’s started writing and reading now, and I’m sure her letters will be much better than mine very soon.
Anyway, look after yourself, dear. You don’t know how much I miss you. Life just isn’t the same. Write soon and tell me how you are and if you need anything.
If I don't hear from you, Merry Christmas. I hope you can come home in 1915.
Your loving wife,
Norah
He slowly folded the paper up and placed it back in his top pocket. As he did so, a bullet whined over his head, thudding into the trench support behind him, sending splinters of wood shooting into the night. He ducked instinctively, but far too late to have made any difference if the bullet had hit him.
After a few seconds, a voice shouted from the left: 'Keep your head down, Tommy. Next time, I take it off.'
'Up yours, Fritz,' Tom shouted back, ducking beneath the parapet as another Very light arced into the night sky.
'English wit, Tommy, I remember it well.'
He looked through the trench periscope, desperately searching for the hiding place of the sniper, but couldn't see it.
'You couldn't hit a barn door, Fritz.'
He peered over the top of the parapet, half expecting another bullet to come whizzing towards him.
Nothing. Only another shout, this time further away, off to the right.
'Merry Christmas to you, Tommy. No killing tonight, not tonight.’
There he was, inching his way across no-man’s-land, heading back towards the German trenches: a lone sniper.
Tom Wright picked up his Lee Enfield and sighted down the barrel at the retreating figure. He breathed in, taking first pressure on the trigger as he had been taught in training, following the man as he edged slowly away, the sights tracking him as he crawled back towards the German trenches.
Tom fired.
The recoil of the Lee Enfield kicked hard into his shoulder and the bullet struck the earth just in front of the sniper. The man froze in no-man’s-land.
Another Very light lit up the sky, revealing the sniper’s face as he turned to look back at Tom.
'Merry Christmas to you too, Fritz,' he shouted back, lifting the rifle so it cradled in the crook of his elbow.
The German sniper nodded once and resumed his slow crawl back to the safety of his line.
Tom watched for a while until the man slid noiselessly from view.
Alone in his observation post, he stared out across no-man’s-land and listened to the sounds of war.
In the distance, the rumble of artillery. Closer, the pop of the Very lights as they were fired, rising into the sky before exploding in a blaze of light. Closer still, the snores of the men lying in the dugouts or propped against the side of the trench.
One more hour to go and he could sleep.
Blessed sleep.
He missed his family so much.
CHAPTER NINE
Friday, December 22, 2017
Didsbury, Manchester
Jayne opened the email from David Wright thirty minutes later. Just enough time for her to indulge in one of her favourite chocolates: a single estate Valrhona from Loma Sotavento in the Dominican Republic. Along with wine, it was her indulgence. And at the moment, she needed the comfort of chocolate. Snapping off another square, she scanned the email.
Dear Mrs Sinclair,
Thanks for agreeing to help us. You don't know how much it means to me, Martin and Chris.
I'm afraid I can't produce much in the way of family history. I didn’t know my grandfather very well. I remember him bouncing me on his knee and wearing a silly hat. Perhaps it was my birthday or Christmas, but it will have been the year he died, 1976. I was only three years old then.
My dad didn't talk too much about the past - I don't think he knew anything - and besides, he wasn't much bothered about it. He died when I was in my twenties, a heart attack on his way to work at the Post Office. I never thought to ask Mum about the family before she died. You never do, do you? And by the time you think to ask, it's always too late.
For a second, Jayne looked away from the computer. That’s exactly what Robert had said to her not so long ago.
‘You’d better ask me about your dad soon, Jayne, I won’t be here for ever,’ he’d said.
For years she had put off researching her own family history, particularly that of her father. After he had walked out on her and her mother she had never heard from him again.
Was he dead or alive? She didn’t know. For a long time, she didn’t care. The anger and resentment at him was stronger than any desire to know about her own background. With Robert now lying in hospital, she realised how foolish she had been. If he died, she would never know. He was the last of that generation, the last person to know who her father really was.
At that moment, she made herself a promise. If Robert pulled through this, she would ask him everything. It was time to do what she counselled all her clients to do: face up to the secrets of the past.
She turned back to the email and carried on reading.
Anyway, here are the details I do know about my dad's side:
My father, Anthony Wright, born Stalybridge in 1936, died Sale, Manchester in 1996.
My mother, Jane Brennan, born Knock, Ireland in 1938, died December 12, 2017.
(My father was the only son as my grandmother died during the war, I was told, and my grandfather never married again.)
My grandfather, Tom Wright, born Stalybridge around 1910, died in Sale in 1976.
My grandmother Doris Wainwright, born Stalybridge around 1912, died Stalybridge some time in the war.
My great-grandfather and great-grandmother both unknown.
Sorry, I have nothing more than this. Not much, I’m afraid. I wonder if my grandfather is the Tom Wright on the label, or does it go back even further? The writing is strange. Maybe it's older?
I do know my grandfather spent most of his life living in Stalybridge but moved to live with us in Sale when he was old. Dad told me he worked in a mill when he was young and when that closed he ended up as a postman. My dad followed in his footsteps (literally).
Sorry, I don't know more, but I hope this helps.
Best regards,
David, Martin and Chris
Not much to go on, thought Jayne. Nevertheless, it was a start, and as long as she had that she could begin the research. At least she had a name and a place.
Genealogy wasn't rocket science, it was a logical progression of steps to reveal a family's antecedents and forbears. There was a little bit of an art to it - those leaps of faith that helped jump over a wall, or a lack of information. But she tried to avoid those as much as pos
sible, preferring the tried and true methods of empirical research – if it wasn't documented, it didn't exist. Unless she found a piece of paper confirming a theory, for her any guesswork was simply a hypothesis that was being tested.
She decided to start at the beginning, which was actually the end: the death of David's grandfather. She first checked the registration district for Sale. In 1974, it had moved – along with many others in a local government reorganization – from Bucklow to Trafford Registration District. She went to the FreeBMD site and typed in the name, year and registration location.
Thomas Wright, 1976. Trafford.
The website seemed to be working slowly but eventually it came back with a result.
No records.
Bugger, thought Jayne.
Then she tried again with an alternative Christian name: Tom.
Still no results.
Unfortunately, Wright was quite a common surname. She removed the Christian name, leaving just the surname, and crossed her fingers. The results could be a few or hundreds.
Six results came back for 1976.
Deaths Mar 1976
Surname First name(s) DoB District Vol Page
Wright ROBERT THOMAS 26NO1909 TRAFFORD 39 2664
Deaths Jun 1976
Wright STEPHEN 15OC1952 TRAFFORD 39 1974
Wright EMILY 17OC1896 TRAFFORD 39 1998
Deaths Dec 1976
Wright FIONA 10NO1898 TRAFFORD 39 1990
Wright MARGARET 21SE1911 TRAFFORD 39 1873
Wright JOHN THOMAS 20FE1911 TRAFFORD 39 2066
This was the part of the research that she loved – digging into the past to find the truth from mere snippets of information. She immediately discounted the three named women and the man who was born in 1952. That left her with two results, neither of which matched a 1910 birth date, but that wasn't unusual. People were often forgetful of exact dates of birth and their relatives even more unsure.
Both results had the middle name of Thomas. She had two options:
Wright ROBERT THOMAS 26NO1909 TRAFFORD 39 2664
or
Wright JOHN THOMAS 20FE1911 TRAFFORD 39 2066
Which one was David Wright’s grandfather?
CHAPTER TEN
Thursday, December 24, 1914 – Christmas Eve
Wulverghem, Belgium
The next morning’s dawn revealed a beautifully clear, eggshell blue sky with just a few lazy clouds slowly meandering from east to west.
Bert had woken first. In fact, he hadn't slept, relieving Harry at four o'clock and staying at post three until 8.00 a.m. even though he was supposed to have been replaced much earlier.
The fire in the brazier was burning nicely as the tea stewed in its pan. Tom stumbled out from the shallow dugout carved into the clay, stamping his feet on the frosty covered ground, mist billowing from his mouth with every word he spoke.
'Nippy out, Bert.'
'Get away, a bit of frost never hurt nobody.'
Tom sat down on an orange crate next to the sergeant, warming his hands on the fire. 'All quiet?'
Bert nodded back towards the German lines. 'Some noise this morning, but I think it was just their snap being brought up.'
'Anything for us yet?'
Bert pulled back a cloth covering a metal tray.
'Rissoles? Where'd you get them?'
'Saw the cook going up to C Company and thought I'd have a word. Old mate of mine, is Charlie. C Company won't miss these.'
Like a bloodhound on the trail of a scent, Harry came stamping out of the dugout. '’Owt to eat? Starving, me. Could eat an ‘orse.'
Bert looked at the rissoles. 'You may have to.'
'Where'd you get them?'
'Long story,' said Bert, handing one each to Harry and Tom.
Tom took a bite of the bully beef and potatoes, which had been fried in bacon fat. They were still warm and oily, the strands of beef wheedling their way into the gaps between his teeth.
'Good grub, that is,' said Harry, finishing the last of his rissole. 'Any more?'
Bert shook his head. 'Only gave me one each for the platoon, but I managed to snaffle these from him.' From beneath his jacket, Bert produced three small, round and perfectly formed oranges. 'They were for the hofficers, but what they don't have, they won't miss.'
'Never had one of those,' said Harry. 'What they taste like?'
'You've never had an orange?'
'Don't get many in Angel Meadows. Had a banana once. Nicked it from a grocer’s. Didn't like it too much, the skin was tough.'
'You're supposed to eat them without the skin, Harry.'
'How was I to know? Didn't come with instructions, did it?'
'Anyway, you peel this too.'
Tom dug his nail into the orange and began to peel back the skin. 'Use this later in the rum, adds a lovely tang to it.’
Bert looked up. 'Now why would you be spoiling good rum with the skin of an orange?'
'We gonna get some rum then?' said Harry.
'We always gets rum at Christmas. Army tradition. Hofficers get whisky and we gets rum.'
'Well, where is it?'
Bert kicked the jar at his feet. Stencilled on it in black were the letters SRD. The jar wobbled slowly before falling over, empty.
Bert shrugged his shoulders. 'Seldom Reaches Destination.'
'Soon Runs Dry,' added Harry.
'Soldier's Rum Disaster,' added Tom.
'At least we've had some breakfast,' finished Bert. 'And a brew of tea.'
Harry and Tom held out their tin mugs. The thick stewed tea was poured from the saucepan. Both men took long draughts of the warming liquid.
'Grows hairs on your chest, that stuff does,' said Harry.
'Grows 'em on the inside of your throat too,' mumbled Tom.
Bert threw his hands up. ‘You know I like my tea stewed. Can't stand it when it's weak and milky.'
'You can stand a spoon up in it. How much tea did you use? Hope you saved some for later.'
Bert didn't answer.
They were all quiet for a few minutes, sipping their tea and enjoying the moment to themselves. Luckily, the rest of the platoon was also eating their rissoles and, for those brave enough, washing it down with Bert's tea.
Tom lifted his face to the blue sky, letting the sunshine bathe his tired skin. He felt the light caressing his face – not warming the skin, but illuminating it. For a second, he felt at peace, at ease.
Harry spoke up, destroying the moment. ’You know, if we weren't sitting in the bottom of a muddy trench, if this wasn't the army and we weren't in the arse-end of the world, if Fritz wasn't a hundred yards away with a bloody machine gun trying to kill us, and if we weren't constantly being bossed around by a load of stupid officers, this could be quite a nice place to be. Just sayin', like.’
Nobody answered him as they thought about what he said.
'Need to have a few women, though. Can't do without the women,’ Harry added as an afterthought.
'And a nice pint of Bass,' said Bert.
'And the wife and kids,' said Tom.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Friday, December 22, 2017
Didsbury, Manchester
Jayne looked again at the two options for David Wright’s grandfather.
Wright ROBERT THOMAS 26NO1909 TRAFFORD 39 2664
or
Wright JOHN THOMAS 20FE1911 TRAFFORD 39 2066
As both men were born before 1917, she could order pdf copies of their birth certificates online, checking if either of them were born in Stalybridge.
But before she did that, she decided to check two other records to see if she could narrow down her search. First would be the 1939 register. This was a list of all the people who had been living in the United Kingdom, compiled by the government in the early days of World War Two.
She logged on to Findmypast and entered the information she had on Robert Thomas Wright, including the town of Stalybridge.
No records.
That was a bit
worrying. She hoped David had his facts correct. If the town wasn’t Stalybridge then she would have to broaden the search to the whole of the UK.
She went over to the shelf in the corner. In most kitchens, the shelves were full of cookbooks; in Jayne’s it contained all the research materials for her genealogy work. She pulled the latest edition of the Oxford Dictionary of Family Names in Britain and Ireland down from its place in the middle of her shelf.
Damn.
According to the University of the West of England, Wright was the thirteenth most popular name in the United Kingdom, with approximately 130,000 people bearing the surname.
Crossing her fingers, she returned to her computer. She entered the details of the second Wright entry and the town in the search field and pressed enter.
A rainbow-coloured wheel took ages to provide her with an answer.
‘Bingo,’ she shouted out loud. The cat turned to stare at her, then went back to the far more important chore of licking his paws.
7 Mottram Lane John Thomas Wright M 20Feb11 M Postman
Doris Wright F 04Oct13 F Housewife
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
The surnames and Christian names matched David’s information. A single row was blanked out, indicating that somebody else was living in the house whose name couldn’t be identified as they were born after 1917. This was probably David’s father, Anthony, who would have been a child of three when the register was gathered.
Feeling confident she had the right person, Jayne decided it was time to go even further back. Before she started work, she slipped another square of chocolate into her mouth and checked her mobile phone.
No calls.
She hoped that no news from Vera was good news, certain that if Robert’s condition had changed in any way, Vera would have called her immediately.
Jayne went back to her computer. At least when she was working on research, her mind was so focused she had no time to think of her father lying in a hospital bed.