Whatever Remains Page 2

  The strong midday sun had by now lifted the small graveyard from peaceful but forlorn to bright and brave. We strolled among mossy grey headstones, looking but not really seeing — just going through the motions.

  A voice from the rectory calling the vicar to lunch saw us go our separate ways, he towards the gate in the hedge and a plate of something suitable for a hard-working vicar, and me to my Kind Lady for a dusty snack and a piece of fruit from her overcrowded shelves.

  I had, of course, confided to her my reason for coming to her village. Again the much abbreviated version. ‘Well, love, it’s not all gloom and doom. Maybe they were not church-going, or preferred to go to one of the bigger churches in town. Maybe one of those new style modern churches.’ She gave me a quizzical look. ‘There’s a fine Catholic church in Taunton.’ I knew we were clutching at straws. The stories I knew were of how the family walked to church three times each Sunday, rain, hail or snow. And my father would tell of the quiet summer mornings hearing the bells across the fields from his bedroom window. If this was the town, then this was the church, of that I was sure.

  ‘Well then, how about talking to some of the older village folk; they may remember your family.’ Her knitting needles clicked thoughtfully, the grey curls bobbed. ‘Plenty of folk here would be happy to talk about the old days.’ She gave me a conspiratorial grin. ‘Can’t shut some of them up.’

  Mid-afternoon saw me almost swamped in a very large soft-cushioned armchair with a dainty cup and saucer in my hands in the snug little home of Mr and Mrs Arthur (two of my Kind Lady’s ‘older village folk’). After a tour of their impressive and very large vegetable garden, I had been led through to the ‘best room’, tucked into the best armchair and presented with a cup of tea in a fine rose-patterned cup by the bustling Mrs Arthur.

  The Arthurs were a pigeon pair, both short, round of girth, bright of eye and pink-cheeked. The major difference was that Mrs Arthur was wrapped tightly in a floral house coat while Mr Arthur sported a pair of grey trousers held up with wide brightly coloured braces. They must have wondered why someone would bother to come from the other side of the world to ask questions about folks who may or may not have lived in their district. But they put their astonishment aside and gave my queries their full attention.

  ‘No, no, I don’t remember no family in the village or close by with that name,’ Mr Arthur mused. There was a lot of shaking of heads, pursing of lips. ‘T’was one family out at …’ naming a farm on the outskirts of the village ‘that was mighty strange. But not of that name, no.’ We all three of us paused and gave a moment’s thought to consider that ‘mighty strange’ family. More shaking of heads and then came the serious business of telling me the life story of the village. It all sounded very familiar.

  It was a small village, now too close to the larger market town of Taunton to keep its independence. The school had closed and many of the shops had dwindled away, after trying to ‘modernise’ but failing. There was still a butcher, post office, florist cum garden centre, newsagent, garage, my Kind Lady’s all-purpose store and a thriving chemist. The village still had a pub, a small medical practice, its own church with vicar, a public phone and a twice daily bus service. Enough, the Arthurs thought, for all their needs.

  They were being as helpful as they could, but you can’t manufacture a piece of history just to suit an enquiring stranger. Facts were facts, and the fact was that no-one in this village had heard of my family’s name — my mother’s family name or my father’s family name, or a name like either of them, or a family whose image could be moulded into something that sounded like them. The house, the family, the very existence of a family that fitted the description was simply not there. The church register, the grave stones, the vicar and long-time inhabitants all said one thing. Not your name, not your family, not here, not known in this village.

  We chatted on for some time till I judged it best to let them get back to their comfortable lives and for me to have a look around the village and use that most important piece of equipment — the very British red public phone box.

  The main street of the village lay coiled round the gently sloping hillside. A few shops interspersed with well-maintained houses and the pub on the lower side, church, rectory and graveyard on the higher side. Although it was obvious the village had seen bigger and better days, the remaining shops looked as if they were there for the long haul. The local chemist, now calling itself a pharmacy, had hijacked its neighbour, expanded sideways to include a gift and souvenir section and was obviously doing a steady business. I ducked my head into the pub. It looked inviting with its small lounge bar and open fire burning in the grate. The aftermath of the ‘midday dinner’ smelt good, the warmth inviting. I would love to have sipped a gin and tonic or even a simple glass of sherry with the convivial hum of quiet voices around me and the warmth of the friendly fire on my face, but this was 1984 and I would have felt uncomfortable, a woman alone in a bar.

  The phone box stood on the corner of the high street and a small lane running down to clusters of village cottages. It was well lit, and the phone was working. Home and family seemed suddenly very close. It was good to be able to talk. Noisy kids chattering in the background, a radio playing — home sounded like it always did, cheerful and boisterous. I told my husband all about my unsuccessful day and yesterday’s equally unsuccessful search of the Taunton Archives Office. Everywhere I turned, it seemed I faced a brick wall. We spoke for a little while then, reluctantly, I left the security of the phone box and headed for my pre-arranged dinner at the Dutch House. As the evening closed in, a fine mist swept across the village and a rising fog crouched at the end of the laneway. I hurried down the main street, glad of my warm coat and the closeness of my temporary accommodation.

  My night at the Dutch House was memorable for being uncomfortable. The bed was narrow and lumpy, the sheets lollypop pink and scratchy. The bathroom at the end of the hall unheated and like the bed sheets, pink. A large claw-footed bath, no shower and only tepid trickling water decided me that ablutions would be kept to the absolute minimum.

  By morning, the mist and drizzle had lifted. A bright day brought promise and renewed hope. After breakfasting on my now familiar tray in the den, I bid my hopefully-never-to-be-seen-again hostess goodbye. My small case, my coat and I hurried to the Kind Lady’s shop, fearful that it would be closed on Sunday. I now knew her to be Beryl but she would always be the Kind Lady to me.

  ‘No, no, love, I lives in the back so I don’t keep regular hours. I’m no churchgoer now and I’m as comfy here as I am in my back room.’ And so she looked, with the warmth of the shop, her knitting, magazines, sweet wrappers, and armchair. Cosy and comfortable she looked and mighty glad I was to lean my elbows on the counter and tell her of my miserable night wrestling with the scratchy sheets.

  Since our last meeting, she had had another thought. ‘B… Farm,’ she announced, after we had dealt with the sheets, my cool reception at the Dutch House. B… Farm had a large Queen Anne-style house on some acres of land just below the village. It was apparently owned now by a retired family from Taunton, but for many years previously it had been owned by a ‘posh’ family who’d been considered by the village a ‘bit queer’, a bit ‘hoity toity like’. My Kind Lady did not remember much about them as they had moved out of the area soon after World War II. ‘I was still living at home then, and me and Ben was courting.’

  Why is Time such a tyrant? I would love to have been able to settle down and hear her story — learn of her youth, her dreams, her battles, her life. I sensed there would be some sadness in the story. Despite the easy smile, the comfortable manner, my Kind Lady had a strength about her that told of hardship and determination. But this weekend was mine. Time was not a luxury I had. No time to sit and reminisce.

  The house, she said, had been left to shift for itself as the farmer next door had bought it for its valuable riverside land and had not used the house. ‘Great shame it was too,’ she said, ‘lovely
old house going to ruin. I was ever so pleased when the house was sold to Mr and Mrs Knox.’ The farmer had evidently divided the farm and sold the house with just enough land to create a garden.

  She had heard my story. Well, some of it. She knew the house I was searching for where my grandparents used to live was close enough to the village church for my father to hear the bells ringing on a Sunday morning. There had to be a river nearby where he and his brothers had fished and there had to be black and white marble tiles on the floor of the main hall. ‘I can’t say about the tiles, dear, I have never stepped inside myself. Why not take a walk down there and have a look around? It’s not so far for strong legs like yours and I can mind your case and coat. Tell Mrs Knox I suggested you call. She’s a nice lady, I’m sure she will put you straight about the hall tiles.’

  I bought some sad-looking pieces of fruit, a couple of dusty fruit and nut bars and a small bottle of apple juice to sustain me through the day. I would picnic, I thought, sitting by the hedgerows, and dream of often told stories of little boys playing in the garden, playing till dusk and the call for supper sent them scurrying in. As a child, I loved to hear of my father’s childhood memories. Of the adventures, or more often, misadventures, he and his brothers had had growing up in their big old country home, or the stories of his school days at an exclusive public school where he boarded from the age of eight.

  ‘Don’t forget 4.30, on the dot. No later mind, as the bus waits for no-one.’ She sent me on my way, pressing a chocolate bar into my hand. I suspect my Kind Lady did not hold with a fruit and nut bars kind of lunch. By the number of sweet and chocolate bar wrappers on the arm of her chair I could see she enjoyed a little sweetness in her life.

  The bells of St Michael’s were ringing out across the valley as I left the village. The sun warmed my back and put a spring in my brisk walk. I had been told to take the road out that the bus had brought me in on, then at the bottom of the hill to take the small lane leading to a wide river valley dotted with small farms and some larger prosperous looking houses. Great for retirement I thought. Close to a major town for shopping, a handy little village for emergency items and medical care and such pretty scenery. Not for the first time I thought how appealing rural Somerset was.

  It wasn’t far. Not half an hour’s brisk walk from the fork in the main road, I saw the gate and letter-box inscribed with curly black lettering telling me that here was B… Farm. A wide gravel drive swept up to a neat two-storey house. The house sat comfortably in an orderly garden and the whole contrived to give the place a most welcoming look. I don’t know about my forebears, but I could live here happily, I thought. Shyness overcame me. What would they make of an Australian woman on their doorstep asking if there was, or ever had been, black and white marble tiles on their hall floor? I lost my nerve and decided to keep going to see how far the house was from the small river that I knew snaked through the valley. The road wound through some of the loveliest country imaginable, fields greener than emeralds, clumps of huge oak trees and fields of golden stubble where the grain had recently been harvested. In the distance, a rise of hills folded gently down to the flatlands of the valley. Across the fields, I could just make out a row of willows delineating the line of the River Tone.

  The sun was warm, the chocolate bar melting in my pocket. An early lunch would help ease my nerves. A few minutes walk revealed a climbable gate set back from the road. The field was large, its crop recently harvested. I made a comfortable nest in the hedgerows and sat back to enjoy my snack in comfort and smell and listen to the peace of that warm autumn day. The air was full of birdsong and butterflies, the hedges bursting with hawthorn and bunches of white Queen Anne’s lace.

  As I languidly licked the last of the melted chocolate from my fingers, there was a loud bugle call and the howling of dogs. From the opposite corner of the field bounding dogs and leaping horses exploded through, and over, the hedgerows. I’d never seen a fox hunt before! What a spectacle. Red coats astride magnificent horses, such a show of passion and force. A kaleidoscope of colour, a cacophony of sound.

  I didn’t see their quarry, and I hoped the dogs didn’t either. They must have ridden from further down the valley as I had neither seen nor heard the gathering for the hunt nor the bugle calls in the village that morning. On such an idyllic and peaceful day, I mused, why would you want to ride with such cruel intent?

  The sight and sound of the retreating mêlée faded slowly, the dust settling at their passing. Soon the soporific afternoon again imposed its quietness on me.

  Taking courage in both hands, I knocked on the door of B… Farm. She was frail looking, gentle faced and dressed in soft blue-grey skirt and cardigan. I introduced myself and told her that ‘Beryl from the village store’ had suggested she may be of help. We both smiled with mutual kind thoughts of ‘our’ Beryl.

  I was ushered into a comfortable looking sitting room. Cool but not cold, traditionally furnished in discreet chintz with soft rugs on the dark stained timber floors. Mrs Knox was helpful, but could not help. The house was in disrepair she said, when they bought it some years ago. But no, there was no sign of tiles of any colour ever having been in the entrance. ‘Just the wooden flooring, dear, that you saw as you came in,’ she said. It was now restored and partly covered with a runner. She did not know the family that had lived here before or anything about them. Another dead end.

  When I was 12, on one of our family’s visits to England, my father had brought my brothers and me to a house somewhere in Somerset and we had stood in the hall surrounded by black and white tiles. My father had disappeared into a room in deep discussion with the house owners. Later, as we drove away, and we children had quizzed my father on why we had visited the house, he told us that he was looking at buying or renting it. I was thrilled as I thought the hall the most impressive of entrances, almost a palace. He said the house seemed very suitable for our needs and the tiled entrance hall reminded him of his family home. The buying or renting came to nothing, but from that day on I always saw his family home as having a front hall of ample proportions resplendent with black and white marble tiles.

  I reluctantly started back up the valley to the crossroads that would lead me to the village. I could see that I would have to pick up my pace to be at the bus stop by 4.30. Turning the corner into the main road to the village, I started up the hill at a run.

  As the bus took me back to Taunton, I had time to recall, and mentally catalogue, the failures of the long weekend.

  My first stop when I reached Taunton on Friday morning had been a visit to the impressive Taunton Public Library. With its sweeping lawns and park-like gardens, it fronted the aptly named Pleasant Street. Passing through the towering columns into the massive reading room, I spent some time searching for someone who could help me with my family history queries. I was then directed to the less impressive but far more useful Local History Library on Castle Green, a short walk away. It looked a solid no-nonsense sort of place, a place that, I hoped, would give me answers.

  David, the librarian who was on duty that morning, had listened to my story — a slightly longer version than I was used to telling — with interest. David looked very young, to my middle-aged eyes, but earnest and eager to help. I would find out during the day that he may have looked half my age but he knew his stuff. He listened attentively, not hurrying me, his fine reddish hair drifting down across his thick-lensed glasses.

  I told him of my suspicions that the name my father used, the one on his passport, was not the one he was born with and that the date of birth on his passport was also wrong.

  My husband, Lindsay, had done some painstaking research at St Catherine’s House, the repository for records in London, and found that no-one of his name and place of birth had been born within five years of his supposed date of birth. After many lunch-time forays into the musty depths of St Catherine’s, he would bring home slip after slip of notes on birth index entries. Some with a name or date or place of birth that ha
d looked promising, but on careful scrutiny, none had been right.

  So the stories of my father’s childhood were all I had to go on. Stories of his stern but just father, an architect and the MP for Taunton; his gentle, loving, but very unworldly, mother. Stories I knew so well, but now knew to be something less than true.

  The details on my mother’s passport didn’t add up either. There was no record of her, on or around her supposed date of birth. Both my parents, according to the records in St Catherine’s, did not exist.

  My sad chronicle of possibilities, probabilities and misinformation had been a little more interesting than David’s usual run-of-the-mill genealogy enquiries. We spent the rest of the morning and then most of the afternoon together, going through the history of the area with a focus on information on the local members of parliament in the early 1900s. My grandfather, so Father’s story went, was the member for Taunton early that century — so that was the starting point. Since there were no members of parliament with what I thought was my grandfather’s name, I had to assume I was looking for a family with a different name.

  Father’s passport listed Milverton in the County of Somerset as his place of birth. Again, foolishly I later learnt, I used this as another starting point. We found a likely family who had lived on the outskirts of Taunton, not too many miles from Milverton. The family looked promising, not probable but maybe by stretching things a little, just possible. The number of children in the family did not add up, all the children’s names were wrong but their ages roughly corresponded to my father and his siblings and the father had been the member for Taunton for some years in the early 1920s. David found a photo of him in an old newspaper of the times and lo and behold there did seem to be a passing resemblance to my eldest brother. There he stood in faded black and white, resplendent in his frock coat, waistcoat stretched firmly across his ample stomach, bowler hat cradled on his right arm. How impressive he looked. How dignified. He looked like a grandfather anyone could be proud of. But was he mine?