When Beggars Dye

by Peter Hey

  2. When her parents married, Mary became Mary Dye. Her birth surname simply got dropped.

  3. The next bit is the key to solving the rest of the puzzle: the reason you couldn’t find her wedding to James Smith was that she had an altogether different surname by the time they married. She was a young war widow named Mary Jensen.

  4. Mary Dye married Woodrow Jensen in Norfolk in the 2nd quarter of 1943. They probably didn’t make their first anniversary as he died in March 1944. I found his grave on the American Battle Monuments Commission website. He’s buried in the US military cemetery in Cambridge.

  5. Mary and Woodrow had a daughter, Lois E(lizabeth) Jensen, in December 1943, i.e. six to nine months after they married. Not long after, Mary found herself a widow.

  6. I guess society’s conventions go out the window in wartime and it didn’t take Mary long to find another husband. Mary Jensen married James Smith only a few months after Woodrow’s death.

  7. She’d got pregnant again because Ernald J(ames) Smith was born in January 1945. (And you didn’t find that because you naturally assumed Ernie was short for Ernest. Ernald’s a new one on me too.)

  8. The trail goes cold for James and Mary Smith, mainly because their names are so common. I haven’t been able to pin down either of their deaths. Who knows, Mary could have married a third time and died with yet another surname.

  9. After her mother’s remarriage, Lois became a Smith and then changed her name again when she married Robert G(eorge) Aimson in 1963. They died in 2004 and 2005 respectively, but they had one son, Christopher Robert Aimson, in 1973. I can’t find any record of him marrying.

  10. Ernald is also no longer with us, dying in 1994. He married an Ava Mulligan in 1972 and had one son, Dean Ernald J Smith the same year. Again, there are no further records for Dean.

  That’s as far as I’ve got at the moment. I’ll let you order the birth, marriage and death certificates. They’ll give you exact dates to work from and hopefully confirm any assumptions I’ve made.

  Keep your chin up (I hate that expression, but keep it up anyway ;-),

  Tommy x

  Hi Tommy

  Thank you so much. As I guess you could tell, this thing was starting to get me down but it looks like you’ve solved everything! I’ll get the certificates ordered ASAP. Now make sure you get some sleep. I feel really guilty that you worked on this all night. I don’t know what else to say other than you’re wonderful and I love you to little bits!!

  Jane xxx

  PS ‘Forensic’ genealogy?! Hmm. And I didn’t solve any murders when I was at the Met. I was more the go-to woman for break-ins at newsagents or teenagers smashing up bus shelters!

  Jane had rattled off a quick reply in the hope of catching Tommy before he went to bed, assuming he ever did go to bed. She now sat back and re-read his email and the attached file, digesting the implications of the names and dates they contained.

  Margaret Stothard had an aunt whose existence had been kept from her all her life. Mary Smith, the mystery woman in the wedding photograph, was raised as Mary Dye, the illegitimate eldest sister of Margaret’s mother and her siblings. Mary married twice during the war, her first husband, Woodrow Jensen, being killed on active service in the American air force. It was likely she was pregnant when they married. Tragically, their daughter, Lois, lost her father when she was just a few months old. Mary, grieving and with a young baby, found herself seeking solace with another man, a very handsome man called James Smith. Unfortunately, she got pregnant again and James Smith did the decent thing, like Woodrow Jensen had done before him. By the end of the war, James had a wife and two children, one of them, Ernald, his own. Now they were all dead, but there was another generation, Christopher Aimson and Dean Smith. Jane wondered how much they knew of their parents’ and grandparents’ story.

  When Jane had first read Tommy’s email she thought it contained all the answers, but she soon realised there was one huge question glaring like a previously unnoticed scratch on a new car. Certainly, the major error in Margaret Stothard’s family tree had been identified. But it was painfully close, high in emotional cost. All families have rows, but why had Margaret’s mother been so ashamed of her own sister that she’d been airbrushed out of her life with near-Stalinesque resolution? At first, Jane conjectured it was because Mary had taken up with another man so soon after her first husband’s heroic death fighting the Nazis. The trouble with this theory was that Mary was at Margaret’s mother’s wedding a few years later. The warmth and affection between them came across in the photographs. And would a woman really ostracise her widowed and lonely sister for falling for another man, simply because a respectable period of mourning had not elapsed? It was a time, after all, when no-one knew where the next bomb or rocket might fall: people had to live for the moment.

  Finding no immediate explanation, Jane decided she needed more data and her time was best spent getting the documents that Tommy suggested. At present, they were mostly working from the online indexes, which omitted key information and were only accurate to a three-month quarter in each year. There was room for error. As the certificates were issued at various locations around the country, she ordered copies to be sent by post from the central register office in Southport and paid for priority delivery. She was still happy spending Julian Stothard’s money. She also knew he could no longer refuse to pay her fees. He’d demanded something concrete, and she and Tommy had found it, the omission that Margaret’s mother had alluded to all those years before and had intended to take to her grave. The question of why was still unanswered, but Jane’s curiosity was fired. She had no intention of giving up without exposing whatever crime or sin Mary had committed, or perhaps, had been committed against her.

  Old memories

  It would take a couple of days for the certificates to arrive. Jane knew it was sensible to wait until they could be checked before proceeding with any further line of enquiry. Unfortunately, patience was not her thing. She needed a distraction. She also suspected a day off might do her good.

  Jane had always been a gifted sportswoman, excelling at swimming and tennis whilst at school and college. These days she found pounding backwards and forwards in a pool rather tedious, so tennis was her recreation of choice. She and Dave had played regularly when they were together. He was fiercely competitive, though not really in her league in terms of style and finesse. She could also bludgeon him with power if she needed to. But since the breakup of their marriage and her recent move back to Nottingham, she’d not picked up a racquet. She was keen to play again and decided to call in an open invitation from a childhood friend.

  It was the most exclusive club in the city and the first-team players could hold their own against any in the county. It also had a number of recreational and social players who were more often seen sinking doubles in the bar rather than playing doubles on the court. Jane had been a member in her teenage years and that was where she’d met Sarah.

  Sarah was the poshest person Jane knew and the only one she’d kept in touch with after moving away to London. Sarah’s father, known to all as ‘Papa’, had made his money in the rag trade but was an absolute gentleman of the old school and Jane had always loved him. Sarah had been sent to the finest educational establishments but had never been inclined to work hard. Papa seemed unperturbed. The only thing she ever tried at was tennis, and even then, the strength of her game was based more on innate talent than effort. In their youth, Jane and Sarah had been the backbone of the ladies’ doubles team, though Jane did more than her fair share of dashing about the court trying to cover the lines.

  ‘Jane, darling, you look gorgeous! Don’t you ever put on weight?’

  Sarah was sitting in a wicker chair on an immaculate lawn sipping an orange juice. A peaked visor protected her face from the midday sun, but her immaculate hair caught the light and reflected back a rich red-brown glow. Sarah had a classic beauty and had always oozed class. She still did.

  ‘I’d still give m
y right eye to look like you,’ said Jane, as she took an adjacent seat and kissed her old friend on the cheek. Jane had dug out her tennis whites; she’d correctly assumed they would still be required dress at such a high-class club. They’d seemed in reasonable condition when she found them at the bottom of a drawer, but next to Sarah’s pristine outfit they looked decidedly grey. It was the sort of thing Sarah would undoubtedly notice but never comment on.

  Instead, Sarah began looking around for her husband. ‘Where is the old duffer? He needs to get you a drink.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ insisted Jane. ‘I’ve got a bottle of water with me. I’ll be okay with that. How is Duff by the way?’

  Sarah had been calling her husband ‘the old duffer’, or ‘Duff’ for short, for so long that the name had stuck. All their mutual friends referred to him as Duff. Some assumed that was his real name and were confused when anyone called him Gordon, which was what was written on his driving licence. He was ten years older than his wife; they’d met when he was in his early thirties and she’d decided on the sobriquet on almost their first date.

  ‘Oh, the old fool’s still breathing, still running his little company – you know, I still really don’t understand what it does – still keeping me in the style to which I’ve become accustomed. So long as we keep out of each other’s way, we’re happy enough.’

  Jane grinned. ‘I’m not fooled. I know you too are devoted to each other. You’d be lost without him. And you know very well what his company does.’

  ‘Well perhaps, but it’s very dull. Almost as dull as he is. Talking of whom…’

  A distinguished looking man with thick head of grey hair and an intransigently black moustache walked over wearing a huge smile and a white tracksuit over a rather ample frame.

  ‘Jane, you’re even more fragrant and irresistible than ever. Look, I can’t stand another day with Ginge here. Let’s run off together, go somewhere romantic. I’ve heard Skegness described as the Venice of the east coast. It’s got a canal anyway.’ He tweaked his moustache like a silent movie villain.

  Sarah gave him her standard black look. ‘Jane has more sense and you are far, far too old for her you silly, silly man. Oh, and I may have mentioned this before: I am a rich, dark auburn. I am not ginger, nor have I ever been. It’s getting rather tiring.’

  ‘You’re a very tiring woman, my love. It’s just that, well, maybe it’s just the Sunday sunshine, but you’ve got a definite gingerish hue today.’

  Jane knew this was their standard repartee, being given full rein because they hadn’t seen her together for some time. She tried her best to join in.

  ‘I’d normally play hard to get, but Skegness is pretty tempting, Duff. Though maybe we should finish our tennis match before we set off.’’

  ‘Good plan,’ interjected Sarah, ‘then you’re welcome to him. Now, Duff, get Jane a freshly squeezed orange juice and leave us alone to catch up.’

  ‘At once, my ginger sausage roll.’

  Duff beamed amiably at the two women and set off for the bar in the saunter that was his default form of locomotion.

  Sarah signed as if exasperated and then turned her attention to Jane. ‘You’re going to be partnering Adam. He’s much better than Duff – who isn’t – so the two of you will smash us all over the court. I asked Adam because, well, he’s gorgeous and I thought you too might hit it off. Unfortunately, Duff told me on the way over that Adam is irretrievably gay, so I really should have chosen someone nearer Duff’s standard of tennis, i.e. rubbish.’

  ‘I seem to recall Duff wasn’t that bad and I haven’t played for ages. I’m going to be very rusty.’

  ‘Talking of being rusty, is there anyone new in your life yet?’

  Jane shook her head. ‘I’ve got other things to think about. I’ve set up a new business and my partner and I are working on our first contract. We’ve just made a major breakthrough. It’s getting quite exciting.’

  Sarah looked interested. ‘Partner?’

  ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t call him that. He’s not a partner in either sense of the word. He’s someone who’s providing expert assistance on a voluntary basis at the moment. But I hope he will become my partner, business partner that is. Researching people’s family history, genealogy, that‘s what we’re doing. We’ve got a fancy website and everything.’

  Sarah wasn’t going to be sidetracked and persisted with her primary line of questioning. ‘This “he”, is he married? Or is he in some other kind of relationship, and I don’t mean a business relationship?’

  Jane felt slightly embarrassed. ‘There’s someone he knows on the Internet.’

  ‘On the Internet? That’s not a real relationship. I bet he fancies you. What’s he look like? Is he the Duff type, by which I mean old and past it, or the Adam type, young and virile, but ideally not quite so gay?’

  Jane’s face reddened even more. ‘Well he’s not gay, as far as I know anyway. He’s about my age and not bad looking, now you mention it, but he’s not my type. And I’m certain I’m not his. He’s ever so, ever so clever, but also a bit geeky. I’ve always been drawn to the stronger, more physical type. Like Dave.’

  ‘Unfortunately, so was the slapper he’s now shacked up with.’

  ‘She’s not a slapper. She’s a nice girl – I used to rather like her. These things happen. I’ve got to move on, forgive them both and move on. Bitterness just eats away at you if you let it. I don’t want to make myself ill again.’

  The conversation went quiet before Sarah responded. ‘But you’re okay at the moment. How’s your…’ She paused while she searched for the right word, ‘How’s your temper, darling?’

  ‘I’m in a good place. On an even keel. I’m fine. Thanks.’ Jane’s gratitude was genuine. She knew her oldest friend was asking out of concern not fishing for gossip.

  ‘I saw Christine Jackson in town the other day,’ said Sarah, cautiously.

  Jane shuffled in her seat. ‘Did you say hello?’

  ‘I don’t talk to chavs like her! Sorry, my snobbish side is showing. But, common or otherwise, she was always a nasty piece of work, a bitch and a bully. I don’t think anyone ever blamed you for lashing out at her. It was just the scale of it that was a bit over the top.’

  ‘How does she look these days?’

  ‘Monstrously obese. And still ugly. What you did to her face may actually have improved it. No, that’s not fair. There are no visible scars.’

  ‘It was only a black eye,’ retorted Jane, albeit timidly.

  ‘If you remember, I saw her a few days after the incident, when she was still off school. They lived in those grotty flats near our house, dragging down a very nice neighbourhood. She was getting in her mother’s car and her face looked terrible. The whole right side was bruised and swollen. You were really fortunate you didn’t do her permanent damage.’

  ‘I know. It was a good job I was only hitting her with my fist. I had my tennis racquet with me – if I’d hit her with that I’d have killed her...’ Jane’s voice had begun to crack and finally tailed off as she struggled with a memory she normally smothered whenever it threatened to surface.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, darling,’ winced Sarah. ‘I shouldn’t have brought her up. I don’t know what I was thinking of.’

  ‘It’s okay. Christine, at least, was a long time ago now. But, God, if a 15-year-old did something like that these days, they’d end up in court charged with assault. I was so lucky just to be expelled.’

  ‘I think the school knew she’d been picking on you for a long time. Their anti-bullying policy was non-existent. I suspect they were worried about being accused of negligence and happy to cover it up.’

  Jane didn’t comment, so Sarah continued her analysis. ‘And Christine’s mother never cared enough about anything to make a fuss. I’m sure she was well aware what her daughter was like and probably thought she had it coming. Anyway, violence is part of a chav’s world. Isn’t that what it stands for? Council House And Violence? Or is that just
an urban myth?’

  Duff returning with Jane’s drink interrupted the conversation. The past was sidelined and the mood quickly became more light hearted. When Adam joined them, they moved onto the court and began their match. It was less one-sided than Sarah had predicted and Duff’s game of nasty slice and spin meant they held their own until he began to tire and slow down. Eventually they lost two sets to one. Sarah was enough of a sportswoman to take the defeat graciously. She was somewhat more miffed that Adam kept shouting, ‘Good shot, Ginge!’, whenever she played a winner. Duff had obviously convinced him that was the pet name used by all her friends, and Sarah was too much of a lady to complain. Jane tried her best to correct her partner by following up with, ‘Yes, well played, Sarah’, but Adam didn’t seem to notice. Despite blowing hard and dripping with sweat, Duff appeared to enjoy the match enormously.

  Norfolk 1943

  The farmer’s land had been requisitioned by the Air Ministry in 1941 under the Emergency Powers Act. The ramshackle Jacobean farmhouse was deemed unsuitable for military use and its centuries-old brickwork succumbed to the bulldozers in an afternoon. One of the barns survived and was initially pressed into service housing jeeps and ancillary equipment. Eventually, its high, beamed roof and half-timbered walls were repaired and a decent floor laid. The colonel recognised that holding regular dances was vital for maintaining morale and the barn offered a far more suitable space than the corrugated-iron tunnels of the Nissen huts that provided most of the camp accommodation.