I think a visit to the Balmain Historical Association and the local library may help. At first this yields little, no obvious connections to the Buller name; but of course, when girls get married, they can move to new places and their names often change. The Williams name is way too common; Michael and James are hardly rare variants. It seems as if every second English and Welsh migrant of the period carried the Williams name. But perhaps Mr Williams, builder, might narrow it.
In the local library, as I am flicking through historical photos, I pause over one taken of building the Balmain Town Hall, pictured partly constructed. Several men stand in front, posing. It is dated 1888. A caption on the back lists; Architect, E. H. Buchannan, and names the others in the picture. Two names which jump out are J. Roberts and M. Williams. The way these two stand together it looks like they were friends. Could this be the same Michael Williams who bought the land for the Smith St house? If he was became a builder it is likely he built it. Perhaps he and Mr Roberts worked together.
Now I have two names. Both may well have been people of note if they worked on such a landmark building. I go back to the Historical Association and ask for clues on how I might find out about well known builders in the 187O-1890 era. We turn up records for a house and hotel built by Mr Jim Roberts and Mr Mike Williams in 1882 and 1884 respectively. Judging by the Town Hall picture in 1888 they look like men in their forties. So it is likely they were married by then with children. It makes sense to me that Michael built the Smith St house after he bought the land in 1872 and then lived there, having a son named James who was the father of Sophie.
With more help from the Historical Association I locate the Marriage Registers for Balmain’s churches for the period from 1870 to 1875. I start with the Anglican Church and bingo, there it is, another clue, James Roberts marries Margaret Mitchell in April 1873. I look for that month in the local paper and again a strike.
There is a feature article, in the next edition after the wedding date. ‘Prominent local builder, Jim Roberts, marries his sweetheart, Margaret Mitchell.’ There is even a photo, old and faded but still clear, showing the bridal party. The man is the same and I am unsurprised that his best man is Michael Williams. The bridesmaid is one ‘Rosemary Williams’.
I feel I have hit gold. And there is much more. The article, written by a reporter with a romantic bent, describes how Jim had been Michael’s best man, and Margie had been Rosie’s bridesmaid at their own wedding of a few months previous. This new love had sprung from their bridal duties together at their friends wedding, held at the Catholic Church on November 6th of the previous year. As it is now Jim and Margie’s turn the paper wishes them ‘all felicitations’.
It continues, ‘The happy couple are moving to their house in Smith St, just down the road from that of their friends Rosie and Mick. Rosie is now expecting her first child. It is hoped that soon there will be similar joyous news for Jim and Maggie.’ (Is this a hint about one on the way? I think)
So I find the Catholic wedding register, Year 1872. There it is. ‘Michael Williams marries Rosemary Martin; Mother Sophia Martin (nee Rodriguez: occupation - wife), Father - Edward Martin, (deceased), occupation - former Ship’s Captain – Adelie; representative of the father and witness - Jose Rodriguez, uncle to the bride.’
There is something in the names, ‘Adelie’, and ‘Captain Martin’ which rings a bell. I have seen them both somewhere before. So I go back through the books I had been searching recently, nothing there.
Then I go to the old newspapers. Here it is; front page story of October, 1871 in the Sydney Morning Herald.
‘Feared ship wreck of the Adelie, in the far Southern Ocean, about 1000 miles east of the Cape of Good Hope, has been confirmed by debris collected by the Marguerite, en route to Melbourne from Cape Town. The Adelie has been overdue for almost a month giving great concern at its fate. Adelie’s Captain, Edward Martin, is renowned for his punctuality and seamanship.
‘The fate of the Adelie is now tragically resolved with the discovery of a small amount of wreckage from the ship, including part of one lifeboat with the name painted on it.
‘The crew of Marguerite reported they had seen indications of a huge storm which passed though this region a few days before and, after discovery of the debris, Marguerite further searched the area for a few days, but no sign of any survivors was found.’
The paper concludes, ‘It is, sadly, almost certain that Captain Martin and all his crew perished. May God have mercy on their souls!
‘This newspaper has been overwhelmed with condolences for the loss of the Captain and his crew, most of whom have families in Sydney. We extend our deepest sympathies to the families of all who sailed on this ship and, in particular, to Captain Martin’s beloved wife Sophia and his daughter Rosie who live in that well known residence in Montague Street, near the corner of Darling St, Balmain.
‘May God comfort them all in their sorrows!
‘A special service of commemoration will be held at St Augustine’s Catholic Church, Balmain, on the 30th September 1871.’
So I think I have found more of the family of James, father of Sophie.
Now I set out to trace Maria’s family. The name of Buller is not one I have found in Balmain, but I discover it was known at Millers Point, being the name given to a shipyard that operated from 1847 until the 1930s.
According to an early maritime history book this company, begun at Mace’s Wharf in Sussex Street in 1830, was first named, ‘McVey Brothers, Shipwrights’. In 1847 it moved to premises in Gas Lane, off Kent Street. At this time it changed its name to ‘Rodgers and Buller’, due to the ill health of its founder, well known shipping identity, Tom McVey. He had founded the company with his brother Rodger in 1830. Tom became sole proprietor on the death of his brother five years later. In 1854 the company changed its name again, to ‘Buller’s Shipyard and Engineering Works’. And there is more, a statement that Mr McVey and Mr Rodgers lived in Balmain, just across the water and easily accessible to their yard by small boat.
This history book also records that, in 1854, Mr Rodgers moved to Newcastle to establish a new iron foundry and shipping engineers firm and, after this, Mr Buller carried on the business alone. Subsequently Mr Buller was joined in his business by his sons, Charles and Robert, who carried on the business after the Mr Buller senior’s death.
The article continues, ‘Unfortunately the tragic death, in 1907, of Mr Charles Buller and his wife Alison, nee Rodgers, residents of East Balmain, saw the beginning of the slow decline of the business. Charles Buller was a great innovator and had modernised the business, seeing it reach its peak success in the early 1900s when it had a workforce of more than 100 men, and extensive machinery including state of the art steam machinery and early electric cranes and tools. Mr Robert Buller continued the business until his death in 1930 but, in later years, the business declined from its major role in Sydney’s maritime industry, as it failed to continue the modernisation which Charles had commenced.
Further information follows about the Rodgers shipping works and foundry in Newcastle, including the death of Mr Archibald Rodgers from tetanus, in 1870 and the subsequent death of his son James in 1924, who continued the business after his father’s death.
So now I have a Balmain connection to the Buller name in Charles Buller, with him listed as an East Balmain resident when he died.
Alison Rodgers also seems significant, with both a Balmain connection and perhaps a relationship by descent to the Mr Rodgers who was in early partnership with Mr Buller and lived in Balmain before moving to Newcastle. I am certain I have seen another reference to Alison Rodgers somewhere.
Again an old book turns it up. This time it is ‘Early Sandstone Houses of the Balmain Peninsula’. It shows old photos of significant sandstone buildings in the period 1840 to 1900, and lists their owners, as of 1900. I examine the title page and it turns out the book was republished by the Balmain Historical Association in the 1980s, when it sought to bring ou
tdated information on ownership up to date.
Returning to this book I find it, half way through, a picture of a grand sandstone house, Ocean View, in East Balmain. Over the page is a second photo from the back of the house, of a garden which plunges down to a stunning view out across the harbour. The owner is listed, in 1900, as Alison Rodgers. So I have a two way connection between the Rodgers and Buller names. Unsurprisingly the house was originally that of Tom and Mary McVey. Their will passed it to Alison Rodgers on their death. This makes me almost certain that this Alison was from the Rodgers family who were in the original shipping business in Sussex Street and Gas Lane. Perhaps, after her father’s death, she returned to Sydney and married her family friend or childhood sweetheart, Charles, who was a child of the original Mr Buller.
Soon I am on the track of more information about the fate of Alison Rodgers and Charles Buller, their death by shipwreck on the rocks near Greymouth, New Zealand is reported in the Sydney Morning Herald in September 1907, getting close to the time that Sophie disappeared. The same story gives the final link. ‘Mrs and Mrs Buller (nee Rodgers) are survived by their three children, son John and daughters Heather and Maria, and by their many grandchildren.”
I feel a picture is beginning to emerge, if not of Sophie then at least of where she came from. The Rodgers connection intrigues me. I cannot really remember, but something is tucked in my distant memory of my own family having a connection to the Rodgers name in Newcastle.
I also discover that Alison Rodgers owned a small timber cottage, Roisin, in East Balmain, near where Paul Street joins Weston St. I think I know this cottage, having seen it when walking around East Balmain, or at least I have seen a place which matches its description, a place with a garden full of sprawling pink and yellow roses, as befits its old Scottish name, Roisin.
With the death of Alison Rodgers the house, ‘Ocean View’, passed to her daughter Maria Williams in 1910, and to Maria’s daughter, Rachel McMillan, on Maria’s death in 1956. On Rachel’s death, in 1983, the house passed to her daughter, Sarah, who at the time lived in the same timber cottage, Roisin, in East Balmain. Here the family connection to ‘Ocean View’ ends. Sarah sold this sandstone house a few months later, continuing to reside in Roisin.
That was 25 years ago. Does Sarah McMillan still live in her little timber cottage? If so she must be around 80. And, if she is still there, does she know anything about what happened to Sophie? By my calculation Sophie was her aunt. Perhaps a family story still exists to tell what happened.
But now I am struck by uncertainty. Is it fair to ask Sarah McMillan what happened to her mother’s sister, Sophie, all those long years ago? If still, after all this time, no one knows what happened, will it only reopen old wounds, rekindle painful memories of people who want to forget?
I consider walking to Sarah’s house and knocking on the door to try and find out. But something restrains me. I do not feel entitled to put my nose into private grief and human tragedy, merely out of prurient interest.
So I let it sit, temporarily putting my investigation into a hiatus. There are other leads I could follow, but I have a moral doubt which infects my pursuit. And there I leave it untouched for almost a year.
One day I find myself in Newcastle, visiting my dear old Aunt Edith, sister of my dead mother, Helen, and keeper of our family’s memories.
Something brings Sophie’s story and the Rodgers connection to it into my mind. I say to Edith, “Some years ago you told me something about the name Rodgers. I think you said there was a family connection in Newcastle, but I can’t remember what it was. Can you remind me?”
I see Edith looking at me in a surprisingly deep and meaningful way. She does not answer. After a second she goes to her spare bedroom. I hear the sound of rustling papers.
In a minute she comes out with two single sheets of paper, slightly dog eared documents. She passes across the first one in silence.
I read it; a date of 1870 and the header of the Newcastle Chronicle. It describes the death of Mr Archibald Rodgers, his hand crushed in his iron foundry, it becoming gangrenous, then amputated, but a day later tetanus had set in. I know this story, or at least a part of it. It is the story of Alison Rodgers father.
Edith passes me the second sheet, names arranged in a family tree. It begins with Archibald and Hannah Rodgers and their children, James, John, Archibald, Alison, Hannah, (junior) and Alexander. It shows Hannah deceased in 1849. Archibald remarries Helen McLaren in 1850; their children: Helen, Agnes and Anne. The penny drops. I do not have to read further.
This is not the story of some unknown man called Archibald Rodgers; this is the story of my great-great grandfather. The instant I see the second wife, Helen McLaren, and her daughter, Helen, I know. My mum was Helen, and her grandmother was Helen. She was that Helen, the daughter of Archibald Rodgers and Helen McLaren.
Now the family story comes flooding back. Archibald’s daughter, Helen, left Newcastle after her father’s death from tetanus. She became a school teacher in Bathurst. Her son was my grandfather. This is my story. Alison was my great grandmother’s half sister. Sophie, her granddaughter, shares my genes; she is blood, a relative to me and to Tara.
Could Sophie have somehow called to Tara, directing her to find her precious things, even after all these years. It does not feel like co-incidence, but rather like invisible threads pulling us both to strange yet familiar places through warps in time and space. Goosebumps and chills run along my arms and down my spine. I just have to know!
I look up; my aunt is still standing there, looking at me with her quizzical look. I have not spoken since she found the papers.
I say, “Archibald Rodgers was my great-great grandfather, was he not?”
She nods. “But of course, I thought you knew.”
So I sit her down and tell her the story or, at least, the parts I know.
Edith gives a faint frown, trying to remember, then her face clears, “I remember now. It was a family story when I was a little girl. The family knew that Sophie had gone missing and was never found, but no one ever knew why or how.
“When I was a little girl I stayed at Ocean View in Balmain for a few days once. My Aunty Maria and Uncle Jimmy, that is what I called them, as we were all connected by Archibald, still lived there then.
“I had come from the country to school in Sydney with Helen (my Mum). At first we had stayed with my Aunty Ada, but then she died of a stroke. So Maria and Jimmy came over to get us. They brought me and Helen to their house in Balmain, and we stayed there for a few days until we could go back home to Warialda.
“Maria and Jimmy were lovely warm people. They treated me like a grandchild. On the mantel in Ocean View was a picture of Sophie. When I asked about the picture Maria sat me down on a chair and told me what they knew. It was not much more than what you have said; that Sophie had gone missing with her friend Mathew and they had never found her.
“As she spoke I saw Jimmy had tears in his eyes. After a minute Maria went over and put her hand on his shoulder and she had tears in her eyes too. They said that, even after all those years and having all their other children, they still missed her, but were not really sad anymore, because she was happy in another place.
“Although they said she was happy now, I could tell that not knowing what had really happened to Sophie had left a huge hole inside them, more than thirty years later the pain was still so raw.”
Edith pauses for a minute, lost in this memory, before going on, “Their daughter, Rachel, lived in a cottage nearby. Sometimes we went there and played with her daughter, Sarah, who was my half cousin. Sarah was about Helen’s age; other times Sarah and Rachel came to Ocean View.
“I have not heard of Sarah for years, but someone would have told me if she died. I think Sarah also has a brother, Tom, who lives in New York.”
“I will get you the rest of my papers about the Rodgers family, there is quite a bit as they were famous Newcastle people. One of my cousins has been resear
ching their lives. She has given me a copy of what she found out.”
Edith goes again to her room and comes back with a stack of papers, an inch thick, for me to read.
Then she says “Could I come back to Sydney with you? I would like to see the perfume bottle, I have not heard about it before, and it would be nice to see a picture of Sophie again and visit my old playmate, Sarah.”
So that is it. I bring Edith to our house and she stays in Tara’s room. I wonder if Sophie’s presence will speak to her too.
That night I sit and read these papers. I start to truly understand who my great-great grandparents were and their links to Sophie’s story; she the half great-great aunt I never knew, now the forever child, age of my daughter. She calls to me now from beyond the grave as a vanished eight year old girl. Her voice says to tell her story.
Chapter 24 – Alison brings the children back
Next day we go round to visit Sarah. I ask Edith if we should try to find her number and ring first.
“Oh, don’t worry about that rubbish,” she says. “She is my cousin, after all. Seeing she is old like me, she is not likely to be gone out or too busy.”
So we go there.
The door opens. Before me stands an old lady, genteel and gracious, but with a touch of wildness. Those eyes, Sophie’s eyes, stare out at me, only a hundred years on. I do not know how I know that the eyes in a tiny black and white photo are the same. But in my heart and soul I know this lady carries Sophie’s likeness in this part, even yet.
Sarah knows Edith at once, even after all these years. She invites us in. Edith simply introduces me as the son of her sister, Helen, who Sarah played with those many years ago.
But I swear Sarah looks at me with an insight that says she knows I am more than that. She indicates for me to bring an extra chair. She and Edith take two much loved chairs by the fire, while I sit between them.
Little Lost Girl Page 17
