Whatever Remains

by Penny F. Graham

  As the years passed, life would have become a little easier for Pat as the children started to make their own way in the world. Then Pat met an old friend from her childhood days. Albert came back into her life.

  When Pat and Albert met again, Albert was working in London at Commercial Union Insurance where he had been for many years. His second wife, who had been in poor health for some years, had recently died. They had had no children.

  On 13 October 1973, Pat and Albert married in the Camberwell Registry Office. Pat is still petite, slim and attractive. Always a smart dresser, Pat wore a chic little two-piece suit belted around her slim waist for the ceremony, a small posy of flowers in her hand.

  When Albert deemed it time to retire, they opted to leave London and make a home for themselves away from the hustle and bustle of city life. They found a two-storey house large enough to accommodate family when they visited and with a good size garden in a rural atmosphere. It was close to shops, a train station with a direct line to London and in a part of England where the bitterness of winter was tempered by the protection of the English Channel. They had found their home ‘Brambles’ at Goring-by-Sea and it suited them down to the ground.

  Chapter 21

  Cousins

  After leaving the gentle, genteel, fertile fields of West Sussex, we headed north-west, back over the High Downs towards Gloucestershire, only breaking our journey to stop and pay our respects to Wackie, whose memorial bench stands on a ridge on a soft green hill overlooking the flatlands. These hills, not too far from home, had been Wackie’s favourite place to walk. After her death, Pat and Albert organised a bench seat with a plaque, which was placed at the particular spot where Wackie would like to stop to admire the view. We sat watching the day unfold in the valley and flatlands below us. Though the spring morning promised a clear bright day, scudding white clouds still rushed fitfully across the sun and the lush green grass was still damp with dew. We said our silent goodbyes to Wackie, then left her to the beauty of the day.

  The next part of the journey was primarily to visit some of my new-found cousins. The first was Daphne, of the ‘Is that Australia?’ Mother’s Day phone call. That amazing call that had ultimately set me on this journey. Daphne, the first of the British relatives I had ever spoken to, lived with her husband John and their two dogs in Cheltenham.

  Late afternoon saw us on the outskirts of Cheltenham. It is a pretty town set in a particularly pretty part of Britain. Cheltenham grew in fame and fortune through the efficacious quality of its hot springs. According to legend, a flock of pigeons discovered a spring on the site of what is now part of the town. The locals, noticing the pigeons seemed to thrive, tried the waters for themselves and found they eased many of the disorders that afflicted 18th century mankind. Local entrepreneurs soon realised there was money to be made from this gift of nature and started to develop the town in order to attract the wealthy and famous.

  Among the early visitors to take the spa waters were distinguished people like Handel and Samuel Johnson. The event that ultimately ensured the success of Cheltenham as a Spa town was the visit of King George III in 1788. ‘Farmer George’, as he was popularly known, lodged with his entourage at a local inn and after ‘taking the waters’ strolled around the town with his family, meeting the populace.

  Even though royalty has not visited recently, the spa waters continue to be taken recreationally at the stylish Pittville Pump Room, built in the pomp and circumstance style of Regency architecture. The town is in fact famous for its many Regency style buildings and is said to be ‘the most complete Regency town in England’.

  Driving slowly to take in as much of the town architecture as we could, we meandered through the tree lined streets and bustling town centre. We found their house and this time my nerve held — after pulling into their driveway, I was able to hop straight out of the car and ring the front door bell.

  They were very different, Pat and Daphne. In their outlook, their manner and their style, these two cousins were like chalk and cheese.

  Brisk and decisive, with a firm handshake and straight-to-the-point manner, Daphne welcomed us into her home. Even now, in her later years, I could still see the pretty little girl and the striking young woman that she had been. John was her opposite — quieter, plumper, greyer and easy going. And then there were the dogs!

  Daphne and John loved their dogs. As a young couple, they had decided that devoting their lives to the bringing up of children was not for them. Their passion was dogs, big dogs, usually with pedigrees. In their later years, however, they would prefer to adopt the big unloved dogs that were left in the dogs’ home as being too expensive to feed and too large to keep in the house. Their current two adoptees were fierce looking, but totally benign, German Shepherds. Placid in nature, and lazy by inclination, they lumbered after us gently complaining of the outrageous disruption to their usual sedentary lifestyle. Sitting in their favourite chairs was also viewed as an act not to be tolerated. On more than one occasion I would find 15 kilograms of long hair, wet black nose and slobbering tongue descending on my knee. I soon learnt that it was wiser to vacate the chair than to be sat on.

  Daphne and John were to look after us in style over the next few days. We were taken about town and shown all that was interesting to see in the town and surrounding countryside. We drove through the winding river valleys, through villages whose cottages were hung with early summer roses and village greens just begging to be played upon. Just when we had decided that we had seen the prettiest town or village, we saw an even prettier one. If any part of England could be described as ‘picture perfect’, this was surely it.

  The Cotswolds are characterised by attractive small towns and villages built of the underlying Cotswold stone, a pale golden form of limestone. If you are lucky enough to visit on a bright sunny day, the stonework glows like honey. In years gone by, it was the wool trade that made the Cotswolds prosperous. Much of the early wealth of the district was put into the building of fine houses and many churches. Driving through, one had the feeling each building was vying to be the prettiest or quaintest or grandest.

  In the evenings, clutching cups of tea and plates of supper, we would gather in the chintz armchairs in the sitting room. Always keeping a wary eye on the overweight, but ever-hungry dogs and our supper, we would settle down to talk well into the night. I learnt a lot of my family’s history during those long summer evenings. As daylight faded from the sky, the lamps in the room would be turned on, the gas fire lit, and we four would sit talking, me asking so many questions that even Daphne, with her sharp memory and fund of family stories, could not always answer them. Then, some time after midnight, with the two dogs gently snoring in their favourite armchairs, we would yawningly creep up to our beds.

  During those long evenings of reminiscences, questions and answers, Daphne gave me a cut-down version of her life over the past 50 years and some insight into some of the Emerson family. She also had early childhood memories of Denis when he had come to visit her family in Taunton. She remembered him as being tall and well dressed with brushed-back dark hair and tanned skin that smelt of lavender. He was good looking, she said, producing photos showing us a slim young man with well-cut casual clothes, a strong nose, rather sensual lips and a cleft chin. He had apparently been particularly fond of pretty little curly-headed Daph, as he used to call her, and would sit with her on his knee as he talked and laughed with her mother Helen. Helen was a very forbearing sister, even encouraging of her younger brother Len’s decision to make a new life for himself in Malaya, notwithstanding that he was to leave a pregnant wife straight after their wedding.

  Helen Rosemary, Daphne’s mother, was born late in 1897. Her unnamed twin died at birth. Helen married Frederick William Dibble in 1925 in Lambeth when she was 27. Daphne, their first child, was born in 1926 while they were still living in Lambeth, and Alan, their second and last child, was born in 1932. The young couple moved to Taunton sometime after Daphne’s birth when Fre
d took a job on the railways. And there they stayed until Fred tragically died of a heart attack while waiting on the railway platform for the train that was to bring Helen home from visiting family in London.

  Helen was a gregarious person who loved to visit her family and friends in London, and often did, usually staying with her parents in Brixton Road. After Fred died in 1958, she moved back to London with almost unseemly haste. A London girl born and bred, she obviously preferred to be back near her large and argumentative family.

  Helen had always had a special relationship with her youngest brother Len. And for his part, he must have been very fond of her as he maintained a regular correspondence with her. Even though they were separated by 11 years and two siblings Nell, as Helen was always called by the family, and Len were great pals. After he left for Singapore in 1926, Len wrote and sent photos and gifts to Nell until he disappeared from the family’s radar in 1942. Daphne remembered her mother’s laughter, as she would read a letter from Len telling her of one or another of his hilarious exploits. She encouraged him to make the most of himself and had been horrified to hear of his ‘in her eyes’ disastrous early marriage to Doris. No-one, apparently, and certainly not the quiet unassuming Doris, was good enough for her handsome brother Len.

  Daphne had an enormous store of family photos. We would trawl through them, with me asking who was this and what was that. As a minimalist myself, I say thank goodness for hoarders! She had kept many of the photos sent to Helen from Singapore and Malaya in the years before the war. When Helen died in 1985, Daphne had collected all Helen’s bits and pieces, photos and letters and boxed them up and taken them to her home for safekeeping.

  Even though they were undoubtedly close and Helen probably knew more about Len’s comings and goings than most of the Emerson family, there was one piece of information that was never given to Helen. Though many dozens of photos were sent home to his big sister, photos of my mother were conspicuous by their absence. There were pictures of other young and attractive girls (I can’t but help but wonder if one of those pretty young things is Bunty Melville to whom Denis was engaged in 1936) and his letters were often peppered with girls’ names — but none was called Nona.

  What a treasure trove Helen’s memorabilia became. Not only did Daphne unearth photos of family long since dead, but she also kept some of the gifts sent to Helen from Singapore and Malaya. With a generosity that I am still grateful for, she gave me an intricately woven shawl, small evening bag and beautifully embroidered Chinese pyjamas that had been sent to Helen — apparently never worn, but treasured nevertheless and kept wrapped and protected with moth balls till she died. Later I was to divide up these pretty treasures with Pat. I have mine still, waiting to hand them down to a family member who would be interested in such things.

  On the last evening of our visit, Daphne asked a favour. Would we take into safekeeping two photo albums belonging to her uncle Nen? They were photos taken by him of his exploits during World War I. As I recall, they were mainly taken in the Middle East and with the two albums was a Turkish sword taken as a souvenir at (Daphne believed) Gallipoli. ‘Yes, of course,’ we replied. They were to be carried home to Australia by us and given to the family of the now dead uncle Nen. The photos and sword had been left with family at Brixton Road when Nen (Henry, the Emersons’ seventh child) left for Australia after serving in the Great War. We were thrilled to be custodians of such a precious cargo and such a wealth of information the photos would no doubt prove to be. We had been told of the existence of this part of the Emerson family in one of the many phone conversations we had had with Daphne in the early days of our acquaintance. It had seemed almost unbelievable that I had an uncle and maybe cousins living in Australia, almost in my own back yard so to speak. Daphne had only sketchy information of where her uncle lived, just that they were somewhere in Canberra. Before we left Australia we had not made any effort to find them, but that would certainly change on our return.

  After leaving Daphne and John we had one last set of cousins to visit. Gwen Dove and her family lived in East Leake, outside Loughborough in Nottinghamshire. Gwen was the daughter of Len’s sister Grace, the ninth child (and second daughter) born to Thomas and Fanny Emerson.

  Grace was born in 1896 and, according to Gwen, was a fun-loving, kindly but strong-minded woman. A photo given to me by Gwen shows the young Grace to be a striking woman with lots of dark curly hair, strong eyebrows and large well-spaced dark eyes. The 1911 Census tells us that Grace was living with her parents at 145 Tyers Street in Lambeth. She was 14 years old and already working as a ‘Confectioner’s hand’. In 1919, she married William (Bill) Herbert Callon. They were both 23. After his experiences during World War I, Bill Callon’s health was never good. He had been forced to work in a German coal mine after being taken prisoner early in the hostilities. There he developed ulcers that plagued him throughout his life. At the time of his marriage, he was working as a London cabbie, but for the rest of his life he could only work intermittently due to recurring bouts of ill health. Gwen believes that the last few years of her father’s life were probably the happiest and certainly the most stable when he got a job as chauffeur to the Dutch ambassador in London.

  Grace and Bill had eight children, Gwen being the eldest. Grace’s parents were against the marriage from the start. They considered that Grace had married beneath her, and Bill having a Jewish mother was another mark against him. Be that as it may, it sounds as if it was a happy, if somewhat tempestuous, marriage. Certainly Gwen considered her childhood a happy one, though she admitted that there never seemed enough money to make ends meet, and finding the rent money was often a problem. When she was eight, she and three of her siblings were placed in temporary care at the Norwood Orphanage, an orphanage and trade school set up by the Jewish community at Mile End in the early 1900s. At the time the family was going through a bad phase when her father could not work and the family, quite literally, could not provide enough food for all the children.

  During World War II, Gwen’s younger siblings were either sent to live with relatives out of London or evacuated as part of Operation Pied Piper. Over the first four days of September 1939, the Pied Piper program evacuated three million people, mostly children, out of towns and cities in danger from enemy bombers to places of safety in the countryside. The government of the day organised this mass exodus in the hope that they would be out of harm’s way. With a small suitcase, a gas mask and a tag with their name and age attached to their clothing, the children were sent to host parents, boarding schools (if the parents could afford it) or large country houses. Many children found themselves billeted with kindly folk, but many did not. Gwen’s two youngest brothers Len and Denis were sent to Parham Park, a large country home whose owners had agreed to take in a dozen or so children during the emergency. There they got three square meals a day, had an absolute whale of a time and got up to all sorts of mischief before being packed off home again when the bomb scare was at last over.

  Not all were as fortunate as Len and Denis. Many young children were labelled like pieces of luggage, separated from their parents and sent far from their homes. Most were unaware of where they were going, what they would be doing there and all were wholly ignorant of when they would ever be home again.

  Grace and Bill’s second child and eldest son, also called William, enlisted in the Royal Navy in the early days of the war and joined his first training ship HMS Arethusa when he was only 13 years old. He was to die tragically two years later when HMS Hood was sunk in the battle of Denmark Strait in 1941. He is listed in the Hood’s crew list as ‘Boy, First Class’.

  Gwen’s father Bill died in 1942, not as a combatant in the war, but of a heart attack. His claim to fame in family circles was that as the personal chauffeur to the Dutch ambassador to Britain, he had driven an expensive large black Daimler in which, we were told by a proud Gwen, he gave his children, with the ambassador’s approval, the occasional ride. Grace outlived him by 40 years, dying a
t the grand old age of 86. I would love to have met Grace who, when we were in England in 1984, was still alive and had all her faculties. It would have been wonderful to meet one of my many Emerson uncles and aunts but I was never to have that pleasure as they had all died before I eventually found my family.

  Gwen had organised for us to meet several of her brothers and their families who lived close at her home that day. We arrived at the home of Gwen and Bill (yes, she had also married a William) in the early afternoon. During the rest of the day, family members drifted in and out of the house totally confusing me with their many names and faces. There were brothers called Ron, Len and Denis and some of their children. I was shown old family photos and there was discussion of family matters of long ago. Gwen had assumed that her uncle Len (my father) had been killed when Singapore fell in 1942. This, I subsequently found, was what most of my Emerson cousins believed.