As we look back on life, we realise that experiences are instructive, and bad experiences more so than good. In the overall scheme of things, this week's lesson is not among the greatest disasters ever. Far from it. But it has taught me to expect the unexpected and to follow the 'rules', such as they are. It won't surprise you to learn that this is all connected with my family history.
For the last few weeks I've been digging into the Garrard family. They're not my blood relatives, but my 6th-great aunt married a Garrard and these are their descendants, so variously my fifth, sixth or seventh cousins. Last week I was looking at a particular family of eight children born between 1855 and 1873 and by this week I found myself making interesting discoveries regarding their fifth child, Beatrice Mary.
She married a Scottish migrant in 1897 - I found myself thinking of a song by the Dubliners, 'The Dundee Weaver', but this was a draper from Dunbar - and settled in Essex. In the 1901 census they were shown there with two children, a boy of two and a girl only a few months old. I eagerly moved on to 1911, hoping to discover the rest of the family. There, sure enough were John the draper and the children ... but who was this Gertrude, his wife ... and she only 30 to his 48?
It didn't take long to establish that Beatrice had died in 1907 and, after a respectable interval of just over two years, John had remarried in the autumn of 1909. As seems often to have been the case, the truth was massaged when it came to ages on the census return and I always wonder just how honest a couple was with each other. Not having access to Scottish birth records, I could only refer to the age given on an earlier census, but when I found Gertrude's birth registration in late 1881, the two together revealed that that eighteen-year age difference was actually more than twenty!
I began to think about the family situation in those years before the First World War and, I confess, my view of the Scottish draper and his young bride was not particularly generous to this man. However, when I discovered the birth of their daughter in 1912, and imagined the role of the dominant male in the decision of her name, my heart melted somewhat. She was named Mary Beatrice Gertrude, obviously in honour of both of his wives. (I do accept that there could be other interpretations, and who are we to judge the motives of those long dead?)
The family was still together in 1939, with Mary now the head of the household, a clerk in the Ministry of Labour, and her parents living with her. I found no sign of her step-sister, but I traced the draper's firstborn to a soldier's death with the RASC in 1941. He is commemorated on a memorial in Greece and was mentioned in despatches.
After recording the various discoveries, I was reviewing this whole story and suddenly noticed that, although she was born in 1867, I had recorded Beatrice in 1891 and 1901, but not the two previous censuses in which she would have appeared. To my surprise, she wasn't there. The best match I could find was a Beatrice M Garrard living in Ipswich, but her parents were Joseph and Sarah and not the Jonathan and Mary I'd been following. Amazingly, this Beatrice had two younger siblings whose names matched 'my' family.
Suspicious, I retraced my steps. How had I come upon these children in the first place? It was a natural sequence: Jonathan Garrard had married Mary Girling in 1854, so I'd sought Garrard children in the succeeding years, whose mother had the maiden name Girling, and found these eight reasonably spaced registrations the first six of which were all in the same district of Suffolk where Jonathan and Mary had married. I began to look into Joseph and Sarah and - lo and behold - there was a marriage in 1866 between Joseph Garrard and Sarah Girling. So far as I could find, although Joseph and Jonathan were born in the same village, they weren't related ... certainly not brothers or first cousins, and there seems to have been no link between Mary and Sarah either.
The principle of 'family reconstruction', which I follow these days, says that you find everyone in all the censuses - or else explain why they aren't there - before you can say hand on heart that the family is the way you are portraying it. During this period of 'confinement', I decided I would look at some of the earlier discoveries of my twenty years or so of research, and clearly I hadn't been following that discipline when I added those eight children!
My lesson learned, the Scotsman and his family have now been expunged and, although more accurate as a result, my tree is the poorer for their departure.
Friday, 27 March 2020
Friday, 20 March 2020
"Before I Catch the Bus"
This afternoon, I happened to notice the clock out of the corner of my eye. It was '3.15 on a Friday afternoon' and that expression wafted me back to a time about sixty years ago. Family ties were much closer then than now, and I suspect less formal, too. If I were away from school, either from sickness or at holiday times, my mother might see the clock and say, apparently to me, "Well, it's a quarter past three; I don't expect we shall see uncle Arthur now." There was no formal arrangement, no plans to be upset: sometimes he'd call, sometimes he wouldn't.
Picture if you will, the busy town on market day. The town's population would have swelled by several bus-loads of folks who had taken the chance to meet old friends, to get essential provisions or do some special shopping not possible at the village store, or just to see what was going on at the sales. There were live- and dead-stock auction sales at a number of locations in the town most Fridays and the Corn Exchange still functioned as was intended when it had been built in the 1850s. Here tall square stands would be manned by merchants from miles around, buying and selling on the strength of samples brought along by the farmers.
A short, well-built man would emerge from a shop, pub or café, his dirty white raincoat probably open, unless it were raining, and the ubiquitous flat cap firmly seated on his head. His shopping and other business completed, he would take his fob watch from his waistcoat pocket and decide whether or not he had time for a family call before catching the bus home. Nowadays, there is a regular service between Diss and Bury St Edmunds, which calls at Hinderclay three or four times each weekday. In those days, there was just one into Diss in the morning and one back in the afternoon on market day, to cater for the needs of the villagers. He knew that he had to be there when it left at 4.0 pm.
To visit ours, he would have to walk up from the town. It wasn't far, something a little under half a mile, but it was up a moderately steep hill, and a bit of a challenge for a man in his mid- to late-seventies, especially after walking around the town for a few hours. After a rest and the inevitable cup of tea and a home-made bun, he would then need to walk back through the town to the bus station on the far side, probably half as far again as the upward trek, so he needed to make sure of his timing when deciding. In former times he would visit his younger sister, who lived nearer the town centre and just before that same slope which, in her road, was more steep further up.
Uncle Arthur - he was really my mother's uncle - never married. He was one of a family of six children born in the village of Hinderclay between 1877 and 1891. When I was growing up, I knew only two of them and, since they lived in the same place and were known as 'uncle Arthur' and 'auntie Annie', it was some time before I discovered that they were, in fact, brother and sister. I then realised that my grandmother (known as 'nanna') was in fact their sister who, while she was alive had been in the habit of receiving Arthur's Friday visits.
The eldest of the family, William, proved to be the 'black sheep' and was ostracised because he had dared to fall in love with a woman who had suffered at the hands of her first husband and had managed to divorce him. The eldest daughter, Lizzie, born just two years later, died soon after I was born, so I never knew her. She had been in service in London at the turn of the twentieth century, and later in Felixstowe, but by 1939, she was back home in rural Suffolk. Arthur was next, and his younger brother Albert died in 1917 of wounds sustained in one of the preliminary actions in the Ypres area leading up to to the 'muddy and bloody' battle of Paschendaele. My grandmother, Emma, and her younger sister Annie made up the six.
When their father died in 1922, Arthur took on the family farm; by the time my cousin and I - their only third generation - visited as children thirty-odd years later, the farm consisted of little more than an orchard and a few chickens and the house was quite dilapidated, but it had successfully provided for the ups and downs of that family for some seventy or so years.
Picture if you will, the busy town on market day. The town's population would have swelled by several bus-loads of folks who had taken the chance to meet old friends, to get essential provisions or do some special shopping not possible at the village store, or just to see what was going on at the sales. There were live- and dead-stock auction sales at a number of locations in the town most Fridays and the Corn Exchange still functioned as was intended when it had been built in the 1850s. Here tall square stands would be manned by merchants from miles around, buying and selling on the strength of samples brought along by the farmers.
A short, well-built man would emerge from a shop, pub or café, his dirty white raincoat probably open, unless it were raining, and the ubiquitous flat cap firmly seated on his head. His shopping and other business completed, he would take his fob watch from his waistcoat pocket and decide whether or not he had time for a family call before catching the bus home. Nowadays, there is a regular service between Diss and Bury St Edmunds, which calls at Hinderclay three or four times each weekday. In those days, there was just one into Diss in the morning and one back in the afternoon on market day, to cater for the needs of the villagers. He knew that he had to be there when it left at 4.0 pm.
To visit ours, he would have to walk up from the town. It wasn't far, something a little under half a mile, but it was up a moderately steep hill, and a bit of a challenge for a man in his mid- to late-seventies, especially after walking around the town for a few hours. After a rest and the inevitable cup of tea and a home-made bun, he would then need to walk back through the town to the bus station on the far side, probably half as far again as the upward trek, so he needed to make sure of his timing when deciding. In former times he would visit his younger sister, who lived nearer the town centre and just before that same slope which, in her road, was more steep further up.
Uncle Arthur - he was really my mother's uncle - never married. He was one of a family of six children born in the village of Hinderclay between 1877 and 1891. When I was growing up, I knew only two of them and, since they lived in the same place and were known as 'uncle Arthur' and 'auntie Annie', it was some time before I discovered that they were, in fact, brother and sister. I then realised that my grandmother (known as 'nanna') was in fact their sister who, while she was alive had been in the habit of receiving Arthur's Friday visits.
The eldest of the family, William, proved to be the 'black sheep' and was ostracised because he had dared to fall in love with a woman who had suffered at the hands of her first husband and had managed to divorce him. The eldest daughter, Lizzie, born just two years later, died soon after I was born, so I never knew her. She had been in service in London at the turn of the twentieth century, and later in Felixstowe, but by 1939, she was back home in rural Suffolk. Arthur was next, and his younger brother Albert died in 1917 of wounds sustained in one of the preliminary actions in the Ypres area leading up to to the 'muddy and bloody' battle of Paschendaele. My grandmother, Emma, and her younger sister Annie made up the six.
When their father died in 1922, Arthur took on the family farm; by the time my cousin and I - their only third generation - visited as children thirty-odd years later, the farm consisted of little more than an orchard and a few chickens and the house was quite dilapidated, but it had successfully provided for the ups and downs of that family for some seventy or so years.
Friday, 13 March 2020
Now that Everywhere is on the Front Line ...
It's very quiet as I write this afternoon. It may be the Friday afternoon rush-hour but, even living in an industrial part of town, it's very quiet. The quietness is not just due to the absence of wind or traffic ... although these are both noticeable; I'm also aware of a distinct quietness within.
One of my friends posted on Facebook this morning that she has worked from home for several years, so self-isolation would be no problem. Technically I worked from home when I was driving for a living and although, of course, the work itself was all over the country, within the vehicle, I was always in my own company. Now that I'm retired, for much of the time the same status prevails and - for the most part - I'm not lonely. But today, for the first time, I have noticed a distinct and different quietness ... and, somehow, it is lonely.
The news bulletins and social media convey news of events, gatherings and sports fixtures being cancelled or postponed so as to reduce the possibility of infection; and certain aspects of normal life are now banned until further notice. While of course I realise the need for these restrictions, support the action being taken and will, to the best of my ability, comply - as much for my own safety as for that of everyone else - nevertheless, I resent the intrusion of the rest of the world into my own little haven, the way I've moulded my lifestyle into what's comfortable and ... well, mine!
It's not just the physical changes around me: the way sanitising hand-gel has appeared in virtually every place I look, for example, and the half-empty supermarket shelves. I find my thought-patterns have changed, too. Last weekend, I said to a friend "I just feel unclean all the while", and he readily agreed, implying that he was experiencing the same thing. Now, as I look at the people around me on the few occasions I go out, I find myself wondering about their cleanliness; as I go about my everyday life, I'm more aware of things I normally touch without thinking, like door handles, keys, even this computer keyboard.
While many of these are things only I touch, it seems there's a greater need to consider with every move, whether there's a possibility that someone else has touched it as well ... and when ... and with what implication.
Meanwhile on the 'normal life' front, there's little going on, so little to comment about. I finished the investigations into the family of John and Agnes (see last week's post) and now I'm working on his elder brother William, who usefully married a woman with the wonderfully rare name of Fanny Hancer. They had seven children, and I've still got three of them to occupy my thoughts this weekend.
My work at the hospice distribution centre has become more settled again, after a few weeks of upheaval and uncertainty. When I joined their volunteer brigade almost eighteen months ago, I made it clear that I was willing to be a relief driver for their vans and have enjoyed a number of spells of holiday cover, sometimes the odd day and sometimes as part of a complex schedule to cover a whole week of absence. With the end of the holiday year approaching, there have been more demands in that direction lately.
In addition, there has recently been a complete re-think of transport patterns to cover the fact that some of the shops are open at weekends. As a result, I now have a permanent slot in the programme to drive a van one morning a week, and then carry on with the work I have been doing inside in the afternoon.
Enough for now. If all the precautions by me and around me are successful, there should be another bulletin next weekend!
One of my friends posted on Facebook this morning that she has worked from home for several years, so self-isolation would be no problem. Technically I worked from home when I was driving for a living and although, of course, the work itself was all over the country, within the vehicle, I was always in my own company. Now that I'm retired, for much of the time the same status prevails and - for the most part - I'm not lonely. But today, for the first time, I have noticed a distinct and different quietness ... and, somehow, it is lonely.
The news bulletins and social media convey news of events, gatherings and sports fixtures being cancelled or postponed so as to reduce the possibility of infection; and certain aspects of normal life are now banned until further notice. While of course I realise the need for these restrictions, support the action being taken and will, to the best of my ability, comply - as much for my own safety as for that of everyone else - nevertheless, I resent the intrusion of the rest of the world into my own little haven, the way I've moulded my lifestyle into what's comfortable and ... well, mine!
It's not just the physical changes around me: the way sanitising hand-gel has appeared in virtually every place I look, for example, and the half-empty supermarket shelves. I find my thought-patterns have changed, too. Last weekend, I said to a friend "I just feel unclean all the while", and he readily agreed, implying that he was experiencing the same thing. Now, as I look at the people around me on the few occasions I go out, I find myself wondering about their cleanliness; as I go about my everyday life, I'm more aware of things I normally touch without thinking, like door handles, keys, even this computer keyboard.
While many of these are things only I touch, it seems there's a greater need to consider with every move, whether there's a possibility that someone else has touched it as well ... and when ... and with what implication.
Meanwhile on the 'normal life' front, there's little going on, so little to comment about. I finished the investigations into the family of John and Agnes (see last week's post) and now I'm working on his elder brother William, who usefully married a woman with the wonderfully rare name of Fanny Hancer. They had seven children, and I've still got three of them to occupy my thoughts this weekend.
My work at the hospice distribution centre has become more settled again, after a few weeks of upheaval and uncertainty. When I joined their volunteer brigade almost eighteen months ago, I made it clear that I was willing to be a relief driver for their vans and have enjoyed a number of spells of holiday cover, sometimes the odd day and sometimes as part of a complex schedule to cover a whole week of absence. With the end of the holiday year approaching, there have been more demands in that direction lately.
In addition, there has recently been a complete re-think of transport patterns to cover the fact that some of the shops are open at weekends. As a result, I now have a permanent slot in the programme to drive a van one morning a week, and then carry on with the work I have been doing inside in the afternoon.
Enough for now. If all the precautions by me and around me are successful, there should be another bulletin next weekend!
Friday, 6 March 2020
I do like to be 'Beside the Seaside' ...
I recalled this morning a Thursday afternoon - gosh! - fifty years ago, when I learned of the expression 'opportunity cost'. It was during my brief spell at college, when our economics tutor announced that this was defined as 'the cost of the alternative foregone'. He then went on to explain what on earth he was talking about and, by the end of the lesson at least, he had given us a good idea of this concept. This is more than could be said of the chap who spent Wednesday evenings trying to explain the ins and outs of statistics. He may have known it all, but when it came to enthusing and convincing a roomful of teenagers ... hopeless!
So, you may ask, why this sudden foray into my academic past? You might be surprised to know that, despite the recent fall in the stock markets because of (speak of it quietly) Covid 19, it had nothing to do with the world of finance. No ... check back to last week's blog. Alice Octavia Jackson, there mentioned, was my fifth cousin once removed, with our link ancestor being one Robert Everson the third (1704-1784) of Thorndon, Suffolk. This week I've been following up the many children of John Hatsell Garrard, of Laxfield, Suffolk, who was Alice Octavia's fifth cousin once removed, their link ancestor being one further generation back, Robert Everson the second (b. 1680), the father of Robert the third.
John Garrard (who was therefore my fifth cousin twice removed) lived from 1866 to 1943 and was the person who moved his branch of the family from Suffolk to the south coast, marrying Agnes Jones who was not a Welsh lady, but was born in Chichester. She and John had ten children, born either in Brighton, where they married in 1889, or nearby Portslade, so my attention this week has been tightly focused in 'Dear old Sussex by the Sea' ... and, before you ask, no, I don't know the words of the song!
I suddenly realised this morning that my energies have not been so focused on the family history since last summer, and I began to wonder - worry, even - what it might have been that had distracted me during the past seven months or so and, perhaps more importantly, what it is that I ought to be doing instead of 'wasting my time' with things historical, however interesting. I regret to inform you, dear reader, that I've not come up with a positive answer. There have been a number of seemingly regular diversions, but nothing outstanding that appears to have been overlooked.
So I'm free to tell you some of what I've been discovering. John and Agnes may have felt some foreboding when their seventh child and third daughter, named Agnes Florence after her mum, died in 1900, when only a few weeks old. However they went on to have three more children, evening the genders at five apiece, before their next daughter Gladys Mildred also died. I wrote last week about children who were born and died between censuses; Gladys has to have been one of the most unlucky of these children who, in cricketing terms, 'didn't trouble the scorer'. She was born only weeks after the 1901 census, and died just before the one in 1911, and only just short of her tenth birthday.
Their second-eldest sister bore the fascinating name of Mary Malvina. If you were around in 1982, you'll recall that the Argentine name for the Falkland Islands is Islas Malvinas, and I can't help wondering whether there could be a link there somewhere to be traced another day. She certainly fascinated one Reuben Charles Virgo, who was not so foreign as his name might suggest, since he was born in Portslade, the son of another Reuben, who was also born there. They married in the summer of 1915, and their daughter was born in the first quarter of 1916. I've not found any further trace of mother or daughter. Reuben, however, reappeared in 1939, as Richard. I wonder whether he had feared that his real name might sound too Jewish, given the political situation then. Interestingly, he worked with sugar in the confectionery trade in 1911; his occupation in 1939 - where he was lodging in Nuneaton - was given as 'school dental surgeon'!
John and Agnes' second son, Harry Thomas, married Nora Wishart. She wasn't Scottish, but her father was and, since marrying a Sussex girl, had travelled to Uxbridge and at least as far as Somerset, before settling, however briefly, in Redhill, where Nora was born. They eventually moved back to Uxbridge, however, for it was there that she and Harry married, and there too their second child and first daughter, Audrey, was born. A firstborn son, Hugh, and two more daughters Nora and Rosemary, were born on the Sussex coast, between 1922 and 1929. Tragedy struck in 1932. Whether or not the two were connected isn't clear, but Audrey died in the spring, and Rosemary in the later months of the year. I've found no further trace of Hugh, but their sister Nora found happiness during wartime when, in 1944, she married Kazimierz Iwachow; I presume he was Polish. They settled in the Worthing area and had a son and a daughter soon after the war.
So, you may ask, why this sudden foray into my academic past? You might be surprised to know that, despite the recent fall in the stock markets because of (speak of it quietly) Covid 19, it had nothing to do with the world of finance. No ... check back to last week's blog. Alice Octavia Jackson, there mentioned, was my fifth cousin once removed, with our link ancestor being one Robert Everson the third (1704-1784) of Thorndon, Suffolk. This week I've been following up the many children of John Hatsell Garrard, of Laxfield, Suffolk, who was Alice Octavia's fifth cousin once removed, their link ancestor being one further generation back, Robert Everson the second (b. 1680), the father of Robert the third.
John Garrard (who was therefore my fifth cousin twice removed) lived from 1866 to 1943 and was the person who moved his branch of the family from Suffolk to the south coast, marrying Agnes Jones who was not a Welsh lady, but was born in Chichester. She and John had ten children, born either in Brighton, where they married in 1889, or nearby Portslade, so my attention this week has been tightly focused in 'Dear old Sussex by the Sea' ... and, before you ask, no, I don't know the words of the song!
I suddenly realised this morning that my energies have not been so focused on the family history since last summer, and I began to wonder - worry, even - what it might have been that had distracted me during the past seven months or so and, perhaps more importantly, what it is that I ought to be doing instead of 'wasting my time' with things historical, however interesting. I regret to inform you, dear reader, that I've not come up with a positive answer. There have been a number of seemingly regular diversions, but nothing outstanding that appears to have been overlooked.
So I'm free to tell you some of what I've been discovering. John and Agnes may have felt some foreboding when their seventh child and third daughter, named Agnes Florence after her mum, died in 1900, when only a few weeks old. However they went on to have three more children, evening the genders at five apiece, before their next daughter Gladys Mildred also died. I wrote last week about children who were born and died between censuses; Gladys has to have been one of the most unlucky of these children who, in cricketing terms, 'didn't trouble the scorer'. She was born only weeks after the 1901 census, and died just before the one in 1911, and only just short of her tenth birthday.
Their second-eldest sister bore the fascinating name of Mary Malvina. If you were around in 1982, you'll recall that the Argentine name for the Falkland Islands is Islas Malvinas, and I can't help wondering whether there could be a link there somewhere to be traced another day. She certainly fascinated one Reuben Charles Virgo, who was not so foreign as his name might suggest, since he was born in Portslade, the son of another Reuben, who was also born there. They married in the summer of 1915, and their daughter was born in the first quarter of 1916. I've not found any further trace of mother or daughter. Reuben, however, reappeared in 1939, as Richard. I wonder whether he had feared that his real name might sound too Jewish, given the political situation then. Interestingly, he worked with sugar in the confectionery trade in 1911; his occupation in 1939 - where he was lodging in Nuneaton - was given as 'school dental surgeon'!
John and Agnes' second son, Harry Thomas, married Nora Wishart. She wasn't Scottish, but her father was and, since marrying a Sussex girl, had travelled to Uxbridge and at least as far as Somerset, before settling, however briefly, in Redhill, where Nora was born. They eventually moved back to Uxbridge, however, for it was there that she and Harry married, and there too their second child and first daughter, Audrey, was born. A firstborn son, Hugh, and two more daughters Nora and Rosemary, were born on the Sussex coast, between 1922 and 1929. Tragedy struck in 1932. Whether or not the two were connected isn't clear, but Audrey died in the spring, and Rosemary in the later months of the year. I've found no further trace of Hugh, but their sister Nora found happiness during wartime when, in 1944, she married Kazimierz Iwachow; I presume he was Polish. They settled in the Worthing area and had a son and a daughter soon after the war.
Friday, 28 February 2020
When I've Finished This ...
You know how it is when you're doing something repetitive. You wonder if perhaps there might be a better way of doing it, that would save time or effort ... or both and, depending on the circumstances, possibly a whole lot of money, too! I found myself in just such a situation some years ago, tried doing it a different way and realised that this wasn't the first time that week I'd changed the way I was doing that job and improved the technique. Realising that this particular task, once finished, was unlikely to recur, I coined this mantra: "By the time I've finished this job, I'll have refined to the utmost a skill that I'll never need again."
Once it was into my head, I was astonished just how often this proved to be true. I found the need to change a series of Excel graphs, for example, and the process for doing the first two or three seemed a bit long-winded until I hit on a better way; then in a while I realised that if I did step B before step A, there would be no need to do step C ... and so on, until the last two followed the perfect routine. I no longer use those graphs at all, so the need will never arise again.
The latest, and very simple example of this truism came this week. Some months ago, I attended a jumble sale where much of the stuff available was, quite frankly, rubbish ... at least it was according to my standards of never buying anything for which it would be difficult in my small flat to find a home. And yet, I wanted to support the cause for which the jumble sale was being held. Finally, I spotted a little set of photo frames and 'snapped them up' <groan>. I found them a 'home', sitting on the top of a bookcase, in a neat little heap, waiting for the right pictures to come along to fill them.
Such an opportunity arose this week and, as I selected the pictures, copied and printed them, cut out the prints and finally disassembled the frames and mounted the pictures inside, I realised that, although there were only four of them, I'd used three different methods of carrying out each step, and only the last two were done the 'best' way. If ever I need to display multiple pictures again ... (you know the rest!)
Nearly four years ago, in my family history studies, I devised a check-list to make sure that all the various records that I keep had been completed. The form itself has passed through a number of variations, reaching what - for the present, at least - is the most useful document for the purpose. This week I've spent some while modifying some of the pages of the 'coffee-table' book that is the ultimate presentation of the results of my ongoing research. In some cases it was literally as small a detail as the format of marriage dates, so that they all look the same: dd.mm.yyyy. In other cases, there was a glaring error to be corrected or missing dates that ought to be available on line via one record set or another.
Some of these corrections would have been eliminated at the outset had I at that time been using the check-list developed more recently. In some cases, such as the one I'm about to describe, more information has become available since the error was made. This particular sixth cousin is the daughter of a lady who bore the distinctive forenames 'Alice Octavia'. Alice was the youngest of a family of eight (as you might guess from her second name). In 1901, her family appears in as correct a form as possible: father, mother, two sons and five daughters, listed in sequence, with Alice as the last one.
With that name, Octavia, she had to be the eighth child, though. Usually in these circumstances, my next step would be to look at the 1911 census, where the so-called 'fertility' questions would provide the precise boundaries for the research. In this instance this facility was denied me, however, since the mother of these children died in 1903. (This resource isn't always as helpful as it might seem, either. I was looking at one family recently, where the woman claimed to have had twelve children, of whom seven were still living. Apart from the seven living ones, I was able to trace only one who had been born and died between censuses, and therefore had qualified for no other mention.)
At the time of my original research, I had found one instance of a birth and death in the same quarter, and had included this child as the eighth one I had been looking for. As I now looked at the page with fresh eyes, though, I was suspicious. My cousin had provided me with the precise birth dates of her mother and the six aunts and uncles she knew. Her mother was born in November 1900, and her youngest aunt in July 1898. The birth of the infant I'd found, who had died in the same quarter as she was born, had also been registered in the September quarter of 1898. Although there was no note to that effect, I now assume that I had previously thought of these two as twins, one of whom had died, and the other survived.
I felt I ought to check. If this were the case, then their birth registrations would be either identical, or would differ by one, if one child were the last entry on one page and the other the first entry on the next page. In this case, Alice's known sister was registered with the number 974; the infant who died appeared under the reference 970 ... unlikely if they were twins. Since that initial research, the Registration Office has released a new facility, where the mother's maiden name of each birth registration can be looked up on line. This makes research of this nature much simpler. I checked all seven of the 'known' children and found that the name applied to each registration was Bailey, confirming the family link. The name for the child under reference 970 was ... Parsons. She was clearly not the girl - or boy - I sought.
Next, I checked each year around the times these known children were born, right back to the time of their parents' marriage (and a little before 'just in case'), both in the Suffolk area where the family were living and also where the marriage took place, which was in London, Miss Bailey having been born in Kent. Eventually, I came up with just one additional birth with the mother's maiden name shown as Bailey, and a quick check revealed that she, too, had died within weeks of her birth, and so missed any census record. Annie, born and died 1898, was quickly changed to Mary Jane, born and died 1890, and I noted with some satisfaction that this infant had also been given two forenames as had all of her siblings, except for two who had enjoyed the luxury of three!
Of these, one - the firstborn of the eight - had his own distinctive name, George, to which had been appended both of his father's, Allen James, while the daughter born in the jubilee year of 1897 was called by the names of three generations of royalty, Victoria Alexandra May, these last two being the spouses of the Prince of Wales (later Edward VII) and the Duke of York (later George V).
This improved technique, at least, is one I'm sure I shall be using again ... and again!
Once it was into my head, I was astonished just how often this proved to be true. I found the need to change a series of Excel graphs, for example, and the process for doing the first two or three seemed a bit long-winded until I hit on a better way; then in a while I realised that if I did step B before step A, there would be no need to do step C ... and so on, until the last two followed the perfect routine. I no longer use those graphs at all, so the need will never arise again.
The latest, and very simple example of this truism came this week. Some months ago, I attended a jumble sale where much of the stuff available was, quite frankly, rubbish ... at least it was according to my standards of never buying anything for which it would be difficult in my small flat to find a home. And yet, I wanted to support the cause for which the jumble sale was being held. Finally, I spotted a little set of photo frames and 'snapped them up' <groan>. I found them a 'home', sitting on the top of a bookcase, in a neat little heap, waiting for the right pictures to come along to fill them.
Such an opportunity arose this week and, as I selected the pictures, copied and printed them, cut out the prints and finally disassembled the frames and mounted the pictures inside, I realised that, although there were only four of them, I'd used three different methods of carrying out each step, and only the last two were done the 'best' way. If ever I need to display multiple pictures again ... (you know the rest!)
Nearly four years ago, in my family history studies, I devised a check-list to make sure that all the various records that I keep had been completed. The form itself has passed through a number of variations, reaching what - for the present, at least - is the most useful document for the purpose. This week I've spent some while modifying some of the pages of the 'coffee-table' book that is the ultimate presentation of the results of my ongoing research. In some cases it was literally as small a detail as the format of marriage dates, so that they all look the same: dd.mm.yyyy. In other cases, there was a glaring error to be corrected or missing dates that ought to be available on line via one record set or another.
Some of these corrections would have been eliminated at the outset had I at that time been using the check-list developed more recently. In some cases, such as the one I'm about to describe, more information has become available since the error was made. This particular sixth cousin is the daughter of a lady who bore the distinctive forenames 'Alice Octavia'. Alice was the youngest of a family of eight (as you might guess from her second name). In 1901, her family appears in as correct a form as possible: father, mother, two sons and five daughters, listed in sequence, with Alice as the last one.
With that name, Octavia, she had to be the eighth child, though. Usually in these circumstances, my next step would be to look at the 1911 census, where the so-called 'fertility' questions would provide the precise boundaries for the research. In this instance this facility was denied me, however, since the mother of these children died in 1903. (This resource isn't always as helpful as it might seem, either. I was looking at one family recently, where the woman claimed to have had twelve children, of whom seven were still living. Apart from the seven living ones, I was able to trace only one who had been born and died between censuses, and therefore had qualified for no other mention.)
At the time of my original research, I had found one instance of a birth and death in the same quarter, and had included this child as the eighth one I had been looking for. As I now looked at the page with fresh eyes, though, I was suspicious. My cousin had provided me with the precise birth dates of her mother and the six aunts and uncles she knew. Her mother was born in November 1900, and her youngest aunt in July 1898. The birth of the infant I'd found, who had died in the same quarter as she was born, had also been registered in the September quarter of 1898. Although there was no note to that effect, I now assume that I had previously thought of these two as twins, one of whom had died, and the other survived.
I felt I ought to check. If this were the case, then their birth registrations would be either identical, or would differ by one, if one child were the last entry on one page and the other the first entry on the next page. In this case, Alice's known sister was registered with the number 974; the infant who died appeared under the reference 970 ... unlikely if they were twins. Since that initial research, the Registration Office has released a new facility, where the mother's maiden name of each birth registration can be looked up on line. This makes research of this nature much simpler. I checked all seven of the 'known' children and found that the name applied to each registration was Bailey, confirming the family link. The name for the child under reference 970 was ... Parsons. She was clearly not the girl - or boy - I sought.
Next, I checked each year around the times these known children were born, right back to the time of their parents' marriage (and a little before 'just in case'), both in the Suffolk area where the family were living and also where the marriage took place, which was in London, Miss Bailey having been born in Kent. Eventually, I came up with just one additional birth with the mother's maiden name shown as Bailey, and a quick check revealed that she, too, had died within weeks of her birth, and so missed any census record. Annie, born and died 1898, was quickly changed to Mary Jane, born and died 1890, and I noted with some satisfaction that this infant had also been given two forenames as had all of her siblings, except for two who had enjoyed the luxury of three!
Of these, one - the firstborn of the eight - had his own distinctive name, George, to which had been appended both of his father's, Allen James, while the daughter born in the jubilee year of 1897 was called by the names of three generations of royalty, Victoria Alexandra May, these last two being the spouses of the Prince of Wales (later Edward VII) and the Duke of York (later George V).
This improved technique, at least, is one I'm sure I shall be using again ... and again!
Friday, 21 February 2020
Ball and Chain
Please accept my apologies for any offence caused by the use of this phrase for my title this week. Notwithstanding its later resentful reference to the oft-caricatured imposition by a wife of restrictions on the preferred solo behaviour of her husband, the origin of the phrase was a means of restraint of prisoners dating back to the early 19th century, or even earlier. A heavy metal ball was tethered to the leg of the prisoner by a length of chain and a manacle, thus making escape - or movement in general - if not impossible, then certainly most inconvenient.
In its two separate parts, the phrase suits my themes (inasmuch as any of my titles are so suited!) In the light of last week's post, the ball is inevitably a football. I had initially looked forward to a second giant-killing expedition by my favourite team, after their defeat of the league leaders. However, when I looked at my diary, I discovered that the fixture clashed with a family history meeting that I was anxious to attend, having missed the last one because it was on the day of our autumn ringing outing. My sense of disappointment was relieved, however, when I learned that the match was postponed because of a waterlogged pitch.
On to part two, which I shall explain at greater length. This is the chain by which one event or happening inevitably leads on to another. For schools in this area, this week has been half-term; normally this fact doesn't impinge at all on my activities but that didn't hold true on this occasion.
Some weeks ago, when I planned the Bible studies for my church home-group this term, I left a gap for next Wednesday, which is Ash Wednesday. This fact has no direct effect on our meeting, but it is usually a good 'hook' upon which to hang a mid-term break. One of our number then received an appointment for a hospital consultation on the Wednesday of this week, which would have meant missing two weeks from what was a neatly filled schedule. The obvious answer was to bring forward our break and simply carry out next week what we would have done this week.
This meant that I had a completely free day. How should I fill it? I began by looking at train times, thinking a day out in this manner would be a welcome change from driving somewhere. That very evening, I learned of a trip being organised by our church's families and youth workers. Only too aware of the difficulties in keeping children occupied for this week, especially when the weather doesn't invite family trips to anywhere, they were planning a coach visit to a half-size replica of Noah's Ark which is presently 'parked' at Ipswich's Orwell Quay. The notice I saw invited all to join them with the implied aim of filling the coach and recovering more of the financial outlay.
With not a little apprehension, I took this as an opportunity to fill my spare day with little personal effort, and promptly sent off an e-mail expressing interest. A speedy response told me that, yes, there were still seats available, and my name had been added to the list. Sorted! As I queued to board, I was warned that, as the only adult male going, I should be responsible for all the little boys on board. This tease was accompanied by graphic and (I hope) exaggerated descriptions of their various potential needs. (Perhaps at this juncture, I should reflect on the possible relevance of the original meaning of my chosen title!)
Quite apart from the fact that I'm not officially cleared for such duties in any case, any apprehension in that regard was entirely unwarranted. Although one or two parents were relieved to release their little darlings into the custody of trusted friends, there were sufficient qualified adults and mothers on board to meet the needs of all the youngsters in the party. The exhibit was both interesting of itself and also instructive in a variety of ways. I won't spoil the excitement for you. Further information is on the website and it will be in Ipswich until the end of March.
Whether or not it was linked to half-term, I'm not sure, but the fact remained that there was no drop-in yesterday morning. Realising this, alongside the pressure I described last week, I had offered for my usual afternoon at the warehouse to extend this week to all day if required. This was warmly welcomed and, consequently, I arrived yesterday morning to find - with many staff absent on leave - the keys to one of the vans, along with a couple of collection notes. For the first time, I was out solo on a run that would normally be undertaken by two or three.
Nevertheless, the tasks were simple and the problems few, and the only really awkward point was getting a narrow bookcase, about 2 metres tall, from door to van in a strong wind. I had to fight to avoid being blown away, but eventually succeeded in getting it on board. Later, along with a colleague, I visited a total of five shops to deliver items of furniture that had been pre-arranged, so that they had prepared space for their arrival.
All in all, the way one thing has led to another, this has been a very different week from my usual: in truth, a half-term to remember!
In its two separate parts, the phrase suits my themes (inasmuch as any of my titles are so suited!) In the light of last week's post, the ball is inevitably a football. I had initially looked forward to a second giant-killing expedition by my favourite team, after their defeat of the league leaders. However, when I looked at my diary, I discovered that the fixture clashed with a family history meeting that I was anxious to attend, having missed the last one because it was on the day of our autumn ringing outing. My sense of disappointment was relieved, however, when I learned that the match was postponed because of a waterlogged pitch.
On to part two, which I shall explain at greater length. This is the chain by which one event or happening inevitably leads on to another. For schools in this area, this week has been half-term; normally this fact doesn't impinge at all on my activities but that didn't hold true on this occasion.
Some weeks ago, when I planned the Bible studies for my church home-group this term, I left a gap for next Wednesday, which is Ash Wednesday. This fact has no direct effect on our meeting, but it is usually a good 'hook' upon which to hang a mid-term break. One of our number then received an appointment for a hospital consultation on the Wednesday of this week, which would have meant missing two weeks from what was a neatly filled schedule. The obvious answer was to bring forward our break and simply carry out next week what we would have done this week.
This meant that I had a completely free day. How should I fill it? I began by looking at train times, thinking a day out in this manner would be a welcome change from driving somewhere. That very evening, I learned of a trip being organised by our church's families and youth workers. Only too aware of the difficulties in keeping children occupied for this week, especially when the weather doesn't invite family trips to anywhere, they were planning a coach visit to a half-size replica of Noah's Ark which is presently 'parked' at Ipswich's Orwell Quay. The notice I saw invited all to join them with the implied aim of filling the coach and recovering more of the financial outlay.
With not a little apprehension, I took this as an opportunity to fill my spare day with little personal effort, and promptly sent off an e-mail expressing interest. A speedy response told me that, yes, there were still seats available, and my name had been added to the list. Sorted! As I queued to board, I was warned that, as the only adult male going, I should be responsible for all the little boys on board. This tease was accompanied by graphic and (I hope) exaggerated descriptions of their various potential needs. (Perhaps at this juncture, I should reflect on the possible relevance of the original meaning of my chosen title!)
Quite apart from the fact that I'm not officially cleared for such duties in any case, any apprehension in that regard was entirely unwarranted. Although one or two parents were relieved to release their little darlings into the custody of trusted friends, there were sufficient qualified adults and mothers on board to meet the needs of all the youngsters in the party. The exhibit was both interesting of itself and also instructive in a variety of ways. I won't spoil the excitement for you. Further information is on the website and it will be in Ipswich until the end of March.
Whether or not it was linked to half-term, I'm not sure, but the fact remained that there was no drop-in yesterday morning. Realising this, alongside the pressure I described last week, I had offered for my usual afternoon at the warehouse to extend this week to all day if required. This was warmly welcomed and, consequently, I arrived yesterday morning to find - with many staff absent on leave - the keys to one of the vans, along with a couple of collection notes. For the first time, I was out solo on a run that would normally be undertaken by two or three.
Nevertheless, the tasks were simple and the problems few, and the only really awkward point was getting a narrow bookcase, about 2 metres tall, from door to van in a strong wind. I had to fight to avoid being blown away, but eventually succeeded in getting it on board. Later, along with a colleague, I visited a total of five shops to deliver items of furniture that had been pre-arranged, so that they had prepared space for their arrival.
All in all, the way one thing has led to another, this has been a very different week from my usual: in truth, a half-term to remember!
Friday, 14 February 2020
Focus on Football
I confess to the occasional moment of surprise when I realise how much of a 'fan' I've become in recent years. I used to hate football when I was at school: I remember it always being cold and usually wet on Wednesdays, when we would parade along the public highway the half-mile from the school to the playing field in shirt and shorts, to spend an hour or so running after a heavy leather ball that would never go where you wanted when you did actually get to kick it, and that stung horribly if it hit you. Exhausted, we would then straggle the half mile back, hoping that there would still be hot water in the shower by the time we made it to the changing room.
Since my return to the game as a 'live spectator', I find the ups and downs of non-league football quite absorbing, even more so since 2016, when my former boss became joint manager of a brand-new local team. There have been a number of memorable games and incidents; it was fitting that the first match that I watched, nearly ten years ago, involved Diss Town, my home team as a youth. On that occasion they were drawn against Newmarket Town in the FA Cup and, towards the end of the game, their deficit in goals was matched by their deficit in players after their captain was sent off for arguing with the referee's decision to award a penalty to the other side.
My loyalty to Diss persisted when they had a league match within easy driving distance of my home, at Ely, for example, or Haverhill. I remember one match at Haverhill when they played in a pale blue away strip (replacing their normal orange and white colours) and won. The next time I watched them was the following season when they played a junior team at Cambridge's Abbey Stadium, again in the pale blue strip, and won 4-0! In those days, it was both an aim and an achievement to visit as many different grounds as possible, including my first sight of an artificial playing surface at Harlow Town. Early one autumn, I had a day trip to the seaside and watched Great Yarmouth Town play Gorleston - again in the FA Cup - at one of the oldest grounds continuously staging matches.
My now favoured team, Biggleswade FC, put in a number of good performances last season in the FA Vase, when they reached the last eight in the competition. A number of their ties were at home, where attendance records were broken against Stowmarket Town and against Windsor, and I made a unique coach trip to Kent where they were finally defeated by Canterbury Town. This winter, after the second promotion in their three-season history, Biggleswade are playing in the first division of the Southern League, which has set them many challenges, and the excitement was very great leading up to last weekend's match against the league leaders, Corby Town, whom they beat 2-0, and they are now privileged to stand 9th in the league table as they travel tomorrow to play the team currently in 3rd position, Halesowen Town.
Turning to other interests, last weekend was particularly satisfying for me, with a totally different kind of 90 minutes on Sunday afternoon, as I attended a live interview with the former Speaker, John Bercow, visiting Letchworth to promote his autobiography, 'Unspeakable'. This was an unforgettable occasion, when he revealed some of the behind the scenes aspects of parliamentary life, elements of his own story and also his abilities as an impersonator!
I'm always on the lookout for unexpected moments from my regular 'work' pattern and just such a one came this morning. For weeks now, the warehouse where I volunteer has been choc-a-bloc with furniture, to the extent that an additional van has been procured to assist in its disposal, alongside the regular servicing of the retail shops. This has coincided with the annual challenge of getting the drivers to use their full leave entitlement before it expires, not to mention the difficulties in finding enough volunteers to form an additional crew. As a one-off gesture to relieve this pressure, my manager decided to accompany me this morning to deliver goods to some of the stores. Far from feeling 'under supervision', I found it a very pleasant and relaxing time, as we chatted like old friends.
Since my return to the game as a 'live spectator', I find the ups and downs of non-league football quite absorbing, even more so since 2016, when my former boss became joint manager of a brand-new local team. There have been a number of memorable games and incidents; it was fitting that the first match that I watched, nearly ten years ago, involved Diss Town, my home team as a youth. On that occasion they were drawn against Newmarket Town in the FA Cup and, towards the end of the game, their deficit in goals was matched by their deficit in players after their captain was sent off for arguing with the referee's decision to award a penalty to the other side.
My loyalty to Diss persisted when they had a league match within easy driving distance of my home, at Ely, for example, or Haverhill. I remember one match at Haverhill when they played in a pale blue away strip (replacing their normal orange and white colours) and won. The next time I watched them was the following season when they played a junior team at Cambridge's Abbey Stadium, again in the pale blue strip, and won 4-0! In those days, it was both an aim and an achievement to visit as many different grounds as possible, including my first sight of an artificial playing surface at Harlow Town. Early one autumn, I had a day trip to the seaside and watched Great Yarmouth Town play Gorleston - again in the FA Cup - at one of the oldest grounds continuously staging matches.
My now favoured team, Biggleswade FC, put in a number of good performances last season in the FA Vase, when they reached the last eight in the competition. A number of their ties were at home, where attendance records were broken against Stowmarket Town and against Windsor, and I made a unique coach trip to Kent where they were finally defeated by Canterbury Town. This winter, after the second promotion in their three-season history, Biggleswade are playing in the first division of the Southern League, which has set them many challenges, and the excitement was very great leading up to last weekend's match against the league leaders, Corby Town, whom they beat 2-0, and they are now privileged to stand 9th in the league table as they travel tomorrow to play the team currently in 3rd position, Halesowen Town.
Turning to other interests, last weekend was particularly satisfying for me, with a totally different kind of 90 minutes on Sunday afternoon, as I attended a live interview with the former Speaker, John Bercow, visiting Letchworth to promote his autobiography, 'Unspeakable'. This was an unforgettable occasion, when he revealed some of the behind the scenes aspects of parliamentary life, elements of his own story and also his abilities as an impersonator!
I'm always on the lookout for unexpected moments from my regular 'work' pattern and just such a one came this morning. For weeks now, the warehouse where I volunteer has been choc-a-bloc with furniture, to the extent that an additional van has been procured to assist in its disposal, alongside the regular servicing of the retail shops. This has coincided with the annual challenge of getting the drivers to use their full leave entitlement before it expires, not to mention the difficulties in finding enough volunteers to form an additional crew. As a one-off gesture to relieve this pressure, my manager decided to accompany me this morning to deliver goods to some of the stores. Far from feeling 'under supervision', I found it a very pleasant and relaxing time, as we chatted like old friends.
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