I was recently contacted by a lady [through genesconnected] whose father was the brother of my paternal nana’s first husband. Her cousins are my dad’s half-brother and half-sister. Not only that, but she was an athlete who trained with my grandad’s eldest [or second eldest] grand-daughter, who also happens to be my dad’s niece, and much older than my dad.
And who said London was a big place?
As I was forming a reply that would give her a little more information about her cousins I had a gander through my pictures to see if there were any I could send her.
And I found two which made me really really sad.
[if you’re of a mind they might need enlarging]
This photo shows my grandad with all his grandchildren. Apart from the little boy in the middle row on the left. That’s his son, my dad.
My dad, The Child With No Smile, sitting fifth from the left in front of his mum and dad.
[Incidentally, the fairly buxom woman to the right of my nana is my Auntie Annie. I say Auntie, but I never knew her. She’s my grandad’s eldest daughter and therefore my dad’s eldest [half-]sibling. She was born in 1898 making her 44 years older than my dad, old enough to be his grandmother, just.]
These pictures make me sad because this family are the reason my dad became the embittered man that he can be today. My nana, sitting so pretty with a huge smile and a floral dress which hide the depression and the stinging words that talk about ovens and sticking heads in; my grandfather, old, with his very Victorian views and a lack of emotion for my dad; and the man in the top right of the picture, who my dad believes isn’t his big brother at all, but his father.
Time for lunch.
[of course, the sadness may, in reality, be derived from a lack of joy at tidying up the spare room and the cupboard under the stairs (and finding a distinct lack of wizards)]
please God bless the family who exist only in [probably made-up] stories in my head xxx Elsabeth