Five Minutes With An Ancestor

If I had five minutes with an ancestor, who would it be and what would we talk about?

This is kind of unfair because there are so many. The list truly is endless.

Just five minutes with my grandmother's Freda and Lilian - just because I want to hug them, tell them how much I love them and miss them every single day, and to say I am sorry.

From a purely family history perspective:

• My great-grandmother Elizabeth Dare - to dispel some awkward family rumours and to confirm how many children she actually gave birth to.
• My g/g-grandfather William Preston - to ask him the truth about why he was estranged from his father and his two brothers.
• My great-grandmother Barbara Hargreaves - to ask her about her life as a Domestic Servant to a London physician and to ask her who Arthur Ward was.
• My 4 x great-grandmother Mary Ward - to ask her why she never married and yet she gave birth to six illegitimate children, three of whom died in infancy.
• My 4 x great-grandfather Joseph Powell - to ask him all about his life as a Thames Waterman.
• My 4 x great-grandparents John Humphries and Ann Rogers - to ask them why they never married and to confirm where they were both born before they lived together in Hammersmith and raised a family.

But, most of all, I would definitely ask my 3 x great-grandfather Richard Humphries:

Where the heck did you disappear to after 1871? What really happened to your first wife Mary Ann and why did she die alone in a workhouse? Why did you "shack up" with Sarah Spencer, not marry her and yet have a family with her? She gave birth to a daughter in 1872, and then just four years later, she marries another man. Meanwhile, you've completely disappeared from the face of the earth. What happened to you Richard?

What's in a Name : Part Two

Last time, I mentioned there was a family name which was deserving of its own separate post. That is because it is a story worth telling in its own right; a World War One story with a bittersweet ending. A story of a HMS Cressy-Class naval ship in the North Sea. The year: 1914.

My great-grandfather had served with the Royal Navy from 1899 through to 1907. He later served with the Royal Fleet Reserve from 1907 to 1912, and again from 1912 to 1917. When World War One broke out in August 1914 he was posted to HMS Hogue.

HMS Hogue was a Cressy-class armoured cruiser built by Vickers Ltd., in Barrow-in-Furness, England in 1902. At the beginning of WWI she was assigned to the Grand Fleet's Third Cruiser Squadron. Along with two other cruiser warships - RMS Aboukir and RMS Cressy - HMS Hogue patrolled the Broad Fourteens off the Dutch coast about twenty miles north of the Hook of Holland. They were dubbed the "Live Bait Squadron" because of their vulnerability to German attack.

Although the patrols were supposed to maintain 12-13 knots and zig-zag, the old cruisers were unable to maintain that speed and the zigzagging order was widely ignored as there had not yet been any submarines sighted in the area. Much discussion at the time centred around the inclement weather conditions coupled with the widely-felt opinion that there were insufficient modern light cruisers available for the task.

At around 0625 hours on the 22nd of September 1914 a German U9 (Unterseeboot) fired a single torpedo at HMS Aboukir which struck her on her port side. Captain Drummond ordered her to be abandoned and she sank within half an hour of being hit. The U9 fired two torpedoes at HMS Hogue, who had stopped to pick up rescuers, that hit her midships and rapidly flooded her engine room. RMS Cressy had also stopped the ship to lower boats to rescue the crew of Aboukir. The U9 attacked Hogue from a range of only 300 yards and it only took ten minutes to sink as U9 headed for HMS Cressy. At about 0720 hours however, the U9 fired two torpedoes, one of the which hit Cressy on her starboard side. The damage to Cressy was not fatal but U9 turned around and fired her last torpedo which hit Cressy sinking her within a quarter of an hour. Survivors were picked up by several nearby merchant ships and a Lowestoft trawler.

Source: Collier’s Photographic History of the European war. New York, 1916
Sketch by US Navy artist, Henry Reuterdahl

According to one website I researched, Kapitanleutnant Otto Weddigen of U9 was awarded the Iron Cross 1st and 2nd Class and every member of his crew got the Iron Cross 2nd Class. Back in Kiel, U9 was sent on a lap of honour around the entire German High Seas Fleet. But what of the crew of the three RFR warships he sunk? More than 1400 men were lost in an hour, many of which were reservists or cadets. About 837 men were rescued, including my Great-Grandfather. He was helped to safety by his Commander, Reginald Arthur Norton.

And it's here we come to the family name. In November 1914, less than two months following the U9 disaster, my Great-Uncle was born. He was named Reginald Norton Humphries. I did not know anything about the namesake or why the Norton name held such significance until I made email contact with my second cousin in 2003. He is my Great-Uncle Reginald's grandson, and like his grandfather and father before him, he also carries the Norton name.

My Great-Uncle, Reginald Norton Humphries 1915

There are countless websites which are dedicated to the demise of the "Live Bait Squadron" and also, the Admiralty reports. The report of Commander Reginald A Norton, late of HMS Hogue, can be found at www.firstworldwar.com/source/cressycommander.htm  and www.worldwar1.co.uk/despatches/hogue.html

Part of Commander Norton's report here follows:

"After ordering the men to provide themselves with wood, hammocks, etc., and to get into the boats on the booms and take off their clothes, I went, by Capt, Nicholson's direction, to ascertain the damage done in the engine room...While endeavouring to return to the bridge the water burst open the starboard entry port doors and ship heeled rapidly. I told the men in the port battery to jump overboard, as the launch was close alongside, and soon afterward the ship lurched heavily to starboard. I clung to a ringbolt for some time, but eventually was dropped on to the deck, and a huge wave washed me away...I was picked up by a cutter from the Hogue..."

Norton's report in its entirety makes for very interesting reading, as does all reports made by others such as Commander Bertram Nicholson, late of HMS Cressy, and the fascinating volume Source Records of the Great War.

Family Pets : Faithful Friends

Oliver 'Ollie' Twist

At this time of year I am reminded of my rescued pet, a cat I named Ollie, who came in to my life 16 years ago. It still chokes me up inside to think he came to me on the very same day I received the sad news of my grandmother Freda's passing. Still with us today, Ollie has been called all sorts of funny nicknames and every year he is given his very own Christmas stocking filled with new cat toys, an expensive cat food collection, and lots of  wrapping paper and plastic bags (Don't ask!). I couldn't imagine my life, my home, my family, without him in it.

The RSPCA annual reports show an alarming amount of pets, given as Christmas presents, abandoned in January each year. This number is on the rise, and the message still doesn't seem to get through. Please don't give pets as Christmas presents!! Ollie was a Christmas present for somebody who, in turn, left him abandoned in a cardboard box on a busy roadside. My friend at the time, was walking up this road to take her baby for a walk in the pram and heard meowling coming from the box. When she opened it, she found a under-fed flea-ridden kitten inside.

Pets have always played a key role in my life, since very early childhood. My first family pet was a Labrador called Sandy when I was a baby and my parents lived in Bungay. Then came a cat, another Labrador, another cat, a greyhound, two goldfish and two budgerigars, and yet another cat (but she was technically my mother's cat). I was given a kitten for my birthday one year. He was a fiesty black and white kitten I named Sebastian. Five years later, Ollie came into my life. I did have a Jack Russell terrier named Tsar but he proved to be too much of a handful so, eventually, he was adopted into a new home (with a more patient owner!).

Rover

My family have always been animal lovers and many photographs show a dog or cat sitting proudly on the lap, in the arms of, or by the side, of their proud owners. Growing up my father had a black cat, found amongst the dust at the Beccles Maltings which my grandfather brought home as a kitten and was subsequently named Dusty. My mother had a dog named Rover who was brought home from a nearby village after being mistreated by its original owner. My grandmother Lilian had a Jack Russell terrier (read my blog written exclusively about her. Lilian that is, not the dog!) she named Russ. My great-grandfather had a terrier which he took everywhere (including hunting) with him. My ancestors had dogs, cats, canaries, chickens, budgerigars and horses.

There is a great sense of pride attached to my family's ownership of pets and there are many stories (or should I say, tales!) which are still told amongst the family today which involve a dog or a cat. I even have a wedding party portrait from 1916 where one of my ancestors is holding a small dog (see below).

Greyfriars Bobby

I have long been fascinated by pet stories. Faithful companions who grieve when their owners die or disappear under mysterious circumstances. More recently, I have cried buckets over the Australian story of 'Red Dog' or John Grogan's famous newspaper column, turned novel and movie, about his clumsy, neurotic dog Marley. Then there are famous pets of the past, such as Dewey the library cat, Casper the commuting cat, Greyfriars Bobby, and come on, let's not forget Lassie. What has intrigued me is the large amount of notable rescue dogs and war dogs, in particular, those that are gifted with psychic abilities.

I read Michael Streeter's Psychic Pets with relish last year, during a period of research for my novel. I was struck by three accounts contained within Streeter's 2004 collection of true-life psychic pet stories. Bob, the collie dog, whose owner Roy was called up to fight for his country in World War One. Bob became increasingly morose in Roy's absence until one day he began howling and whining inconsolably. Four days later Roy's wife received the news that Roy had been killed in action.

A British Naval Officer (name unknown) had a pet Airedale dog who  always went to the quayside to say goodbye to the young officer who was, at the time, serving on board a minesweeper.  One day the Airedale became agitated and behaved strangely and the naval officer could not leave the quayside without having his uniform repeatedly grabbed by the dog. That same night, the Airedale suddenly began a piteous wailing and later, the officer's wife learned that the ship had been lost at sea that night.

Falconflight

The last story I want to share with you is about a grey tabby stray cat in Germany during World War Two who was befriended by a middle-aged German man who would pet the cat whenever he saw it near his workplace. One morning in 1944, the man was at home shaving when he heard loud meowing and opened the door to find the stray cat there. The cat would not stop meowing and scratching at the man's trousers until eventually, thinking the cat was trying to tell him something, they left the house together and walked the streets. After about a half mile the cat suddenly stopped walking and the now puzzled man, looked up to see RAF Lancaster bombers overhead. The man looked on in horror as the first of the bombs dropped, obliterating a row of houses, including his. The stray cat had saved his life.

W G Preston who is holding his dog for a
family wedding portrait!

My New Year Resolutions : Hopes for 2012

It is that time of year once again when we sit and reflect over the past twelve months of our genealogical life. We think about what we have found, finished and achieved. We think about those ancestors we are still yet to find, the brick walls we are still yet to bulldoze. We start to make plans anew with a fresh mind and tell ourselves we must get our research notes and papers in some kind of working order. We resolve to make purchases that may aid our quest and we excitedly visit all the stationery shops and departments to find a decent storage unit, box or filing system to accommodate our works. In the back of our mind we think “acid free, archive safe” like a guilt-induced mantra and pray we find something that doesn’t cost the earth or take up too much unnecessary space in our homes.

It is that time of year when we hope the new year ahead will lead us to find that special book, disc, document, certificate, record, register, photograph or heirloom which just may hold the key to all our genealogy mysteries, brick walls, unresolved searches, and “yet to be confirmed” anecdotes. I know I wish for this every year, without fail.

This year I decided to start a blog. I bit the bullet after many years of doubt thanks to some wonderful friends and encouragement from my family. It has been a long time wish of mine to write publicly in some capacity. Having kept private diaries and journals for most of my life and writing many short stories and family letters over the years, I have come to love (and rely on) the satisfaction writing brings me. In the New Year ahead, I hope to start a new historical novel, as well as write a history of my childhood home and also tie up some loose ends with a second edition family history book I began earlier this year. I also hope to share some of my work with a much wider audience, whoever and however that may come to be.

My Family Tree

I began my genealogical life in earnest eleven years ago. Before my daughter was born I merely dabbled in family history, relying mostly on what my grandmothers had shared with me, and a small family tree project I completed for an English assignment at college when I was twenty three years old. Over the past eleven years I have learnt a great deal about my family history, the lives they led, the places they lived and worked in, the families they raised and the circumstances in which they raised them. I have met many online people, related and not, who have shared a wealth of information with me and have kept in touch via email and with Christmas cards. I have enjoyed helping others wherever I could and even volunteered at a genealogy centre for a few years. I have come across countless people online who are more than happy to help me and share what they know, or are more than willing to try.

Nothing, apart from being a mother, has given me more self-satisfaction and self-motivation than researching my family history, and indeed history in general. I never dreamed that people such as Nicholas Crane, Alan Titchmarsh, Griff Rhys-Jones, Tony Robinson and Kevin McCloud could teach me so much about my heritage, my childhood roots, my homeland and my ancestry. I never dreamed that I would end up wanting to write so much about my heritage and share it with others. Once, many years ago now, I dreamed of writing romance novels but I have come a long way since those days!

My prayer for 2012 is to write. Simply that. Of course, I want to uncover that elusive fact, discover that elusive ancestor (see my blog on Richard Humphries) and tidy up my files, collect more old postcards, purchase more local history books...that goes without saying. In the bigger scheme of things I want to write until my hand falls off, my brain is fried, my arm aches and the dust in my house packs a suitcase from boredom.

I will continue to write blogs and keep journals and I will still find the time to jot a short story or three, but most of all I hope to write my second novel. Perhaps I may even share my first novel with the world! Eeeeek! :-)

Happy New Year readers. May you find what you have been looking for this year, last year, two years ago...you get the picture.

 

Story-tellers Through Time : A Griotte in the Making

When I was trying to come up with a theme for my next blog one thing stuck with me. The origins of storytelling and the many cultures around the world who use words (oral and written), paintings, ceremonies, music and dance, and, in the modern age, film to convey their family history and traditional beliefs.

Photo by Alastair McNaughton

When I came to Australia, on the verge of my teenage years, I was immediately effected by the Aboriginal culture and folklore. I was less interested in the history books about James Cook and White Settlement and more engrossed with the Aboriginal customs and, in particular, their Dreamtime.

The ways in which the Aborigines honour the land on which they live, their spiritual beliefs and their deep-rooted affinity with their people has continually effected me over the years. The family stories they tell, through the Dreamtime or Dreaming, has been altered dramatically with the coming of the White people and many tribes and families, and many traditional Aboriginal customs have been lost or systematically driven out of their daily lives. There are still those today who embrace their ancestral culture and who live day-by-day with their family stories because it is psychologically entrenched within them, and they cannot be expected to ignore what is rightfully theirs.

Madina (Griotte)

Whilst reading Cherry Gilchrist's book 'Growing Your Family Tree" recently, I became intrigued by a passage in the last chapter where she describes the African storytellers. Known as griots (male) and griottes (female), they traditionally sing their family stories and play an instrument known as the Kora. The griots are keepers of family stories, genealogy and histories. The female griotte is known more widely for sharing family stories through song and one well known musician is Madina N'Diaye (pictured right).

In Western societies our ancestors used tapestry, murals and paintings, and in medieval times there were minstrels and bards to tell our stories. Then came the age of stagecraft where men acted out stories in front of a paying audience. Newspapers and books, penny dreadfuls quickly followed and people all over the world began to express themselves through some form of the written word. However, print was not easily accessable or affordable to the working class and humble poor and so the centuries-old tradition of oral storytelling never lost its favour. Opportunities for embellishment meant that the line between fact and fiction were oftentimes blurred!

The family who sits around the fireside listening to and sharing family stories is easily conjured up in one's mind. One such special occasion for me, as a child, was Christmas time. When my grandmother's had enjoyed a nip or two of sherry with their Turkey dinner, their tongues were loosened and many stories were shared and regaled. I loved those times, and still today I try to continue their legacy of storytelling (and not just with the sherry to help me along!).

There are so many opportunities at Christmas to sit down with a loved one or favourite relative and ask them questions. I have bored my own long-suffering parents and aunts with questions about their own childhood memories, and I have notebooks filled with many lovely stories.

I will share one with you here. My mother remembers when her father would bring home the Christmas tree ( a real one of course) and the whole family would decorate it the day before Christmas. On the tree would be small bauble decorations and candles, and even sugar mice! On Christmas Eve the family would sit by the hearth and tell stories and my grandmother would light the candles on the tree.

I would like to close this blog with a message of love and hope for a very merry Christmas to all my faithful readers and all newcomers. Thank you for reading my blogs, and leaving such heart-warming comments. I would like to give my special thanks to my family and to also acknowledge and thank Jo W, Luke, Mike, Angela B, Ann, Lynn H, Emma, Suzie & Rosemary for encouraging me throughout the year to share my special family stories through this blog.

Postcards & Photographs : Each One Tells a Story

This morning I visited the Nexus Toy Fair with my science-fiction-loving family, and there was one senior chap who was selling old postcards. Did I look at the wonderful array of Star Wars figurines and sci-fi DVDs? Did I heck as like. I went straight to the postcards table, and oggled his vast collection!


Recently a dear friend at  oldpostcardsetc.co.uk  said: "Think about it - why do people collect old postcards? The main reason is nostalgia..." This got me seriously thinking.

A dictionary definition of nostalgia is: A sentimental longing for the past, typically for a place or period with happy personal associations. When it comes to old postcards I certainly love to see places as they once were. Also, for me personally, it captivates me to see how a place looked in my ancestors time. I am fascinated with scenes of old streets, old houses and businesses, seaside attractions, and churches.

On the left you can see a postcard scene of the church tower of St Michaels in Beccles. The church itself has not changed over time but its surroundings have significantly changed. Housing and businesses have altered and changed hands, been demolished and some buildings which were once publichouses or mills are now private homes.

I love to collect old postcards so that I can see places through the eyes of my ancestry. Beccles, my hometown, has seen much progress and alteration throughout the centuries, and yet local history books and photography show how little has really changed. The shopfronts and the people may have changed but the historical flavour remains when you walk the streets or sit by the Quayside.

Postcards are a window to the past, no doubt about it. Not only do they provide a valuable historical resource for genealogists and social historians alike, but they also allow us a glimpse into how our ancestors once communicated with each other. I have many postcards that have scrawled messages such as: "I will be with you in two days time. The train leaves at 8.15am..." Soldiers relied on the exchange of postcards with their families and loved ones, mothers and lovers fervently sent postcards of home, and holiday postcards were delivered far and wide at the envy of their recipients. The famouse catchphrase "Wish you were here..." was coined by the sending of a postcard.

Over 100 years ago my Norfolk ancestors sold postcards in their stationer's shop. They didn't just sell them, they went out to the various places within a twenty-mile radius and took the photographs that ended up on the postcards. Historical documents prove that they travelled from place to place on bicycles and snapped local scenes such as churches, farms, houses and halls, prominent local businesses and organisations, as well as taking photographs of a journalistic nature. In particular, they took photographs of the damaging effects of the 1912 East Anglia flood.

Photographs are my passion. Not just simple portraits of men, women, children and pets. Not just landscapes and scenery. Not just buildings and architecture. For me it goes beyond the subject matter. For me it is about the story photographs tell. When you look beyond the composition and the framing, recognition of the subject matter lights up the photograph in an entirely new way.Just sit with a group of elderly people and watch their faces as they recall the subject in the photograph, the memories they inspire and evoke, and the hearty conversation that follows. Sit with any family member and their photo album and listen (and watch) as they regale you with the finer details such as where the photograph was taken, what the weather was like, where the clothes they were wearing came from (and what colour the fabric was, if it is a black and white photograph) and, before you know it, all kinds of history (family and social) comes pouring out.

That is how my love of family history began. Back when I was a child and my beautiful grandmothers sat me down and showed me their photograph albums. For hours we would sit together, pouring lovingly over each page. With each photograph I learned who the people behind the faces were, where they had lived, what they loved and who they loved, and the variety of special events the photographs had captured. Some photographs are blurred, some are over-exposed, some have faded or lost their vibrancy and some are stained or damaged but each one is cherished and loved. They are a very special, very real link to the past. A photograph can tell the viewer so much. Perhaps that is why I love scrapbooking and journaling. Many of my scrapbooks are filled, not only with the photograph itself, but the story behind the photograph.

If you love genealogy and social history, photographs and postcards provide a vital visual aid to your story. They bring your ancestry alive in ways that pure words alone cannot convey. Telling your story is so much more than just names and dates. With today's technology it isn't too hard to open a Google Images search engine and begin a visual journey to your family's past. Better yet, why not visit a Fair, your local history centre, a car-boot sale or a charity shop? You never know what you might find. There is a wealth of visual history out there, waiting to be found. Let the stories begin...

Image from Ultimate Photo Guide website

My Love of Writing : Family Letters

This morning I started reading The Shadow of the Wind and already I am completely bewitched. In it, the character Daniel Sempere, describes his passion for fountain pens and immediately I was transported to my father’s study.

For as long as I can remember my father always wrote with a fountain pen. I don’t think I ever saw him use an ordinary ink pen, unless it was passed to a client to sign his or her insurance papers. My memory of my father writing is always holding a fountain pen.

 

Since very early in my childhood the giving and receiving of letters and note-cards played a significant part in my family life. From a tender age I learned to love writing. When I was around five years of age my aunt and cousin emigrated to Australia and letters were frequently passed betwixt my family. Many is the time I would come home from school and find my mother ensconced on the settee, lost in a letter from her sister. The emotions they evoked; the pleasure and the pain I witnessed on my mother’s face; hearing her on the telephone excitedly telling my grandmother the latest letter had arrived; hours spent at my grandmother’s house, drinking copious cups of tea and exchanging letters – all filled me with a deepening love of writing.

When my mother emigrated to Australia four years later, it was my turn to write letters. Now I knew first-hand the effects of receiving a new letter, getting to know the style and colour of the aerogramme and airmail envelopes, the thickness of the folded letter inside, and the anticipation of reading its contents. I loved my mother’s writing; always so curly, neat and decorative. Her life, in the written word, lifted off the pages (Years later, she took calligraphy classes and further improved her individual style of writing). Two years later, it would be my turn to write letters to my father and my paternal grandmother. Then the love of writing letters using a fountain pen grew for me.

As I have already mentioned, my father always wrote with a fountain pen. All of his letters to me were written with flowing, blue ink. There were no blotches or spills, never once. I loved his writing style too, very neat and precise. His words flowed beautifully in the most perfect ink I had ever seen. When I returned to England for the first time since I had left, I sought out my father’s fountain pen. I desperately wanted to replicate his penmanship. I pleaded with him to tell me what pen he used in his letters to me. He told me it was an Osmiroid so I rushed to WH Smith’s in Lowestoft and bought myself one. I was so enthralled and so excited, I couldn’t wait to try it out. However, no matter how much I practiced, I could never replicate my father and his unique writing style. The ink wouldn’t flow properly, the nib would always snag or the ink would blotch everywhere. I was disappointed beyond words, but I never lost my love for the fountain pen or indeed pens in general.

Even today, more than twenty years later, I am still searching for the perfect writing pen. I have bought hundreds of different ball-point varieties and brands. I always prefer to use medium point as fine point simply irritates me. When I compose stories and for journaling purposes, I usually always turn to a Pilot ball-point pen. Even with my scrapbook journaling and page layouts, I prefer to always use medium point pens.

Where does my love of writing come from? The seed was planted during my formative years when I loved writing stories and letters. As a teenager, I was rarely seen without my diary and I kept one religiously for many years, buying only the best, beautifully crafted covers. During my late teens I joined a pen-pal service and enjoyed sharing letters with friends in Scotland, France, Germany and Sweden. The giving and receiving of family letters over the years, until the age of email and internet took away the more traditional methods, increased my love of story-telling.

Then there was my love of books, and the passion for researching my family history. Anybody who has seen an original document or transcription showing his or her ancestor’s very own handwriting knows the exquisite thrill it gives! This is my 4 x great-grandparent’s signature on their wedding certificate of 1846:

My paternal grandmother always used to tell me that I would be a writer. She had utmost faith that I had inherited her mother’s love of writing. For many years I automatically assumed that she only meant writing letters. It was not until recently that my father told me my great-grandmother wrote articles for the Beccles Parish magazine. I felt truly moved by that. As my maternal forebears were printers and stationers and postcard sellers, I also strongly believe that I have inherited their natural flair for the written and the printed word.

My great-grandmother

My Grandmother Lilian : 1920 - 1983

Lilian Katie Humphries abt 1940

I have just come home from the Antiques Fair and felt the strongest compulsion yet to write a blog. Admittedly I have wanted to start a blog for the longest time, and have even gone so far as to research different blog sites and sought advice from several people.

However, nerves won out and got the better of me; that, and a serious dose of self-doubt. There are so many topics I want to discuss, but at the end of the day, I kept going back to the same agonising question. Who would want to know, or care, what I have to say?

For as long as I have been alive I have had a passion for family history. As a child I loved to listen to my grandmothers when they talked about their childhoods, family stories, war stories and more importantly for me, showing me photographs and telling me who the photograph was of, where it was taken and the memory associated with that photograph, whether it be a family member, a holiday snap or a wedding portrait.

I thought about dedicating this first blog to both of my grandmothers but, to be quite honest, I don’t think that would be fair. They each deserve their own dedication, in their own right. As tomorrow will mark 28 years since my maternal grandmother passed away, I shall dedicate my very first family blog to her.

My grandmother was born Lilian Katie Humphries, on 26 November 1920. Her birth certificate says she was born in Bloomsbury Square in the district of St Giles, London. I went to visit her childhood home in 2007 and fell in love with both the Square and its surrounds.

Lilian was always known to me as “Nannie Buster” as her second husband (Alfred Sampson) was known to everyone as Buster. Others called her Lil and some of her nieces and nephews knew her as Lily.

Lilian was the seventh child of Albert Humphries and Elizabeth Dare. Before her were three brothers and three sisters, the eldest of which – Violet, or Vi as she was known - she was extremely close to. She would often spend two weeks holiday visiting her sister Vi in Sutton, where she lived with her husband Cyril Lang above the butcher's shop on the High Street.

When Lilian was just a child she was struck with asthma and bronchial ailments, inherited from her father’s side of the family who all suffered from it. When Lilian was eight she contracted Tuberculosis and the family had to leave their London home for the country air. They moved to Leigh-On-Sea and remained there until the 1930s, when the family moved again, to Sutton in county Surrey. They lived on Clyde Road.

Lilian and her sisters volunteered for the ATS when war broke out in 1939, but ill health plagued Lilian and eventually she had to give up several of her posts. It was in 1945, near war’s end in Europe, that she and her sister Stella were sent to clean ambulance trains in Epsom.

There she met my grandfather Percy Preston, who was stationed near Epsom with the Royal Army Medical Corps. Three short months later, Percy and Lilian were married at St Nicholas Church in Sutton. After the wedding, Percy was stationed back to Epsom and Lilian went, supposedly by rail, to county Suffolk to start married life, not with her husband but with her mother-in-law Nellie Preston who ran a boarding house for single working men, in the market town of Bungay.

After the war, Lilian gave birth to four children: Two girls (the eldest being my mother), followed by two boys. Percy held an Urban District Council job in the town for several years and Lilian worked in various shops and factories in Bungay and nearby Flixton. Then in 1962 they bought the Café in Cross Street, known then as Alfo’s. The tearooms are still there today, although it is now known as the Buttercross Tearooms, named after the infamous Butter Cross at the end of the street.

In May 1966 Percy passed away, of lung cancer. Two years later, Lilian met a local widower by the name of Alfred Sampson and they married in August 1968 at St Mary’s Church, Bungay. Lilian's family of four became a family of nine, as Alf had five children from his previous marriage to Jean Alden. She died of cancer in 1964, aged 35.

As a child I fondly remember visiting my Nannie and Grandad Buster where they lived at St Johns Road, in Bungay. I can still recall the rooms; the front parlour room (which I was never allowed into), the sitting room, the kitchen and walk-in pantry, the narrow staircase and the cupboard under the stairs, and each one of the pokey bedrooms. Whenever I stayed overnight, I loved to explore Nannie’s rooms upstairs, especially her wardrobe filled with flowing dresses and coats, her perfumes and cosmetics on her dressing table, and her endless book shelves crammed with Mills and Boon novels. I would have been around eight or nine years old when I first remember flicking through the pages, fervently looking for the passionate kiss on the last pages! I think she may have caught me out once or twice but I was never severely reprimanded. Perhaps she was mildly amused by my curiosity.

However, I do recall her chastising me for hiding in the cupboard under the stairs or in the kitchen pantry. This was a source of much chagrin between us, as she seemed to forever dislike my need for seeking solitude. She liked me to be where she could see me, not necessarily hear me though!



Lilian with her beloved dog Russ

Lilian loved her dog, a Jack Russell Terrier she named Russ. I shared her love for Russ, and whenever I visited or stayed at my grandparents, he was a delightful playmate for me. We would run amuck outside in the courtyard, or the garages out in the allotment area. Sometimes I would put him in my bicycle basket and wheel him around the yard. Nannie would knock on the kitchen window at me when she felt her poor “doggy woggy” Russ had been through enough torment!

When I was nine years old my grandparents emigrated to Western Australia. Alfred quickly found employment with the Alcoa group, which took him regularly to Dampier, for weeks at a time. Lilian, having been advised by her doctors that the warmer climates of Australia would help her bronchitis and asthma attacks, spent her days mostly indoors by the air conditioner watching the tennis, knitting, or baking. When a relative came to visit they would take her out shopping, which was one of her favourite pastimes.

Lilian was always proud of her London heritage. She always sang “Maybe It's Because I’m a Londoner” and if she was ever pulled up for something or feigned any sort of ignorance she would simply shrug her shoulders and say, “Well, you know it's just because I'm a Londoner”.

When my Nannie was ill, you knew about it the second you walked into her house. The atmosphere was electric when she was confined to her bed. An eerie silence hung on everything around you. Everywhere was deathly silent. There were no sounds of her singing or her slippered footsteps, the kettle wasn't whistling, and not a song could be heard. When she was well however, the atmosphere was the complete opposite. You could hear her bustling around, the washing machine going, the kettle boiling, the dog yapping nearby, her singing at the top of her lungs a tune by Roy Orbison, Bing Crosby or the Andrew Sisters. She would be cleaning, baking, making endless cups of tea or talking idly to Russ, making an absolute fuss over him. I found it funny whenever she threw open the kitchen window and shouted out to Grandad or my Uncle to come in for dinner or a pot of tea.

When my Nannie died, I was in my last year of high school. Her death was sudden and nobody in the family got to say goodbye to her. Lilian had suffered a massive heart attack at home and despite being rushed to Fremantle Hospital, she died on arrival. I was devastated, as was my mother who (understandably) took her mother’s death extremely hard. Losing my Nannie at that time in my life was so intensely shocking because I never had the chance to tell her all the things I would have wanted to. I never had the chance to ask her more about her life in London, and Surrey, or her war experiences. I never even knew her parents names, until 10 years ago when I started the family tree research in earnest.

I will always fondly remember my grandmother Lilian for:

“In the Mood” and Glen Miller Band : Lilian loved to sing this song more than any other I recall in my memory. She would saunter up to me and sing it in my ear or walk around the house with the carpet sweeper or broom.

When getting dressed to go out, Lilian would spend hours applying heated rollers, tweezing, curling her eyelashes, and "putting her face on". There was always singing and dancing involved, and I loved to sit and watch her in the mirror pulling various faces at me or throwing her head back in laughter.

Bourjois Cosmetics : Her rouge pots are still in the family today, and I also love to wear Bourjois products.

Chanel No. 5 perfume : Her most expensive and indulgent perfume, she wore this only for special occasions and always applied the smallest amount in order to make the bottle last!

Merely Musk Impulse : Her everyday perfume, or 4711 or, sometimes, the latest Avon perfumes.

Daphne du Maurier novels : in particular, Rebecca and it was one of her favourite movies of all time.

Engelbert Humperdinck : She was a lover of this "pop" singer.

Bing Crosby and the “White Christmas” movie : Her most passionate love was for all things Bing, for his musical talents and for his acting.

Roy Orbison : Another crooning voice she loved to sing along to whenever she was cooking or cleaning.

Despite her asthma and bronchial ailments. Lilian smoked cigarettes. I recall seeing her often using one of those long black cigarette holders, and I thought she looked just like a movie star! She used to smoke Du Maurier cigarettes or Benson & Hedges.

Her cooking and baking, but for me especially I will always miss her:

Rhurbarb Pie (usually always served hot with lashings of custard)

Apple Crumble (again made with lashings of custard)

Rice Pudding (the sweetest and softest I have ever tasted)

Shepherds Pie (made with any mince she found cheapest on the day)

Nannie's famous Sunday fry-ups: heaped up platefuls of soft runny eggs, oily bacon and grilled tomatoes

Roast dinners of chicken or lamb (mostly) served with lashings of sauce, gravy, peas, over-cooked cabbage, carrots and cauliflower, broad beans (she knew I hated them but she still put them on my plate and made me eat them!), runner beans, swede, and the best ever Yorkshire puddings.

Two weeks ago I found, amongst my mother’s rather extensive photograph and memorabilia boxes, a cassette tape with family members voices recorded onto it. It was recorded in January 1975 and it was intended for family that had recently emigrated to Australia. The very first voice you can hear is my grandmother Lilian. When her voice filled my living room on that day, two weeks ago, it was like having her back again. Hearing her accent, her laugh, her singing, was like I had stepped back into a room with her sitting there.

I cried like I have never cried before. For an instant I was grieving her loss all over again but then, a powerful sense of joy washed over me. Even though my sinuses flared up and my face swelled from excessive crying, I realised that I will always have a piece of her with me. I have some of her favourite things, I have my childhood memories to hold on to, and now I will always be able to hear her voice whenever I want to. All I have to do is press the play button and close my eyes.

“Mr What-you-call-it What you doing tonight?

I hope you’re in the mood cos I’m feeling just right…”

  

Enjoying a boat ride on the Swan River 1982