I’ve often wondered about the National Archives at Kew. Grand on the outside, sombre inside. Dark wood and ancient leather-bound books. The history of all of us, carefully catalogued for anyone with the patience to delve. After all, that’s what archives are, aren’t they? Packages of true history. Our secrets neatly filed away.
But today I actually visited the place, and it turns out the National Archives are housed in a modern building, all glass and concrete, with lots of air and light, like an airport terminal or swish office block. There’s a cafeteria, comfy seating, even a gift shop.
I must admit I was a bit disappointed. I’d expected something a tad more Victorian. After all, I was there on serious business, not to mosey around any gift shop. I didn’t tell Eddie I was going. He calls it my ‘daft hobby’. But there’s a proper term for it – genealogy – and there wouldn’t be a word like that if it was just a hobby, would there?
You can do a lot on the internet, but sometimes you want to touch the real thing – birth, death, marriage, the original documents. They’re all there at Kew, with instructions on how to handle them: wash your hands before you start and don’t lick your fingers to turn the pages. Pretty obvious that, if you ask me, but I guess some people need telling. You have to leave your bag in a locker. Obviously they don’t want anyone helping themselves to whatever they fancy.
Once I’d got my reading glasses out, I really felt the part: Beverley Henshaw, genealogist. And you know what? I found my dad’s great uncle Percy’s First World War service record – the actual bit of paper, right there in the National Archives. He was wounded in 1916 on the Somme. Private Percy Byford of the Essex Regiment. Wounded and shipped home and that was the end of his war. Poor Percy.
We’ve all got history, we don’t begin with ourselves
I’m now on the bus, nearly home, with Percy in my handbag, so to speak. I paid for a photocopy of his war record, so there’s now a new piece slotted into the family jigsaw, a tiny part of me. Eddie thinks it’s a waste of time. ‘Dead people are dead, concentrate on the living,’ he says. But we’re all connected, aren’t we? We’ve all got history, we don’t begin with ourselves.
It’s only a five-minute walk from the bus stop and I’m still feeling pretty chuffed as I open the front door and call out, ‘Cooee’. Eddie doesn’t reply, but I can hear him on the phone in his office. It’s not exactly a proper office, more a cubbyhole under the stairs. If he jumps up too quickly, he bangs his head on the sloping ceiling. But it does the job. He’s got his computer in there and decent lighting – he extended the cables himself – and there’s a plywood door, so it’s kind of private.
I put my bag down and go into the kitchen. Eddie’s still on the phone. I can hear him as I put the kettle on. He sounds very exercised about something.
‘Yeah, yeah, the money’s coming. So get the fuck on with it.‘
My husband can be rather forthright, but running a business is stressful. From the sound of it, he could do with a cuppa. There’s the clunk of his phone being thrown down onto that little table of his and another expletive. Then the door bangs open.
‘I’m off out.’
‘I’ve made you a tea.’
‘No time. Business. I’ll be back late.’
He grabs his jacket and slams the front door behind him.
A business meeting. Big clients, no doubt. With his business partner, Jason. It’s import-export they’re in. Importing and exporting what, I’m not entirely sure. It’s all done online and I don’t think Eddie ever gets to see the actual goods. But it pays the bills – most of the time anyway. My wages from the salon help, although Eddie sees that as my pin money and says it’s his job to provide for me and Chloe. Old-fashioned – I know I shouldn’t, but I rather like that. He’s got a real nose for business, my Eddie, and with a run of good luck he could go places. A bit like Alan Sugar, I reckon. Every now and then he hits the jackpot and he’ll say, ‘Doll yourself up, Bev, we’re going out for a slap-up meal.’ Once he bought a swanky car. Didn’t tell me, just arrived home in it. A Merc it was, black, smoky windows, looked like a gangster’s car. (I didn’t tell him that.) But then he hit a rough patch – that’s the market for you, what goes up has to come down – and he had to sell the car double quick.
I take his tea into the kitchen and watch it swirl down the plughole. When he gets back, perhaps I’ll tell him about Kew and Percy. Take his mind off things. I switch on my laptop and start to add details to our family tree. I see it as an ancient oak, English, solid, as tall as it’s wide and still growing. I know who my great-great-great-grandparents were. I know about great-great uncles and aunts, and cousins a few times removed. My relatives, loads of them, going back generations.
The trouble is, they’re not very exciting. In fact, they’re all just a teeny bit boring. No rags-to-riches or riches-to-rags, no big scandal, no villains. Percy’s war wounds are fairly interesting, even if the same thing happened to millions of other poor buggers. But no black sheep or skeletons in the cupboard, nothing that would make you sit up and think, ‘Cor, fancy Bev having them in her family.’
I want to have a go at Eddie’s side too. When I mentioned it, he told me to get a life. But I’ve started the research without telling him. Families are what make us, that’s what he doesn’t appreciate. All those bits and pieces of DNA swirling around inside us. I’d like to think we’ve got some sparkle somewhere in there.
Chloe arrives home a little later. She slings her bag down, kicks off her trainers and sprawls on the sofa.
‘What you doing?’ she says, fingers and eyes busy with her phone.
‘The tree. I went to the National Archives today. I came across your great-great uncle – no, your great-great-great uncle Percy’s First World–’
‘Mum, you’re obsessed.’
‘He was badly injured on the Somme.’
‘Can I borrow some money for the weekend?’
‘Injured and sent home. An honourable discharge, it said. A bit of a hero, I reckon.’
‘Twenty quid’ll do. You can put it on my card.’
‘Cash. Best if your dad doesn’t know.’ I save the tree and get up to find my purse. ‘You’ll thank me one day, you’ll see. You’ll have all this to pass on to your kids.’
‘Not going to have kids.’
I hate it when she says that. It would be such a pity if our line ended with her. Families must go forwards as well as backwards. But I don’t say anything. She and Eddie, they’re a pair. No sense of continuity.
She’s gone up to her room and I’ve settled down to watch Who Do You Think You Are? Best thing on telly, I always catch it live. This week it’s some politician who pretends to be shocked when they tell him one of his ancestors was a slave trader. Lucky so-and-so. At least he’s got something terrible in his family history. Bad is better than boring.
When the programme ends, I decide to look up a new website a client from the salon mentioned. It’s got all the old court records and you can type in a name and county and see whether it comes up with a match. I pour myself a large glass of red wine and, within twenty minutes, I’ve made a significant discovery. And I mean significant. Eddie’s great-great-grandfather, Albert Henshaw, got sent to prison in 1881. Ten years for assault and robbery. Seems he stole a watch off someone in the street. A bit harsh that, ten years for nicking a lousy watch. He was eighteen. Same age as Chloe. A real black sheep. He puts poor Percy in the shade. This deserves a second glass of wine. And I can’t wait to tell Eddie. It might just tickle his fancy. You never quite know with Eddie.
The front door opens. I hear keys being dropped on the mat and Eddie swearing. He walks into the lounge and goes straight to the drinks cabinet. He looks done in.
‘How did it go?” I ask.
He grunts. Too tired to talk. I feel for him, poor love.
‘You ought to have a break, Eddie. We could go away somewhere nice. Canary Isles perhaps. Leave Jason to run the business for a bit.’
‘Can’t do that.’ He gets out the gin bottle. ‘My so-called partner seems to have gone missing. Want one?’
‘I’ll stick with the wine, thanks. What d’you mean, he’s gone missing? Where is he?’
‘How the hell do I know?’
Well, this is something – Jason disappearing. I can’t say I’ve ever really liked him. Bit of a smart arse, if you ask me, and I don’t trust the way he looks at Chloe. Eddie could have done much better for a partner. But still, this is bound to put an extra strain on my husband.
‘Jason’s an adult and if he chooses to go AWOL, that’s his business,’ Eddie says. ‘He hasn’t pulled his weight for a while now.’
He flicks through the remote until he finds the snooker. I can tell he isn’t really watching, but he often switches it on when he’s worried, like after that altercation at the service station with some bloke who’d cut us up on the A12. Eddie just took hold of the man’s jacket – he didn’t hurt him as such, he was simply making his point. But the idiot got all shirty and called the police and Eddie ended up with a caution. Very unfair, if you ask me. There was a lot of snooker watching after that.
‘Funny thing about people going missing, isn’t it?’ I say.
There’s loud applause from the TV. One of the snooker players is chalking his cue and looking very pleased with himself. Eddie’s eyes are fixed on the screen, but I know he’s listening to me.
‘I mean, things must get too much and they just walk out. Disappear into thin air. I wouldn’t have thought Jason was that sort though. Always seems cock-sure, far as I can see. I bet his family tree would throw up a thing or two.’
‘Give it a break, Bev. If there’s one thing I don’t give a monkey’s about, it’s Jason Reilly’s ancestors.’ He jumps up and goes to pour another gin.
This is my chance. ‘I’ve got some news too. You’ll never guess what.’
‘What? What will I never guess?’
‘Your great-great-grandad – you know, your grandad’s grandad, Albert – well, he got sent to prison for ten years. For robbery and assault. I found the court record online.’
He doesn’t say anything.
‘Only eighteen he was. Imagine being sent down for ten years at eighteen.’
Eddie scratches his nose. Maybe I’ve misjudged things, telling him about Albert when he’s obviously worried about Jason.
‘Shut it, Bev,’ he says slowly. ‘You don’t want to believe everything you see on the internet.’
‘But–’.
‘But nothing. Just forget it. Read one of your magazines and pour yourself another drink. Now if you don’t mind, I’m knackered and I’m going to bed.’
I sit there for a while thinking and finishing off the bottle of red. This Jason business will blow over soon. He’ll turn up. But it really is a pity that Eddie isn’t more interested in Albert. It shows there’s a bit of backbone in the family, Albert having to face adversity so young.
*
I’m woken up by hammering on the front door. Ten to six. Too early for a delivery. Eddie’s already up and in the bathroom. I scramble for my dressing gown and run downstairs. More hammering.
‘Hold on, hold on, I’m coming.’
There are several police at the door.
‘We have a warrant for the arrest of Edward Henshaw,’ one of them says and barges in. The others follow.
Chloe is next to me. The noise must have woken her. It would have woken the dead.
‘What is it, Mum?’
The room is spinning.
‘Mum?’
I have to sit down. ‘Your dad. They want to arrest him.’
It sounds ridiculous, just saying it. Chloe’s starting to cry. I rest my head against the back of the sofa and take deep breaths. Eddie’s coming down the stairs, nothing on, just a towel round his middle.
‘Edward Henshaw, I’m arresting you on suspicion of conspiracy to murder Jason Reilly. You do not have to say anything, but–’
Murder? Murder? My Eddie couldn’t murder anyone to save his life. He’s a big softy. As for conspiracy, well he’s just not that organised. I want to tell these coppers they’ve got it wrong, but for the moment I can’t speak. I feel as if I’m being strangled. One of them shows me something – a search warrant, I think – and next thing I know, they’re all over the place, going through cupboards and what have you. One of them comes out of the cubbyhole carrying Eddie’s computer and then looks at my laptop on charge on the floor. My voice, the strangled voice, comes back.
‘That’s mine. It’s got all my records.’
‘What records?’
‘My family history. Genealogy.’
The officer rolls his eyes. ‘Very interesting, I’m sure. If that’s all it is, you’ll get it back.’
The Walthamstow One. People sometimes think he’s a bit rough round the edges, but they don’t know him like I do.
Bloody rude. I’m going off the police fast. A couple of them are making a right racket upstairs, emptying every drawer from the sound of it. The law can’t stampede over people’s lives like this, marching in at the crack of dawn and turning everything upside down. But I bite my lip. It’s best not to make a fuss until this is all sorted and then make an official complaint. They’ll certainly be hearing from me. Wrongful arrest, like one of those miscarriages of justice you read about, and my poor Eddie is the victim. The Walthamstow One. People sometimes think he’s a bit rough round the edges, but they don’t know him like I do.
A couple of them take him upstairs to get dressed – it can’t be very private – and then he’s down again, wearing yesterday’s shirt. It’s grubby at the edge of the collar and can’t smell too fresh. They put handcuffs on him and he looks grey and puffy, like he does if he’s drunk too much and not slept properly. I don’t want Chloe to see her dad like this, but she’s curled up in a ball on the sofa, whimpering and not noticing anything. I stroke her hair, but can’t take my eyes off Eddie.
‘I didn’t do it, Bev. Honest,’ he says.
‘I know you didn’t, love.’
His fists are clenched in the cuffs and his shoulders tense. I badly want to hug him, but don’t know whether it’s allowed. The police seem to have finished wrecking our house and look ready to leave – with Eddie. I stand up and my stomach muscles tighten.
‘Bye,’ I manage to say, and he mouths ‘bye’ back.
I watch from the front door as they put him in the police car. One of them has his hand over Eddie’s head so he doesn’t knock it as he gets in. Eddie isn’t a big man and he looks particularly small as he gets into the back of that car. I try to catch his eye as they drive off, but his head has sunk to his chest. There’s a second police car following, blue lights flashing. Can’t imagine why they sent two. Perhaps they thought he’d do a runner or something.
It’s getting light now and the road is quiet. That cow in the house opposite is at her door pretending to take in milk bottles, but really just getting an eyeful. I want to shout at her to mind her own beeswax, but I restrain myself. The Henshaw family has its dignity. I close the door. Chloe is still on the sofa, slowly tearing a tissue to shreds.
‘Have they gone?’
I nod, and she bursts into tears again. I put my arm round her shaking back and give her the hug I couldn’t give Eddie. ‘Don’t worry, sweetheart. Everything will turn out all right.’
She smiles at me thinly through her tears.
‘In fact, I bet he’ll be home by this afternoon,’ I say.
The gin bottle is still on the table, where Eddie left it last night, half-full and tempting. I put it back in the drinks cabinet. There are things to do and they aren’t going to do themselves. Stuff is spewed out all over the lounge. I dare not think what upstairs is like. And I have to make sure Chloe gets to college and I get to the salon on time. I’ve got a full day of trimming and highlighting ahead.
But first I have important family business to deal with. My laptop might be in temporary police custody, but I’ve still got my phone. I’m going to do what I didn’t get round to last night. I begin to fill in the details of my great-great-grandfather-in-law, Albert Henshaw. Our very own black sheep.
After I’ve finished, I’ll do a quick tidy so the place won’t be too much of a mess when Eddie gets home.
Wendy Sacks Jones is a writer, journalist and former broadcaster. Her first novel, ‘The Candidate’s Husband’, is currently on submission to publishers. When not writing or editing, she teaches English to refugees in south London.
X: @WendyJonesWJ
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Image via Unsplash.