Identity is something we’re quite preoccupied with these days. Identity theft, identity cards and ‘who do you think you are?’. For two of my family, ID cards were a fact of life. They carried them during two separate wars with Germany.
Tom, a policeman, was in a reserved occupation in World War II. A Schedule of Reserved Occupations was drawn up in 1938 and included farmers and railwaymen as well as policemen. These jobs were regarded as vital to the country at home. Nonetheless, Tom went to the recruiting offices of every armed service and tried to enlist. He was turned down – because a stray cricket ball had punctured his eardrum when he was a boy and left him deaf in one ear.
This picture ID card is dated 1940 and was an expanded version of a Police Warrant Card. White dress gloves are tucked into the choker-collared tunic of the day, made from of heavy dark blue serge. His hair is short (the rule of never having hair touching the collar was one he adhered to for the rest of his life) and he looks ridiculously young, although he was 21 when this picture was taken. During the war, he worked for Kirkcaldy Borough Police on the Fife coast. I don’t think they were ever in real danger from invasion or bombing there, but the threat must have seemed real enough at the time.
I found this ID card near the end of my father’s life. He wasn’t a sentimental man, and the fact that he had chosen to keep it all those years must have meant it was precious to him.
The other person in possession of an ID card in my family takes us to my father’s Aunt Annie. The year is 1917 and World War I still has one more bloody year to run. Annie, who was my grandfather’s sister, married a foreigner, a French stonemason named Laurent Storione. So her ID, although also issued by the local constabulary, was quite different in its purpose than my father’s. As the wife of a foreign national in 1917, she was required to carry ID with her at all times. Despite the fact that France was a British ally in the fight against Germany, Laurent would still be viewed as a foreigner and by association, his wife Annie could have been said to pose a risk to national security.
Annie was the third child of thirteen born to Thomas Cowan & Anna Brown. Her father served in Her Majesty’s Army for many years, seeing service in India, South Africa and England. This photograph clearly shows a woman who is not prosperous. Both her dress and hairstyle are more suited to 1900 than 1917 and her best outfit, donned here for the photographer, would have lasted for many years. Her expression is fairly grim and with good reason. At the age of 44, she had borne seven children and raised them with little help from her husband, who often disappeared for months on end, ostensibly on political missions (he was a firebrand Communist well known to the authorities) but there was talk of other women. Annie died only seven years after this picture was taken in 1924. My cousin, her granddaughter, commented that “She died of a broken heart, but she was really just worn out and had taken to Hell’s Wine to help”. There apparently was no money for a burial and she lies at rest with her brother John, my grandfather, and his wife Martha.
This story begins with Betsy Somerville’s relationship with George Dick, who was proven in court to be the father of her son John. It’s 1890 and Betsy gives birth to another son – called George. This time, there’s no father’s name given. George Dick is now married to Agnes McCallum and living not far away. Could he be George’s father? But there’s another possible candidate for the paternal role. In the 1901 census, she’s living at another address and she has a visitor – George Livingstone, a 29 year old (married) painter from Rothesay. Mr Livingstone’s wife is not present.
That’s almost everything I know about young George. Aged 10, he was still in school but his oldest brother Jim was already hard at work in the coalfields of Lanarkshire. It’s likely that both John and George followed Jim down the pits, as there was little alternative for a working man at that time in that place. But I don’t know for sure. My granddad John would go on to be a butcher, but that was much later. Before that, the world as the family knew it would change forever following the assassination of an archduke in Sarajevo in the summer of 1914. George was photographed at Gilmore’s in Hamilton looking pensive but smartly dressed in a suit of fine check and a gemstone tie pin. His face is youthful and he has the trademark protruding Somerville ears.
When we see him next, he’s in the uniform of The Cameronians (Scottish Rifles). The origins of the Cameronians are firmly set in Lanarkshire, with the regiment’s first muster taking place on the banks of the Douglas Water in 1689. A declaration was read to the assembled men:
“All shall be well affected, of approved fidelity and of a sober conversation. The cause they are called to appear for, is the service of the King’s Majesty and the defence of the Nation, recovery and preservation of the Protestant Religion; and in particular the work of reformation in Scotland, in opposition to Popery prelacy and arbitrary power in all its branches and steps, until the Government of Church and State be brought back to that lustre and integrity which it had in the best times.”
The soldiers of this regiment were zealous Covenanters, whose devotion to the National Covenant of 1638 and the Solemn League & Covenant of 1643 meant that they would even do battle to defend their freedom to worship as they chose. When the crown ejected ministers from their parishes for refusing to submit to the rule of bishops, the Covenanters followed them to the hills and worshipped at open air services which came to be called conventicles. As the threat from government forces increased the Covenanters began to carry weapons to their conventicles and to post armed pickets to keep a lookout. The Cameronians were a unique part of Scottish history for over three hundred years. Their sad end came with the defence cuts of the 1960s and their name was finally erased from the Army List in 1995.
Since the 1880s, the recruiting base for the Cameronians had been located in Lanarkshire and George probably enlisted in Hamilton. His Battalion, the 10th, was formed at Hamilton in September 1914 and were attached to 46th Brigade, 15th (Scottish) Division. By July of 1915, the battalion was in France.
I don’t have George’s service records, as many were lost in a WWII bombing raid on the War Office in 1940. The surviving service and pension records – or Burnt Documents as they are known – were later microfilmed by the National Archives, but unfortunately George’s is not among them. So I have no idea what battles he fought in.
But I do have the 10th Batallion’s War Diary for March 1918, excerpts of which are given below. The language is military and understated, but it is still compelling reading. Rifleman George Somerville was in C Company.
10th SCOTTISH RIFLES
SUMMARY OF OPERATIONS ON MARCH 28th 1918
The Battalion had been relieved in the Front Line by the 9th Black Watch on the night 27/28th March. On completion of relief the Battalion withdrew to the Army Line and were in Brigade Reserve.
Right Front – D. Coy. Left Front – A. Coy.
Right Support – C. Coy. Left Support – B. Coy.
Battalion H.Q. – Dugout at ESTAMINET CORNER.
All ranks were accommodated in their new positions by 1.30 a.m. 28th March 1918. Night was fairly quiet until 3 a.m. when heavy shelling commenced, gas shells being used for 2 hours. The enemy had previously indulged in heavy shelling of selected localities. Shelling continued until 7.30 a.m. when it became intense. Companies afterwards reported that no Company Runners were able to get within 200 yards of Battalion H.Q, ESTAMINET CORNER, WILDERNESS CAMP and ARRAS – CAMBRAI ROAD being severely barraged with all calibres. At 8.15 a.m. the Master Cook of the 7th CAMERON HIGHLANDERS rushed into Battalion H.Q. and stated that his Battalion had been very seriously shelled for 4 hours, that heavy casualties had occurred and that the enemy had attacked, penetrating their front line.
At 9.45 a.m. C. Coy. under CAPT. J.S. MUNRO moved off to counter attack. At this time the enemy could be seen coming over the ridge (ORANGE HILL) in small parties and occupying our old front. Support and Reserve positions (JERUSALEM, CROMARTY and INVERGORDON TRENCHES) on the right of the Brigade Front. At 10 a.m. the Company counter attacking had reached the FEUCHY CHAPEL – FEUCHY ROAD with very few casualties.
At 10.30 a.m. orders were received at Battalion H.Q. (Support Line) from G.O.C. 46th Infantry Brigade to stop the counter attack. These orders were sent on at once by runner and were received by the Company Commander at 10.15 a.m. The Company was accordingly withdrawn, still in Artillery Formation. One Officer and about 30 men of the Company had at this stage become casualties and the enemy were firing fairly heavily on Company with machine guns. The Officer and some of the men were able to regain our lines with the assistance of a covering party.
At 11 a.m. the enemy appeared to have ceased advancing on our immediate front and were consolidating in our old front, support and reserve lines, using CALIFORNIA TRENCH as his front line.
At 6 p.m. it became obvious that enemy was withdrawing South of ARRAS – CAMBRAI ROAD. With the exception of a party of 30 – 40 of the enemy, which crept up ditches of the ARRAS – CAMBRAI ROAD, the enemy infantry never pressed home any attack on the Army Line North of the WANCOURT ROAD, and did not come in any strength beyond our old BROWN LINE.
At 4.30 p.m. a gap existed in the Front Line between 46th and 45th Brigades. This was closed by the Front Line Companies side stepping South. At dusk one Company was pushed out as Outpost to occupy shell holes keeping touch with the enemy. Outpost Line on the Right was 50 yards East of BOIS des BOEUFS, on the Left about 200 yds West of FEUCHY CHAPEL – FEUCHY ROAD. The night was quiet except for intermittent shelling of Support Line and Communications.
Casualties sustained during the day :-
Officers Killed :- CAPT. G. McCALL M.C.
LIEUT. G.W. JAMIESON
2.LT. J.W. KERR.
Officers Wounded :- LIEUT. J. MacKENZIE
2.LT. J.R. ROBB.
Other Ranks Killed 22
” ” Wounded 113. Other Ranks Missing 25.
All the Officers in B. Company became casualties and it was necessary to transfer a subaltern from C. Company to take over Command. Most of the casualties were sustained in the Support Line. Officers, Warrant Officers, N.C.Os and men behaved well under heavy shell fire and trying conditions. It was not possible to give the men hot food for 48 hours.
George Somerville was one of the 113 men (the Other Ranks) who were wounded that day in France. I know that he was taken to a field hospital, but from there it’s unclear what happened. Family legend has it that he contracted pneumonia but the record of his medals gives Died of Wounds as cause of death. The horror of battle conditions and the slaughter of countless young men in the Great War has been well documented. George managed to survive three years at the Front and was 27 years of age when he died, only a few months before the end of hostilities. His brother Jack, my grandfather, who served with the Royal Garrison Artillery, came home safe from the war to marry his sweetheart and live out his life in Lanarkshire. If there was anything to be grateful for in that terrible time, it was that Betsy did not have to mourn the deaths of two sons. Over 7,000 Cameronians lost their lives in the conflict.
The National Archives hold a collection of Medal Record cards for World War I and from this, I know that George was awarded three medals: the ’15 Star, awarded to individuals who saw service from 5 August 1914 to 31 December 1915; the British War medal, which was awarded to eligible service personnel and civilians alike. The basic requirement for army personnel and civilians was that they either entered a theatre of war, or rendered approved service overseas between 5 August 1914 and 11 November 1918; and the Victory Medal, awarded to all eligible personnel who served on the establishment of a unit in an operational theatre.
George lies in Wimereux Cemetery in Northern France. His grave is tended by the Commonwealth War Graves Commission.
And just by where he grew up in Cemetery Road, Blantyre, a monument commemorates the dead of the war to end all wars. My great-uncle George’s name is there.
1. Many men sent silk embroidered postcards from France to their families at home. Each regiment and corps had its own design and George may have sent a card like the one pictured to his mother.
2. Read the full article about Betsy here.
3. I am most grateful to The Cameronians Museum in Hamilton for the War Diary of the 10th Batallion Scottish Rifles (The Cameronians).
4. Thanks to my cousin, Ian Somerville, for the photo of the Blantyre memorial.
In 1840, two unlikely branches of my family met. The Bensons from Midlothian were powdermakers, miners and labourers. This group of families lived for many years in and around Glencorse. The local cemetery is stuffed with their remains, if you’ll pardon the expression.
It’s easy to go sideways in the family (Robert, whose brother was Francis and who had young Francis and so on and so on) but not as simple to go backwards. The earliest person I have is the wife, Isabella, of a Benson who would have been born around 1770.
But it’s the very first Robert Benson who married a Spence. Or to be accurate, a Thom. And Margaret, the bride, was from a long line of burgesses in the Royal Burgh of Linlithgow.
When I began researching this family line, I discovered that I wasn’t alone – contacts flooded in with stacks of information. Sadly, a lot of it turned out to be contradictory – and who to believe and why? Overwhelmed by the task, I set ‘the Linlithgow lot’ aside for a good while and only returned to it fairly recently. This time, I’ve done the research myself using (hopefully) ironclad sources.
The first surprise was one that’s all too common. This girl had the surname Thom but there was no marriage. I thought of a commonlaw marriage but the truth was that an already married man – Mr Thom, the exciseman – fathered two children on Helen Stanners. That wife and six children I’d been following? Somebody else’s.
Having overcome that hurdle, I began to find the families of Stanners and Spence. And they’re infinitely more interesting than an unfaithful exciseman.
Linlithgow is a town full of history. Mary of Guise, wife of James V of Scotland, was delivered of a daughter here in 1542, who was to become the ill-fated Mary, Queen of Scots. Linlithgow Palace, which royal princes altered and improved through the years, was considered an architectural gem of the Renaissance. Prince Charles Edward Stewart (Bonnie Prince Charlie) stayed there in 1745, but after fires started by the Duke of Cumberland in 1746, the palace burned to the ground. The ruins of it have lain unroofed and uninhabited since then.
The River Avon flowed through the town and was vital to the success of the leather industry which sprang up in the 1600s and continued for two centuries. My ancestors tanned the leather and made shoes from it for export. This brought them some reward, and there are several generations of both Stanners and Spences who were made burgesses of the town.
I’m still deep in the labrynth that is Scots history, but so far I’ve discovered that to be a burgess could mean several things. It could simply be a man who owned some land (and that could be a very small amount of land, say enough to build a house on). Or it could mean a man who was a member of a prestigious crafts guild, and there were certainly Guilds of Tanners and Cordiners. I think that at least some of my people will appear on Burgess Rolls, although the privilege of being a Burgess was also granted to those outside the burgh. A case of profiting by who you know.
It was a thing to be proud of, being a burgess, and this is illustrated by a rather grand tombstone in the kirkyard which was erected by one William Law in honour of his grandparents, George Stanners and Margaret Spence. William was himself a ‘feur of Glasgow & burgess here’.
I’m beginning to look at extracts from the commisary courts whose records are kept in the National Archives of Scotland and I found Charles Inglis vs George Stanners in January of 1769. The commisary courts were often concerned with moral matters as well as matters of money, and I will have to look at the full record to find out why Mr Inglis and Mr Stanners were facing each other in court. I’m also going to look into the system of apprenticeships – there were two George Stanners, father and son – could George Jnr have been apprenticed to his father?
These families probably owned little pockets of land on Linlithgow’s High Street and there is a record of a William Law in his shoe shop in the 1820s. I think it’s a fair bet that he was a descendant of the man who erected a monument to his grandparents.
Finally, looking into these families has also been an exploration into random spelling. Elizabeth Dow, whose father was James Dove. And Christian Cochran who was variously Christian or Christean and Cochran or Chochren or even Chochran. The Georges get off lightly, only once being spelled, rather Germanically, Georg.
Photo of Linlithgow by Daniel Morrison
Aunt Effie’s wedding photo. The guests, their ages ranging from age 73 to 2 months, are posing dutifully for the photographer on a fine June day in Hamilton, Lanarkshire. Close family members of the bride and groom are packed together on benches in the front row and the rest of the guests are ranged behind, groom’s folk to the photographer’s left, bride’s to his right. A solemn looking young minister stands directly behind the happy couple. There’s almost a complete set of three generations of Bensons present, although the second wife of the bride’s grandfather is not in the photo. There are at least four individuals named Robert Benson. And the bride’s sister, Retta, married five years before, has a two month old baby on her knee – my mother. The men, wearing heather in their buttonholes, are almost all employed in the coal mines, excepting my grandfather Somerville, who is a butcher. Aunt Effie, by marrying Tom Wilson, is marrying up. He is at the time of his marriage a bank clerk and will later rise to the position of bank manager. Five of the men, including the groom, sport stiffened wing collars and seven of the women have furs draped around their necks, notwithstanding the season.
Betsy Somerville was my great-grandmother on my mother’s side. She was one of the first people I was to find in my hunt for family – and one of the few whose story I could share with my mother before she died. I don’t know what Betsy looked like – there are no photos of her. And it’s no good looking at pictures of her children, for they are very dissimilar. And that’s because – there’s no other way of putting this – Betsy was a bit of a sucker for the men.
When Elizabeth Somerville was born in 1852, she was the ninth of eleven children born to John Somerville and Jean Wallace. John’s quite an important figure in my Somerville history, and I’ll be coming back to him later. A number of villages clustered around Lanark then and the family moved back and forth between them. Carstairs, Carluke and Cambusnethan. They were part of a generation caught up in Scotland’s inexorable slide from agriculture to industry. John’s father had worked the land, but by the time John was grown, he was toiling in the coalfields of Lanarkshire as a winding engineman.
In the 1861 census for Cambusnethan, there’s seven of them living in one room. Betsy and her two younger sisters are recorded as scholars. This should have meant that they attended school on a regular basis. However, parents were often wary of officials and would say that their children went to school when in reality they didn’t.
By the 1870s, Betsy had lost four of her brothers and sisters to consumption, a disease which spread like wildfire in the overcrowded conditions. Three more had settled down and married. But Betsy remained single. Then, in 1879, she had a child who was named for his father, James Morris. He’s a mystery to me is James Snr – all I know of him is that although he gave the boy his name, he and Betsy never married.
Now with a baby son to look after, Betsy moved in and kept house for her widowed father in Cambusnethan, her mother having died three years earlier. Nine years passed and in 1888, she was living in what was to be the first of several addresses in Blantyre. Her father was slowly, agonisingly dying. And Betsy was pregnant again. John, her second son (who would be my grandfather) was born on the 18th of August and Betsy’s father died only a month later. I think it’s significant that Betsy didn’t register the birth of the baby until after her father had died.
My grandfather’s birth certificate was the first document I ever saw. It was at the Public Record Office in Edinburgh in pre-computer days. You had to look up the indices, then place your requests to view (written in pencil – no pens were allowed anywhere in the records office)in a little box. Then you waited. Eventually, a wee man in a warehouseman’s coat would lead you up to the stacks high in the dome of the beautiful Georgian building. Placing the relevant volume on a rickety ledge, he’d find the correct page and stand aside while you copied the record. It was rather thrilling and I rather regret that this hands-on experience has vanished.
Copying John Somerville’s birth record, I saw a note scribbled to the side of the record. It said ‘Entry in Register of Corrected Entries’ and I asked my guide what that was. He grinned knowingly, said ‘Aye…come wi’ me’ and led me off to a separate section of the stacks. What I found in that record left me full of admiration for Betsy Somerville.
Not only was she supporting herself by working as a boot merchant on her own account, she had decided to take baby John’s natural father to court to prove paternity. This was an enormous undertaking for a working class woman on her own. The case was heard in the Sherriff Court on the 10th of November and George Dick, a surface worker at the coal pit from Ayrshire, was decreed to be the father. There was no question of money changing hands for the upkeep of the child – George Dick wouldn’t have had any – just a question of honour. And perhaps a healthy dose of rage – had George tried to wash his hands of her and the baby? George doesn’t appear again in this story, but I traced him in a census three years later. He’s married to one Agnes McCallum – they have no children and are living not far away from Betsy and her boys. And that’s the last we hear of George Dick – or is it?
Fast forward to 1890. Betsy’s now 38. And there’s another baby. Another son. She’s officially a ‘laundress’ – in other words, she’s taking in folk’s washing. Back breaking work but she had little alternative as a single mother with young children. And the name of this new son? George.
Let’s look at the evidence. George Dick is married in 1891, but Betsy’s George is born in November of 1890. No father’s name appears on his birth certificate and there’s to be no taking to court of any man this time.
The final twist is that on the night of the 1901 census, she’s living at yet another address and she has a visitor. George Livingstone, a 29 year old (married) painter from Rothesay. Too young for her? Perhaps – after all, she’s 46 in 1901. But let’s remember that when she had her second boy, John, she was 39 but the father was only 24. A penchant for younger men? I’ll never know.
Most of John Somerville and Jean Wallace’s children were buried with them in a family grave which I’ve visited at Cambusnethan. But Betsy isn’t with them. Her eldest son, James (my great-uncle Jim, who I knew briefly as a little girl) bought a plot for himself and his wife – and there was room for his mother.
I wonder if Betsy kept in touch with her brothers and sisters throughout her life, or whether she was ostracised by the family. If her behaviour was frowned upon, did caring for her ailing father make up for it a bit? Was she then looked on more kindly? I really hope that was the case.
For I’ve a deep fondness for Betsy Somerville, my great-grandmother. She had her weaknesses, plain to see, but by god she paid for them. She never married and her poverty must have been considerable. But she kept her family together somehow until they were men. That took courage and resilience. In some ways, she was a very modern woman.
This photograph was taken in the back garden of Retta Cottage, 2 Edward Street, Hamiton. The photographer has arranged some items from the house as props. A rug has been flung over the fence to make a backdrop and there are potted aspidistras on either side of the men. The photo’s purpose was to show four generations of a family who were all named Robert Benson.
It was clear that this was a professionally taken photograph and thanks to some terrific help from Angela at the Reference Library in Hamilton, I discovered that it appeared in the Hamilton Advertiser for 13 May 1933, with the caption ‘The Four Robert Bensons’. No story accompanied the photograph, but there were details of who the men were.
The eldest Robert – he of the luxuriant mouser – was 82 here and had outlived two wives, Euphemia Baxter and Agnes Craig. He and Euphemia had 7 children, all boys. This accounts for the masses (and I do mean masses!) of Bensons who followed. Had it not already been a common name in the west of Scotland, Robert’s contribution must have ensured that it became so.
The last of the Bensons to be born in Linlithgow, his father was the first to be named Robert. The male line was vigorous, most of them living into their 80s – the same, alas, can’t be said for their poor wives! According to my mother (who was 17 when her great-grandfather died) Robert Senior was to be approached with caution. As he’s glowering in every photo I have of him, I wouldn’t be at all surprised. He looks trim of figure and rather nattily dressed. I imagine him flinging open the bedroom window to do his callisthenics then shouting to his daughter-in-law ‘Nell! Have my best breeks got a good crease in them? The man frae the Hamilton Advertiser’s coming today.’
The next generation is the craggy-faced gentleman on the left, aged 61. Like his father and grandfather before him, he was a colliery engine keeper at the pit. This Robert married a gentle Irish girl called Nell Wilson on Christmas Day in 1896. (Churches don’t do marriages on Christmas Day anymore, do they?) My mother spoke warmly of her grandparents, although Robert was typically brusque in the way of his generation. Oddly though, Mother never told me that Nell was Irish – I had to find that out for myself and I haven’t yet found a birth record for her.
This Robert had a relatively small family – two daughters Rachel and Euphemia and one son, yes you guessed, Robert. Rachel was known as Retta and I wonder if she was always content with that version – as a Rachel, I must say I would have hated it. Euphemia was of course Effie – my wonderfully characterful great-aunt.
Son Robert (who’s the youngest man in the picture) was named with plenty of reminders of the family’s history. He was Robert Spence Thom Benson. Individuals with multiple names are a godsend in genealogy, with an instant link back through the generations. My Aunt Effie gloried in hers and signed Euphemia Gibb Baxter Benson with a flourish. Robert was my mother’s ‘Uncle Bob’ . He and his wife Barbara were apparently cheerful folk in contrast to the dourness of some of the Bensons – maybe Barbara was responsible for that.
The little boy, the youngest Robert Benson, is aged about 8 here and was instructed to sit on his great-grandfather’s chair. He protested vehemently and with tears, but was told sharply to obey by the old man. You can see just how uncomfortable the poor thing is by the way he’s perching there. In my mind, this boy is always ‘Cousin Bobby’ but he’s actually my mother’s cousin, not mine. He got his share of family names too – Baxter & Hunter (his mother’s maiden name). He would, in his turn, also live at Retta Cottage.
Three piece suits were still required dress for formal occasions, complete with breast-pocket hankies (a patterned one in the case of the young man). This family were never, to my knowledge, poor enough to suffer the ignominy of wearing your best suit to church on a Sunday then pawning it on Monday morning till the next week. The old man’s suit was built to last – the waistcoast is cut high at the neck in the old style. His grandson wears a suit with a bit of a check in it and what looks like a striped shirt (but still with detachable white celluloid collar). The two older men are both wearing fob watches in their waistcoats – these would be handed down through the generations. The youngest man’s hairstyle looks almost modern, and his son’s locks look to have been tamed by Brylcreem.
There are Robert Bensons still in my generation. I hope the name survives, continuing that tradition which began almost two hundred years ago.
The Red Herring is a common fish scooped up in its thousands in nets of genealogists worldwide. It’s almost as common in the Mare Genealogica as familia fabula (family myth).
Being red, it stands out on a page of closely packed type with the scintillating header of COR-CRO: 15 of 385 pages. Being friendly (and equipped with special fins) it catches your eye, waves at you as you try to place where you know it from…
It has a familiar face, it’s got your grandmother’s nose and it says it was born only 10 miles from the birthplace you have on your record – can it be – yes it must be – it’s that long-lost relative you thought you’d never find. Hallelujah.
But beware – red herrings are the cuckoos of the seas. Hidden behind that cuddly exterior is a whole shoal of bogus relations who will, before you realise what’s happening, devour your entire family tree.
How can you spot one of these interlopers? Here’s an example – if Auntie Mabel’s husband Fred appears to have been born before his youngest child, maybe he’s not the Fred you thought he was, the one so beloved by the family who could pull rabbits out of balloons. Or another: you gleefully follow the red herring’s ancestors back two generations to find you’re descended from an Uzbekhi tribesman and everyone knows that the family has always hailed from Nether Wallop.
Having spotted one, what to do? Gentle genealogist, there’s no easy way to say this. Get rid of it. Fling the baby out with the bathwater. Whisper ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it to end like this’ as you delete it from your files if you must, but it has to go. Think how much tidier your tree will be without Uncle Willie who seemed to have married 37 women in quick succession. Think how you’ll never again have to search the frozen steppes of Russia in vain for Agnes Macklethwaite who married Ernest Jones.
So your tree is a little bare now and only dates back to 1933 – no matter, now it’s echt, it’s real. Your mother doesn’t talk to you any more since you found that she isn’t the long lost daughter of Frank Sinatra – she’ll get over it, tell her you’re doing it My Way. And all those people on rootsweb lists who embraced you as a long-lost 2nd cousin thrice removed and invited you to their ‘cosy home’ deep in the Catskills will soon find someone else to cherish.
And finally, don’t grieve for the Red Herring. He’s guaranteed to be clasped to the bosoms of the next fleet of genealogists to come along with the words “Henry! it’s You!”
I have a passion for researching my family history, so this section of the site is devoted to my ancestors and their families. Although it makes sense to follow only direct ancestors, that’s not my approach. So out of nearly 1600 individuals, only some of those will spin directly back into history. The rest will be those little branches that are so tantalising simply because they are often just out of reach.
The search so far has wound back to the 1660s and the newest member of the family was born in 2010. Some are harder to track down than the Golden Fleece while others turn out to be related to everyone you could imagine.
We’re a family of common names (the genealogist’s nightmare) and common occupations. There’s nobody grand among us. We were farmers, tanners, cordiners, burgesses of the town and, overwhelmingly, coal miners. Some of our branches are from across the Irish Sea. Some went to Canada when that country was young. And two soldiers, a coalminer and his shoemaker father-in-law, took the Queen’s Shilling for service in India, where they became enmeshed with an Anglo-Indian dynasty.
Our surnames (so far) are: