CHAPTER 24
Joanna
Dorset
Harriet dropped her off at Bucky Doo Square and Joanna made her way to Bridport’s Local History Centre. She was determined to find out more about Emmy – perhaps if she could discover the family connection between them, then she might understand why Emmy and her letters were getting under her skin.
She had already linked into a couple of promising ancestry sites online, but it was a daunting task and time was against her.
It might be a good subject for a feature, though; if she were to continue to delve, by the time she reached the Middle Ages she’d have twenty million relatives, apparently.
That would be a lot more than Joanna was bargaining for . . .
Mulberry Farm Cottage had been in Father’s family for generations, so clearly, it was the Shepherd line she had to pursue.
She’d learnt that the origin of British surnames could be divided into four groups: by trade, by nickname, by place name or by patronymic or matronymic deciders.
Emmy clearly fell into the first group. Shepherd.
So even back then, her ancestors were into farming.
Not Joanna, though – she’d never seen herself living and working in a rural landscape.
And not Emmy – like Joanna, she enjoyed travelling; like Joanna, she was drawn to more creative pursuits.
All her mother seemed to know about Joanna’s father’s parents was that they were called George and Dorothea and were ‘very Victorian’ in their thinking.
It wasn’t much, but it was a start, at least. So, Joanna had decided to begin her search by looking for her paternal grandparents’ marriage certificate.
She pushed open the door. The History Centre was a treasure trove of local information and history, which included the General Register Office indices for local births and marriages from 1890 to 1945 on microfiche.
She introduced herself to the girl behind the desk and explained what she was looking for.
‘Yes, of course. What period are you after?’ she asked.
Joanna decided to go back two years from the date of her father’s birth.
He was the elder of the two sons, so it was logical he might have been born within two years of his parents’ marriage.
And she’d start with the first quarter. Marriage certificates were invaluable in genealogy, she could see that, since they usually provided both maiden names and fathers’ names.
Joanna thanked the girl, made herself comfortable and settled down to the task at hand.
It was oddly absorbing. She was hardly aware of time passing by as she trawled through the records looking for her grandfather’s name. ‘George Shepherd,’ she murmured, ‘where are you?’
At last she found it. Her eyes were blurred with the effort, her throat dry.
But she felt a buzz of achievement. Here was the certificate and here he was.
Her grandfather George’s father was William Shepherd.
Unbelievably, she felt herself choking up.
She groped for a tissue from her bag. It was incredible, the sense of history, the sense of connection that she felt, just looking at these family names written so beautifully in ink on old certificates.
Joanna could see already how researching your family tree could so easily become addictive. She made notes, quickly, in longhand.
After a few moments, she looked again at what she’d written and leant back in her chair with a sigh.
This was a good find. But the important thing for Joanna was, did William have any sisters?
Because they would be of the generation she was looking for.
Emmy had been a girl in 1912, old enough to be married – or, at least, in love.
She had written those letters with such passion, such longing.
Joanna thought of the Venetian bridge painting on the wall in her bedroom at the cottage.
Could Emmy be William’s sister? It seemed likely.
She glanced at her watch. She’d have to go back further to find out, and that would have to wait for another day if she was going to get a lift back with Harriet.
She began to pack up her things. She was sure she’d be able to unearth Emmy eventually.
And what else would the family tree reveal?
Skeletons in the cupboard? Old mysteries to solve?
She recalled that odd and secretive look passed between Father and her uncle on that summertime visit long ago. Joanna couldn’t wait to find out more.
*
She just had time to get a quick coffee before she met Harriet in the long-stay car park.
Joanna upped her pace. She missed her car.
It was hard to be independent in West Dorset without transport.
The car she’d shared with Martin, strictly speaking, belonged to him.
If she was planning on staying around here, she’d have to think about buying a little runaround of her own.
But was she planning to stay around here?
After Lisbon, she thought, she’d decide then.
Bridport had changed a lot from the home of her childhood, she found herself thinking as she walked down the road.
It had always been a real and working rope-making and market town but although it had kept some of its true character and the street market was livelier than ever, the town now also paid homage to a version of café society.
Some of the independent shops had sadly fallen by the wayside.
Frosts, for example (which had sold everything from newspapers to cutlery, toys to china figurines), had now become some sort of dismal factory outlet.
But others were new and thriving – notably a waste not want not shop that encouraged shoppers to bring in their own containers to cut down single-use plastic, small galleries and interesting craft shops, plus the organic veg shops that bought Harriet’s produce from time to time.
And despite being under threat, the vintage area continued to flourish.
Joanna escaped into the dim interior of a nearby café, bought a coffee, pulled out her laptop, logged into the café’s wi-fi and read the email from Nicholas Tresillion once more.
He sounded sincere enough and she hadn’t had any other responses to her bridge walk – at least not yet.
She’d half expected Toby to tell her it was too oddball; that this wasn’t what they wanted at all.
But he’d seemed happy enough. It was a bit different, she supposed, and that had been the brief.
As for Nicholas Tresillion, she’d write back to him, she decided.
He’d taken the trouble to get in contact and he’d had an interesting experience triggered by her own.
She was intrigued. She wanted to know more.
She clicked on ‘reply’.
Dear Nicholas Tresillion, she wrote. Did you really see a golden ribbon?
Which sounded a little peculiar, but . . .
Looking into moving water, seeing reflections, images – that’s nothing new, of course. But it’s funny, because I saw that golden ribbon too. Did we see the same girl? It doesn’t seem likely, but . . .
Joanna didn’t expect him to answer that question. It was a coincidence, she supposed. She continued typing.
The odd thing for me was that as I was walking, planning the route, finding out about all those bridges, it seemed more and more to be about me and the direction I was taking in my life.
Joanna frowned. She hadn’t meant to write that, it was a bit personal . . . Nevertheless, she continued.
Some people say you have to become lost in a city in order to get to know your way around. So maybe it’s like that for people too? We have to lose ourselves a bit in order to discover our true – or new – direction.
She was rambling. She knew she was rambling. Why was she saying all this – and to a total stranger? Because it was easier to talk to a stranger? Because he already thought – no doubt – that she was a bit crazy? Because maybe he was a bit crazy too?
She imagined him reading the email, perhaps while he was having breakfast with his wife and five children, laughing, saying, Oh my God, the woman has verbal diarrhoea. Never write to a writer. It’s the kiss of death.
Perhaps she wouldn’t send it at all. She looked again at the message he’d sent her. I saw the golden ribbon. Saved it on draft. She’d send it later tonight – maybe.
Toby had also emailed about the Lisbon brochure to confirm a date for completion of the copy, so she pinged a reply back to him.
Thankfully there was nothing new from Martin.
Had he done what he’d promised and put the house on the market?
Somehow, she doubted it. There was still a big part of her that wished things could have been different for the two of them, that wished it had worked out.
They had, as Martin had said, been together so long.
But . . . already, she knew that she had taken the first steps, that she was moving away and in a different direction too.
She quickly finished her coffee, shut down her laptop, left the café and made her way to the car park.
As she passed the Boat and Barnacle, she glanced in.
Oh, my goodness. For a moment, she was rooted to the spot.
Harriet was sitting at a table near the window, but it was the man she was talking to who held Joanna’s attention.
He looked very unusual, to say the least.
She saw Harriet glance at her watch and speak to him. They both got to their feet.
Joanna hurried away before they spotted her.
The last thing she wanted to do was annoy her sister all over again.
She was bad-tempered enough already, what with Terry’s Tarmac and their heart-to-heart yesterday – not to mention the fact that they’d seen her prowler in the lane and that Harriet had nearly sent him into the ditch.
So, what now? Why, she wondered, was Harriet having coffee with a cowboy?