The Marriage Certificate (28 page)

Harry leant over his mother and put his ear close to her mouth.
He could hear nothing. He pulled her arm from under the covers and tried to
find a pulse. ‘She’s gone. Oh, God she’s gone,’ he said to himself. He stood up
and made his way to the bathroom. He suddenly felt sick and knew he was going
to vomit. Afterwards, he wiped his face and saw in the mirror that his eyes
were wet with tears.

Pulling himself together, he went downstairs for his coat
and then walked quickly to the phone box again. He rang the doctor with the
news.

The doctor returned to the house within fifteen minutes. He
confirmed that his mother was dead. He explained the procedure to Harry, gave
him a form, and advised him to call an undertaker. ‘Are you all right?’ he
asked.

‘Yes, I’m fine,’ Harry lied.

‘I’ll send word to the nurse to stop her coming out.’

Harry made his third trip to the phone box that evening and
called Harringtons’. After they’d left, he sat in the darkness in the back
sitting room, smoking a cigarette.

He cast his mind back over the years. He’d always looked
after his mother, but who was she? Technically, she was his aunt and that made
his father his uncle. So, he’d actually been brought up by his aunt and uncle.
That
wasn’t so bad, was it?
Well, on the face of it, no; but why hadn’t she told
him before? It was as if she didn’t want him to find out, in case it changed
their relationship. She’d always been very possessive. ‘No girl is good enough
for my Harry’, she used to say.

He’d had the occasional girlfriend back in his twenties and
thirties, but things always went wrong once he brought them home to meet his mother.
She pointed out their faults. She never encouraged him to get married and to
have a life of his own. No, her life revolved around him. She cooked, cleaned,
and did his washing, but when he thought about it, he realised everything was
all very much on her terms.

Harry remembered that when he became a fully qualified
patternmaker in his early twenties, she had encouraged him to get his name down
for a Falcon Village house, just in case one should come up.
That suited her
very well
, he thought.
Once I got a works’ house, I was well and truly
tied to the firm, and my job. Less chance for me to stray, and with her living
here with me, she was in a perfect position to influence my social life and nip
in the bud any threat from a developing romantic relationship. She needed
someone to keep her
.

Later, the opportunity had arisen to buy the house and his
mother had encouraged him to take on a mortgage, which meant even more
responsibility. It all fitted.

He realised, bitterly, that throughout his life she
had deceived him. He knew little or nothing of any relatives. She never spoke
about the family. She’d now revealed that Uncle Frank was his father, but all
that he knew about him was that he died in the Boer War. He knew nothing else.
Mother had never socialised with any family members or anyone else in
particular. Perhaps she’d been frightened that someone who knew her in her
earlier life would let out the secret of his true parentage.

In the 1950s, one of the older ladies in the canteen at work
had asked if his family was connected to Crockford’s the drapers. She’d only
said it in passing, but when he asked his mother for more information, she’d
acted a little strangely. She’d seemed more interested in who the woman was
who’d mentioned it, and what had made her ask. She certainly wasn’t very
forthcoming about any further details. All he’d gleaned was that his
grandfather, Thomas Crockford, had a drapery business called Crockford’s, on
Leyton High Street, and that the economic pain he suffered during the First
World War, culminated in him selling up in 1917 and emigrating to the United
States, where he died in 1924.

She could have told me then
, Harry thought, but now
it seemed that Thomas Crockford was neither his grandfather nor any blood
relation at all. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d been duped and taken
advantage of, tricked almost. The life he’d led had been a lie. He was Harold
Ince really, not Harry Williams. Everything was so unsettling.

What was he going to do about it? First of all, he decided
that he was going to go into work the following day and act as if nothing had
happened. He wouldn’t tell anybody. The doctor had given him a form to take to
the local register office to record the death, but he wouldn’t do that tomorrow
either.
Leave it a day or so. No hurry there,
he decided. He would leave
it until Friday afternoon. He would mention it to his boss on Friday morning
and see if he could get a couple of hours off. He would call in at Harringtons’
afterwards on the way back, to make the final arrangements. The funeral would
be a very quiet and simple affair. He had no family, no family he knew of, and
mother had certainly never kept up with any friends or acquaintances whom he
ought to inform.

Joan heard the post fall on to the front door mat. She went to
pick it up, leaving her sister, Margaret, in the kitchen. They’d just finished
breakfast and Margaret was sitting in her wheelchair, with it drawn up to the
table. She had switched on her laptop and was looking to see if they had any email.

Joan returned with the post. It was the usual junk mail,
plus a water bill and a letter in a white envelope. The letter was addressed to
both of them. The postmark was smudged, but it was possible to make out
‘Wilts’.

‘Not sure what this is or who it’s from. It’s from
Wiltshire,’ said Joan. ‘We haven’t heard from Doug and Moira for a while.’

‘I wouldn’t have thought it’s from them,’ replied Margaret.
‘Don’t forget, they’re on email these days. It looks interesting though. Come
on, open it!’

Joan went to a drawer, took out a knife, and neatly slit
open the envelope. She returned to the table and sat down next to Margaret. She
laid the single page between them so that they could both read it at the same
time.

Dear Miss Trigg and Miss Trigg

I hope that you don’t mind me
writing to you, but I have some information, which I would like to share with
you and hope that it will be to your advantage. Please be assured that this
letter is neither a hoax nor any form of request for money.

I am a private individual and
one of my hobbies is family history research. Recently, I found a marriage
certificate from 1900 in an antiques centre. Purely out of academic interest, I
decided to see if I could ascertain what had happened to the married couple
named on it. I might add at the outset, that I have no connection whatsoever
with them, or with their families.

My research proved to be most
interesting. I have discovered that an individual connected with the marriage
died in 1996, without leaving a will. The deceased’s assets are held by the
Treasury Solicitor, a Government Department, responsible for looking after
unclaimed estates whilst attempting to find missing heirs. I believe that you
may be entitled relatives of the deceased.

I don’t want to give too much
information at this stage. There is the possibility that my research is flawed
and I would not wish to raise your expectations or interest unnecessarily. To
confirm my findings, I will need to ask you some questions about your family. I
need to verify the names of relatives such as grandparents, uncles, and aunts,
nothing confidential or not already in the public domain.

I would very much like to meet
you and wonder whether it would be possible to arrange a meeting at your
convenience. My telephone number and email address are shown at the foot of
this letter. I would be able to make the journey to see you on any weekday.

My intentions in contacting you
are genuine and born out of good faith. I would so much like to close my
research on the marriage certificate, by bringing together an unclaimed estate
and two possible heirs. It would be a most exciting finale.

Please let me know if you are
agreeable to a meeting.

Yours sincerely

Peter Sefton

‘Well, I never,’ said Joan. ‘What do you make of that?’

‘It can’t be right,’ replied Margaret. ‘There’s no money in
our family. He’s made a mistake; either that or it’s a wind-up.’

‘Don’t you think he’s genuine then?’ asked Joan.

‘Well, normally I’d say no, but I suppose there is something
about the tone … it’s not like those emails asking for help in depositing money
for a foreign general or something.’

‘It’s very polite and proper. I’d say it’s written by an
educated man,’ stated Joan.

‘That’s the problem,’ said Margaret. ‘We don’t want to be
fooled. These fraudsters can be very convincing. Here, let me read it again.’
She scanned the letter quickly. ‘Which side of the family do you think he might
be referring to? It’s all very mysterious. We know about Dad’s side fairly
well. They were all from around here in Lymington, but we don’t know much about
Mum’s side.’

‘That’s true,’ confirmed Joan. ‘She told us she was fostered
and brought up by Uncle George and Auntie Charlotte.’

‘But where did she come from before that? It’s got to be
something to do with Mum, it must be,’ stated Margaret, putting the letter
down. ‘Mum was born in 1900, wasn’t she?’

‘Yes, do you think she’s the connection or is that just a
coincidence?’ asked Joan, her mind working through other members of the family
who might have been about the right age. ‘Dad was eighteen months older than
Mum, so he would have been born before this marriage. It’s got to be something
to do with Mum. Did she ever tell you much about her family? She never told
me.’

‘No,’ answered Margaret, ‘although one day we were watching
something on television together; Dad was there as well. Something came on
about the Boer War and Mum suddenly said that her father was killed in the Boer
War. I started to ask some questions about him, but she just clammed up. Dad
didn’t add anything either. They glanced at one another, but neither offered
any more information. Dad mumbled something about no point in raking up the
past. It was strange, but by the next day, I’d forgotten all about it and
nothing more was ever said.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me at the time?’ said Joan with a hint
of annoyance.

‘Because they obviously didn’t want to say anymore, that’s
why!’

‘Anyway, what are we going to do about this letter?’ asked
Joan.

‘I’ll tell you what we’ll do,’ said Margaret. ‘I’ll do some
research myself. I’ll look online for information about the Treasury Solicitor
and I’ll also see if I can find anything about this Peter Sefton. He’s given us
an address, but can we be sure if it’s his address?’

‘OK, that’s a good idea. I don’t think we should rush to
reply, but it might be worth digging around a bit first. We need to be as sure
as we can that this is genuine.’

‘Yes, we don’t want to end up in the papers as two silly old
spinsters who fell victims to a confidence trickster,’ chuckled Margaret. ‘On
the other hand, if it is all above board, then how much do you think it might
be? We could certainly do with some money, however much it is. Gosh, I think
it’s exciting really. Ooh, I hope it’s true and he hasn’t made a mistake.’

By lunchtime, Margaret had finished her online enquiries.
She felt quite pleased with herself, quite the sleuth, in fact. As Joan set the
table, Margaret told her what she had managed to find out.

‘His address is correct. I managed to confirm that from the
electoral roll. I had to pay, but it wasn’t much and you can’t expect that sort
of information for free. I’ve also checked the telephone number and that’s
correct too. He’s not ex-directory. I searched his name on the Net and he came
up as a member and contributor to his family history society, which adds up.’

‘So all in all, it looks like he’s genuine then?’

‘Yes, I think so. He says that the letter is not a request
for money.’

‘Did you find out anything about the Treasury Solicitor?’

‘Yes, that adds up too. There’s a website called Bona Vacantia,
which apparently means “ownerless goods”. It’s run by the Treasury Solicitor’s
Department. They keep unclaimed assets for thirty years, after which they hand
them over to the Exchequer. There is a sort of family tree diagram on the site.
It should be on the printer.’

Joan got up and crossed the kitchen to the far
corner, which Margaret kept as her ‘office’. She brought the printed diagram
back to the table.

‘I see what you mean,’ said Joan studying the layout.
‘There’s a hierarchy of entitled relatives. The closer you are to the top, the
better, I suppose, your chance of inheriting. It’s all very interesting, but
can the names of the people who’ve died leaving unclaimed estates be found on
the website?’

‘Yes, they can,’ confirmed Margaret. ‘There are
hundreds of them. For each name it says where they died and when, but no value
unfortunately.’

‘I’d no idea that anything like this existed. What do you
think we should do?’ asked Joan.

‘I think we should make contact and hear what Mr Sefton has
to say,’ said Margaret. ‘I could send him an email. He’s given us his email
address.’

‘OK, let’s just email him and tell him to come at a certain
time … one day next week. We can ask him to confirm the meeting.’

‘Fine by me … that will give me a few days to learn a little
more about unclaimed estates. I’ll email him straightaway. Ooh, this is so
exciting. Wouldn’t it be amazing if we could inherit some money?’

‘It would be, but let’s try and keep sensible about this for
now. He may have made a mistake. We mustn’t build up our hopes too much, not
yet anyway.’

So it was that on Friday, 14 December 1962, Harry found himself
sitting before the local registrar, providing the information necessary for the
issue of a death certificate. As he feared, the question, he hoped he wouldn’t
have to answer, came.

‘What is your relationship to the deceased?’ the registrar
asked.

He’d been in turmoil over this for the last few days. He
wanted to say ‘nephew’ instead of ‘son’, almost to spite her in a way, to get
his own back. The trouble was everyone knew him as Harry Williams. He couldn’t
suddenly change to being Harold Ince, nephew. Besides, he had no proof that he
was a nephew. His mother had said that Frank and Rose weren’t married, which
made him a bastard. He didn’t want that to get around!

In the end, Harry’s courage and defiance slipped and
he gave up a chance to get some revenge. He told the registrar he was her son.
The death certificate was duly completed, signed, and issued accordingly. He
took it down to Harringtons’ and the following Wednesday morning the funeral of
his ‘mother’ took place at St Martin’s Church, Leyton. He was the only mourner,
apart from a nosey neighbour whom he completely ignored.

By lunchtime, Harry was back at work just before the canteen
closed. One or two workmates passed on their condolences, but he shrugged and
made it plain that he didn’t want any sympathy. He tried to throw himself into
his work. They were making castings for what would be the Falcon’s last steam
locomotive,
The Cambria
.

A few weeks later, he had an unfortunate accident at the
works. It was his fault. He’d been distracted and wasn’t concentrating at the
time. He’d been troubled by his mother’s confession. At home, he’d removed all
the pictures of his parents from view, even the one of his father’s ship. He’d
discarded the picture frames and put the photographs with the other family
papers in the old biscuit tin behind the plinth. Looking at the photographs had
been an unwelcome reminder of what his mother had said. He recalled her words
constantly and he’d found it difficult to keep his mind on his work. The
accident resulted in the loss of three fingers from his right hand.

After two months’ sick leave, the stumps of his fingers
healed and he returned to the foundry, but he could no longer grip and use his
tools as before. His days as a foreman patternmaker were over. Harry was forced
to take early retirement. He came home on the last day, deeply depressed,
closed the door behind him, and slumped down in his leather armchair.

In the space of three months, his world had been turned
upside down. He no longer knew who he was. He felt used and let down by the
woman who had raised him. He’d suffered a painful and debilitating injury,
forcing him to give up his hard-won trade. The works had given him some
termination pay and a small pension, but in reality, they were glad for him to
go and he knew he wouldn’t be replaced. Times were changing. The old trades
were disappearing – no job, no future, no one to share his life. The world
could get lost, he decided. He’d have nothing more to do with it if he could
avoid it.

Tears rolled down Harry’s cheeks as he stared at the four
walls surrounding him. At least they were his walls and no one could take those
from him. He’d stay here. He’d shut the world out by shutting himself in. This
he did until his death, thirty-three years later.