not just a fair-weather runner, but she had her limits, and early autumnal torrential rain and gale-force winds were definitely beyond them.
‘Hmm, two fish fingers and some manky potatoes for dinner, then,’ she told herself, inspecting the contents of her fridge and freezer. ‘Plus daytime TV or genealogy research. What do you reckon, Griselda?’ She turned to address her elderly tabby cat who was rubbing herself around Cassie’s ankles, clearly hoping for some tidbit from the fridge.
‘Yeah, you’re right. Genealogy it is.’ She made herself a cup of tea then went through to her sitting room. She settled herself on a sofa, pulled the hand-knitted blanket her mother had made her over her legs and opened up her laptop. She had about thirty seconds of peace before Griselda jumped up and insisted on claiming some lap space between the computer and Cassie’s stomach. ‘For goodness’ sake, Gris, don’t you know how awkward it is to have to type around you?’ Cassie grumbled, as she gave the cat a stroke.
Once settled, with the laptop precariously balanced on her knees, Cassie reread the transcript she’d made of George Britten’s will. He’d been a solicitor and apparently quite well off, owning a large house overlooking Regent’s Park. Most of his estate had been left to his children, with a number of small bequests to various charities. But then there were the two odd bequests to the prison chaplain and another one, to someone whose name Cassie could not make out from the looped, old-fashioned handwriting. This one was for five hundred pounds a year.
She googled to find out how much five hundred pounds would have been worth in the late nineteenth century. ‘A good living, in those days. Whoever you were, you were important in some way to my great-great-great-grandfather. A lover, perhaps? Or an illegitimate child?’
The next job, of course, was to try to establish the link between George Britten and the chaplain, Nathaniel Spring, trying to work out what had made him so important to George Britten, and what his ‘time of greatest need’ referred to. Cassie opened up an ancestry website and began a search for Nathaniel Spring.
30th January 1861
Why is it, having left the school room at long last, that now I feel inclined to start a journal? My tutor Mr Smythe was dismissed just last week, now that I am full grown and almost of age. I hated writing essays, practising handwriting and penning arguments whenever Mr Smythe asked me to do them, but with him gone I find I want to write, for myself. I want to put down on paper my thoughts about my childhood, my current situation, and my plans and dreams for the future, such as they are. This leather-bound, lined notebook is just the thing for it. Ironically, it was a parting gift to me from Mr Smythe.
I am ashamed to say I did not think to give him anything, despite his having lectured and harangued and cajoled me over the last ten years. I assume my father gave him a suitable bonus on leaving our employ. Or a good reference at the very least. Mr Smythe leaves our employment to take up a post in a school, in west London. Twickenham is the place I heard him mention. I believe he has a sweetheart there and may well marry her before too long.
Having begun in a rather odd way with my previous paragraph, I think it is time I started properly. As Mr Smythe was wont to say, begin at the beginning, carry on through the middle and stop when you reach the end. I don’t know what awaits me at the end of this journal, but I assume I will recognise it when I meet it, so for the moment I shall just begin, and see where it takes me.
My name is George Britten, and I am nineteen years of age, the second son of Albert and Augusta Britten, and younger brother to Charles Britten. There, that is the beginning and serves as a form of introduction, (though who will ever read this journal I do not know. I have no intention of ever showing it to anyone. Perhaps my future self might look back on these words one day, and smile in fond remembrance). I live in my father’s house in a village in the northern part of the county of Hampshire. It is a small estate but a comfortable one and serves us well. As well as my parents and I, the household consists of a cook who is also the housekeeper, a couple of house servants, a groom and his two lads. My elder brother Charles stays here sometimes when he is not travelling abroad.
I was born into sadness – my sister having died only days before my birth. She was just three years old. Mother said I came early. Her grief at Elizabeth’s death brought on premature labour, but I was a good weight, and survived. When I was two there was more sadness for our little family, as my other sister Isobel also died, at the tender age of ten. There were no more children after me.
You would think, perhaps, that I was spoilt, being the last born, the youngest child, surviving infancy while my sisters did not. You might think my parents doted on me, pandered to my every whim, wrapped me in the softest merino wools to ensure my safety. But I am afraid you would be wrong. Very wrong. When I look back on my childhood, I don’t see a happy time. I see a time when, try as I might, there was nothing I could do to gain my father’s attention or my mother’s love.
My father makes no secret of the fact that Charles is his favourite. As Charles is his first born I suppose that is to be expected. But he looks upon me as though I am vastly inferior, as though he barely counts me as his son at all. My mother is withdrawn, cold and unfeeling towards me. The loss of her daughters was more than she could really bear, I believe. Perhaps in fear of losing another child, she hardened her heart against those who were still living, though not to Charles, whom she too favoured.
Mother loves Charles. He left home last year, to set off on his Grand Tour of France and Italy. Mother wept as he left, clutching hold of him until the last possible moment. ‘You are leaving me all alone and childless,’ she’d said, and Charles had shaken his head. ‘You still have George, Mother. He will keep you company while I am away. Give him a chance – he is a fine young man.’
I’d preened a little at this compliment from Charles, and he’d smiled at me. But Mother just laughed. ‘He’s no substitute for you, dear Charles. Keep yourself safe, and return to me soon.’
‘I shall return to all of you,’ Charles had said, and then he’d bade us all farewell, his last and longest embrace being reserved for me.
An imaginary reader of this journal might think I exaggerate when I say my parents paid me no heed throughout my childhood, and indeed appeared to look upon me as one might consider a poor, distant relation. Someone to whom they had a duty to care and provide for, but for whom they held no love or affection. But I do not exaggerate. Just last week, I overheard a conversation after dinner, between my father and his friend the doctor Jonathan Moore. Let me set down here what happened and what it was that I heard. Perhaps in writing it down it might help me come to terms with it.
We had finished dinner – a small dinner party for just our family and the Moores. The ladies – my mother and Mrs Moore – had retired to the drawing room, while my father and Dr Moore lingered over the port. As a man, and almost of age, I wanted to stay too, but a stern look from my father told me I was not welcome. I pushed back my chair, nodded to Dr Moore and left the room.
In the hallway I dithered a while. The ladies wouldn’t want me with them either. I felt caught in the middle, not wanted anywhere. A metaphor for my life to date, I thought, as I lingered, trying to decide what to do with the rest of my evening. I became aware that the men were talking about me, and as the door to the dining room was not quite shut (I had failed to pull it firmly enough for it to latch) I could hear every word. It was as though I was rooted to the spot. I am not normally someone who would listen
