Before the days of internet search engines and websites devoted to discovering one’s roots, my father gave me a scrap of paper with details of who was buried in our family grave at the City of London Cemetery. As I have previously posted, we visited to clean the tombstone when I was a child but my interest wasn’t rekindled until much later after my own children were born. I had a list of names and dates but, who were these people?
Slip from the City of London Cemetery dated 1927
Names and dates on the reverse of the slip
The plot was bought by Daniel Crudgington in 1886. This was one year after the death of his wife Ann. It was transferred to his daughter, Ellena (Eleanor) Ann Bridge in 1912. I suspect this was to enable the burial of her nephew’s wife, Julia Taylor who died in that year. Ellena’s husband, Thomas Bold Bridge, died in 1917 and her niece, Elizabeth Sloper, in 1920. Finally, Ellena herself succumbed in 1934 and this closed this part of our family history. The slip of paper bears a date of 1927 which is intriguing – who made these notes? Also included are directions to the cemetery by bus but appeared to be written in another hand.
When my aunt died, she was cremated at the City of London Crematorium. My parents did not wish to attend as the journey was long and they did not feel able to drive in the dark, so I went as the sole representative of our immediate family. It began a whole series of solo visits for me but this particular day, was a solemn occasion marking the passing of one of the characters from my childhood.
I arrived early and went to the cemetery office after having emailed them in advance of my visit. They helpfully provided a map and gave directions. They did warn me that tombstones may have been removed if they were liable to fall due to Health and Safety regulations. I have to confess that my heart sank a little when I realised that was the case in this instance. The stone I remember from my childhood had gone. I had bought a pot of roses to mark the spot, in memory of my family members, then went and sat on a bench and contemplated what to do next. As I sat by some trees, with memorial ribbons tied on them that were fluttering in the bitter January breeze, I resolved to honour the memory of my forebears by discovering their lives and to remember them. I then walked on to the crematorium.
My other aunts were in attendance and, as I had already told them of my desire to research our family tree, one presented me with a small plaque that said: “My family tree is full of nuts”. This made me smile and broke the spell of solemnity for a few seconds. I took a couple of photographs of us all but the light was terrible as it was dark when we came out. It was bitterly cold so another of my aunts drove me to the station and we said our goodbyes.
On my train journey home, I considered the names on the slip of paper. At that time, I did not know the relationships that I have detailed above. They were just names but some, had added memories. My grandmother was a kindly lady who I had always been fond of. She often talked about family members from the old days and told me that I reminded her of: “Grandad’s aunt, who was a hoofer.” “That’s nice”, I used to say, not really knowing that she meant that she had been a dancer. “She was famous and so was her husband. They were both on the stage.” Intriguing! “They lived in a big flat on the Old Kent Road and used to host parties after their shows where everyone would dress up. Grandfather used to dress up as a cat sometimes.” This aroused my interest – these sounded like my kind of people!
At a time when my relationship with my parents was quite fraught, I would take the bus to Walthamstow on a Saturday afternoon and have tea with “Nanny”. All these years later, I was so pleased that I did. As I write, I am back in her living room again which I remember from my childhood years and can picture every piece of furniture, with the coal fire at the heart. The floor was grey and red linoleum with a rug in the centre. There was a sofa and two high backed chairs, a dining table and chairs, a large sideboard and a black and white television with large V-shaped antenna. The television was only turned on for specific broadcasts – usually Grandstand or World of Sport. Noisy children were banished to play on the stairs in the winter or outside in the garden during the summer. However, we were allowed back in to be terrified by Doctor Who. We rarely went in “the front room”. This was an old-fashioned parlour. Linoleum on the floor and always chilly, even in summer. There was no fire or, if there was, it was never lit. The chairs were not as comfortable as the back room and we only went in there on specific occasions. Grandad’s nursing certificates were framed and mounted on the wall, along with a drawing of my father as a young man and a huge chalkware plate featuring a country cottage. I imagined what it would be like to live in such an idyllic place, with a roaring fire, cat sleeping in the chair and a beautiful rose-filled garden. Traffic noise from the busy road outside punctuated my daydreaming until I could escape the cold, dreary front room.
E W Usher Guildcraft Country Cottage chalkware plate circa 1940 illuminated in the evenings by solar-powered Edison lights
The adults discussed politics and the children grew sleepy. Nanny plied us with food at various points during the day. We had white bread and butter, tinned fruit salad with tinned cream and fruitcake. Nanny didn’t possess a refrigerator or any modern, time-saving devices such as a toaster or microwave right up until she died, so lots of products were tinned or preserved and the milk was sterilised rather than pasteurised.
The chats about the old days were very significant but even Nanny was imprecise about relationships. Everybody was an aunt or an uncle but, in reality it was a little more complicated. Only through meticulous research and cross-referencing, have I been able to establish precise relationships. My father was massively ashamed about the illegitimate members of the family, but I suppose as a woman, I thought about their plight, which was sometimes desperate if the father of the child did not assume any degree of responsibility. While my father preached puritanical wrath, Nanny was compassionate and kind. It didn’t matter who your father was, you were aunt, uncle, cousin without judgement.
Nanny and Grandad with my father as a baby and my late uncle Albert in 1926
So began my meticulous study. What was the relationship between these people in the family grave? Like completing a jigsaw, I still have a few pieces that must have slipped down the back of the sofa but the picture is almost complete. As I sat on that windy park bench in January several years ago, I now know that I had some incredible people standing behind me. Some turned out not be who I had hoped but others have led incredible lives that it will be my pleasure to tell you about.
All photographs by the author
The City of London Cemetery registers can be searched here and there is also a webform to drop them an email enquiry. My thanks to them for supporting me with my enquiries.
Awful Rigours and Wretched Pay 