A FAMILY OF STRANGERS
I think it's fair to say that we were never a close family. While I knew all four grandparents, they weren't a regular presence in my life. There was even, very briefly, a meeting with one great grandfather. But the older generation figure who featured most in my childhood was my mother's great aunt, who was more of the 'granny figure' in my life than my actual grandmothers, for reasons that would take too long to explain here, but are also the cause of my mother not seeing much of two of her three sisters. And while there were five aunts and two uncles, only two of the former still lived in Edinburgh, while the rest were relative strangers, or even unknowns. One I only met once, another I have no memory of, despite being told I'd seen her when I was three.
A couple of weeks ago I attended the Genetic Clinic, as part of the ongoing investigation into the various bits of me that seem to going a bit wrong. Before going I was asked a lot of questions about family members, and my ignorance ensured the process was over surprisingly quickly. While I knew what my parents died of, I had no idea about their parents. Having no siblings or offspring meant that was out the way quickly. And other than one aunt who was a heavy smoker and died in her forties from lung cancer, I hadn't a clue about the others. I knew at least one was dead. But the last time I saw one of them was over twenty years ago, at my dad's funeral.
Did I have cousins I was asked. Oh yes, eighteen of them. But I last saw one almost forty years ago, and had had no contact with any of them since. Several I never met, I've forgotten most of their names, and I think there may have been two I never did learn what they were called, as they always seem to be talked about as 'the twins' (they were over in the US). So I couldn't be a lot of help about their health conditions.
Two days later something a bit weird happened. I was contacted, on Facebook, by someone called Jonathan Crawford, asking if I was Harry's son. Maybe Jonathan was one of the cousins I never met, or whose name had refused to lodge in my brain? I had a look at his Friends list and amidst more Crawfords than I'd seen in a long time I recognised three names. Fiona, Catriona and Murdoch were the children of Liston, the one sibling my father always spoke warmly of. Liston had long since moved to Australia, but I called him for a chat after my mum died in 2005, and enjoyed talking to him. I remember liking him and his kids when I was in my early teens, as we met a few times, but I hadn't seen or heard from this trio of cousins for half a century.
It turned out that Jonathan wanted to tell me that his dad, Jimmy, had died a few days before. And I definitely remembered Jimmy. But I wasn't about to tell my new found relative why - he was upset enough already. I already associated Jimmy's names with funerals.
I'll be entirely honest before I relate the next part of the story - I am an unreliable witness. My memory of events in my childhood is inconsistent and, I'm sure, highly selective. Looking back at old diaries has confirmed I forget much, and distort what I do recall. The first part of what I'm about to write happened not far short of fifty years ago, and there's nobody left who I can ask to confirm or deny my version of events. But I think I recall enough to have good reason not to trust Jimmy.
My paternal grandmother died in 1975. My father, the only one of her family still in the city, was named executor. Both his brothers came up from their homes in England to attend the funeral. Liston travelled by train, and must have stayed in a hotel or with someone he knew. Jimmy drove up, in his Volvo estate, and spent the night in his mother's tenement flat. The morning after the funeral Liston was still around to say his goodbyes, but...
You might have been wondering what the photo at the top of this post could possibly have to do with family. By now you may have started to make a guess. Come the morning of the day after and Jimmy was gone. And his Volvo. And most of the carpets and rugs in the flat. Volvos were big cars. My dad was not impressed. OK, he was livid. I don't think Liston thought much of his departed brother either. The bad taste never really faded away.
Fast forward twenty seven years and here's Jimmy at a funeral in Edinburgh again. My dad's.
No, he didn't nick anything this time, but he hung around longer than he needed to and pissed off my mother, who'd never really liked him anyway. I found him too full of himself, pompous and brash. And that was memory number two of Jimmy.
Jonathan doesn't need to know any of this. He has own version of Jimmy and he should keep hold of it. I have no intention of keeping in touch. (He looked like a tory in his profile pic, but maybe that's me being a bit too unkind!) However I did contact one of Liston's trio, Fiona, the eldest. And we had a wee online chat. She gave me email addresses for the others, and we've had a short exchange. And I learned that Liston is still alive and independent, out in Oz, the last of the bunch.
Will we be in touch in future? Will I ever meet any of them? I don't know. Maybe it was a flash in the pan, or perhaps something will come of it. It might be interesting, but I'm of the view that you can't miss what you never had. I was happy enough without family before, and that won't change.
But a part of me keeps thinking it was a shame none of this happened before I got asked all those questions about relatives. I'd have been able to tell them I actually had some!
