Last Christmas, as the best ever festive song goes, my loon gave me a brilliant prezzie.
Fed up of my bangin’ on about how much I love Long Lost Family on telly and how I, an only child, am convinced I’ve got brothers or sisters oot there somewhere, he got me membership of an ancestry agency. Eeehaa!
Sent off my DNA and waited with bated breath to be reunited with long-lost siblings. You see, I’ve this family secret I only recently discovered. Before mum’s brother died, I was shocked when he told me she and my dad had done a classic moonlight flit – running off to London to be married. He was just 20, she 21, leaving a letter to her dad and brother that they’d skedaddled.
Spik aboot gobsmacked. Knew they’d married in 1935 at London’s Elephant and Castle registrar’s office without friends or family – no pictures, passers-by as witnesses – but no clue they’d actually eloped.
Both worked in London and Folkestone until the war in 1939, when dad joined the RAF and mum came back to Aberdeen. Their one-and-only Mo wasn’t born until 1948, 13 years after their marriage.
When I asked her about those London years, she’d always clam up. Never a word about the moonlight flit. Agonisingly, since her death, I discovered from a cousin’s wife that mum told her “a huge secret” she’d to promise never to tell me. And she hasn’t. I’m tortured about what it could be…
Getting to know more about Grandma Jean
Meanwhile, a pucklie years ago, I launched masellie into an investigation into my dad’s mum’s family, who came from Monymusk, with the unusual name of High. Never having known any of my grandparents, I was literally on a high after getting hold of a plan of the village graveyard.
Me and my second hubby went a’huntin’ the memorial stones. Imagine my excitement when we struck upon a hunk of granite with HIGH at the top. A load of names of various folk, including my grandmother, Jean. How did I know it was her? Because it actually had the address my dad was born at: 454 King Street. How cool is that?
At the top of the stone was the name of the cottage the Highs lived. My man suggested we into the Grant Arms in the square and ask if anyone knew where it was, if still standing. Nae problem. The gathered locals were delighted to help and directed us to the hoosie.
Doon a long path in the woodies and there it was, like something straight out of a fairytale, complete with smoke whispin’ oot the chimney. I suddenly felt someone at my shooder. Watching me. Hair tied back in a tight bun. Plain black dress. Like the photos I’d seen of grandma Jean.
I couldn’t resist chappin’ at the door and telling the couple who answered why I was prowlin’ aboot. They were delighted to show me round their lovely hoosie, which still bore the features of the original wee cottage.
And guess fit? The wifie turned out to be one of the class teachers when my kids were at secondary school. She knew them really well. Little did they know, she was living in their great-grandma’s childhood home. How spooky is that?
Now you’re asking about my DNA matches since last Christmas. Sadly, just a heap of second and third cousins. Where’s my long-lost brother or sister?
Moreen Simpson is a former assistant editor of the Evening Express and The Press and Journal, and started her journalism career in 1970
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