By Naomi Lewis
I spent the summer of 2005 in England, Scotland, Wales, Poland and Lithuania, doing family history research and visiting long-time friends. On Monday, July 4th, I missed the fireworks and usual American festivities, but was well paid. I boarded a train at Strawberry Hill for Vauxhall, thinking that’s where I would change trains for King’s Cross, but when I arrived, I found the only way into central London was by tube/underground. I hated to travel by tube. I liked to watch the buildings and trees blur past me. Minutes passed as I stood at the top of the stairs. I couldn’t talk myself into descending. I wonder now if it was a premonition, but my destination was through that tunnel and there were no above ground connections and there was nothing I could do about it. I finally took a deep breath and followed the crowd into the underground.
King’s Cross Station was in the neighborhood of my great grandfather Arthur’s childhood and the current location of the Family History Centre, and I thought, possibly the depository of records of my relatives. Arthur had immigrated to the United States in 1882 at age fourteen, but he stayed in touch with his father and two brothers who remained in England.
The story came down through our family that Arthur received a letter from his oldest brother, John, telling him he was being trained to ride camels in the Sahara. In other words, he was being trained to fight in the Boer War in South Africa. Since that was the last letter my great grandfather ever received from his brother, the American side of the family concluded that John had gone to the Boer War and died. That was the story I heard growing up. That was the story in our family for more than a hundred years. It was my self-imposed mission, while I was in London, to find out the truth.
I was relieved when I arrived at King’s Cross Station safely. Following a map, I wound through the streets until I found the Centre. After a lucky search, I found Arthur’s brother John, who had been a London Constable, his wife and six children, in the newly released 1901 census. The Boer War ended in 1899, which reasonably led me to believe, John had not died in the Boer War. There had to be another explanation for the lack of letters. A feeling I had since I was a teenager that I had living relatives still in England was suddenly stronger than ever.
|Kew, the National Archives|
I planned to leave London three days later, on Thursday for Scotland. The next day, I spent at Kew, the National Archives, looking for pension records which I didn’t find. I was disappointed because they contained physical descriptions and I wanted to know something about John’s appearance as well as find an address. I went back home to Twickenham where I was staying with friends. Suddenly, I felt a distinct impression my work was finished and I should not linger. I hurried to pack my bags, preparing to leave for Paisley, the next day.
I dragged my bag to Strawberry Hill Station about 7:30 Wednesday morning, caught a loaded train to Vauxhall and stood long moments in the underground at King’s Cross Station, waiting for a train that had enough room to board. The trains were so crowded with morning commuters, there was no room to board. I felt sorry for people who spent their mornings and evenings in tunnels. I was very uncomfortable and couldn’t wait to get out of the underground, but made myself think the best of it – after all, those folks went through that routine twice a day. I made myself breathe and relax.
Finally, I was able to push my luggage onto a train speeding for Euston Station, my jumping off point for Scotland. I boarded the above-ground train for Carlisle at 9:45. I enjoyed a lovely, peaceful ride through an incomparable, hilly countryside. The gentleman who sat across the table was an 85 year old WWII veteran, dressed in a smart red military uniform with four ribbons and medals on his chest. He was traveling from an old soldier’s hospital in Chelsea for a two week holiday in Blackpool. I gave him a piece of Walker’s Scottish shortbread. He said, “It had a wonderful taste.” He had never eaten it before. I thanked him for his part in WWII. He looked back at me shyly. He had been at Dunquerque and still had shrapnel in his head.
At nine a.m., I was enroute when I received a frantic call from my friend, Cassie, with whom I was staying in Paisley, wanting to know where I was. Then she told me, “King’s Cross Station has been bombed, please be careful.” Later, I received a text message telling me there were six bombings in London that morning.
Two days that very week, I had been in the underground at King’s Cross at 9 a.m. If I had left London on Thursday, as I planned, that’s where I would have been during the attacks. I would at the very least have been greatly inconvenienced and had to drag my heavy luggage back to Twickenham, but there could have been a much more devastating outcome. In this case, the train not taken, made all the difference.
<A HREF="http://www.copyscape.com/online-copyright-protection/%22%3E%3CIMG SRC="http://banners.copyscape.com/images/cs-wh-3d-88x31.gif" ALT="Protected by Copyscape Online Copyright Protection" TITLE="Protected by Copyscape Plagiarism Checker - Do not copy content from this page." WIDTH="88" HEIGHT="31" BORDER="0"></A>