Hidden in my family history

As I was growing up, there was a lot of talk from my dad about his family; my mum talked about her sister and her cousin Tricia (and all the high jinx that elapsed during summer holidays in Blyth, Northumberland).

My maternal grandmother, Nora, died when I was three. I have a vague recollection of seeing her in a hospital bed and having to leave. I remember the sliding doors that exited the hospital and the ramp away from the building. That’s all my memories of Nora.

Nora was married to Francis, known as Frank. She came from a large family, whereas Frank, my grandad, did not. As I grew up, I learned more about Frank. He had an older sister, but his father could not care for them both so Frank was long-term fostered, or perhaps adopted.

Frank was lovely. When I knew him, as an older man, he had no pretensions. He enjoyed escaping in his campervan well into his 70s, going to pick fruit at Tiptree or travelling around the country. He was a free spirit, liable to change his mind. He might give my mum his old car one week, the next week he’d say it was on long-term loan.

My last conversation with Frank was when he was in hospital. I’d just dropped out of university. Both of my grandfathers were ill and I couldn’t emotionally feel okay about being more than 200 miles away from them. I lacked the social support at university and the interest in my degree (which felt so abstract at the time) to persevere unhappily. Grandad said nothing negative about my dropping out. He didn’t ask if I knew what I wanted to do next, instead he just said that the world was my oyster. He died a week later.

Fast forward several years and I discovered more about Frank. His older sister was Anna. His mum became poorly after he was born (I thought for a long time she had died). Frank was concerned about my mum (also Anna) when she became pregnant, thinking that she might become ill too. I remember talking to my mum about that when I was pregnant too, about Frank’s concern for her. It made me ultra aware and desperate to ‘be okay’ during and after pregnancy.

There’s a lot more that could be said about Frank and his childhood, his father not coping with two children; Anna staying at home and Frank being sent away. I’ve reflected on his lack of maternal attachment and drawn conclusions about how this might have shaped his personality.

What lay behind Frank’s story was the fact that his mother, Gertrude, did not die. She became a hidden person, someone not referenced in any of our family discussions as if her not being present cancelled her story.

But of course it didn’t.

Her story is there but I will need to work a little harder to discover it. I will discover Gertrude.

What I learnt months ago during Lockdown is that Gertrude was admitted twice to hospital, firstly after Anna was born and then again, after Frank was born. She didn’t die but she remained at the hospital, the Northumberland Asylum, for the rest of her life, for more than 40 years.

So this year, I am determined to find out all I can about Gertrude and her life, to cement her position in my family tree and acknowledge her story and experiences.