Sky Lights (13 page)

‘Father….. Alexander Allan, Mother…..Wendy Darling. If Ann was Mum’s cousin,’ she thought, ‘could Mum’s middle name have been after their grandmother, Wendy Darling? That would be a turn up for the books.’

‘My mother always spelt her middle name Darlin. Yet Dad must have given it as Darling on the death certificate,’ thought Beth. She knew some names were spelt wrongly at the time of registering. A father could spell his surname differently when registering different children. She was sure she had found the correct family. Had her mother just made a mistake? Or was there some other reason the name was changed? She might never know the answer. On the way home, she would make one more stop. A short bus journey would take her to her next destination. By the time she got off the bus, rain was bouncing off the pavements, grey clouds obscured the sunlight and the city was drenched. It had hardly been light all day. Beth held the hood of her red raincoat tightly to stop the drips from trickling down her neck. She crossed the road, trying to avoid the puddles and reached the Registry Office.

The receptionist finished her call and looked up. ‘Sorry about that. Good grief, you are soaked!’

‘No one should be out in weather like this,’ Beth replied, mopping her face with a tissue. ‘I was wondering if the registrar could track down some relatives for me. It’s fairly recent so I can’t access the information on the internet.’

‘Give me a second, please and I’ll see what I can do.’ The receptionist picked up the phone and punched in a number. ‘Kevin, are you free at the moment? I have a lady here…’ She stopped and raised an eyebrow at her customer.

‘Beth Paton.’

‘Beth Paton…. would like your help tracing some relatives.’ There was a pause. ‘You can? I’ll tell her. Thanks Kevin.’

‘He’ll be up in a few moments. I’m afraid there’ll be a charge of £10 for a half hour. Is that all right?’

‘Of course,’ said Beth, getting out her purse. ‘Do I pay you?’

‘Yes, thank you. I’ll just write you a receipt. Would you like to hang up your coat by the radiator? It might dry out while you’re with Kevin.’

Beth struggled out of her wet raincoat and put it on the coat stand. ‘Thanks,’ she said, coming back for the receipt.

A young man bounded up the stairs and approached Beth. ‘Kevin Page,’ he said, offering his hand. ‘Just come down to my office and I’ll see if I can help.’

Settled in front of his desk, Beth explained how she had lost touch with her second cousin, Ann Edwards. ‘She was my mother’s bridesmaid in 1966 but we’ve not heard from her since.’

‘Have you got her parents’ names?’ asked Kevin.

‘Yes, her father was Ernest Edwards and her mother was Jean Allan, married in 1944.’

Kevin typed the names into his computer. ‘Right, I’ve got them. Ann Edwards was born in 1944. Were you aware that her mother, Jane, also known as Jean had been married before?’

‘No,’ gasped Beth. ‘How did I miss that? I was too busy looking for the Darling connection. What does it say?’

‘Look, here it is. Jane Darling Allan Shaw, widow. I can see how you missed it. Shaw is in another line.’

‘So she was married to someone else, called Shaw,’ said Beth. ‘I wonder what other secrets she had.’

‘Now I’m looking for any siblings, but Ann appears to have been an only child. Let’s look for a marriage. Do you know if Ann married or not?’

‘No, as I said, we lost touch.’

‘There’s nothing coming up and I’m looking at the whole of Scotland. That means we have to look in the death register.’ A few seconds passed. ‘Here we are. Ernest Edwards died in Dunblane Cottage Hospital in 1983. He was survived by his wife, Jeannie Edwards.’ Kevin tapped more keys as he searched the records. ‘Jean Edwards died in 1985 as the result of a car accident. The date was 16
^th
January. The death certificate says she was the widow of 1. Alexander Shaw, 2. Ernest Edwards. I’ll just have a look for your mother’s cousin.’ A few seconds later Kevin said, ‘Oh, here she is. Ann Edwards also died in 1985 in a car accident. It’s the same date. The deaths were registered by a neighbour.’

‘How tragic,’ said Beth. ‘I wish we’d tried to find them earlier.’

‘Do you want me to print out the certificates, or just the relevant details? It costs £7.50 for each certificate.’

‘I just need the names and dates. Thank you very much for your help. It’s not the result I had hoped for but at least it’s brought closure to that branch of the family.’

Kevin handed the sheet of information from the printer to Beth. ‘The library across the road should have the local newspaper report of the accident. That might give you more details.’

‘Thank you for your help,’ she said. ‘I know I could’ve found this myself at Register House, but it’s time consuming getting the modern records. I’ll go over to the library now and see what I can find out there.’

‘Glad to help.’ Kevin escorted Beth back to the entrance hall where they shook hands before he disappeared down the stairs. She wrapped herself up, said goodbye to the receptionist and stepped out to brave the elements once more.

In the library, Beth was soon reading an article in the Perthshire edition of the Courier and Advertiser of 18
^th
January 1985.

TRAGEDY STRIKES LOCAL FAMILY AGAIN

Severe weather conditions were blamed for the fatal accident on the A9, at around 8 pm on Tuesday 16
^th
January. A Ford Fiesta, driven by Ann Edwards, skidded on a patch of black ice and collided with a tree. Both Ann and her widowed mother Jean Edwards, the front seat passenger, died at the scene.

Their deaths bring a sad end to the tragic story of the Edwards family. Originally from London, Mrs Jean Edwards was a young widow when she moved to Scotland following the death of her elder daughter Margaret, who contracted pneumonia after apparently climbing out of the rooftop window of her grandparents’ home on a night of appalling weather. At the time, Mrs Edwards was staying with her parents in Kensington since her first husband, Alexander Shaw, had been killed in the war. Sadly, during the blitz, her parents and an aunt and uncle were killed when the house in Kensington Gardens was bombed.

In Perthshire Jean married Mr Ernest Edwards, Ann’s father, a local farmer, who passed away only two years ago.

Home again, dried off, cup of tea in hand, Beth sat down at the computer and booted up. She laid down the cup out of harm’s way and began her search. The family had been excited about having famous forebears though they weren’t the ones Jack would have liked. Since she’d had that weird email from Jack telling her he was in Never Land, she had felt compelled to get to the bottom of this. It was keeping her mind off things at least. Jack had told her not to worry! She gave a laugh. Easier said than done!

‘I won’t spend much,’ she told herself. Her credit card was by the keyboard in readiness. She went to the “
scotlandspeople”
web site, typed in her password, and paid for thirty credits. Within seconds she had entered the system.

‘First I want to recheck those marriage certificates,’ she said to herself. Using the notes from her visit to Register House, she checked the marriage of her grandmother, Margaret Allan and her grandfather Robert Black, paying one credit to view the options and five credits to bring up the actual certificate on the screen. She printed it and repeated the process for her mother’s aunt, Jean Allan and her husband Ernest Edwards. Only on this certificate, Jean’s name was given as Jane!

So there it was! The parents of the brides were given as Wendy Darling and Alexander Allan on both certificates. She had a match!

Still, it only proved that Margaret and Jane were daughters of a Wendy Darling and an Alexander Allan. They could be anybody. ‘Where can I go from here?’ thought Beth as she sipped her tea. ‘I still have some credits.’

She decided to look again at the census records of 1901, searching for Wendy Darling. Census records had been kept every ten years since 1841, valuable resources for people researching their family history. 1901 was the latest census available as the records are kept for a hundred years before being made public. She quickly chose the correct date from the list and entered the name. On to the screen appeared the family she recognised.

She printed out the document and did some calculations. Wendy, if aged seven in 1901, would have been about 24 when she married Alexander Allan in 1918. She double checked that this was the only Wendy Darling in the census records. She checked all the Darling family groups but there was not one other Wendy Darling in the whole of the British Isles.

‘Wow!’ she thought. ‘I really hadn’t expected this.’

She picked up the printout from the tray and studied it again. ‘Burgh of Kensington,’ she read. ‘No.14, Kensington Gardens. This is so hard to believe!’ she said. ‘Surely the Darling family was fictitious, as Jack said.’ She went over to the bookcase and picked out the copy of Peter Pan she’d been given as a school prize. Quickly scanning the first few pages, she confirmed the details on the census form. She read softly, ‘George Darling lived at 14, Kensington Gardens and had a servant called Eliza.’ She turned to the back of the book. ‘Wendy’s daughter Jane went to Never Land with Peter Pan when Wendy became too old to fly and
her
daughter Margaret also flew to Never Land.’ Everything fitted what she had discovered. Had her mother’s cousin Margaret flown off with Peter Pan and returned to find the nursery window closed? She must have been out in the terrible storm all night. No wonder she died of pneumonia. How dreadful!

Just then, Doug came in with the dog. He shook his coat and hung it up. ‘Any news from the children? It’s perishing out there tonight.’ He rubbed his hands together.

‘Not yet, but you’ll never believe this,’ Beth told him. ‘I’ve found proof that I
am
descended from the Darling family of Kensington Gardens in the Peter Pan story. I can’t get my head round it.’

‘That explains a lot,’ laughed her husband, ‘I always thought you were away with the fairies!’

‘It’s really no laughing matter.’ She showed him all the printouts. ‘I believe it! Our two are out in the dead of winter wearing only their pyjamas, flying around the sky with Peter Pan. I’m going up to make sure that window is still open. I don’t want
my
children freezing to death like poor Margaret. Then I’m going to make a large pot of their favourite soup to warm them up. We have to think positively.’

‘And I’ll check the computer in case there’s another email from Jack,’ Doug replied. ‘And who is Margaret?’ But he was talking to thin air. Beth was already half way up the stairs to open the window.

The children sat on the wooden floor of the small cabin staring despondently at the rough timber walls. Their prison, on board the dilapidated Jolly Roger, was bare of all furniture. A tiny mullioned porthole with thick unbreakable glass let in a small amount of light. ‘We’ll never get out of here,’ whispered Amy, looking round in despair. ‘What’re we going to do, Jack?’

Jukes and Noddler had thrown Peter and the children into the room, shut the heavy wooden door and locked it. They slid huge iron bolts into place and left the children to contemplate their fate. There seemed no hope. No one knew they were there. No one would ever find them. ‘I don’t know. I can’t think of anything,’ said Jack. He turned on Peter. ‘This is all
your
fault. If you hadn’t brought us here, we wouldn’t be in this mess.’

‘Jack’s right!’ said Shelley. ‘You’ve got to do something, Peter. You’ve got to get us out of here.’

‘Impossible!’ said Peter, ‘There’s nothing I can do!’

‘That’s just great!’ said Jack. ‘Don’t take any responsibility. How could it be
your
fault?’

Amy began to sob quietly and Shelley put her arm round her. ‘Don’t worry, Amy. We are in Never Land. Something good might happen.’

‘There must be something you can do, Peter. You are so clever.’ Amy desperately wanted to believe that Peter could save them. Peter just shrugged. He wasn’t used to feeling so helpless, but he wasn’t telling them that. Jack racked his brains. He felt responsible for Amy and Shelley being here. He should have done more to stop them flying out the window. That Peter Pan had no idea the trouble he’d caused. And Amy thought the sun shone out of him.

Peter turned his back on them. His plan had failed. The pirates had taken the ingredients for the fairy dust. Soon they would finish mixing it. The recipe for the magic dust had been hidden inside the brim of Captain Hook’s feathered hat. They had that too. It was just a matter of time. The pirates would go, leaving him to rot. He had never felt so helpless.