A Golden Mist

Part 1

Chapter 1

Text Message, from Saffy Williams to Charlie Robson [Jo`berg] 21st May, 2009, 6.25pm

Tchd dwn 1800 mchstr. Gd flite. Wll cntct u wen on-lne.

Saff xxx

Text Message, from Saffy Williams to Elizabeth Williams [Jo`berg] 21st May, 2009, 6.28pm

Arivd safe manchstr. Ant Liz at airprt. Wll ring u 2nite.

Lv Saffy.

Text Message, from Saffy Williams to Sally Whitelock [CapeTown] 21st May, 2009 Hi Sal. How r u? Am in Englnd, vstng lng lst rels! Wll b in tuch. Saff.

Hi mom!

Is that you, Saffy?

Yes. Why, does it sound like someone else?

Is that you, Saffy? It is?

YES!

Good. Did you get there safely?

No, we nose-dived into the Atlantic just off the coast of Spain.

Try to be serious, Saffy.

Didn`t you get my text?

Your what?

My text.

Oh. No. I haven`t had my phone switched on.

"Mom, what`s the point of having a mobile phone if you

don`t switch it on?"

Well, I so rarely use it. I don`t like to waste the battery.

Anyway, yes, I`m fine.

Did Aunt Liz meet you?

Yes, she was there at the airport. I recognised her straight away. She looks just like Aunt Mags.

Goodness! After so long!

Well they are the same family.

Yes, but they`ve never even met each other. Isn`t that strange?

If they did, they`d think they were looking in a mirror.

I can`t believe that.

No. It`s just the hair, really.

Oh, that! The Williams` hair! Now you`re telling me something that doesn`t surprise me. Don`t forget to write to her, will you?

Aunt Mags?

Yes. She`ll be keen to hear how you`re getting on.

OK. Is dad there?

No. He went over to see Janie and Mike.

OK, well, tell them all hi from me, and don`t worry, I`m fine.

Have you called Charlie?

No. I texted him from the airport.

Do call him, Saffy. He`ll be calling here, if you don`t.

Tell him I`ll e-mail him soon as I can get on-line.

I`m sure he`d much rather have a phone-call. It`s so much more personal.

He`ll be fine with e-mail, mom.

Have you thought any more about what he said?

About getting married?

Yes.

No.

Well, I think you should.

He only said it because I was going away. He didn`t really mean it.What a terrible thing to say!

Why?

When he`s gone to the trouble of asking you.

It wasn`t any trouble. It was completely off the top of his head. Even he was surprised by it.

Well, you know what I think.

Yes, mom. I know what you think. Better go now. Phone you later in the week. Love you. Bye.

Take care Saffy. Bye.

Thanks, Aunt Liz, that was lovely.

It was nothing special.

After two days of aeroplane food, that was very, very special!

Would you like a drop more wine?

Mmm, yes, please, why not!

There we are. I thought we might take the dogs for a little walk afterwards. If you`re not too tired.

No, I`m fine. It probably won`t catch up with me until tomorrow, and then I`ll be out like a light for two days!

Well, there`s no rush to do anything. You can rest as much as you like.

Do you mind me calling you Aunt Liz? I don`t suppose `aunt` is very accurate really, is it?

Well, as far as I can work it out, my great grandfather and your great great grandfather were brothers.

"Wait a minute! Just let me try and work out how many greats that is!"

It was in the 1880s, I think. Your side of the family moved to South Africa.

Yes. There was a row about something dad said. But he doesn`t know anything more about it than that.

Nor do I really.

So you and I are the first people from the two sides of the family to meet for over a hundred years?

Yes."

Well, I`ll drink to that. Cheers.

Have you always lived here?

At New House?

Yes.

Not always. When I was a girl, of course, but when I got married, we went to Exeter, and Cambridge, all over the place, really. Then when my husband died, that was eight years ago, I came back here to look after my brother.

Who was living on his own by then.

Yes. His wife was killed in a motorway accident in the eighties. Very sad, really, only in her forties. Then he died two years ago, and left me here on my own.

It must seem like a big place for one person.

Well, it`s always been too big, really, even when we were kids, my mother used to complain. It was obviously built with a Victorian size family in mind, and servants to boot.

You`ve never been tempted to sell it, then?

Tempted, yes. When my brother died an awful lot of work needed to be done on it, and I nearly sold up then, but my son, that`s Stephen, said we couldn`t let it go out of the family, and he agreed to pay for the work.

And will he come and live here?

Well, at the moment, he lives in California, so I don`t think it`s very likely.

But your other children still live in England?

Oh yes. And their children. You`ll meet Lucy on Friday. She`s nineteen. Robert`s still at school, doing GCSEs, and Stephen`s pretty much the same age as you, he`s a teacher in Sheffield.

Another Stephen!

Yes, I`m afraid so.

Like my dad and his dad.

Really?

Yes.

From: Saffy Williams

To: Sally Whitelock

Tuesday 26th May, 2009

Hi Sal, thanks for yours. Congrats on the new job, hope it goes well. Let me know. I`m here in England for two months. Staying with the ancient line of the Williams family in Cheshire. Charlie`s fine, thanks. Actually, he proposed to me before I set out but we were both quite pissed at the time so it probably doesn`t count! Suzy Randall told me to look her up in London, but will need to see how the time pans out. Keep in touch. Saff.

Wed 27/5/09

From: Saffy Williams

To: Charlie Robson

Hi Charlie, did you get my texts? If so, reply! Settled in here at `New House` with Aunt Liz. We eat, talk, walk the dogs and drink wine. Her grand-daughter, Lucy, is coming here for the weekend tomorrow. Hope you`re OK. E-mail me when you get this. Have fun. Be good! Sff xxx.

Wed 27/5/09

Dear Aunt Mags,

Hope you`re all well. I expect mom told you I arrived safely. I`m having a really nice time and thought you`d like to know how I`m getting on.

New House is quite an imposing place. I`m going to upload some photos, and will get dad to print them off for you to see. Apparently it was built in the 1860s, in the parkland of a much larger estate, going back centuries, but the old hall was demolished early last century, and most of the land now has housing developments, and the like. New House still has about four acres, with a stream crossing one corner and some woodland, which the dogs – three Labradors – love!

Aunt Liz is going to dig out the family snaps, so I`ll let you know if anything interesting turns up.

Give my love to Uncle Ben and Phyllis.

Saffy

Chapter 2

So, when was this one taken?

It`s on the back.

New House. 1894.

That`s it.

It`s much more open isn`t it? Before all the trees were planted.

Yes. I think it was more or less open parkland when they bought the land. You can just make out the chimneys of the old hall over the hill. There, look.

Oh, yes. And the bridge over the stream.

Yes.

There`s something else that`s different, though.

Yes, that`s right. If you look on this side, here, that`s where the kitchen garden is now. There was a fire, sometime in the early 1900s, and this part was destroyed.

And they never rebuilt it.

No.

What was it?

The bottom floor was the nursery, and above that was a library, well, the study – the first Richard Williams, collected books, and paintings.

So nothing remained then, after the fire?

Nothing to speak of. It was all they could do to save the rest of the house. Mainly charred remains, though there were a few bits collected. Nothing of any value.

Paintings, too, what a pity! But you still have some nice paintings in the house.

All recent, I`m afraid. Apart from the one in the hall. The churchyard scene. That was one of the original collection.

Oh yes, I saw that one. `The Churchyard at Eastry`.

Yes.

By Robert Wheeler. Is he famous?

No, I don`t think so.

Even so, you should get it valued. Might be worth something if it`s Victorian.

Well, I doubt if we`d sell it, anyway. It`s a bit like a family friend, really.

I`ll look him up for you, anyway.

On the internet?

Yes.

It`s a marvellous thing, isn`t it?

Is this one the family?

Yes. There you are. Taken on the terrace at New House, in 1873. The oldest photo there is. That`s Richard Williams himself.

The one who had this place built?

Yes. And that`s his wife, Elizabeth, and the three sons, Isaac, the eldest, Stephen and Simon, the youngest. Stephen of course is your great great grandfather, the one who went to South Africa.

They look quite young, about thirty? And the photo is taken here at New House, so they must have made their money very quickly, or inherited it.

She looks very determined, doesn`t she?

Stubborn. Family trait like the hair!

And she was Elizabeth, too.

Yes. She was still alive when my mother was a child. She died in 1932. My mum remembered her quite well. All her marbles and a wicked sense of humour, apparently.

You wouldn`t think so to look at the photograph, would you?

Well, it was all very formal wasn`t it? Everyone had to look dour and respectable for photographs in those days. She gave my grandmother this necklace, look. It came down to me eventually.

That`s pretty. What does the inscription say?

`RW:EW`.

I suppose that`s Richard and Elizabeth.

Yes.

I wonder what the argument was about.

Well, you know what families are like. Sometimes the least thing!

From: Saffy Williams

To: Steve Williams

Mon 1st June 2009

Hi Dad , I`ve uploaded some photos for you to print out and pass on to Aunt Mags. It includes one of Liz and Lucy together. See any resemblances? Getting quite into the family history. Will you ask Aunt Mags if she knows anything else about things? Tell mom I`m eating properly and looking after myself. I do tell her myself but she doesn`t believe me! Take care. Saffy.

From: Saffy Williams

To: Sally Whitelock

Tue 2nd June 2009

Hi Sal, how`s it at your end? The new boss sounds dishy. Don`t do anything outrageous! Met my `cousin`, Lucy on Thursday – took me out for a girlie night in Manchester at the weekend, with some of her friends from uni. Reminded me of us five years ago at Wits! Ended up in a taxi at four o`clock in the morning, spent most of next day recovering! Getting too old for this kind of thing! Not heard from Charlie yet, apart from a sarky five word text. I guess he thinks he`s punishing me for taking this trip. Getting quite caught up in the family saga. Trying to discover my roots! Keep me posted re. you know what! Saff.

Chapter 3

Aunt Mags gave me this to show you, by the way. I`d forgotten about it until you showed me the necklace.

Tiny shells.

Yes. She said it was part of a necklace once, and that it had some green beads with it at one time. Not worth anything, but she said her mom told her it went back a long time. Anyway, Dad spoke to Aunt Mags, she says she thinks the family came from Ireland originally.

Yes. That`s what we`ve always thought. Some time in the 1860s.

Williams doesn`t sound particularly Irish.

Well, no. Welsh, really, but there must be thousands of families called Williams.

Millions. Like John Smith.

Who?

Most common name.

Oh, yes, I see.

I suppose lots of people moved around during the nineteenth century.

There was a story that he worked as a sign-painter for a time.

Richard?

Yes.

Wouldn`t have thought there was much money in that.

Then they came over here, and he started the business.

And built New House.

Yes.

Which was completed in..?

1870. It`s on the keystone over the front door.

1870. Quite impressive. And what exactly was the company?

It was called `Bridgecastle Munitions` to begin with apparently. Then it became `Williams Iron and Steel` sometime in the 1890s. We don`t really know whether he bought out a company that already existed or whether he started the company from scratch. In any case he changed the name later on.

Munitions. They made weapons, then?

Yes, apparently, to begin with anyway. It was quite a business – the Crimean War, then The Boer War, later – apparently the Empire had an endless appetite for new and better weapons.

And the first world war, too, I suppose.

Yes. Of course, Simon – my grandfather`s brother – was killed in the trenches. At Ypres.

Really, how sad.

But the company had already become part of a larger conglomerate by then. After that the family were just shareholders rather than managers.

Right. I see. And there aren`t any other records?

Well, I suppose there would be public records, to do with the company and everything. But apart from the photographs and a few books and bits and pieces that survived the fire, nothing really.

From: Saffy Williams

To: Steve Williams

Tue 9th June

Hi Dad, Thanks for downloading the photos, I`m glad Aunt Mags liked them. Tell her I think I may have found some evidence that our origins are Welsh after all. Aunt Liz showed me some books and papers that survived the fire here in 1907. Nothing of great interest really apart from a couple of poetry books that were kept in a different part of the house. One is a copy of some Byron poems, and the other is an edition of `Lyrical Ballads` by Wordsworth and Coleridge [which I had to study in my first year at Wits]. It`s pretty old, though not a first edition, unfortunately [or it would be worth something!] but in the flyleaf is an inscription, S.R.H., Moelfre, 1853 - for R.W., September, 1858. Nobody has any idea who S.R.H. is, but presumably R.W. is Richard Williams, our venerable ancestor. So somebody in Moelfre gave him a copy of Wordsworth in 1858, and Moelfre, I have checked, is a place on the coast of Anglesey, which is separated from North Wales by a thin strip of water called the Menai Strait. So, it looks as if he may have been there in the 1850s, wherever he went afterwards. So, how`s that for detective work! I`m going to London for a few days next week, but may pay Moelfre a visit when I get back. Lucy says she`ll go with me, so we`ll make a weekend of it. I`ll let you know how it goes. Love to everyone. Tell mom I`ll call her before I go to London. Take it easy! Saffy.

Part 2

Chapter 4

I was born in Porthaethwy, on the island of Anglesey, in the year 1839. My father, Richard Williams, was Master of the Customs House in that busy maritime thoroughfare, and it was with his name that I was christened in the Church of St Tysilio, close by the Afon Menai, on November 27th, some five weeks after my birth.

My mother, Elizabeth, was native to the town, and as soon as I was of an age to understand, the bed-time tales I favoured were of the times when the great iron bridge spanning the water to the mainland was built, times she had witnessed in her youth. No man, she would say, certainly no man in Porthaethwy, believed such an enterprise possible, and it was, as my father insisted, with the enthusiasm of a practical man, a marvel of science of which the age could stand proud.

My mother recalled the tumult and excitement as the populace of the town swelled with an incoming workforce of engineers and surveyors and labouring men; the din of industry by day, the rowdiness of the streets by night: a sense of danger and adventure from which she elaborated tales, largely fanciful I fear, of deeds and misdeeds, romance and mischief which thrilled my childish imagination.

Taking me on walks, on warm summer evenings, or on Sundays after the church service, my father would point, from various viewpoints, to sections of the giant structure and instruct me on the principles of physics by which the great forces and strains were held in counter-balance; when she joined us on these excursions, my mother could describe, from her own recollection, the day when the chains of the central span were hoisted, foot by foot, by a hundred men and more with their pulleys and scaffolds and tackle, to the sound of the fife and drum, whilst the whole town watched in awe, and applauded to the heavens when the seemingly superhuman task was complete.

My early education was at home, in the hands of a Miss Swithens who had once been a Governess to the Bulkeley family of Baron Hill, but who now, approaching advanced years and largely in retirement, was able to supplement a modest annuity by taking charge of my instruction. My lessons were in Arithmetic, Grammar, and what Miss Swithens termed French, though the latter consisted mainly in the repetition of certain polite phrases with the emphasis on refinement of enunciation which she took to be a virtue of the highest order. The reading over which she presided was Shakespeare, Milton and, of course, the Bible. All my instruction was in the English language. My mother spoke to me a little in Welsh but my father did not encourage it. You`ll turn the boy into a `gwerin`! was his warning, meaning, I think, that he feared I would be swallowed up into the undifferentiated masses of the common people and make nothing of myself.

It was very clear that my father had ambitions for me, even at that early age. A great believer in the inventions of mechanical science, he had visited the shipyards of the Mersey, the Dee and the Clyde; he had seen the furnaces of industry, as he called them, of the cities of northern England, and his dearest wish, I believe, was to see his son taking a part in that onward surge of human progress.

One day, a short time after my seventh birthday, he took me to the central point of the great bridge, and pointing to the south west, beyond the swirling waters below, and beyond the treacherous rocks by which the pilots steered, he explained to me that soon another, even greater bridge would cross the strait, and this one, he added, would carry steam locomotives, all the way from London, to the port at Holyhead.

He seemed, as I recall, on that day, to be in a strange fever, almost a turmoil of excitement. The world, he said, was being transformed every day by new inventions in transport, new industrial processes and discoveries in medicine. He said that I would be sent to school, not, as I had always imagined, to the Grammar School in Beaumaris, but to a college in England where I would be in the hands of teachers of truer and wider learning, and then to University in Edinburgh or even Caen in France, where I would study architecture and physics.

Whether it was the weight of expectation being placed upon me, or whether by some odd intuition or premonition I sensed the illness which was to overtake my father early in the following year, I do not know, but a dark foreboding troubled my sleep that night and for many nights to come.

What neither of us could know that day was that by the time that second bridge was built, carrying, as my father predicted, the railway to Anglesey, my fortunes were to be very much changed indeed, and not for the better.

Chapter 5

Nature, in her wisdom, has so composed the infant mind as to protect it from full consciousness of the worst that fate may inflict; how else would we survive those shocks and blows which, truly known, divide us forever from all that is most trusted, and most sure?

That my father had fallen ill, I knew; that he was growing weaker I could perceive from the short visits to his bedside, which, until the final days, I was permitted. I was aware of the soft tread of strange people coming and going about the house, of hushed whisperings, of doors closing with respectful quietness, and I played all the more intently at my game of tin soldiers and imaginary castles to allay the anxieties they caused me. As if in a cocoon, I had no real notion of there being a harmful circumstance to which there was no remedy, or a sorrow to which there was no immediate and loving solace.

At the funeral, I was aware, more than anything else, of my mother`s tears behind her veil, and was distressed for her sake, that her vulnerability should be shown in so public a way. I looked, when instructed, into the grave and cast down the handful of rose petals I had been given, but I had no sense, even then, of the finality of death. Afterwards, men shook me by the hand, which I found odd, having only known that gesture before as a sign of greeting or congratulation.

In the days and weeks that followed, I experienced a strange sense of freedom. The usual routines of the house were suspended, including my lessons; my mother, as I was often told, was resting, a state which, as I deemed it conducive to feeling well, I was happy to respect. In short, I went unmonitored, and the novelty of that was its own gratification.

I let myself out of the house, and let myself back in more or less as I pleased. I wandered along by the quay, and watched the mariners