I’m a teenager, lifting the lid of a shoe box. I’m opening a small treasure chest of memories that my grandmother’s sister has given to me. For keeps.

The milky eyes in this photograph of my grandmother’s father – my great grandfather – are looking at me, examining me in the same way that I’m examining him. Do I measure up?

In my hand is a letter that his hand has written.

I’m reading in 1980. He’s writing in 1925. He’s remembering much earlier times.

July 2nd 1925

My Dear Son,

I warned you in my last letter to you (June) that I was going to write a long letter and now I am beginning to do so.

You are now 21 years of age and entered into the first stages of manhood, so accordingly, I must treat you as a man, which I could not do before you came of age.

I know nothing about stages of manhood, or even what it means to come of age.

Now to commence…

My father’s name was William Sendall and my dear mother’s name was Caroline. My father was the third son of John Sendall, farrier and veterinary surgeon of Upper Bristol Road, Bath, Somersetshire, England.

It sounds so distant, and I wonder what a farrier might be. Later I will understand that a farrier is a blacksmith who puts shoes on horses.

My mother, her parents I know nothing, was born in Wiltshire, England. Her mother died when my mother was born. Her father enlisted as a soldier and was very soon drafted to New Holland in charge of convicts. After their arrival in Botany Bay he was sent with convicts to Norfolk Island. How long he was there I know not but news reached England that he was killed on his birthday. My poor mother at the tender age of six years had to get her own living.

I’m learning about convicts in school, and now I can feel a connection to them that I didn’t have before. But I feel an even stronger connection to this little girl who has no parents. If only I could reach back in time, rescue her. Later I will be amazed by history repeating – my grandmother, this man’s daughter, lost her own mother at the tender age of six years.

A long list of names and occupations and addresses of his family members follows. Later I will understand that these people are my people, and that these names and addresses will be excellent signposts to uncovering the past.

You may at some future date be taking a trip to England, this may assist you in coming into contact to your benefit.

Contact to your benefit. I wonder what that means.

I was born at Windsor Cottage, Upper Bristol Road, near Marlborough Lane, Bath, Somersetshire, England in the year of 1852, September 25th, so that next birthday, if spared, I will be 74 years of age.

I am doing the sums; he is nearly 74 and this son is 21. Later I will be amazed – there were babies before this son and six more babies born after this son. Fifteen babies in all; ten will live to be 21. Did he write to each of them when they came of age?

Windsor Cottage sounds posh. It makes me think of the Queen. Were his family wealthy? Is that what he means by coming into contact to your benefit?

I was married to my first wife, Jennie Townsend, daughter of J Townsend, wood turner, Trim Street, Bath, England. We went to live in London where we resided till I left London for Australia. She would not come to Australia with me. Trouble ensued and I had to go back to London. Then she would not come but promised to come out later.

I am mildly annoyed for Jennie. She didn’t want to go to Australia. He went anyway. Twice.

I sent her 45 pounds and she came but our life was not a happy one. Finally we left Sydney in 1885 for England and the end of my first married life was near at hand.

She wanted to stay in England, he wanted to live in Australia. Later I will be amazed when I realise that had he stayed in England, I would never be born.

A young man (an American) by the name of William Hayes, nephew of Hayes, ex-President of the United States of America, went to England with us (I found out my wife paid his passage). We went to stay with my wife’s father and while I was on a short visit to my sister in Bristol I received a letter from her stating that she was unhappy and she could not stay in England but she was going away where she did not say but wishing me goodby and telling me not to be unhappy…

Almost 100 years after this happened, and 55 years after he wrote his letter, I am holding his rambling un-punctuated emotions in my hands, and they feel heavy. But I’m in my teens. I don’t yet understand what he’s feeling.

I came to Bath from Bristol at once and found that she had been in correspondence with Hayes. I tried all ways and means to trace them but failed to get any news of them. So, I was left penniless in England. I got faint insight of their flight to America and here ends my first experience of married life which was very disastrous to me for years.

My grandmother and her sister have taken to his letter with the scissors. His story ends here because the scandal that followed is apparently not suitable for my teenaged eyes.

What could be more scandalous than the part of his life story that they let me read?

The snipped-off, hacked off ‘scandal’, whatever it was, seems gone forever. History is lost to the wastepaper basket of time.

And yet… Later has arrived. Later is now. I am no longer a teen; I am an adult, and I am a genealogist.

Is there a way that I can use my genealogical skills to re-discover the lost scandal?

Can I travel in time to give my great grandfather a hand… can I trace the 1885-ish clandestine flight of two lovers escaping from Bath in England to somewhere in America?

Time will tell…