A Day Like Any Other Day? By Linda Head
Monday, 1st September 2008 was unremarkable except that I had arranged to meet my cousin Hazel at Bournemouth train station at 12.15. What could be so exciting/ exceptional about this I hear you say, but what you don't know is that we hadn't laid eyes on each other since 1957!
Another cousin John had rediscovered me the year before through Genes Reunited (GR) and had passed my details on to the family, so it was thanks to him (and GR of course) that this special rendezvous had come about. Hazel's older brother Peter and his son David had visited us in Edinburgh last September, bringing with him lots of old family snaps and, one in particular matched the family photo I already had of my seven-year-old self in his family's back garden with my brother, parents and two sets of aunts and uncles plus cousins Hazel and John.
During my formative years Hazel had been my idol. As a teenager in bobby socks and dirndl skirt she had worn her shoulder-length blond hair in a stylish ponytail. What made her doubly amazing in my young eyes was that her father (my uncle George) made handbags and portmanteaux and had just given her a divine bottle-green velvet evening purse with fancy gilt clasp. To soften the blow of having to hand back the handbag, Hazel had blackmailed me with a cute little bottle of Evening in Paris scent. This Woolworth's fragrance was heady stuff even for grown ups to wear and I thought it was magic. The bottle was midnight blue and the light blue plastic stopper was screwed down tight. Unfortunately it wasn't shatter-proof and the very next day, skipping down the school steps, the precious bottle had jack-knifed out of my blazer pocket and crashed onto the stairs - perfuming the stairwell for weeks afterwards.
That was my last memory of Hazel. She had journeyed to Australia before it became fashionable and stayed with relatives who had emigrated a few years before. She had found herself various jobs and travelled around for a while. I thought she was the bee’s knees for being so brave and adventurous. Then my father died suddenly and we lost touch with his family and my remarkable cousin until, as I said earlier, early 2007.
When cousin John passed on my details to everyone, he also gave me my other cousins' addresses and I had nervously written to all asking for family details to put up on the family tree that I had started with GR. I received friendly responses from everyone and particularly from my heroine Hazel. The holiday to Hampshire which we have just returned from was an almost spur of the moment idea. I had been planning to visit my brother in Devon to help celebrate his 60th birthday in September and had luckily managed to secure the loan of a friend's holiday home in the New Forest. Hazel had phoned me a couple of weeks ago to suggest getting together when she was next visiting her friend in Largs, which she did fairly frequently. I surprised her with my announcement about the Hampshire trip and tentative arrangements were agreed.
So the big day had arrived and it wasn't until I had alighted at Bournemouth station that I suddenly realised that I may not be able to identify Hazel.
I walked out to the front the station and stood waiting anxiously for some sign or scrap of recognition. Then a small voice somewhere in the vicinity of my left shoulder murmured, “Linda?” - and there she was! Of course she had changed a lot in 50 years. The golden locks now shimmered soft silver, but still stylishly adorned with a diamante slide pinned to one side; rimless glasses graced her discreetly made-up China blue eyes. She still managed to look stunningly alive and vivacious in a scarlet top with matching lacquered nails and lipstick; slimming black trousers and bright white Mandarin-collared jacket completed her outfit.
Hazel had had no problem spotting me and this was not because I'd hardly changed from that chubby, freckled-faced, ringletted child of 50 years ago. Her brother Peter had sent her a copy of a recent photo that he had taken when he visited us the previous autumn. Hazel and I chatted for hours; from the moment we met until she dropped me off at the New Forest cottage several hours later. Following a fish and chip lunch, she had taken me back to the flat she had recently moved into after running a guest house for many years. I was astounded that she had remembered the little evening bag I had coveted all those years ago and to my great delight and surprise she still had it. There it was in all its only very slightly faded glory, complete with cream moire silk lining, the tiny pocket inside still containing the green leather-covered mirror.
