Discover more from Fresh Start Press
A Village You Will Never Have Heard Of
A chance encounter in New Zealand led to a family discovery 111 years in the making
Milford Sound, South Island, NZ by Pat Butler
Choosing a window seat towards the back of the bus, I placed my tote bag beside me and readied my camera for action. There would soon be plenty of breathtaking scenery to capture. I loved not having to share my space with anyone, just spreading out my belongings.
Our tour group had gathered at a resort west of Christchurch, New Zealand because that city was still recovering from the devastating earthquake of 2011. Once all 33 of us were aboard, our Maori guide welcomed us and described our morning route on the South Island.
Asking each person to briefly introduce themselves, he passed his mic around. My heart started noticeably pounding while I figured out what to say. I wanted to be friendly, a little bit humorous, but not too long-winded.
Within the first few speakers the pattern evolved that only one member of a couple would introduce them both. The problem with this method was that when you’re sitting on a bus listening to a disembodied voice, you haven’t a clue about the speaker’s appearance. How can you possibly connect a brief spoken introduction with a face?
Minutes later I heard a lady’s voice with an English accent announce, “Hello, we are Heather and Norman Grant* from England. We live in a village you will never have heard of — Sutton Coldfield — a suburb of Birmingham.” My heart leapt!
My late father was BORN in Sutton Coldfield in 1900 — a fact I had only learned after his death when examining his birth certificate. I briefly stood up to peer at Heather so I could later make contact and share this astonishing fact.
As the tour progressed, we soon became friends. One of the benefits of travelling solo is the ease with which you form new relationships with people you find compatible. Heather, Norman, and I found we had much more in common than just a connection to a small English village in the West Midlands. We’d all retired from jobs we’d loved; our kids were at similar stages.
Checking into our hotel near the Franz Josef Glacier, we’d been assigned adjacent rooms. Over dinner we found our senses of humour and views of the world delightfully congruent.
When saying goodbye in Auckland, we exchanged contact information. They’d heard about my having lived in England twice in the 1980s and still having plenty of contacts there. They planned to soon visit Canada.
Planning a UK visit
Having been divorced two years earlier, I reveled in the freedom to plan my travels without consulting any travelling companion. I’d met the Grants in February 2012, and thoughts of an October UK itinerary began to percolate only months later. I wrote to assess the sincerity of their invitation to visit. Perhaps they were just being polite.
“We’d love to have you! Tell me your dad’s full name and birth date and I’ll do some research before you arrive,” read part of Norman’s reply. Being newly retired with time on his hands, he liked the challenge of chasing down minutiae, I guess.
Within weeks, he sent me an excerpt from the 1901 census of Sutton Coldfield. In spidery early 20th-century handwriting I read the names of my grandfather, grandmother, aunt, and father plus a nurse!
The house address was written as “Oak House, Station Road, Sutton Coldfield.” Norman explained that houses of that era had only names without street numbers, so he had been unable to pinpoint the exact house in which they had lived. Today, every house has a number for the GPS.
Goosebumps swept over me as I viewed this census entry about my very own family while sitting in my Canadian home. Yes, it’s likely they would have had a baby nurse or nanny. Grandfather, who died in 1930, was treasurer of a brewery in 1901, so they could likely afford help. The Grants and I settled on an October date for my short visit.
Alighting from the train from Derby, I spied the couple wearing broad grins as they waited for me on the platform. What fun to be greeted so warmly by people I’d only met months before, on the other side of the world! The day was crisp and sunny. Heather explained they planned to take me to the important-to-me Station Road first to see if we could find my ancestral home. Then to a pub for lunch.
Strolling along the Wilsons’ street
Given that the street’s name indicated proximity to a train station, I expected the neighbourhood to be a little seedy or commercial. Not the case. The detached and semi-detached houses still maintained an upper middle-class aura more than a century after construction.
Dad was an architect so the design of beautiful buildings was his life’s work, specializing in houses and churches. Throughout his life he’d told others his birthplace was Birmingham, and immediately categorized it as “a dirty, ugly, industrial city.”
He neglected to mention that when he came into the world his family was living in delightful Sutton Coldfield about 15 km from central Birmingham. It’s possible he never actually visited the suburb himself, having moved to Repton, Derbyshire at the age of two. The family emigrated to Canada when he was 13 and he lived to be 101.
Norman parked the car and the three of us began strolling along the residential portion of Station Road. Trying desperately to channel my deceased relatives (“Did you live here?” I’d murmur under my breath), I paused in front of any house that remoted resembled Grandfather’s taste in houses.
I’d seen photos of two large mansions he’d owned — one in Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario, one in Westmount, Quebec. Both were built in half-timbered Tudor style. As I walked, I snapped photos of five houses to record my search.
So near and yet so far…it was tantalizing to walk on this lovely street with such significance to my own heritage, without definitive knowledge of which house the Wilsons had lived in. The next couple of days I spent with the Grants sped by with relaxed conversations and visits to fascinating places.
Our friendship is still intact, marked by a 2013 dinner in our Toronto home with my new husband, and letters at Christmas.
Back in Canada
Two full years after my 2012 trip to Sutton Coldfield, an email from Norman appeared in my Inbox. He and Heather had been to a party and chatted at length with a Sutton Coldfield Administrator. They described my visit from Canada, and my foiled attempt to locate the house where my father was born. She offered to put them in touch with somebody who could match up the former “Oak House” with the current street number. Before going any further Norman sought my permission.
“Of course! How exciting it would be to know the actual house. Please send me a photo of it, if it’s not too much trouble,” I wrote back.
It turned out to be 48 Station Road. He didn’t need to send me a photo, because I’d already taken this of that very house.
48 Station Road, Sutton Coldfield, West Midlands, UK by Pat Butler
*Names have been changed