‘Precisely!’ Mr Chipman said, a note of triumphant pride in his voice. ‘My eight times great-grandmother. She was born in the Plymouth colony. Her father was John Howland—one of the Mayflower pilgrims.’
‘You’re lucky,’ Jack commented, ‘I don’t even know who my grandparents were...’
‘Well, I can always help you with that,’ Mr Chipman offered. ‘That is, if you’ll accept my offer of employment?’
Jack looked curiously at him. ‘What’s the job, exactly?’
Mr Chipman pointed into the cemetery. ‘History. People.’
Jack laughed. ‘Good answer.’
‘The snow’s doing a great service to this place—right now it looks quite picturesque. But let me tell you, underneath that beautiful white blanket are a whole bunch of graves in bad shape. Overgrown, dirty and illegible. Those whose names we can read, we know little or nothing about.’ He looked earnestly at Jack, his eyes animated and alive. ‘These are the people who shaped this town, this county, this state, this country—they deserve better, frankly. Me and some other local history nuts have formed a preservation group and we need someone to help clear and catalogue the cemetery. Someone with a passion for history. And people. Someone willing to go back to school part-time to develop their history knowledge.’ He gently tugged his beard. ‘Interested?’
Jack smiled. ‘Yes. Yes, I am. It sounds perfect—thank you.’
‘Excellent,’ Mr Chipman said, offering his hand to shake. ‘You start on Monday. Come on, let’s go defrost ourselves and talk over the finer details with a coffee.’
Jack followed Mr Chipman back out towards the car.
‘So what was it you wanted to know about your own family, Jack?’ Mr Chipman asked.
‘Anything at all,’ Jack answered. ‘My mom and dad are real cagey about their family. I know that they were both born in Boston, but beyond that is all a bit of a mystery to me. My dad’s mom and dad died in an automobile accident in 1946. Dad’s two brothers, David and John, were killed in the Second World War. On my mom’s side I know that her dad died in the Great Depression and her mom died in 1945. That’s it.’
Mr Chipman frowned. ‘All a bit tragic, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah, that’s how it sounds,’ Jack began, fishing in his back pocket, ‘Except, that this morning I found this.’ He handed over the certificate. ‘I think it’s for my dad’s marriage—but not to my mom. There are a couple of things wrong with it, including his name, but I think it’s him.’
Mr Chipman scanned the certificate as they walked, then stopped in his tracks and gazed at Jack. ‘Ah. The witnesses.’
‘Exactly. The marriage took place in 1949 and was witnessed by a David Jacklin and George Jacklin. And it all took place in California. How could that be?’
Mr Chipman thought for a long while. ‘Let me say this to you: does it not strike you as a little unusual that all of your mom and dad’s family died before…what…1950?’
‘Yes—it’s always bothered me, but if that’s what you’re told…’
‘Take a step back and view it objectively, Jack. You’ve been told all this information about your family. But, from one historian to another, I would pose this question: where is the evidence to support what you’ve been told?’
‘I don’t have any,’ Jack admitted.
‘All you have so far is that,’ he said, pointing to the marriage certificate. He continued to walk back towards the old Saratoga, stepping into the crunchy furrows of their own footprints. ‘Now, there may be some explanation—maybe this George and David Jacklin are cousins or other relatives…if not, then it’s clear evidence which contradicts the version of events that you’ve been told. Maybe—and it is just a maybe—the rest of what you know is also untrue.’
Jack’s mind was a fog of confusion. Questions rose and fell, vying for him to provide an immediate, sensible answer. His entire understanding of his family’s past looked to be completely wrong. He might have uncles, aunts, cousins and grandparents still alive. But why had they lied to him? ‘What now?’
Mr Chipman tugged on his beard and answered in a low, thoughtful voice, ‘Well, I can look into it for you, if you like? I’ve got friends who practically live in libraries and Town Halls—both here in Massachusetts and in California—they might be able to turn something up.’
‘Yes—yes, please,’ Jack replied. Whatever it was, he had resolved to know the truth.
‘Okay,’ Mr Chipman said, unlocking the car. ‘I’ll see what I can do. Come on, I’m freezing—let’s get out of here.’
They only went to the Dragon Lite Restaurant on special occasions. Tonight’s special occasion, the sale of the boxes of junk and war memorabilia, had left Jack with a sharp burning sense of unease. They were sitting close to the window overlooking Main Street, Hyannis, waiting for the food to arrive. Jack decided to make use of his parents’ joviality. ‘So,’ he began, switching his focus between the two of them, ‘it’s your twenty-third wedding anniversary next month—are you planning on anything special?’
‘Is it really?’ his dad asked.
‘I expect I’ll cook your dad’s favourite meal, or maybe we’ll go out,’ his mom said. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘I just wondered is all. Where did you guys meet, exactly?’
His dad cleared his throat and Jack caught the quick, almost imperceptible flick of his eyes over to his mom. ‘Such a long time ago!’ he laughed. ‘We were just friends when we were young and…’
‘Fell in love,’ Velda added with a giggle, reaching over and touching her husband’s hand.
‘But
