My obsession and the 1911 census

Although I didn't know it at the time, my obsession started with an old black trunk that sat abandonded in the corner of the attic.

"Is that yours," I asked my future husband, who had the business acumen to buy this large Edwardian house in a popular market town in the Chilterns before the boom and before he had the family to fill it. I pointed to a worn metal trunk that rested on part of the attic that had no floorboards, only bare beams. A cat could easily scamper over to it and take a lazy nap, and obviously so could a spider. It was thick with dust and webs.

"No, that was there when I moved in," he said, humphing another one of my empty suitcases into place. I had just traded in my single San Francisco life for one with this man in this house. "I'll have to get a board from Jewson's to get over there," he quickly offered, already able to read my mind.

I'm not sure what I thought I would find in that trunk. A diary, old love letters, thin air. Whatever it was, I wouldn't find out for some time – careers, international moves and then children filling our time. But that abandoned suitcase planted a seed and the search for its owner and an understanding of the life she led would test my imagination, spirituality and relationships with those I loved most. I couldn't stop until I knew.

And that is some insight as to why I spent THREE HOURS the other day searching the 1911 census (thanks for the tip off Violet Posy). Three hours of precious child-free time, when I should have been doing paid work, instead of running up a credit card bill on the Census site.

Yes, I admit it. I am obsessed with this house. Maybe because I never owned one before, maybe because I spend so much friggin' time here, looking at the walls and wondering who else has lived and loved this house. Made and raised children. Slaved in the kitchen. Picked a crumpled school uniform from the floor.

In my search I found this photograph. It is of Russell Nicholas, the man who owned our house at the turn of the century. As I poured through the 1911 records, I learned that he employed a middle-aged cook and a teen-aged parlour maid. He had a seven-year-old son named Francis. But my hair stood on end when I saw that a hundred years ago he was 49, the same age as my husband, and that his wife, Jessica, was the same age as me.

Doo-doo-doo-doo, doo-doo-doo-doo.

I don't know that much about her, but will let you know more when I do.