大象传媒

"Mind Uncle's clean collar!" The dapper young man in his immaculate uniform gently removed my clinging arms from around his neck and lowered me to the floor. Uncle Harold was home on leave. He was my mother's cousin, a merchant navy officer who spent his war-time shore leave with us at our home in the Rhondda Valley.

During one of his visits we went to Cardiff to see the aeroplane on display on the green outside City Hall. I was only about 4 years old at the time, and I became 'lost' in the crowd for what seemed to me like an hour or more - no doubt it was more like a few seconds - but it was Uncle Harold who 'found' me.

On another occasion he left some money with my parents to buy me a doll for my next birthday, which must have been soon after his visit. I can still see the wide-eyed smiling face of that rag doll, although I can't remember what name I gave her - Marigold, or Marguerite, or something like that I think!

After more than sixty years I can see myself clearly, one dismal, wet morning, going out through the back door of the house on my way to school, dressed in my green oilskin mac and sou'wester. A telegram had just arrived, and the sight of my mother's tears as she read it and absorbed its sad message, made my heart and my footsteps as leaden as the Rhondda skies. Uncle Harold would not be visiting us again - ever.

Who was this young man? Mother's cousin, yes, but a first cousin? I don't think so. A merchant navy officer? Yes, I'm almost sure of this. What company did he work for? I'm told reliably that his cap badge is that of Cunard. How and where did he die? My memory tells me he was in an arctic convoy, but memories are not always reliable. Why did the telegram come to my mother? Was she his next-of-kin?

My family history research has given no clues as to his identity. Other family members have vague recollections of someone lost at sea, but no-one knows the details.

I stare at his photograph. "Who are you, Uncle Harold?" I ask. Will I ever have an answer?

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