Part 1 : The pairing of phantoms and foot prints

My grandfather, James Steven, known to all as Jimmy, left Scotland in 1907 to take a round-the-world trip. He was 33. He’d served his apprenticeship as a brassfounder in his father’s firm, Steven & Struthers, and later, when his father retired, Jimmy together with his older brother and another partner, bought the firm’s assets and continued the business. At the end of that same year Jimmy set sail to travel East - presumably to drum up new orders for the foundry.  

My great-grandfather, John Steven, and his son Jimmy, my grandfather.

That voyage brought him alive to me while my three other grandees remain deceased and distant, sealed in sepia. Of their milestones and foibles, I know almost nothing. Perhaps oral history took a hit when telephones, telegrams and technology took off. The dates of hatches, matches and dispatches, as my Mum called newspaper announcements of Births, Deaths and Marriage, and a few anecdotes fading like the photos, are all I have.

Jimmy and his journey might have slipped beneath the tides of time too had he not been a compulsive shopper and shipped an astonishing array of antiques and curios back to Glasgow. Because he was a third-generation brass-founder, many of the souvenirs were made of brass or bronze, thrilling examples of skilled artisanship, unyielding metal turned to shapely elegance.

Brassware, porcelain and ivory shipped back from Jimmy’s 1907 world tour and far from home in Sydney.

Eventually, after his death, Jimmy’s treasures followed my mother - his only child - to Oxfordshire.  I remember the day the removal truck reversed up to our huge Cotswold barn and unpacked stack upon stack of tea chests.

Those plywood crates had their own enchantment - stamped and stencilled, lids that splintered, sharp metal edges and a whiff of spice and tea.

My brother, David, prised them open with a jemmy, then tolerated my help with the unpacking. We didn’t have a lot to say to one another back then which was a shame for, although we played it cool, I know we both felt a thrill unwrapping classic statues, brass tables, musing Buddhas and multi-armed Hindu deities. Exquisite porcelain, small pieces of furniture, rugs and embroidery too. Mum scattered pieces round our rambling old house. Some seemed pleased with their new niche, while others were never to be comfortable. I acquired miniatures for my bedroom window-sill - intimations of a waiting wider world. Ivory from China and India, sandalwood from Shanghai and porcelain from Japan.

This piece of Chinese silk embroidery was the first of the treasures I ever saw from my grandfather’s trove. We were still living in Belfast so I was under eleven and found it scrunched up in a drawer. When I asked Mum what it was, tears came to her eyes. It had once been brilliantly coloured and hung on a screen placed in front of the fireplace during summer months when she was first married. A housemaid had washed it and all the colour disappeared. Mum said she was heartbroken but not angry - it was an honest error. But she could not bear to look it it again yet neither could she throw it away. She said I could keep it if I wanted and when I grew up I had it framed and delighted in its delicacy. It is a traditional piece made before marriage. Once I revived it, Mum came round and even found someone to translate the characters, but I don’t have that information any more.

Another reason why Jimmy’s travels live on is the survival of a thin sheath of letters he wrote to Mamie, his fiancé, in a spidery hand on onion-skin paper stamped with the names of hotels and ships. There is also a rather dull collection of postcards - black and white or strangely tinted - and a photo album of very bad snaps. The letters are hard to read, with whole paragraphs inked out by his censorious wife-to-be, my grandmother. 

Decades later when I typed out the letters, the ease of reading gave them a new energy and connection, as if the mail from Marseille, Aden, Bombay or Mandalay had arrived all over again. Mum was delighted and together we traced Jimmy’s route in my atlas.  And so I got acquainted with his world of Empire days and with the man – one who was up early to watch the ship go into port, was keen to see everything and who found the world a wonderous place, yet could think of nothing better than the prospect of being back home in Glasgow town.

My girls wonder why I keep this tattered parasol, but it too was one of the treasures and Mum gave it to me when my brother and I unpacked the tea chests which must have been early 1960s. It hangs from the ceiling in a dark nook in our house and I find strange comfort as we show our age together!

Afterwards, while my life stretched ahead, Jimmy’s journey faded back, until I relived his journey as I wrote my memoir, The Hong Kong Letters. I found myself startled to learn how many more of his stopovers I had visited after Hong Kong, oblivious of his first footfall.

Footprints are soon forgotten; swept away, rained out, built over or blown skyhigh, yet the phantom of that original spoor remains at the compass bearing and can’t be obliterated.

It’s a marvellous perk that goes with the third age when we muster footsteps, trace them, ponder upon them, and, if you are half as silly as me, find a visceral delight in the pairing of prints.

In this year’s blogs, I am going to look for where my footsteps crossed Jimmy’s. I can be so mad as to wonder if I am searching for Jimmy or him for me? It’s a spooky yet warm, fuzzy feeling, so I’ll just accept it.

Next Blog: Jimmy Sets Sail