It’s New Year’s Day, 2024. Traditionally, this is a time of year when we look to the future and I’ve been doing my fair share of that over the past few days. But as a family historian, my mind is more often looking in the opposite direction and right now, I’m thinking about the past. In particular, I’m thinking about what my ancestors were doing 100 years ago today; and about what my more distant relatives were doing 200, 300 and 400 years ago.

As I sit here in my semi-detached Hertfordshire home, I’m surrounded by all those modern conveniences that many of us in western Europe take for granted; central heating, double-glazing, fresh running water – hot and cold – and all sorts of appliances powered by electricity. The cooker, the fridge-freezer, the washing machine, the dishwasher, the TV, not to mention the microwave, the de-humidifier and the air fryer. And then there’s the wi-fi and all the computer technology, allowing me to write this and, all being well, to publish it later today so that I can share it with others, all around the world. I often think about my ancestors and how very different their lives must have been. I struggle to come to terms with the difficulties they would have encountered; the cold, damp living conditions, the ever-present threat of deadly disease. And the cramped spaces, whole families living together in a single room with a complete absence of our 21st century, western home comforts.

Of course, I can’t know what they were thinking, these ancestors of mine, however near or distant they are. Some of their stories were handed down, I’ve got photos of many of the more recent ones and I share DNA with some of them. In some cases, I knew people who knew them, but most of what I know has come from many years of research, both into their individual lives and into the lives of the people that surrounded them and the places that they inhabited. I’m aware that if I want to better understand them as people, I need to do more of this and I’m also aware that however much research I do, I can never hope to fully understand them. The best I can do is to combine the research with a bit of imagination in an attempt to give them a voice and trust that I won’t allow the imagination to take centre stage.

So, let’s go back to 1 January 1924 and drop in on my great grandfather, John Flynn, in his west Edinburgh cottage and let him tell us his story…

My name is John Flynn, I’m 66 years old and I’ve lived in and around Edinburgh all my life. But my family is Irish; my father was born in County Roscommon and he came to Edinburgh with his parents at the time of the famine. They settled in Corstorphine High Street, alongside other immigrant Irish labourers. Indeed, that part of Corstorphine is still known as Irish Corner today and I was born just along the road in Ladywell Doors.

My parents, John and Bridget Flynn married in 1853 at St Patrick’s, the Roman Catholic chapel in Edinburgh’s Canongate, but the Flynns were never really city people. We lived on the outskirts of Edinburgh and we worked on the farms in the Midlothian parishes of Corstorphine and Cramond. Back then, this part of the country was almost entirely rural; the open fields and the low, flat landscape reminded my grandparents and my parents of their Irish homelands. My mother came from County Leitrim and her family had also arrived in Edinburgh in the late 1840s.

We nearly had a different story; my older brother, Thomas, was born in England. Soon after they married, my parents moved to Gateshead. They lived at an address in Pipewellgate – a dreadful slum – but thankfully they didn’t stay there long. They were soon back in Corstorphine and that’s where I spent my early childhood, a few doors away from my grandparents.

When I was about seven, we moved to Cramond. My father had found work in the iron works there but it didn’t last and he was forced to seek employment wherever he could, as a navvy working on the roads, as a labourer for a cattle dealer. We settled in Davidson’s Mains where my youngest sister Rose Ann was born in 1870 but we were soon on the move again out to West Pilton. We lived at 1 West Pilton Cottages and two doors away lived the Philip family; their daughter Margaret caught my eye!

This was around the time that my father died. No one’s quite sure what happened but his body was found in Granton Harbour on 13 August 1881 and he was simply said to have drowned. I was just 24 at the time.

The next part of the story is difficult for me to tell. I fear that if people knew the truth they would think of less of me and my wife. You see, although I continued to live with my mother at West Pilton Cottages, I was now in a long term relationship with the girl next door (well, two doors away). Our first child, John, was born in the Philip family home on 4 December 1882, and he was followed by James on 7 January 1886 and Margaret on 17 July 1888.

Margaret’s mother had died way back in 1870 and as the oldest daughter, she was expected to act as housekeeper to her father and her older brothers. But she now had three children of her own (we had three children of our own) and she had to look after them as well as her aging father. Times were hard and they’d moved away from West Pilton into the more urban surroundings of North Leith. Margaret was living with her father, her brother Richard, her brother Robert’s two children and our three; all eight of them living in a two room flat. Our fourth child, Susan, was born on 30 April 1893.

The winter of 1894/95 was a dreadful time for us and I don’t think Margaret ever really recovered from it. We lost our girls, Margaret and Susan to the measles on the same day. And two months later, on 20 March 1895, Peter, our fifth child, was born, in the same house in which his sisters had met their deaths.

This was all nearly 30 years ago, and some of the details are a bit hazy but I remember that, for the first time, I went along to register my child’s birth. The registrar even allowed us to record his name as Peter Flynn – even though we weren’t married – although he wrote the word ‘illegitimate’ next to his name in the register, as if to drive the point home. Margaret signed her name in the register and the clerk got me to make my mark underneath.

Margaret’s father died in August 1896 and at around the same time I found agricultural work in East Craigie, across the River Almond in the parish of Dalmeny. We decided that the time was now right for us to move in together and Margaret and our three sons came to live with me at East Craigie. I have to confess that we did so without ever marrying and I have to confess that we lied about it. Our next child, named Margaret after her poor sister, was born at East Craigie on 26 March 1897 and when I went to Dalmeny to register her birth I told the registrar that Margaret and I were married. I even invented a wedding date; 29 June 1883.

We had another three children; Charles, born on 24 May 1898, another Susan in 1900 and Catherine, on 14 February 1904. I have another confession to make; I never got around to registering their births. Our second Susan (who we also called Roseanna) died in 1903, and we lost young Peter in 1907.

We lied to the census takers as well. When we filled out the forms, Margaret and I said that we were married, although we never were. Perhaps we should have done something about it years ago but having lived together as man and wife for so long, to officially tie the knot now would just draw attention to our lie.

A few years ago, we moved back across the River Almond and we’re now living in one of the cottages at Meadowfield in the parish of Corstorphine, where our youngest, Catherine, is working for the famer, our landlord, Mr Young. I’ve found work as a surfaceman for the North British Railway Company and our youngest boy, Charles, is still living with us and working as a miner for the Dalmeny Coal Company. He gets the train from Turnhouse station to Dalmeny every day.

So, I find myself living back in Corstorphine, not two miles from where I was born. We’ve been through some rough times; we lost four of our children and we’ve had to work hard just to keep our heads above water, but it feels like we’ve turned a corner now. Having said that, Margaret’s not well. She’s been suffering with her kidneys for years now…

Sadly, Margaret died of Bright’s Disease a few months later. The following notice appeared in the Edinburgh Evening News on 22 April 1924.

FLYNN – at Meadowfield, Corstorphine, on the 21st
April, MARGARET PHILLIP, beloved wife of
JOHN FLYNN. Funeral to Cramond Churchyard
on Wednesday 23d inst., at 3 p.m. Deeply
mourned. Funeral private.

John lived on until December 1933, dying in an old people’s home in Edinburgh. He was 76 years old, although, when he registered the death, his son, John said that he was 75. John also, curiously, described his father as ‘John Flynn, Formerly a Gardener’.

Why then did Margaret and John never marry when they were clearly both free to do so? Could it have been a matter of religious prejudice? Was Margaret’s protestant father unwilling to accept a roman catholic as his son-in-law? Is it significant that they only lived together after he died and was it, by then, too late for them to marry, as everyone assumed that they were married?

Family history research has a way of throwing up questions like this and all-too-often the best we can do is to speculate. But by retelling our ancestors’ stories we can sometimes get closer to them as individuals and perhaps we can then begin to reach more informed conclusions. As long as we’re careful to maintain the line between fact and speculation this approach can help us to enrich their stories and to leave behind a meaningful legacy for future generations.

A relative sent me this photo of the Flynn family, the only image I have of John and Margaret (the older couple at the front). My grandfather, Charles Flynn, is the tall man at the back but the others are unknown to me. It’s likely that the two young women are Charles’s sisters Margaret and Catherine and that the man is Margaret’s husband, Thomas Flynn (yes, another Flynn!).

© David Annal, Lifelines Research, 1 January 2024