The Notebook

She sat in the bright foyer of the hotel, a cup of deliciously fragrant coffee on the low marble table, steam rising in tendrils then slowly dissipating into the hurried New York atmosphere. Even in this sparsely furnished space, elegant and simple, purposefully created to provide a moment of serenity, the energy of the city was palpable.

She closed her eyes and took deep deliberate breaths. In, two, three. Out, two, three. Her fingers lightly stroked the soft worn edges of the aged black notebook, unconsciously rhythmic, soothing. This little notebook, so unassuming, held a lifetime of memories, stories, faces - not her memories, no, but those of her Great, Great (how many Greats? Six? Seven?) Grandfather.

The drawings were those of an accomplished artist, in a style that was reminiscent of the times. Some were quick charcoal sketches, catching a scene, a moment in time, with frugal lines and very little fine detail - the inside of a dingy public house, a rotunda in a leafy park, busy scenes at a dockyard. Others were more carefully executed, drawn with a fine brush and ink, catching the spirit of the subjects - the calm face of doe eyed lady, her bonnet highly detailed. The tired worn face of an African woman, each line imbued with sensitivity and care and love.

She took a small sip of the warm coffee, letting the flavours swirl around her mouth.The American standard of drinking coffee black was not entirely unpleasant to her, although she favoured the English addition of milk - or ‘cream’ as they said here in New York. But she was determined to live up to the adage “when in Rome…” and so for the duration of her stay would be dedicated to having her coffee black.

“The duration of her stay” - she laughed to herself. How very strange life is, she mused. This little book coming in to her life had had a profound impact. Before the death of her aunt, who had been the family historian as it were, the researcher, the notetaker, and the teacher for those who showed an interest, she hadn’t in all honesty been particularly interested in her families past. She was too focussed on the now and how to get where she was heading… only the destination had always been intangible, a concept of place. A feeling of inevitable propulsion towards an unknown future. But upon her deathbed her aunt had pointedly bequeathed her the little black notebook, and the sum of twenty thousand American dollars. Which was odd. Not the fact that money had been given to her, but that it was it was quite specifically in American dollars. Her aunt was Australian. She lived in England, had moved there as a child and lived there still. So why American dollars? She had figured it out without too much difficulty though. And now here she was, thanks to that gift.

She had been stroking the soft edges of the notebook almost obsessively ever since it had come in to her possession. Acquiring this little book had been a turning point - or more accurately, the thing that had made her stop. Just stop. Open her eyes. And turn around. And see - really see - that she was the person she was because of the journey that was documented so beautifully within these pages. That her very existence was a culmination of this story, and of the stories of those who followed. And that the direction she would now choose to take was guided by the choices and actions that had been taken by her ancestors.

She glanced at her watch - half an hour. She had half an hour. She ordered another coffee from a passing hotel employee - possibly not a great idea to overload on caffeine when she was already a bundle of nerves, but she supposed a gin and tonic at this time of the morning may be frowned upon! She carefully lay the notebook on the table, open, and let fate choose a page. It fluttered open to a fairly detailed ink drawing of a ships deck, not a ship as she knew them to be, all hard steel and shiny portholes, no, this was a wooden ship, with sails and ropes to one side of the deck, and a vast horizon in the distance. It was like an illustration from a history book. It was, of course, a snapshot in time. Of the journey her Great however-many-times grandfather had made from here in New York all the way to Sydney, Australia in 1853. Chasing gold. Her aunts notes had revealed that he had been musician in New York, the son of two former slaves. The only knowledge that remained of his parents were their names. Her Great, great grandfather had somehow found his way from the southern state of Georgia to the thriving city of New York, and for several years had stayed there, until his departure one chilly spring morning, bound for the promise of a new life in the goldfields of Australia.

She knew what the picture on the following page was without even looking, so often had she pored over the pages of this little book. That docile face, attractive because of the deep, calm eyes rather than of conventional beauty. Softly curling wisps of golden hair escaping an elaborate bonnet. What had led him to marry this gentle faced lady? Had he known her before his voyage, or did they meet aboard the ship, the long journey drawing them closer? It was an unusual, although not unheard of, union at that time, and she wondered what the genteel parents of this creamy complexioned English rose had thought of her choice of husband. So many unknowns.

And yet the little black notebook had answered the question her family had discussed many times, wondering who was in their collective past and how they had come to be. She examined the skin of her hand, stretching out her fingers and turning them this way and that. So very pale skinned! Her family joked that she was descended from ghosts, so luminously pale was she. Her mother was also pale and pink, but with very dark hair and almost black eyes. And unlike her, when the sun came out her mother quickly darkened to a deep nut brown.

Ten minutes. Only ten minutes! She adjusted her crisp white blouse, and ran her fingers through her wavy blonde hair. She pulled out a small painted compact, another family heirloom, and quickly checked that she looked presentable. Her sea-blue eyes peered back. She opened them wide and gave an inward chuckle. in her at least, the blue gene had dominated. Coming here, back to the place her ancestor had left so long ago, was like bringing together the threads of an intricate web, woven in part by her Great, great grandfather and his descendants, thread woven by choice and by chance. And she was now ready. Ready to pick up the threads and continue weaving a new pattern in that vast web, that had crossed time and oceans, from America and England and Australia, and before that, undocumented gossamer threads that led back to Africa.

She looked up as the doors of the hotel foyer hummed open. And there he stood, another family historian, researcher and teacher. As dark skinned as she was pale. Their smiles were identical as she rose to meet him.

“Cousin!”