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Auckland
2009
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Libby sent her silent thanks to all the earnest genealogists and historians who’d spent years transposing thousands of records from hard copy to digitised copy. Online researching made life so much easier. Whenever she had a spare few moments, she did an Internet search and found pages from history books, articles from newspapers, ships’ records, births, deaths and marriage records and so much more. No more squinting at faded microfiches, no more travelling to distant records offices to find some small detail, or worse – nothing. Here it all was in front of her, and for a few dollars she could order hard copies of entire files.
Surfing through timelines for the decades and the inevitable list of politicians, religious appointments and major events for the year, Libby was surprised how many sporting events were listed. It would seem New Zealand had always been a sporting nation, always competitive and punching above its weight. Was that the start of the Kiwi personality emerging?
Libby wondered whether Daniel or Emma got involved with any sport – other than horse racing. She doubted it, knowing the family in general, but the thought was an interesting one.
She read about Leila Adair, the American balloonist who arrived in 1894, the first woman to fly in New Zealand. There had been throngs of people to watch her, so the paper said, when she took off from Palmerston North. Had Daniel been one of them? Libby had never heard of her but all the newspapers of the time had reported on the event.
Then there were the endless shipwrecks taking their toll with huge loss of life, as well as precious cargo.
Looking up from her computer she saw her daughter, Danielle, arrive. She closed it down and went to the door to welcome her. They gathered the photos and papers strewn around the kitchen table into piles to make room for the fresh coffee and delicious Morning Glory muffins, still warm from the local bakery. The appetising aroma filled the room.
“You know, Aunty Ruby and the others would have a fit if they could see us now,” said Libby. “Tea and homemade scones was the order of the day, with milk and cream – to support the farmers. Not black coffee – and certainly not bought cake.”
“Times have changed, Mum. I haven’t the time these days.”
“And I don’t have the inclination. Here’s to good coffee and bought cake!” Libby lifted her coffee mug in the air.
“And to another family tradition.” Danni mirrored her. “What’ve you been doing, Mum?” she asked, nodding at the papers on the table.
“Looking for new leads. I’ve found all sorts of snippets, some of which are hard to link together, but a lot isn’t relevant.”
“How do you find all this stuff?”
“I look it up on the Internet or at the library, if your father doesn’t already know the answer. One of my favourites is the Papers Past website. It’s amazing. I’ve found out so much, even though there are gaps. With so many historical records being put on the web these days, it’s fascinating. I can spend hours surfing and reading the history of a place.”
“Oh, Mum! You should hear yourself. You sound like an old schoolmarm.”
“Enough of the ‘old’, thank you!”
“So, tell me, what little snippets of gossip have you found by reading old newspapers?”
Libby carried on with her story. “Well, let me see. There’s a whole heap of them. Like the time your great-grandfather, Young Charlie, fell in the river. It’s quite a long article with all the details about him being rescued.”
Libby passed a copy of the cutting across the table detailing how Emma’s screams had brought everyone running.
“I can imagine her panic but why on earth didn’t she rescue him?” asked Danni. “I’d have jumped in and got him myself. I wouldn’t have hung around waiting for someone else to do it.”
“In a buttoned-to-the-neck blouse, long skirt, petticoats and boots? I doubt it! And Emma wouldn’t have been able to swim anyway, so she would likely have made matters worse, or drowned herself.”
“Oh, yes. Good point. Hadn’t thought of that. So, what else?”
“Daniel, always known as Chas Adin in the newspapers, fell off his horse and broke his left forearm. Dr Dermer was called to attend. Your father reckoned he was probably drunk, knowing the stories about him.”
“They reported things like that in the newspaper back then?”
Libby smiled at her daughter’s reaction. “Oh, yes. And more. Daniel donated five shillings to the defence of Parnell.”
“The what?”
“I wondered about that too. The Parnell I knew about was the militant Irish leader, and even then I had to look him up. He was accused of being involved with the murder of two important English people and had to clear his name. A defence fund was set up, and people from all walks of life, including working-class people, from all around the world, bankrolled his defence.”
“And Daniel donated to it?”
“Yes. Now your father tells me this was a sign that our Daniel, along with most of the country at that time, was developing a social conscience. He wasn’t the military man he’d once been.”
“What does Dad mean by that?” Danni frowned, trying to assimilate what her mother was saying.
“Well, as I understand it, there was what was called the long depression. Many people lost their jobs, new immigrants stopped arriving and lots emigrated from here to Australia. Times were not good. The people turned to the government for support, and set up family farms to survive.”
“Is that what Daniel did?”
“No, he went to work for the Foxton Council.”
“Doing what?” Danni’s interest was piqued.
“He was a drainage contractor, I suppose. Had been all his life, apart from short stints in the flax mills. He used to submit tenders to clear, clean and maintain the council drains and dig new ones. His name appears in the paper a lot. Every time the Council met, the minutes of the meetings and the successful tenders were published in the paper. Including what they were worth.”
“Really? How interesting. I never knew they reported such detail. Funny how things change. How much would the contracts have been worth?”
“Anything from one shilling a chain to one and sixpence a chain. I don’t know how much that would be in today’s money but enough to support a large family, by all accounts.”
“Yuck, what a horrible job. What’s a chain?”
“An imperial measurement for twenty-two yards or about twenty metres in your language. And yes, he must have been awfully dirty when he got home. I can’t see you wanting to do the washing from that job. Wouldn’t quite suit the high heels and corporate image, would it, my love?”
“You’re right there. It’s bad enough now with the kids. I’m forever doing the washing.”
“No, you are forever throwing the clothes in the washing machine and pushing the button. Back in those days you would’ve had to have made your own soap, boil the water, stir the clothes or sheets around by hand with a large wooden stick, haul it out and rinse it with what they called ‘blue’, push it through the hand mangle and somehow heave it up onto a long clothesline held aloft with a pole. Oh, and very likely chop the wood to light the fire under the copper before you could start.”
“Hmm. Yes, well. Thank heavens for women’s lib and modern appliances. More coffee?” Danni got up to make a fresh brew. “So what did the government do to help?”
Libby handed her mug over. “People were desperate for some sort of community of care, I suppose. Not that they would have called it that then, but something to give working-class people a better standard of living. The first Liberal government was elected in 1891, and they set up the welfare state, with the old-age pension and suchlike. The unions also started around that time. People began to understand they could join together to get better wages and conditions. But what really changed was the economy. Based on wool and local trade, it shifted to the export of frozen meats to Britain and a bit later, dairy products. It changed the whole economy for New Zealand. And, more importantly from our point of view, the Libs gave women the right to vote in 1893. The first country in the world to do so.”
“And so they should have,” Danni asserted. “I can’t imagine women being treated so badly back then. Still, I suppose women are being oppressed in all sorts of places in the world even today.”
“True. We owe a debt of thanks to the women who fought, and died, to get us those rights. Emma would have been one of the first to vote.”
“That’s good, but enough of that. I’m not into all that political stuff. What else did you find in those newspapers?”
“Christmas Day wasn’t considered a holiday until 1873, and it was 1894 before New Year’s Day, Easter and some other days were made legal holidays for women and children. I’m not sure about the men.”
“How on earth did people survive without holidays?” Danni asked. “I count the days until we can have a day off. I’ve never given it a thought that people might not have been entitled to any. I don’t think I would have liked to live in those days. It sounds like hard work to me.”
Flicking through some papers, Libby handed Danni a few copies. “So, try living with this. Report after report on the flooding. The land was flat and swampy, and the area around the river at Whirokino was well known for flooding. No wonder Daniel was busy digging drains. It might have been good for the flax mills, but nearly every year the water caused havoc.”
“How awful.”
“More than once they were rescued by boat. Listen. ‘20th April 1895. Mr Adin and family were canoed across the river to an old house near the flax mill.’ Two years later, the paper reported that the flood had gone through the house. Emma was rescued, but how terrifying for her, alone with the young children.”
“Poor Emma. What a horrible and frightening thing to happen. How do you know this?”
“By this personal ad.”
Libby handed over the copy of the news clipping to Danni to read.
“ ‘22nd April 1897. I beg to tender my thanks to Messrs F Eure and J R Stansell for taking Mrs Adin and family from my house on Easter Monday in their boat. Chas Adin.’ I find it amazing the papers printed all that detail about one family. What about everyone else?”
“Everyone affected would have been named and their story told too. The news in those days was always about local events. Any news from overseas or about the big picture – things we expect today – would have taken longer to filter through. It was always more important to know what your neighbour was doing and how they were faring than anything else.”
“I suppose so,” said Danni.
“You remember that controversy not so long ago over whether there should be an ‘h’ in Whanganui, the way Maori would spell it? The river name was changed to Whanganui and the township remained Wanganui. Well, somewhere along the line, the same thing happened to that area outside Foxton called Whirokino where Daniel and Emma lived. In the timeframe I’m looking at, the papers all spell it as Wirokino, without the ‘h’ – sometimes as two words ‘Wiro kino’ – and today it definitely has the ‘h’ included. I’ve no idea when it changed but I’m certain it wouldn’t have been something the locals argued over. It would have just happened.”
“Maybe you’ll get me interested in history after all.”
“That’ll be the day!” Libby laughed. “You might like listening but you wouldn’t want to do the looking.”
“Maybe not,” said Danni, looking at her watch. “Hey, Mum, I’d better get going or I’ll be late picking up the kids. Is there more for next time?”
“Yes. Lots. And about Emma’s family.”
“I didn’t think you knew anything about them.”
“I didn’t.” Libby smiled. “But I do now.”
* * *
Ben was barely inside the door that evening before Libby was waving the papers that had arrived in the post at him.
“Look what I have.” She couldn’t wait to tell him the news.
“What exactly?” he asked, putting his briefcase down.
“Certificates. Some prove what I already know. Others are giving me more dates and names to follow up on but this ...” she said, passing the file to him, “... this is the pièce de résistance.”
Ben turned the pages to see the Fohrmann name appearing time and again. She’d been searching for years for information about the Fohrmanns, and at last she’d found many of the missing links.
“That’s fantastic.”
“Isn’t it? I’m so excited.”
From past experience, Ben decided to put the brakes on or nothing else would get done. “Before we get onto this – what’s for dinner? I’m starved.”
“Dinner’s ready, so here, give me those,” Libby took the papers back. “Get changed and let’s eat. I’ll explain it all after. I have a mountain of interesting but probably useless information I want to talk to you about.”
Ben poured two glasses of wine while Libby dished up their dinner and sat beside him at the table.
“I need your opinion. I’m not sure whether I should include some of the things I’ve found in Daniel’s story or not. They’re relevant to the point that they happened in the time he lived there but not related to his story, since he wasn’t involved.”
“Such as?” Ben helped himself to some salad.
“Did you know Manawatu won at the Savile Cup for polo three years in a row from 1895?” she asked, putting salad on her plate.
“No, I didn’t. How interesting. The cup is the prestigious event for polo. It’s still contested today.”
“Is it? It must have caused quite a stir in Foxton at the time, then. I found out Captain Robinson’s sons were keen polo players.” Libby took a sip of her drink. “Mmm. Nice wine.”
Twirling his glass, Ben looked at the colour and clarity of the wine. “Not bad,” he agreed. “If that tournament was held in Foxton, then I would expect everyone to have been there – including Daniel, Emma and the kids – whether they knew anything about polo or not. It would have been a big event. Did you say they won it three times?”
“Yes.”
“That’s some feat for a small club. What else?”
“The first National Council of Women was formed in 1896, with Kate Sheppard as their first president.”
“That would have been relevant. Kate Sheppard was the driving force behind the women’s suffrage movement. Granny Adin would have a lot to thank her for. Without Kate Sheppard, I doubt the women of that era would have won the right to vote at that time.”
“I know that, but at this point in the story the vote was three years earlier. This is about the NCW, and I doubt Emma would have been involved.”
“Possibly not,” agreed Ben, finishing the last of his meal.
“I have another interesting piece of trivia,” said Libby. “Did you know that the first motion picture shown as part of a vaudeville show in Auckland was also screened that year?”
“No.” Ben sat back in his chair, laughing. “I doubt Daniel would have known that!”
Libby shook her head. “I disagree; it was in the papers – I read it online – and I think it would have been a topic of conversation at least.”
“Possibly, but I can’t see him being interested in the theatre,” said Ben.
“No, but wasn’t he supposed to love singing, so he might have read the article? The other event in the papers was the Brunner Mine disaster.”
“Now that I do know about: New Zealand’s worst coal mining accident. On 26th March 1896. A deep underground explosion killed sixty-five miners. It must have been awful.”
Libby showed Ben one of the papers. “Terribly sad and they couldn’t get them all out. Thirty-three are buried in a mass grave. People turned up from miles around for the funeral – over six thousand, so the paper said – and the procession was over half a mile long. But I doubt Daniel would have known as much as we do.”
Libby cleared the plates away, as Ben stacked the dishwasher. Retrieving the papers she’d set aside, Libby spread them out over the table. Ben refilled their glasses and sat down again.
“So tell me, what’s all this mean? What have you found out about Emma’s family?”
“Let’s start here.” Libby handed Ben the first of the certificates. “These confirm that Frederika Fohrmann, Emma’s mother, died on 25th January 1883 of kidney disease, aged thirty-seven – and I’ve covered that in the story. But see, it doesn’t say where she is buried, and I haven’t been able to find her anywhere. While we were told Emma had a stepmother she didn’t like – and I don’t know why – what I didn’t know was when the stepmother appeared on the scene.”
She handed Ben a second piece of paper. “This marriage record shows that Eduard Fohrmann, Emma’s father, married Maria Lukashowky in 1887 in Halcombe. I guess she would have been in her late fifties.”
“So you’ve proved they were in Halcombe then.”
“Yes. The interesting point about this record is the name. Remember me telling you that Fred Fohrmann, Emma’s younger brother, was arrested in 1895 for sheep stealing? The two men he was arrested with were Rudolph and Frank Lukaschewski. Different spelling, but don’t take any notice of that. It’s the same name. Her sons, maybe?”
“Maybe. Interesting though,” said Ben.
“This next certificate shows that Eduard Fohrmann died of bronchitis on Christmas Day 1893, aged fifty-eight. I’ve covered some of this in my story but not everything. The record shows his address as Palmerston North, so maybe they moved there after he married for the second time – or perhaps they separated. I hadn’t thought of that before. But I couldn’t find his burial record. Searched and searched. Finally found it by accident. He is buried under the name of Edwin Fahrmann, of all things, in the Terrace End Cemetery in Palmerston North. Someone couldn’t read the registrar’s writing when they transposed it from the original. There’s no headstone. He’s buried in a pauper’s grave.”
“Oh, what a sad ending.” Ben handed the certificates back to Libby. “What about her other brothers and sister?”
“I’ve found lots of references in the papers to a Mister Henry Fohrmann, known as the Halcombe Invalid. Again, I don’t know why. It didn’t say. There was a long obituary about fortitude and strength in adversity and pain. He used to collect used stamps to make a living. How do you do that?”
“No idea,” Ben shrugged, taking the proffered papers.
“I think this Henry could be Emma’s brother. I located his burial records showing he died 21st July 1908. See here. Aged forty-four, so it fits time-wise. He’s buried in Halcombe next to a Maria Anne Fohrmann who died 22nd November 1909, aged seventy-two. That must be Emma’s stepmother – too much of a coincidence otherwise. The paper said he was ‘survived by his wife’. But there was no name, and I can’t find any records that show when he married. So that’s a dead end.”
“The sister?”
“Clara? I’ve not come across anything that gives me any leads. So again, no idea. Lost forever possibly.”
“Well done. I’m impressed,” Ben praised.
“There’s one more piece of news. About William Fohrmann, the one Uncle Len used to call old Uncle Bill Foreman – with an anglicised spelling. He was the youngest, and born in New Zealand. He died in 1946 and was obviously known to the family, given this photo of him with some Adin family members around 1940. Anyway, his birth certificate says his mother was born in Saxony and his parents were married on 5th May 1861 in Waldenburg, Germany, when she was sixteen. If ever I get the urge to search back further into her history, there’s the starting point. But seeing as the few records I’ve tried to access are all in German, I gave up.”
“Fair enough.”
Libby stacked the papers, putting them back into the folders while Ben made a cup of tea. Settling in the more comfortable armchairs, Libby sat back and smiled. “There’s one more thing I can tell you. Never mind what else was happening, 1896 was a busy year for Daniel and Emma.”
