As you have arrived at this site, you are here to see if you can help. I extend my warmest thanks to you - even if you can't help.
Imagine... You grow up knowing that your grandfather was a big man, who had a colourful history. He had become a mechanical engineer when the roads were just being built. He actually worked on cars when you could see what you were doing and even jump in if you had to. Besides that, he was in the war. Not the Second World War like most of my contemporaries, but in the First World War. An observer. He actually carried a revolver into the cock pit with him - just in case. He was nick-named 'Cinders' because of the number of times he survived his plane coming down in flames. My Irish grandmother was heard kidding him one day, 'sure, and you never were in a fight - you would go out with the lads, an enemy would come and you would hide in the clouds, and rejoin the group when it was all over and they were heading home'. About once a month, he would gently extract his uniform and brush it down and kept his medals in a glass case. He had known "the crowd" at Brooklands race track. And he was a gentleman, he never left the house without a bowler hat and overcoat. What a thing to grow up knowing. None of my family had any reason to doubt these facts until one fateful day three years ago...
My interest was not in proving my Grandfather was a hero, or to trace the family line for my pedigree - it is to trace a genetic condition that had terrorized both my sons. When my oldest was 3, he suffered his first seizure. Slowly the seizures became more and more frequent and severe. We tried 6 medications and it was when we were switching to the last one that the Pediatric Neurologist advised that if this medication didn't work, chances were that he would become a vegetable within a year and then die at a young age. Thank God for modern medicine, because the last med worked and controlled his seizures. It was so new that we had to carry the pharmacology information with us because it wasn't in any of the books that the hospitals used. As a precaution, they did run tests (MRI, CAT Scan, Skin biopsy, Muscle biopsy, Nerve biopsy and Spinal tap) to make sure there wasn't a metabolic condition that was responsible. When the results came back negative and he responded to the drugs, the doctors said we were fine to continue our family with only a 2% chance that this would ever happen again. We did, and were blessed with a second child in 1996. He was healthy and spirited. But, as you can guess, a few months after he turned 3, he had his first grand mal seizure. With Ian, we didn't have to experiment with the other 5 drugs that Brandon had to go through and rule out - he went straight to the drug that worked for his brother. We were lucky because he was recovering only 5 months after his first seizure.
This left me in quite a state. My mind was racing with the thoughts that this was a genetic condition and we had given it to our children, fate had decided I would have no more children instead of me, and that I may not have any grandchildren if my sons decided it was too great a risk. I was in a terrible way and the only thing that kept me from plunging into the depths; never to return were my boys and a drive to determine if this condition had ever struck our family before.
My mother-in-law, bless her, was adopted as an infant as she was a product of an affair. She contacted the natural child of her father that didn't even know she existed to check medical histories. I traced my mother's side all the way back to the turn of the 19th century with no early childhood disappearances or deaths. My father-in-laws family lived in the area since the early 1700s and there had been no documentation of any illnesses such as this.
But, when it came to my father's side - I was stupefied to find I could not identify my Grandfather's family. I first scoured the birth registries for the years 1881 to 1900. My father had a credit note from his father's business that had dates of birth on it. My grandmother and Aunt's dates of birth were incorrect, but I thought his record of 7/10/83 would give me somewhere to start. Nothing. I then thought that perhaps he was born outside of the UK or his birth wasn't registered with the Registry Office. So, to trace local church and government records, I would need to know where he was born. I turned to his WWI records. I had obtained newspaper clippings from his accidental death that confirmed he had been awarded gallantry medals during his service. My father had seen them - but was to young to think of picking them up and inspecting them.
I guess I should tell you the reason my father and his siblings knew very little about their father... My grandmother left with only a note left behind in 1939. In April of 1940, my Grandfather remarried to provide a mother to the children. In June of 1940, a black car arrived and scooped up the children and took them away. My grandmother had contacted the Children's Rescue Society and had them removed from their home. My father only saw his father a couple of times after that fateful day. In 1942 came the word that his father had died.
From the stories my father could remember, I could determine that he started in the trenches (dad can remember him being treated for the effects of malaria and tearing the surgery apart when a dentist tried to use gas on him) and received field promotions. He often teased his children - telling them to knock on his head to hear the metal plate that they had inserted after an accident. When puttering in the attic with his father, a letter fell out of a book. When dad (who was still too small to read) asked what it was, his father explained that he had forgotten about that - it was the telegram that notified his parents that he was missing in action. In the picture we have of him, he was wearing the wings of the RAF - placing him still in the game after April 1918.
With the kindness of others, notably Nick2707, the PRO has been searched for record of him. Nothing.
I contacted the Institute of Mechanical Engineers (IMechE) to see if they could locate his entry papers. Nothing.
I also contacted the Children's Rescue Society for any information they may have. This is the sweet/sour part of the story. Through the letters they were able to share with dad, he found that his father was frantic to see them. You see, he had to gain permission to see them and my grandmother had refused access to him because he had brought "that woman" with him to see the children. But, my father had learned that his father hadn't abandoned them, he had merely not been able to see them. They also were able to tell him that his stepmother had tried to contact them after their father's death. She had later remarried and I was able to trace her to her death in Hove in 1974.
So the name Frederick Malcolm Marchant was not registered in the births, IMechE, or war records. If all of his adventures were nothing but nonsense, then I would expect to locate the birth registry and not the other records - but with the lack of any records, I can only assume that the name didn't exist prior to when these records would have been made.
I'm sure that I would have given up the search quite some time ago when Ian was completely controlled and I was feeling better. But, every time my father protests that it doesn't matter, I know that it is hurting him not to know who his father really was. A bigamous fraud would be better than limbo.
Recently, my father's family has been dealt a few sad blows. My Auntie died on May 8th, 2002, my father is only just recovering from a serious bout of pneumonia and is still waiting for the results of his biopsy; My Uncle is waiting to have surgery to remove some growths inside his stomach for biopsy; and my last Uncle has heart and breathing problems. As you can tell, they are all now over 70 and time is running out to solve the mystery that has plagued us since I opened this can of worms.
There is still the threat of a mesothelomia diagnosis hanging over my Dad's head. As each month passes, I lose hope that I will be able to solve this mystery and give him peace. This is why I have shared my story. I hope that you may be able to find something and run with it.
I have loaded a few pictures onto the web to help anyone that has an interest in picking up this gauntlet. Please feel free to look at them.
I remain hopeful.Update: August 5, 2002 - I'm afraid that Dad has been diagnosed as having mesothelomia (Asbestosis). Although he is feeling much better and has regained some of his weight, he still often feels short of breath. The doctors take his current status as a good sign. We should have a couple of good years left to share.
Update: January 5, 2003 - Dad was once again admitted to hospital on Sunday Dec. 29, 2002 with congestive heart failure. He was stablilized quite quickly and was released from hospital yesterday.
Update: October 23, 2003 - It's taken a little while to add this update. Dad passed away on September 26, 2003. All of his children were around him and we miss him dearly.
Uncle Bob followed him on October 13, 2003. His last words to Uncle Pat were that my Dad had just spoken to him.
Uncle Pat is not doing well. He is the last of the boys. His health is failing - but we have all given him strict orders that he must get better.
Many thanks to all that have helped me on my search.
Update: January 4, 2004 - Uncle Pat passed away on November 11, 2003. It is a sad blow to the Marchant family as the last of that generation is now gone. There will be no more stories or memories to enjoy. God bless and keep all of them. RIP
