The Curiosity of Mysteries

I’ve always been fascinated by mysteries. I grew up on a diet of Nancy Drew and books that implied that the Bermuda Triangle and the Nazca Lines were most likely the result of alien visitors. When I was a little older the mysteries became more sophisticated but no less terrifying. The fear I had about being kidnapped by the shadowy Symbionese Liberation Army or murdered by the uncatchable Zodiac Killer were real, fed by older neighbourhood children and unfettered (and probably unwise) access to the San Francisco Chronicle from an early age.

As well as a love of mystery, I am a curious person. Not curious like strange. Curious like nosey. Actually, if I were to be perfectly honest, I am more nosey than curious. For example, I am much more interested in finding out who is doing what with whom than how my computer works, which strikes me as being very tedious.

I guess the two must be related – what’s the point of a mystery if you’re not interested in figuring it out? To do that you need to try to answer the questions that make up the mystery with the evidence available, like a mental multi-dimensional jigsaw puzzle. When complete, the resulting picture, or narrative, may be mundane or frustratingly missing some important pieces, but occasionally the results can be wondrous or just downright weird.

These two traits have served me well in my job as a health researcher with a special interest in mortality. I’m not going to lie - that can be a conversation stopper. But surely death is the greatest mystery and the narratives surrounding it the most compelling. The two most satisfying pieces of work I’ve been part of were tracing the fate of babies with congenital anomalies born in Northern England and searching through all available data sources to describe the real rate of maternal mortality in Fiji. Once we’d wrung all of the available evidence from electronic sources, we resorted to searching through archived medical notes and death certificates. There is something very profound and solemn being the first one in years, sometimes decades, to handle these dusty bits of paper detailing life’s hopes and tragedies.

Of course not all mysteries are profound. Like wondering where all the teaspoons have disappeared to and finding them a couple of years later when emptying out the compost bin. And many are not necessarily knowable – what would happen if the country votes for Brexit? (Damn, I guess that we’re going to find out.) And some things aren’t mysteries at all until you deliberately make them so.

Late last year, I picked up a 1951 copy of Gilbert & Sullivan’s Savoy Opera lyrics for 50p from Newcastle's Literary & Philosophical Society’s used book table. When I got it home I found that it had been signed by around twenty-five women, probably young given the neatness of their signatures. The book sat on counter in the dining room for a week or so, with me picking it up occasionally looking at the list of names which were, to me, far more interesting than the lyrics of The Pirates of Penzance. Who were these women and what occasion led to them signing the book?

Cue Google. Unlike my husband, who I sometimes think was born in the wrong century (he probably would be happiest navigating a schooner through the Straits of Malacca collecting zoological specimens and bombarding the occasional enemy ship), I know that I was born just at the right time – to witness the birth of the greatest resource for the curious ever – the internet. I searched for these women – women with good old-fashioned names like Audrey, Edith and Marjorie – with no interesting results, until I typed in the name Elsa Bolam. The top line of the search result was:

Elsa Bolam – Geordie Productions

Elsa Bolam is the founding Artistic Director of Geordie Productions. Elsa was born in Newcastle up Tyne, England, where she began her career…

Truly a “Bingo!” moment if there ever was one. Here was a school girl’s signature in a book from the 1950s and there was the accomplished woman – television director at the BBC, teacher at the Canadian National Theatre School, recipient of the Queen’s Golden Jubilee Medal and the Order of Canada. I held a small piece of history in my hands and felt that sense of satisfaction tinged with humility that I get when I’ve found a piece of the metaphorical jigsaw that wasn’t in the box.

I emailed the manager of Geordie Productions and got an enthusiastic response straight back. That was definitely the same Elsa, the company was celebrating it’s 35th birthday shortly and they’d love to present it to her if I was willing to part with it. Of course, I was. A couple of months later I got the following email:

Dear Mary,

I can't solve the mystery completely, but can provide context. The names on the page are of all the girls in my high school class at Dame Allan's. The reason you could find me is because although, like the others, I got married, I retained my maiden name for professional purposes. I am a theatrical director, which of course you must know from the Geordie Web Site. I emigrated to Canada in 1967, and my husband and I started the Centaur Theatre in Montreal in 1969, and then in 1980 I founded Geordie Productions. I'm glad to say that both companies are thriving in the mainly francophone arts milieu of Montreal.

I think that my class must have bought the book as a present for a teacher at Dame Allan's. I have one class friend over here - her maiden name is Sheila Pescod, and neither of us can remember anything about it. But that's the most likely explanation. Dean, the present Artistic Director of Geordie, presented me with the book at my birthday party, and when I saw the page of names I couldn't believe my eyes for a moment. I guess the owner must have died, and the book was donated to the Lit & Phil. Glad to know that it's still going strong. My maternal grandfather was a prominent member, so was my dad. I remember how solemn it always seemed to be there, with those marble busts on high shelves.

I'm delighted to have the book itself. It is lovely and in great condition, and it brings back great memories of my mother taking me to performances of the D'Oyley Carte Light Opera company, which came every year to the Theatre Royal, when I was small.  Thank you so much for being curious enough to track me down, and nice enough to 'pop it in the post!' It's all been greatly appreciated.

I read that email five minutes after saying goodbye to my son, also an alumni of Dame Allan’s, as he headed off to the school’s annual Christmas service at St Nicholas Cathedral in Newcastle.

The world is small and full of mystery. It’s also in a right mess. In this age when an eminent politician can say “I think that the people of this country have had enough of experts” (thank you Michael Gove), we, the curious lovers of mystery, need to keep looking down the back of the sofa for those puzzle pieces that the rest have missed in order to capture the truth in narrative. Then the story – the real story – can be revealed.