Written By: Jennifer Lynn Weston

The following is a missing scene from Chapter 34 of 'Jack To The Future.'

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"Those're the only Norringtons 'ereabouts. If yer wantin' anyone more recent, ye'll have to check one o' the newer graveyards."

James looked up from his contemplation. The speaker was a middle-aged man with sandy hair and a plain, friendly face, leaning against a nearby bench. Most probably a caretaker here, to judge from the splotched coveralls and pronged trash stick.

"I shall keep that in mind for future reference. But these are the ones I was searching for this morning." James indicated a linear family plot, marked out with a modest fieldstone border. At the head stood a pair of weathered gray slabs, their inscribed names barely legible:

'Andrew James Norrington'
'Marie Draper Norrington'

The caretaker eyed the centuries-old graves in an understanding manner. "You hain't alone. Folk come 'ere all the time doin' roots studies."

Norrington doubted he meant the botanical variety. "Pardon me- 'roots studies'?"

"Named fer that telly series. 'Bout the African blokes. 'Got all manner o' folk interested in locatin' theer distant ancestors."

"I see." James made a mental note to find out about that TV series.

"If you don't mind my haskin', where is it yer from?"

"My most recent residence is Jamaica, in the Caribbean."

The rumpled man nodded. "Yer forebears go there ta make theer fortune raisin' sugar?"

Norrington wondered whether the man was more educated than his station suggested, or if he'd gleaned such historical information from conversations with visitors. "To serve in the Royal Navy, actually."

"Ah. Maybe that gent?" The caretaker pointed his stick at a military marker, just in front the larger headstones:

'Sacred To The Memory Of
James Lysander Norrington
Admiral, HMRN
Lost At Sea'

The former navyman inclined his head. His implied confirmation was not really a lie- that James Norrington was indeed his antecedent. And the marker's inaccuracy was no deception; just an entirely understandable error.

Nonetheless, he was unwilling to speak the falsehood aloud. Not right beside his parents' resting places.

Noting James' troubled expression, the caretaker straightened up. "Well, perhaps I'd best leave ye to yer privacy."

"Good day, sir. Thank you for your help."

The older man tipped his shabby cap and sauntered off, stabbing a few bits of trash beside the curved gravel road. James waited until he'd wandered from sight, before moving several steps back to read the next row of gravestones.

As expected, Rachel was absent- no doubt interred in her husband's ancestral vault in Norwalk. But Jacob Andrew Norrington's simple stone was easy to find. Beside him lay 'Roberta Stevenson Norrington, Beloved Wife And Mother'. Below were their three male offspring, and their own wives.

James continued along the length of the plot, reading the inscriptions over three subsequent generations of Norringtons- five generations in all. Though he had no associations with these later names, it was comforting to know Jacob had successfully continued the family line.

James took less pleasure in noting the fourth generation had apparently abandoned the tradition of bestowing 'Lysander' on the oldest son. Somebody had probably decided the name sounded too old-fashioned. The omission bothered him more than he would have expected.

The fifth generation filled the plot to the border. James considered there could, at this moment, be living Norringtons somewhere in London. But locating them held no special appeal for him. He could hardly inform any of them who he was, and it might turn out that, outside of the familial connection, they had nothing in common. No point in courting disappointment.

He retraced his steps back to the older graves, where he seated himself on the cast-iron bench, to regard a grave he did feel a connection with. Esther Sarah Norrington's headstone was one of the few adorned with a carved decoration; a severed flower bud, denoting maidenhood unsullied and unfulfilled.

James clenched his eyes against the old pain. How many times had he overheard one parent or another chiding Essie for her recklessness- warning her she'd not live to marry, if she didn't cease skating near the unfrozen end of the pond, urging that pony to a full gallop, venturing so close to the headland's edge? Such a cruel irony, that she had indeed died before marriage... sitting in a carriage beside her parents.

On the heels of that grief came too-familiar rage, and equally familiar striving to subdue it. The other carriage's coachman had done jail time for driving drunk. And had long since gone to judgment. That really ought to suffice.

More importantly: even if the wretch had escaped earthy punishment, and were alive today, James knew Mother would have wanted him to forgive the offense. He'd known her views on it since he was ten years old. Rachel had come home, red-faced with fury over some humiliating prank another girl had played on her (he didn't remember the specifics.) Mother had taken the opportunity to call all her brood into the parlor, to give them a talk about the morality, and practicality, of never nursing grudges or vengeful thoughts. It was a sinful squandering of mental energy and living time, and also subtracted joy from life, she'd said.

That was one of the few extended lessons James remembered receiving directly from Mother, she being a firm believer that the upbringing of boys was a job best left to men, who were equipped to understand them. There'd been many a moment, especially in his preteen years, when James had wished she believed differently. Throughout his childhood, the occasions he'd spent with her were like sunsets; widely spaced and tinged with special beauty.

Oh, he knew it was a romanticized view... that the scarcity of his interactions with Mother had colored his perception. No doubt, she'd actually possessed as many human foibles as had Father- a man who could be aloof, impatient, unreasonably demanding, and sometimes stubbornly blind to what he chose not to see. Being aware of these faults had never undercut James' love for Father. If anything, this assured him it was the actual person he loved.

He suspected his sisters had been equally well-acquainted with Mother's failings, and he rather envied them that. He would have preferred to have a clear view of the whole woman. Not just a distant, idealized figure- probably no better a likeness than the painting hanging in the front hall. That portrait had depicted Marie Norrington in the pastel bloom of youth; luminous and delicate as pink rose petals.

He remembered the real woman's face as less smooth and glowing, though certainly handsome. He recalled her shining brown hair, usually curled into corkscrew ringlets, always topped with a little lace cap. That, and the engraved silver locket at her throat, were barely within the bounds of Quaker austerity, but served as expected indicators of her family's status. She'd had a slightly larger-than-average nose, which Rachel was expressly glad not to have inherited. And striking emerald-green eyes- one feature her portraitist saw no need to alter- which Rachel was expressly disappointed to have missed. (Her younger brother hadn't been above teasing her about his better luck.)

Norrington idly drew forth and unfolded his pocket knife, turned it before his face to mirror his eyes on the blade. That portion of his visage was nearly identical to Mother's. He only needed to squint a bit, to almost see her gazing back at him.

It was, regrettably, the only visual image left to him. After the fatal accident, Jacob had mailed him the silver locket, containing miniature portraits of Mother and Father... smaller versions of the front hall paintings. When the Dauntless went down, the locket had been lost with it.

Norrington stowed the little knife, chiding himself. It absolutely would not do, to dwell on such dispiriting matters. He was sure Mother would prefer it if his recollections of her had a positive effect.

So James deliberately reviewed a series of happy moments. Mother singing hymns at the Sunday Meetings, sometimes with embarrassing enthusiasm. Mother reading with Father in the evenings, leaning warmly against him on the parlor sofa. Mother tenderly binding Jacob's hurt finger, gratefully sniffing Essie's plucked wildflowers, cheerily praising Rachel's embroidered sampler. Best of all; Mother attending the ceremony when eighteen-year-old James had been inducted into the Royal Navy. While both his parents had been beaming with pride at his achievement, Mother's smile that day could have dispersed the densest overcast. Just remembering it was doing as much for her son.

James leaned back against the hard bench, feeling much better. Mother may not have played as large a role in his life as he'd have liked, but at least she'd been there until he'd grown to manhood. In that respect, he could count himself fortunate. So many youngsters of his time had been parted from a parent far too early.

Including somebody he knew quite well.

A distant sound caught his ear; repeated metallic bongs. The bell of the Parliament clock tower, if he wasn't mistaken. James lifted his wrist, checking his watch against the resonant chiming.

Eleven o'clock. He should take his lunch soon, if he was to regain a proper appetite in time for dinner. It wouldn't do to disappoint Jack, who'd waxed so eloquent about that restaurant's excellent entrees.

James rose from the bench, made a respectful bow towards the headstones, and started towards the cemetery entrance. Still pondering

It occurred to him, this stay in London might afford an opportune moment to ask Jack about his own Mum...

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FINIS

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