Kissing cousins
 It's hard to remember who's who today, but it was even tougher for the Victorians |
My elder sister rings and asks if I've heard the sad news about Cousin Gerald. It doesn't take me a moment to realise that this is a test. Over the years my sister has become the custodian of our family's history. She not only knows the names and ages and addresses and personal predilections of aunts and uncles and nieces and nephews and first, second and third cousins, but also jumps at any chance to display her superior genealogical knowledge.
"Cousin Gerald," I say, desperately trying to picture our family tree and locate a branch named Gerald. "You know," says my sister. "Harold's eldest. The one who went off with Grace after Uncle Ron died. He's your first cousin."
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The only name I can grab hold of in this litany is Harold. Uncle Harold, Dad's brother. The one who my mother didn't care for because he smoked a smelly pipe and always stood with his large bottom towards the fire so no-one could ever catch a glimpse of the warm flames.
"Ah, Harold's eldest," I say with just enough assurance to suggest that he is rarely from my thoughts.
"Yes, Cousin Gerald. He's had a bad skiing accident in Canada.""Really," I say. "And will he be well enough to get back home?" "He is home," retorts my sister. "Cousin Gerald lives in Canada with Grace. He's lived there for nearly twenty years."
I mumble something about confusing him with another cousin but my sister isn't listening. She has more urgent matters to address. "Now," she tells me, "you may not remember Cousin Gerald but he was always very fond of you. And so it would be very nice if you were the one to ring Michael and give him the sad news."
|  I can only be grateful, I suppose, that my family is not even more complex  name here |
"Michael?"
"What is the matter with you today? Michael is Gerald's son. The one doing metallurgy at Leeds. Your first cousin once removed. But when you ring Michael - yes I'll give you the number again - when you ring Michael, whatever you say, don't ask him to pass on the news to Simon because as you'll remember he hasn't spoken to Simon ever since he dumped Alexandra and went off with his so-called researcher."
"Simon dumped Alexandra?"
"I just said that. So you'll do that little thing for the family?"
"Yes," I said. But I lied. I still haven't quite found the time or energy to ring my first cousin once removed and tell him that his father, or my first cousin, has had a skiing accident in Canada and that he's the first one of the family to know because of course.I haven't mentioned a word about it to my other first cousin once removed, Simon.
I can only be grateful, I suppose, that my family is not even more complex. Imagine trying to cope with some of those upper middle class Victorian families - families like Charles Darwin's - where marriages to your own cousins were positively encouraged.
If I can't even manage Harold and Gerald and Michael and Simon, how would I ever cope with the product of such cousin marriages - or, heaven help me, cross cousin marriages - in which a mother's brother's daughter could at the same time be a father's sister's daughter?
It all rather reminds me of that old musical hall song. How did it go? "If your father was your mother would your sister be your brother. Remember dad on mother's day."
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