Cornish interest contributions

I looked in the full-length mirror in my bedroom, spread my legs a foot or so, held out my arms, and, in a passable imitation of Sean Connery, I said out loud to no-one in particular,

"My name is Uren, Abednego Uren!"

I realised almost at once that it would hold no threat or menace to the listener. The probable answer would be,

"You must be joking"

The name Abednego Uren cropped up when I decided to research the family origins. It wasn't as if I thought that back there, somewhere in the mists of time, lay an aristocratic ancestor, a genius, or perhaps even a fellow deported to the colonies for stealing a loaf of bread. No, it was because I had time on my hands, a driven curiosity, and a pride in the family, of what it had done and where it had come from. Foolishly, for it became an obsession, I decided to compile a family tree.

It was easy at first - the official records were available, and providing you were prepared to neglect the garden, leave the car uncleaned, and the DIY books on the shelf, progress could be made.

It soon became clear that I had descended from a long line of peasants. There was no ancient lineage, no inspired mastermind from the Industrial Revolution, no maestro of song or poetry, no bygone holder of land or property, in sad fact, no pedigree at all.

There were hints, just hints mind you, of an unfrocked priest, of a rural Lothario renowned for putting it about a bit and never getting caught. And most exciting of all there were legends handed down in the villages and area where they all aprang from, of one Charlotte-Anne. She who had the powers to heal, to staunch the flow of blood, to banish headaches, and on the side to foretell the future, and prepare love potions and medicines that would guaranteee fertiliity. In all probability she was a skilled herbalist, not a craft unknown to those born and bred in the country. However, she lived alone in a cottage down a lane with a cat for company, and allthough ahe didn't wear a black pointed hat, she had the reputation of being a witch. I found that exciting, after all how many families have witches in their past? (Not that sort anyway!)

Then suddenly out of the blue came Abednego Uren. He was the son of William and Grace, and further researches indicated that he was an engineman by trade, whatever an engineman was supposed to be.

In any event, he came from very humble origins and was an ordinary man in every sense of the word. But how could anybody with a name like Abednego be classed as ordinary? Was the harsh, close-knit mining community in which he lived and died full of Shadrachs and Meschachs as well? That I doubted very much. Perhaps it was Grace who may have been able to read, and was full of Holy Zeal after having been delivered of a child, who gave her son this extraordinary name. Little did she realise the effect this may have had on her son. Would his life have been made a misery by his workmates, and the engine-house been a welcome haven from their gibes, however good-natured? Here, surrounded by the clattering steel, hissing steam, and pounding wheels, with rags in one hand and oil-can in the other, he found the peace he so desperately sought. Who knows, maybe he was the first engineman?

But what if my engineman ancestor had lived now, in 2001? Would he have been able to cope with being called Abednego? Would he have cursed his parents for handing him such a burden , and changed it to something ordinary at the first opportunity, or would he have carried it with dignity and pride?

School would have been difficult. When you are four, most names are hard to spell. Abednego would have been impossible. The teasing would have been unmerciful, the bullying even worse. Nobody would understand, for who reads the Bible in 2001 anyway? He would have become an ethic minority of one!

But this early adversity would have been the start of forming a character as strong and as hard as steel. Imagine meeting a girl for the first time - she would have dissolved into giggles on hearing his name and shortened it, as lovers sometimes do, to Bedd, perhaps.

What would he have done for a living, this ancient engineman of mine? It is hard to imagine an Army Officer called Captain Abednego Uren, or to see the name Abednego Uren in letters of gold on the door of some financial institution in the City of London. Teaching would have been out, for obvious reasons. The children couldn't have waited to get to school to be confronted with a name like that.

We live in suspicious times. Fraud is a work of art, dishonesty, lies and sleaze are the norm, but even so, imagine applying for a credit card with a name like Abednego Uren, occupation engineman. Credit limit £1500? I should say so!

And so this ancient relative of mine would have had great problems if he had lived in 2001. I like to think he wouldn't have changed his name, but stuck to Abednego, with all the difficulties that came his way - became proud of it, walked tall with it, and relished the religious background of his name. Perhaps he would have become a great leader of his country, austere, correct, unbending. Would he have become the man to lead us out of the mire of materialism, intolerance and triviality? The thought was intoxicating. I began to picture him as a Moses-loke figure, bearded, with piercing eyes, standing on a rock with staff in hand, ready to lead his people out of their misery and wilderness.

And then I looked at us, his descendants. I kept on looking, hoping perhaps to find another Nelson, a new Winston Churchill, but there was not even the smallest pillar of society available. I began to feel disappointed and dejected. Why did we have to be such a team of also-rans and not-quite-made-its?

Perhaps it was a prod from Abednego, wherever he was, divine inspiration perhaps, but more likely good old-fashioned commonsense, for I realised that I had been looking for the wrong thing.

None of us were stars, and none of us were going to make the earth move, but we had inherited some precious commodities from our ancient engineman. We did have courage, we did have stamina, we did have integrity, and in our small ways we kept things going.

Yes, we were some of the great unsung who got up everyday, cried a bit, laughed a bit, worried a lot, and loved. We kept all sorts of engines running, day and night we could be found, oil-can in hand, making things run a little easier, preventing things from breaking down, making things tick.

This story may not be reprinted or distributed in any way without the permission of the author.

Email: trevorandrews@eircom.net