My brick wall has stood for more than a decade. I start this article with that confession, after which you can decide whether to ignore advice given by an abject failure, or to indulge your innate curiosity as a family historian and continue reading.
My association with the wonderful world of genealogy began twelve years ago by virtue of a double-edged twist of fate. My late father was adopted into the Broom family at an early age, but was never remotely interested in knowing about his birth parents until he was diagnosed with a terminal condition in 2010 and given between two and three years to live. Not long after that fateful pronouncement, he phoned to tell me that he’d like to discover more about the circumstances of his birth and asked if I could help. After many enquiries and long conversations with all manner of helpful people, I managed to unearth the identity of his mother, but the only information about his father was confined to the comment ‘John Palmer, present address unknown’.
After eleven years of trying to trace the identity of my biological grandfather, including every DNA test under the sun, countless emails, an endless trail of letters and telephone calls, my brick wall has not budged. There have been a few occasions when I’ve sensed a breakthrough, but then had my hopes dashed. Even the much awaited and deservedly vaunted 1921 Census has failed to
