The Phantoms
of the Forms
by Dusty Graves,
census publicist
D AVE
PUSHED a piece of paper across the table. “This is the A-list,” he said proudly.
“Twenty of the most famous people ever to have ever lived in Britain.”
Any royals? I ask conscious that royal celebrity stimulates
the press like no other. “I have Queen Victoria in 1841,
‘51, ‘61, and ‘81,” says Dave with the steady gaze of a
chap who likes to cover all the angles. And then,
unprompted, he confesses: “I can’t find her in 1871.” This
is clearly a disappointment for him.
Dave Annal works at the Family Records Centre in
London. By day, he serves the crowds of family historians
who spend their days trawling through the microfilm
census records in search of their ancestors. By night he’s
a kind of paparazzi historian tracking down celebrities
to wherever they happened to be on the census nights of
the 19th century.
He pieces together scraps of information from books,
biographies, letters, newspapers, anything to help him
locate a celeb. Homing in on those single census days he
finds the famous at friends, in transit, in hotels or just
sitting at home by the fire and then uses the information
to dig out their original, hand written census forms. It
appears that Queen Victoria has only escaped in 1871 by
going into exile. “I’m pretty sure that she was in France,”
says Dave.
Dave knows where to find all the big names: Winston
Churchill, Florence Nightingale, W.G. Grace, Karl Marx,
Edward Elgar, Charles Darwin. And with the bicentenary
of the British census on March 10th and the next Census
taking place at the end of April, his painstaking research
may yet make the front page. And as the publicist for the
2001 census I am keen to see it get there. After all, most
news stories benefit from a bit of celebrity, even dead ones,
and since Census forms remain secret for 100 years that’s
the only sort available.
“The funny thing about Queen Victoria,” says Dave,
opening up a copy of an original census form “is that in
1851 her occupation is recorded as ‘The Queen’ and she
is the Sovereign of much of the world but for all that she
doesn’t rule her own household as far as the census is
concerned. That little corner of England is run by Albert,
her husband, who takes the title ‘head of the household’ at
Buckingham Palace”.
Ten years later, the Queen has addressed this local difficulty
and Albert is relegated to ‘husband’ – “an extremely
unusual occurrence in 19th century census records where
men were nearly always recorded as ‘head of household’”
Dave concludes.
But many other women who are household names today
were also somewhat sidelined in 19th century census forms.
George Eliot (her real name was Mary Ann Evans) is
recorded simply as the wife of her ‘partner’ George Henry
Lewes in 1861 and ’71 (although she never actually married
him). Despite the fact that it was Mary who became one of
the most famous authors of all time, it’s her ‘husband’ who
scoops the title, ‘author’.
While Dave deals in the glamour end of the 19th century
celebrity market, another census historian, Audrey Collins,
plays the role of an honest tabloid hack. The soaps and a
little local colour dragged from deepest history and thrust
into public view are more her scene.
“Corrie and Eastenders,” says Audrey. “There really was
a Coronation Street in Manchester [in 1861] and a Rovers
Return [in 1881].” What, The Rovers was actually on
Coronation Street all those years ago? “Er, no,” admits
Audrey but in true tabloid tradition we decide that we won’t
lie about this; we just won’t tell the whole truth.
“The good bit is,” continues Audrey, “that there’s a Mrs.
E. Sharples living on The Street at number 2 and she’s
listed as ‘widowed’.” Ena? I ask hopefully. “Ellen,” replies
Audrey. She’ll do.
And Eastenders? “There was an Albert Square and even
less has changed there than on Coronation Street,” Audrey
begins with obvious enthusiasm. “Turns out that the
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occupations of everybody living on The Square are given
as brothel-keepers, sailors or prostitutes – there’s even a
Victoria Lodge.” Soaps – so true to life.
Of course, there’s good copy in everyday folk too,
especially if people are a bit odd. “It’s their occupations
that usually give them away,” says Audrey. “There’s a
bloke in South London in 1881 who considered himself a
‘professional wizard’ and a chap in Scarborough who
described himself as ‘bathing van inspector’. In fact,
there’s a lot of them around the 19th century sea-side
resorts.” Sounds like nice work if you can get it.
“People’s census records often give you a little look into
what they or their life might have been like. A woman
from Portsmouth, in 1851, obviously liked to take control.
She declared herself ‘head of household’ and wrote in
her occupation as ‘mangleworker’. Her husband’s
occupation was listed as ‘turns my mangle’.” An
expression of affection or an important socio-economic
record its hard to say.
“A guy in Cornwall,” Audrey continues, “ taking full
advantage of the confidentiality of the census, described
himself as a ‘retired smuggler’. I guess this left him feeling
pretty smug because the census records show that living
just a couple of doors down from him was a ‘retired
customs officer’.” And she could go on.
But what about political scandal, I ask, keen to feed the
media its favourite and I turn back to Dave. “I’ve got
Gladstone,” offers Dave. It’s an interesting case: for 40
years from 1841 to 1881, William Gladstone, British
Prime Minister, was at home in each of the censuses. Then
suddenly, in 1891 he vanishes. Untraceable.
“I couldn’t find him anywhere,” says Dave, “but then I
found a reference to a letter written by Gladstone dated
April 4 th, 1891 – the day before census day – and
addressed, Brighton, Sussex. So I guessed he was on
holiday and I started to search the census records of each
hotel in Brighton. Sure enough, there he was, staying at
The Metropole.”
Not bad, I thought. Brighton’s always been a tempting
location for politicians. A lot of bathing van inspectors in
Brighton. Dave, I began, leaning forward trying to get a look
at the copy of the form he had in his hand, does it happen to
say who he was staying with? Erm, any ladies, perhaps?
“Yes,” said Dave in a tone that told me he knew he’d done
well, “two!” he announced. Two much to ask, said The Sun
in me. “His wife and daughter,” smiled the sleuth.
Produced by the Office for National Statistics to celebrate 200 years of census taking
Many good reference libraries hold census volumes to enable individuals to carry out their own research. The ONS London
library (details below) which is open to the public also contains a full set of census volumes back to 1801. From 10th March
2001 there will be additional information made available on our website:-
www.statistics.gov.uk
Further advice and limited research can be also carried out by Census Customer Services.
Census Customer Services, Office for National Statistics, Room 4300S, Segensworth Road,
Titchfield, Hampshire. PO15 5RR
ONS London Library, Pimlico, London. SW1V 2QQ
Phone : 01329 813800
Fax : 01329 813587
e-mail : [email protected]