Dear Letitia

Dear Letitia,

It was in October 2018, that you snuck into my life. On a last meander around London, a week before I was due to fly home to Australia, I took a notion to visit the Temple Church. Based on the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem, it was built by the Knights Templar and consecrated in 1185.

It took some time to find the tiny Elizabethan gateway to the Temple Gardens, dwarfed among the imposing buildings of Fleet Street. I had read some of the history including the fact that it had escaped the Great Fire of London only slightly singed, but I wasn’t expecting it to be so overshadowed by the more modern buildings.

I walked through the Temple Gardens, entered the ancient, round church and came face to face with your portrait.

My eyes often glaze over when reading excerpts of history on the walls of old buildings. The art and craft of the architectural details are what interest me most. Was it the mixture of wisdom and innocence that I saw in your face, young and fresh, despite the gravity of the uniform? Or was it the fact that you were born in Australia that drew my attention, and then drew something like indignation? Why had I never heard of you despite the description beneath your photograph outlining a dazzling career?

That evening, giving way to curiosity, I googled your name and was surprised about how little detail I could find, despite your brilliant contribution to medicine including being a champion of the poor and sick, despite serving with distinction in both world wars, despite being a profuse researcher and writer, despite rising to become the first female Chief Medical Officer for London, and despite then going on to distinguish yourself in the legal profession.

Those eyes of yours seemed to beckon me and I took my self back to London to visit the Medical Library known as the Wellcome Collection. Your family had deposited five boxes of your documents and writing in the archives. By the time I joined the library and by the time the large document I ordered was brought up to the reading room, I had only half a day left. None of the material was digitalised and nothing was allowed to be copied. I read the PhD dissertation by a medical student, Emily Garret, before catching the train home in the dark. Several days later, I was back in Australia with you by my side. Were you curious to see the country of your birth once again? Or were you there to prod me into not forgetting you, just as my Great-grandmother, Agnes had prodded me until I ended up telling her story in The White Apron?