Almanac History: Claude finally goes home

 

For Patricia Rosemary Watson and Claude John Clifford

 

 

 

 

In 2008, my parents wandered around Cooroy in the Sunshine Coast Hinterland. Patsy took Bill into a second-hand store for a look. Gleaming on a glass shelf was a trophy awarded to C Clifford in 1915 for his points victory in a fight over O Kenn.

 

Later that year, the trophy became my Christmas gift. As I unwrapped it, Patsy watched in anticipation. When I read the inscription on the trophy, she gave me a commission. ‘You need to find out who he was, and find his family,’ Patsy said.

 

The trophy became a decorative trinket. It was repurposed, recognition of the winner of a footy tipping competition I run. Each year, the winner had the honour of drinking beer from the trophy.

 

Many nights with mates, I would clean the trophy and we passed it around, taking turns at drinking from it. I never felt we were disrespecting it. My mate, Adam, told me Claude wouldn’t mind. ‘He’d probably love that we love it and it’s being used,’ he said.

 

It wasn’t until 2014, at Patsy’s insistence, that I invested time into finding out who C Clifford was. His name was Claude John Clifford. A boxer, he had five professional fights in Brisbane in 1918/19. He was also a jockey. On April 3 1926, he died from a cerebral haemorrhage in Brisbane. He was 31, had never married and had no children.

 

My story about the search for Claude and his family was featured on the Footy Almanac website in 2014. Given the intricacy and the grandeur of the trophy, I felt it belonged to the family. Information from Births, Deaths and Marriages suggested I had to research the third generation of his family. Not wanting to intrude on the lives of third generation family members, and given the trophy ended up in a second-hand store, I quit the search.

 

The power of writing

 

The trophy sat in the Arden Street Bar for twelve years. Mostly neglected, occasionally I gave it a polish, but it became a forgotten decoration. A few months back, I thought I should polish it again, and for reasons I can’t recall, I revisited the story I had written about Claude.

 

I never got around to cleaning it, and the trophy remained that forgotten decoration. On 31 July 2024, an email changed all that.

 

Hi Matt

I have been completing family research and came across your article from several years ago on Claude John Clifford and his trophy. He was a featherweight boxer around 1918-1919. Your story states that your parents found Claude’s trophy in a second-hand store and you were given the challenge of finding out who Claude Clifford was. My grandfather Roderick Clifford was Claude’s cousin and Roderick was the manager of 4BC in its day. His son Ronald is my father and he is 98 years old and I would love to be able to give him Claude’s trophy if you are willing to part with it. My dad and his father were keen sportsmen too and both played for Valleys Cricket Club.

Hope to hear from you soon

Regards Diane

 

When I read the email, I was stunned and excited. Diane had included her phone number in the email. The following day, I called her and introduced myself. ‘I’m Matt Watson, the caretaker of Claude’s trophy,’ I said.

 

Di lives in Brisbane, about fifteen minutes from me. She offered a potted history of the family tree, and gently asked if I was willing to part with the trophy.

 

‘That story was about my attempt to find surviving relatives,’ I said. ‘It was a Christmas gift from my parents. Let me call my father and I’ll call you back, but he’ll be thrilled.’

 

I called Bill, explained Di’s email and told him I had called her. ‘You have to give her the trophy,’ Bill said. ‘That’s what we wanted you to do.’

 

When I called Di back, she offered to produce a copy of her birth certificate to prove her ancestry. Then she asked if I wanted money for the trophy.

 

‘That’s not necessary,’ I said. ‘I doubt anyone without a vested interest would contact me. I’m happy it’s going home. Come and get it.’

 

‘What about some good quality beer,’ she asked.

 

‘I make my own beer,’ I said.

 

‘What about a bottle of wine?’

 

I demurred, but she insisted.

 

About an hour later, Di and her husband Brian walked into the front yard. I was there to greet them and offered her my hand. Di shook her head. ‘I want to hug you,’ she said.

 

We hugged, I shook Brian’s hand and we went around the back to the Arden Street Bar. The trophy sat on the bench, and I handed it to her. She handed me a bottle of Pepperjack wine. Brian took a couple of photos, which captured my guilt at not polishing it recently.

 

 

 

‘It’s amazing,’ Di said, her eyes gleaming as she stared at it. I turned it over, and showed her the Made in England badge. She handed me a printout of the family tree, and touched Claude’s icon. I had a look. He shared the same name as his father.

 

They barely knew anything about Claude. No one really does, aside from the scant information in my story. Brian wondered if Claude served in World War 1, and we shrugged.

 

I told them the story of its purchase. ‘I’d love to know how it ended up in a second-hand store in Cooroy,’ I said.

 

Di stared at the trophy. ‘I can’t believe it.’ She took the trophy to the door and angled it to the natural light. I read the inscription out loud for her.

 

Brisbane Gymnasium Tournament

3 May 1915

Challenge

C Clifford v O Kenn

Winner on points

 

‘Sorry it needs a clean,’ I said.

 

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Di said. ‘Brian has some work to do when we get home.’

 

Brian grinned and rolled his eyes.

 

‘I can’t wait to show my father,’ Di said. ‘He’s 98 and still lives alone. He will be so happy.’

 

‘It was Patsy who pushed me to find out about Claude,’ I said. ‘I never expected a relative would reach out. That is the power of writing.’

 

I told them about Patsy’s artwork and Brian asked if I had any of her paintings. I don’t, but I took them inside and showed them a painting hanging on the lounge room wall. In the seventies, Bill painted a beautiful, partial nude of Patsy lying on grass and holding a blue wine bottle.

 

Di asked me the obvious question. ‘Did you know this was a painting of your mother?’

 

I shook my head. ‘About fifteen years ago a mate asked me if it was Patsy. I called Bill and he asked me if I thought he would paint anyone else. When my youngest was about three, he walked into the lounge one day, waved at the painting and said hi Patsy.’

 

They laughed. When they left, Di blew me a kiss. Brian shook my hand and thanked me.

 

I texted Bill the photo of me, Di and the trophy. ‘It’s gone home,’ I wrote.

 

‘Well done Matthew. Patsy would be so proud of you,’ Bill replied.

 

Later that day, I texted mates who had taken a drink from the trophy. Paul joked that it was probably worth thousands. ‘You should’ve gotten it valued,’ he said with a chuckle.

 

‘Maybe it is. It was made in England,’ I said. ‘A remarkable trophy for the winner of a fight. A Christmas gift to me, but priceless to the family.’

 

Adam sent a text. ‘Shame I didn’t get one last drink!’

 

Andy texted me. ‘Huge part of family history. Can be passed down through the generations.’

 

When I started telling Stevo the story, he interrupted me to make sure I had given the trophy to Di, then told me he was getting goose bumps. ‘This is amazing,’ he said.

 

The legacy of writing

 

Occasionally I get emails from people who have read my stories about former VFL footballers. They have been neighbours, former teammates or relatives wanting to reconnect. Our stories on the Footy Almanac website leave a legacy beyond those interested in football. The benefit of the internet is they are there for eternity, and can be found by anyone.

 

That evening, I felt no regret that the trophy was gone. Disappointment lingered, that I gave up the search so quickly in 2014. I was chuffed, though, that my rudimentary search for Claude’s relatives and the subsequent story had made a difference to Di’s family.

 

What are the chances? What are the chances that Di lives fifteen minutes away?

 

If not for Patsy, it would never have happened. Someone else might’ve bought it, and it could be sitting on a shelf somewhere, largely ignored as I had done to it in recent years.

 

I wondered again how the trophy ended up in a Cooroy second-hand store. Perhaps it filtered down through the hands of relatives for decades before it was given away. The trophy has decades of history that can never be determined, and it matters no longer.

 

The only surviving artefact that Claude once owned, the trophy is his only link to the past and the future. I can imagine the joy and pride he felt when he held the trophy after winning that fight. I could see similar joy and pride in Di’s eyes as she held it more than a hundred years later.

 

 

 

That magnificent trophy, a 109-year-old antique, is one I never truly felt I owned. Without a second thought, I handed it over.

 

On 5 August, Di sent me a text and a photo. The trophy had been cleaned and it shone. Di and her father held it by the handles.

 

Hi Matt. We are slowly cleaning up the trophy. We call it Claude. It is a labour of love. Dad was amazed at Claude’s story and its journey to the Clifford’s. Thank you so much. The story brought a big smile to my dad. Claude is sitting on the top shelf of our display cabinet. We think we will send Claude for a holiday to a professional silver polisher to be restored. He certainly deserves that and I have lots of family members to show him off to.

 

We are mere caretakers of all the possessions we own. When we no longer need those possessions, we move them on, or they are moved on for us. Sixteen years after I took possession of Claude’s trophy, it has moved on again. My caretaker duties are done.

 

Claude has finally gone home, where he belongs.

 

 

You can read more from Matt Watson Here

 

 

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