Try, Try Again [Narrated]

My Mum with my oldest brother, David. One of the stills from the newsreel.

Most Fridays, this Flashback Friday series revisits something I wrote years ago. A memory, a draft, a story I left in a drawer too long.

But this week, I’m breaking the pattern.

Because last Saturday, I published Things You Don’t Talk About, a piece about a football pools win that my parents almost never talked about. And in the six days since, that story has stirred something in me—and in others.

A stranger’s comment (thanks, Graham) nudged me to try again. To reach out one more time in search of the elusive newsreel I’d long believed was lost.

I did. And what happened next reminded me how quickly things can shift when you stay curious, stay open, and try again.

This is the story behind the story.

I wasn’t even fully awake when the reply came. Still under the covers, scrolling through email like I often do.

The subject line caught my eye: RE: Contact research viewing services.
I tapped it open, not expecting much.

Yes, we have it.
Yes, you can view it.

After twenty years of trying, the answer arrived in a few words—almost casually.

I blinked. Read it again. Then again.

It felt surreal. A kind of anti-climax, even.

For years, the archive had been a mystery—with only limited index information and no cross-references to physical media. But now? Digitized. Discoverable. Easy.

And suddenly, the thing I’d chased for two decades was within reach.

My first thought was of my brother.

John was born the year after the pools win. Like me, he’s only ever known the version of our parents’ life that came after their good fortune. That, and the photo album he inherited—the one from the second win, where my parents were invited to the big celebration in London and got to rub shoulders with celebrities of the day.

When we spoke yesterday, it was clear how much of the granular detail he’d either forgotten or maybe never knew.

And I realized—again—how many of our shared stories now live with me.

I’ve lived in the US for the past thirty years. Every year, I go home. And every trip, I spend quality time with John and his family. We sit up late, cups of tea growing cold, trading memories like cards. Filling in the gaps.

We’ve lost our parents. We’ve lost our older brother. The time we have together now—it matters.

Two years ago, I surprised him for his 70th. Turned up unannounced. His wife and kids were in on it. He opened the door and froze—then we both cried.

At first, I thought I might try something like that again. Come up with a reason to get him into central London without telling him why.

But this was different.

I wanted him to enjoy the anticipation, too. The disbelief. The joy.

So I told him.

The viewing is now booked—for me, my brother, and my sister-in-law. We’ll sit down together in mid-August and watch it at the BFI.

That alone would have been enough.

But something else stirred.

I kept thinking about how much The Derbyshire Times had meant to us growing up. It wasn’t just newsprint—it was how you knew who’d been born, who’d passed on, who was standing on picket lines. It was the voice of the town, the coal seams, the families who’d always been there.

So I pitched them a new version of the story. I expected a polite decline—or silence.

Instead, I woke up to a warm yes.

Then, just hours later, another one:
“We loved your piece.”

Now I’m choosing which photos to send.

This week has left me feeling tender. Grateful. Surprised.

And more than a little awed by how some stories find their moment, no matter how long you’ve carried them.

So no, this Flashback Friday isn’t about something I wrote years ago. It’s about something I wrote six days ago—and everything that’s happened since.

About what it means to listen when the past stirs.
About waking to an email that shifts the weight of two decades in a single breath.
About realizing how many of your family’s stories now live with you.
And about choosing to share them.

The film is real. The viewing is booked. The article is written. The photos are almost ready.

And still, I don’t think this story’s finished yet.

But for now, I’m holding on to the grace of what’s already unfolded.

Because sometimes, the right story finds its time.
And sometimes, it only takes one person saying: Try again.