At Home by the Sea

by Pam Weaver

  As Paddy and Edith walked in, a blast of warm air from inside the dance hall drifted into the street, teasing her cold limbs and making Polly realise just how cold she was. She shivered. There was no doubt that Polly was tempted to go inside just to warm up, but she was resolute. She stamped her freezing feet defiantly as she looked up and down the street again. Where was he? Oh Jack, I hope you’re not going to let me down. You promised. You promised.

  *

  ‘But you promised,’ her mother had cried helplessly.

  A lot had happened in the five years since her father’s death. Back then, Polly was only eleven years old but she would never forget the moment the doctor had shaken his head and said to her mother, ‘I’m sorry, Alice. There’s nothing more we can do.’

  ‘You said if I brought him to the hospital, he’d get well.’

  Alice had wept. They were standing in the middle of an overcrowded ward full of sick people. Some coughed, some were vomiting into enamel bowls and others was calling the over stretched nurses for privy-pots. The smell, even in this scrubbed and disinfected place, was indescribable.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not God,’ said the doctor.

  Alice Patterson wiped her eyes and stiffened. Polly reached for her mother’s hand. She was right. This wasn’t what they’d expected to hear.

  It was almost unheard of for a doctor to come out for the likes of them but Doctor Mayhew had a good deal of respect for her father. They had met on the docks and were both trying to improve the working conditions of the dockers. It was an uphill struggle against employers who would sooner sack a man than make life easier for him. After Henry had missed an appointment with Doctor Mayhew, he had turned up at the door to see what had happened. When the doctor had seen the state her father was in, he had insisted that they take him to the infirmary.

  Only three days before Henry had been as fit as a fiddle, but then he had come home with a bad headache. A ship had come into port with a load of Irish workers bound for London from Liverpool. Refugees from poverty and with few resources of their own, they had been kept below decks in unsanitary conditions. The weather had been stormy, the ship delayed, and when the hatches were finally lifted, the men were very poorly. Henry Patterson had been one of those who had helped the sick men onto the dockside where they were dispatched either to the infirmary or to the mortuary.

  ‘I ain’t seen noffin’ like it,’ he told his wife when he came home that night. ‘They was eaten alive by the lice and fleas; chucking up all over the place and no time to get to a privy-pot.’

  Over the next day or so, Henry’s symptoms had worsened until he had not only a high temperature, diarrhoea and a dry cough, but also a spotty rash all over his chest. It came as no real surprise when Doctor Mayhew gave his diagnosis; typhus fever.

  ‘This is a highly contagious condition,’ Doctor Mayhew told her mother as he held a handkerchief over his own nose. ‘If your husband stays at home there is no doubt that he will die. This sickness will rampage through this building like wild fire and I cannot allow that to happen.’

  ‘I can look after him,’ Alice had pleaded. ‘Just tell me what to do.’

  Doctor Mayhew shook his head. ‘If you won’t allow him to come willingly,’ the doctor told her, ‘I shall have to inform the authorities and they will take him forcibly.’

  Polly and her mother were alarmed. The thought of her dear father being dragged off against his will was too awful to think about.

  ‘I am sure that once he’s in hospital his condition will improve,’ the doctor had assured her mother.

  Their neighbours had been more sceptical. ‘For the love of God, Alice, don’t send him to the infirmary,’ Betty Cummings had said. ‘Nobody comes out of that place alive, you mark my words.’

  Her mother had been torn. Should she nurse Henry at home and risk the rest of the family getting the fever and incur the disapproval of the authorities or do as she was bidden? Nobody liked the idea of hospitals. Betty wasn’t alone in her assumption that anyone who went to the infirmary was doomed to die. ‘If your time is up,’ Betty had insisted, ‘better to be with your family than in a room full of strangers.’

  The whole of her life, Polly had been surrounded by poverty, squalor and misery but her home was better than most in the area. She had grown up in three rooms on the first floor of the building with her parents and siblings. To begin with, there had been six of them but now there was only Polly and her younger brother Walter. Their mother, Alice, kept a clean house. Everything shone, the floors were spotless, the walls had been recently papered and the main room boasted two comfortable chairs and several stools. The cramped bedroom had two beds pushed together, one larger than the other, and both beds were covered with a multi-coloured patchwork quilt, all hand stitched by Alice herself. Their clothes were stored in a large chest of drawers. The third room was a small kitchen where Alice did all of her cooking and the washing. Polly’s father had worked on the docks all of his life and was now well respected gaffer, which made it seem all the more ironic that he should succumb to a disease associated with dirt and vermin.

  ‘Keep his privy-pot separate from the rest of the family,’ Alice had told Polly when Henry first began to have the runs. ‘And wash yer hands after you’ve cleaned him up.’

  Her mother cleaned the surgery rooms for the doctor so she’d been schooled in how to keep things clean. Polly did as she was bidden religiously but now, despite all of their best efforts, here was Doctor Mayhew telling them that her father was going to die.

  *

  They buried Henry a few days later and with his passing, their fortunes took a nose-dive. They would have to give up their rooms on the first floor as the rent was more than they could afford. Alice went into a deep depression, which was hardly surprising. Polly’s mother had not only lost her husband but two of her children; Agnes, aged three, had died of diphtheria before Polly was born, and when she was four, ten-month-old baby Silas had choked to death on a piece of bread. To add to her sorrow, Polly’s brother, Matthew, who should have taken on the role of head of the family, had landed himself in serious trouble and had been arrested. Now he languished in Newgate jail.

  ‘It’s a mercy,’ Alice told her daughter, ‘that he wasn’t transported to the other side of the world.’

  Her mother was still scarred by the memory of her brother Dicken, who many years before had been one of the last British prisoners to be transported to New South Wales. Alice had been just six years old and because Dicken couldn’t read or write, she had never heard from him again.

  With the head of the household gone and her mother in no fit state to make decisions, it fell to Polly to look for somewhere to live. In the end, she found a more affordable basement room not far from Bethnal Green. It was a lot smaller than they were used to but with only the three of them – Polly, her mother and her younger brother Walter – it wouldn’t be too cramped. Polly could see the disappointment on her mother’s face. ‘Don’t worry,’ she assured her. ‘Once I’ve cleaned it up, it’ll be grand.’

  Polly’s eldest brother, Sid, who had a family of his own over in Shoreditch, was a costermonger. He bought fruit and vegetables wholesale and sold it on in the markets. The life of a costermonger wasn’t easy but he did alright, so when their father died, he gave Polly work. By the time she was twelve, Polly was well used to being up at four in the morning in the summer and six o’clock in the winter. She wasn’t afraid of hard work either and she began by selling oranges in the summer and apples in the winter.

  All day long she would call, ‘Fine Kent apples. Oranges two a penny,’ until her voice was gone.

  The life of a costermonger was short and the women, especially those who, by the time they were twenty, already had several children, were old before their time. Unusually for a girl of Polly’s age, she was ambitious. She began people watching, observing the habits of travellers, especially in the better part of town. What she was looking for was some sort of need; something which perhaps
even the people themselves didn’t know they wanted and she planned to be the first to provide it.

  Once she had pulled herself together after her husband’s death, Alice took in washing. Polly’s younger brother Walter, who was seven at the time their father died, walked with Sid’s donkey cart and took his turn to shout out their wares when Sid had lost his voice. Thus, on a good week, between the three of them they brought in as much as fifteen shillings. Polly was confident that Sid would always look after their mother but Polly knew that if she herself didn’t hitch up with someone, she would be on her own. But with no capital and no good ideas, what could she do to better her position?

  By the time she had turned thirteen, Polly decided the life of a street-seller wasn’t for her. She was tired of the early mornings, the haggling, the lousy weather on market days and having to stay out all day in the open until the market was lit by naphtha flares and tallow candles.

  ‘It’s all very well saying you’re fed up with it,’ her mother complained. ‘What else can you do?’

  *

  One day, Polly got home early and found that Sid had called in to see their mother. They were sitting at the kitchen table drinking tea.

  ‘How d’you get on?’ asked Sid.

  ‘All sold out,’ said Polly. ‘Some soldiers came marching by and when the sergeant told them to fall out, they pounced on my oranges and had the lot.’

  Sid chuckled. ‘We could do with more days like that, girl.’

  He looked hot and tired but he’d had a good day as well. Walter sat at the table with his head on his arms struggling to keep his eyes open.

  ‘How do you fancy going hop-picking in the country?’

  Sid’s question took Polly by surprise. Of course she’d heard tell of hop-picking in Kent but it all sounded so far away you might as well have asked her to go to the far side of the moon. She’d never stepped outside of London. What exactly was hop-picking? How would she get there?

  ‘Cat got yer tongue?’ Sid teased. ‘We’re all going. I’m taking Walter and me missus suggested you and Ma might like to come too.’

  ‘But how …’ Polly began.

  ‘You let me worry about that,’ said Sid. ‘Just say you’ll come.’

  Alice took a little persuading. ‘What about me customers?’ she cried. ‘Who’ll do their washing?’

  ‘Let ’em do it themselves for a change,’ said Sid. ‘They’ll appreciate you all the more when you gets back.’

  ‘How long will we be gone?’

  Sid shrugged. ‘Five, six weeks.’

  ‘Five weeks!’ Alice cried. She looked unconvinced.

  ‘It’ll be like a little holiday for you, Ma.’

  And when Sid went on to say that they only wanted her to look after her grandchildren and cook a meal for everybody in the evening, she wavered. ‘Fresh air and only the birds for company,’ he went on. ‘It’ll do you the power of good. You’ll love it, Ma.’ Sid turned to Polly. ‘Hop-picking is hard work,’ her brother told her, ‘but it pays well and you’ll be able to breathe in the fresh Kent country air all day long, Poll, so what do you say?’

  *

  They set off together a week later. They travelled by train, another experience Polly had never had before. Their ticket was third class and the carriages were very crowded, but once she got used to the movement of the train and trusted that it wouldn’t fall over, Polly enjoyed the ride. The price of her ticket had eaten a fair sized hole into her savings but Sid had been very persuasive as to the benefits.

  They were well loaded because they had had to take all but the kitchen sink. Because she knew that when they got there it would take a while to settle, Alice had made them a pie each to tide them over until she could prepare an evening meal.

  When they arrived at the station, several horses and wagons waited outside. Everybody piled on board and they set off for the hop fields. People were very friendly and those who had been before caught up with old friends. Polly was over-awed by it all. She’d never seen a cow in a field before and the wide open spaces and the green of the countryside almost took her breath away. When they passed through a village or by a small cottage, everyone would wave and the people waved back. Little kids ran after the wagons until they grew tired. Polly envied their freedom.

  Polly’s family were billeted along with a couple of other families in a big barn. It was clean and airy with pallets for beds. Their mattresses were stuffed with hay and smelled so fresh and sweet. At one end of the barn there was a pile of faggots which were used to light a fire for the cooking. A large skillet and a cooking pot had been provided under a covered roof outside the barn. It was here that Alice and a couple of other women were to do their cooking. To keep the food safe from the mice, it was locked in large boxes and stored inside an old shepherd’s hut. Everyone was given their own personal key.

  The next day, Polly and the other hop-pickers met by the field. She and Sid were given a ‘bin’, a very large sack held open by a framework of poles at each end. They had to start at the bottom of the row and work their way along, picking as they went. When the bin was full, they had to call for the Tally man who would keep a record of how many basketfuls they had gathered. They were paid according to the weight of hops they had picked. The seasoned pickers worked very quickly and Polly and Sid soon got the hang of it. It was repetitive and hard work but the day sped by. They picked from Monday to Friday but Saturday and Sunday was their own. In the evening, they came back to the barn for their meal and while the children played, the older people would gather around the camp fire, swapping stories and singing songs.

  It wasn’t long before Polly had some colour in her cheeks and Alice was back to her old self. Walter worked steadily and enjoyed mucking about with the other young lads in the evening.

  ‘Haven’t seen you here before?’

  Polly was strolling along the hedgerow looking for blackberries when a young man drew alongside her. He was slightly taller than her with a mop of dark hair and striking brown eyes. Only a few years older than her, he had a ready smile and a gentle voice.

  ‘My first time,’ said Polly. She reached up for a particularly juicy looking blackberry and put it in her bowl. The man stretched above her and pulled down the whole branch for her to pick the rest of the berries. ‘Thank you.’ She smiled.

  ‘Are you here with your family?’ he asked.

  Polly nodded. ‘In the barn. And you?’

  ‘I have a tent in the field on my own,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘This is my first time too.’

  She carried on picking and they chatted about nothing in particular.

  ‘What’s yer name?’

  ‘Polly. What’s yours?’

  ‘Jack,’ he said, his bright eyes dancing with laughter. ‘They calls me Pineapple Jack.’

  Polly gave him a puzzled look until he went on to explain that he’d been among the first to see the potential of the strange and exotic fruits from the Bahamas that gave him his name.

  ‘Messrs Keeting and Hunt buy them directly from the shipping wharf at four pence each,’ he explained. ‘To start with, I had the over ripe fruit they didn’t want at a better price and I sold them at a shilling each or tuppence a slice.’ He grinned. ‘I done well, but the trick is to keep one step ahead of the competition.’

  She found out that he worked as a costermonger way over in Spitalfields. ‘I keep to that,’ he explained, ‘because it’s not such a big market. There’s a lot less competition than Covent Garden or Billingsgate. Now I’m looking for an opening nobody else has found.’

  Polly chuckled. ‘You and me both.’

  ‘Got any good ideas then?’

  ‘Plenty,’ she teased, ‘but I’m not telling you.’

  *

  They’d been on the hop farm three weeks when everybody decided to have a dance. The weather was good so they cleared an area outside the barn and several pickers turned up with their musical instruments. They had managed to pull together a couple of clay pipes, a f
iddle and a drum. Rehearsals were a bit of an endurance but nobody minded much. The singers usually drowned out the worst of it and everyone had a laugh anyway.

  Polly had only brought a couple of dresses but she and the other girls pampered each other by doing each other’s hair and making daisy chain halos, and Polly put wild flowers in her hair. She and Alice baked a few pies for the celebration and by the time everyone had finished, the plank suspended over two hay bales positively groaned with food. Some of the men had walked into the nearest village to buy beer and by six o’clock they were ready.

  By far, the most handsome man there was Pineapple Jack. The other lads were neat and tidy but he looked dashing and Polly was the envy of every girl on the farm when he danced with her.

  *

  Back home in Bethnal Green, it was a bit of a struggle to get used to the foul air of the city once again. Soon, the autumn would give way to winter and people would be lighting fires. Polly quickly lost the summer tan she had gained in the hop fields and she did her best to settle back into normal life again. Only now she had another interest. Pies.

  ‘I’ve got myself a job in Jacob Shulman’s bakery.’

  Her mother put her hand to her cheeks in horror. ‘You must be mad, my girl,’ she said. ‘From what I hear, he’s a hard taskmaster.’

  ‘You know I’m not a-feared of hard work, Mother,’ said Polly, ‘and he pays a fair wage. One day I’m going to open a pie shop.’

  Her mother had snorted. ‘Don’t be daft, girl,’ she said. ‘You need money and a good business head for that.’

  Polly didn’t argue. She knew that but if she was going to better herself, what better way than to learn from the grass roots up?

  It was hard work, hot and tiring, but Polly was doing more than baking pastry. She was watching every aspect of the business. Before her father died, her mother had taught her to cook, something which had been rekindled in Kent, but to cook on a more commercial scale was another skill altogether. She had noticed when they were on the train on their way to the hop fields, that a lot of people were hungry. Some of the children cried for want of something to eat. Polly and her family had no such problem because her mother had baked them a pie each for the journey. The same thing had happened on the return journey. Polly thought about this long and hard. Jacob Shulman’s pie men sold large family-size pies but Polly was sure there might be demand for a small individual pie, just a few mouthfuls of which could take the edge off a hunger. And where would she sell them? Outside the railway station.