Field of Dust

by Angela Jean Young

  The house fell silent as Mary slept most of the time and the lodgers were encouraged to seek out the welcoming warmth of The Huggens Arms. For Flossie, it was a miserable time having to look after Lottie and their mother. Though she was used to doing the weekly wash and putting food on the table when Mary was inebriated, cleaning out the range was hard work for someone so young. Dressing in the icy cold, she could barely feel her fingers or toes as she scraped out the ashes. It was a job that had to be done at dawn so that her father could light it before he left for work.

  As winter increased its grip, seldom a day passed when the funeral cart wasn’t making its solemn way to the cemetery. Everyone blamed the incessant freezing fog for those taken by consumption, influenza and whooping cough. Old George Jenkins the grocer succumbed in his stockroom, leaving his wife to run the shop alone. The Hope remained closed for several days while landlord and wife battled unsuccessfully to save their youngest, and disputes between the Larkins and the Grants were set aside when Jessie’s little brother Arthur was tragically lost to pneumonia. His mother had sat with him for five days and nights, constantly filling a steam kettle and renewing hot linseed poultices wrapped inside his flannel vest, but his body was just too weak. Sam helped the grieving father and grandfather carry the coffin through the churchyard as Flossie held her best friend’s hand tightly.

  ‘My ma’s glad she took out a penny policy on our Arthur,’ whispered Jess. ‘There would have been no money for that coffin otherwise.’

  Paying for life insurance to avoid the stigma of being unable to afford a proper funeral was commonplace for many working-class people. Families would go without food and coal just to put by a penny a week for each child, two for the mother and three for the father. By the end of winter, Reverend Southgate had buried an alarmingly large number of babies and young children, and it had become a contentious issue at Northfleet Council meetings. There was a suspicion that some poor people were insuring new born children, and then allowing them to die in order to collect the death money – which outraged bereaved families like the Larkins. When, after a domestic argument, the dead body of an infant was thrown out of a bedroom window in Samaritan Road, no one was arrested, yet the powers that be proposed a law preventing children under a certain age from being insured.

  ‘They are tarring us all with the same brush,’ George Larkin declared angrily in The Huggens. ‘Criminals get away with murder, while a poor man’s child isn’t worth a penny. So much for the law!’

  The bitter winds, hail and snow that heralded the start of 1879 continued right through until the spring. Flossie opened her curtains on Easter Sunday to see a blanket of snow which looked deep enough to cover her boots. Watching her warm breath melt the ice on the inside of the window, she doubted that the planned reopening of the Rosherville Gardens could possibly go ahead that day. The gates had closed abruptly the previous September, after the sinking of the Princess Alice, and much had been written in the local paper about what should be done to bring back the crowds.

  ‘You won’t have seen the notice, then, since you weren’t at school?’ Maisy Turner said, stopping by the Grants’ yard as she walked through the alley. It was a Monday, washday, and pleasantly warm. Flossie wiped the soap suds off her hands. She’d heard other children talking eagerly as they went by and now curiosity got the better of her.

  ‘It’s stuck on the pier gates,’ Maisy continued at a speed of knots. ‘Says it’ll be half price to get into the gardens this weekend. Only thruppence for a grown-up, and children go free. Ma says they’re trying to drum up business because the bank holiday weekend was a washout and the gala night fireworks were ruined. We’re all going. I’m desperate to try the skating rink, it’s free too but you’ll have to pay sixpence to hire skates. Can’t stop, need to spread the news.’ And with that she was gone.

  Flossie had never actually been inside the Rosherville Gardens, a magical place built in a disused chalk pit, yet she felt she could describe every inch of it. Annie Devonshire had been there right from the start and watched the seventeen acres of uneven wasteland being turned into a ‘Zoological and Botanical Gardens’. Disappointed to find out that tickets for the official opening were seven shillings each, Annie had stood with her neighbours on top of the cliffs to see what kind of people were able to afford such a price.

  ‘As the band of the Royal Marines played a merry tune,’ she said, ‘the Duchess of Kent arrived in all her finery.’

  Flossie thought it sounded so majestic, especially the description of the two Bengal tigers that arrived on the Roxburgh Castle and were unloaded on the slipway.

  Within a few years it was clear that the gardens needed to appeal to a wider public if they were going to succeed. By the time Annie first went inside, in addition to the Italian gardens, statues and the clifftop walks, there was a Gothic hall, bijou theatre and an open-air dancing platform where she twirled to the Rosherville Polka, performed by a quadrille band. Not only that, she got to see the fabulous Lupino family ballet troupe, and marvelled at a hot air balloon ascent. Flossie never tired of hearing about such wonders, though she shivered when told of the Peruvian mummy being kept in a watchtower.

  ‘Church pews must be empty,’ Kate whispered as they joined the long queue on that Sunday morning.

  It seemed as if most of Northfleet had taken advantage of the half-price entry offer, and everyone was in high spirits. Flossie and Lottie’s excitement had prevented them from sleeping the night before, and they were up with the lark, arguing about what to wear from the limited choice in their dresser – the older sister, not surprisingly, settling for something comfortable, whilst younger went for the brightly coloured and impractical. It was clear where Lottie got her fashion sense from when, a few minutes later, Mary, wearing her fancy hat with netting and feathers, came into their room to complain about the fuss. Flossie smiled to herself as she watched their mother putting the discarded clothing back into the drawers, holding on to her hat each time as she bent forward. It was nice to see her sober for once. She looked so much younger when her ice-blue eyes were sparkling, despite being so heavily hooded.

  Joining Kate and her children waiting by the Calleybank – a column of chalk some eighty feet in height left by the early chalk diggers – both families made their way to the new London Road entrance of the gardens. Thankfully the crowd were constantly shuffling forward, so it wasn’t going to be too long a wait.

  ‘Oi, Kate!’ a voice shouted from the back. It was Bessie Turner. ‘Keep an eye out for the Prince of Wales. I have it on good account he likes it here.’

  ‘Doubt he’d be so bothered about getting in for thruppence,’ Kate yelled back, laughing.

  Many a pub regular gossiped about how the Prince, on arriving by train, had been spotted by some girls of ill repute. Declining their mischievous offer of some shrimps, tea and a bed for the night, he went on to have some fun incognito in the gardens.

  Eventually, their turn to pass through the turnstile arrived. Mary held Kate’s basket as she wrestled with the barrier, her ample girth causing a hindrance. Once inside The Place to Spend a Happy Day, as it was described in the advertisements, they set off determined to make the most of every minute.

  Before they could be stopped, the children rushed headlong into a large conservatory full of palms and ferns. The heat hit Flossie like a wall, the humidity taking her breath away. Never before had she experienced anything like it. With pent-up energy erupting, the gang ran the full length of the building, barely stopping to look at anything, and then hurtled out, eager to explore elsewhere.

  ‘Shut the door,’ yelled an old gardener waving his stick. A balding cockatoo, which looked as old as he did, screeched deafeningly, setting off the caged monkeys next door.

  Grabbing hold of each other’s hands, the party descended the steps inside a cliff tunnel. Kate took her time, which gave everyone the chance to admire the circular temple with its domed roo
f, columns and statues halfway down. As they reached the bottom they were greeted by a troupe of jugglers and sword swallowers, which proved too much for Lottie, who screamed and hid behind her mother’s skirts when a grotesquely painted clown leered at her.

  Promenading through the Italian gardens, they marvelled at the fountains and statues and then strolled around the lake, admiring the black swans. They climbed mossy banks to see Gothic ruins clad in mantling ivy and walked the winding paths to locate the chained eagle. After picnicking in a romantic dell listening to the dance bands, they poked at rare birds in an aviary and gawped at Bruin the bear prowling slowly round his deep, empty pit. When he saw that they had biscuits, the thick-furred grizzly stood on his hind legs and held out his great paws. An audience soon gathered, including some sailors. Bruin responded by ascending his pole, to the delight of the crowd. It was then that one of sailors dropped a lighted fusee down into the pit. Flossie watched in horror as the poor beast scurried down to get it, burning his nose in the process and causing him to roll about on the floor of his den, rubbing his nostrils with his great paws before plunging his head into his water trough. The look on his great face was pitiful.

  Heading towards the maze, Lottie let out another scream when a tall, dark woman with an orange headscarf and black ringlets stepped out of the shadows.

  ‘Shall Peggy tell your fortune, ladies?’ she said. ‘Will tell you true, ladies. Peggy always tells true.’

  While Mary and Kate crossed Peggy’s palm with silver, the children disappeared inside the maze. A young boy sat on a tall ladder to guide those who were lost, but with so many children running around finding the dead ends, the group located the exit with little trouble. Just as well, too, as weariness was setting in and it was time for a rest and something to eat.

  Finding a patch of grass to sit on, Mary and Kate leaned against a sycamore tree and kicked off their boots. The girls stayed with their mothers, letting their picnic settle in their stomachs whilst Kate’s lads, their energy restored, rushed off to play Aunt Sally. Flossie failed to understand the fascination for knocking things off wooden sticks, and found their brotherly bickering irritating.

  It was a great relief when, near to three o’clock, the time came to see the African Blondin, Prince of the Air, a rope-walker of great fame, walk across the chasm from cliff to cliff. Deciding that outside the Baronial Hall was the best place to sit; the group watched with fascination as men secured ropes and fastened sacks of sand at regular intervals to weigh down the edges of the huge safety net.

  At half past three the band struck up with See the Conquering Hero Comes and all eyes turned upwards to witness the rope-walker, eighty feet above them, beginning his perilous journey, balanced only by a long pole. Dressed in tight-fitting white garments, with a short, dark blue skirt decorated with dazzling tinsel, he somehow managed to perform somersaults, even hanging on to the rope by his chin. Everyone cheered and clapped furiously, thinking that this was the high point of his act. But then he returned laden with heavy chains, which confined both hands and feet. Having accomplished this, he returned once again, this time blindfolded and enveloped in a sack. Just when the audience thought he could do no more, the African Blondin reappeared carrying a cooking stove on his back. At the centre of the rope, he kindled a fire and cooked an omelette. The ovation continued for many minutes, the children beside themselves, desperate to understand how he could achieve such feats.

  With the light fading, an army of groundsmen painstakingly lit thousands of candles in coloured glass jars hanging from the branches of trees and dotted around the flower beds. Chinese lanterns were hung across the terraces and two bonfires ignited in readiness for the evening finale: fireworks. Flossie had often stood by the pier looking back at the star shells and rockets exploding in the distant sky, but being here, watching the display close up, was spellbinding.

  Overwhelmed, the weary group wended their way slowly home. With memories to last a lifetime, it had most certainly been the place to spend a happy day.

  5

  It was almost midsummer before the weather finally improved. Eugene O’Sullivan, a local mush-faker from Samaritan Grove, had raked in more than a few bob selling umbrellas as the wind and rain battered the estuary, and was now enjoying the proceeds in The Little Wonder pub at the top of Hive Lane. For months he’d been wandering from street to street, knocking on doors with a bundle of old umbrellas and a few essential tools under his arm.

  The day Mary responded to his knock, Flossie could barely conceal her amusement as she watched him lift his battered bowler and tug on his long, curly beard before extolling the virtues of his trade. Declaring the Grants’ umbrella beyond repair, Mary gratefully accepted a few farthings for it. Her pleasure soon evaporated, however, when O’Sullivan was seen sitting on a scullery stool outside number 19 using Mary’s ‘ribs’ to restore Bessie Turner’s umbrella to its former glory.

  ‘Get your best bonnets on, girls, we’re going on an outing,’ Sam yelled from the bottom of the stairs whilst trying to attach his rarely-used collar to his shirt.

  ‘Where are we going, Dadda?’ Lottie shrieked, flinging herself at her father, who caught her in his strong arms and spun her around.

  ‘The river’s like a millpond today and the sun’s shining. Perfect day for a boat trip.’

  As he still wasn’t giving anything away, Flossie thought she might have better luck. ‘But where to, Pa? Please tell us.’

  With a twinkle in his eye, Sam unveiled his plan. ‘Thought we’d go on a steamer to the Embankment. That Cleopatra’s Needle’s up now. See what all the fuss is about. What do you think?’

  Lottie squealed with excitement. Flossie could barely hide her own, and hurried off to get their things together. This was one experience she certainly wasn’t going to miss. The previous January, the whole school had been given the afternoon off to watch a huge granite obelisk that had come all the way from Egypt being towed up the Thames by the Anglia, a local paddle tug. Not that you could see the obelisk, hidden inside a watertight, ninety-three-foot-long, cigar-shaped cylinder. It seemed a miracle it could float. The children had learned all about its turbulent journey across the Bay of Biscay, where six men had lost their lives. Conjuring up images of pharaohs and pyramids, Flossie was eager to see it standing upright in its new home.

  The last to leave the house, she stopped to catch a shawl her mother tossed her at the last minute. ‘You’ll need this, it’ll be chilly on the way back,’ Mary said, having declined to accompany them, feeling sure she’d suffer seasickness. She’d packed some bread and cheese, for which Sam had given her a tanner, knowing all too well how she was destined to spend the day.

  Having caught up with Sam and Lottie, the three of them linked hands and set off along The Creek just as the water cart came round the corner. Within days of the rain stopping and the mush-faker moving on, it was well and truly needed. Rising dust was intolerable at the best of times, so water carts sprinkled the roads to lay the dust for a while. With The Creek in such a bad state of repair, Sam shouted at the driver to take care. William Bailey had had an accident with his horse recently and the owner of the road had supposedly paid someone to undertake a repair.

  ‘Bodge-up, that’s what I call it,’ Sam growled as he watched the water cart lurch to one side going over the hole.

  Being Sunday, the factories were silent so for once they could chat whilst walking through the alleyway leading through Bevan’s yard.

  ‘I’ll show you The Rocket if you like,’ said Sam. ‘Just mind your boots on the tracks.’

  Picking their way across tramways heading in all directions, Lottie pointed when she saw a small locomotive engine, appropriately named after Stephenson’s first engine, at the entrance to a long tunnel.

  ‘Its wagons are empty now,’ explained Sam, ‘but come tomorrow they’ll be full of chalk chipped away from the cliffs above the quarry at the end of this tunnel
.’

  ‘It’s just like snow,’ laughed Lottie, attempting to brush off the soft, powdery chalk layer settling on her clothes.

  Sam looked around. Usually the scene was one of general confusion, with men and horses everywhere. The lack of noise unnerved him. He was used to the steady stroke of the steam engines above the rattle of the coopers’ hammers, and the squeal of the steam saws.

  ‘It’s the quarrymen I admire the most,’ he said to Flossie, as they made their way out. ‘They stand on the narrowest of ledges, sixty feet up, breaking away the chalk with long crowbars. Pitchers, they’re called. Work in all weathers, no matter what.’

  Carrying on along the Undershore, it wasn’t long before Lottie was complaining of tiredness, so they stopped for a brief rest at the lighthouse on the India Arms Wharf. Fearing the day was going to be a test of her patience, Flossie secretly wished they had left her sister behind. She wondered if they were going to make it to Rosherville Pier on time, and jumped when the ear-piercing screech of the paddle steamer’s horn announced its arrival.

  Right on cue, half a dozen women carrying steaming baskets appeared from nearby Teapot Row.

  ‘Shrimps! Shrimps! Buy me lovely hot, brown shrimps,’ they shouted. ‘Penny a pint unpeeled, tuppence if you want ’em done for you.’ Jostling for position close to the gangplank, they bombarded the passengers making their way to the tunnel leading to the gardens. But trade wasn’t as brisk as it used to be. People were still reluctant to trust the paddle steamers after the Princess Alice disaster, so numbers were down and there were few takers for the local delicacy.

  It seemed that the ‘better off’ were choosing to continue their journey by the new railways to the seaside resorts of Margate and Ramsgate. The posh Rosherville Hotel, at the bottom of Burch Road, rarely had hansom cabs outside it these days and the older Bailey boys had long since given up their shoe-blacking business there. Having to pay five shillings a year for a licence to join the Boot-Black Brigade just wasn’t worth it any more.