Field of Dust

by Angela Jean Young

  ‘I’m only surprised it hasn’t happened before,’ he said as his wife coated the wound in flour and wrapped cotton wadding around the hand.

  Bessie Turner saw things differently, not that she’d ever say a bad word about her husband. But he was a sickly sort, always ill or having accidents. The bread on the table and the coal in the grate were, in the main, down to her hard labour. With a baby strapped to her back and a toddler at her ankles, she did other folks’ washing and cleaning by day, then cut out and sewed workmen’s flannel shirts at night, sometimes straining her eyes until two in the morning to finish three at a stretch. For this she’d receive a meagre tuppence ha’penny each. Watching Mary Grant squander hard-earned money on drink made her so angry that she found it impossible to be civil, and no one could blame her.

  It always came as a relief to Bessie and many other mothers when the stave ships would arrive from Scandinavia, the treacherous journey only possible during the summer. Several vessels would arrive at once, packed to the gunnels with timber. There was a great need to unload as quickly as possible, so vast numbers of local boys were employed to carry as many staves as they could manage down the gangplanks. You had to be over ten years old to avoid compulsory education, and for a small, nimble lad like Robert Turner, being able to clamber between the tangled masts and rigging was a perfect way to earn ten pence a day working for Lawrence & Wimble’s Crown Cement Works. The only problem was the splinters. His hands and arms were already embedded with them.

  ‘Me ma pulls out the worst ones and dabs the sores with iodine,’ the eleven-year-old informed Henry and Albert when they enquired why his arms were yellow. ‘But it’s just one of them things. Your turn will come.’

  Some late afternoons, Flossie and Jessie would keep Maisy company outside The Ship Inn, looking out for her brother amongst the other boys on L&W’s own wharf. When all three berths were in use at once, Robert could sometimes be spotted as part of a human chain, conveying staves from vessels to shore and packing them onto wagons.

  ‘If I’m lucky,’ he said to Flossie one day, ‘come winter I might be strong enough to load the barrels onto the barges. That way I’ll still have a job.’

  The Crown Works owned four sailing barges – the Lady Edith, Victoria, Jessie and Alfred – all of which were well-known sights on the river. Flossie knew that when the barrels were full of four hundred pounds of cement they’d be far too heavy for Robert, but she couldn’t bring herself to say anything in case she hurt his feelings.

  Edwin, Robert’s younger brother, also earned a few farthings at the butchers on the village green. With its own slaughterhouse at the back and meat hanging on display rails at the front, there was always blood for him to wash away and sawdust to replenish when he wasn’t at his lessons. The boys knew their mother needed every penny they could muster to buy decent shoes for all of them. It was a matter of pride that they should have them, and Bessie often wondered when she passed a fancy-ware barrow how so many women could be out buying ear drops or combs for themselves when their clinging youngsters went barefoot. Survival in The Creek was only possible if whole families pulled together.

  Discovering there was nothing for their evening meal, and with Mary too drunk to care, Flossie climbed onto the kitchen stool and reached for the money tin on top of the dresser. It was Wednesday, three days until payday, so what few pennies were left had to last. It was hot work dashing uphill to the fishmongers on the High Street, but being near to closing time she knew there was a good chance of picking up a bargain. Herrings at a penny each were usually five a penny by the end of the day. With pairings of tripe, leftover bread and cocoa, there would be a reasonable meal for everyone. Heading back, her basket full, she had to be quick.

  Taking a shortcut through the maze of back alleys leading down to the river she soon realised her mistake. Blowflies quickly engulfed her as they swarmed all over the fishy contents of her basket.

  ‘Oh no, the bluebottle boats!’ she said out loud, swishing her hand through the cloud of marauding insects. Barges moored in Onward Creek were laden with London rubbish. After being dumped on the banks to rot, the residue was then used to make breeze for the brickworks. During the summer months the boats would be covered in flies, hence their ‘bluebottle’ nickname. ‘Disgusting,’ Flossie murmured as she fled the area, flies still lingering on her parcels.

  With just one last errand to run before going home, she struck out along the shore to find Sylvester Lee and purchase a pennyworth of Arabian Family Ointment. Mary, having lost her job at Hive House due to a disagreement with Agnes Avery, was now a scullery maid at the Manor House on the hill. Through constant immersion in tepid water, her hands had become chapped and raw, causing the hard skin on her fingers to crack. Arabian Family Ointment eased the pain and took the edge off her complaining.

  No sooner had Flossie entered her front door than Mary snatched the balm from her and flew into a rage.

  ‘Where have you been?’ she spat. ‘They’ll all be wanting their tea.’

  Flossie was well aware of this. She’d heard the klaxon announcing the end of the working day as she shut Sylvester’s caravan door, and had barely made it back ahead of the mob. The pain in Mary’s fingers was probably what saved Flossie from a smack on the leg.

  ‘This liniment’s all I have to relieve my suffering,’ Mary wailed, the numbing effect of gin clearly wearing off.

  The lodgers, tired from their day’s toil and hungry for their seared herrings, sat patiently as their temperamental landlady threw the fish into a pan and reeled around dangerously in front of the range.

  ‘Do you remember the story about that old reverend doing indecent things to a servant girl on a train and then disappearing before his court case?’ she shouted over her shoulder.

  The men all looked at each other, before shaking their heads in unison.

  ‘You must do. It was only a year or so ago. In the local papers, it was. His son wrote a letter saying his father was innocent, but he’d gone abroad ’cause no one would believe him.’

  Swinging the pan off the range, Mary wobbled precariously towards the group. Joe flashed a look of desperation at his two compatriots as they expected the fried fish to land in their laps. Flossie wished her father were there to restrain her mother, but these days he rarely made an appearance until well after teatime.

  ‘Turns out it’s them I work for. The son took over the Manor House Asylum when his father absconded – you know, the one that used to be the workhouse. It’s properly licensed now, but three years ago the rev was prosecuted for running it illegally and keeping a lady against her will. He was fined fifty quid…’

  Flossie grabbed the pan out of her mother’s hands and started to serve the grateful lodgers. Within minutes they had wolfed down the meagre portions, bones and all, and soaked the juices up with crusts of bread.

  ‘Anyway,’ Mary continued, oblivious to what was going on around her, ‘it’s now a home for dipsomaniacs with money. Captain Dalrymple is one of them. He came in the scullery today and couldn’t wait to tell me the whole story. There’s only him and that mad Susannah Lydon as inmates now.’

  Exhausted, Mary signalled to Lottie to get her the last of the herrings. ‘Put some bread on the plate with ’em, then,’ she snapped as the lodgers made their escape to the front room. ‘How the mighty have fallen, eh?’ Mary shouted after them.

  It was decided. Upon leaving church the following Sunday, the children of The Creek and beyond were going to walk to Springhead. Flossie was so excited she found it impossible to listen to the sermon. Instead she let her eyes wander over the wood carvings decorating the chancel arch. Then, as the congregation sang the last hymn, sunlight burst through the stained glass of the east window, refracting with the cement dust to create a glistening array of colours. It was a glorious day, for which they all heartily gave thanks.

  The gang assembled outside St. Botolph’s National
School, which most of them attended regularly, apart from Flossie. The south side of the churchyard adjoined one of the many chalk pits and had a steep drop which, whether by divine intervention or not, no child had yet fallen down.

  ‘Right, all here?’ yelled Henry Luck over the crackle of gunfire coming up from the bottom of the cliff where the 20th Kent Volunteer Rifle Brigade were training. ‘Albert, you bring up the rear and keep a check on stray little ones.’

  Albert Bull did as he was told and the group headed off through some cornfields and over a narrow railway bridge leading to the Marsh – a rich piece of pasture fed by a number of streams.

  Henry walked over a plank which was fixed across the first stream. ‘It’s stable,’ he yelled. ‘Single file and no jumping.’ Everyone obeyed his instruction and all crossed safely. Unlike the surrounding muddy marsh, the fast-running water was clear, and Henry picked his way cautiously, avoiding the places that looked dangerous. After a while, though, some of the children found the need to explore too tempting and broke free from the line. Shrugging his shoulders, Henry continued on regardless, following a well-trodden path.

  Flossie stopped to admire some overhanging willow branches while Lottie gave chase to a kaleidoscope of blue butterflies hovering and fluttering amongst the reeds. Suddenly the peace and tranquillity were shattered by a piercing scream. Flossie instinctively turned to see her sister beginning to sink into a pool of black, slimy water which oozed up through the rank grass, enveloping her shoes. The more she struggled, the worse it got. Quick as a flash, Albert Bull threw a nearby plank across the mire. Henry shinned along it, grabbed Lottie around the waist and hauled her to safety. Lifting her up onto his shoulders, he carried the sobbing, bedraggled bundle back to her much-relieved sister. It took a whole bag of dolly mixtures before the crying finally stopped, allowing Flossie to clean her up as best she could.

  The drama over, they stopped to rest awhile beside a broad stream covered in cultivated watercress stretching as far as the eye could see. Men in punts were collecting handfuls of the lush green plants, pushing themselves about with the aid of long poles. In some parts where the vegetation was dense, the pickers were wading waist-deep. Watercress sandwiches for breakfast, and shrimp, watercress and bread for dinner were staple meals for most in Northfleet. There were even times, like on the night before payday, when watercress was eaten on its own, earning it the nickname ‘poor man’s bread’.

  ‘This was the first watercress farm ever to be opened in Britain,’ Henry announced proudly as the gang of young faces crowded around him. ‘Here, at Springhead. Worth a fortune now.’

  And he was quite right, it had indeed become a lucrative business. The key to growing quality cress is the quality of the water and, as the name Springhead suggests, the pure water rising from the eight springs in the chalk landscape ensured that. The Roman town of Vagniacae had been sited there for that very reason. Springhead had been privately owned by one James Sylvester, who expanded the site to include a tea garden with access to the watercress beds. People came from far and wide to enjoy the gardens and sample newly introduced types of cress. However, things started to go wrong when the South Eastern Railway Company built a new and improved line, but failed to provide a bridge allowing access to the gardens. Sylvester eventually won a case in court against them, but by then it was too late to save his business.

  ‘Do you know what happened?’ Henry Luck said to his by now captivated audience. ‘Blew his brains out, he did.’

  A chorus of ‘ergghh’s greeted this revelation. But it was true: James Sylvester committed suicide by discharging a brace of pistols simultaneously, one on either side of his head. The resulting verdict was temporary insanity.

  With the expansion of the railway, tons of cress plants packed in wicker ‘flats’ were now being regularly transported up to Covent Garden market. Flossie had heard Sam tell of street sellers – including tiny children – flocking out of the great watercress market at dawn with verdant basketfuls of the stuff, heading straight for the water pump where they jostled for a chance to freshen their wares so as to tempt passers-by. They had to work swiftly, splitting the cress into little bundles, to be first amongst the coster cries heard in time for breakfast. How any of them survived in such a squalid, smoky, fog-bound city of four million was a mystery to Flossie. What’s more, she thought, none of the costers would ever see the beautiful place their bundles of cress had come from.

  The hot sun had finally dried Lottie’s mud-splattered summer dress as the children wandered back through Springhead’s rustic archway into the gardens. Pretty flower beds, dotted with vivid scarlet geraniums, surrounded a velvet lawn. Some of the group sat under a walnut tree, relieved to be in the shade. A monkey fastened to a neighbouring tree trunk was straining against its chain.

  ‘It’s called Jenny,’ said Henry, returning from a fruit stall with some nuts. On seeing the brown-paper bag, Jenny immediately started screeching and leaping up and down. Henry thought it far more entertaining to place some nuts just out of the creature’s reach and then watch it pull on its chain, for which the girls chastised him, but this just egged Henry on. Beckoning all the boys to watch, he lay on the ground at a calculated distance and, flashing Flossie a look of defiance, tempted the now-agitated monkey by placing a nut between his teeth. That was a mistake. Extending her claws, she seized the nut in one fell swoop, leaving Henry with his pride and his cheek in tatters.

  Camphor oil would relieve the latter, but not the former, Flossie thought. He was such a contradiction: one minute, the hero saving Lottie; next, the silly show-off.

  Albert got short shrift for offering Henry his handkerchief and they all walked home in silence, following their leader’s bloody trail.

  7

  Flossie took one pace forward out of the line and shouted across to Jessie, ‘Can you see Lottie? Is she still crying?’

  Jessie turned to scour the infants following on behind, but couldn’t see her in the procession. Unfortunately, their schoolmistress, who was marching at the front, had eyes in the back of her head and on noticing the disruption, lowered the school banner she’d been holding aloft and prodded Flossie in the stomach. ‘What are you doing, girl? Get back in step. The whole village can see you.’

  Flossie felt her face reddening. Miss Boulter hadn’t finished.

  ‘Hang your head in shame, Florence Grant. You are fortunate to be in this parade at all, considering your poor attendance. I’d be speaking to your mother if I thought it would do any good.’

  Flossie wanted the ground to swallow her up. Thankfully the crowd was so noisy that only a few witnessed her embarrassment. She’d just have to hope her sister was all right after being dragged from her side when their marching orders were given – boys in front, then girls, lastly infants.

  Preparations for the annual church school treat had started early that morning. Tents were erected in the meadow and swings set up. Carts arrived from the vicarage laden with food. After that, the parade had commenced. Flossie’s mood greatly improved as they reached the High Street just in time to see the train from Greenhithe arrive at the station and the band from the Arethusa alight from it. The boys in their smart blue jackets headed the procession playing Nancy Lee, and soon everyone was singing along to the music.

  Of all the wives as e’er you know, yeo-ho! Lads, no! Yes-ho!

  There’s none like Nancy Lee, I trow, yeo-ho! Yeo-ho!

  See there she stand and waves her hands,

  Upon the quay and every day,

  When I’m away, she’ll watch for me

  And whisper low when tempests blow,

  For Jack at sea, yeo-ho! Lads, ho!

  Everyone came out to watch the spirited band of rescued boys, some as young as eleven. Several of the mothers lifted the corners of their aprons to their eyes to wipe away a tear, knowing the deprivation and misery these 250 homeless lads had experienced. It was a joy
to see them so well fed and clothed now they were part of the ‘Boys’ Navy’ – each one being taught the skills to become a qualified sailor.

  The Bailey boys were always talking about the fifty-gun frigate, the Chichester, loaned by the Admiralty and anchored at Greenhithe. But when the Arethusa, the last British ship to go into battle under sail, took her place alongside it, they harried poor old Tom Handley to take them out in his rowboat for a closer look.

  ‘Not sure I’d like to be one of the boys, though,’ Matthew Bailey told his mother. ‘I’ve heard life on board is hard and the boys are only known by a number.’

  The band ceased playing as the bells of the church rang out, calling all the village children to join in the day’s celebrations. They came trooping along from every quarter to join the procession, some from as far as Springhead Lane, carrying their bright tin mugs. Flossie was amazed to see so many unfamiliar faces walking alongside her waving banners and flags. The sudden roll of a big drum, followed by a clashing of cymbals, announced their arrival at the great gates of the Rosher estate. The well-to-do family had granted access across their land and, without further ado, the bluejackets marched under the great archway followed by the army of children. Flossie had often wondered what Crete Hall and The Mount looked like up close, and couldn’t help staring as they filed past. The homes of Miss Rosher and Mr Sturge looked huge compared to her own home, yet just as unwelcoming, she thought.

  Winding their way down the slopes to the meadow, a great cheer went up as the procession reached its destination. Flags and banners were planted at intervals along the terrace and a general rush ensued for the swings and donkey rides. Football and cricket with the Arethusa boys provided welcome entertainment, especially for the girls, who were not usually to be found at the side of a pitch. Henry Luck, realising he was no match for such fit and able boys, played the fool in the races instead. He dragged poor Albert Bull all over the track in the three-legged race without gaining the winner’s penny. There was even less chance in the sack race, where you were required to run twenty yards in a straight line inside a meal bag tied round the neck. Each entrant had an attendant to pick him up if he fell, which required as much effort as the competitors. Stumbling and shuffling towards the distant winning post, few made it more than a few yards before toppling over. Ten utterly failed to reach their goal, and when the remaining two fell flat on their faces before it, they were declared winners and presented with a tanner to share between them.