Field of Dust

by Angela Jean Young

  ‘Where did you get this from?’ Flossie asked a little too sharply, conscious of the fact that she and her sister had had their photographs taken the first night they’d arrived.

  ‘I nicked it. Old Barnardo flogs ’em to ’is rich friends to raise funds, by all accounts. Five bob for a pack of twenty or sixpence for a single.’

  Retrieving her one and only possession from Lottie, Rose added, ‘I won’t ’ear a word said against ’im, though. Saved my bacon, I can tell ya. I’d been sleepin’ in shop doorways on the Roman Road since me ma died of phossy. Me only ’ope was that Fanny Allbright would take me in ’er lodgin’ ’ouse, but she said I ’ad to save up fer a wig wiv some ringlets first or I’d scare off ’er clients. That was when the beadle found me, thank the Lord. I’m not allowed to grow me fringe back, though, Miss Adams says it’s “a most immoral hairstyle”.’

  Rose lifted her head and flicked her nose as she impersonated their housemother. The girls muffled their giggles, fearing that the woman herself might overhear.

  ‘It seems we factory girls are the ’ardest to transform into respectable domestic servants ’cause we lack womanly graces – Gawd knows what they are.’

  As time went by Flossie felt increasingly isolated from the world and wondered what effect leading such a cocooned life was going have on her future. There had been the occasional tastes of freedom on day trips by horse tram to Epping Forest, but it was an age since she’d walked through a busy street, visited a shop or talked to a man. So many subjects were taboo, and there were too many Christian endeavour meetings for her liking. She wondered how those incarcerated as babies would ever learn to cope with the outside world when their time came to leave. Watching the little girls playing Mothers and Fathers on the green was heart breaking. They were recreating family life they had no experience of.

  One fine May morning, there was great excitement everywhere.

  ‘Ain’t been this much fuss since Princess Mary come to open Hyacinth Cottage,’ Ethel said, tightening the straps on her leg braces. They were all lined up on the green wearing their best clothes, the housemothers fussing around rearranging hair and straightening smocks. There’d been days of preparation and Flossie was looking forward to it all being over and done with. Houses had been scrubbed and best quilts put on the beds. Enamel mugs had been temporarily removed and dainty cups and saucers stacked in the kitchen cupboards.

  Forced to practise their musical drill yet again, arms outstretched to maintain formation, out of the corner of her eye Flossie noticed Dr Barnardo emerging from Mossford Lodge. He looked exceedingly dapper in a straw boater and freshly polished shoes, his military moustache smartly trimmed and tweaked, curled upwards even more than usual. Mrs Barnardo followed behind, her eyes barely visible under a huge, elaborate hat. Together they stood waiting by the porter’s lodge with the rest of the senior staff, everyone towering above the exceedingly short doctor. Every now and then one or other would check a pocket watch or straighten a tie or ribbon. Some of the girls were excited, others less so, knowing that they were on show to upper-class visitors on a tour of their Village Home. Soon they’d be poking around in the girls’ bedrooms and, later, having dinner in their cottages. Flossie wasn’t sure how she felt about being treated as some kind of spectacle, but when the gates opened and the visitors arrived, she waved her Union Jack and curtseyed with the rest.

  After some exhaustive handshaking, the ladies and gentlemen, in all their finery, were guided towards the waiting girls. They strolled past at a safe distance, pointing and whispering behind gloved hands. Flossie wondered why it was that people with money imagined poor people lacked feelings. A select group of girls then danced around the maypole before joining together to sing the Song for our Little Servants, to which the assembled audience responded with nods of affirmation and gentle applause at such a display of Christian piety.

  When I go to service

  Keep me strictly honest

  I must watch and pray

  Steady and upright

  That my Heavenly Father

  Thoughtful of my mistress

  Will direct my way.

  In and out of sight.

  May the love of Jesus

  If her things are broken

  Fill my heart and mind

  By my carelessness,

  And his Holy Spirit

  Let me mind ’tis better

  Make me good and kind.

  Always to confess.

  10

  During her fifteenth year, the stable and contented life that Flossie had slowly begun to take for granted at Dr Barnardo’s was turned upside down. Many of her friends had moved on – Rose, unhappily, back to the match factory and poor, fragile Ethel into service as a lady’s maid. But losing her friends was nothing compared to losing the only person she could truly call family.

  ‘I’m going to live in Canada,’ was how Lottie broke the news. ‘I wasn’t allowed to speak of it until our mother agreed, but it is definite now.’

  Flossie couldn’t believe her ears. Her sister, going to live in Canada? Their mother, whom she hadn’t heard from in three years, being in contact with Lottie and giving permission for this to happen? Surely that couldn’t be right. She felt old wounds opening up again.

  ‘I’m the pick of the crop,’ Lottie sighed. ‘I feel faint with joy.’

  Flossie raised her eyebrows at the sight of her sister swooning and fanning herself with a handkerchief.

  ‘Only the brightest girls get to go on the Great Canadian Adventure – that’s what Dr Barnardo calls it. Miss Adams put me forward for the interview with the governess and said I’ll gain a healthy independence and a comfortable home far from the bad influences of my early life. I’m leaving next month for a place called Toronto, where I’ll be found a respectable position. I can’t wait to get away from this stifling place.’

  Flossie was dumbstruck and her head was spinning. Apart from her amazement that all this had been hidden from her, she was shocked to see that Lottie, not yet thirteen, so obviously relished leaving everything and everyone she knew behind. How different could two sisters be? Seemingly unaware of the pain she was causing, Lottie rushed off to find out who else had been chosen to go with her.

  With tears welling up in her eyes, Flossie started walking in the direction of the governess’ office. She wasn’t going to have her sister taken away from her without a fight, and there were many questions that needed answering.

  ‘I can only spare you two minutes,’ the governess said curtly, pushing a few stray strands of iron-grey hair into the tight bun on the back of her head. ‘It’s quite simple. I contacted your mother in Ipswich and asked for her permission for both of you to emigrate. She eventually replied, declaring that only Charlotte could go, not you.’

  Flossie gripped the desk, her legs turning to jelly.

  ‘Mrs Oxer is of the opinion that her youngest daughter has the countenance and disposition to find a rich husband, but that you will be more likely to obtain responsible employment here and be able to aid her financially in the future. I imagine she found someone to write the statement, but the signature is clearly hers.’

  With that the governess stood up, walked round her leather-topped desk and guided a stunned, silent Flossie towards the door, adding as she did so, ‘Don’t go listening to the rubbish that some people will tell you. Our children’s welfare is of paramount importance. Most of the reports of ill treatment stem from the Catholics. It’s just part of their propaganda. They think Dr Barnardo is spiriting children away to Canada in order to co
nvert them. Stuff and nonsense.’

  Gently pushing the unwanted visitor across the threshold, she closed the door firmly behind her. Rooted to the spot, Flossie sobbed as the governess’ words echoed in her ears. How could her mother still have some say in her future after abandoning her daughters in such a callous manner?

  As for Catholic propaganda and ill treatment, it seemed that Boards of Guardians had been permitted to send workhouse children to Canada for thirty years. Now that economic depression was causing mass unemployment, homelessness and destitution, Christian philanthropist Barnardo saw it as his responsibility to try to relieve ‘population pressure’ in congested cities. Overcrowding is a primary, if often unrecognised, cause of the moral cesspools I and others are continually engaged in deodorising, he wrote at the time. Every boy rescued from the gutter is one dangerous man the less; each girl saved from a criminal course is a present to the next generation of a virtuous woman and a valuable servant.

  His zeal had convinced governments, like that of Canada, of the advantages to be gained from child migration as a way of populating the colonies with British stock. Less scrupulous operators, however, saw it as a means of providing a source of cheap labour dressed up as child welfare. Private agencies were soon capitalising on the advantages of sending children overseas. While caring for a child in an institution in Britain cost around twelve pounds a year, sending one overseas involved a one-off payment of fifteen pounds. It wasn’t difficult to see how money could be made out of destitute children.

  The first party of fifty Barnardo boys left England in 1882. A year later, when girls were included, rumours began to circulate about abuse, neglect and even slave labour amongst thirteen-year-old girls sent from Barkingside to live with farming families in Winnipeg. As a result, a vetting and inspection system was hastily installed. By this time the numbers of children being sent to Canada had risen into the hundreds.

  The scheme wasn’t without its critics, though. Canadians feared that their country would be contaminated by the dumping of slum children on their soil. To counter this, Dr Barnardo promised to send only the ‘flower of the flock’; children who were morally, physically and mentally sound. If any should become ‘definitely immoral or criminal’, he guaranteed that they would be shipped back.

  My poor sister, Flossie thought. Too young to understand.

  The following weeks were unbearable. Flossie watched her little sister move into a cottage where girls destined for Canada were being housed and given special lessons to prepare them for their new lives. Increasingly despairing, she felt unable to show her emotions for fear of being criticised. Instead she put all her energies into embroidering a sampler with the words Home is Where Your Heart Is, praying that, tucked into her luggage, it would remind Lottie of where she belonged.

  When the fateful day came, the governess encouraged the remaining girls to give three cheers as they watched the pioneering group march out of the gates. Flossie stayed silent as they turned the corner of Tanner Lane, heading for Liverpool and the SS Sardinia. Lottie was indistinguishable from the rest in their Ulster overcoats and red hoods, each child bearing a large tag with their name and a Barnardo’s number on it.

  Realising that something needed to be done to take Flossie’s mind off her loss; Miss Adams decided to give her a ‘project’. Six new girls, rescued in dire circumstances, had been hastily placed in Primrose Cottage. The sudden death of a Smithfield brothel-keeper had thrown them onto the streets. Every one of them was younger than Flossie and she found it hard to hold back her tears as they undressed for their initial bath, exposing their fragile, bruised bodies.

  Kitty was the first to speak of her experiences. ‘He courted me for quite some weeks and made me believe he was going to marry me. Then one day he said he’d take me to London and show me the sights. I’d never been, so it sounded exciting, and it was at first. Took me here and there, gave me plenty to eat and drink, even treated me to the theatre. That’s when I missed the last train home. I was a bit drunk, so when he offered me nice lodgings for the night, I agreed.

  ‘Course his client was waiting in the next room. I screamed and yelled all the way through it, but no one came. I didn’t dare go home after I’d lost my character, so I became a “mark”. The brothel-keeper got twenty quid commission that first night with me being a virgin; after that he called me “newly seduced” and got a tenner. The madam checks I’m on the streets every night as my keeper’s off most of the time looking for fresh girls to replenish his stock.’

  One by one the girls opened up and talked of their misery. None could offer any serious resistance. There was no escape, no matter how brutal the men could be. Two had even been seduced with the consent of their mothers, who were paid handsomely for it. Matilda, at barely thirteen, was in obvious pain and much distressed. Listening to her sobbing during the night, Flossie cradled the tiny slip of a girl in her arms. Her story was all too familiar. She’d been given a ‘drowse’, probably laudanum, or ‘black draught’ as it was known.

  ‘It makes you lie like you’re dead and you don’t know what’s happened till morning,’ she whispered. ‘Then the pain hit me, I could hardly move. He was charged fifteen pounds for the first of me, less after that. The brothel-keeper said it was no use crying as what was done couldn’t be undone. Besides, no one else would take me in now so I should be grateful to be one of the attractions of his house. After a week I gave up all hope, until now.’

  Hearing how the girls had been recruited as ‘marks’ to join the eighty thousand prostitutes already on the streets of London was alarming enough, but to discover that three of them had been bred for the task was beyond belief. Worse still, the practice of keeping the female babies born to women within the brothels, so that there would always be a supply of ‘merchantable maidens’, was an undisguised secret in the dark recesses of that world.

  There were many sleepless nights ahead for Flossie worrying about what might be happening to Lottie, so young and so far away. It was a great relief when news finally came.

  10th September 1884

  Winnipeg, Canada

  Dear sister,

  I have arrived safely and am living on a farm. I’m sorry that I haven’t written sooner, I simply haven’t had time until now as the last weeks have flown past in a whirl of excitement.

  We girls felt so very important as our ship pulled out from the port of Liverpool. A band played and people were waving banners. We all sang hymns until they were out of sight. It turned out to be rough crossing the Atlantic and I was seasick many times. Luckily there was a wooden trunk, made in Stepney, waiting for each of us in our cabin which was packed with new clothes. I had to smile when I found a Bible, a Sankey hymn book and a copy of The Pilgrim’s Progress on the bottom.

  Within a few days of landing on Canadian soil, we were sent off aboard a ‘Barnardo special’ train with all our belongings and a packed lunch. Oh, Floss, it was such a long and dusty journey across vast plains called prairies. There was nothing to see for miles. When the train eventually stopped there were lots of strangers waiting in horse-buggies.

  Do not worry about me, Flossie, I am very happy. Mr and Mrs Rourke are kind to me and say I am the daughter they never had. Besides, there will be an annual visit from a Barnardo inspector to check up on me.

  I think of you often.

  With love,

  Lottie

  Flossie pressed the letter to her chest. Oh Lottie, she thought, I pray that Mrs Rourke is the mother that you never had. Canada sounds like such a strange land – when will I ever get to see you again?

  Six months later, Flossie was summoned to see the governess. She had just celebrated her sixteenth birthday and her time at Dr Barnardo’s was almost over.

  Miss Adams, who, along with the matron, was also present, spoke first. ‘I believe Florence Oxer has an excellent chance of securing a superior position. In addition to the basics,
she is proficient at baking, dressmaking, knitting, embroidery, needlework, crochet and lacemaking.’

  The governess fixed the girl applying for her dismissal papers with a matriarchal stare. It seemed an age before she addressed Matron.

  ‘And what of Miss Oxer’s time in the infirmary?’

  Matron shuffled to her feet. ‘The girl has learnt some basic nursing skills and coped well when we lost a few weak babies during the recent scarlet fever outbreak. Furthermore, she displayed both a practical and compassionate nature towards the Shoreditch brothel girls.’

  ‘Very well, Florence Oxer, come back tomorrow at two o’clock for my deliberations.’

  Crossing Babies Green on her way back to Primrose Cottage, she smiled at the army of pram pushers, promenading as they did every afternoon, come rain or shine. Nineteen large Elizabethan-style cottages had just been built around the new green, each occupied by twenty-five girls, with one specifically equipped for tiny babies. In fact, there were so many girls at Barkingside now that there was talk of a school, hospital and children’s church on the agenda.

  The smell of fresh creosote wafted on the breeze and, in the distance, old Jack, the gardener, could be seen painting fences. Beyond him the goats and ponies were waiting to be fed. Flossie surveyed the idyllic scene with a heavy heart, and although keen to get the formalities over, the thought of eventually leaving the security of Barkingside was daunting. For better or worse, it had become her home, one she trusted and relied upon. What she would find outside the gates was unknown.

  The governess sat pondering the imminent loss of such an adept, diligent, though somewhat headstrong ward and pupil for quite some minutes before calling her into her office at two o’clock.