Field of Dust

by Angela Jean Young

  ‘Then I gets charged with assault, bound over for the sum of twenty-five quid to keep the peace with my wife for six months.’ He let out a caustic laugh, causing his ale to drop on the floor, separating the sawdust. ‘Turned out not to be so hard, seeing as how she goes back to Northfleet with Sam Gant straight after leaving the court.’

  Draining the last dregs, he studied his dejected reflection in the bottom of the glass and fell silent. Flossie wondered briefly what he might have been had the drink not taken its toll.

  Then, turning to her with a pathetic look on his face, Henry added, ‘Thought that was all in the past and things were going well. Shows you how much I know. Lord knows who she’s with now. Been gone a while. Wisbech, the neighbour says. Up to her old tricks again. Asked my pa to take responsibility for his grandson, so when he says no, she leaves him at the workhouse on her way out of town.’

  Turning out his pockets in search of a stray penny, he uttered his last word on the subject. ‘She don’t even know she’s lost another of her boys.’

  When Sam found out that Mary had abandoned her girls, the shock stopped him in his tracks. Flossie decided to tell him only after she’d received the letter about the death of little Henry George Oxer. Overcome with rage and remorse, he’d been all set to go to Ipswich himself until Lizzie begged him not to. Instead he spent every waking hour trying to reconcile himself to his infidelity being the cause of it all. Not that that could ever excuse Mary for despatching Lottie off to Canada, or the story she gave for doing it. Learning that yet another abandoned child had died alone was gut-wrenching. Thinking back to when his son James Samuel departed this earth, Sam remembered that Mary had been so bereft over losing their much-longed-for boy that he somehow excused the excessive drinking that followed. But what kind of creature could put a sick child in the workhouse, only for that child to die and be buried without its mother knowing? Chances were that she had gone to Wisbech pregnant again.

  ‘God help that child,’ he heard himself saying.

  14

  ‘So Lottie never got a proposal from her volunteer soldier, then?’ Jess said, trying to get a comb through her friend’s tangled mane.

  ‘No, nothing came of it. She was far too young anyway,’ Floss replied, flinching with the pain.

  ‘Your hair is just like your mother’s. Very pretty when it’s tamed.’

  The combing continued amid grimacing. Then Floss felt her friend hesitate, as if she had something on her mind.

  ‘Is it hard not knowing who your real father is?’

  Flossie smiled. Jess wasn’t one to mince her words.

  ‘I said when I came back from that poor child’s funeral that I cannot accept Henry Oxer as my father. He has done nothing to earn that title.’

  ‘And Sam?’

  ‘Are you nearly ready?’ Kate shouted up the stairs, stopping the conversation in its tracks. ‘Time we were going.’

  Getting ready for an evening at the Factory Club should have been a happy affair, but not on this occasion. Three children had lost their lives at the ‘mud-hole’ and a benefit concert was being given in support of their bereaved parents. The tragic event had cast quite a gloom over the neighbourhood, deepening the already melancholy mood Flossie had been trying hard to shake off all winter.

  ‘The mud-hole’s been unsafe for years,’ William Bailey said, bracing himself against the biting wind. ‘It’s one thing to blame it on ice, but there’s been eight deaths there that I know of. Bevan should fill it in.’

  It was true; Flossie remembered going to the pond as a child. It had been dug out for its chalk and used as a playground, especially when you could slide on the ice.

  Deaths due to accidents in the factories, or by drowning in the river, were common, but those involving children really touched the heart of the community, affecting everyone. Two years earlier the death of the blacksmith’s son had been especially shocking. Bizarrely, it took place during the funeral of Reverend Frederick Southgate, vicar of St. Botolph’s for nearly thirty years, who had died after a long and painful illness on 6th February 1885. Whilst workmen were busy preparing his vault in the churchyard, fourteen-year-old Edward Gray had just taken a bar of iron into the vault for use by the men and was returning up the steps when one of the bricklayers asked for his chisel. Not knowing that it was propping the stone up, the boy removed it, and no sooner had he done so than the massive slab fell on him, crushing his head and killing him instantly. Suddenly thrown into darkness, the men struggled to raise the stone, and with the greatest difficulty extricated the body, which they solemnly carried up to the belfry.

  ‘Terrible, it was,’ Kate had told Flossie. ‘We were sad enough, what with it being our Reverend Southgate’s funeral in the first place. He’d baptised every one of my bairns. We were in the same pew as the boy’s parents when they were told of the tragic accident. I couldn’t bear to look at them. Then William Honeycombe, one of the workmen, goes and dies. Never got over the lad’s death. Held himself responsible. We all knew he suffered with his nerves and the accident was just too much for him.’

  By spring, the weather thankfully improved, as did Flossie’s mood. She had secured a position at Northfleet House, new home of Mrs Knight, now widow of the cement manufacturer. It had been a stroke of luck that the old gardener at the House got his tools sharpened by William Bailey on his horse and cart. Mrs Knight’s need for a new housemaid had made itself known during a conversation over a pint or two in The Huggens and Flossie was quick to rush round with her references. Mundane as her tasks were, the job came in the nick of time as her money was running out.

  One evening, the sight of a large ship coming up the estuary sparked some much needed excitement. The State of Nebraska, from the United States of America, looked like a regular sailing ship, yet, for some reason, every local craft from rowboat to barge was bobbing about on the tide, trying to get close. By the next day, rumours about its extraordinary human cargo had quickly spread. Cowboys and Indians anchored off Powder Magazine sounded like madness, yet here they were, the cast of Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show. Anchored at Tilbury briefly before transferring to London’s Albert Dock, Flossie had asked for the time off she was owed and persuaded Tom Handley to row Kate and herself out to circle round the ship. In no time at all, a hundred or so foreign-looking individuals were staring down at the people staring up at them. Red Indian men, most of them upwards of six foot, stood in dignified silence, their faces painted and their powerful bodies swathed in blankets. Their squaws, leaning against the boiler house for warmth, were carrying their little ones on their backs.

  ‘See the tallest redskin?’ shouted Tom, struggling to keep from colliding with others. ‘He’s the chief, calls himself “Red Shirt”.’

  Flossie turned into the wind, her bonnet spiralling into the air, fortunately landing at her feet. She studied the striking man, about the same age as Sam, proudly walking up and down the deck smoking a cigarette. There was a single streak of vermilion down each side of his face extending from the eyebrow to the chin, and his forehead was girdled with a silk handkerchief. Occasionally leaning over the larboard rail, silently watching the activity below, nothing, it seemed, disturbed his placidity.

  The next day Flossie found Jess more animated than usual. Colonel William F. Cody – Buffalo Bill himself – and some of his cowboys had been in the Tilbury Hotel, and she and the other maids had hidden behind the banisters to survey them.

  ‘Oh, Floss, they are so dashing. I thought they’d be rough and ill-mannered, but not a bit of it. We all sighed when we saw Buck Taylor. He’s very handsome and extremely muscular. I reckon he could pick me up with hardly any effort.’ Jess fanned her face with her hand. ‘His comrade, Dick Dolman, stands six foot three inches tall, and that’s without his hat! They were talking about the ladies in the troupe. There’s Miss Emma Lake, the champion female rider in all the United States, and Miss Annie Oakley, who
is a better crack shot than any man. Oh, how I wish I could see the show at Earl’s Court.’

  Flossie nodded in agreement, knowing full well it was impossible at a guinea a ticket. But she had another idea. The Nebraska was due to set sail again after discharging its extraordinary cargo, so if they timed it right they could be on Tilbury dockside to watch all the performers disembark.

  The trouble was, they weren’t the only ones with the same idea and it took some very unladylike barging and shoving to get to where they wanted to be. People were everywhere, even leaning out of upstairs windows and hanging on chimney pots to see the Wild West cargo being unloaded. Special trains from Galleon’s Station were being diverted onto tracks running alongside the wharf to transport the company directly to West Brompton. Even hardened stevedores chuckled in amazement as out of the fore and aft holds swung horseboxes, immense bales and innumerable wooden crates holding unknown treasures.

  Flossie and Jessie covered their ears as men shouted at the tops of their voices over the pounding of the steam winch. Then the unmistakable figure of Buffalo Bill strode down the gangplank to the cheers of the crowd, his wide-brimmed hat raised in appreciation. Flossie gasped on seeing his long hair tied back in a ponytail, which she imagined was as long as her own when let down. She marvelled at his brown leather outfit fringed with tassels that rippled in the breeze, somehow magnifying his presence.

  ‘Here come the cowboys,’ Jessie exclaimed excitedly, prodding her friend in the ribs as the spurs on the men’s high boots scraped across the wooden slats. ‘That one’s Antonius Esquivel, chief of the Mexicans… and look that must be Annie Oakley!’

  To everyone’s surprise, Miss Sure Shot, as Annie was known, was tiny – barely five feet tall – with long, flowing hair and a skirt that, shockingly, ended just below her knees. She was carrying a pair of rifles.

  ‘She can shoot dimes thrown in the air and riddle a playing card at thirty paces,’ Jessie boasted, having gleaned the information from one of the performers back at the hotel. The idea of a woman being a crack shot made Flossie smile.

  But the undoubted stars, as far as Flossie was concerned, were the ‘Noble Savages’ – Sioux, Cheyenne and Pawnee. She could hardly take her eyes off the horsemen, each carefully guiding his mount down the creaking wooden gangplank. They looked stunning in their wide trousers tacked all the way down, moccasins, feathers, beaver skins, beads and war paint. All in all, 160 horses were disembarked, each with a scarlet-and-blue blanket in place of a saddle, followed by buffalo, cattle, elk, deer and other animals never before seen in Europe. The overpowering smell as the last were unloaded finally persuaded the girls that it was time to wend their way home.

  The press made much of the arrival at Earl’s Court of the Wild West Show. Prime Minister Gladstone was reported to have asked Chief Red Shirt if he liked the English climate, while The Referee magazine welcomed the grand spectacle in verse:

  We hear that the Cowboys are wonders,

  And do what rough riders dare,

  So wherever the ‘pitch’ is in London,

  Its wild horses will drag us there,

  O’ fancy the scene of excitement!

  O’ fancy five acres of thrill,

  The cowboys and Injuns and horses,

  And the far-famed Buffalo Bill!

  The weather continued to dominate everyone’s lives during the first half of 1887. Over Whitsun a severe storm swept through the district, causing flooding in Northfleet. The strength of the wind and rain brought trams to a standstill. Drains were blocked and workmen had to clear inches of mud from the streets.

  ‘Weather hasn’t put off the Salvation Army march,’ Lizzie confirmed, folding up her umbrella. ‘Might stop the usual disputes, though.’

  Sam looked at his pocket watch. ‘They won’t be arriving till about one o’clock so we don’t need to worry yet.’

  ‘I think we’d better be prepared, Sam,’ Lizzie added, looking her husband squarely in the eyes. You know it’s the sound of the brass band that brings out the Skeletal Army. Don’t want anyone running down here throwing stuff, breaking windows.’

  Taking the hint, Sam set off to check whether there was any trouble brewing. About 170 officers of the Life Guards column of the Salvation Army, dressed in white helmets, red jerseys and leggings, were assembling opposite Huggens College for an open-air meeting. It was a relief to see the police were out in force too. For most people, this annual training march was nothing more than a nuisance.

  The Salvation Army regarded alcohol as a social evil, believing in total abstinence rather than moderation. Unsurprisingly, they were opposed by many members of the public. Small groups began organising themselves against the Salvationists. Calling themselves Skeleton Armies, they sang obscene versions of songs, threw rotten food and daubed meeting halls with tar. With actions designed to humiliate rather than cause physical injury, their attacks on Salvationists were treated leniently by police and magistrates.

  Sure enough, it wasn’t long before a contingent of Skeletons appeared carrying a flag with a crudely drawn coffin and skull and crossbones upon it. They did their best to disrupt the proceedings by beating drums, playing flutes, whirling rattles and shouting through trumpets. Sam had to smile as a man ringing a bell and attired in a coal-scuttle bonnet was carried shoulder-high past him, followed by several of the town’s publicans waving their hats.

  Despite all the commotion, the Salvation Army carried on regardless and Sam was able to report back to Lizzie that at least no dead rats had been thrown, as had been the case in previous years.

  During Monday morning rain continued to fall heavily, but miraculously, just before noon the leaden skies cleared and the sun reappeared. Holidaymakers began arriving via all three railway lines, though not a single steam boat plied its way down the Thames from London bound for Rosherville. The pier was unnaturally quiet, and the ladies of Teapot Row had no customers for their afternoon tea of watercress and shrimps. Most train-travellers still headed for the gardens, but now there was competition. Wagonettes were waiting to take people to a new event – bicycle racing at the Bat and Ball Grounds.

  ‘We had to lay on eighteen special trains to take them all back to London,’ Flossie overheard the station porter saying in the newsagents. ‘Packed like sardines, they were.’

  Spirits remained high for the Queen’s Golden Jubilee on the 20th June, and most people were out celebrating. It was a glorious day at last, with barely a breeze. The jetty was packed with revellers basking in the sunshine, watching the activity on the even more crowded Thames.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ Flossie gasped, collapsing next to Jess on the old bollard. Nowadays it was Jessie who had to wait for her friend to finish work. ‘It was too hot to run all the way. I had to bundle up the dirty linen for the great wash before I could leave.’ Loosening the laces on her boots she let out a sigh of relief.

  ‘So how is the miserable Mrs Knight?’ Jessie asked. ‘I still remember running away from her mansion in Hive Lane when we used to go souling.’

  ‘Oh, she’s reasonable enough and the job isn’t too arduous. Her new home is a good deal smaller than Hive House and there’s only her and their youngest daughter to clean for.’

  ‘Meant to ask you ages ago, are those harpoons still on top of the gates?’

  ‘Yes! Mementos of the Sturge family’s dealings in the whaling trade, apparently. I’m supposed to polish them daily.’

  ‘In that case, I reckon we should be glad we’re not employed at Buckingham Palace,’ Jess said with a laugh. ‘I hear there’s going to be a banquet tonight to which fifty European kings and princes have been invited. Can you imagine the washing-up?’

  Flossie nodded. ‘Don’t worry, there’ll be plenty of that here tomorrow. The schools are holding a grand jubilee fete for five thousand children. Sam and Joe’s little ones have been practising their singing for days; though it
’s catching the pig by its tail they’re looking forward to the most.’

  ‘You seem to be spending quite a bit of time with Sam’s new family,’ Jess said tentatively. ‘Does that mean you have forgiven him?’

  ‘Well, I can’t deny that I am at my happiest in their company. Sam and Lizzie make me feel very welcome, and it’s lovely to watch them with their children.’

  ‘Doesn’t it make you angry, considering your own childhood?’

  ‘Envious, maybe, but I can’t change the past, so I made up my mind some time ago not to look back any more. He may not be my father, but I consider myself part of his family.’

  Jess thought her friend very grown-up all of a sudden.

  Spotting Annie Devonshire struggling to get onto the slipway, both girls rushed over to offer her a hand. Crumpling with the effort, she had to be hauled back to the bollard. The old woman coughed and spluttered before flopping down, exhausted. Flossie removed her frayed bonnet while Jessie untangled her skirts.

  ‘Thank heavens you girls were here to save me,’ she said breathlessly. ‘I didn’t realise it was quite so hot. I fear my days of climbing up here are near over, but I had to see what was being done in honour of ’Er Majesty on this important day.’

  For a while the three of them sat and watched the myriad of small boats flitting about amongst far larger craft on the silver river.

  ‘That’s better,’ Annie said, on regaining her composure. ‘I was in need of a breath of the briny. I was just thinking about when Princess Alexandra arrived from Denmark. It was all these launches coming up on the tide that reminded me.’

  Sensing Annie was about to embark on another of her epic reminiscences, Jessie set off in search of Sylvester Lee and his restorative ginger ale. Stories of the past didn’t really interest her, unlike Flossie, who was all ears for the venerable lady’s memories.