Field of Dust

by Angela Jean Young

  ‘It must be about twenty years ago now,’ Annie began. ‘I was sitting under a great big banner near the pier, with Welcome, thou chosen one in Danish as well as English on it. Got there before midnight so I’d have the best view. There was a huge stand, loaned by Epsom Racecourse of all places, a floral canopy on golden poles and an arch stretching across Harmer Street, with statues. Couldn’t understand it meself, but it was supposed to be Neptune handing over the princess into the care of Britannia. I’d never seen anything so lavish before, nor since, for that matter.’

  Flossie nodded, already spellbound.

  ‘The Prince of Wales stayed in his carriage while the top ratepayers handed over their golden tickets to wait on the pier for the Victoria and Albert to arrive. When he saw his betrothed standing on deck the prince sprang on board and planted a kiss on her cheek. It brought about the loudest cheer I have ever heard. As they walked back, arm in arm, they were quite close to me. She was wearing a velvet pelisse trimmed with sable and a white bonnet ornamented with roses and lilies of the valley. Oh, Floss, did she look beautiful! Young maidens strewed her path with petals as they approached the royal carriage. Everyone was fluttering their handkerchiefs or waving mottos. The one I remember best said Welcome to English Hearts and English Homes! I felt truly proud to be British that day, I can tell you.’

  ‘I wish I had a handsome prince waiting at the pier for me one day,’ Flossie said with a sigh, thoroughly caught up in the romance of it all.

  ‘He’d have to have studied the Tilbury Ferry timetable first,’ Jessie said with a laugh as she returned with the drinks. ‘I rather doubt you’ll be arriving on the royal yacht.’

  ‘At least a young girl can dream,’ Floss laughed, pointing an accusatory finger at her friend. Dreaming of romance was all either of them could do, as neither prince, nor knight in shining armour seemed to be coming their way.

  Lottie’s life, on the other hand, seemed full of romance. Even in the wilds of Canada she had men falling at her feet. Flossie looked forward to reading each episode, but when the next letter fell onto the doormat, it delivered pleasure and pain in equal measures.

  1st September 1887

  Dearest sister,

  I am so, so relieved that you have been able to rebuild a relationship with Sam, whether he be your true father or not, and I am delighted that you feel part of his new family. It cannot have been easy for you.

  I have to admit to feelings of envy on learning that he has a new brood looking up to him. I still think of myself as the baby of the Gant family. Lizzie certainly sounds a fine young woman, and completely different from our mother (more of her to follow).

  I so very much enjoy reading about the Bailey family and Jess’ exploits. You certainly tell some amusing tales, Floss – I loved hearing about Bevan’s annual outing. Eight hundred of you on the sands at Margate must have been a sight, and I reeled at the thought of anyone trying to catch a cannonball fired from the Boswell circus canon, even if the prize was twenty-five pounds!

  But it was the account of eleven chickens being stolen from the landlord of The Hope that made me laugh out loud. How embarrassed that forbidding woman, Bessie Turner, must have been when the trail of feathers led the police to her house – then to discover that the thief was none other than her lodger! Fancy trying to hide them in a space between the ceiling and the roof!

  Without a doubt, I would be feeling very homesick were it not for recently meeting Andrew McPherson – my heart’s desire. You will be astonished to hear that he comes from the Island of Lewis! Indeed, very many families from the Scottish Highlands have started arriving in Manitoba, paid for by the British Government. Most experienced dreadful crossings in steerage, many losing their children to the bitter cold on the way, all in search of a new life on the Prairies. Little do they know that their trials are just beginning. Whatever will go wrong in the settlers’ lives ultimately comes from bad weather. Even a hardy Scotsman can offer up little defence against it.

  I met Andrew when he came to the recruiting depot for the North-West Mounted Police here in Winnipeg. Goodness, he is so tall and handsome and seeing him in full dress uniform takes my breath away. Scarlet tunic, collar and cuffs edged with yellow cord and dark blue pantaloons with a red stripe worn with black riding boots. The white helmet has a brass spike and chain and is worn with matching long white gloves. When he’s on horseback with his sabre hanging from his side, my heart is all of a flutter. After an initial period of learning police practices and how to use firearms at Regine in Saskatchewan, my ‘Mountie’ has now returned to Manitoba, patrolling the American border to deter liquor smugglers. My love has signed up for a term of three years, and in the first, as a constable, he earns fifty cents a day. What’s more, with good conduct he gets an additional five cents. With free rations and kit and accommodation in barracks this is indeed a good wage, and will put us in good stead for the future. I can easily wait three years for someone so utterly worth it as my Andrew. I do hope that you will meet someone soon, dearest sister, and be as happy as I am.

  Now, to return to the subject of our indefensible mother. It came as no surprise to me when you disclosed her conduct in Ipswich as I already knew her version of the events. I am mystified as to why she considers me her confidante, but I recently received a letter from her new lodgings in Wisbech. It seems she found another new suitor and saw fit to abscond with him before Henry was released from gaol. I haven’t written back to her so I assume she still isn’t aware of the death of her son Henry, but my darling, I wish I were there to hold you tightly when I break it to you that she now has another son. William George Allen – he’s just a few weeks old. The poor child’s father had disappeared before he was born, hence he has Mary’s maiden name. Her last plaintive letter was nothing more than a plea for me to send her money. I have to say I was sorely tempted, were it not a certainty that it would be spent on gin.

  It seems pointless to waste any more ink in correspondence on such a disappointing woman. By the same token, it has caused me great pain to accept that I am the daughter of the profligate Henry Oxer. Indeed, it has made me question whether I will ever return to England. I feel that I should put the past behind me, become a naturalised Canadian citizen and live out my life here with Andrew.

  I have a heavy heart, as I have no idea if I shall ever see you again, but I will pray that time will be a great healer and that one day I will.

  With deepest love,

  Your true sister,

  Lottie

  Flossie had forbidden herself to dwell on the notion that she might never see Lottie again. It was just too awful to contemplate. Now, seeing those ominous words in print made it impossible to ignore. To be able to come to terms with the past she had had to put all such negative emotions behind her. Free from the acrimony which had previously engulfed her, she had been able to function. Now the idea that she might lose her sister due to the actions of their parents once again forced the floodgates open, allowing the tide of sensations to overwhelm her.

  Feeling utterly wretched and looking for someone to blame for their misfortune, she found herself scarcely able to talk to Sam. What was the point, anyway? It had all been said before.

  For his part, Sam kept quiet too, hoping the dust would settle. What Flossie couldn’t know was that he secretly considered Lottie to be somewhat like her mother, liable to change her mind and her men on a whim. Though he’d cared for both girls as children, knowing that he was definitely not Lottie’s father made a profound difference to how he felt about her.

  15

  ‘Increasing demand from America,’ Sam said, putting on his jacket. ‘Surely you don’t want me to turn down an offer of overtime? We were pinched enough last winter when there were no orders, and it could just as easily happen again.’

  Lizzie stood silently in the doorway, arms folded. She wasn’t happy with her husband being out at work so much, but cou
ldn’t deny the need for extra money. So precarious was the cement business that one minute Mr Bevan could be laying men off and the next giving them a day off with pay to witness the double wedding of two of his children.

  ‘I’m sorry I can’t go with the bairns to see the whale, but Flossie’s said she’ll take Henrietta and Samuel George for you, and Tom Handley’s agreed to row them over.’ Leaving a sixpence on the table for Flossie’s entrance fee, Sam kissed his wife on the cheek and rushed off to work.

  Lizzie was relieved. She’d promised the children they could go, and now at least they weren’t going to be disappointed.

  ‘Is it real?’ asked a wide-eyed Henrietta a few hours later.

  ‘Yes.’ Flossie nodded, barely able to believe it herself. On Tuesday 4th October, a thirty-five-foot whale had swum upriver to Northfleet Hope and become disorientated. By dawn the following morning, as the tide receded, it became stranded on the shore and died. The carcass had been removed and taken to the engineers’ yard in Tilbury Dock where it was on display.

  As soon as the school bell rang, children on both sides of the river clamoured to see the creature.

  ‘How the dickens did they get it here?’ Tom said, scratching his head. ‘The sign says it weighs over six tons.’

  ‘Jess’ll get a surprise,’ Flossie laughed. ‘It also says the skeleton has been purchased by the Tilbury Hotel for its front lawn. Hope it doesn’t smell by then!’

  The New Year began with such a mild January that it seemed destined to be followed by a frightful few months. The wind rattled the doors of Northfleet House until they sprung open and refused to stay shut. No amount of trying could keep the fires alight and the freezing, damp air started to get everyone down. Flossie struggled to see the point of her employer keeping a house of this size. From the windows, she could see hay swirling around the field behind the coachman’s and gardener’s cottages. The smoke billowing from their chimneys looked far cosier and more appealing than the big house.

  Sudden snowstorms and ice were catching people and animals unawares too. By March, Flossie was still battling to get to the shops. The mud-hole, at the bottom of Stonebridge Hill, was frozen solid, depriving the carthorses of a welcome drink of water before tackling the treacherous ascent. Still, she thought ruefully, things can’t be as bad as they are for dear Lottie. Having reluctantly accepted her estrangement from her sister, rarely a day passed when she didn’t think of her having to cope with the ferocious weather being reported on the American continent.

  News of New York City caught in the grip of a fearful blizzard had just reached our shores. Flossie scanned the stories as she ironed the newspaper each morning before leaving it on a silver platter in the breakfast room. Fifty inches of snow, people stranded for days after their trains crashed, horses frozen solid in their harnesses in the city centre, women in billowing dresses blown into drifts and not discovered for days. In all, four hundred people had perished in one week alone, and 198 ships had been sunk or damaged in the harbour. It was shocking. But it wasn’t until Lottie’s letter arrived recounting the pathetic tale of the ‘Schoolchildren’s Blizzard’ that the enormity of the tragedy really hit home.

  5th March 1888

  Dear Flossie,

  I must apologise for the tardiness of my letters. I have two unanswered letters from you and we have begun a ferocious new year since I last wrote.

  Do you remember how we used to struggle to see out of our frosty bedroom window in The Crick and think that we would never be warm again? The cold and damp were relentless, yet predictable. It will be hard for you to imagine, but the weather here is so very much worse. The temperature can drop dramatically, creating severe conditions in minutes. In fact, we are still recovering from a blizzard tragedy that befell us on January 12th. They are saying that five hundred people have lost their lives throughout the Canadian and American prairies. It is so much more miserable as over one hundred of the victims were children caught out on their way home from school, lost in the white-out. Even in a region so used to blizzards, this one was unprecedented in its violence and suddenness. One moment it was mild with a shining sun, then three minutes later the temperature dropped eighteen degrees.

  Hurricane-force winds blew the snow horizontally and the air was so thick with ice crystals that people could barely breathe. Ice literally webbed their eyelashes and sealed their eyes shut; it got into the weave of their coats, shirts, dresses and underwear until their skin was packed in snow. Farmers who had spent a decade walking the same worn path became disoriented in seconds, many freezing to death in the short distance between their houses and barns. It is so tragic, sister, there is hardly a day that passes without hearing about yet another lost soul discovered through the frozen folds of an apron, a boot, a shock of hair or a naked hand.

  It can be so hard living here, I long for the summer and for those precious days when Andrew is on leave. I so enjoy your letters too, dearest sister – you make me feel close despite your being so very far away. Hearing the news of Little Rose from our days at Barnardo’s, and of your exploits with the Gant and Ollerenshaw children, is heart-warming and it sounds like you’ll be even busier with Lizzie being with child again.

  But, goodness, I must admit to feeling somewhat uneasy about the demise of poor old Bruin the Bear. To hear that he had long been replaced by younger bears and kept tucked away from sight was bad enough. But to then discover he’d been put down and a portion of his hindquarters smoked and cured and served up to guests at the Fishing Smack Inn – I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry! Will Rosherville Gardens ever be the same?

  With deepest love,

  Lottie

  The news of ‘Little Rose’ that Flossie had passed on to Lottie came about as a result of a chance glimpse at one of her employer’s newspapers. Details of a strike at the Bryant & May match factory in the East End caught her attention because of an image of a young girl marching at the head of a demonstration demanding better conditions for factory workers. Having often wondered what had become of the emaciated matchgirl whom she’d befriended at Barkingside, Flossie drew in breath when she realised it was, indeed, Rose in the picture.

  The dismissal of a factory girl at the beginning of July had resulted in another 1,400 refusing to work. This was unheard of amongst unskilled workers, especially women. The management refused to reinstate the employee, but the women held firm. With no pay, a strike fund was quickly organised and distributed whilst fifty girls went to Parliament to express their grievances. Threatened by bad publicity, Bryant & May’s directors finally agreed to the girls’ demands. Not only was the sacked worker reinstated, but concessions were granted, including the removal of fines being unfairly deducted from their wages.

  The strike brought the plight of these thin, pale and undersized girls to public notice. Far from being passive victims of exploitation, they had displayed remarkable solidarity in the face of intimidation. To Flossie, Rose was a heroine. She had stood up for something that mattered, and it came as a huge relief to think that, as a result of their courage, the matchgirls could now enjoy such simple pleasures as being able to eat their meals in a separate room, safe from contamination from phosphorus, the cause of the dreaded ‘phossy jaw’.

  But there was another story making the headlines that Flossie shared with her sister in her next letter. Keeping women in the forefront of the news – this time for all the wrong reasons – it involved sinister goings-on in Whitechapel and the reports were often so gruesome that they almost caused Flossie to scorch Mrs Knight’s newspapers. The murders of several prostitutes had been the main topic of everyone’s conversation for several weeks. Two mutilated bodies had been discovered in the street, with their throats cut and abdomens ripped open. The removal of their internal organs had led to speculation that the killer must have had some anatomical or surgical knowledge. Journalists were having a field day, especially after a letter written by someon
e claiming to be the murderer, and calling himself ‘Jack the Ripper’, was sent to Fleet Street.

  Hysteria really set in when the killer struck again in the early hours of Sunday 30th September. Two more women, Elizabeth Stride and Catherine Eddowes, were murdered within three quarters of a mile of each other. Once again, their bodies had been mutilated.

  However, what really took Flossie aback was a letter she spotted in The Times, sent by Dr Barnardo of all people. Only four days before the recent murders, he wrote, I visited No. 32 Flower and Dean Street, the house in which the unhappy woman Stride occasionally lodged. The women, he said, had been frightened by the Whitechapel murders and expressed the fear that some of them might become victims too. On viewing Stride’s body, he confirmed that she had been one of the women he had spoken to in the squalid dosshouse.

  What on earth was Dr Barnardo doing visiting houses favoured by prostitutes? Flossie wrote to Lottie. After all, it was a far cry from rescuing destitute children. Surely the whole sordid tale couldn’t possibly involve their benefactor?

  But there was yet another story connecting them to Elizabeth Stride which Flossie knew her sister would find intriguing. ‘Long Liz’, as she was known, reckoned that she had been on the Princess Alice with her husband and children when it went down. Kate Bailey remembered reading the pack of lies she told the papers about how climbing a mast enabled her escape, only to watch her family drown. Long Liz reckoned she’d been kicked in the mouth, which did untold damage and caused all her teeth to fall out. Turned out she was just trying to get charity money from the church.

  ‘Wicked, that was, when so many really deserved it,’ Kate had said. ‘Not only was there was no damage to her palate, when it came to the post-mortem,’ she continued without a hint of sympathy, ‘but when the journalists dug deeper, they found out her husband didn’t die until six years after the Alice sunk. So, as far as I’m concerned, she got what was owing to her.’