Field of Dust

by Angela Jean Young

  Flossie looked at her quizzically.

  ‘Sam and me are expecting again. Due next February, I reckon. We’ve decided if it’s a girl, we’re going to call her Florence. After her big sister.’

  Overwhelmed, Flossie burst into tears.

  ‘I thought you’d be pleased,’ laughed Lizzie, giving her a big hug.

  ‘Of course I am,’ Flossie spluttered, reaching for her handkerchief. ‘I’m so pleased for you both, especially after losing little Ada. What happens if it’s a boy?’

  ‘Well, we’ll just have to wait for the next one, then, won’t we?’

  Perhaps Annie’s passing had been the signal for new life to begin, Flossie thought as she clinked her glass against Lizzie’s.

  As summer progressed, the heady, humid weather, which had encouraged an infestation of greenfly, finally began to improve. By the first day of July, it had become pleasantly warm and dry with glorious sunshine and the river was teeming with all kinds of vessels, many adorned with bunting and flags.

  ‘I’m a lot happier today, girls, make no mistake,’ declared Tom Handley as he greeted Flossie and Kate on the shore. ‘Not only have all those blasted insects stopped getting up my nose, but I’m back getting five bob a body again!’

  Flossie smiled at Tom’s obvious delight at the return of his gruesome source of income. Two years earlier, Woolwich County Magistrates had stopped rewarding watermen for bringing dead bodies out of the Thames. Since then decaying corpses had been floating up and downriver on the tides, the stench overwhelming.

  ‘Mind you, it’s only to clean up the river while the Shah’s here, but I’m not complaining. In fact I might thank him for doing me a good turn if we see him on deck.’

  Waiting until the swell of a passing steamer died down, Tom helped Kate, with Flossie tiptoeing gingerly behind, down the slippery jetty. Discarding her bonnet and stuffing it unceremoniously into her bag, Kate hung on to Flossie for grim death, wobbling dangerously as the two women clambered on board after Tom. With the boat tipping and rolling in the swell, they both collapsed with laughter.

  ‘When you two have quite finished we’ll get going, shall we?’ the skipper groaned, pushing his cap back and rolling his eyes. ‘I thought you wanted to see if he’s brought his eighty-four wives with him? Can’t see it meself, though. He’d have to have a steamer the size of the Great Eastern to hold them all, that’s fer sure.’

  No longer able to keep a straight face himself, Tom joined the women, who were still chuckling, and, with a quick flick of the mooring rope, pushed off from the jetty and picked up his oars.

  ‘Let’s be seein’ how close we can get then, eh, girls?’

  His Royal Highness, Naser al-Din, Shah of Persia, purported to be travelling en masse with his harem, had anchored at Gravesend. While his forty attendants and baggage were being landed and sent on to Victoria Station, he was welcomed aboard the Duke of Edinburgh by the Prince of Wales. From there the royal party was scheduled to make its way, amid pomp and ceremony, slowly upriver to the Speaker’s Stairs at Westminster. His Majesty’s final destination was to be Buckingham Palace, where a suite of rooms had been placed at his disposal, at his own request.

  With barely a few feet between the multitude of vessels crowding the water, Flossie began to wish she hadn’t been quite so keen to catch a glimpse of the numerous wives of Naser al-Din. There were so many boats that it soon became clear they were in danger of collision. Tom made the sensible decision to turn back, seeking safety at the shoreline, much to Flossie and Kate’s relief. As they watched the huge masts of the prince’s paddle steamer pass them by, Flossie pointed to two figures on the deck. One was clearly the Prince of Wales, wearing a tricorn hat topped with white plumage; the other, the Shah, his emerald-encrusted fez glittering in the sunlight.

  A flotilla of smaller boats containing dignitaries followed close behind, amongst which Flossie spotted Bevan’s Spry, its brown sails flapping gently in the breeze. Mrs Knight and her daughter could be seen standing proudly on deck in all their finery. Having spent all morning helping Miss Elizabeth prepare her wardrobe for the event, Flossie was thrilled to see that the off-white crêpe de Chine dress matched perfectly with her turban hat, decorated with lilies of the valley. The flat iron had certainly been put to good use that morning, and Flossie’s reward was the afternoon off in illustrious company. Whether Elizabeth actually saw her waving as Tom tried to steady the boat by Baltic Wharf, Flossie wasn’t sure, though she liked to think she did.

  The following day the newspapers confirmed that the Shah’s eighty-four wives had remained at home.

  ‘Just as well we didn’t get any closer, then,’ Kate laughed as she folded her washing. ‘Being in a harem isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, you know. Seems that when he congratulated Mr Gladstone on his golden wedding, the Shah said, “It’s better to live with one wife for fifty years than fifty wives for one year!”’

  After that, every time Flossie looked up at the London Portland Cement chimney shaft, hastily finished during His Majesty’s visit, she had to smile knowing that its nickname, ‘the Shah’s hat’, came about because the top had been fashioned to look like his fez.

  As the heat of the summer intensified, fields and gardens wilted under the power of the scorching sun. The water company turned off their hydrants for a fortnight, with the result that road-watering was curtailed. The still air led to a dense cloud of smoke hanging over Northfleet, affecting people’s health. Emotions were already running high amongst those living and working on the River Thames due to the low pay, dangerous dock work and the wretched housing conditions that dockers and their families were being forced to accept. There were fears that all this was causing unrest in the Port of London, and right down to Tilbury.

  Social reformer Charles Booth’s ongoing research into pauperism in the East End had already showed that at least a third of all families were living in abject poverty. The threat of social unrest frightened politicians. Companies dependent on mass labour feared loss of profits through strikes. It had always been the case that dock companies took on labourers only when they needed them, much of their trade being seasonal. Sugar came from the West Indies, timber from Scandinavia and the Americas, tea and spices from the Far East. It was hard to predict when ships would arrive, and there was often little notice given to dock workers. As the loading and discharging of cargo was highly labour-intensive, demand for men consequently varied from day to day. Employers needed a surplus of men who were always available for work, yet didn’t want to pay them when there wasn’t any. Most workers in the docks were casual labourers taken on for the day; sometimes only for a few hours. Twice a day there’d be a ‘call-on’ at each of the docks when labour was hired for short periods. Only the lucky few would be selected. The rest would be sent home without payment.

  The success of the matchgirls’ strike the previous year had encouraged unskilled workers to form unions and fight for better conditions. In March, the gas workers at Beckton had won an eight-hour day. Now it was the turn of the dockers. On 14th August the men of the West India Dock struck and immediately called for their fellow dockers to join them. A strike committee was formed to handle the dispute, the aim being to demand the docker’s tanner – a wage of sixpence an hour and an overtime rate of eight pence an hour – and ‘call-ons’ reduced to two a day. Men were to be taken on for minimum periods of four hours and the new National Union of Dock Labourers recognised throughout the port.

  With no funds, help came when the Amalgamated Stevedores Union joined the strike. Not only did they carry weight, but their work was essential to the running of the docks. As more and more workers joined the strike, the Port of London became paralysed.

  ‘Lightermen and bargemen are out,’ Sam told Lizzie and Floss on his return from The Huggens. ‘Looks like they want us to come out now. There’s notices pinned up outside all the cement works, and the ironworks too.’


  ‘But Sam…’ Lizzie shot her husband a look of desperation. With three children and another on the way, to have no pay was unthinkable.

  ‘I know, I know. I’m not going to, not yet anyway.’

  It was a half-hearted denial and it worried Lizzie immensely.

  By the end of the second week, the strike committee was organising mass meetings and had established pickets outside the dock gates. Any men still working were branded ‘blacklegs’ and faced intimidation if they didn’t show support for the cause.

  ‘Only a matter of time now, dearest Lizzie,’ Sam warned. ‘There’s fights breaking out all over the place. Men howling like banshees going from factory to factory, threatening vengeance if we don’t join them.’

  ‘But how will we feed our bairns?’ pleaded Lizzie. ‘The dockers have been getting shilling food tickets, but there’s so many on strike now I’ve heard there’s many families starving.’

  It was an awful prospect. Flossie was only too aware that her meagre wage wouldn’t put enough food on the table for all of them. Up until now she was all for supporting anyone who was trying to improve their lives, but now that the strike was spreading to the cement factories and seemed likely to affect everyone she knew and loved, it was difficult not to wish that it would stay squarely on the other side of the river.

  At Northfleet House, Flossie avoided catching the eye of Mrs Knight. She’d overheard snatches of conversations in the drawing room which left her in no doubt as to her opinion of the 130,000 who were now on strike. Trying to keep her emotions in tight check, Flossie spent more time below stairs, out of harm’s way. On 26th August, before heading home, she caught sight of the butler’s Evening News and Post and read:

  Dockmen, lightermen, bargemen, cement workers, carmen, ironworkers and even factory girls are coming out. If it goes on a few days longer, all London will be on holiday. The great machine by which five millions of people are fed and clothed will come to a dead stop, and what is to be at the end of it all? The proverbial small spark has kindled a great fire which threatens to envelop the whole metropolis.

  Shutting the servants’ door, Flossie heard a commotion as she climbed the steps onto the High Street. It was dusk but everyone seemed to be out of their houses, crowding the pavement. Anxious women, huddling in doorways, pushed their prams back and forth, too preoccupied to care that their older children were running amok. Outside The Little Wonder a scuffle had broken out between several inebriated cement workers. It soon became clear that the factories had finally come out in support of the dockers. They had downed tools at three o’clock and headed straight for the alehouses.

  Flossie found the journey home slow going and somewhat intimidating. At the top of Samaritan Grove, a crowd had formed. A young man, standing on a soapbox, was addressing them in an impassioned manner. Not wishing to soil her shoes by stepping off the pavement onto the rag stone and flint road surface which was constantly being churned up by the iron wheels of heavy wagons, she decided to wait until enough people lost interest in the speaker to allow her through. From the back, she couldn’t see past the sea of caps and bonnets, but something about the man’s voice made her want to listen.

  ‘We are driven into a shed, iron-barred from end to end, outside of which a foreman walks up and down with the air of a dealer in a cattle market,’ the animated speaker said. ‘He picks and chooses from a crowd of men, who, in their eagerness to obtain employment, trample each other underfoot, and where, like beasts, they fight for the chances of a day’s work.’

  The more he spoke, the more silent the crowd became, hanging on his every word. He seemed to have them in the palm of his hand, ending with a rallying cry for action: ‘Friends and fellow workmen, stand firm with us. To earn a decent wage for a decent day’s work is all we are asking.’

  The audience, including Flossie, burst into spontaneous applause. Desperate to catch sight of this inspiring activist, she squeezed through several rows of people to the front to find herself looking at a tall man, about her age, with soft blue eyes. She laughed as he took a rolled-up cap out of his pocket, plonked it on a mass of unruly blond hair and then pretended to produce a farthing or two from behind the ears of the children who had been sitting there bored. Squeals of laughter followed as some of them tried to copy his antics.

  There was something about his presence that she found immediately captivating. As she continued watching him perform magic tricks for his young audience, it slowly dawned on her who he was.

  This charismatic campaigner was none other than Henry Luck.

  17

  Averting her eyes, Flossie rushed away, desperately hoping she hadn’t been recognised. It seemed impossible to believe that the boastful little jester who had so irritated her all those years ago had grown into such an impressive young man. Two evenings later she was back in the High Street, hoping to catch sight of him again. Try as she might, she couldn’t get him out of her head.

  Hearing a loud commotion outside The Coopers Arms, she approached cautiously and smiled on seeing a mop of blond hair protruding above the crowd. Working her way to the front, she was soon mesmerised by his oratory.

  ‘Ben Tillett, our leader,’ Henry Luck told his audience, ‘reckons the dock companies are losing money hand over fist, but they say giving in would set a dangerous precedent. They think we’ll be defeated through hunger. But, fellow workers, we have to stand firm. The strike will continue, trust me. Money has started to pour in from our comrades in Australia and us dockers scent victory.’

  Thirty thousand pounds had been raised by Australian dockers and their allies. It arrived at just the right time; ending fears that the strikers and their families would be forced to go without food. Now they were able to sustain a longer strike, the picket lines had been strengthened. On 5th September, the Lord Mayor of London intervened to bring the two sides together, and within two weeks the strike was over. Almost all the strikers’ demands had been met. It was an exciting time for the union movement. As a result, twenty thousand Londoners joined the new General Labourers’ Union. When Ben Tillett was elected General Secretary, he wasted no time in recruiting the ardent young activist, Henry Luck, to work alongside him.

  Flossie watched as Henry stepped down from his soapbox amid applause and started shaking hands with the people just to the left of her. Suddenly it was her turn. With no chance to escape, she braced herself for his handshake. He recognised her instantly.

  ‘Flossie Grant… it really is you. I thought I caught sight of you the other day.’ His quizzical gaze made her blush.

  ‘Hello, Henry. Yes, it was me,’ she stammered, embarrassed at finding herself so unguarded.

  ‘It’s truly wonderful to see you again,’ he said, still holding her hand. She looked up into his smiling eyes, her cheeks reddening even more.

  ‘I was impressed by your speech,’ she muttered.

  ‘You know me, Floss, I’ve never been afraid of giving people the benefit of my opinion.’

  They both laughed and he winked at her before being swamped by other onlookers, eager to congratulate him. Then he was gone.

  Squeezing through a gap, she headed for home, her head in a whirl. He had held on to her hand. He never averted his gaze the entire time they were together. The grown-up Henry Luck was so different to the bumptious boy she remembered. Her heart was in a flutter, but whatever she did now, it was important not to appear forward. She must seek him out no more.

  ‘Oh, Jess, he can’t be interested in me. It’s been three weeks, and not a word,’ Flossie stuttered as her friend joined her on their seat outside The Elephant’s Head. It was milking time at Johnson’s dairy farm opposite and it was hard to be heard.

  ‘No,’ Jess shouted, putting an arm around Flossie’s shoulders, ‘that’s not it. Stanley says he’s left Tilbury docks and gone to London. He was on the ferry. Talked about how he’s on a “campaign trail” to get every doc
ker to join the union while the strike is still fresh in their minds.’

  The look on Flossie’s face was a mixture of elation and dejection. He’d left on a mission, so maybe he just hadn’t had time…?

  Jessie frowned. ‘I’m sorry, Floss. I know you see him in a different light now, but he still sounds like a show-off to me.’

  Flossie had to restrain herself from jumping to Henry’s defence. If Jess had seen his inspired oration she might not be so quick to judge. Oh well, she comforted herself, at least there was a good reason why he hadn’t come looking for her. Lizzie would be relieved too; it was tiring work having to tidy up every time the door knocker went.

  It was the first time in Flossie’s life that she had felt like this. Taken by surprise at the strength of her feelings for Henry, she felt exasperated over his going before she’d had time to get to know him better. Worse still, she now found it difficult to watch Jess and Stanley embrace. Envy, she had always been taught, was unchristian, yet now she was consumed by it.

  One morning a postcard dropped onto the doormat at Northfleet House. For a second Flossie imagined it was from Henry, but she knew it couldn’t be. He didn’t know where she worked, and anyway, he was gone and had probably forgotten her by now. Sighing, she picked up the card and looked to see to whom it was addressed.

  Miss Elizabeth had travelled with an aunt to watch the closing ceremony of the Exposition Universelle in Paris, and the picture on her card showed the entrance to the fair with well-dressed people passing under a strangely beautiful metal arch. Sneaking a peek at the hastily written message, Flossie was amazed to see that it had been despatched from the top of the Tour Eiffel – an extraordinary metal structure rising 984 feet into the sky, with a post office at the top! Having paid five francs for an exhilarating ride in an open ‘lift’ all the way up, the young lady was overcome by the experience. It is truly a thing of wonder, she wrote, especially at night, when it is lit up by hundreds of gas lamps!