Field of Dust

by Angela Jean Young

  How Flossie wished she could have been there to witness the spectacle. To holiday in another country sounded so exciting, but was not something a person in her position was likely to do. A day at the seaside on a cement works outing was the nearest she was likely to get to going anywhere exotic!

  As 1889 drew to a close with another harsh winter underway, Mrs Knight broke the news that she and her daughter were going to live in London. Northfleet House was simply too big and draughty. Flossie thought it had more to do with finding the young Elizabeth a suitable husband, and imagined that there would be no place for an inexperienced lady’s maid in sophisticated London society. She soon perked up, however, when it became clear that they wanted her to go with them, and it took no time at all for Flossie to accept the offer. After all, a diversion to occupy the mind was what everyone was saying she needed.

  ‘Oh, Floss, does that mean we are to be parted again?’ Jessie sighed.

  ‘I’ll not be far away, and besides, you have Stanley now.’

  ‘You will be able to come back for the wedding, won’t you? You’re my bridesmaid, after all.’

  ‘Of course I will. Besides, I will get more free time, seeing as I’ll be living in now.’

  ‘It’s going to be such a glorious day. I fear my heart will burst.’

  ‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world,’ Flossie said, kissing her dearest friend on the cheek.

  Flossie waited until after the New Year celebrations to tell everyone she was moving. Sam and Lizzie appeared disappointed, yet she felt they were secretly relieved. Their new baby was due soon and now that Sam’s earnings had improved, thanks to the union, they no longer relied so heavily on Flossie’s rent money. The children could have their own room.

  ‘You know there’ll always be somewhere for you here,’ Kate Bailey whispered as she hugged Flossie on her doorstep. ‘It seems to be that every time Sam and Lizzie have another bairn, one of mine grows up and leaves home!’

  ‘I know.’ Flossie nodded, holding back the tears. ‘You’ve been more of a mother to me than my real one, that’s for sure.’

  They held each other for what seemed like forever.

  ‘That reminds me,’ Kate said, wiping her eyes on her ample apron. ‘Have you heard from her of late?’

  ‘No. Nor do I wish to. She’s inclined to write to Lottie when she’s desperate for money, that’s all I know.’

  ‘That’s no surprise. Good riddance, I say,’ Kate said, shrugging her shoulders.

  Flossie didn’t think it possible that the winter fog in London could be worse than it was in Northfleet, but it was. Sulphur-laden smoke from tens of thousands of domestic coal fires and factory chimneys clogged the atmosphere, turning yellow, green and brown in the process. The newspapers coined them ‘pea-soupers’. Medical experts began to realise that they were responsible for the increasing number of deaths from bronchitis. Even animals suffered. A number of prize cattle at Smithfield choked to death during a particularly dense and suffocating bout that lasted a week.

  Much to Flossie’s annoyance, the polluted air seeped into their new Kensington home through the doors and windows, coating furniture and clothes with an oily, gritty smut which was the Devil to keep clean. Even the aspidistra on its jardinière withered.

  Not being able to see your own feet through the impenetrable filth made getting lost, or being run over by a cart, a genuine hazard. The trusted linklighter urchin who huddled in the porch of 54 Stanhope Gardens was made good use of. Boys such as him earned a few coppers carrying flaming torches to lead people through the darkened streets, though the less honest ones led others down alleyways to be robbed. Flossie made sure she always tipped him after he’d guided her to the post office safely. There were always letters and parcels to post and, besides, writing was the best thing to do on your day off when the sun never seemed to rise. Lottie’s letters, in particular, always demanded a swift reply.

  16th March 1890

  Dearest Flossie,

  Goodness, how you have played with my emotions! I have laughed and cried in equal measures reading your last letter. Cement dust in The Crick was bad enough, but the goings-on in ‘The Smoke’, as you call London, sound dreadful.

  Frivolity aside, I must address the sad news of Sam and Lizzie’s lost baby. I can only imagine how tragic a stillbirth must be, and all this coming so soon after the death of tiny Ada Eliza. It is truly heart breaking. I also read with sorrow your account of the death of old Annie Devonshire, and that of Albert Bull. Annie was often sitting on the jetty watching the ships as we children, including the reliable Albert, played on the beach below.

  On to happier matters… How thrilling that romance is in the air. I couldn’t put your letter down until I had read it thrice over for fear of missing anything. So Jess is in love with Stanley Bull, and you, dearest sister, have feelings for Henry Luck. Can this really be after all you said about him when we were children?! I tease you, of course. He certainly sounds like a very different character now. In truth, I felt your frustration when I read that your hopes appeared to have been dashed so quickly. May you be reacquainted with him again soon – perhaps at Jess and Stanley’s wedding in May? I would love to imagine you being there together on such a perfect occasion, and I can’t wait to hear about what you will all be wearing, what colour was chosen for the bouquets and garlands at the church… Oh, how romantic!

  Now to bring us back to earth with a bump. I feel I must impart the latest news I have regarding our mother. Brace yourself for this, my darling. She is once again in Ipswich. Henry Oxer took her back, but only on the condition that she left her child behind. Naturally, we only have her word for that. It is to be assumed that young William George Allen is now in the care of the authorities in Wisbech. Sad that this may be, you and I both know that it’s probably the best place for him.

  Finally, on to my own unsettling news… My Andrew will have been a Mountie for three years this summer and must decide soon if he wishes to sign up again. There has been civil unrest here in Manitoba and my beloved has been on call for much of the time. It’s all to do with the large numbers of immigrants that have moved here from Ontario. The majority of people are now Protestant and resent public funding for the Catholic schools. In their wisdom, the province has passed an Act to create a single, non-denominational school system in English only. Obviously the Catholics are far from happy, and everyone is wondering whether French will survive as a language and a culture in Western Canada.

  All this brings me back to Andrew. As a Catholic himself he is feeling quite anxious and thinks that we should move out of the province and start afresh somewhere else. I shouldn’t be getting your hopes up, but I cannot keep it to myself – we have even pondered whether to move back to Scotland. Andrew does so miss his family in the Highlands, as I do you, but I will have to accept whatever decision my betrothed comes to. Knowing my previously fickle nature, I am sure you are surprised that my feelings have remained steadfast. In fact, sister dear, I love him as much now as I did when we first met.

  I cannot wait to hear more details of Jessie’s wedding, so please write again soon.

  All my love,

  Lottie

  As she opened her eyes early one morning, Flossie momentarily wondered where she was. The sun streaming through the threadbare curtains quickly brought her to her senses. Shaking her arm to ward off pins and needles, she realised that the body next to her had been lying on it, and was still fast asleep. Not having the heart to disturb the bride-to-be on the morning of her wedding, Flossie sat up and looked around the room, wondering if today might be the day she was going to see Henry Luck again. It seemed like forever since he had held her hand.

  ‘Pinch me,’ Jess said quietly, stretching as she did so. ‘Am I really getting married?’

  ‘Yes,’ Flossie whispered into her ear. ‘Saturday, 3rd May – the day you are to become Mrs Stanley Bull.’
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  Jessie shrieked as she felt her arm being pinched and both girls fell back in a fit of giggles.

  William Bailey was waiting patiently outside 7 The Creek with the beautifully groomed Dobbin as Kate festooned his cart with evergreens and blossom. Meanwhile, Jessie’s older brother, James Larkin, paced up and down the aisle of St. Botolph’s, twisting the white rosette pinned to his left lapel, determined to undertake his usher’s duties seriously.

  Jessie looked beautiful; her white satin bodice pulled in at the waist and long gathered skirt falling naturally over her hips. ‘You look lovely too,’ she said, adjusting her bridesmaid’s headdress. A ring of flowers, with ribbons hanging delicately from them, framed Flossie’s face. ‘Thank you for this,’ Jess said, smiling as she folded the handkerchief Flossie had given her with her new initials embroidered on it in blue thread. ‘I’ll tuck it up my sleeve for when I shed a tear.’

  ‘Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue and a lucky sixpence in your shoe,’ Flossie chanted as she lifted Jessie’s lace veil before letting it fall over her face.

  With one final glance in the mirror, they held hands and carefully descended the perilous stairs in their matching delicate silk shoes. Jane Larkin lovingly handed her daughter a bouquet of sweet-smelling orange blossom and opened the front door.

  St. Botolph’s bells pealed forth as Dobbin made his way slowly along The Creek and onto Lawn Road. Being uphill most of the way, George Larkin, father of the bride, took pity on the old horse and walked alongside William Bailey. Children jumped over the wall from the chalk pit where they had been playing and followed the cart. Flossie spotted Joe Ollerenshaw’s brood amongst the array of dirty faces and waved at them. As they neared Sam and Lizzie’s house, Henrietta Gant, flower girl extraordinaire, waited proudly on the doorstep looking as pretty as a picture with her hair in ringlets and pink muslin dress adorned with matching ribbon sash and rose petals. William whisked her up and placed her effortlessly alongside Jessie.

  Emerging from the house, Henrietta’s two small brothers rushed over to Dobbin and offered up a carrot. Quick as a flash Lizzie appeared, swooping one of them up under each arm. This was not the day for her sons to soil their Sunday best in the muddy gutter. Sam then appeared, carrying Lizzie’s bonnet and the boys’ caps. Making the finishing touches to their outfits, the Gant family fell in line with the others to follow the cart up to the church. Flossie smiled, thinking how lovely it was that they were all together on such an auspicious occasion.

  A hushed silence greeted the bride as she hovered in the arched doorway of St. Botolph’s. Once Floss was sure that Jess was completely ready, Henrietta set off bravely down the aisle, dropping petals as she did so. Jess followed, holding on to her father’s sturdy arm, followed by Flossie who, as protocol decreed, stared straight ahead, though secretly hoping that somewhere from within the confines of the old church Henry Luck was watching her.

  And he was. In fact, he couldn’t take his eyes off her. The ceremony seemed to take forever, and the signing of the register even longer. Finally, the wedding party emerged from the vestry and made their way back down the aisle and out into the sunlight. A huge cheer greeted the bride and groom, who laughed happily as they were showered with rice and rose petals.

  Standing back, her task accomplished, Flossie cast her eyes around the assembled guests. Through a gap, she caught sight of the man who had been filling her dreams for what seemed like an age. He was leaning against a gravestone with arms folded and a huge grin on his face. Without a thought for her silk shoes, she raised the hem of her gown, stepped onto the mossy grass and walked slowly towards him.

  ‘You look truly beautiful, Florence Grant,’ Henry said, taking her hand in his. She blushed at the compliment and they both smiled, knowing that he had deliberately used her childhood surname.

  ‘At least you remember me, Henry Luck,’ she said, teasing him with her eyes.

  ‘How could I ever forget you, Flossie?’

  ‘Well, you’re such a busy man these days…’

  Realising that what he was about to say only confirmed that judgement of him, he took hold of both of her hands.

  ‘I’m so glad you came over, I wanted to have you to myself for a few minutes. You see, I’m afraid I cannot stay for the wedding breakfast.’

  Flossie’s heart sank. The initial euphoria on seeing him suddenly drained away. She looked down and gently withdrew her hands from his.

  ‘It is wonderful to see you again, Henry. I hoped that you would be able to come. It must be difficult with such a demanding job.’

  ‘That’s just it,’ he replied awkwardly. ‘I have to get back to London. There’s a May Day procession tomorrow and we’re expecting a quarter of a million trade unionists marching to Hyde Park. I’m in the thick of it all, I’m afraid.’

  The look of disappointment on Flossie’s face was obvious. Henry pursed his lips, knowing that he had handled the situation badly.

  ‘The problem is, you see, Floss, union membership has doubled in this year alone. There are over two million of us now and this march is an opportunity for us to show our solidarity. If it all goes to plan, it’ll happen every year.’

  Flossie sensed his discomfort, but found herself unable to say anything, which only made the situation worse.

  ‘I felt I had to come and see Stanley and Jessie get married… for Albert’s sake, you understand,’ he stammered, taking his cap out of his pocket and thrusting it on top of his dishevelled hair.

  ‘Of course,’ Flossie said quietly. ‘I understand.’

  ‘Truth is,’ he blurted out suddenly as she started to turn away, ‘I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since our all-too-brief reacquaintance… and I really wanted to see you again. I hope you don’t object to my forwardness.’

  Turning back to face him, she placed a hand on his arm. ‘Oh, Henry, of course not. I was so hoping you would be here. I’m just sorry you have to leave so soon.’

  Relieved, he took both of her hands in his and pulled her towards him. She closed her eyes as she felt him plant a gentle kiss on her cheek.

  ‘May I have your permission to call on you then, Miss Grant? Stanhope Gardens, isn’t it? Tradesman’s entrance, no doubt…’

  Flossie looked up, surprised, and nodded, delighted to still be in his embrace.

  ‘I promise not to bleat on about the unions next time,’ he laughed, releasing her slowly from his grasp. Winning a tussle with his pocket watch, he realised that time was now of the essence. ‘Goodness,’ he exclaimed, ‘it has to be right now if I am to catch my train.’

  With a frantic wave to alert Stanley and Jessie to his imminent departure, he blew Flossie a kiss and was gone.

  Flossie walked slowly back to the wedding party, elated that Henry had gone to the effort of finding out her address. She didn’t dare think about the kiss. That had to be saved for later, and besides, Jess and Stanley were about to depart.

  The rug from the Larkins’ front room was just being laid outside as the cavalcade of wedding guests made their way along the High Street a few steps behind the cart. A revived Dobbin confidently pulled the newly married couple back to The Creek. The Bailey boys had rounded up two dozen or more assorted kitchen chairs from their neighbours, with a couple of doors placed end to end and covered with Sunday-best sheets, which served as an excellent table.

  By the time Jess and Stanley Bull were ready for their wedding breakfast, the women had transformed what few provisions they could muster into a veritable feast. A barrel of ale donated by Robert Scott of The Huggens Arms helped oil the men’s throats for their speeches and Sylvester Lee pitched up with his barrel organ to jolly things up. Someone piped a sailor’s farewell on a tin whistle as the bride and groom slipped away to the privacy of their own bedroom at the Bull residence in Dock Row – Albert’s old room, in fact.

  It had been
a day neither Jess nor Floss would forget in a hurry.

  18

  ‘What race did you say Henry was rowing in?’ Lizzie asked Flossie as they struggled to keep hold of the children after paying the sixpenny entry fee to the Terrace Pier and Gardens.

  The sheer number of people cramming through the gate was alarming. Flossie had had visions of them sitting on one of the many seats along the promenade where you could get uninterrupted views of the river, but it was no use today. Every seat was already taken. The Gravesend Amateur Rowing Club regatta was a red-letter day on everyone’s calendar, and Flossie had an extra-special reason for making it her destination on her afternoon off.

  Deciding this was not the moment to answer Lizzie’s question, she took charge and battled through the crowds of revellers more intent on hugging the beer stalls than watching the early heats. Eventually – and miraculously without losing a child – they made it to an ice-cream cart pitched near the front. With barely a cloud in the sky, the early September sun was fierce. Flossie tipped Henrietta’s bonnet forward to protect her eyes from the intense glare reflecting off the water whilst watching Samuel George, penny in hand, heading towards a boy of similar age selling official programmes.

  Lizzie, meanwhile, surveyed the sedate lawn of the Clarendon Royal Hotel, reserved for the exclusive use of subscribers, where corseted ladies in fine hats were peering through binoculars over the heads of the riff-raff to the finishing line below.

  ‘I can see the mayoress’ chains glinting in the sun,’ she laughed. ‘Don’t envy her having to wear them all day. She’ll need some horse liniment for an aching neck tomorrow.’

  Flossie smiled, but her own eyes were firmly fixed on the river. Countless boats, overloaded with passengers, had taken up position along the course. Studying the timetable, she realised they had already missed the Fishermen’s Scullers Race (first prize: a case of Sunlight soap), but were just in time for Walking the Greasy Bowsprit at twenty past three.