The Forget-Me-Not Girl

by Sheila Newberry

  After this happy event, there was sad news of one who had earlier played a big part in TF’s younger days. His Uncle Charlie, who had inspired both his nephews to go to sea with his lively stories and songs of his life as a jolly Jack tar and had been so generous with support after Isabella had died, had passed away. He’d married during the 1850s and afterwards contact had ceased.

  Anna had received a black-bordered card from his widow, without a personal message or a postal address, which stated that Charles Henry Lister of Birkenhead, born 1822, son of Abraham Lister, of Newcastle, had died in Birkenhead, aged forty-seven.

  The notification arrived some time after the event as it had been forwarded to Anna at the Bromley address, from Kensington. However, Anna had moved on again. She was now the matron of a church school in Birkenhead, and she was devastated to think she had been so near her brother at the end, but not known it.

  There were nine boarders at the school, which was supervised by the local curate from the church. They were young men aged between thirteen and nineteen who were studying to be ministers. The majority were sponsored by missions overseas. Two of the scholars were from Mexico, one from Paris, one from Spain, one from Valparaiso in Chile and two from London and Kent. Anna was a mother figure to these boys. She wrote, I am happy and the job is very rewarding, I hope to stay here a long time . . .

  She had heard of the position from Maria, who visited there before she left for the mission in China where she worked alongside women from America and Canada. Anna wrote to Emma, Can you imagine Miss Maria in a rickshaw? She finds the Chinese very courteous and cultured, but is unsure many will be converted . . .

  *

  The following June, 1870, Margaret and Rob in Amble had their second daughter, another Isabella, named for his mother and sister. In December, Keturah and Harry wrote to say that they had been blessed with a baby son, Harry jnr. and that they were hoping to move to Jarrow sometime in the New Year. Emma and TF had some news of their own: they were expecting their fourth child and this time Immi was hoping for a sister.

  Immi was thrilled when Emma Alexandra, soon to be known as Alice, was born after a quick, easy birth, with a qualified midwife in attendance. Alice was blonde like her father and fair-skinned with blue eyes. She was not a placid baby like Immi and demanded attention. TF said fondly, ‘She is spirited, like her mother!’ For which remark Emma gave him a mock cuff round the ears and cried, ‘Oh, you!’

  But two years after these happy events, there was worrying news when Margaret’s sister Jane wrote from Amble to say that Rob’s wife was suffering from consumption, complicated by the fact that she was expecting another baby in September. Sadly, the baby inherited the condition and did not survive long. Margaret’s condition became worse and she passed away two years later, aged thirty-three. From then on, the two girls, Lizzie and Izzy, were cared for by Jane. Rob, despite being grief-stricken, had to carry on as captain of his ship, in order to support them. He was fond of Jane but although he might have been expected to marry her eventually, no one could ever replace his gentle, sweet-tempered Margaret. Jane was made of sterner stuff and was not so indulgent with the children. She determined they would grow up to be independent and strong-minded, like her.

  ‘I’m sad we never met,’ Emma wept, her face pressed against TF’s shoulder in bed, the night after they received the news, because she didn’t want to upset the children. ‘I thought of her as a true friend. I tried to comfort her as best I could when they lost baby Margaret. She knew I understood because of Gussie.’

  It would come as a shock to them to learn later that Izzy, a precocious child who was obviously very bright, displayed the first signs of epilepsy after losing her mother; there was obviously a family connection. ‘Perhaps it came from my mother’s family; I never knew of this on the Irish side,’ Tom said reflectively when he heard the news.

  Emma comforted herself with the thought that she’d never heard of it in her family, either, although they had other afflictions to bear.

  EIGHTEEN

  Keturah, 1871

  Keturah looked back just once at Buckenham Cottage, the place she and Harry had moved to immediately after their marriage and where their baby had been born the past December. She didn’t want to think of the empty rooms inside. Their furniture had been removed to the saleroom earlier in the week, after the lodgers left. On impulse, Keturah wrapped the pair of Staffordshire china dogs from the mantelpiece in newspaper and tucked them among the tiny clothes in the baby’s bundle. These would remind her of home and Rebecca, whose wedding gift they had been – of Fly, Emma’s spaniel at Wymondham, and of the cottage here in Yarmouth. It had been an eventful year since she married Harry. Her only regret at leaving was that she would miss Rebecca’s wedding in the summer.

  It was now spring, 1871, and they were about to embark on their great adventure, which would begin that day when they stepped aboard the steamship East Anglian for the overnight trip to Newcastle. However, they would disembark before this at South Shields, where accommodation had been arranged. South Shields was situated at the mouth of the River Tyne, which flowed inland to Jarrow, then to Newcastle upon Tyne. Workers at the Jarrow shipyard were transported there by wagon, as it was only a few miles away.

  The carter heaved their luggage aboard, and then assisted Keturah up, while Harry held the baby until she was settled on her seat. He had a sack slung across his shoulder, with provisions for the journey, for they had been warned that food for passengers was rationed. Regarding the jostling crowds, waiting to board, Harry observed, ‘It’ll be like feeding the five thousand, I reckon.’

  They had joined other families on the South Quay who had been recruited mainly by Palmers, the big shipyard in Jarrow. Keturah recognised a familiar face. It was Liza, who like herself had been in service in Great Yarmouth. They had been great friends and on their afternoons off the two girls had walked along the sandy beach and dipped their stockinged feet into the waves as they lapped and receded. They popped the seaweed bladders and allowed the sea breeze to loosen their long hair, even though it was quite a task to remove the tangles later, especially for Keturah, with her curly locks. They chattered and giggled like the children they still were at fourteen and fifteen years of age. Liza had married Francis when she was twenty and the young couple had moved out of town to live with his parents on their farm. Francis was a tailor by profession and rented a small shop in Yarmouth along a side street, but there was not much call for his services among the fishing community, who needed more rugged wear and were not interested in fashion. Keturah wondered what had prompted them to travel into the unknown. The delicate-looking Francis, with his elegant hands and tapering fingers, so sure with needle and thread, seemed unlikely to be heading for the shipyards at Jarrow or the mines in Newbottle, a village further inland. She waved at her old friend and hoped to get a chance to chat before they retired for the night. Liza, too, had a babe in arms, fastened within her shawl, however, there was no sign of Maybelle, her first child, who must be three years old. Francis was carrying his precious violin and Keturah recalled that Liza had said he was musical and had never wanted to follow his father into farming.

  They made their way with difficulty, trying to get to one another. Francis had disappeared by then to find a cabin, as had Harry. Keturah managed to get to her old friend first. It was not possible to embrace while holding on to their babies, and they had to shout so that they could hear each other.

  The milling crowds on the quay reminded Keturah of a story Liza had told her years ago. ‘It must have been a crowd like this when your grandfather was at that beef and beer celebration to mark the end of the Napoleonic Wars,’ she said to her.

  ‘Fancy you remembering that . . . All that beef, and seventy barrels of beer! And they made a mistake by celebrating a year before Napoleon was defeated at Waterloo in June 1815! It must have been a sight to see, Grandpa said his father took off his belt and striped his bottom for being drunk at fourteen year
s old.’

  They gazed out to sea where the fishing fleet were already out – Yarmouth was famous for its herring industry; a staple food which could be preserved in salt – and Keturah felt a sudden constriction in her throat. She was leaving her loved ones, especially her beloved sister Rebecca, and going far from home. Would she ever see them again, or the old familiar places?

  ‘Why are you going to Bottle?’ she asked her friend. ‘It’s a mining village, isn’t it?’ She couldn’t imagine Francis digging coal deep down a mine.

  ‘We needed to get away – to be by ourselves, masters of our own destiny for once, is how Francis put it. He’s prepared to work hard and we’ll save up so he can return to his tailoring,’ Liza said. ‘How about you?’

  ‘Well, Harry is a ship’s carpenter and he seized the chance to earn more and have a more responsible job; it does sound much more interesting than his old job in Yarmouth. He wants me to be a lady of leisure, he says, and enjoy bringing up our future family – little Harry is the first!’

  ‘We should find our cabin,’ Harry suddenly appeared. ‘I had a job to find you. Our boy is sucking his fist, he hev need of his mother,’ he reproved her mildly.

  ‘Shush!’ Keturah whispered, thinking he sounded like her brother William. She looked to see if anyone was listening. There were folk everywhere, some leaning over the rails to call a last goodbye to friends and family while children ran around exploring and being rebuked by grizzled old sailors with leathery skin from constant exposure to the elements. Language was ripe, and Keturah was thankful that their baby boy was too young to take it in. Mother would have been horrified, she thought. The gulls screeched overhead, circling the boats and there was the overriding smell of fish from the crates on the quayside. The deck rocked beneath their feet. Full steam ahead!

  ‘I’ll see you later,’ Liza said quickly, ‘I expect my husband is searching for me, too.’

  *

  Their cabin was tiny and claustrophobic, with two narrow, hard bunks, one above the other. There was a slop pail, a wash bowl and a jug of water. Keturah sat on the bottom bunk, which was covered with a rough blanket, to nurse the hungry baby. She thought, I won’t be getting undressed tonight!

  Those without sleeping quarters would sleep on deck, resting their heads on their bundles. Some were already feeling queasy and were hanging over the rails as they gazed down into the darkening, heaving sea below. Others, fortified by swigs from bottles they’d brought along, and encouraged by a couple of the crew with banjo accompaniment, obviously intended to dance and sing the night away.

  There was a tap on the cabin door, and Liza and Francis were revealed with their baby. ‘May I come and be with you, Keturah, for a while? We are two cabins along from here – only Francis has been roped in to play his fiddle for the dancing.’

  ‘I couldn’t say no,’ Francis said apologetically. ‘Perhaps Harry would like to join me? Then the gals can have a good old chinwag.’

  Liza was wearing similar clothes to Keturah: long skirt, high-necked blouse, a hand-crocheted shawl and boots. In cold weather the shawl would be worn over the head and shoulders and then they appeared much like the fisher girls. But the similarity ended there, as she was taller than Keturah, fair-haired with freckles. When they were younger, she had always been protective of Keturah, who had been small, shy and nervous after her long stay in the workhouse. Liza’s baby was also a boy, almost the same age as little Harry. He too was dressed in a long flannel garment suitable for both day and nightwear. He was named Albert, a name still popular despite the demise of the prince consort.

  ‘Our Maybelle is staying with her grandparents but I hope she will join us later in Newbottle. ‘Did you know there are three pits in Harbottle. Francis will be employed at Dorothea,’ Liza explained, answering Keturah’s unspoken questions. She added: ‘I’m glad your Harry is with Francis – some of those men on deck look as if they enjoy a fight. Francis is a gentle soul . . .’

  ‘Harry may be large, but he’s not one for drinking or fisticuffs, he’s a real family man,’ Keturah said defensively. ‘I hope little Harry will grow up to be the same.’ She cuddled her baby close and kissed the top of his dark head, just visible over the folds of the shawl.

  ‘I didn’t mean . . . oh dear, Keturah, I didn’t mean to put your back up! I’ve missed your company since I married – my ma-in-law is a bit of a tartar and believes young mothers should stay at home! I had to pull my weight on the farm, too. She’s one reason, though I would never repeat that to Francis, I’m looking forward to our new life in Newbottle.’

  Keturah thought, I couldn’t leave a child of mine behind, but she didn’t say this to Liza. ‘We won’t be so far apart, Liza; we’ll be living in South Shields, in a company house. We won’t be going as far as Newcastle on the boat, thank goodness.’

  Liza gulped. ‘Oh dear, I think my supper’s coming up.’ She laid Albert down at the other end of the bunk and dashed for the bucket.

  Up on deck, those who weren’t similarly afflicted, were suddenly spellbound, as Francis drew his bow over quivering violin strings, under the stars.

  *

  They parted from their friends at dawn, waving and shivering in the early morning chill on the dock at South Shields after promising to keep in touch and exchanging addresses. Then they were herded on to the waiting wagons and trundled along the road towards their new home. Keturah was glad to be on dry land at least.

  As it was a coastal town, Keturah had imagined South Shields to be like Yarmouth. It came as a shock to be told that it was the second largest town on the Tyne after Newcastle, with a growing population due to the shipping yards in the locality and the coal mines. It would be some time before she discovered the miles of sandy beaches, the coves, the dunes, and the river frontage with the massive North and South Piers, which she explored with Harry. On Lowe Top there were two cannons, which had been captured from the Russians during the Crimean War. They would walk along the Leas above the limestone cliffs and learn the history of the Grotto pub, cut into the cliffs. Seabirds cried raucously overhead, reminding them of the place they had left. The wild side of South Shields was quite breathtaking, but despite this, Keturah didn’t feel happy living in the town. It had an unpleasant stench of the river in the summer months and she wished she was in a village like Liza, for it was taking time to make friends.

  Letters winged back and forth between South Shields and Newbottle. Liza wrote: Dear Francis comes home as black as the coal he has worked with his pick and shovel. I get the tin bath ready and scrub him all over – the sight makes Bertie laugh! His poor hands, rough and red, he is too tired to play his fiddle in the evenings, but sometimes he sews, and has made Bertie a sailor suit.

  Harry, too, was working in a different environment. The great iron-clad ships were awesome to see, towering above the workers who toiled like so many ants far below. He worked long hours on cargo boats and on ships with revolving twin gun turrets, which cost in excess of a thousand pounds to build. Harry, like his fellow workers, sometimes dreamed of going to Australia on one of these vessels and was proud of being involved with the construction of these aristocrats of the high seas, including C.M. Palmer, Dilston Castle and Hebburn Hall, and he was devastated at the news in 1873 that the latter had sunk in Northern Spain.

  When he arrived home, he sometimes found his young wife in tears, with a fretful baby and no hearty meal waiting for him on the table. Young Harry was not thriving, it seemed. Keturah was alarmed when she found that just a couple of years ago, there had been an epidemic of smallpox in the town. The house they lived in was pleasant enough and they were not short of money, because Harry’s skills as a carpenter were rewarded well by his employers, but she constantly worried about her little boy.

  Harry thought privately that if she had another baby, she wouldn’t have time to worry so much, but he kept silent, for he didn’t wish to upset Keturah who had already said, ‘How could I cope if I had other children to care for?’
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  Then in April the following year, tragedy struck. Young Harry had a high fever one day, and the next morning Keturah discovered him lifeless in his cot. Nothing could be done to revive him. He was eighteen months old. For days after the funeral Keturah was unable to speak and, grief-stricken himself, Harry comforted her as best he could, making all the arrangements and passing on the news to the extended family. When he came home from work to find his wife had been unable to make the bed, let alone cook an evening meal, he quietly set about the household tasks.

  ‘They were so happy, with Harry in a good job, and Keturah hoping to increase her family,’ Emma said tearfully to TF when they received their letter. ‘The only consolation for me is that after all those years apart, I got to know my sister again when she stayed with us before her wedding.’

  NINETEEN

  1873

  TF received not altogether unexpected news from the LFC that he had been appointed as the Inspector of Wharves and Warehouses, ‘in consequence of Mr Goodchild’s resignation’.

  Simultaneously, Chas, who was now the senior deputy foreman, was promoted to the rank of full foreman and directed to take charge of the Central Division in place of TF.

  Emma gave her husband a hug. ‘Oh, you both deserve it – we’re going up in the world, Tom!’

  ‘We will miss our good friends,’ TF said. ‘I had hopes, you know, after Edwin told me he was leaving to be superintendent of the Glasgow Fire Brigade but didn’t say, in case it didn’t happen.’

  ‘We must keep in touch,’ Emma said firmly.

  *

  The towering warehouses under TF’s supervision were linked by many gangways. The Thames lightermen in their large, flat-bottomed boats unloaded goods from ships at the dockside and then rowed to the warehouses where the cargo was hoisted up by stout ropes attached to metal pegs jutting out near the top of the building into the designated storage area. It was dangerous work and accidents were not uncommon. The lightermen were cheerful chaps who sang traditional songs as they rowed, as well as more ribald offerings from the music hall.