Swarthy men were there, with horses lined up for inspection while farmers in their best clothes and stove-pipe hats, contrasting with the colourful neckerchiefs and gold earrings worn by the Romanies, were examining the sturdier horses with a view to purchasing one to pull the plough, or a loaded wagon. Livestock was escorted through the crowds, causing them to scatter, especially when the young bullocks arrived. Whips were cracked, making the horses rear and neigh before moving back into line.
The children were more interested in the canopied stalls, particularly the penny toys, which were brightly coloured but made of tin, which could cause a nasty cut if handled carelessly, and the cries of the vendors, some of foreign appearance. They paused to watch a man stretch out his left arm and stack plates along it with his other hand. A duo with fiddle and drum approached the crowd hopefully, holding out their hats. As Emma and her sisters skirted the stalls, she spotted a few who were already too drunk to attempt to sell their wares. They stopped for a moment to stare curiously at a tent, which bore the sign Curiosities of the World!, but Emma soon shepherded them away, whispering, ‘It’s a freak show, they say.’ There was also a boxing booth, where a huge man called out to passing lads, ‘Anyone for fisticuffs?’ But the sight of his ham-like fists put most of the boys off.
They bought small presents for their mother and father: sweetmeats for Sophia and a pocket handkerchief for Tobias. They had hoped to win a coconut from the shy, but had no luck. ‘Will could have got one,’ Emma sighed.
After a couple of hours, Emma led them back through the fair, past the waiting gigs and wagons, and they went home to tell their mother all about their exciting afternoon. Sophia was relieved to see they had come through unscathed, but she insisted they all have a good wash before their supper. ‘You never know what you might catch at the September fair,’ she told them, which made them scratch their heads.
*
When Emma was thirteen years old, Sophia had been bedridden for a year. Jerusha, now ten, left school to help Emma, but because she was not robust like her sister, she continued to look after the little boys and was concerned with the well-being of the younger girls. She also did much of the cooking. Emma had become her mother’s carer, as well as tackling the more strenuous household tasks, with the back-up of her wonderful sister-in-law Sarah.
Tobias was noticeably frailer too, worn out with work and increasing worry over his wife. He, William and Emma were the only ones who came into close contact with Sophia. She was painfully thin and sometimes semi-conscious. It was obvious to them that the end was near.
One evening, William and Tobias kept vigil by Sophia’s bedside. They advised Emma to get some rest in bed, and they would call her if there was any change. Emma lay awake for some time, glad that Jerusha was asleep beside her and the small boys, too, in their small, shared bed by the window. There was no sound from Keturah and Rebecca in their room. Finally, Emma fell into an exhausted sleep herself.
Sometime after midnight, Tobias came for them. ‘’Tis time for you to bid your poor mother farewell, together . . . Stand in the doorway. She will know you are there, but don’t come in the room.’
‘Is Martha here? We promised to let her know,’ Emma said anxiously.
‘No – I could not leave Sophia,’ Tobias said simply. Then he went back to the sick room.
The girls, in their nightgowns, hair plaited for the night, huddled together. Emma and Jerusha held the sleepy little boys whose faces they turned to their shoulders. ‘They are too young to see this,’ Emma whispered to Jerusha. Keturah put a comforting arm round Rebecca’s waist.
William knelt by the bedside, reading a passage from Sophia’s well-worn Bible in a soft voice. Tobias sat by his wife, holding her limp hand in his. Before the last words were said, William faltered, turned and addressed the children, ‘She hev gone to heaven. Goo back to bed, pray for her. All is well.’
As Emma and Jerusha lay in bed, wiping away their tears, Emma realised she was now effectively mistress of the house. Her childhood really was over. She must discard recent dreams of becoming a nurse, like Sophie, the sister who left home before she was born.
*
The day after the funeral, at which a large congregation had supported her family in mourning Sophia, although the dissenters were not among them, Martha called her sisters to a meeting round the long pine table in the kitchen. She sat in her mother’s chair, waiting for Sarah to join them. Jonathan and Joseph, now four and two years old, played on the rag rug before the range with the dog stretched out with them, allowing little Joe to rest his head on his flank. Now and again the dog flicked his long ears, for he was not normally allowed to be so near the fire because spaniels were prone to canker.
Emma sat next to Martha, who seemed so much more grown up than the girl who had left home three years ago. Martha’s hair was swept up and secured with combs, which gave her the illusion of being taller than she actually was and she wore a black dress with a white lace jabot. Emma was still small and slight and her hair hung down her back because, after all, she was still a girl, not a young woman. Until this moment, when Martha had shown that she was in charge, it was she who had been responsible for housekeeping and childcare here, she thought.
‘Sorry I’m late!’ Sarah said breathlessly, putting down a basket on the table. ‘Go and sit with the boys,’ she added to her own children, who now numbered three, aged four, three and two: Jane, William and James.
‘What’s in the basket?’ asked curious Rebecca, peering inside it.
‘It’s a meat pie – I used the big dish Sophia lent me a while ago – keep it after the pie’s eaten.’
‘You are very kind, Sarah,’ Martha told her, indicating the empty chair on her other side. ‘Do sit down. We have a lot to talk about before Father and William come in for their dinner, and the master is sending someone to drive me back to work later on.’ She blushed, hoping it would be Elijah, the muscular young horseman on her employer’s farm who had recently asked to take her out on her half-day off.
Sarah said tentatively, noting Emma’s apprehension, ‘I know you are wondering, Martha, if you ought to come home to look after the family, but Emma hev proved she can manage, and Jerusha, Keturah and Rebecca will help, too, I know. I can promise to continue doing what I can, and William, of course, will support his father as always. Emma knows she can share any worries with me. You hev been a tower of strength to your mother in the past, but us can manage now, my dear.’
Martha felt a surge of relief. She didn’t want to give up her independence, and she knew she would feel resentful if she had to do so. The last thing she wanted was to have to go to church twice on Sundays, and ask permission to walk out with Elijah.
‘If you’re sure?’ she asked.
They all nodded. ‘Well, while we are sitting here, let’s prepare the vegetables to go with this lovely pie!’
‘Here come Father and William.’ Emma looked out of the window. ‘Children, come up to the table as there will be cooking on the stove. Who is peeling the potatoes? And wash your hands,’ she added belatedly, ‘after playing with the dog!’
Sarah smiled at Emma. She was taking charge again, she thought, and that was good.
Emma spread an old newspaper over the table where so many meals had been prepared, bread kneaded, pastry rolled and jars lined up to be filled with chutney or jam to be kept in the pantry – Sophia had never wanted a cloth to cover the scrubbed pine top, except on Christmas Day. The turned legs of the table were sturdy and there was a full width-end drawer which held the cutlery. The cups, a medley of different crockery, hung on their hooks on the dresser. Sophia liked to drink her tea from a delicate bone-china cup hand-painted with forget-me-not flowers. Emma had wrapped this cup and saucer in paper and put it away. A memory of her beloved mother. Tears welled in her eyes and she knuckled them fiercely away. She thought, I will never forget her. Why couldn’t Mother have seen all her children grow up? Sophia was just forty-two when she passed away.
Tobias sat down heavily in his chair in the alcove by the stove. His face was grey and lined, his eyes puffy. Young Rebecca rushed to pull off his boots, and he gave her a hug. ‘I can’t do no more today,’ he said gruffly. He wanted to go into the bedroom and grieve in private.
Sarah kissed his cheek and gathered up her little flock. ‘We’ll see you at the end of the day, Will, look after your father. I’ll be back tomorrow morning, Emma. You’d best hot up the pie.’
Before they sat down to their dinner, there was a knock on the door for Martha. She gave them a quick embrace in leaving. ‘I’ll see you soon! God Bless you all! Take care, Father.’ Then she was gone and being gallantly hoisted up into the front seat of the trap next to the handsome young driver.
1. A French chemist and microbiologist, Louis Pasteur, was about to publish his fi ndings about the latter, and this would lead to the pasteurisation of milk, to kill the tubercle bacteria passed from the dairy cows, in whom it was prevalent.
EIGHT
TF
Newcastle, 1854
Having loyally supported Irish Tom and their sister Mary for the past three years, it was now time for Isabella’s sons to leave Tyne Street. TF, who was seventeen, with the encouragement and backing of his Uncle Charlie and Aunt Anna, was about to join the Royal Navy as a boy sailor. Mary was now eight years old, she was a spirited child who stood no nonsense from Irish Tom, and since Granny had died and Dorrie had left, she had become very independent for her age.
‘She is the sensible one of the two,’ TF observed to Rob, as he now preferred to be known. Rob was a mature, steady lad of fourteen who was moving to Amble, Northumberland, on the Scottish border until he was old enough to join the merchant marine. Again, this was at the suggestion of Charlie, who arranged lodgings for him with a local family. Charlie had been at sea with the widow’s late husband.
On their last evening in Tyne Street, Tom, gaunt and unshaven but trying to stay sober until after they had gone, opened Isabella’s trunk. ‘I want each of you to have something to remind you of your mother,’ he said. ‘Then I will give the trunk to Anna to keep for Mary.’
The contents were as the boys remembered them. The cloak, wrapped in brittle, yellowing paper, the opera glasses, the drooping feathers of the ostrich fan, the water colour picture of Isabella’s family, her parents unsmiling; the sewing basket she had been given as a child, and the box of paints. They each took a book. No jewellery remained, except for the little brooch intended for Mary. Tom passed it to the child. ‘Have it now, it was left to you by Aunt Nesbit.’ She pinned it to her dress. ‘Isn’t it pretty! Did I know Aunt Nesbit?’
TF chose the sewing basket. All sailors were expected to be adept with needle and thread. Uniforms issued were ‘standard size’, but with generous seams and most needed adapting to fit – in TF’s case, as he was unusually tall and well-built, he would have to unpick hems and cuffs on trousers and jackets to lengthen them. Rob decided on the paints as he was artistic like his mother, and drawing and painting was a favourite past-time of sailors, he knew.
‘I suppose you will soon forget Newcastle, and who can blame you,’ Tom said heavily.
‘Dada, we will always be Geordies,’ TF said. ‘And we promise to keep in touch. When I’ve finished my training, I’ll be serving queen and country, most likely in the Crimea.’
TF was on Monarch during his four-month training and passed out as a ‘Boy, First Class’. He was given money from navy funds to purchase his uniform: a blue cloth jacket (17s. 8d.), and trousers (11s. 7d.), blue serge frock (smock) for winter wear (8s. 6d.) and a white duck frock for summer (2s.7d.), black silk kerchief (2s.10d.) and black shoes (6s.7d.). He was indeed kept busy taking the tighter garments to pieces and resewing. TF, along with a few boys released from workhouses into the navy, taught this skill to those from more affluent homes.
On board the ships they were supplied with all they would need: a hammock, one blanket and a bedcover, plus mug, plate, knife, fork and spoon, which they were told wouldn’t be replaced and must be guarded zealously.
There was no grog ration for those under eighteen years of age, but a pound of tobacco was available for a shilling, and soap was 4d. a bar. The boys might grumble at that, but they were expected to keep themselves clean and tidy at all times.
TF tackled all tasks with enthusiasm. He was the first to climb to the top rigging, as he had a good head for heights after nipping up and down ladders when helping his father. He learned to swim in the safer waters of the harbour where he observed sea-going vessels coming and going and gangs of men repairing and refitting ships, which could take months, and finally loading craft in the docks. Later, he would realise the significance of the altercations between the idle crew members and officials, because the men were not paid until just before sailing. Families were getting deeper into debt meanwhile, and whenever ships departed, desperate women rowed out to them pleading for their share of the men’s wages. Sailors could allot half their pay to support them, unless in debt, which invariably they were.
When he left the Monarch TF joined the Curlew, a small warship known as a Screw Steam Sloop, which had recently been launched and was intended to serve mainly in the Mediterranean. The smaller boys often became ‘powder monkeys’, charging the ship’s eight guns.
Unlike some of the lads, TF soon conquered his seasickness, thriving on the discipline and orderliness of naval life. There were 500 sailors on board, including commissioned officers and naval tradesmen with special skills. Their assistants were called petty officers. Quartermasters, experienced seamen, could steer the ship, keep watch and send and receive signals. Able seamen were dedicated sailors who were a good example to the boys.
Off-duty, there was some lively entertainment below decks – banjo and harmonica playing, the lads sang songs like ‘A Sailors Life for Me’ and TF discovered he had a talent for whistling. Boys often whittled driftwood as they sang, some knitted or sewed, others listened to the music while they painted pictures to send home, preferring to do this rather than write letters.
The diet on board ship was rather monotonous, but most of the younger members thrived on it.
Food had to be nutritious and easy to store, easy to carry and long-lasting. Fresh vegetables and fruit were soon exhausted and needed replenishing whenever in port. Dairy products soon became mouldy. As TF wrote home: Even the rats can’t nibble the hard cheese . . . Game, caged on board, was limited but fish could be caught in deep waters with a line slung overboard. The latest vessels now had cooking and baking facilities on board, and cereals became an important part of navy rations. Fresh loaves were seized upon with relish, but sea biscuits kept better than bread. The recipe was simple: 1lb of flour and 4oz salt were mixed with water to a stiff dough. This was left to stand for half an hour then rolled out thickly into six long biscuits. These were baked in a hot oven, then put in a warm place to harden and dry. There were occasional variations with added caraway seeds or currants, which were counted gleefully by the boys to see who had the most. The biscuits were enjoyed by those with good teeth, but some had to soak them in tea.
Canned food had been introduced in the early part of the century and beef was preserved in tins from 1842. Having discovered that citrus fruit prevented scurvy on long voyages, limes and lemons were purchased en route, and lemon juice was also added to the rum ration. Exotic fruit like pineapples and bananas were a real treat.
*
As for Rob, he immediately took to life in the coastal town of Amble, which was situated on land jutting out from the mouth of the River Coquet, with panoramic views out to sea. It was possible to row out to Coquet Island where there was a colony of seals and many sea birds. The countryside was lush and green, with rich seams of coal now being mined, bringing prosperity and work to what had been mainly a fishing community grouped around the harbour, but was now a busy port. Rob lodged there in a fisherman’s cottage and had his first experience of going to sea as a deck hand on a trawler
along with his landlady’s two eldest sons.
Amble would be home to Rob for the rest of his life, the place he always returned to after long periods away once he had joined the merchant marine a year later. When he learned something of the history of the place, he discovered the name Amble was derived from Annebelle. He wrote to Anna, I must have been meant to come here . . .
Like his brother he grew to six feet tall, his hair was bleached even fairer by the sun and sea air, and his pale skin was bronzed. Isabella would have rejoiced to see her boys so fit and happy.
Rob became firm friends with Jane and Margaret, the local innkeeper’s daughters in Amble, and it was Margaret whom later he would marry, although Jane was also a constant presence in his life.
Sebastopol, 1854/5
The Curlew was in action in the Crimea, a peninsula situated on the northern coast of the Black Sea. In mid-1855 the British prime minister, Lord Palmerston, bowed to public opinion for Britain to join with France and Turkey in the assault on the Russian naval arsenal at Sebastopol in the Black Sea. In 1853 the Russian Black Sea fleet had annihilated a Turkish squadron at Sinope. Britain, anxiously regarding her trade with Turkey and access to India, wished to maintain the Ottoman regime, and regarded the action by the Russians as an insult. The Allies decided that a vigorous response was necessary. The Royal Navy was sent to destroy the Russian fleet and the docks and ordered to secure Sebastopol. It was ironic that in 1851, despite the rapidly deteriorating relations between Russia and Great Britain, the Russians had placed an order with British shipyards, which were ahead of them in nautical engineering, for powerful propeller-driven engines. These were commandeered at the outbreak of the Crimean War by the British government and used by our navy, having been paid for by Russia.
The Forget-Me-Not Girl Page 7
