Three Girls

This week, after almost a year, I completed my first transcription assignment for FreeCEN, the project to make all census returns for the nineteenth century available for researchers to search on line without cost.  It was all very interesting, because the places and many of the family names were familiar to me from childhood.  Not until it was finished did I learn that I’d been ‘thrown in at the deep end’, with one of the largest Pieces, well over 7,000 individual entries, covering ten towns and villages.  The last section was the easiest, because there were fewer items of information for each individual, but at the same time it was one of the saddest ... it covered the workhouse at Stradbroke.

It was certainly a place that no one wanted to go if they could possibly avoid it.  It was made so deliberately, to discourage people from taking advantage of ‘something for nothing’; if you’ve ever visited one of the workhouses that have been preserved as sites of ‘educational  tourism’ - for example those at Gressenhall in Norfolk or Southwell in Nottinghamshire - it’s easy to imagine how well they fulfilled that aim.

As I wrote down the names of the 160 people recorded in this particular institution in north Suffolk, and against each one noted their marital condition, their gender and age and the sinister word ‘inmate’, I found myself wondering why it was each was there.   I spotted the odd married couple, but most of them were either widowed or were quite young, or children.  Had they just fallen on bad times, unable to get work, or were there more acute reasons?

One trio in particular stuck in my memory, and once the task was finished and submitted, I decided to do a little digging into the records in an attempt to piece together the story of these three girls named Roberts.  Clara was 4, Mary 3 and (the one that caught my eye in the first place) Eliza, only 12 days old.  There was nothing on the page to indicate that they were sisters ... just the fact that they were all together.  Where was their mother ... their father?  Had they parked their children there because there was no one else to look after them while they tried to provide for their tiny family?  With no obvious answers I came back to the fact that, only twelve days ago, this young woman had given birth.  She wouldn’t be out working .. but she wasn’t there in the workhouse either.

Finding baby Eliza’s birth registration on the GRO’s new birth register search website told me her mother’s maiden name – Moss – and the marriage register index showed that George Roberts and Eliza Moss had married in the June quarter of 1860.  There was no sign of them as a family in 1861’s census, however.  I did find Eliza, living with her parents and two young siblings in the village of Wingfield, conspicuously under her new married name and described as ‘married’, but with no husband present.  She was described as a ‘dealer’s wife’.  I couldn't find any trace of George after his marriage.

I found the family again in 1871, still in the same place: Eliza’s parents, her young brother now a 12-year-old scholar, and an Emily Roberts, described as ‘granddaughter’, aged 9.  This Emily was shown as born in her grandparents’ village, The workhouse entries showed Clara and Mary born in nearby Syleham.  No birth registration could be found for any of these three: Emily, Clara or Mary.  However, each was baptised in Wingfield: Emily at ten days old, Clara and Mary together when Mary was about three months.  In each case the child was described as the ‘daughter of George and his wife Eliza, late Moss’.

Childbirth was a hazardous business in those days.  If Eliza had been living apart from the family with her two younger daughters, making her own living as best she could, her body was probably not in the fittest condition to survive another birth.  I checked the death registers; sure enough, her death was recorded in the June quarter of 1871, aged 29.  The burial register confirmed my suspicions.   It showed that she was buried in Wingfield on 25th March, just four days after her little girl was born.  My guess is that she never recovered from the birth; the workhouse authorities probably had her parents noted as next of kin, and the burial took place as soon as arrangements could be made.  The register gave her home as Syleham.

There is a happy ending to the tale, however.  I decided to see what happened to the three girls in the next ten years.  In 1881, I found them in the nearby village of Weybread at the unlikely - but clearly identified - ‘Holiday House’.  Here lived James and Anna Ablett, tile maker and laundress, along with their nephew, George Leggett, also a tile maker.  Living with them were Mary Jane and Eliza Roberts, aged 12 and 10, described as orphans and scholars.  And who should be visiting on census night but Clara, described as a 17-year-old domestic servant (although she was actually only a month over fifteen .. not an infrequent occurence).  Eliza’s birthplace was correctly shown as Stradbroke, but the other two gave Wingfield, their grandparents’ home ... putting the past behind them?

I Blamed the BBC - Thank You, BBC!

Facebook is a wonderful facility.  Day after day, it seems, it can present to the user a reminder of what was happening a year, three years, any number of years ago, offering the chance to share these memories with friends again. Last weekend, I was reminded of a journey to Great Yarmouth a year ago and the recollection of a day at the seaside prompted the decision to go to another resort before this summer is out.  With nothing else demanding my time this week, I selected Tuesday for a trip to Lowestoft.

Tuesday began early.  After my weekly bell-ringing practice on Monday evening, and a follow-up drink with two friends in the pub across the road, I returned home to 'put social media to bed' before heading for the sheets myself.  As a result, an e-mail that had arrived during the evening was stuck in my mind and I didn't sleep well at all.  In short, at 3.0 I was sitting at my desk in my dressing gown and typing a reply.  I returned to bed an hour later and slept soundly until 8.30.  Consequently, by the time I actually left for the seaside the clock had just ticked past 10 o'clock.

I was listening to the radio as I drove along the A14 and, whatever the programme was, it so gripped my attention as I passed Bury St Edmunds, that it wasn't until I was going up the hill and rapidly approaching the next junction, that I realised I'd missed my turning.  I rapidly re-calculated my route and decided that it would be rather nice to go cross-country and approach Lowestoft from the south instead of the west. All went well until I'd started heading north on the A12.  I passed a turning signposted Dunwich and, by the time I'd reached a suitable place to turn around, I'd realised that time was passing, Lowestoft was still a long way to go and there was just as much coastal attraction a little closer.  So Dunwich it would be.

Dunwich: view from the cliff-top

Parking there is essentially free, but subject to a donation, and the same conditions apply elsewhere.  After lazing a while on the beach I looked around the museum and walked up the hill to the ruins of Greyfriars Priory, returning to the seaside car park by way of a footpath along the cliff-top.  All too soon it was time to set off for home, deciding to take a more direct route than I'd come, but there was more excitement to come.

Ruins of Greyfriars Priory

I explored a few Suffolk villages that were new to me, and then found myself on the road that I would have used if I'd set off in the morning with the intention of visiting that one-time great port, now mostly submerged beneath the sea.  Soon I was approaching the turning to the village where I lived for six years or so at the end of the '70s and start of the '80s, and which was my spiritual home for well over twice that.  This time I made the decision soon enough, and diverted to indulge in a little nostalgia.  After walking around the corner where I had lived, rekindling memories, I wandered up the hill to the church.  Attracted by a roadside sign, 'Church Open', I crossed over and went inside.

To my amazement quite a number of people were gathered, and a table was being set out for refreshments.  As I turned towards a voice I recognised, and began to chat to the churchwarden, I noticed a woman looking at me with an undue sense of awe.  The truth then dawned and she apologised for her gaze.  "We're expecting a Bishop," she explained, and my friend pointed to a notice about the imminent visit of the diocesan eminence as part of an area event.  The ice was broken, and a spirit of friendship and fellowship enveloped me as I explored and enjoyed re-discovering things I'd forgotten.

Rt. Rev. Graham James,
Bishop of Norwich

As I returned to the gathering by the door, I found my eye returning to one particular young lady.  People were arriving all the time and minutes later, I noticed in the doorway a woman whom I recognised as the mother of the girl I saw in the young lady's face.  After greeting her and sharing the observation that we hadn't changed except for the colour of the thatch, I gestured and asked, "Is that young lady your daughter?"  "Yes," and provided her name.  Overhearing this, the younger lady addressed her mother, "Is that who I think it is?" and then, on receiving in return the same courtesy, greeted me personally.  I was flattered, since the last time she would have seen me she would have been no more than early teenage.

This very delightful experience lasted no more than half an hour but, as I later reviewed the day, I realised that none of these happenings had been planned, and I later learned that, had I made the right turn in the morning, I would have been delayed by an accident on the road.  And thinking further about the Bishop, as this picture shows, the only resemblance is the hair colour and the presence of spectacles.  The inappropriate association has to have had something to do with my wearing of a purple polo shirt behind the cross that is always around my neck.

All Manner of Things Shall be Well!

(My title this week is from the 15th century mystic Julian of Norwich.)

After last week's achievements (which included passing on the book about Julian of Norwich), the upward trend to my life has continued.  My floors, for example, look - and somehow feel - clean since the arrival of the new 'toy'.  It's absolutely amazing the volume it can suck out of a carpet and, it being bag-less and with a transparent storage body, I can see just how much unseen detritus I've been living on top of!

The highlight of the week was the day-trip to St Helen's on Wednesday.  In some ways it felt like being at work again, with lots of googling preliminaries, getting familiar with how the target area looks, deciding the best approach, and so on.  Twenty-four of us made this pilgrimage, in varying vehicular combinations and, I suspect, with a similar spread of motivation.  Some went just for the experience, some to see exactly what would happen, some to honour the past and others to join in pledging the future.  The occasion was the induction, installation and licensing of our former vicars into their new posts.

Although not the first such ceremony I've attended, it was the first time I'd been to 'an away event', my previous experiences having been limited to welcoming a new priest into my own church.  We are a church with bell-ringers but no bells; it's a pipe-dream for me that one day that we would join with the ringers of another place to celebrate together the movement of a priest from our parish to theirs.  Such a project was a non-starter in this instance because, like our church, St Nicholas, Sutton has only the one bell (although from its sound it's much bigger than ours!).

During their seven-year ministry with us in Letchworth, strong feelings have grown between our former vicars and ourselves, bonds of affection that will not be easily cast aside.  It was a poignant moment when, hearing them praying for the people they will now be serving, I realised that a new era has now begun for them.  Once the Church of England's strange processes have worked their course a similar new era will begin for us; for our part we can now feel that, in reality, that process has begun.

But the week has contained other high spots for me, too.  One of my regular morning prayer guides this week featured the work of the organisation in Wales and the introduction was written in both English and Welsh.  I was pleased that I could now with some fluency read the Welsh version and, although many of the words themselves are beyond the vocabulary I've so far acquired, I could follow the sentence structure and syntax of the whole piece.  It's an encouragement to persevere, and echoes a fact that I've noticed more and more lately, that 'England-and-Wales' is indeed a country with two languages and not just one.

About eighteen months ago, following a heavy cold, I realised that I had a problem with my nose that had not thereunto been the case.  Successive months saw numerous visits to doctors and specialists to determine what the problem was, and what might be the remedy.  Earlier this year I was led to believe that it was a further, if unwelcome, development of my asthma and that I should just have to live with it.  In recent weeks, I've become increasingly frustrated by the prospect of living the rest of my life with broken sleep, feeling tired, and so on, and yesterday I took time out to investigate further, using the wonders of the internet.

I found a forum on which were several posts describing symptoms and experiences the same as mine, and a number of medical responses, including references to remedies that I'd been prescribed during the past year and more.  I came to the conclusion that there could be a better, and simpler, way forward than the one I have been following.

At the same time, I recalled a small item that I had, tucked away in a kitchen drawer.  I have no idea how it came to be there and - until now - no idea precisely what it was for.  It bears the name Rovipharm and I now learn, from the same trusty internet, that it is indeed a medical syringe and comes from eastern France, near Lyon.  This little device certainly meets well the use to which I put it last night, for a saline douche, as a result of which I had the best night's sleep for months.  It was not uninterrupted, but a in a different league so far as satisfaction is concerned!

It all Started When it Ended!

What puzzle is this?  My logical reader will correctly conclude that the two instances of 'it' in today's title must refer either to something cyclical or else to two different things.  It is a funny old word, isn't it?  Though I sometimes go over things enough times to be thought of as cyclical - at least, repetitious - in this instance there are indeed two things.

That which was ending is my holiday, which came to a slightly premature conclusion on Friday evening, after a rainy but otherwise mercifully uneventful drive from Wrexham; that beginning is the remarkably achieving week now drawing to its close, the highlights of which I shall now relate.

The holiday had begun with a phone call saying that my bathroom would be redecorated while I was away, a fortunate coincidence that gave the decorator unhindered access, and allowed the paint smell to disperse to a great extent in my absence.  It (the holiday!) ended with a series of SMS exchanges on Thursday evening, as a result of which my bath was sealed the following day and new blinds fitted in kitchen and bathroom.

While I was away, I had made arrangements to give my old vacuum cleaner to a couple of sisters who are setting up home in the neighbouring town, so one of my first tasks on returning was to use it to clean up the inevitable post-decorating detritus before cleaning the cleaner and delivering it.  When I got round to replacing the cleaner on Tuesday, I decided to retain the box against any future need that might arise, so it was tossed on a pile of 'stuff' in the corner of my bedroom.

Meanwhile, I learned of a newly-widowed lady who was clearing out her late husband's office, by means of which I successfully acquired a free laminator. The result of this arrival was a small heap of unwanted items from emptying a drawer in which to store it.  While making arrangements for passing these on, I remembered that the pile in the bedroom, recently topped off by the cleaner box, had overbalanced and now leant with unseemly affection towards the wardrobe.  While in tidying mode, I decided to take my new cleaner, shut myself in the bedroom, and clear everything out of that corner, so as to more securely store those things that were to be retained.

More activity on the free-recycling website ensued.  Consequently, an unused artist set has found a happy new owner, someone has the means of storing seeds, one can enjoy the sunshine in her garden, and another can keep her feet dry on her allotment.  I also discovered a cork board that I had totally forgotten about, which now graces the wall in front of my desk, and hopefully will keep me more organised in future.  There are a few small items yet to be disposed of but, overall, I feel content at the conclusion of the tidying exercise.

One of the reasons for coming home a day earlier than planned from my holiday was the unexpected sum I had needed to spend to keep my car on the road, following a breakdown.  Scared that I would overspend, I decided to curtail the possibility of spending.  In the event I found I had over-budgeted and needn't have been so fearful but, as the accountant in me would always claim, 'better safe than sorry!'  I was still a bit worried about the car, so yesterday morning found me at the garage soon after they opened, seeking reassurance that all was well.  Happily, this was forthcoming.  It's good to have built up a good relationship with them while I was working, so I can enjoy such favours now.

The final blessing was the rain clearing this afternoon so that I felt comfortable going to watch one of the new season's early FA Cup ties.  It wasn't a great day for local teams.  The tie nearest to my home saw Stotfold lose 12-1 to Berkhamstead.  I went to my usual ground a few miles up the A1 and saw Biggleswade FC lose 4-1 to Wisbech Town.  Although they are playing in different leagues at the same level this season, the home team have just been promoted after only one season of senior football, while the visitors have a long history, and got to the quarter finals of the FA Vase only three years ago.  My 'native' team, Diss Town, now playing one division lower, also lost, by 5-0 to Great Yarmouth Town.  With all the Cup excitement thus over for the present, most league campaigns start during the coming week.