A few months ago, I announced the sad demise of my computer, and its replacement by a smaller and (hopefully) more capable one. So, at least, it has proved thus far. Meanwhile, its predecessor has lain gathering dust, propped uselessly against the wall. I had made approaches to a charity about it being taken for scrap, but there was the question of removing all my personal data from a machine that refused to start ... a question to which no answer has been found.
Last week's exercise of clearing the corner where it had been parked brought its fate to the fore once again. I decided that the only way to secure my data was to remove the hard disk which contained it. This I did, surprisingly without damaging the remainder of the apparatus, as I had feared. My first thought - of then taking the heartless cadaver to the local tip - was now put aside in favour of trying to help someone else, and I advertised it on Freecycle, fully explaining its shortcomings.
I had an amazing fourteen replies, some saying they wanted it for a relative if it could be resurrected, others longer and shorter, down to a simple 'yes please.' Allowing time for those who only see posts on a daily digest to respond, I chose one and e-mailed him, suggesting times when he could collect it. When these had elapsed without his knock on my door or a responding e-mail, I chose a second name from my list, phoned her to arrange an 'appointment', and waited, feeling more confident this time of its disposal. This was achieved earlier today.
The outcome of my second doctor's visit following my post-holiday infection was a second blood test, to confirm an anticipated change as a result of defeating the infection. A subsequent call from the surgery led to an appointment yesterday morning 'to discuss the results of the blood test'. In the meantime I had developed a cold that I had been unable to shake off. Gradually this got worse and by Tuesday night I was feverish. Shivering at bedtime is not to be expected when the temperature outside is in the mid-to-high twenties Centigrade!
I stuck it out until yesterday's appointment; the doctor I saw has his office upstairs and, by the time I arrived at his door I was gasping. He bade me sit down and asked 'how are you?' I almost fell onto the chair, and said, 'not good!' After going through all the usual checks, scrolling through notes of my recent visits and so on, he prescribed antibiotics to attack the chest infection and steroids to calm the asthma, made arrangements for a chest x-ray and further blood tests ... and for the practice nurse to put me on a nebuliser.
Now, I have seen one of these in action in the hospital but never personally experienced its effect. I entered the room a gasping wreck and emerged ten minutes later emerged, breathing freely, ready to march off for my medication. The doctor said it would 'open up the airwaves' and, by golly, it did!
The next step was to drive to the local hospital for the X-ray. This, too, was a new experience for me. I was gently urged into position against the machine by the warm fingertips of the nurse, told to hold my breath ... and it was done. A complete contrast was the following visit to pathology. Here I was politely told - with apologies - that there would be a wait of at least an hour-and-a-half. Had I realised that this would be the case, I would have gone there first and had the X-ray during my wait. I got a drink and sat nearby reading a story on the Kindle app on my phone. What a blessing that phone has been!
After the hour-and-a-half, I returned and was eventually called after another forty minutes. I was welcomed by a nurse with a broad smile and, during her most efficient conduct of the routine process, was amused by - and drawn into - affectionate banter between her and her colleague. With pressure like that, it was a tonic both for them and for me, and good that it was possible!
Now feeling much better, but definitely still with a long way to go, I can join in our church's monthly day of prayer, although not fasting this time owing to the needs of the medication.
Friday 29 June 2018
Friday 22 June 2018
The Virgin Cometh
"'Twas on a Tuesday morning, the engineer came round; he searched in ev'ry corner, and look at what he found!" I have to begin this post with an apology to Michael Flanders (1922-1975) for that awful parody.
It all began a couple of weeks ago. For quite a while, I'd been pestered by nuisance calls from legitimate businesses, trying to sell life assurance, funeral cover, or PPI claims, or else doing market research. It got to the point where these had reached 20 in five days, and I resorted to the Telephone Preference Service. This can take up to a month to permeate all the systems that respond to it, so I was disappointed, but not surprised, to receive what appeared to be yet another of these.
I was about to hang up on this polite young lady, when she said she was calling from Virgin Media. Now, over the years, I've received countless large white envelopes from Virgin, containing all sorts of offers and inducements to persuade me to subscribe to their services. That's just the ones I'd opened. I got into the habit of seeing the name, and putting them into recycling unopened. I had associated Virgin with television. Having not had a television set myself for many years, and not wishing to depart from my happy telly-free life-style, I had seen no point in exploring their services.
However, this was the first time that I had actually been phoned by Virgin! This novelty, coupled by the sweetness of Sabrina's voice, persuaded me to listen. I explained my absence of need for television, and my objection to paying for services I would never use, and was offered a bespoke package of what I do need at a price which will save me £250 a year compared to what I have been paying BT! What's not to like? Following all the appropriate caveats, I signed up that very day.
Thus it was that, at about 10.0 on Tuesday morning, the Virgin engineer arrived. I had not be told specifically what the installation entailed, only that according to their records, the Virgin fibre-optic service had already been provided to the block of flats where I live. As soon as he entered the lounge, he began looking around the walls and spotted in the corner, where it had been hidden behind a bookcase ever since I'd moved in, a plastic box of what I had concluded all those years ago to be 'television gubbins', and therefore not required.
His fumbling investigation told him that its contents were now out of date and that, to replace them, he would need the bookcase to be moved. While he went to his van to get his tools, I set to work to unload well over 100 books and shift the double bookcase out of his way. Once the wi-fi hub had been installed and tested, I began to replace the bookcase. Behind my back, he was peering behind another bookcase ... the Virgin telephone point there had completely escaped my memory, but now it suddenly assumed an unexpected importance. Although I never use my landline, this had to be made live to complete the installation process. Thus several more metres of shelf-space had to be cleared and shifted!
By 10.45, the engineer had completed his work and departed, leaving my lounge in chaos. It was a good opportunity for a clean-up, though. At 12.15, with the books replaced, several large cobwebs hoovered up, and order restored, I was inspired to further clearing operations after lunch, and a number of unwanted items are now queuing up for disposal. I found lurking behind some of the books, a solo book-end in the form of a metal cockerel. His mate had fallen awkwardly some years since, and lost its base.
I realised the potential for this redundant rooster to have a new career as a doorstop - or simply an ornament - in someone else's home, so offered it on Freecycle. I was amazed at the level of response it generated. At the same time, I had spotted the offer of a USB keyboard which would enable me to do certain tasks that my new laptop can't manage and, within a few hours the other day, a profitable 'exchange' was effected, as first the bird was collected and then I drove a few miles across town to pick up the keyboard.
Like all clouds, the chaos of Tuesday quickly showed its silver lining!
It all began a couple of weeks ago. For quite a while, I'd been pestered by nuisance calls from legitimate businesses, trying to sell life assurance, funeral cover, or PPI claims, or else doing market research. It got to the point where these had reached 20 in five days, and I resorted to the Telephone Preference Service. This can take up to a month to permeate all the systems that respond to it, so I was disappointed, but not surprised, to receive what appeared to be yet another of these.
I was about to hang up on this polite young lady, when she said she was calling from Virgin Media. Now, over the years, I've received countless large white envelopes from Virgin, containing all sorts of offers and inducements to persuade me to subscribe to their services. That's just the ones I'd opened. I got into the habit of seeing the name, and putting them into recycling unopened. I had associated Virgin with television. Having not had a television set myself for many years, and not wishing to depart from my happy telly-free life-style, I had seen no point in exploring their services.
However, this was the first time that I had actually been phoned by Virgin! This novelty, coupled by the sweetness of Sabrina's voice, persuaded me to listen. I explained my absence of need for television, and my objection to paying for services I would never use, and was offered a bespoke package of what I do need at a price which will save me £250 a year compared to what I have been paying BT! What's not to like? Following all the appropriate caveats, I signed up that very day.
Thus it was that, at about 10.0 on Tuesday morning, the Virgin engineer arrived. I had not be told specifically what the installation entailed, only that according to their records, the Virgin fibre-optic service had already been provided to the block of flats where I live. As soon as he entered the lounge, he began looking around the walls and spotted in the corner, where it had been hidden behind a bookcase ever since I'd moved in, a plastic box of what I had concluded all those years ago to be 'television gubbins', and therefore not required.
His fumbling investigation told him that its contents were now out of date and that, to replace them, he would need the bookcase to be moved. While he went to his van to get his tools, I set to work to unload well over 100 books and shift the double bookcase out of his way. Once the wi-fi hub had been installed and tested, I began to replace the bookcase. Behind my back, he was peering behind another bookcase ... the Virgin telephone point there had completely escaped my memory, but now it suddenly assumed an unexpected importance. Although I never use my landline, this had to be made live to complete the installation process. Thus several more metres of shelf-space had to be cleared and shifted!
By 10.45, the engineer had completed his work and departed, leaving my lounge in chaos. It was a good opportunity for a clean-up, though. At 12.15, with the books replaced, several large cobwebs hoovered up, and order restored, I was inspired to further clearing operations after lunch, and a number of unwanted items are now queuing up for disposal. I found lurking behind some of the books, a solo book-end in the form of a metal cockerel. His mate had fallen awkwardly some years since, and lost its base.
I realised the potential for this redundant rooster to have a new career as a doorstop - or simply an ornament - in someone else's home, so offered it on Freecycle. I was amazed at the level of response it generated. At the same time, I had spotted the offer of a USB keyboard which would enable me to do certain tasks that my new laptop can't manage and, within a few hours the other day, a profitable 'exchange' was effected, as first the bird was collected and then I drove a few miles across town to pick up the keyboard.
Like all clouds, the chaos of Tuesday quickly showed its silver lining!
Friday 15 June 2018
Never a Dull Moment
Soon after I retired - far sooner than I had anticipated - I joined the throng of people who have chorused, "I don't know how I found the time to work!" This week has once again proved the truth behind that comment, showing how easy it is to take on one thing after another that can utilise whatever skills and interests the earlier part of life has sharpened.
I have to admit, though, that the weekend definitely finished in 'relax mode', with a lovely picnic on the common, enjoying good food and sunshine with the opportunity to watch other people enjoying themselves with frisbees, racquets and balls, before returning home to listen to cricket commentary on the radio.
After the usual men's breakfast, the 'working' week began with two virtually free days on my calendar. The only blemishes on the Monday and Tuesday pages were a choral practice on Monday evening, facing the initial challenges posed by two new pieces of music, and a visit to my GP on Tuesday morning, this being by way of a follow-up to a nasty, but thankfully brief, infection that I suffered immediately after my holiday.
The bulk of those two days could therefore be spent at my desk, working first on my 'other blog' (see the side-panel to your right), and then devising and developing a Bible study to occupy my home group in the last two weeks of the present term.
My writing skills were also called into play on Wednesday evening, when it was confirmed that the secretary of our local Liberal Democrat branch had had to stand down. A couple of whispers to that effect in brief encounters with the chairman during the past week had warned me to go along to the committee meeting that evening suitably equipped to take the minutes.
Yesterday gave me particular pleasure both morning and evening, albeit in entirely different ways. The morning found me helping once more at the drop-in for the vulnerable people in our neighbourhood and this week I had the privilege of joining in a deep and satisfying, if not conclusive, conversation.
In the evening I took a drive over to Haverhill (only about an hour away) where the family history society's regular meeting featured a talk about the TV/radio series 'Dad's Army', which was based on the Home Guard. The speaker had certainly researched his theme well, and the talk was accompanied by a magnificent array of artefacts that we examined closely over coffee and biscuits afterwards.
Today will feature the preparations necessary in advance of the church's annual Fun Day, when we open our doors and hearts to the community, providing lots of family entertainment - and a barbecue - free of charge.
I have to admit, though, that the weekend definitely finished in 'relax mode', with a lovely picnic on the common, enjoying good food and sunshine with the opportunity to watch other people enjoying themselves with frisbees, racquets and balls, before returning home to listen to cricket commentary on the radio.
After the usual men's breakfast, the 'working' week began with two virtually free days on my calendar. The only blemishes on the Monday and Tuesday pages were a choral practice on Monday evening, facing the initial challenges posed by two new pieces of music, and a visit to my GP on Tuesday morning, this being by way of a follow-up to a nasty, but thankfully brief, infection that I suffered immediately after my holiday.
The bulk of those two days could therefore be spent at my desk, working first on my 'other blog' (see the side-panel to your right), and then devising and developing a Bible study to occupy my home group in the last two weeks of the present term.
My writing skills were also called into play on Wednesday evening, when it was confirmed that the secretary of our local Liberal Democrat branch had had to stand down. A couple of whispers to that effect in brief encounters with the chairman during the past week had warned me to go along to the committee meeting that evening suitably equipped to take the minutes.
Yesterday gave me particular pleasure both morning and evening, albeit in entirely different ways. The morning found me helping once more at the drop-in for the vulnerable people in our neighbourhood and this week I had the privilege of joining in a deep and satisfying, if not conclusive, conversation.
In the evening I took a drive over to Haverhill (only about an hour away) where the family history society's regular meeting featured a talk about the TV/radio series 'Dad's Army', which was based on the Home Guard. The speaker had certainly researched his theme well, and the talk was accompanied by a magnificent array of artefacts that we examined closely over coffee and biscuits afterwards.
Today will feature the preparations necessary in advance of the church's annual Fun Day, when we open our doors and hearts to the community, providing lots of family entertainment - and a barbecue - free of charge.
Friday 8 June 2018
How Long Does it Take to ...?
It was a warm sunny day probably about 35 years ago. The old box camera was about to be thrown out, when one of us realised that there was still a film in it. Now you may remember the old reel-to-reel films labelled 127 or 120. This was old enough to be a 120. You could take eight pictures on a reel, then it had to be taken to the shop to have it processed before you could see what the pictures looked like. Well, we were curious to see what was on those exposed frames. There were about four or five shots left, so the children were paraded in the garden in silly poses just to use the film up. A week later, we collected the pictures: same children, but aged about six or seven years different from one picture to the next.
That thought came to mind this week when another long-delayed exercise was brought to the fore. It's a measure of how long ago it began if I tell you that, on the top of a bookcase in my bedroom is a cardboard box in which was purchased a cheap stereo that was junked at least five years ago. Given the usual life of these things, that means the box entered my life perhaps three or four years earlier, and it was kept because it was the ideal size to house my collection of audio cassette tapes.
It must have been shortly after this that I sought a means of converting those precious recordings into computer files. Having found something to do the job, I spent the winter's Sunday afternoons listening to some of these old tapes as they were converted, labelled and stored on my computer. I still listen to some of them now. The trouble was the time that it took, and you had to keep an eye on it all the while it was running, so as to note the point at which a new song began. This meant there was little else that could be done at the same time. Boredom set in, and the equipment sat on the shelf for many years ... until this week.
I was taken in recently by an advert (how many times has that been the case!) for a gizmo that would make this conversion. From the write-up it sounded just what I needed to finish that long-outstanding job. I sent off for it, and waited. On Tuesday it arrived. Imagine my horror when I realised that here - all the way from China - was another copy of the same little machine! If someone has a store of cassettes they'd like to convert to mp3 files ... make me an offer. I guarantee that it will do the job, but don't think it will happen overnight, or in the proverbial twinkling of an eye!
My latent enthusiasm was re-kindled, however, and I spent a hectic afternoon trying to remember the techniques and settings that were required ... that's after downloading and installing the latest version of the software program! After about five hours of trial and error, I was able to complete the transfer of the third of a five-cassette pack, that had been left half finished all those years ago. There are still two more 90-minute cassettes to do ... and then another 90 or so waiting in that big box.
I wonder how many weary winter afternoons that will take? I'm afraid to do the maths!
That thought came to mind this week when another long-delayed exercise was brought to the fore. It's a measure of how long ago it began if I tell you that, on the top of a bookcase in my bedroom is a cardboard box in which was purchased a cheap stereo that was junked at least five years ago. Given the usual life of these things, that means the box entered my life perhaps three or four years earlier, and it was kept because it was the ideal size to house my collection of audio cassette tapes.
It must have been shortly after this that I sought a means of converting those precious recordings into computer files. Having found something to do the job, I spent the winter's Sunday afternoons listening to some of these old tapes as they were converted, labelled and stored on my computer. I still listen to some of them now. The trouble was the time that it took, and you had to keep an eye on it all the while it was running, so as to note the point at which a new song began. This meant there was little else that could be done at the same time. Boredom set in, and the equipment sat on the shelf for many years ... until this week.
I was taken in recently by an advert (how many times has that been the case!) for a gizmo that would make this conversion. From the write-up it sounded just what I needed to finish that long-outstanding job. I sent off for it, and waited. On Tuesday it arrived. Imagine my horror when I realised that here - all the way from China - was another copy of the same little machine! If someone has a store of cassettes they'd like to convert to mp3 files ... make me an offer. I guarantee that it will do the job, but don't think it will happen overnight, or in the proverbial twinkling of an eye!
My latent enthusiasm was re-kindled, however, and I spent a hectic afternoon trying to remember the techniques and settings that were required ... that's after downloading and installing the latest version of the software program! After about five hours of trial and error, I was able to complete the transfer of the third of a five-cassette pack, that had been left half finished all those years ago. There are still two more 90-minute cassettes to do ... and then another 90 or so waiting in that big box.
I wonder how many weary winter afternoons that will take? I'm afraid to do the maths!
Friday 1 June 2018
A Tale of Three by the Sea
Marking a little light relief the other night by - you'd never guess it - doing a little family research, I located my great-uncle's sister-in-law, working in 1881 as domestic servant to the vicar of St Mary's, Southtown. I was just entering my discovery to my records when I noticed two entries above it, one Claud James Donald Smith. Now I am in regular contact with my Smith cousins, and have recently been doing some work on their ancestors but these names didn't ring a bell ... and yet he had a record number, so must fit into my tree somewhere.
The entry for this three-year-old with three bold and distinctive names brings together three interests for me. First of all, his address. He lived at 5, Row 57, Yarmouth. I say 'Yarmouth' deliberately, because it didn't become 'Great Yarmouth' until it stretched a finger across the river and obtained Southtown and Gorleston from Suffolk in 1891. Having been taken there for family holidays since before I can remember, Yarmouth and its history ... and specially the dark mystery of its Rows ... have fascinated me all my life.
There were about 150 of these narrow passages running broadly east-west between four main thoroughfares parallel to the coast on the east and the River Yare on the west. Stretching from Northgate School in the north to Friars Lane in the south, there were 145 numbered Rows, two without numbers that are wider than the rest and are, in effect, shopping streets: Broad Row and Market Row, and a couple of 'half-rows' that terminate not onto streets but into other rows. Some of these had common names as well as their official numbers.
These details are taken from a 1905 map; since then, partly as a result of natural development or overcrowding and partly thanks to the Luftwaffe, many of the rows and landmarks have disappeared, but many identifiable pieces remain, too. Row 57 would have been almost exactly opposite Haven Bridge, which is the main link between the town of Yarmouth and Southtown on the west side of the river.
The second interest of this census entry was Claud's mother. The household comprised five people. At its head was Curtis Aldred, a 58-year-old mast and block maker; also listed were his wife, Mary A, 52, his daughter, 28, grandson Frederick C Smith, 4, and our featured 3-year-old brought up the rear. The daughter was Lorina Smith, a most unusual name and the first time I'd come across it in my family history researches over the last twenty years or so. If you write it quickly, with that old-fashioned 'r' that had a loop at the top, and are a bit sloppy about positioning the dot of the 'i', you will see how it can easily be misread as the more common Louisa, as was often the case with this lady. However, unless my memory is playing tricks - which, with advancing years, I have to admit is a possibility - I used to work in the late 1990s with a lady called ... Lorina Smith.
Lorina also provides the third element to my tale. The census entry gave an 'occupation' for her: "Railway engine driver's wife". Trains, steam trains in particular, and the railways they powered have been another lifelong interest for me. I pictured Lorina going about her business in the town hearing the whistle of an engine above the clatter of wheels on cobbled streets and the other hubbub around and thinking proudly of her husband, somewhere behind the controls maybe even of that very engine, and the pride which she must have felt for him and his responsible job.
<spoiler alert> I later found the entry for him in 1881. Frederick Charles Smith was living at 1, Laburnum Terrace, King's Lynn, with his elder brother James and James's wife Eliza and their two sons. James was a Railway clerk and Frederick ... a Railway fireman. Well, at least he was on the footplate! The railways were in their blood. Their parents were both born in Cornwall, James at Bodmin and Ann about five miles away by today's roads at Cardinham. My guess is that work had taken them out of their native surroundings; James junior was born in Woolwich, which was then in Kent. Frederick's place of birth had me guessing for a while: Ouse Bridge.
Then in one record it was given as Hilgay, which is a village near Downham Market in the west of Norfolk. A look at the map shows a cluster of houses within the parish of Hilgay, strung out alongside the Ouse. One of these modern homes bears the key name Ouse Bridge Farm; more importantly, just 600 yards upstream is a railway bridge. The line it bears was opened in 1847 after the construction of a substantial wooden viaduct over the river, since replaced by this modern structure. Just by the bridge is a pair of cottages that look about the right age to have been where Frederick was born in the winter of 1848/9. In 1871 the Smith family were at Pentney, where James was the Stationmaster and his 21-year-old son a Railway clerk.
Lorina Lamb Aldred (another strange name, which I haven't looked into) was born in Yarmouth about the beginning of 1853. In 1871 the Aldred family, Curtis, Mary, Lorina and her elder sister Harriet, were living in another Row house in Yarmouth, one that was closer to Vauxhall station, the terminus of the Great Eastern Railway than their home ten years later. Her son Frederick Curtis Cecil Smith appeared in the September quarter of 1876 and was registered in the name of Smith, although the marriage of Louisa Lamb Aldred and Frederick Charles Smith is recorded in Norwich in the December quarter of that year.
There are many possible reasons why, after the birth of the baby in Yarmouth, they should have married in Norwich. The next fixed point in the story is 8th December 1877, when Claud was born in Gaywood, now a suburb of King's Lynn, then a separate village about a mile from the town. We can only guess why three years later Frederick and Lorina were living at opposite ends of the county. The most likely reason is that Frederick's work was based in Lynn, and they had decided to live there, but they had been unable to find a home, so he lodged with his brother and she took the children to live with her parents. At least the journey would have been easy on the train so they might not have been apart all of the time.
Ten years later, in 1891, they were recorded living in South Street, King's Lynn, and had added a younger son Charles to the family. He was at school, Claud an errand boy in the port, and Frederick was working in a foundry. Lorina's dream had become reality: her husband, now 42, was a railway engine driver. Sadly, within three years she was a widow; Frederick died in the winter of 1893/4 aged only 44. In 1901 She was still living in South Street with her two younger sons: Charles had become a blacksmith's striker, while Claud had followed his father's example and was a railway engine stoker.
Claud married in 1902 and by 1911 he and his wife Amy had four children although, typical of the times, they had also lost two others. His mother was no doubt pleased that they'd named their first child Ivy Lorina, though one of those who died was Frederick Charles. Lorina died in the summer of 1922, and Claud settled in Cambridge, becoming a joint maker/assembly worker with LNER. He died in the spring of 1957 and Amy ten years later.
And why did I have them in my records? Amy's first cousin married my uncle.
The entry for this three-year-old with three bold and distinctive names brings together three interests for me. First of all, his address. He lived at 5, Row 57, Yarmouth. I say 'Yarmouth' deliberately, because it didn't become 'Great Yarmouth' until it stretched a finger across the river and obtained Southtown and Gorleston from Suffolk in 1891. Having been taken there for family holidays since before I can remember, Yarmouth and its history ... and specially the dark mystery of its Rows ... have fascinated me all my life.
There were about 150 of these narrow passages running broadly east-west between four main thoroughfares parallel to the coast on the east and the River Yare on the west. Stretching from Northgate School in the north to Friars Lane in the south, there were 145 numbered Rows, two without numbers that are wider than the rest and are, in effect, shopping streets: Broad Row and Market Row, and a couple of 'half-rows' that terminate not onto streets but into other rows. Some of these had common names as well as their official numbers.
These details are taken from a 1905 map; since then, partly as a result of natural development or overcrowding and partly thanks to the Luftwaffe, many of the rows and landmarks have disappeared, but many identifiable pieces remain, too. Row 57 would have been almost exactly opposite Haven Bridge, which is the main link between the town of Yarmouth and Southtown on the west side of the river.
The second interest of this census entry was Claud's mother. The household comprised five people. At its head was Curtis Aldred, a 58-year-old mast and block maker; also listed were his wife, Mary A, 52, his daughter, 28, grandson Frederick C Smith, 4, and our featured 3-year-old brought up the rear. The daughter was Lorina Smith, a most unusual name and the first time I'd come across it in my family history researches over the last twenty years or so. If you write it quickly, with that old-fashioned 'r' that had a loop at the top, and are a bit sloppy about positioning the dot of the 'i', you will see how it can easily be misread as the more common Louisa, as was often the case with this lady. However, unless my memory is playing tricks - which, with advancing years, I have to admit is a possibility - I used to work in the late 1990s with a lady called ... Lorina Smith.
Lorina also provides the third element to my tale. The census entry gave an 'occupation' for her: "Railway engine driver's wife". Trains, steam trains in particular, and the railways they powered have been another lifelong interest for me. I pictured Lorina going about her business in the town hearing the whistle of an engine above the clatter of wheels on cobbled streets and the other hubbub around and thinking proudly of her husband, somewhere behind the controls maybe even of that very engine, and the pride which she must have felt for him and his responsible job.
<spoiler alert> I later found the entry for him in 1881. Frederick Charles Smith was living at 1, Laburnum Terrace, King's Lynn, with his elder brother James and James's wife Eliza and their two sons. James was a Railway clerk and Frederick ... a Railway fireman. Well, at least he was on the footplate! The railways were in their blood. Their parents were both born in Cornwall, James at Bodmin and Ann about five miles away by today's roads at Cardinham. My guess is that work had taken them out of their native surroundings; James junior was born in Woolwich, which was then in Kent. Frederick's place of birth had me guessing for a while: Ouse Bridge.
Then in one record it was given as Hilgay, which is a village near Downham Market in the west of Norfolk. A look at the map shows a cluster of houses within the parish of Hilgay, strung out alongside the Ouse. One of these modern homes bears the key name Ouse Bridge Farm; more importantly, just 600 yards upstream is a railway bridge. The line it bears was opened in 1847 after the construction of a substantial wooden viaduct over the river, since replaced by this modern structure. Just by the bridge is a pair of cottages that look about the right age to have been where Frederick was born in the winter of 1848/9. In 1871 the Smith family were at Pentney, where James was the Stationmaster and his 21-year-old son a Railway clerk.
Lorina Lamb Aldred (another strange name, which I haven't looked into) was born in Yarmouth about the beginning of 1853. In 1871 the Aldred family, Curtis, Mary, Lorina and her elder sister Harriet, were living in another Row house in Yarmouth, one that was closer to Vauxhall station, the terminus of the Great Eastern Railway than their home ten years later. Her son Frederick Curtis Cecil Smith appeared in the September quarter of 1876 and was registered in the name of Smith, although the marriage of Louisa Lamb Aldred and Frederick Charles Smith is recorded in Norwich in the December quarter of that year.
There are many possible reasons why, after the birth of the baby in Yarmouth, they should have married in Norwich. The next fixed point in the story is 8th December 1877, when Claud was born in Gaywood, now a suburb of King's Lynn, then a separate village about a mile from the town. We can only guess why three years later Frederick and Lorina were living at opposite ends of the county. The most likely reason is that Frederick's work was based in Lynn, and they had decided to live there, but they had been unable to find a home, so he lodged with his brother and she took the children to live with her parents. At least the journey would have been easy on the train so they might not have been apart all of the time.
Ten years later, in 1891, they were recorded living in South Street, King's Lynn, and had added a younger son Charles to the family. He was at school, Claud an errand boy in the port, and Frederick was working in a foundry. Lorina's dream had become reality: her husband, now 42, was a railway engine driver. Sadly, within three years she was a widow; Frederick died in the winter of 1893/4 aged only 44. In 1901 She was still living in South Street with her two younger sons: Charles had become a blacksmith's striker, while Claud had followed his father's example and was a railway engine stoker.
Claud married in 1902 and by 1911 he and his wife Amy had four children although, typical of the times, they had also lost two others. His mother was no doubt pleased that they'd named their first child Ivy Lorina, though one of those who died was Frederick Charles. Lorina died in the summer of 1922, and Claud settled in Cambridge, becoming a joint maker/assembly worker with LNER. He died in the spring of 1957 and Amy ten years later.
And why did I have them in my records? Amy's first cousin married my uncle.
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