Field of Dust Read online

  ‘Stay out of The Huggens today,’ Sam told Mary as he stepped gingerly over the ashes she was scraping out the range. ‘If you want to go with me tonight, you stay sober…’

  Mary grunted without looking up and tossed the fragments back into the grate, her hands and nails as black as the coals. Having already disposed of her earnings, there was no choice but to abstain.

  That evening the Grants were set to attend Bevan’s newly opened Factory Club on the High Street. Built at the expense of the mill owner, Thomas Bevan, in honour of his eldest son Robert’s coming of age, it boasted room for nine hundred workers and recreational facilities such as billiards and bagatelle. Personally, Sam thought it altogether too grand with its white rendered frontage, classical pillars and decorative ironwork, but he admired the skilfully crafted Portland cement statues.

  A blast from the cement company’s whistles made Mary jump. ‘Go on, be on your way or you’ll be late for work,’ she snarled.

  Sam grabbed his cap from the stool, opened the door and dashed off down The Creek. To avoid being a latecomer you had to jostle your way through the narrow alley, every man aware he had to be at the factory steps before the whistles stopped. No one wanted their pay docked for being late.

  Packed together like sardines, getting through the alley took forever. Sam considered why he felt so melancholy. Everything seemed such a struggle these days, not helped by Mary’s drinking and her vile temper. What had gone wrong? Everyone in The Crick knew what she was like and he cringed at the thought of how she might embarrass him in front of his foreman tonight. Heaven knows what she would look like, too – mutton dressed as lamb, most probably. It never used to be that way.

  The truth was that Sam was young and inexperienced when he met Mary. His mother died when he was very small, leaving her children to be brought up in Stanway Workhouse near Colchester. Unable to make a living in the fields, his father had been incarcerated there ever since. Sam often woke up dripping with sweat, still imagining he could hear the sound of the heavy bell-chain scraping across the stone floor. He could never forget the hunger pangs he’d experienced while queuing for his rations alongside three hundred other inmates.

  Job prospects were good in Ipswich, so it made sense to head there after he was released. With little money, he took up lodgings close to the prison – so close he could hear the convicts exercising in the yard and glimpse the top of the gallows behind the castellated walls. The cottages in his row were barely nine feet apart and the stench of human excrement was intolerable. He vowed to get away as soon as he was able.

  Once in employment, and with a few spare coppers in his pocket, he started to get to know the local hostelries. That’s when he encountered Mary. Immediately attracted by her vivacity and flamboyance, he found her assured manner irresistible. It didn’t take long before he had fallen head over heels for her and they were making plans to leave. Little did he know then what a fickle nature she had, and what he was letting himself in for. With hindsight, he would never have left Ipswich with her. She had changed so much and become cold and distant. She seemed ungrateful for all he had done to make life better for her and the girls.

  Shuffling through Bevan’s gate, the deafening rumbling and grinding brought him back to reality. Lowering his head to stop the swirling dust getting into his eyes, he sighed deeply and disappeared into the factory.

  Mary cursed as she scrubbed under her fingernails with Sam’s stiff bristle brush. Resenting his attitude to her drinking, she wondered what else he could expect after bringing her to such a miserable place. Ipswich was far livelier and she was used to having fun, so was it any surprise she had become depressed with the monotony of her life in Northfleet?

  Shrugging her shoulders, she headed upstairs into the cold, damp bedroom. Unable to turn the clock back, no matter how much care she took over her ablutions it was obvious Sam no longer found her attractive. Not that that stopped him from having his way with her whenever he chose. Staring at her reflection in the long, silvered mirror, she ran her hand over her thickening waist and heavy belly. The corset which had given her a desirable hourglass figure lay discarded on the chair. She was going to have to tell him soon. Tonight, perhaps. After a drink or two at the club, he might not be too displeased.

  This was the third time she’d fallen in less than two years, desperate to make up for the disappointment of losing their first boy, James Samuel. Born in The Creek, he was almost one year old and just walking when he was taken by scarlet fever. Within a period of four short weeks the family had been greeted by Reverend Southgate at St. Botolph’s for both his baptism and his burial. One minute they were cheerfully gathered around the small font, the next they stood, distraught, as the tiny wooden coffin was carried past them and placed before the altar.

  The preceding weeks had been terrible. They watched as his tiny body was engulfed with abscesses and a brutal red rash which no amount of cool water would ease. Flossie had run to fetch the doctor when little James’ skin starting peeling, but there was nothing to be done. Children died all too regularly, only half reaching their first birthday. That year scarlet fever was just one of many diseases that raged through The Creek. The Baileys, next door, had lost two children to it, a third mercifully recovering, although now deaf.

  Finding herself pregnant again soon after James Samuel’s death kept Mary strong, but she went to pieces completely when another son was stillborn. Drowning her sorrows in gin, the next pregnancy ended in an early miscarriage. She felt like she had been in mourning almost all the time since leaving Ipswich, and fleetingly wondered if she was being punished. No, Northfleet was to blame for her troubles, so who could blame her for seeking solace in drink?

  Buttoning up the side of her clean black skirt was a trial. The cheap fabric pulled and stretched. At the back of the cupboard she found a fancy, though heavily crumpled, blouse and carried it downstairs to where the iron was heating up on the range. Whatever happened, she was determined to make a good impression at the club.

  Aware that her complexion and skin were no longer clear and soft – as she fancied Lillie Langtry’s might be – a dab of powder and rouge were applied, which made all the difference. The next challenge was to tame her freshly washed, wild red hair. Twisting the curls into a braided bun and fixing it to the side of her head with the aid of several pins, she satisfied herself that she looked suitably restrained for such an occasion. Finally, retrieving her best Sunday bonnet from the top of the closet, she carefully removed the brown-paper wrapping, which was thick with dust, and smiled on seeing that the deep-piled scarlet chenille with wide matching ribbons looked as good as new. On unfolding and straightening the snippets of netting and the large, dyed pigeon feathers protruding from the top, the bonnet doubled in height.

  ‘This’ll cause a stir when we enter the Factory Club,’ she said, tying the ribbons under her chin. ‘One in the eye for you, Bessie Turner.’

  On his return home Sam was heartened to find that Mary had kept off the drink all day and had, instead, spent time on her appearance. The dishevelled wreck he usually encountered after work had been transformed. Even the hat, which had seen better days, looked perfect and reminded him of their early days together.

  Bessie Turner’s eyes did pop out when she caught sight of Mary walking in on Sam’s arm, the theatrical bonnet was hard to miss. Most of Bevan’s factory wives knew her well, too, so none welcomed them to their tables. Sam was relieved to spot their lodgers, Joe Ollerenshaw and John O’Connell, sitting with their young lady friends. They couldn’t really refuse, so shuffled round to make room. Thankfully, Mary showed great restraint, managing to keep her alcohol intake down to a respectable level. The evening passed without incident, both of them finding it surprisingly enjoyable. The men even managed to get in a game or two of billiards whilst the women chatted.

  Mary picked the moment carefully to break her news. Catching Sam midway through his fourth beer,
his senses were numbed enough for the information to wash over him without much reaction. Through the haze, only one thing was crystal clear to him: that, God willing, this time they might be lucky. Mary might produce a healthy son who would fill her with happiness and make everything better for all of them.

  3

  ‘It’s no good arguing with the tallyman, Mary. You’ve tried hoodwinking him before,’ Kate Bailey chastised her neighbour after she complained, yet again, about her entry in the tally book. ‘So stop cussing and help me get some supper for our little ones. You’ve likely harvested less than usual now you’re carrying.’

  Kate had got her three boys with her in the hop fields, and they were hungry. Conceding defeat, Mary grudgingly accepted the pay on offer and threw her stick into the pile with such force that it caused an avalanche. The women and children had finished their day’s hop picking and, as dusk fell, were queueing for the tallyman to measure their quantity of bushels. He had two sticks, a long one from which a shorter stick was cut. He kept the longer piece and the worker the shorter. The two pieces were then placed together and a notch scored across both for every five bushels picked. When the notches tallied, payment was made. There could be no argument. Each worker had a page in a book where the tally was recorded.

  Returning wearily to their makeshift home, Kate and Mary took turns carrying Lottie. The day’s toil produced only eight pence a bushel, and that was conditional on there being no leaves, so care had to be taken when stripping the bines. At least they had enough for a hot meal round the campfire – providing they could stay awake to eat it.

  The early autumn sunshine and fresh air had given Flossie rosy cheeks and left her feeling quite light-headed. She and the Bailey boys had been mimicking the stilt-walkers as they stepped nimbly between the rows of bines, cutting the top strings to enable the hops to drop to the ground. The boys pretended to trip and topple on stiffened legs and had Flossie in stitches. It had been a while since she’d felt such merriment.

  The hordes of hop pickers had arrived on the first weekend in September to hear the local clergyman give his blessing for the forthcoming harvest.

  ‘With more acres under cultivation and new wires spanning the hop bines,’ he informed them, ‘the yield will be improved, providing better earnings for all!’

  While the adults cheered, the children raced through narrow alleys created by the bines growing overhead. Out of the sun, the dark tunnels were magical.

  The season lasted throughout the month when a migrating army of over sixty thousand people – mostly women and children – invaded Kent. Known as ‘the jamboree of the wandering tribes’, the wild, unrestrained lifestyle they experienced drew gypsies from every part of southern England, who joined forces with the Irish poor and occupants of London’s lodging houses and workhouses.

  Factory work slowed in the summer on account of the heat, and it was mainly women who suffered from the corresponding lack of employment. Allen & Hanburys’ patent medicines, in Bethnal Green, sacked a quarter of the girls every summer, as did Bryant & May – it turned out that matchgirls’ nimble fingers proved highly profitable when hop picking. Ironers and laundresses were thrown out of work when the middle classes went off on holiday, and the tailoring trade, whose business slumped at the end of the London season, was similarly affected. So the social mix of females in the fields was a sight to behold.

  Those who couldn’t afford the hop-pickers’ special fares on the railways traipsed on foot from London. Sometimes entire families of ‘trampers’ set off a whole month before the harvest started. A ragged procession of poverty-stricken humanity, carrying their possessions and animals, left the slums and the fog behind only to find themselves encamped in squalid and overcrowded conditions in the fields. Provision for seasonal workers was virtually non-existent and the meagre Hopper huts provided by the farmers filled up quickly. Brick-built, with corrugated iron sheets for roofing, they were hardly palatial, but at least offered some protection against the elements. Barns, stables, cattle sheds and pigsties would all be crammed to bursting, leaving the majority to sleep outside underneath roughly constructed canvas shelters, or simply in the fields like the cattle.

  Mary and Kate went hopping in the fields around the village of Southfleet. Only two miles from home, it was close enough for a weekend undertaking, so they carried their home-made shelter and straw bedding to and fro. William Bailey ferried them in his horse and cart, much to the delight of the children, who squealed with joy every time Dobbin dropped his dung en route. Flossie loved Dobbin and often visited him, tied up on his own bit of wasteland when he wasn’t working. He had seen better days and had a touch of mange, but was still strong and appreciated the odd scrumped apple when it was on offer. Having spent his working life on farmland off Bow Street, Dobbin was all that was left of William and Kate Bailey’s old way of life amid green fields, cherry orchards and meadows spreading out as far as the eye could see. All that was gone now. Bow Street had become Northfleet High Street, One Tree Lane had become College Road and the surrounding landscape had changed beyond recognition.

  William sometimes went out in Tom Handley’s rowboat so he could see the transformation from the river. Extensive wharfages and docks now forged out from the once-picturesque riverbank, with ugly warehouses and storerooms behind them. Further to the rear were dozens of immense drying kilns and tanks, erected on ground from which chalk had been quarried. It was a sobering reminder of how he and Dobbin came to be scraping a meagre living as a rag-and-bone man.

  It was still cool as they set off shortly after dawn on the last weekend in the hop fields. Dobbin struggled with his load on the hills, William urging his old horse on with a ‘C’mon, boy’ and a tap on his hindquarters. By the time they reached the open fields and tempting, fruit-laden orchards, the sun had warmed them and the surrounding countryside.

  Passing a heavy wrought-iron gate, a magnificent house could be glimpsed, partially obscured behind tangled creepers, tall sunflowers and hollyhocks. Lying back and listening to the leaves rustling in the breeze, Flossie realised she’d never been anywhere so peaceful. It was a far cry from the cacophony they endured in The Creek.

  But all good things have to come to an end. Keeping the children happy wasn’t easy. At one point Lottie burst into uncontrollable tears after her deep pink velvet Alice band caught on a low branch and fell into a muddy gully. The Bailey boys roared with laughter until Kate boxed the ears of her eldest and pushed him out of the cart to retrieve the soggy adornment. It wasn’t enough to placate Lottie, however. When Flossie offered up her own navy-blue bow, Lottie snatched it and threw it over the side into the mud. How a child so angelic much of the time could become so insufferable was beyond comprehension. Eventually, after a few harsh words from their mother, the sobbing gave way to sulking and peace was restored for the rest of the journey.

  Everyone was pleased when they finally arrived at their rough-and-ready temporary home and Kate and Mary hastily warmed up a potato stew in the fading light. A large crowd of Londoners were setting up camp close by. Flossie and Lottie couldn’t help staring at them. They looked like slum-dwellers: shabbily dressed, decrepit old women with rotting teeth, smoking rank baccy out of cutties – short pipes that burned red-hot and, so it was said, kept your nose warm. All around them were thick-necked, low-browed hobbledehoys in greasy cords and threadbare pea jackets. One of them came close, flapping his arms and clucking like a chicken, frightening Lottie and making her grip her older sister’s hand tightly.

  ‘I think he must be an imbecile,’ Flossie whispered.

  The youngsters couldn’t wait to join in the revelry after their meal. Paraffin lamps were carried out of the huts and placed on the hop bins. Campfires, once banked up, added a rosy glow to the chilled air. Forming a circle, gypsy men struck up on fiddles and hornpipes, stamping their feet to the beat. Old women in headscarves began to howl and clap in encouragement. Suddenly, as if from nowh
ere, a swarm of small children, delirious with excitement, jumped into the ring, weaving in and out the musicians. Young girls followed them, their skirts held aloft, dancing the polka.

  ‘How pretty they are,’ Mary said to Kate as they watched the agile East End factory girls spinning around.

  ‘Foul-tongued and all,’ Kate replied. ‘Rival anything you’ll hear in Billingsgate.’

  It was true. Even the Irish girls, with their high morals, could shock when they opened their mouths.

  Finding it getting altogether too raucous, Kate decided it was time to round up the children for bed. She turned to Mary, but she was gone.

  ‘Now there’s a surprise,’ she mumbled.

  Mary had a habit of disappearing, leaving Kate to watch over their brood. She wouldn’t be gone long, just long enough for a tipple outside one of the nearby alehouses. It was strictly off-sales, all the alehouses carrying signs saying No Dogs, Gypsies or Hoppers. It was the same at the church; its magnificent iron-studded oak doors firmly locked during hop picking to discourage young men, such as Kate’s sons, from disturbing the ancient marble tombs of knights of old.

  ‘I’m glad you’re back, Floss,’ Jessie confessed as they stared wistfully at the costumes in the draper’s window. ‘It’s been lonely of a Saturday since you’ve been hopping.’ The girls were out for a late evening stroll along the High Street, something they loved to do together. It was already dark and their heavy shawls offered a welcome protection against the chill air.

  Shopkeepers stayed open late on Saturdays for the womenfolk to buy the Sunday dinner after pay-time, so it was extremely busy and everyone had a need to see what was on offer. Part of the street was illuminated by the intense white light of the new gas lamps, the rest by the smoky red flame of the old-fashioned grease lamps. Some shops invented their own lighting effects, which the girls found thrilling. Inside Lincoln’s the Chemist, candlelight flickered through cleverly arranged bundles of firewood and garden sieves, which, when reflected off a sparkling ground-glass globe, gave the feeling of being in an Aladdin’s cave. At James Fox the Grocer’s, a fresh supply of watercress was illuminated by candles sticking out of old swedes and turnips.