A heart-to-heart with my ancestors
 |
| George Hutchinson |
These brief notes in the census return made me wonder what the family were up to that weekend. Since we can't currently travel anywhere due to living under a 'stay at home' order because of Covid19 I've decided, for the fun of it, to go on an imaginary excursion following these sketchy clues.
***
It's Saturday 30 March 1901. We're standing outside a house in Updown Hill in Windlesham, Surrey and it's rather chilly. Oddly enough none of us are wearing face masks and you'll notice that your mobile phone isn't working. Queen Victoria died just a few weeks ago in January but there are no visible signs of mourning. It's very quiet around here, even more quiet than it was during the first Lockdown in 2020.
Suddenly there is a commotion when the front door opens abruptly. There are two men standing in the doorway: one of them is my great grandfather, George Hutchinson and he is saying goodbye to his visitor who appears to be French.
George spots me and invites me into the house. 'We have to get a move on but there's time for a cup of tea before we go.' I sit down at the table and Daisy passes me a cup. George places on the table a small watercolour painting that he's been holding. 'Monsieur Cézanne just popped round to give me some advice about colour. That was him just leaving.'
'But he's a famous French painter, how do you know him?' I ask.
'I've known him for years. I just go into the back garden, roll a cigarette, think about him, and he appears' George replies.
Annie, his wife, who's been busy sorting out some laundry that's in a large pan on the stove, butts in: 'George would rather spend hours in the garden daydreaming about painting pictures than rustling up some paid work painting and decorating houses.'
'Not at all!' George said defensively 'That's why me and Ma are visiting Mrs Fisher this weekend so I have can a chat with Mr Baigent after church next weekend on Easter Sunday on this very topic.'
***
The three of us, George, his elderly mother, Eliza and me are waiting by the curb outside the house for Mr Aldous who is giving us a lift in his horse and cart to Bagshot. This is the closest place that has a train station. Once we, and our bags are loaded on, we travel at walking pace north along Updown Hill and turn left into Pound Lane. George and Eliza are sitting on the seat up front with Mr Aldous and I have been relegated to bumping around on a wooden box in the back of the cart excluded from their lively conversation.
After an age we turn right onto Church Road: the scenery is much more rural now we have left most of the houses behind us. Windlesham was originally part of Windsor Forest and there's plenty of landscape to admire to take my mind off the overcast sky and cold, sleety rain that has settled in. I'm feeling thoroughly miserable and my mood isn't improved when the horse keeps stopping to nibble some grass. Eventually we resume our plodding journey and are rewarded with the exciting view of people working in the yard at Whitmore Farm.
I crane my neck to see what's down Rectory Lane as we pass it on the left and I'm just beginning to wish I'd brought a sketch book with me to draw the view when we reach St John the Baptist church where the family worship. George routinely shmoozes and networks with the other parishioners after church to promote his painting and decorating business.
 | |
| His wife, Annie with their daughter, Beatrice |
By this time I'm really looking forward to getting out of the cart and in my haste manage to trip over onto the pavement. My three companions stare at me and shake their heads. George heads to the ticket office to buy our third class train tickets, he hands me mine which is a small rectangle of cardboard that I'm rather afraid I might lose. The cost of a single ticket from Bagshot to Clapham Junction today can cost from £14.40. This would have represented a vast sum in 1901 but George isn't telling me how much this ticket has cost him.
***
On the platform I'm transfixed by the sight and sound of the train arriving at the station from Camberley. It's easy to forget, when enjoying a day trip on a steam train on a heritage line like Nene Valley Railway, that this used to be the ordinary mode of transport with all the smoke, noise and general discomfort. It seems as though we've no sooner found some seats and set off when we arrive at Ascot where we have to get up, gather our luggage and change trains as this is the end of a branch line. The train guard is walking through the carriages yelling 'All passengers alight here, Ascot is our final stop'. At the same time another man is on the platform yelling the same thing. It's at this point where I start to panic when I realise I've lost sight of my companions. What's the worst that can happen? I would just end up shuttling back to Bagshot. On. My. Own.
I grab my bag and join the queue to leave the train while looking around me: all I see are strangers. It's my turn to step down from the train and I struggle with leaning out of the window, locating the door handle and turning it. Fortunately someone on the platform opens it for me. I step down while still looking around but all I see is steam and vague, ethereal shapes in the distance. Feeling a bit disheartened I trudge along the platform looking for the train.
There it is, waiting at a platform on my right. I climb on and walk along the corridor, stopping at each compartment to see if I can find them while trying to avoid other passengers who are either stepping round me or hitting me with their luggage. I'm getting close to the First Class section now so this compartment is my final hope and there they are, at a window seat in the corner with a bag reserving a place for me. I feel much happier. The train pulls out of the station heading towards Sunningdale.
'There you are! We'd wondered where you'd got to.' said Eliza.
The compartment is packed and I sit down gratefully. I'm enjoying listening to the chatter of other passengers which feels like a novelty after the last year of staying at home.
'Your face is filthy!' remarks Eliza.
I find a small mirror in my bag and sure enough my face is covered in black smoke. 'You need a spit bath' said Eliza, 'That's how we wash the children's faces'. I remember my mum doing that to me when I was little and me pulling a face. I dig in my bag and find some hand sanitiser and wash myself with that. 'What's that?' asks Eliza. I hand her the bottle and she reads out loud 'Rinse free protection on the go. Kills 99% of germs without water'.
This starts a lively conversation with Eliza reminiscing about her life as a nurse in London and Windlesham. George interrupts to say that he had to start work when he was only eight years old when his mother was widowed. I try to explain what a pandemic is, a disease that's affecting the entire world with many people dying. Eliza tells me about the frequent epidemics that have occurred during her lifetime including the time she nursed some men who had Typhoid and stayed up with them the entire night until their fevers broke.
She then goes onto say how upset Annie, her daughter-in-law, was when she learned of her parents deaths around 10 years before. Eliza explains that they may have died from Cholera which was very common. Her father, William died in the January and her mother, Margaret followed him in February. It had been a while since Annie had seen her parents since she and her family moved to Windlesham well before 1892 and trekking up to Chelsea wasn't at all easy with small children in tow.
The conversation pauses and the peace of the compartment is disturbed when we reach Virginia Water and some of the passengers get up to leave. Then we cross the River Thames at Staines which is sparkling in the daylight and the conversation resumes.
'We're off to visit my friend Elizabeth Fisher. We're both getting on in years. I'm 83 and Elizabeth is 70 now. We trained as nurses together and of course at our age we don't know how many more times we'll meet. George insisted on escorting me and he's right when he says I couldn't cope travelling on my own. It'll be nice to see her and talk about old times.'
We're travelling rapidly through the stations now and before we know it we're approaching Clapham Junction. George and Eliza gather their belongings and we bid farewell agreeing that we'd all enjoyed the day. Their journey ends here with a short walk to Mrs Fisher's home in Lavender Road. I'm staying on the train for a few more stops until we reach Waterloo and then I'll catch the number 26 bus home.
*******
The Census has been conducted in the United
Kingdom every 10 years since 1801 with the exception of 1941 (during
WWII) and Ireland in 1921. The results of the Census helps government
decide where to allocate resources and for providing local services in
the years to come. The date of this year's census is 21 March and it could be the last one.
The results of the census are kept secret for 100 years so the results from 1921 will be released this year and pored over by professional historians and amateur genealogists alike keen to see what life was like post WWI and Spanish Flu.
©Heather James 2021
Comments
Post a Comment