When the world goes wrong, we revert to basics… no more self-service. Back to counter service only. I remember greengrocers beautifully displaying their wares, shiny apples to the front, perfect lettuces, radishes and potatoes to the back. Touch them – you received a metaphorical slapped wrist.
Blaggs in Heaton Moor Road has been trading as a hardware and ironmongers’ shop for over a century. In their house (built 1904), my next door neighbours have an original servant’s bell system supplied by this very company.
However, corona virus has resulted in Blaggs changing their service to medieval trading practices – with a twentieth first century twist. Instead of entering the shop, a customer waited outside.
Flashback more than half a millennium to the middle ages – this is what traders did then. Instead of a counter, they dropped their window shutter into the street and, supported by ropes, their shutter transformed into a counter. Wares were displayed on this or a table inside their workroom visible from the street. In some parts of the world, Vietnam for instance, it’s still often very similar.
The modern twist at Blaggs? No cash or coins – only contactless!
Sadly, as I write this, Blaggs closed their doors to personal customers but are delivering to local customers. Flashback again to when they first opened in the early Edwardian age. Then, they employed a delivery boy with hand cart or, if he were very lucky, a bicycle.
111 Wellington Road North, Stockport, today is a car showroom but 100 years ago, a seven-roomed theatrical boarding house stood on this site. With regular trams puttering between between Stockport and Manchester city centre, it was a convenient bed-stop for strolling players and theatrical vagabonds.
On census night, 2nd April 1911, 25 year old Doane Gardiner was lodging in two rooms at this address where London-born Clara Hayes ran her theatrical digs business. His entry reads ‘actor, Shakespearean Repertoire, legitimate stage.’ This is a long way from his home as he intriguingly gives an address of c/o Morgan Grenfell & Co, London EC (his bank) and place of birth as Albany, New York. So what on earth was this chap doing in Stockport? A romantic version of the wild west?
Doane’s description of himself was very specific. What was repertoire and legitimate theatre? Even in the theatre, the class system ruled. Doane was a Bishop’s grandson, so there was no way he would have performed in risque music hall. No, Doane was a serious thespian hence his care in the census records. Repertoire was an established theatrical tradition; actors performed a production six nights a week plus two matinees whilst rehearsing their next production. They might even perform several different plays in one week. In 1911, there were not paid for rehearsals soit was a hard graft indeed. Anyone with theatrical aspirations took the menial position of assistant stage manager supporting the stage manager with props, sound effects, and rehearsals – whilst taking on smaller roles as cast all whilst learning on the job. Meanwhile, many theatrical troupes travelled round the country from venue to venue – a week here, a week there, travelling by train and staying in digs which they paid for out of their salary. Tough.
So why was an actor from New York performing in Stockport of all places? A quick scan of the 31st March 1911 edition of the Stockport Advertiser reveals an advertisement for The Theatre Royal Stockport (long since demolished) in St Peter’s Square three or four tram stops from Doane’s digs. The theatrical offering for discerning Stopfordians that week was a different Shakespeare play each night, a choice including Romeo and Juliet, Twelfth Night, Othello, Taming of the Shrew and As You Like It. There was more of the same the following week. Doane was not headlining.
A year earlier, in the US 1910 census, Doane is found, an actor, living with his parents in New York. His sister Margaret, by the way, became a suffragist. To discover what our potential leading man looked like, his application for a US passport in June 1906 revealed a student at Harvard University; 5ft 10” tall (taller than the average Englishman), a small mouth, prominent chin, high forehead, brown hair, grey blue eyes, roman nose and oval face. Hamlet anyone? He intended to return to the USA within five months.
As an American citizen, he was under no obligation to fight for the British Army when we went to war against Germany in 1914. However on the 30 November, just three months after England had declared war, he became a naturalised British Citizen. His occupation? Actor and stage manager. The US Adjutant General Military Recordstestify what happened next.
‘Enlisted private Machine Gun Corps, British Army 1914; transferred to Inns of Court Officers’ Training Corps; promoted corporal January 1915; commissioned 2d lieutenant 3rd Reserve Battalion, City of London Royal Fusiliers in April; served as officer in charge of Zeppelin observation posts; commission lieutenant January 1916; went to France in November; organisation attached to British 4th Army; transferred to supply service; with Army of Occupation, Germany; returned to England and demobilized February 1919. Engagements: Flanders 1916 and 1917. Twice mentioned in despatches.’
My cousin got divorced in the 1940s. It took her years to live down the shame. I never understood why a woman felt humiliated by chucking in an abusive partner who beat her up – or why neighbours gossiped behind their hands about this ‘scarlet woman.’ He, on the other hand, was regarded as just one of the lads… Imagine, therefore, how a woman was treated in the 1890s!
Before 1857, just over 300 marriages ended in divorce. Let me rephrase that. Before 1857, for a married person to wed someone else, he (it was inevitably the husband) had to obtain a Private Act of Parliament. Only the exceedingly wealthy could afford one and the only permissible justification for divorce was adultery. Because it was an individual Act of Parliament, the paperwork for 314 divorces is stored in the archives at the Houses of Parliament…
As for everyone else… they didn’t bother.
Following legislation in 1857, it became slightly easier but still expensive. And, because divorce courts were only tried in London and, because the background to a divorce was generally juicy, divorce hearings and their sordid details were published in local and national newspapers. News of the screws indeed.
This is the backdrop to a story I discovered about Scottish-born Ellen Frances Addie who’d grown up in an affluent area of Stockport; Heaton Moor. On the 16th November 1892, 22 year old Ellen married Frederick Pickard, also 22, at the local congregational church. For a short while they were in Douglas on the Isle of Man before returning to Heaton Moor to live with her parents in Lea Road. They’d been married less than a year. As Ellen was already pregnant, perhaps she wanted the support of her mum; she certainly wasn’t getting it from Frederick.
It gets worse. As I read the petition (Ancestry, subscription), my jaw dropped lower and lower and the ‘Oh my Gods!’ grew louder and louder. Today, we might laugh. To a late Victorian this was… well… indescribably shocking.
Ellen’s divorce petition (24th April 1900) explains what happened next. On 1st November 1893 Frederick ‘has since lived separate and apart from her and discarded her without reasonable excuse.’ Less than a month after leaving his wife, their daughter Marie is born. Callous brute.
Not only had Frederick deserted her but, on the 25th April 1898 under the assumed name of Frederick Cecil Gill he ‘married’ Catherine Phelan at St Joseph’s Church, New York, USA. Bigamously! By November 1898, Catherine Phelan, too, had given birth. A son. Did she know Fred was already married? Did she care? We might never know. To compound Ellen’s chagrin, all dates and places of her husband’s binky-bonky were announced, in public, to the London court.
Ellen’s petition was undefended. Frederick, presumably pursuing the American high life with ‘wife’ Catherine, didn’t attend the court hearing. Ellen’s decree nisi was granted 12 November 1900 and her decree absolute 20 May 1901. About a fortnight afterwards, a free woman, she married second husband James Barker.
Of course the neighbours knew about the divorce. Details were published in the Manchester newspapers twice in the same week – just in case someone missed them the first time.
After remarrying, Ellen set up home with her eight year old daughter, Marie, and new husband a few hundred yards from her parents who were still living in Lea Road. Memories are long. Was the behind-the-back gossip too painful? Within a handful of years Ellen and James had relocated their growing family (four more daughters) to Southport, Lancashire. They were now well out of earshot of the scandal. They were still there in 1939.
You might be pleased to know my latest book will be published by the Society of Genealogists in mid January 2020. I’m delighted! What a fabulous start to the New Year!
My books always take a year to research and write; a long all-consuming chunk out of a life. There are the inevitable ups and downs of research, writing and editing but I get to travel all around the country visiting libraries, museums, and parts of the country I would never normally think of visiting.
Writing non-fiction and finding a publisher is very different to writing fiction and getting a novel published. But all authors, whether fiction or non-fiction, before they get a contract, have to have a germ of the idea, a proposal, contact with an agent/publisher and endless negotiations…. I have written novels (a very long time ago) and, although they travelled a long way down the publication route, they’ve never seen the shelf of a bookshop. Like Dracula, the manuscripts rest ‘undead’ in my cellar.
Novelists insist fictional characters become friends and, like friends, lead a life of their own. I remember, when writing one of my ill-fated novels, the keyboard took over my fingers and a favourite character ended up under a lorry. Was she dead? Did I resurrect her? Non fiction is similar. With a 55,000 word count, there is a huge amount of culling and editing. What is relevant? What isn’t? Instead of characters, you have facts and themes – but for me, there are always stories within the hi-story. Whenever I conduct family history research, it’s the storiesbehind those dates, facts and place names that fascinate me and, whenever possible, I integrate them into my textbooks.
This October, I was in Taroko Gorge, Taiwan, where I spotted a sapindus mukorossi tree. What the heck? I hear you ask. Good question. Used to wash clothes, dishes and hair, the Chinese Soap Berry was the equivalent of our soapwort (saponariaofficinalis, also called wild sweet William), a poisonous plant found in parts of the UK countryside. Because soapwort contains saponin, a natural toxin which, when shaken with water, makes foam, leaves and/or roots were boiled up by our ancestors for a free cleaning agent. Remember, from 1712-1853, soap in the UK was taxed. Just imagine that!!!!
For the Taiwanese, depending on the season, they used the skin of the berry or the bark, both of which contain saponin. When berries were available, they used them to make soap bubbles but in winter, people used the bark. Wrapped in cloth, it was squeezed to make those all-important bubbles. Of course, once chemical agents had been invented, the poor old soap berry tree went out of favour. Who wanted the hard graft of fuddy duddy methods when it could be bought ready made? Fashions change so recently Grandma’s more environmentally-friendly natural products have returned to favour.
Click here to learn more about the lives of our female ancestors.
I’ve just been to Beverley Yorkshire and it was wonderful; a mad mix of architectural eras (including a snug local pub still lit by gas), the enormous Beverley Minster, the race course and two markets – the Saturday and Wednesday markets higgledy piggedly in a very upmarket town centre. Whilst extolling its virtues to various friends nobody, just like me, had ever been there before and we are all missing a real treat. In one way, it’s not so surprising I’d not been. It is, after all, in the middle of nowhere. To misquote Peter Pan, instead of following the second star to the left and fly right on until morning, for Beverley, you follow the M62 to the very end before vaguely turning left.
It’s also a little embarrassing I’ve never been before. My father’s goddaughter, who lived there for
years, kept inviting me. It’s only after
she’s moved to Salisbury do I finally get to go.
The story has it that Lewis Carroll (real name Charles Dodgson), author
of Alice in Wonderland , was staying
at the Beverley Arms, just across the road from St Mary’s Church (now amongst
my favourite churches and due to feature in one of my forthcoming articles) when he spotted a white rabbit carved in stone on a pillar (photo courtesy my American friend,
Robert, as my shots were out of focus).
As a writer, I’m well aware authors recycle everything –Charles was no exception.
Now it’s your turn to do something for me.
When I was at school, attempting to ward off the inevitable hex (i.e. punch)
on the first day of the month, we used to shout ‘white rabbits and no return.’ Now,
if I remember correctly, there’s actually two other lines of doggerel which we
omitted – ‘Pinch punch, first day of the month and no return.’ So; can
anyone out there tell me how white rabbits became a mantra for warding off evil? You will have my everlasting gratitude…
As part of my toothless ‘words not deeds’ campaign to get Stockport’s Suffragette Square renamed Suffragist Square, I will recount a few stories I’ve unearthed from the British Newspaper Archive (BNA) relating to my new heroine Hannah Winbolt. For over thirty years she lived in the same Stockport Street and her name is commemorated on a bench in Stockport. Our Hannah was no suffragette. No indeed. She believed women were equal politically, socially, morally and intellectually with men and she fought her battle on the podium not with stones or bombs…
Unlike so many of
her fellow suffragists, Hannah was working class. Daughter of a silk hand-loom weaver,
she was a silk weaver herself. She
finished her mainstream education (as far as education went in the 1860s) aged
8 to work as a ‘nurse child.’ Now I’ve
done a little research on what a ‘nurse child’ entailed and the internet is
full of posts suggesting a type of wet nurse but, sceptic that I am, a 9 year
old girl would never be expected to wet nurse someone else’s baby. On the front page of the Windsor and Eton Express, Saturday
12 November 1897, is an advert for a ‘child nurse’ specifically requesting a respectable person who has much experience
with children, a CHILD TO NURSE, references will be given and required. Hannah was sent to a family to work as a
By the following year she was a part-timer (half the day in school, half the day working) at a mill until she was eleven and the export of raw cotton was blockaded by the Unionists during the American Civil War. The resulting Lancashire Cotton Famine 1861-1865 was a terrible time for Lancashire and parts of Cheshire. By 15, she was teaching other children to read, eventually joining the Women’s Liberal Federation. Under this umbrella, she promoted female franchise by travelling the country speaking at public meetings under her married name of Mrs John Winbolt. They had married in 1874 and by 1881 the couple were living in Store Street, Great Moor, Stockport, both working in silk manufacturing. Thirty years later, they were still living in the same road in a modest two-up two-down.
Yes, I appreciate this is a pretty dry biography but Hannah was an exceptional lady and never indulged in the terrorist tactics of full blown militant suffragettes of the Women’s Social and Political Union (Mrs Pankhurst’s mob).
No. Hannah believed ‘If a woman is not able to persuade her husband that her side of a
question is the right one, she is not worthy to have a husband.’ (Heywood
Advertiser 24 March 1893 P4) and introduced her address to the audience of
this very meeting with the immortal words ‘Anyone
who has come here expecting to listen to a grand grammatical speech has come to
the wrong shop.’
Two of my distant ancestors were murdered in their kitchen reputedly for the money in the teapot. This was 1750 when William Spurret and his wife Elizabeth ran the local alehouse, Hobcroft’s Holt. Standing on the site today is the Holt Hotel, its sign depicting a highwayman said to haunt the hotel.
Now nobody wants to point a finger at friends and relatives but it was obviously an inside job so what did the authorities do? Blame the atrocity on the local highwayman, a French chap called Claude Duval, who was hanged at Tyburn on the 21 January 1670 – 80 years earlier. As you have probably guessed, I enjoy art galleries and not too long ago, I was delighted to find a painting of this very rascal hanging on the wall of Manchester Art Gallery – sadly replaced by a another painting a month or so ago.
There is obviously no way Claude could have been responsible for the beerhouse murders. Apparently, he was a gallant rogue; when he stopped a stagecoach, if a pretty female passenger danced with him, she could keep her belongings.
This painting, thank you Manchester Art Gallery Collections, is by William Powell Frith RA (1819-1909) donated in 1917 by the James Gresham Bequest. Claude, in his scarlet jacket, is clearly expecting the lady in white to dance…. If you look closely just between the arms of the two masked robbers to the left of the painting, you can see a tiny gibbet on the horizon whence dangles a convicted highwayman.
After his execution at Tyburn in London, legend has
him buried in St Paul’s church, Covent Garden; the parish register records the
burial of Peter Duval in January 1670.
A memorial in the church reads:
Here lies DuVall: Reder, if male thou art,
Look to thy purse; if female, to thy heart.
Much havoc has he made of both; for all
Men he made to stand, and women he made to fall
The second Conqueror of the Norman race,
Knights to his arm did yield, and ladies to his
Old Tyburn’s glory; England’s illustrious Thief,
Du Vall, the ladies’ joy; Du Vall, the ladies’
A gruesome description of the murder –not a whiff of Claude Duval – can be found here under the title Murder at the Holt on Steeple Aston Village Archive website.
Good news, this latest addition to my ‘oeuvres’ will be published in the near future by the Society of Genealogists. I’m currently revising, proof reading and indexing – indexing is not a job I particularly like but someone has to do it. Another of my skillsets….
The book covers the history behind England’s wealth – in the Middle Ages… I’m sure you’ve guessed by now… wool! Even today, the Lord Speaker in the House of Lords sits on a woolsack – its weight three times more than me. My book explains the process of cloth production from pre-industrialisation through the industrial revolution and on. If your ancestors lived in the North West, Yorkshire or Scotland from the 18th Century, I bet one of them worked in the textile industry. My great great grandfather was an Oxfordshire baker who migrated northwards to Ashton under Lyne. He never worked in the cotton mills – but all his children did.
Read about working conditions, what mill-workers actually did and how much they were paid. Found great auntie Aggie working as a lapper or frame tenter and wondered exactly what she did? Easy. Read my book… It’s due out towards the end of this year, perhaps the beginning of 2020. I’ll keep you updated. In the meantime, whet your appetite by reading Tracing your Trade and Craftsman Ancestors and Tracing your Female Ancestors, both available now….