Maids and Bushrangers

Three boys loitered around the door of a grocery shop on Flat Street, Sheffield, on the morning of 18 February 1835. While cheese factor, Mr Matthew Furniss, had his back to the door, one of the boys furtively entered the shop and lifted a twenty-pound wheel of cheese off the top of a cask. His accomplice stood in the doorway, holding a sack open, and the boy threw the cheese into it. The boys ran off, chased by witnesses. The boy’s accomplice dropped the sack in the street as he bolted towards Spring Wood. They didn’t get far before they were caught and turned over to the authorities. [1] Patrick Joyce was nicked. Conviction  Patrick Joyce and his erstwhile getaway man, Isaac Saynor, were brought before a magistrate at the Yorkshire Quarter Sessions, held at Sheffield on the 26 March 1835. Charged with larceny, the justice made out the elements of the offence thus: “That Patrick Joyce late of Wakefield in the West Riding of the County of York Labourer and Isaac Saynor late

Louisa dashed away angry tears lest they smudge her makeup. Escaping the Royal Albert Hall, she couldn’t move fast enough. Lizzy, tottering on gaudy high heels, was struggling to keep up with her. “Louisa! Slow down” she hissed. Louisa stopped, her anger moving down to her toes, which tapped a staccato rhythm on the cobbles as she waited for Lizzy. “Did you hear her?” she exploded. “Don’t you dare, she said, don’t you dare . Ugly woman in her ugly guides uniform. How dare she not let me share some sweets with my daughter.” “You know, I’ve been giving those people money since Nellie was a baby, and she’s babies of her own now. Always had a coin box in the house. I won’t give ‘em a farthing more, Louisa. See if I won’t.” Louisa shivered as she smoothed her hair and adjusted her clothes. She must calm down, she told herself, and try to work out how she could get Maisie back. --- The day had started well enough. It was just over an hour by train from Burnt Oak to K

When I finally found my grandmother’s birth record, the address at which she was born was stated as 129 St Johns Road, Islington, in the County of London. This public record was at odds with her Australian marriage record, which said she was from Isle of Ely, Cambridgeshire. A search on the Islington address surprisingly showed that it was a workhouse. Birth certificates were routinely filled out with a non-descript address, so as not to draw attention to the status of the mother. A relic of Victorian times, the workhouse was not only the destination for the destitute; it was the destination for unmarried mothers. Before 6 September 1913, my grandmother’s birthdate, there was no record of a marriage for Louisa Gutteridge. However, there were other birth certificates. Louisa had two older children, both boys. The younger boy, Arthur, had also been born in a workhouse. So, when Louisa found herself once again in the family way, she knew what to expect. And she knew what was exp

Irene was nearly knocked off her feet by a flurry of skirts and aprons. She steadied herself against the door of the cottage she had just entered. The flurry resolved itself into Peggy who was now talking a mile-a-minute and madly hugging her friend. “You won’t believe it! You just won’t believe what’s happened! Mother said yes. She said yes ! After what happened at the Albert Hall, and then she said no, and then I sent her a letter begging to go, and then her new husband wrote and said no again…” Peggy finally paused for breath and spoke very distinctly. “She said yes. I. Am. Going. To. Australia!” The noise started again as the two young women squealed and hugged each other, bouncing up and down like the kangaroos they hoped to be seeing soon.   “When did you find out?” “Just now. The Governor showed me the letter herself.” Peggy pursed her lips impersonating Louisa’s nasal tones. “’I am writing to say at last we give consent to M. M. Gutteridge going abroad.’ She sai

It was hard to determine who was putting out the most steam; Peggy or the train. Peggy had fumed all the way from Ipswich to London. She kept on fuming from London to the new Barkingside station. After meeting Mrs Creagh, she had been packaged up, complete with large label, and shipped to Dr Barnardo’s Girls Village Home. Under her severe bowl cut hair, her normally gentle blue eyes glared out at the uniformed staff member striding across the platform towards her. “Marguerite Gutteridge, is it?” checking the label tied to her coat. Peggy nodded. “Come along then.” The gravel crunched as Peggy was led through the imposing wrought iron entrance gates.   Inside the thick walls the village was strangely quiet for a place housing hundreds of girls. “Where is everyone?” The lady seemed surprised to be addressed without notice. “At school or working. There is no laziness at Dr Barnardo’s Village.” Peggy shrunk down into her coat, wishing she was back in Auntie Maud’s worn but

“Hurry up, Marguerite.” exclaimed Auntie Maud, turning back to her dawdling niece. “But why are we going to the big house, Auntie?” whined Peggy, and she wished she would stop calling her Marguerite. She never did that at home. They all called her Maisie. “You av to meet Mrs Creagh.” “Why?” Auntie Maud suddenly looked a little sad. “Well, Mrs Creagh has taken notice of you, Marguerite. She thinks you might do well at a new school.” “But I like Haughley School. Teacher says my hand-writing is the best in the class.” Auntie Maud pressed her lips together and didn’t answer. Her daughters had never been as strong-willed as Maisie. They never cared that much about school either. “Are you sending me away?” Peggy stopped dead. Not again. Her mother disappeared. Then her daddy brought her to Auntie Maud. She’d heard talk of sending her to her grandparents at Three Holes, but they were old, and already looked after her eldest brother, Cyril. “Well its not as if you