Homes Is A Strange Country - Chapter 36

THIRTY SIX
Bolton Thursday 20th September 1917

   George slept in late the following day and was awakened only by Albert, the barman, knocking gently on his bedroom door.

   'Mr Kent sir' he called out. George turned over in bed awakened at the sound of the voice.

   'Right' he replied, almost awake just by the sound of his name being called, and started to swing his feet over the edge of the bed.

   'If you’re up soon sir,' came the voice from the other side of the door, 'I can get you some breakfast. It’s getting on a bit, but it’s not too late yet.' George nodded to himself and called out,

   'Alright Albert. Be with you in a few minutes. Thanks'

   'Very well sir, I’ll have your breakfast on the table in ten minutes if that’s alright' he called through the door.

   'Right. I’ll be down in ten minutes then' George replied. Albert was still walking back along the corridor as George appeared behind him in the bedroom doorway on his way to the bathroom.

   As he stood before the mirror in the bathroom shaving, he finally made up his mind that he would visit Latham Street that day and leave the hotel the following morning. He had stayed longer than he had planned, and it seemed to him that nothing he could do here would alter anything. He finished shaving then wiped his face on the towel hung over the side of the sink.

   As he entered the dining room a few minutes later the attractive waitress from yesterday was waiting close to the table she had set for one near to the window.

   'It’s a bit nicer today sir,' she called out to him as he walked across the room to her. George glanced through the window, and sure enough the sky was clear blue without a single cloud.

   'Can’t make out this weather,' he said. 'Should be getting a bit colder in September shouldn’t it?' he asked. 'In fact it’s almost October now.' The waitress said nothing but turned back to the kitchen to reappear a moment later with a large wooden tray on which was a plate containing a large fried breakfast, a mock silver coffee pot, a small jug of hot milk and a toast rack. Lifting the items one by one onto the place setting before which George had placed himself she said,

   'Well, sometimes we get a good spell like this at this time of year. I think they call it an Indian Summer, though I’ve no idea why.' She held the tray by her side and asked him, 'Is there anything else you need sir?' George replied that everything seemed to be fine, and without any further comment he started to fill his empty stomach with the fried food on his plate.

   When he had finished he pushed the plate away and refilled his empty cup from the silver coffee pot and gently belched as he did so. Glancing over his shoulder to check nobody else was in the room other than him, he pulled a small notebook from the inside pocket of his jacket. It was only a few inches long and had a dark fabric cover to it, inside it contained thirty pages of lined paper. He opened it and flicked through the pages one at a time, inspecting one and then another page. The sound of someone entering the room caused him to hurriedly close it and place it closed onto the table by the side of his cup. The waitress came to the table and asked,

   'Was everything alright for you sir?' He replied that it was fine and she started to move the empty plate and cutlery from the table back onto the wooden tray. 'Are you visiting anywhere special today sir?' she asked, not in any way inquisitorially, simply making conversation.

   'Just got one or two place to see, but nothing special,' George replied. 'Then I’ll be making tracks back to the south coast in the morning, after breakfast. So you’ll be seeing the back of me then.'

   'Oh, well I hope you enjoyed yourself here. Seems a long way to come just for a couple of nights,' she replied, lifting the tray easily onto one hand and turning to walk back into the kitchen.

   When he heard the kitchen door slam to he reopened the book to a page which contained addresses, 244 Waterloo Street was the first on his list. That was where Florence, the woman who now lay buried in Sydney, had lived before moving to Australia, though he supposed she had also lived somewhere in the Plymouth area of England before moving there. It was the address where her mother and father had lived when she sailed, and one she addressed her letter to when he had first met her. He knew that her father, Henry, was something called a ‘Smallware dealer’ at the time, something like a Draper, she had explained, 'but he goes door to door selling cotton fancy goods.' A few years later she had addressed her letter home to somewhere called Lena Street and finally, before her death, to number 3 Latham Street, seemed like the family moved around a bit, rather like the population of parts of Sydney. Near the Iron Church she had told him, was where Latham Street was. Runs along the back of the church, she had said. When her child was born, a child she had had christened Clyda Elsie the minister, Mr Presswell, had commented on how unusual the name was. Florence had told him that she had named her after a beautiful river she had once seen, nothing more. He noted too the names of various places Florence had mentioned during the time they had known each other, and these too were noted in his book. The Victoria Hall, the Market Hall, the Town Hall, and various cotton mills in Bolton, including Prospect Mill, the one she had worked at prior to leaving home. She had told him it was on Blackburn Road and ‘a bit of a slog from home to work', but maybe he would find it and discover that it was not all that far. She had been just a child when she started work there, leaving school at twelve she was only entitled to work ‘half time’ in the cotton mill.

   As the memories returned more and more, and the thoughts of the conversations they had brought even more memories to his mind, he became more certain of what he wanted to do. So, he thought, maybe today I will have a look in the Market Hall, then catch a tram to the Iron Church and see what is going on there. Perhaps he might even be able to see Clyda, she would be nine years old now. He sat back in his chair and lifted the cup of coffee to his lips. It seemed so long ago now since he spent almost a year taking care of the child following her mother’s death, yet it had only been late in 1913 when Clyda had left Sydney in the care Violet Tarling. She would have changed since then. She was a small child of five when he had relinquished her to the State Children's Board who then arranged for her to be put on the ship for England, now she was nine. A different girl, he mused.

   Pushing the chair back from the table, he scooped up the book in his hand and placed it back into his inside pocket before leaving the table and walking out of the dining room. Back in his room George took his overcoat and hat from the wardrobe, and collecting his walking stick from where it had rested during the night on the side of the chair, left the hotel for the day. Outside the hotel the sun was shining brightly and he decided against wearing the overcoat, instead he carried it across his arm as he walked along Deansgate in the direction of Bridge Street. There were rather more people on the streets today, perhaps brought out by the warm weather, though he doubted that. It was still a working day even though there were few working men around, mainly women. As he passed the Bolton Bank he was annoyed to see the man from the previous evening in the hotel walking up the steps into the bank. The man failed to recognise George, who carried on past him.

   At the corner of Bridge Street he turned down the hill towards where he could see two trams waiting by the side of the road by the left hand pavement at the bottom of the road. George tried to hurry but the pain in his leg and the aches in his back prevented him from moving as fast as he would have liked. Going down the hill, which was Bridge Street, he saw the Market Hall on the left of the street. He recognised it from the descriptions he had been given by Florence, and could understand why she had been so proud of the building. On his right was a magnificent three storey building built in red brick with arched windows picked out in what had once been cream brick. The ground floor was entirely made up from windows, with entrance doors. He stopped to read the lettering on the signs across the whole of the front to find that this was the Great Lever and Bolton Cooperative Society Limited Central Stores.

   'Now that is impressive' George muttered to himself. But today he felt there was no time to explore its finer points, not even the restaurant in the basement. After all, he thought, a market is a market, no matter where in the world it is situated, and a Co-op is a Co-op, whether it was Bolton or Melbourne. Sydney too had markets, as did Melbourne for that matter. One more would not go un-noticed. He crossed over the road with some difficulty, the road surface not only sloped downhill but there was a street coming in from the left on a hill as well, and the cobbles which made up the road surface, made walking on it with a stick more difficult than he would have wished. The stone flagged pavement on the far side of the street seemed steeper than on the side he had crossed from and his anxiety increased when he saw a conductor walking from the front of the tram to the rear. There were passengers already seated on the lower and the open upper deck as well, as he tried to increase his pace to catch it before it left. As he drew closer it suddenly struck his mind that he did not know the destination of the tram. Jack the Policeman had told him that he had to catch the ‘D’ tram, to a place called Dunscar. He looked up at the rear of the tram and saw that on the back of the tram was the letter ‘S'. The tram itself was brown and cream and both upper and lower decks were predominantly windows.

   He slowed down to a pace he could more easily cope with, and pulled a handkerchief from his left hand trouser pocket. He stood looking at the rear of the tram for a moment as he wiped the sweat from his forehead. The conductor, a young woman in a smart dark blue uniform, stepped up onto the platform at the rear of the tram and gave him a warm smile as he approached. He glanced at her hat and smiled at the sight of the slouch type hat he was so accustomed to from his own uniform which she wore on her head. Her tunic was buttoned to her neck and she bore a large badge with the word Conductor on her right breast.

   'Take your time love,' she called out. 'We’re not off yet. The D tram in front has to go off first. Shouldn’t be more than two minutes though.' George stopped mopping his brow and stepped to one side to look at the tram in front, it was displaying the letter ‘D’ on its rear.

   'Sorry mate' he said, 'It’s the D tram I want. Maybe next time.' He grinned at her as he started to walk to the back of the first tram in line. The conductor of the Dunscar tram was stood on the rear platform and held out her arm towards George,

   'Come on my love, let's be having you. We’ve been waiting ten minutes just so you could come an' ride wi' us.' She joked. George smiled as he stepped up onto the platform, and as he did so she took his arm and guided him into the lower salon. 'There you are love' she said. 'Get yourself settled and we’ll be off.'

   'Thanks love' George replied, a little unsure of using the familiar word to her, but sure she would not mind. She never said anything to indicate that this was anything but the normal way of talking. 'Different country, different language almost.' George said to himself.

   With a sudden jerk the tram pulled away from the stop and started to climb along the street and up the hill out of town. The conductor came through to him, he was the only person on the lower deck.

   'Where to love?' she asked. George thought for a moment and then replied

   'Waterloo Street please.'

   'Right you are,' she said. 'That’ll be a penny.' She punched one of the coloured tickets from the small metal machine hung around her neck and George handed over a coin from his pocket. Looking at her he said,

   'I’ve never been here before, so could you tell me when we get to Waterloo Street please?'

   'I could tell that from your accent,' she replied. 'Long way from home aren’t you?' George nodded his head and smiled but said nothing. She walked to the back of the tram and went up onto the top deck, George could hear her footsteps walking about over his head.

   As the tram drove along Bridge Street George knew once again that everything he was seeing here in Bolton, he was seeing for the first time in his life, that the buildings were new, the people were new, even the pigeons and sparrows fluttering around the roofs of the buildings were new and unknown to him. Strange not to see Magpies and Ibis flying around though. How could he keep all these scenes in his memory, because he knew he would never again visit this place, or possibly even this country.

   He tried hard to register all the churches, mills, public buildings and more than anything, the rows and rows of low terraced houses he saw, crowding up to meet the main road in line after dirty line. This was nothing like anything he had experienced before in Australia, Egypt or France.

   'So this is where the Industrial Revolution started', he thought to himself. 'If only I had a camera with me.' The tram came to a halt at a tram stop at the top of Bridge Street and three people got onboard. As they settled in their seats the Motorman at the front of the tram took off again with a jerk when the brake came off and the power went on.

   'Knott's Chemist coming up,' called the conductor from behind him. He looked around at the line of cotton mills on both sides as the tram made its’ way out of town. The conductor called out again, 'Knott's Chemist love. This is your stop.' George felt the comment was made at him and looked around. The young woman was stood at the foot of the stairs at the back of the tram. She smiled and nodded at him, 'This is your stop love, Waterloo Street is just on the right hand side opposite Knott's Chemist. You can’t miss it; big street.' She stooped down and looked out of the back window of the tram and pointed out a street to George. 'That’s it there love,' she said. George got to his feet, and using his stick balanced himself, as the tram came to a halt outside a shop with the words Knott's Chemist over the front. When the tram had come to a complete stop George stepped down onto the pavement outside the shop.

   'Thanks love' he said to the conductor, giving her a warm smile and raising his walking stick in salute.

   'That’s alright love,' she replied smiling at him. 'See you on the way back.' She turned and pointed to a tram stop on the opposite side of the road. 'Catch me over there on the way back. Every half hour we run.' She raised her hand in farewell and hit an electric bell button on the bulkhead at the side of where she was standing.

   The tram pulled off again and George was left alone on the pavement, looking across the road to Waterloo Street. The thought passed through his mind that it was Waterloo Street where Florence had lived before moving to Australia. Should he go there first to find her house, or perhaps on the way back to the hotel later in the day. Later in the day, he decided and turned to walk along the road towards a large church steeple he could see no more than two hundred yards in the distance, on the opposite side of the road. 'That must be the Iron Church' he said to himself, and started to walk along the street towards it.

   Blackburn Road was a wide road with tramlines on both side of the road set into the cobbles. Shops, cotton mills and houses were set side by side in no apparent logical order, as though they had been built by their owners when the need demanded it, without any real forethought or planning. A woman carrying a shopping bag was walking towards him. As she came closer George glanced down at her feet and saw she was wearing clogs, which almost all the working people he had seen, appeared to be wearing. She had a shawl around her shoulders which she clutched to her with one hand whilst carrying her bag in the other. He stopped in her path and raised his hat slightly to her.

   'Excuse me,' he said, 'But I wonder if you can tell me where Latham Street is. I know it’s off this road somewhere, but I’m not certain exactly where it is?' He looked around him to the streets he could see butting onto Blackburn Road. The woman looked him up and down and grimaced a little at his strange accent.

   'I can tell thee ain’t from round here love,' she said grinning at him. She turned to half face back along the road she had come from and lifting the hand holding her scarf, pointed in the general direction of the church. 'Head towards t' church, then before thee gets there tha’ll see a pub, it’s on t’opposite side of road from here, it’s call’t Bowling Green. Well that’s Black Bank Street by side o’ pub.' She paused to glance back at George to see if he had taken in the instruction thus far. Seeing that he was looking in the right direction her hand was indicating she continued, 'So, thi turns down Black Bank Street and tha’ll find Latham Street down there on tha left hand side. It’s not far.' George nodded his head as he made spotted the door of the pub on the corner of the street she had indicated, it wasn’t far. 'Is it sommat special tha’s looking for?' she asked, not willing to let the smartly dressed gentleman get away without her curiosity being satisfied. George was stumped for a moment and fell into a silence. The woman carried on, 'Is it photographers, Hinchcliffes, tha’s after?' The name struck a chord in George’s mind as he suddenly remembered the photograph of Florence he had hidden in the back cover of the notebook in the inside breast pocket of his jacket. The name J Hinchcliffe, Photographer, Bolton, had been printed in smudged ink on the back of the photo. Quickly he regained his composure.

   'Yes, that’s right. That’s who I'm looking for. Is it on Latham Street then?' he asked.

   'Nay love, it’s not on Latham Street, it’s on Black Bank Street.' She paused to recall as best she could where it was situated on the street, then carried on. 'It’s down ont’ left hand side of Black Bank Street just below Latham Street, not sure what number it is, but you can’t miss it. Got a big window with a camera and photos and suchlike in it. Reet posh it is too. They’ll do you a gradely photo, tha looking so grand an all.' George smiled at the comment wondering what the woman would have said if she had seen him in his normal plate layers working clothes back home in Sydney. He tipped his hat to her again and said,

   'Thank you for your help. I’m sure I’ll be able to find it now,' and turned to walk away. The woman called after him,   

   'Nobody else tha’s looking for then?' George called back over his shoulder to her.

   'No thanks, you’ve been a great help,' he said and continued on along the road.

   Opposite Black Bank Street was a bakers shop with the name H Warburton above the shop window. He stood there for a moment looking at the bread and cakes displayed in the curved window on the corner of the street, but it was more to give him a few minutes to become familiar with the area than an interest in the bakers wares. A constant line of people were coming and going from the shop clutching loaves wrapped in paper.

   Just as the woman had told him in her instructions, opposite where he stood was the Bowling Green public house on the corner of Black Bank Street, whilst on the opposite corner of the side street was a furniture shop owned by Charles Fryer and Sons, or so the sign over the door on the main road proclaimed, and like the bread shop it too had a wide curved window on the corner of the street. Drawn up close to the pavement was a large horse and cart loaded with what looked like four large wardrobes in heavy dark brown wood. A young lad of nine or ten stood holding the head of the horse, a large heavy brown and white Clydesdale. The horse was feeding quietly on oats from a bag hung around his neck. From the back of his mind came the thought that the horse must be quite old, in view of the tens of thousands he had seen working, dying and mouldering themselves into the French soil. Two men with grey aprons strung around their necks were standing unsteadily on the cart, manhandling between them one of the pieces of furniture into a canvas harness which hung down from a hoist set into the front wall of the shop, just under the gable end eaves of the building. Half way between the small opening in the wall where the hoist projected and the front door of the shop was a window with wooden shutters. The shutters were open wide and rested against the walls of the building on ornate wrought iron hinges painted green. He stood for a few moments watching the way the two men on the cart together expertly steadied the large double wardrobe in its harness and held it until it was lifted from their hands by the hoist above their heads. As it finally started to leave the control of their hands one of them shouted to someone inside the shop, and the head and shoulders of a elderly white haired man appeared from within the shuttered window. He reached out from the building and took the harness in his hand, guiding it gently in towards the opening. As it drew level with the opening, a second pair of hands came out to help slide the wardrobe down onto a heavily filled hessian sack placed on the floor in front of them, and soon the two of them had the piece manoeuvred into the upper room, which George supposed was used as a storage area for the shop below. The entertainment concluded for his day, George smiled to himself and crossed over the road outside the pub.

   On the corner of the street was the front door of the pub, and over it was a sign which read, 'Samuel Clegg, licensed to sell beer, wines and spirits for consumption on or off the premises' Half way along the Black Bank Street wall of the pub was set a small stable door, which allowed the bottom half to be kept locked and shut, whilst allowing the top half to be open. On the top of the bottom half of the door was a small shelf which served as a counter for jugs to be filled with beer, whilst over the door was a sign proclaiming that that this was the ‘Jug and Bottle Shop’ for the pub. The ‘shop’ gave people the option of buying their beer to consume at home, rather than drink it in the smoky noisy atmosphere of the pub itself. This was a solution which was welcomed by both men and women of the community, as few women would be welcomed in the pub. 'Bloody good idea' George said to himself. 'Better than the Six O’clock Swill back home.' He started to walk along the right hand side of Black Bank Street and after a few yards stopped outside a bakery, the smell of freshly baked bread reminding him that it had been a couple of hours since breakfast. The name was the same as the one on the shop on the opposite side of Blackburn Road, Warburtons, and he presumed that this was the place which supplied the bread and cakes he had seen earlier in the shop on the other side of the road. Almost opposite to where he was standing was a large single storey building with the name Victoria Garage over the door, then Back Latham Street, and finally Latham Street itself. It was, as had been described once by Florence, running parallel with Blackburn Road and as he lifted his head to follow the line of the street, he saw the back of the church he had seen earlier, with its large spire standing proud of the neighbouring buildings.

   He started to walk slowly along the street, noting the names of the streets forming right angles to Latham Street. They all appeared to have been built by the same builder, all terraced with small back yards enclosed by high walls for privacy. As he walked along the street he measured the width of the houses by the length of his steps, and found that they were all uniformly about twelve or fifteen feet wide. 'How could people live in such crowded houses?' he thought to himself. They were all two stories in height, and judging from the memory of Florence’s description were all what she had called ‘two up and two down.’ He compared what he saw with the houses he had seen in Weymouth, and it struck him that this was a different world. Though, the people here seemed to be bright and lively despite the conditions in which they lived, and in which they presumably worked. They appeared to be none the worse for their living conditions, though looks, he knew, could be deceptive. There were few, if any, overweight people on the streets of Bolton.

   George walked the length of Latham Street along the back of the church, Blackburn Road Congregational Church, to give the church its’ correct name, and then turned left along the side of the church until he came to the front. On the corner of the building was the spire and under it a high double wooden arched door set back at the top of three steps. He tried the iron ring door handle set into the right hand door. It was locked. Stepping back onto the pavement he walked slowly along the pavement admiring the high walls and coloured glass windows set in the side. Set firmly into the ground by the side wall was a large wooden notice board proclaiming the name of the church and the name of the current Minister, the Reverend Alexander Hough. George grinned.

   'Seems like the name Alexander is not as unpopular as I thought it was.'

   As he turned to continue his walk along the pavement he suddenly saw, with some surprise, a cotton mill on the opposite side of the road. From where he stood it appeared to have been made of two or three massive square cubes soaring six floors into the sky with a square tower on one corner. Built from red brick, like others in the area, George was amazed to try to understand how he had failed to notice the mill on his walk from the town centre. Bordering on the main road were two massive wrought iron gates supported by two stone pillars. Each gate was some fifteen feet wide and where they hinged on the pillars were some eight feet in height, rising to about twelve feet in a sweeping curve to the middle where they fastened. A cobbled street fed from Blackburn Road into the mill yard, and from there, he presumed into the individual mill buildings. It was monumental in size, yet sheltered from view partially by houses and shops on the main road. A smile came to his face when he saw the name of the mill written on a sign above the windows fronting onto Blackburn Road. It was the Prospect Mill, one of the names George had written in his book as being one of the places which Florence had worked from leaving school. If she had still been working there the walk from the house on Latham Street would now have taken her only a matter of minutes. He grinned at the memory of her complaints on having to walk from her home on Waterloo Street to the mill in the past. He gazed at the mill and its gates for a few moments then turned back to the church.

   At the end of the church was another building, attached to it. He walked around the side to what appeared to be the front door of a house, which it was. At the side of the impressive wooden door was a plaque bearing the words The Manse. He paused for a moment trying to work out what the word meant and came to the conclusion eventually that this was the house belonging to the current Minister, the brickwork and the style of the two buildings were identical.

   Cutting along the street outside The Manse George came back to Latham Street and walked slowly back towards Black Bank Street. For a moment he stood in front of the solid wooden door of number three, listening for any signs of life inside, but heard none. The street was silent, the only noise coming from the large cotton mill on the far side of Blackburn Road, and the occasional motor vehicle travelling along the road.

   Taking a breath he knocked on the door, three times. There was silence for a moment and then the sound of a door being opened somewhere inside the house, and then the front door swung open. The woman standing in the open doorway was almost round, was George’s initial impression. 'Almost as tall as she is wide' had been Florence’s description of her mother. George felt the picture Florence had painted was a little cruel, she was short and stocky, but not fat. On her feet were a pair of clogs which had at one time been a rusty brown colour, but now were faded to a patchwork of fawn and tan. Her head was covered in a scarf, which she hastily took from her head when she saw the well dressed man standing at her recently donkey stoned front door step. She brushed creases from the apron covering her dress, though it was not necessary. The surprise visitor made her face redden slightly as she held the door open with her hand.

   'Can I help you?' she asked. Her voice had the accent and sing song lilt which reminded George immediately of Florence when he had first met her at the house in Neutral Bay. The sound of her voice had a quality he remembered from that of his parents, when he had been a child. They too had come from England to find a new life in Australia.

   'My name is George Kent' he said. 'I wrote to you a few years ago about Florence.' The colour drained from the woman’s face and she clutched absently at the scarf in her hand, holding onto the side of the door with the other. Her face registered shock then surprise and finally a look of bemused disbelief as she stepped back a pace into the area behind the front door which they called ‘the Lobby’ and looked in his eyes, unsure of whether to shut the door in his face or let him into her home. They stood looking at each other until George broke the silence.

   'Mrs Hadfield?' he asked. She nodded her head silently then swallowed and said,

   'Yes. You’d better come in. Better than standing on the doorstep for all the neighbours to see.' She motioned to George to walk past her into the room which the door hid. Taking off his hat he stepped into the lobby and through into front room of the small house. Mrs Hadfield moved past him into the room, the headscarf twitching nervously in her hand. She glanced around the room and then back at George.

   'We’d best go into the kitchen' she said, and nodded in the direction of a door between the front room and whatever room which lay beyond. George nodded silently and edged past her, opening the door which was in the dividing wall. The wall stood at the foot of a staircase which he glanced up as he went by. The kitchen had a door in the wall opposite the one he had entered by, and to its left as he looked was a large window. Through the window he could see a high wall made of brick enclosing a small yard. The left wall of the kitchen had a large cast iron cooking range in which a fire glowed without much smoke. In the left hand recess of the range rested a black metal kettle, a thin wisp of steam rising gently from its spout. Between him and the range was a solid square wooden table with wooden high backed chairs on three sides. The fourth side, nearest the fire was occupied by a lower set upholstered easy chair with a small wooden foot stool in front of it. Mrs Hadfield eased herself round him and pulling out the chair on the far side of the table, and seated herself down on it. She pointed to the chair closest to George,

   'You’d better sit thi self down,' she muttered. Her eyes flicked to the kettle. Normal Lancashire etiquette would insist on a guest in the house being offered a cup of tea. Not being certain what this man had to say, and not sure whether he was a friend or not, she felt unwilling to offer him the hospitality at this stage.

   George pulled out the chair from the table and placed the overcoat which he had carried with him across the back of it, then sat down facing the woman. She looked to be older than him by twenty or more years, her face showed the signs of a well lived life, but not an easy one. Her clothes were worn and fading and obviously what she normally wore during the working week to work around the house, as was expected of her. Beneath the table her fingers fiddled with the scarf she still held in her hands. She looked down at it then placed it on the table in a gesture of frustration.

   'So,' she finally said. 'What can I do for you Mr Kent?' Her voice held a note of impatience and some anger. George looked around the room to try and gain a little time but also to try and reconcile what he saw here with the tales Florence had related to him during the time they had known each before her death. The thought suddenly struck him that Florence had never seen this family home which her parents had moved to the year following her death. The last time she had been back here in 1909 the family had still been living on Waterloo Street, and had not moved to Lena Street until 1911, the year before Florence died. He remembered the times the family had moved because of the letters Florence wrote to her mother, and the ones she received in return. Each new address would eventually be followed by a long explanation in a letter from her mother which Florence would laughingly comment on, saying that the real reason was probably because they had had to do a ‘moonlight’ as the rent was overdue. Maybe things had changed, Latham Street had been the family home now for over four years. Perhaps the family’s fortunes had changed for the better in the intervening years, and Pa Hadfield had finally found a good paying job.

   George reached into his pocket and retrieved the notebook with Florence's photograph hidden in the back cover. Taking the photo he placed it across the table in front of Mrs Hadfield. 'I didn’t know if you had a photo of Florence, so when I knew I was coming over to England I felt it the right thing to do to try and come up here to see you, and give you this, and maybe tell you a bit more of where Florence is buried.' He watched as the woman opposite him took the photo in her hand and held it close to her eyes. Her eyesight is going, George thought. She held the photo for a moment then replaced it on the table and reached out for the scarf which she used to dab gently at her eyes.

   'I’ve got one of these,' she said pointing to the picture on the table. 'She had it done down the street at Hinchcliffes just before she left.' Her voice hitched and she dabbed her eyes again, looking away sadly from the table to gaze silently at the wall. George said nothing, preferring to allow the older woman to compose herself and carry on with the conversation. He would follow her lead when eventually she did speak.

   'In your letter you said she had been ill a couple of years before she actually died. What happened?' she asked eventually. George tried desperately to remember the contents of the letter he had written after Florence had died in 1912, and he shifted a little uncomfortably in the chair.

   'It was a problem with her kidneys,' he began. 'She was in hospital in Sydney for a few weeks back in 1910, then it came on again in September 1912. This time there was nothing to be done for her. Her kidneys packed in.' He stopped to allow her to absorb what he had said and watched her reaction carefully to see if the explanation had been accepted. After a moment he decided that she had taken in what he had said, and had accepted it completely. Her shoulders slumped and she glanced back at the photograph, touching it gently with her finger.

   'She was a lovely lass.' She said softly at last. 'A bit wild, but lovely, such a pretty girl' She sobbed once and took the scarf again to her eyes.

   George felt a lump forming in his chest and a tear coming to his eye as he watched the woman in obvious distress. His hand went slowly to his eye and he wiped away the tear.

   'I knew her from the church she went to, I went there as well.' He said. 'When she died I took it on myself to make sure she got a Christian burial, and look after her daughter until I could get her back to you here.' He paused as Mrs Hadfield lifted her head to look into his face.

   'Thank you for that Mr Kent, and for looking after our Clyda. It took a long time for her to get back here. That was because of the Probate office wasn’t it?' she finally asked. George hastily answered

   'Yes, yes, that’s right. They were trying to find Florence’s husband, but the navy wouldn’t help, ‘cos he was a serving sailor. They keep that sort of thing private and wouldn’t tell me anything about him, so it was impossible to find him. Not being related you understand?' George paused for breath then continued. 'In the end I could see I was getting nowhere so decided it was better to send her back home to you here, then it took some time to find someone they could trust who was coming back to England. That took some time as well, I can tell you.'

    'Yes, I remember you saying that in one your letters,' Harriet said. 'But you managed it in the end, and for that we are grateful.' She paused a moment then said, 'Can I offer you a cup of tea?' Before George could answer she added quickly,

   'You seem a lot older than we thought, if you don’t mind me saying. I think we thought you were about her age, but you’re not are you?' George was surprised at the question and it showed on his face. She responded quickly to his look of surprise. 'Sorry, I didn’t mean to be personal like. It just struck me that we always thought you were younger, you know?'

   'I was forty a couple of months ago' George replied smiling. 'That’s one of the reasons the army is getting rid of me.'

   'What do you mean? Are you in the army then? How come you’re not in uniform then?' She asked.

   'I was late joining up, then I got shot in the leg in France, so when they found out that I was also coming down with rheumatism, they told me that they were shipping me off back to Australia.' he grinned ruefully. 'So, they gave me some leave at a hospital in Weymouth, told them why I wanted to see you, and in the end they gave me a couple of weeks leave. So, I’m off back home soon as I get back to France.' She paused for a moment thinking.

   'Whereabouts is this Weymouth place then?' she asked.

   'On the south coast, it’s in Dorset. Not too far from Portsmouth, if you know that area.' He watched as she shook her head.

   'Don’t know anywhere on the south coast, though our Flo got married in Devonport. That’s just outside Plymouth as far as I know. From what she said.' She paused before carrying on. 'Is it far from Weymouth, Devonport?'

   'I don’t know really,' he said. 'I think it must be somewhere close by, it’s all on the same bit of coast. Sorry I can’t help you there.'

The woman got up from the table and moved to the fire range.

   'My name is Harriet, by the way. Pleased to meet you.' George told her his name again and watched as she lifted the kettle from its resting place on the shelf within the fire range, and shook it to judge the quantity of water in it. She placed the kettle on the fire and opened a damper in the top right hand corner of the fire and stood poking it with a poker from the hearth until flames appeared from within the coals.

   'I’ll get a pot on then,' she said absently and turned to a cupboard to the right of the fire. Opening it Harriet took a large white tea pot decorated in flowers from one of the shelves with one hand whilst taking two cups from the same shelf with the other. Placing them on the table between them she reached back for two saucers and placed them alongside the teapot.

   'I think we’ll have the best set.' She said. George smiled and nodded silently.

   Soon the kettle came to the boil and Harriet made a pot of tea, then poured the brewed drink into the two cups, and settled one in front of George. There was silence whilst they sipped at the hot tea. George broke the silence. 'How is Mr Hadfield?' he asked.

   'Oh he’s fine thank you very much. Got a new job now. He’s working in a men's outfitters in town. Very good job it is too.' George looked up nervously as he pictured the elderly man who had stood in the background of the shop where he had bought his suit of clothes just a few days before. The thought passed through his mind that it could have been Florence's father. He sipped at his tea and said nothing, secretly hoping that the man he had seen just briefly was not this woman’s husband.

   'He’s at the Co-op on Bridge Street.' She continued. 'Been there nearly a year now.' George breathed a sigh of quiet relief and placed his cup back on the saucer on the table.

   'So, how is young Clyda going on these days?' he finally asked. Harriet glanced at him and smiled.

   'She’s fine thanks. Doing good at school.' She glanced at a brown encased clock on the wall opposite the fire range. 'She should be home for her dinner soon if you want to wait for her.' George thought for a moment then shook his head whilst reaching for his cup.

   'No,' he said, 'Don’t suppose she will remember me anyway. She was only with me for a year and then she was only four years old before she came back here to you.' In truth, there was nothing more that he wanted than to see her. Seeing Clyda once more had been the only reason he had used his powers of persuasion so hard on the officer at the hospital in Weymouth to obtain the leave ticket, but now he was here, it seemed that his determination had left him. Clyda had spent most of the five years of  her life in Australia with George as her father figure, a task he had enjoyed.

   'I don’t suppose you have a photograph of her do you?' he asked casually. Harriet thought for a moment then rose from her chair to rummage in the left hand cupboard of the sideboard along the wall beneath the clock.

   'I think I might have one taken at her school last year. The school board paid for a group photo of all the children to be taken, so it might be in here somewhere.' She continued to rummage through the small pile of items in the cupboard, but without success. 'Eee, I’m sorry love, but I can’t find it anywhere. Don’t know where it could have gone.' She said.

   'Not to worry Harriet,' George replied disappointed. 'I probably wouldn’t recognise her anyway. She’s probably grown up now.'

   'Oh she has. Quite tall now, not like her mother.' Harriet paused. 'Has her mother's hair and her eyes though. Pretty little thing she is.'

   George looked at the watch on his wrist and then took a last drink from the tea cup. 'I think I’d better be off now,' he said. 'Not sure how often the trams run into the town centre, but I need to get back to do one or two things before I leave in the morning.' He replaced the cup and stood up from the table, taking his overcoat from the back of the chair and pushing his arms into the sleeves.

   'Well' said Harriet, 'It’s been nice to see you, and I do thank you for taking the trouble to come and see us, and for looking after our Clyda like you did. Just sorry she’s not here to see you, that’s all.' George moved away from the table towards the door of the room and Harriet followed behind him. Going through the front room he opened the door to the lobby and turned towards her extending his hand. 'It’s been nice to meet you Harriet. I wish it were in better times, but we can’t always have our own way, can we?' he said. Harriet wiped her hand on her apron and then placed her hand in his. They shook briefly and he turned to open the front door. Outside the sky had clouded over and over the tops of the houses and buildings opposite George could see two lines of smoke climbing lazily into the sky.

   'Looks like the weather is on the change' he said. Harriet looked up at the sky beyond him.

   'Could be' she replied. George stepped down onto the pavement and turned again to the doorway.

   'Give her my love will you?' he said smiling at her.

   'I will' Harriet replied. 'Bye. Have a safe journey home.' George turned and walked to the end of the Black Bank Street, then turned back to see the front door closing behind her.

   For a second George was unsure of what to do, then started to walk to Blackburn Road. As he got to the junction he checked his watch again, it showed to be just after midday. If Clyda was indeed coming home for her lunch then perhaps she would walk along this road to get home, he thought. Looking up the road towards the church he saw a group of three young girls come from a side street onto the main road. The tallest of the three had dark hair down to the collar of a pale blue flowered dress, and over it a brown cardigan. George watched as they crossed the road and came towards him, chattering amongst themselves. Of the other two girls, one had short light brown hair, whilst the third was blond. If this group contained Clyda coming home from school he thought, the tall one had to be her. As they drew closer he could hear their voices rising and falling as they chatted, though he was unable to discern exactly what their childish gossip was about. The small group turned the corner at the pub and walked along Black Bank Street. She was almost a head taller than the other two and whilst she was slim, she was not undernourished. Her eyes seemed to be dark under the rim of almost black hair shrouding her face and her face was oval, her chin rounded. He watched as they walked along the length of the pub and the building next to it before the tall one turned into Latham street.                                                      

   'See you later Clyda slider,' one of the girls called out and waved as Clyda stopped to open the door of number three. George took in a deep breath.

   'That was her,' he said to himself quietly. George turned to walk back along Blackburn Road to the town centre, his mind a turmoil of different thoughts and feelings. 'Nothing to be done now,' he muttered under his breath and limped out along the road, his walking stick tapping a methodical beat on the pavement.

   George was unaware, but on the same day that he was in Latham Street, friends, mates and fellow Australian soldiers from his battalion were the centre of an assault along Westhoek Ridge facing Glencorse Wood in what became known as The Battle of Menin Road near to the Belgian town of Ypres. It was the first occasion during the war in which two Australian Divisions attacked side by side, and resulted in the deaths of 2,259 Australians from his own division. It seemed he was fated to escape this from an early day in his service.