Mid April 1859.
Emily Elizabeth GOSLING; b1877 Gorleston (David’s paternal grandmother)
Her father Henry (William)GOSLING b1844 Halvergate,
Norfolk
His mother: Charlotte(Sarah) GOSLING b 1802 North Elmham,
Norfolk
The mist hung low in the dull,
heavy early morning sky, a patchy mist that clung to the dikes and the hollows
in the fields.. a reassuring, familiar haziness in the air. It wasn’t as cold
as it had been… p’raps a touch of hidden Spring in the leafing brambles and
early plantains in the meagre hedgerows. Charlette loved this time of the day
as she trudged through the mud and rutted grass, easily carrying a bale of hay
on her broad shoulders. She could fleetingly see for miles through the haze, an
uninterrupted sky, a flattened landscape over to Bleydon Water and the sea, to
Acle in the opposite direction and over to the far low view of trees to
Brundall. This was her type of land, open skies, it was her view, her history,
the only world she knew, the only world she wanted to know and as it was her
father’s before her. But all was a-changing.
The mud was caked over her heavy boots and she scraped at
the clay with a thick stick leaning heavily against the fence post. The fields
were wet and sods clung easily to boot and striding was impossible when it was
this wet. But the work had to be done.
Charlotte Gosling was 57 years
old, a tough, heavily built woman with broad shoulders and strong legs, she
laboured on the fen farm, not turning her nose up to any manual work, be it
ditch digging and clearing, or shit shovelling, grass scything, stone walling,
or tending cattle.
She was called Lotte by all who knew her and her dark grey,
heavy plain clothes, but her masculine appearance hid her wicked and sharp
sense of humour and the fun in her eyes. You didn’t mess with Lotte. She’d
fight like a man, and fight a man if she had to. But the years of hard work of
poverty and hunger had taken it’s toll. She was often racked with pain and
short of breath:
She had said to her friend Mary Waters:
“I does not know how longer I can
do’s this, nor what might happen if I canna do work the more. My Mary she takes
in sewing and dressmaking and she works all the hours her hands can bare. The
boys itch to leave home and be their own men. And we all gets by well. But with
them gone? We lives, we keeps warm at home when the wind blows over the fields
and we eats what the good Lord puts on the table. Scrimps and scrapes we do.
But we gets by. But with the boys gone, well then’s just Mary and me. But alls a changing”
It hadn’t been a bad winter,
Charlotte had seen worse, but it had seemed to go on forever, with constant
rain and snow. It had settled in drifts against the rock and stone walls; the
grass had grown but it was not enough for the sheep and cattle. Even the cows
were thin and bony, scratching what they could out of the bare and wet grazing.
And when the wind howled, they would stand huddled in groups and not try to
eat. There were barns to bring them in when it was bad but little hay was left.
The farmer worried, and when he worried, they all feared for
their jobs. The fenland was changing, year after year it seemed to get wetter and
boggier and then it would not rain for months and get bone hard cracked dry.
Then there was the Town, there was work to be had in the docks in Yarmouth and
the fishing in Gorleston. Industry they called it. So many lads went there,
away from the land and to work in building and digging, lifting and
carrying.
Charlotte stood, leaning on her
fence post, looking over the wide space
to Yarmouth town, she lived there for a while with her William. How she missed
him still. He had been a fine man and a good, caring, loyal father. But he had
died too young and had left her to be head of the house. And the house in Town
had gone and she had to go, with her family with her. Changing times indeed.
There was a distant mewing. A scratching and a squealing.
Charlotte tilted her head and listened. Dinner. She had gleaned a few turnips
and some old carrots, tucked into a hessian sack tucked into some strong string
tied at her waist. And if she was not mistaken…
The rabbits had no idea of the vagaries of the weather. The
sun had moved its magical seasonal arc, the rabbits had bred as they do in what
they thought was Spring. Charlotte hurried to where she knew she had laid
snares for the hungry and tired coney… there would be a good pot of broth
tonight. Her boots squelched through the puddles and mud on the narrow farm
track.
