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.

 

Charlotte Gosling : 

Lived to be at least 69 years old; in 1861 census she is an ‘invalid’

In the 1871 census she is alone and living with Mary

She lived at least the last 20 years of her life in Halvergate, Norfolk.

Her son Henry, who became a fisherman,  was my great grandfather.