More family history....

For me genealogy is more than just dates and places. For me it is about trying to imagine their life, putting flesh on the bones.

September 1890

“Hot enough for ya misses?” the neighbour called.  “Reckon you could just about cook yer dinner on the pavement.”

 ‘Just about cook me an all’ she thought, grimacing.

“Gonna be a scorcher again tomorrow.” 

It was just as hot inside, where George was waiting for her.

“Been down at your Mam’s…? You look all in love, here sit you down”

A single tear escaped her attempt to smile and she lowered her bulk into the nearest chair. Hannah was fed up, with being pregnant, fed up with the oppressive heat, and fed up with just about everything and everybody.

“Cant be too much longer now, can it love?” He asked, lifting the damp hair, and blowing on her neck to try to cool her.

“Mam always says babies come when they’re ready...”  She answered undoing the top buttons of her dress.

George looked down at his beloved Hannah and put a hand on her swollen belly. Under his palm he felt the child move.

During one of 1890’s hottest months, on September 9th my grandfather George Arthur Harvey was born. Second son of Hannah and George William Harvey, who seemed to have gone against the tradition of giving the first son the father’s name. Their first born was called William.

George W and Hannah lived within the great loop of the River Thames on the Isle of Dogs, in Stebondale Street. Many of the people here were poor, some existing just above the poverty line. George W was a ‘general labourer’, and like most of the residents of the area would have been part of the great human machine that drove the docks.  For most, employment was poorly paid, and often erratic.  Rough weather could delay the ships that brought China Tea in July and November, tea from India in August and January, and sugar and grain September and April. 

Along with the other families in the area, George W and Hannah would have felt the impact of the Great Dock Strike of 1889.

Worsening conditions of work and miserly rates of pay created the right conditions for unionism to succeed. In displays of solidarity the striking men marched daily through the streets of London, streets lined with crowds cheering and encouraging the determined men. With public support and donations, including thousands of pounds from Australia, this strike succeeded where others had failed. The men got their ‘Dockers Tanner’. Sixpence an hour and eight pence an hour for overtime.

Later the family moved to 19 Stebondale Terrace,  just along the road from his father’s  old  home at number seven (see 1881 census), Across the road at number six was a family called Porter, so perhaps pretty young Florence May Porter met her tall husband to be, George Arthur Harvey,  while visiting with her cousins.

Gawpin’ at the girls again eh? William Porter said quietly over George’s shoulder startling him out of the daydream and painting a crimson flush across the narrow cheekbones. Without waiting for an answer William scruffled a rough hand across his friends wavy hair and was off running, his boots clattering along the cobbles.  George followed; scattering the children playing in the street like a flock of noisy sparrows. Rounding the corner he stopped short of colliding with a heavily laden woman.

. “ ’ere boy, you just lookout where your going, coulda done me a mischief n’all you could”

“Sorry, Mrs, begging your pardon Mrs” George apologised. Taking the heavy bag she thrust at him, he turned and followed her back along Stebondale Street.

“That’s better lad” She said approvingly, looking up at him, and pushing the knuckles of her left hand into the ache in her side.

“George aint it ?” She asked recognising him as Mrs Harvey’s son from up the street, same long nosed narrow face as his Dad.

“That’s right Mrs.”

Ducking his head as he went through the door, he followed her along the narrow hall and into the kitchen where Mrs Porter eased herself into a chair with a grateful sigh.

George’s,  “Where..”  as he began,  looking around for somewhere to put the bags,  was silenced by finding ‘her’ sitting right in front of him, peeling potatoes.

“Ah Florence, you’re a good gel, gonna miss you when you goes back home.” The older woman said.

Florence, George thought to himself, turning the name over and liking the way it felt on his tongue, Florence.

William, who had come in through the back door, watched unseen from the scullery. Hands shoved deep into trouser pockets, left shoulder holding itself up against the wall, the smart remark lurking on the tip of his tongue silenced by the expression on George’s face.

And though he teased him about it later, William wondered if he’d ever find a girl to look at the way George had looked at his little cousin Florence.