For My Mum

Tomorrow is a special day on the Australian calendar for it marks the celebration we know as Mother's Day. I get to take part in this special opportunity to be thankful for my Mum by being on the receiving end as well as the giving end. As my mother is currently not in the same state of Australia as I am, I won't be able to have her over for a luncheon and shower her with cups of tea,  home-made cakes and nostalgic anecdotes of gratitude. A blog post will have to suffice this time around, sorry Mum.

I have long been thankful to my Mum for being there for me. Now that I am a mature (cough) adult and I have a daughter of my own, I have grown to really appreciate what she went through in life. She really was a trooper and she did it tough for many years as a single mother, especially when we were living in England. What a blessing it was that she took the plunge and decided all those years ago to emigrate to Australia - the land of opportunity for many. She got stuck in almost immediately and wasn't afraid to grab the bull by the horns. She got a job within weeks of landing in Perth, and quickly found herself a place to live. She got her driver's licence and bought herself a white Ford Escort. Remember Betsy, Mum? Or was it "The Little White Chicken"? :-)

However, my appreciation for my mother really hit home this past week. Over the past five weeks the SBS television network aired the five-part BBC series "Turn Back Time: The Family". This series charts the evolution of the family, as one of Britain's most important institutions. Blending living history with genealogy, "Turn Back Time" explores what it means to be a mother, father and child in British society today and historically. Three modern day families (The Meadows; The Taylors; The Goldings) return to the 1900s and through five pivotal eras of family life:

Episode One : The Edwardian Era

Episode Two: The Inter-War Years

Episode Three: The 1940s

Episode Four: The 1960s

Episode Five: The 1970s

Turn Back Time : The Family
www.sbs.com.au

What made the last episode most special to me personally was that I was a child of the 1970s and my mother was the parent. She was a single mother who had to work two jobs just to keep us afloat. She made most of our clothes (on her trusty Singer sewing machine) because she couldn't afford new, and our jumpers were usually made by my grandmother Lilian. I was babysat a lot as a child (thank you, Brenda G xxx), while my mother was out earning, and I resented this for many years solely because I missed her so much. When we did spend time together though, it was precious. We danced and sang to all the latest chart toppers, we watched The Liver Birds, T.O.T.P, Whodunnit, Opportunity Knocks, Are You Being Served? and Crossroads together. We made cassette tapes (usually from comedies scripts like The Two Ronnies) for loved ones and family in Australia. I used to love sitting behind her on the sofa so that I could brush her hair. Those were my favourite times. But "Turn Back Time" made me see the 1970s from a different perspective - my mother's.

1970s Britain was a time of political upheaval with strikes, power cuts, water shortages, the introduction of the three-day week, and women's liberation. I didn't fully realise the impact all this would have had on my family, I was too busy worrying about my scooter and if we'd had a decent amount of snowfall to run around in. "Turn Back Time" illustrates the upheavals faced in the 1970s perfectly, showing scenes where families were plunged into darkness, having to fill their kettles and pans with water from the street tap, and constant worrying about the weekly wage. The Rhodes family joined the "T.B.T" families in this last episode: Lisa (single mother) and her two young sons, Harrison and Daniel. My heart went out to Lisa Rhodes as she symbolised everything about my own mother, doing it tough in the 1970s, and she had two children to clothe and feed! They were housed in one of the upstairs bed-sits where Lisa's kitchenette was sparse in every capacity. She had a temperamental immersion heater, a tiny sink, draining board, worktop and a two-burner, camping-style stove. At least my Mum and I had a decent sized kitchen with a proper stove! And we had seperate bedrooms, whereas the Rhodes family were cramped together in one room.

I used to complain a lot when I was growing up, wondering why we had so little when others had so much. I was jealous of my sisters (sorry lovelies xxx) and jealous of my school friends, and I did give my Mum a hard time, asking her for things she just couldn't afford to give me. I'm sorry for being so selfish Mum, I know you did your utmost best for both of us, and you did it almost single-handedly (you were a stubborn little buggger at times!). I didn't mean to take you for granted and I didn't mean to continually harp on at you about what I wanted differently.

Happy Mother's Day Mumsy. Thank you. I love you very much xxx xxx xxx xxx

A Place To Call Home

I have neglected my blog here at "Pocketfull", but I do have a good excuse. Well, maybe not a good excuse but an excuse nonetheless. In recent months I've created a new blog which is dedicated to the history of my childhood hometown and I've been contributing to it almost twice weekly (See it here). For now at least, I've run out of steam so I've decided to devote some of my free time back here, amongst my family history.

A new Australian drama is set to start on the Seven Network next week called 'A Place To Call Home' and while I've been rather looking forward to watching this post-world-war-two drama it has got me thinking lately about "home" and what it means to me personally. Even though I have lived in Australia for most of my life, I still have a hankering for my childhood home. Beyond this, I have often found myself wondering what my family and my ancestors would have called home.

Both of my grandmothers were devoted to their homes. My maternal grandmother Lilian always proudly called herself a "Londoner", even long after the war ended in 1945, when she was married and living in a quiet market town in Suffolk. Then, in 1978 she emigrated to Australia. Yet, all her life, at every opportunity she could get, she went back to London. Her heart was always right there and when she died in 1983 of a massive heart attack, I always believed (and still do, to this day) that it was because her heart was broken for home.

My paternal grandmother Freda lived in Beccles all her life. She never moved away from the town, except for a few years when she moved to nearby Brampton but she quickly welcomed a return to Beccles. There was no question of her living anywhere else but Beccles. She was born there, she was married there, she raised four boys there, and it never entered her mind to travel further than was absolutely necessary. She believed in setting down your roots and staying put and, for the most part, she was content with that. It didn't make her small minded but it certainly made her homely and connected to her roots.

My grandfathers? My paternal grandfather Herbert lived in Bungay, London, and later, Beccles. I don't think that any one particular place meant more to him. I believe he went where "duty called" for the most part, even during the Second World War when he was stationed at Sutton Coldfield.

My maternal grandfather was born and lived all his life in Bungay. While he fudged his age slightly on enlistment with the Norfolk Regiment I don't think it was necessarily because he wanted to escape home life. He just wanted to do what he felt was right. He was to travel to India during his pre-World War Two service and later to Dunkirk before his capture and internment in a German Prisoner-of-War camp. Later, in 1944-45, he served with the Royal Army Medical Corps and was stationed at Epsom, county Surrey. After the war, when he married my grandmother Lilian, they remained in Bungay and raised their family there, trying (against impossible odds at times) to live by the post-war standards of a secure family life.

Aerial view of Beccles and the River Waveney

If I look back another generation, to my great-grandparents' idea of what home meant to them, it differs quite dramatically. For example, my maternal great-grandparents Albert and Elizabeth, were born in the exact same town in London. They were both from working-class families and both were baptised at the same church. Their families possibly knew one another and shared a similar social history. Albert was restless though, even as a young boy. He wanted to travel and see the world, stretch his wings and leave Putney well behind him forever. He lied about his age to get into the Royal Navy and his only reason for returning to Putney was to marry his sweetheart, Elizabeth, in 1905. After that they lived in Southwark, Fulham, Tooting, Bloomsbury and later, Sutton (where they settled and remained until Elizabeth's death in 1951).

My other maternal great-grandparents, Percy and Nellie, were much like my paternal grandmother. They remained in the Suffolk market town of Bungay all their lives. There was no question of moving away, although my great-grandfather Percy, as a younger man, did love the sea and he took to fishing on trawler boats off the coast of Lowestoft for many years before settling back to farm life after the Great War (1914-1918).

Putney, in Greater London

My paternal great-grandparents were also a mixed bunch. Albert and Eva were Becclesians to the last, although my great-grandmother Eva was born in Loddon (her parents were Loddon born and raised before moving to Beccles) but she never had a great need to return there. Beccles was her home and Great Yarmouth was her favourite family holiday destination. Albert was born and raised in Beccles, and he remained staunchly faithful to the town and its townsfolk; at home, in religious circles, and in his work.

My other paternal great-grandparents, Arthur and Barbara, lived as a married couple in the market town of Bungay and raised their family there but they were not knowingly tied to their roots. Barbara was born in Holdenhurst, county Hampshire and lived there until she was a young girl, when her father took on a new job as a Railway Gatekeeper in Woodsford, county Dorset. Less than five years later, her mother passed away, her father abandoned her and she moved to London to work in the Domestic Service. Arthur joined the Norfolk Regiment as a young man and served in both the Boer War and the Great War. It was during the Great War that Barbara moved back to London with the children (including my grandfather Herbert) while Arthur was away fighting for King and Country. When the war ended they went back, as a family, to Bungay.

So there we have it; a mixture of loyalties towards home and yet, across the board, so very similar. There are those who willingly left home to fight in the war. Those who wanted to leave their homes for broader horizons. Those who stayed in the same town all their lives, loyal to the last. Those who wanted to run from their past and never look back and those who couldn't let go of their past and so returned again and again.

To this day I share the same tug-of-war with my maternal grandmother Lilian, the Londoner, who always found a way to go back even though the memories of her childhood were not altogether pleasant or heart-warming ones. Something always called her back and she was deeply proud of her London roots, even in the impossible heat and vastness of Australia that she made home for the last remaining years of her life. My own tug-of-war calls me back to Beccles, and sometimes that call is overwhelming. It certainly reflects in my ability to write about it without getting completely caught up and swept away in a sea of nostalgia and sentiment! Even though Australia is now the place I call my home I still carry a piece of Beccles deep within my heart, and I always will. I could never let it go.

Body of a Child : My Ancestors Involved in a Mystery

My last blog post referred to two of my Jolly cousins - well, second cousins three times removed to be precise. This time I'm embarking on another Jolly story, as shared recently by my third cousin. She has contact with a Jolly descendent who sent her an article which involves our 3 x great-grandfather Josiah Jolly, who was with two of his sons Josiah Jolly (jnr) and Charles or David Jolly (our second great-grand uncles), when Josiah (jnr) discovered the body of a baby in a field.

*At the time of this event Josiah Jolly (snr) and his wife Susan were living in Plough Street, Bungay. The Plough Inn mentioned below was on this street. Today, Plough Street is known as Wingfield Street. Josiah Jolly (jnr) had married the previous December and the 1851 census return (taken 30 March 1851) puts them both at Shipmeadow Workhouse as Inmates.

The Bury and Norwich Post Newspaper, dated 27 August 1851, reported:

BUNGAY

Body of a child found: -- On Saturday evening, as a labouring man, named Jolly, was going home from his work, in the company of his father and brother, he went into a barley-field near St John's-Hill, to gather some rabbits' meat. He saw a parcel lying there, three or four yards from the gate, apparently done up in white cloth. He mentioned it to his father, who told him to leave it alone, as someone might have placed it there intentionally and would come for it. On the following Monday morning, on going to work, he again saw the parcel, and on examining it, found it was an old basket, wrapped up in a cloth, and inside another cloth he found the body of a female infant. The cloth round the body was marked with red cotton, "C.E.O.T." Information was sent to the police, and an inquest was held before Mr Lawrence, on Tuesday, at the Plough Inn*, where Chas. W. Currie, surgeon, who made a post-mortem examination of the body, deposed that it was that of a full-grown infant, and must have been perfectly healthy when born. He did not discover any external marks of violence : it had lived but a very short time, if it had lived at all...

Postcard

The article my cousin received was from The Bungay Society Journal, No 71, dated December 2010. Here is an extract:

A LOCAL VICTORIAN TRAGEDY

On Monday 18 August 1851 the police received information that the body of an infant had been found on a field near St John's Hill. Local Inspector Nagle went immediately to the spot, and was handed a basket, containing the body of a child by a labourer, Josiah Jolly, who had discovered it.

The following day an inquest into the death was held in the town. Mr Lawrence, a coroner from Ipswich had been summoned to attend, and the sessions were held at the Plough Inn, in Wingfield Street. At that time pubs were often used for such proceedings if there were no other public building available. The Plough was an ancient tavern, and was the last building in Bungay to retain a thatch when it was finally demolished in 1964.

The coroner heard this evidence from Josiah Jolly. "I am a labouring man, and live at Bungay. About half past seven on Saturday evening, as I, my father and brother went to the gate of a field near St John's Hill, intending to gather some rabbits' victuals, and as I was getting over the gate, I saw a parcel lying in the field, about four yards from me, which I pointed out to my father. He desired me to leave it alone...When we reached Mr Sewell's house on the Ollands, I saw him standing by the gate talking to three persons who appeared to be begging and I told him what I had seen...On the Monday morning, as I, my father and brother were going past the same field I went to the gate to see if the parcel was still there and on seeing it, took it up, and brought it into the road to my father. I untied the cloth and found an old basket, on opening which I saw something pinned up in a cloth. I took out the pin and began to remove the cloth, when I observed a child's foot...

On 22 August 1851 the police apprehended a woman named Leggate, against whom there were some peculiarly suspicious circumstances. She was remanded in custody until the 28th, and afterwards consented to a medical examination, but it was certified that she had not given birth to a child, and was discharged.

The final inquest was conducted on 6 September, with negative conclusions. The Jury returned a verdict that the child had "been found dead, but whether born alive or not, the Jury have not sufficient evidence".

It as further reported that many rumours had been in circulation, one traced to a man named George Codling, who was said to have stated that the parcel containing the body had been seen at Jolly's house on the Sunday preceding the day of the discovery in the field. As Codling refused to attend the inquest and confirm his statement before the Jury, the coroner concluded that it was just malicious fabrication: for which he regretted that there was no punishment...

Ordnance Survey Map of Bungay
Shows St John's Hill, The Ollands & Wingfield Street
Click to enlarge

It would appear that my Jolly ancestors had a penchant for being in the wrong place at the wrong time or were mixed up with and embroiled in misdemeanours, rumours, and, pardon me for saying so, a series of unfortunate events.

When Children Die In Strange Circumstances

Last night my cousin shared a photograph with me. It was taken after the 1908 hurricane hit Bungay and severely damaged two Cemetery chapels. What interested both of us about the photograph was the gravestone in front. It was a Jolly grave. Our common ancestors. Not only that, the grave was for two children - brothers - one aged twelve and the other aged nine, who had drowned. Putting my Miss Marple hat on, I went straight to the British Newspaper Archive website.

Bungay Cemetery Chapel; the aftermath of the 1908 hurricane

The Ipswich Journal dated 7 March 1882 reported the drowning death of nine-year-old James Jolly, the son of James and Charlotte Jolly of Bungay. The report states James was allegedly seen stealing from a broken shop window and upon being asked what he was doing, ran away. He was last seen by a school friend who spoke with James and asked where he was going in such a hurry. James replied that he was going on an errand and ran towards the direction of the Bungay Common. The next day a local butcher found a cap on the Common, by the river, belonging to James Jolly and went to alert Policeman Mann. Upon further searching, they found the body of James Jolly who was drowned. An inquest returned an open verdict of "accidental drowning".

Contacting my cousin with the news, we were both shocked about this newspaper article. Curiosity got the better of me an hour or so later and I went back to the British Newspaper Archive on the off-chance that James Jolly's brother Frederick may have also died under strange circumstances. You would be right in assuming that a large percentage of children died in Victorian times. Sickness, disease, inadequate (or expensive) health care and poverty were rife and it would be considered "normal" for a child to die before being given a proper chance at life. You can therefore imagine my total surprise when I found the newspaper report for Frederick.

The Ipswich Journal dated 27 December 1890 reported that Frederick Jolly "died suddenly". After a brief illness ( a common cold) Frederick, who was an errand boy for a local chemist, complained of feeling unwell and was sent home to recuperate. On the way home he met with some of his friends who began taunting him with snowballs. We all know that kids can be cruel but I am pretty certain that they did not anticipate that would be the last time they would see their friend. Frederick allegedly reported to his friends that he had eaten some poisoned sweets and felt unwell. The next day, after a night of vomiting and diarrhoea, Frederick was pronounced dead by the local surgeon, Mr Garneys. The coroner for the district decided that no inquest was necessary and Frederick had died of "sudden illness".

The gravestone of brothers, Frederick & James Jolly

What frustrates me as a twenty-first century genealogist and social historian is that the circumstances of these children's deaths was brushed aside and not properly dealt with. The newspaper reports throw up all kinds of unanswered questions and leaves me sorely wishing for a time machine. In the case of James, he was a nine-year-old boy. A cheeky larrikin perhaps, but a boy who had his whole life ahead of him. How did he come to drown? Why did he drown? Who is accountable for this boys death? Was it a mere accident or was something bigger going on?

In the case of Frederick, he was a twelve-year-old boy who had been sick with a common cold. The circumstances of how he came to ingest "poisoned sweets" is baffling. He worked for a chemist so it may be safe to assume that Frederick may have been curious about the powders and tablets and maybe the temptation to "try" some overcame him. Did he unwittingly kill himself? Why was this not mentioned in the report? It was just expected that he was a child, and children die every day. No big deal.

I am quite saddened that these two brothers died so young. Their parents James and Charlotte Jolly lost two of their sons to unfair and disadvantaged circumstances. I think I can better understand my great-grandmother Nellie Jolly today. She prayed every night, on her knees, beside her bed, with her rosary beads wrapped around her hands, for everyone in her family. She named every single one - immediate family and extended - and she would not raise from her kneeling position until she had mentioned every person.

It turns out that the photograph (pictured above) is actually on page 93 of Christopher Reeve's 2009 book "Bungay Through Time". The photograph's caption reads:

"Bungay Cemetery, Hillside Road: The Cemetery, established in the late nineteenth century, originally had three mortuary chapels. In 1908, a rare hurricane occured which blew down the north wall of one of them, and it was demolished soon afterwards..."

Bungay Cemetery today

 

Peter Lanyon : Cornish Artist

My husband's side of the family tree is rather intriguing and much has been researched on both his father's and his mother's sides of the tree. There are tin merchants, photographers, carpenters, musicians and composers, outfitters and tailors, farmers and pioneers, midwives and Indian Army Majors but one man became a well established name in Cornish history. My husband's maternal grandfather: Peter Lanyon the potter, sculptor, and painter.

One evening not too long ago, I was idly googling Peter for any new images or paintings and on the fifth or sixth line of results I discovered a photograph I had never seen before. It was taken by Ida Kar in 1961 and it's a really lovely shot of him.

There is so much expression in his face. I wish I could've met him.

I remember once listening to an old reel-to-reel audio of Peter Lanyon talking about his love of art and his heady youth in St Ives. Of all the things he said I will never forget when he responded to a question by saying, "I like cliffs. They're very tall...and thin." My husband and I still say that to each other from time and time and fall about laughing. Of course, Peter was referring to the view from his beloved glider. Imagine being an artist, looking for inspiration along the Cornish coastline. You would be absolutely spoiled for choice, and Peter used every opportunity he had to create masses of paintings, drawings and sculptures of Cornwall.

Peter loved each of his children and he took them with him on many walks and hikes around Cornwall, and he taught each of them to appreciate and hone their own unique craft. Today his sons are renowned painters, including Andrew Lanyon and Matthew Lanyon. I didn't get to meet Andrew during our 2006/7 trip to England as he was away in Japan but I did meet Matthew and I recall him being hilarious fun and great with my daughter.

George Peter Lanyon was born in 1918, one of two children born to William Herbert Lanyon and Lilian Vivian. Peter was educated at Clifton College in Bristol but St Ives remained his base and his first love however extensively he travelled throughout his life. As his love of art grew so did his ties with fellow artists Patrick Heron, Borlase Smart, Victor Pasmore, Ben Nicholson, Barbara Hepworth, Adrian Stokes, and Naum Gabo.

Peter at Little Park Owles Studio, 1955

From 1940 to 1945 he served with the Royal Air Force in the Western Desert, Palestine and Italy. In 1946 he married Sheila St John Browne. Peter and Sheila had six children (including my mother-in-law, Jane). Also in 1946 he became an active member of the Crypt Group of Artists, St Ives. During the 1950s he became established as a leading figure in the St. Ives group of artists.

Peter in his glider, c. 1960

Peter took up gliding as a pastime and used the resulting experience extensively in his paintings. One day in August 1964, on a training course with the Devon and Somerset Gliding Club, he came in to land too low; the glider nose-dived and catapulted him out. He died four days later as a result of his injuries. He grave slab carries and inscription from one of his own poems:

I will ride now
The barren kingdoms
In my history
And in my eye

The Returned Seaman, 1949

In The Trees, 1951

Chesil Bank, 1958

http://www.bbc.co.uk/arts/yourpaintings/artists/peter-lanyon

http://www.tate.org.uk/art/artists/peter-lanyon-1467

2013 Australia Day Challenge : My First Ancestor To Reach Australian Shores

Nothing conjures up images of Australia quite like sheilas and blokes on crowded beaches, thongs, stubbies, barbecues, cricket, Aussie Rules football, Holden Utes, Vegemite, and Banana Boat sunscreen. With Australia Day just around the corner, Helen V Smith came up with the brilliant idea of telling the story of our first Australian ancestor. In November 2011 I wrote a blog post about my more "rebellious" ancestors. One of those was my 3 x great-grand uncle Frederick Ward. Born in 1821, Fred was the first ancestor (that I know of) to reach Australian shores from his humble hometown of Bungay in county Suffolk, England.

Remains of Bungay Castle, 1819

William Buckley meeting John Batman's party, Australia 1835

The following is taken from my previous blog (basically, because I'm feeling lazy):

"My visits to my local genealogical society over the years has seen many interactions with Australians who rather proudly announce that they each have at least one Convict ancestor in their family tree. Many boast that without them they wouldn't be here today. White Australian settlement history rests largely on the shoulders of those Convicts who sailed on Convict ships, from as early as 1788 through to the mid 1840s when criminal transportation was put to an end. The last of those Convicts were known as 'Exiles' because, basically, they were not  really wanted anywhere. There was no room for them in England. Its prisons were fit to bursting, and many were placed on Prison Hulks off the coast until there was a place for them somewhere or a final decision from officials could be arrived at.

Frederick Ward, my third great-grand uncle, was one of those 'exiles'. In December 1844 he was sentenced, at the Beccles Quarter Sessions, to be transported for 7 years, for stealing three stones weight of cows flesh from James Skippon of Bungay. Unfortunately, this was not Fred's only crime. He had been convicted on two previous occasions; in 1843 and 1844, both on accounts of larceny, and was sent to Beccles Gaol.

In December 1844 Fred Ward was sent to Millbank Prison in London. Millbank was intended to house up to 1000 transportation prisoners at any one time. The average stay was for around three months, during which time prisoners would be assessed for future placement. By the early 1840s transportation sentences were ceased but there were still many prisoners who faced the possibility of being sent away.

In 1843 Millbank was converted to house general prisoners and transportation prisoners, including Fred Ward, were moved to Prison Hulks. Finally in January 1847 Fred Ward was placed on the 'Thomas Arbuthnot' with around 288 male prisoners from Millbank, Pentonville & Parkhurst Prisons and sailed from Spithead to Port Philip Settlement (Melbourne), arriving in May 1847. The 621 ton ship began her voyage at Portsmouth, then travelled to the Isle of Wight where she took on 90 Parkhurst boys. The Times newspaper had this to report:

"The Thomas Arthbuthnot convict ship, Captain Therason, sailed from Spithead this morning for Port Philip with a superior class of delinquents, officially called "exiles". These are the first "exiles" sent to the above settlement, which the inhabitants of that respectable place are very wroth at, and have memorialised the Government on the subject..."

Little is known about Fred Ward after his arrival to Port Philip. This is still a work in progress. What is known is that people such as Richard Deeks spent his precious time researching and transcribing all transportee records of Suffolk and turned it into a book. It was this invaluable book, printed in 2000 and entitled, 'Transportees from Suffolk to Australia 1787-1867' (held at the Suffolk Record Office), which helped me to locate and further research Fred Ward."

 

Percy and Nellie : Centenary Anniversary

Happy New Year to everyone! While we are all busy making resolutions for the year ahead I wanted to share something special with you. Today is a very special day in my family history calendar as it marks the centenary of the wedding day of my great-grandparents Percy Preston and Nellie Jolly.

Percy and Nellie were the last of my great-grandparents to marry (Before them, my other great-grandparents married in 1905, 1907 and 1909). Percy and Nellie were married at Holy Trinity Church in Trinity Street, Bungay (Suffolk, England) on 1 January 1913. The day would have been a Wednesday. I don't know what sort of weather they had but being winter, it would have been mightily cold. The following week saw recordings of heavy snowfall across the north of England.

Nellie would have perhaps worn a hand sewn dress (a collaborative effort with her older sister, Alice or one of her sisters-in-law?) made of warm fabric, with lace and/or embroidery detail, with long sleeves and possibly even a long coat to keep her warm during the walk to and from the church. Perhaps she wore a gown which had been passed down from somebody in the family. While it would not have been as expensive or elaborate as the one worn by Princess Patricia of Connaught (seen pictued below), I am certain that Nellie would have looked equally as beautiful.

Example of a late Edwardian Wedding Dress

Edwardian Era Hairstyles

No known photographs exist of Percy and Nellie's wedding day, so I do not know what Nellie would have worn on her wedding day. I can only speculate. However, I like to imagine her walking from her home in Gas House Lane to nearby Trinity Street, and walking with her father, William Jolly, along the stone pathway which leads into the church. It is so heartbreaking that there are no known photographs of Percy and Nellie together, in existence, at any time. I have plenty of photographs of Nellie with her children and Nellie with her brothers but not one single photograph of Nellie with her husband. When Percy died in 1936, Nellie remained a widow for the rest of her life and she always wore navy coloured clothes.

Postcard: Wrench Series

From the Bungay & District Town Guide 1971

Holy Trinity Church History

Holy Trinity Church dates back to Saxon times when the tower was dated at around 1041 with the nave being added about 100 years later. The dormer window in the roof was created in Victorian times to light the organ loft when the organ was installed. The south aisle is fourteenth century, and the chancel was built in 1926. The pulpit was recorded as being set up in 1558 (which cost all of 10 shillings). This is an account from the Suffolk Institute of Archeaology Vol. IV:

"That this tower is old for a round tower will not be doubte by those who examine the interior. The original design appears to have consisted of four circular windows, and directly under each of these (except that which faces the east) a semi-circular-headed window.

There is nothing in the poor Perpendicular architecture of the Church which calls for special notice. A payment was made for erecting a Screen in the Chancel in 1558. As to the conjecture that the original Chancel perished in the fire of 1688, it is certain that there was a chancel, mutilated indeed by the "improvements" of 1754, when the present tasteful east window was erected - but nevertheless a chancel..."

Postcard: HW Short

The 1912 Kelly's Directory describes Holy Trinity Church thus:

"The Church of the Holy Trinity, supposed to have been built in the eleventh century, is an edifice of rubble, faced on the south side with flints, in the Norman style, and consists of nave and aisles (without chancel), south porch and a round embattled western tower...The pulpit of black oak is a very fine example of Elizabethan work. There are 420 sittings, of which 125 are free..."

The Churchwardens' Book of Holy Trinity also makes for very interesting reading but this one rendered me most curious:

1581. Paid for whipping the dogs out of the churche for a whole year, 1/4.

I wonder, did that include the legendary Black Shuck?

My Great-Grandmother Nellie Jolly, aged 12-15