Crier Profile Part III
Margaret Tattman
In this concluding part of Margaret's memoirs, Margaret tells about the bitterly hard conditions in which the land-girls worked - for just 10 pence a day.
WE HAD AN OLD GANGER from Swaffham Bulbeck, Arthur Thompson. He used to chew Black Twist. If it were windy when we got down Fen he'd say, "Well are you b*****s getting out this morning or aren't you?" - No, we're not getting out. Well, all right, he'd say. Well, would you want to stand at a riddle - have you ever seen the Fens blow?
This was dreadful. When we lived up Fairview Grove we used to have it on our
windows. People who lived down the Fens had shutters to try and shut it out,
years ago, cause it was a regular thing. Soon as ever they drilled the sugar
beet the Fens blew, so they had to drill it again. No, we weren't going to
go out and stand in that - what, for 10p a day? So of course he took us back to
hostel and we didn't get paid. When it rained they used to put us in one of
the garages with a two-handled saw, with bog oak, and the Italian prisoners of
war used come with a tractor and trailer and take the wood - and that wanted
some sawing. I mean, bog oak don't burn. Sid used to try and burn it when
he lived up in Fairview Grove and they has a black range where you lifted
t'lid and put it in, but that wouldn't burn - that only sizzles, bog
oak does. The tractor with something on it used to find bog oak and we used
used to dig, so they could get a chain round it to pull it out. And if they
couldn't dig it out, well then they blew them up, so they could use the
land - they couldn't use it with all the bog oaks. And you could be in that
much water cause you've not got to go far into Fen, have you, before you
come to water.
I remember our old Doctor saying, Elliott, he come here in about 1944. He had a
little Austin Ruby. Earlier in life he'd say, you wait till you get older.
You'll know about it. I mean. You went sprout picking in your socks. They
were big, like seamens' socks - you used to take 'em off and wring
'em, put 'em back on again - you had no choice, had you? They
didn't bring you home because you were cold and you were wet. Same as
wi' carrot and wi' sugar beet, when they were frozen in you had to kick
'em out wi' your foot: and Arthur used to shout after us "It's
no use you putting it back in again because it won't grow" -
that's when you were singling. Instead of pulling one out and leaving a gap
like that you pull the other one out and leave a gap the other side. Poor old
Arthur. He had something to put up with.
Can you imagine, sixty girls, waiting for a bath? I think there were four baths. It was nearly always me and my mates got there when the hot water was gone - they couldn't supply enough water in one day for sixty girls. When you'd been down the Fen all day you were filthy. And for days after you've got the Fen dirt coming out of your eyes. When you're seventeen it doesn't matter, does it?
The earlier ones - I don't know if Joan Bradley and Mary were here then - were in hostel grounds, under canvas. I think they had a good time, from what I can gather, those that came in 1939. There were some bedrooms on t'ground floor - I didn't know till t'other week, but Mary, she was there before me, she came '42 Šthe miserable warden we had, she had them not barred but she had 'em locked, cause I suppose some let y'know, soldiers in at night...
No heating, y'know...well, in winter there was a bit of fire with a bit of
coke on it, and we used to empty sugar ashing on, because that'll get a
fire going, but no, we were cold. Four slices, well, that's not much for
all day, was it? We had another, Anghara, she worked in t'kitchen before
she went on't land in t'morning and she'd tell you before there
might be a bit of dripping. You'd get up before gong went, see if there
might be a bit. Apple sandwiches, carrot sandwiches. Another ganger, Mr Waters,
used to live in the first lodge of the drive, him and his wife, and he used to
bring me food, because I was expecting...I worked on t'land nearly seven
month, because we'd got no money...if you went down the pub you got back
and there were nothing, you went to bed hungry. You couldn't get nothing -
everything were rationed. But I went up to 11? stone - it must've been
t'beer! I can't tell you the nights that we had down there. The last
matron we had, Mrs Norman from Wicken, and her niece, well, we knew she
couldn't get up them stairs to the top floor. She used to stand at
t'bottom, banging her stick, sedate lady with snow-white hair in a bun - I
can see her now - "You girls smoking up there?" - No, Mrs
Norman...and we used to sit...I still do, I still put ash in my hand now, and
that's through habit. She knew we were smoking but she couldn't get up
there. There was a chapel up there and a nursery, scenes all round the wall.
You were the dog's dinner if you got put where t'nursery was. There
were three of us. We've nearly all gone now: there's one from Lode -
she's lost her husband, she's gone to Burwell to live; another, Joyce
Cadwallender, she was a scriber in the silver place at Sheffield, all the
beautiful trays and things...very clever lady she was; she lives at Burwell
now; then there's one at Reach; then there's Mary up there, and one at
Bulbeck but she's had to go in a home. We make enquiries about her - her
daughter lives up Greenhead Road, June. Another girl we had, Mina, and she was
very deaf. We had a big room, it had a bow at one end to it, at the big house.
That was called the common room. That's where we used to play cards and
what not. And we were in there one night, doing a seance at midnight. It was
ever such a creepy place, y'know. Somebody said listen, there's a
doodlebug...course, we all got from table, and nobody thought to pull Mina
under, she was still sat up at table! I don't know where it dropped, we
never heard it stop. Good job, weren't it? Joan Bradley, she were a bit
deaf, but she saw what we were doing - but poor Mina...!
You only got so many passes a year to go home. There weren't enough money out of...well, you worked five days a week, so all I got was the equivalent of 50p, ten bob, after they took me board out. Being only 17 I didn't get as much as the 18-year-olds, and I mean me mam and dad, they hadn't got the money - the other three had left home and there was only me dad's wages from the pit and that was never a lot, y'know.
So I don't begrudge anything the young ones have got. I mean, I'm better off than I've ever been in my life, even when I went to work 25 years...All right, a fiver went a long way, in 1962 when I started at Pye's, but now...
So that's all the memories that we've got, really - other than backache.
But we got through, didn't we?