![]() I got re-absorbed into genealogical realms, all my pets around me as I researched, Storm Kitty on my lap, Angel doggess who had sneaked onto the sofa, and the guinea pigs by the door with outside views. A toy dinosaur I was using to hold down my papers. My ancestress of Pluckley, Elizabeth Maxted, once she was widowed, left Pluckleys rural landscape for the slums of London, staying in the home of a married daughter, and becoming blind. A workhouse had by now been built on the Hothfield common, to dump all the poor and struggling into, and I suspect she didn't want to end up stuck in there. Her new home was on Wickham Street in Lambeth, and her livelihood was washing clothes, as many women in hardship were doing along that same street. One neighbour on Wickham Street, Mrs Manual, made her living caring for the babies of young unmarried mothers, which she would dose up with laudanum to keep them quiet. She was in the papers for the scandal of having poisoned in this way one of the babies. And yet it was quite the habit, and had been since ancient Egyptian times, to give opiates to children and babies, so they would stay content alone while others worked. They were plenty of products advertised to do such a job, with opium lozenges and pastilles on display in pharmacies as if they were sweets. AuthorSusie Harrison and her hobby of genealogy, always looking into her own and her friends family trees.
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The British newspaper archives have opened up a whole new world. I keep on seeking articles relating to any of my family, and its not so easy, but I did find a story, this time on my Maxted line. It regarded the death of my ancestor George Maxted of Kent, whose native villages of Pluckley and Hothfield I have been to see (I have to see Westwell too). It was in Hothfield that George died, apparently falling from a haystack, which he was thatching, landing onto a big stick which pierced through his leg and into his bowels. I kept on looking through newspaper articles. Both my Irish Bartholomew Sugrue and his wife Catherine were partial to the bottle, I now read. Oh dear, this gets worse. I mean, here I am seeing drunkard Irish expats in my village, mirroring my own ancestors. It's a shock indeed. And yet another of their children had been caught stealing, James Sugrue, during the case of which it was mentioned that another of his brothers was already in prison. It's impossible to gloss any of this over, I have very dysfunctional family roots, part of a vast melange, from royal privilege to utter desolation. I had a browse for my friends genealogies too. For Akila I found family divorces, for Trebha, his grandfather being caught with stolen fish, Jeremy's drunkards, and Liz's posh side. To find all was so compelling. This is time consuming too, as genealogy is anyway. I sought more old family newspaper articles. So long one looks, coming up with nothing, and then a gem flashes up. I found the death inquest for one of my ancestresses, Maria Ann Harrison of Greenwich, already a widow, who had dropped dead after complaining of a bilious attack. Every organ in her body was said to be diseased. This, it was claimed, was in consequence of her intemperance. Oh dear, another one. A heart attack caused her death, such was the verdict. AuthorSusie Harrison and her hobby of genealogy, always looking into her own and her friends family trees. ![]() Setting off homewards bound, I en route planned to visit the most haunted village in Kent, called Pluckley, which had been the home of my Maxted ancestors. At last I got to see this quaint village and I loved it, enough even that I would live there. We first looked around the churchyard, the church of St Nicholas being where my great great great grandfather, George Maxted, had married his beloved, Elizabeth Roberts. Pluckley was home to the Maxted's, and not only to them but also to my friends, Ian and Jeremy's 'Kingsnorth's'. The nearest to a ghost we saw was a dog statue guarding a grave, its shadow from a distance looking real, and yet never moving. One small part of the churchyard felt gunky, not a place to dwell long in, but the rest was pleasant. This was a lovely place. We walked a labyrinth mown into the grass and ate luscious blackberries there, such a treat. On some lovely strolling in the fields around, I met a mother and her child. Never had this lady seen a local ghost, although living in an old house quite capable of being the haunt of one. The village pub, the Black Horse, is apparently haunted, as is the church, the church having a white lady and a red lady, and the pub having a poltergeist. I carried on to neighbouring Hothfield, where my Maxted's had also lived, maybe when they were selling provisions. The church there, of St Margaret, felt more of a candidate for ghosts, being in an enclave outside of the village. You could almost feel it's mysteries and flitting spirits. Like at Pluckley, one corner felt gunky, and all was interesting and maybe a little scary. The church was locked up and peering through the windows we saw a priests vestments and ancient decorated knightly tomb. We checked out one more churchyard, burial place of many Kingsnorth's. Quite the place to return to with Jeremy and Ian. AuthorSusie Harrison and her hobby of genealogy, always looking into her own and her friends family trees. |
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