The Royal Borough of Greenwich is perhaps best-known
for its naval history, its smart Georgian and Victorian architecture and
lending its name to Greenwich Mean Time. It encompasses a number of
lesser-known districts, the names of which are so familiar to me, yet visiting
them feels like something of an adventure, being so different from East Anglia
where I have spent much of my life.
On my mother’s side, my family lived in the
Greenwich area from at least the early nineteenth century, around Woolwich,
Eltham, New Eltham and Lee and neighbouring Lewisham. Research in the censuses
has revealed that my ancestors were simple folk, described as ‘coachman’,
‘groom’, ‘laundry wash’, ‘grocer’ and even ‘prisoner’.
Well Hall Road, Eltham
So, an adventure we had a weekend or two ago as we
returned to Greenwich after a long absence. There was a homely feel as we made
our way up Well Hall Road in Eltham. Arts and Crafts style houses lined our
route, with many well-tended, rose-filled gardens. If it weren’t for the South
Circular Road, you could imagine yourself in the depths of some very pretty,
very English village.
The road is notorious for being the site of Stephen
Lawrence’s murder in 1993. The spirits of my grandparents were not far as I
couldn’t help but wonder what they would have thought of this sad infamy.
Heroes' Corner, Greenwich Cemetery
At the top of Well Hall Road is Greenwich Cemetery,
set on the slopes of Shooter’s Hill - one of the highest points in London. Here
we spent a good hour visiting relatives’ graves and exploring the site. I had
forgotten about the parakeets that are peculiar to south-east London, which I
remember from our former garden in Kent. They darted about shrieking to one another,
too quick to be captured on camera.
It was worth walking to the far end of the cemetery
to see Heroes’ Corner commemorating World War I burials, and to take in the
panoramic view of London. It is a good place for reflection.
I wondered what my ancestors would have made of my
life. Having recently sifted through boxes and boxes of family memorabilia and
photos, and through censuses and other records, I feel I can piece together a
little of their lives.
I have just marked the anniversary of my eight-year-old
great-grandfather Frank starting school in nearby Lewisham in 1883. His parents
must have had high hopes for him. Sadly he died aged only 33, leaving behind a
young family. A poignant note that his wife, Selina, wrote their daughter, my
grandmother Ethel, later in life suggests it was a struggle after Frank’s death:
“…you worked with me all your young days, when you ought to have been playing”.
My mother Pat in the garden of 36 Castleford Avenue, New Eltham, in the 1930s
For many years, my devoted grandparents Ethel and
Bill stayed close to the area where they both grew up, although World War Two
enforced a separation when Ethel and my mother Pat were evacuated to Wales for
a period. Handwritten letters between Ethel and Bill tell of Bill’s duties as
an air raid warden, and are surprisingly passionate, considering that Bill was known
as a taciturn man. Though I was only six when he died, I have clear memories of
him not saying a lot but pottering about fixing things, ensuring that doors
were locked and padlocks secured, usually with a ciggie at the corner of his
mouth.
My mother, Pat, with her parents Ethel and Bill, 1940s
Ethel, Bill and Pat only moved out of Eltham in the
1950s to Foots Cray, Kent – not far away but something of a step up for them as
they purchased a decaying Georgian rectory which Bill, a builder, restored to
an idyllic home. It makes me happy to think how thrilled they would have been
to bring their new home to life.
Ethel and Bill in Foots Cray, Kent, 1950s
No matter where I go, their imprints are everywhere.
Tracing their footsteps in South London makes me hyper aware of their history,
but I don’t need to go far to be reminded of them - I’m surrounded by their
knick-knacks stuffed in display cabinets – their bridge trophies, a few defunct
cigarette lighters dotted about here and there, bits of china that are worthless
but too precious to throw or give away.
Ethel, 1950s
In troubled times it’s always my grandmother Ethel
who comes to me, making time stand still. Always smiling, telling me to get my
coat on and hurry up and put some lipstick on as well during a difficult house
move or “Don’t worry, it’ll all turn out alright in the end”. And it did.
