THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER

By Jane Scoggins

     Emma sat beside one of the huge millstones and ran her fingers through the pile of grainy flour that had escaped being swept up into the rough hessian sack.  She let it trail through her fingers like she had done a million times before since she was a child, whilst her father busied himself within the thick circular brick walls of Rayleigh windmill. She had grown up in the cottage next door, within sight and sound of the sixty-foot tower mill, with its huge, six-bladed fantail sails, that creaked and groaned when the wind blew. She had never been afraid of the eerie noise of the gigantic wooden sails. Her father had instilled in her and her brothers that the noise was good and what kept them and the community in and around Rayleigh in flour and bread.  He loved the sound of the wind, and often looked to the sky, trying to anticipate the weather and most importantly an oncoming wind. As soon as he knew that a gust was on its way he would get into position to manoeuvre the giant, unwieldy sails. They were very heavy wooden structures and although George Britton was a big and powerful man it took all his strength to reposition them. Emma and her brothers, John and Samuel, would look on in admiration as George put his back against the huge turning bar and pushed with all his might. The boys watched, learnt and waited for the day when they would be strong enough to push that bar and turn the sails. When that day came they were ready and proud to know that they had grown from boy to man. On a warm day, the miller would take the corner of his great white calico apron and wipe the sweat of the exertion from his brow. Emma had always loved her father. He was a good man. He spoke very little whilst he was working. But at the end of the day, he would brush the flour from his hands and apron and swing the young Emma, laughing and squealing, into the air, her petticoats flying and her unbraided hair swinging. Her mother, standing at their cottage door shooing out the cat or the chicken from her kitchen, would smile and shake her head in good humour and beckon them in for their dinner.

     Emma had finished her schooling by the age of fourteen and for some time had been far too big and grown-up for her father to swing her into the air. She was apprenticed to Mrs Elizabeth Stammers, the milliner. Within two years, Emma was competent to prepare and trim the hats of the local ladies, although she was not yet allowed to touch the fine hats of the gentry. That task lay in the experienced hands of Mrs Stammers, whose expertise and skill was known as far afield as Maldon and Burnham. Emma took great pride in showing off her own developing skills, by trimming her own and her mother’s bonnets with any leftover ribbons and trimmings she was allowed to keep. Her mother, a quiet and homely woman was proud of her daughter’s skill and wore her bonnet with pride to the Holy Trinity parish church service every Sunday morning.

     In 1869, just before Emma's seventeenth birthday, life for her and her family changed dramatically and sadness overshadowed her recent engagement to James Lowe. He was developing into a skilled carpenter with good prospects.  He had a kind heart and had been devoted to Emma since her father had called upon him to mend a cracked wooden joist at the mill. The job had taken several days, and he had said a shy hullo to Emma when she came to see her father, on her way home. With her father's approval, they had started walking out together and their relationship blossomed. Their planned wedding day was to be a joyous occasion, with music, dancing, ribbon trimmed bonnets for the ladies and velvet-trimmed waistcoats for the menfolk. It would be a fine celebration. They were to live with James's widowed mother, and until a baby came along, Emma would continue with her millinery work with Mrs Stammers. Emma's parents were happy for her and thought it a good match. George was ready to welcome James into his family and Emma loved them both equally.

     In the midst of all the wedding planning George Britton died suddenly, and unexpectedly. The doctor said it had been his heart. In the weeks following his death, Emma missed him terribly. Her mother, shocked and heartbroken, had needed a lot of support herself to cope with her grief. So Emma had to grieve alone. She tried to capture in her mind the many happy times of fun and laughter she had had with her father growing up in the sight, sound, and dusty grain smell of his windmill. Following his death, George's two sons set too and took over the running of the mill. They had to put into practice earlier than expected, all that they had learned and observed from their father as a  master miller. Neither had the muscle strength that George had developed over the years, but they were determined to carry on their father's work and enable their widowed mother to remain in the mill cottage for as long as possible.

     The people of Rayleigh rallied round and the coffin and burial were mainly paid for by contributions from the local farmers at Down Hall, White House, Wheatley's and Rayleigh Lodge, who had regularly brought their grain to him. Although there were three other mills in the neighbourhood, George, a popular man, had been the miller for over twenty years and the community wanted to support his sons in taking over the mill.    

     The vicar at Holy Trinity Church, the Reverend William Twyne led the service and rallied the ladies of the parish to provide refreshments. The landlords at The White Horse Half Moon and Crown, on the High St, provided the ale. Mrs Stammers the milliner lent Mrs Britton and Emma black silk bonnets with silk trim, which helped them bear their grief with style and dignity.

     Emma married James and they lived happily. Their first child was a boy, and they named him George. From an early age, Emma took him to the windmill to visit her brothers as they worked. When he was old enough they showed him how the quern stone ground the corn, how the sails turned in the wind and how the corn turned from grain into flour. Very importantly, they taught him to take care of, and respect the enormous creaking sails, and not to be afraid of the noise. They told him about his grandfather, George, and after they had brushed the flour from their hands and aprons, they took it in turns to swing the young George, laughing and squealing with delight, up into the air. Emma would look on, smiling and shaking her head in good humour and tell him it was time to go home for dinner.

     So, if you are passing Rayleigh Windmill, Press your ear to the brickwork, and if you listen hard enough, you may well hear the sound of the millstone turning, the creaking of the sails, or the sound of a child’s laughter.

 

Copyright Jane Scoggins