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
