all sleep together, the straw-ticking mattresses had been laid out, neatly covered with blankets. Milly stowed the box in the only spare corner and sat on the bed platform. Patting the springy straw-filled ticking, she sighed and lay back. Tonight would be spent at the village pub and tomorrow feeding the men at a great communal Sunday roast. She would have to wait till Monday for what she really longed for: to be among the wide hop fields, with blue sky breaking through green tunnels of bines, her nose assaulted by a thousand citrus explosions as she crushed papery hop flowers between her fingers.
5
The Snares of Paradise
September 1923
On Sunday morning Milly poked her head out of the warm nest of bodies curled up, top to tail, on the straw mattresses at the back of the hut. The others were still sleeping. Amy’s small, grimy foot prodded her in the face as Milly pulled herself up gently. The wooden hut was freezing cold and damp from the morning mist, which seeped through every crack in the ill-fitting weather boards. She tucked the blanket firmly around Amy’s legs and, wriggling to the edge of the sleeping shelf, slid off, trying not to wake the others. Slipping on her coat, she shoved her feet into her shoes and eased open the hut door. A mist-wreathed world of grey-green and pearl greeted her. Through the mist came the sounds of other hoppers already stirring, the splashing of water as buckets were filled from the standpipe, and the subdued murmurs of the early risers collecting faggots for fires. Sharp woodsmoke began to fill the air, and the crackle of kindling catching fire shot through the muffled sounds of their voices. She went to fetch a bundle of faggots from a nearby pile the farmer had provided. Carefully arranging the twigs, she made up their own fire and put the kettle on to boil. Once a good blaze had started and the kettle was billowing steam, she called her mother and sisters, who emerged from the hut, groggy and grateful for the hot strong tea and slices of bread and jam she offered them. These early morning hopping rituals were something she’d always loved, and in spite of the chilly start and the spartan hut, there was deep comfort in waking to the sounds of other pickers and the smells from dew-damp earth and dripping trees, all seasoned with woodsmoke.
‘Hurry up and get ready, you two,’ she urged her sisters after breakfast. They both looked as if they hadn’t washed all week. ‘I’m not walking up to the green with you looking like scruff bags.’
Her mother always seemed more lenient with them when they were hop-picking. Her sisters were allowed to roam wild over the countryside all day, with the other youngsters in the camp, so long as they first picked a bushel or two of hops. But today there would be no picking. As more and more hoppers gathered round the fires there was already an air of gaiety pervading the huts. People were dressing up in their Sunday best, ready for a walk up to the village green, where Bermondsey traders would be setting up their stalls. They followed their customers to the hop fields each year, and the pickers were grateful. Signs on many village shops warned No hoppers! And even those who did serve ‘the foreigners’ from London kept a suspicious eye on them. For however much their labour was valued, often, their presence was not.
The family took it in turns to wash in a bucket of cold water that Milly had already filled. But Amy’s brief dip in the bucket with one hand didn’t go unnoticed by Mrs Colman, who yanked her back as she tried to escape.
‘Get here, you soap dodger. Nine years old and still can’t give yourself a proper wash. Look at the tidemark round your neck! It’s not had a drop of water on it.’ After giving Amy’s neck a vigorous scrubbing, she passed her over to Milly.
‘Here, let me do your hair.’ Milly reached for Amy, who ducked out of her grasp.
‘I can do it meself!’
Milly caught her, marching her to the
5
The Snares of Paradise
September 1923
On Sunday morning Milly poked her head out of the warm nest of bodies curled up, top to tail, on the straw mattresses at the back of the hut. The others were still sleeping. Amy’s small, grimy foot prodded her in the face as Milly pulled herself up gently. The wooden hut was freezing cold and damp from the morning mist, which seeped through every crack in the ill-fitting weather boards. She tucked the blanket firmly around Amy’s legs and, wriggling to the edge of the sleeping shelf, slid off, trying not to wake the others. Slipping on her coat, she shoved her feet into her shoes and eased open the hut door. A mist-wreathed world of grey-green and pearl greeted her. Through the mist came the sounds of other hoppers already stirring, the splashing of water as buckets were filled from the standpipe, and the subdued murmurs of the early risers collecting faggots for fires. Sharp woodsmoke began to fill the air, and the crackle of kindling catching fire shot through the muffled sounds of their voices. She went to fetch a bundle of faggots from a nearby pile the farmer had provided. Carefully arranging the twigs, she made up their own fire and put the kettle on to boil. Once a good blaze had started and the kettle was billowing steam, she called her mother and sisters, who emerged from the hut, groggy and grateful for the hot strong tea and slices of bread and jam she offered them. These early morning hopping rituals were something she’d always loved, and in spite of the chilly start and the spartan hut, there was deep comfort in waking to the sounds of other pickers and the smells from dew-damp earth and dripping trees, all seasoned with woodsmoke.
‘Hurry up and get ready, you two,’ she urged her sisters after breakfast. They both looked as if they hadn’t washed all week. ‘I’m not walking up to the green with you looking like scruff bags.’
Her mother always seemed more lenient with them when they were hop-picking. Her sisters were allowed to roam wild over the countryside all day, with the other youngsters in the camp, so long as they first picked a bushel or two of hops. But today there would be no picking. As more and more hoppers gathered round the fires there was already an air of gaiety pervading the huts. People were dressing up in their Sunday best, ready for a walk up to the village green, where Bermondsey traders would be setting up their stalls. They followed their customers to the hop fields each year, and the pickers were grateful. Signs on many village shops warned No hoppers! And even those who did serve ‘the foreigners’ from London kept a suspicious eye on them. For however much their labour was valued, often, their presence was not.
The family took it in turns to wash in a bucket of cold water that Milly had already filled. But Amy’s brief dip in the bucket with one hand didn’t go unnoticed by Mrs Colman, who yanked her back as she tried to escape.
‘Get here, you soap dodger. Nine years old and still can’t give yourself a proper wash. Look at the tidemark round your neck! It’s not had a drop of water on it.’ After giving Amy’s neck a vigorous scrubbing, she passed her over to Milly.
‘Here, let me do your hair.’ Milly reached for Amy, who ducked out of her grasp.
‘I can do it meself!’
Milly caught her, marching her to the
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