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Onto the Bridge

by Geoff Swaine

181 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #04-0761; ISBN 1-4120-2933-3; US$20.87, C$24.00, EUR17.14, £12.00

Onto the Bridge is a story of a family who had two properties in the unique location of the Bridge at Frome. For nearly a hundred years they ran a tailoring business there.

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about the book      about the author      excerpts      catalogue info

About the Book Onto the Bridge is a story of a family who had two properties in the unique location of the Bridge at Frome, and for nearly a hundred years ran a tailoring business there. The story begins with the childhood experiences of the author, and then follows with his father's recollections of life surrounding the family, business and town in the early part of the twentieth century. The family ran the tailoring business in that location from 1840 to 1936. A general history then follows which narrates the build up of the town, its market and transport, and the evolution which led (if only for a short time) to its becoming the largest woollen town in the West of England. The final section comes back to the Bridge, and tells of the author's searches into family history, and finds further pointers to how life was structured in the family home in the 1800's.

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About the Author Geoff Swaine made his career as an Architectural Technician. A twist of fate in the early 1990s led him into an entirely new career direction, whereby he became an author and photographer. This book is a hark back to his roots. He spent so much time with his grandparents in the little market town of Frome in Somerset that it became a mid-career obsession to trace his roots and find about the little town he loves so much. This is that story.

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Excerpts

I ride up the winding Clink Road, my newly obtained bike giving me a freedom I never had before. Leaving behind Badgers Hill and the football ground, the farmyard smells are very prominent. Pedalling fast, this road that had once been so long now seemed quite short.

Ahead is my favourite spot, only matched by Platform 10 at Kings Cross Station in London, but that is my other life, I am now down in Frome, a little market town in Somerset, for my twice yearly school holiday, this time for 6 weeks.

Arriving at the railway bridge, and quickly getting off the bike, I hitch myself up the parapet of the bridge. With my hands taking in the weathered stone I am checking the situation below. All is quiet. Still out of breath from the ride, it's nice just to take in the location, and breath the fresh air.

Moving off the bridge, I am through the wire fence and sitting on the embankment of the old Great Western Railway main line. Diagonally opposite is the signal box, and just beyond that are the points, with the curve of the line going in towards Frome.

All is still quiet and there is hardly a house within a mile. A rare car passes over the bridge and provides a passing sound. The grasshoppers make their little noises, and birds are singing somewhere.

The telegraph wires add perspective. Supported high in the air they loop from pole to pole falling into the distance for half a mile down the line ahead

I am taking in the peace and tranquillity, when a bell rings in the signal box. The signalman is up and answering the code with taps on his machine. Another bell rings and he starts pulling the levers in front of him. The wires that run beside the line are straining, I wonder which signal is going to fall. It is the danger signal on the fast line from the west. Up the line more signals move as he pulls different levers. Then silence.

From the west a slight noise can be heard, a train is approaching. It comes around the Rodden bend and is moving very quickly. Racing forward and with the sound increasing, I hear the front bogie wheels hitting every joint in the track. Over the points it thunders and races past me. I get the number and name of the engine. It may be a King, or a Castle, or perhaps a County. All great locomotives designed in the same classical style.

The train was gone, and unexpectedly another train had crept up on the westbound line and was being held at the bridge signal. The signalman moves the points, drops the signal indicating 'Into Frome,' and the train whistles and moves brightly forward. I check the engine, this time it is a Hall, the great workhorses of the region. It has a very mysterious name, Dumbleton Hall; I wonder where that might be. On the side of the carriages is a long destination board, which reads - Paddington, Westbury, Frome, Castle Cary, Weymouth. This is the train I was on a few days ago, it would have changed engines at Westbury. Gathering speed it takes the curve off points, and I watch the taillight disappear.

It is suddenly quiet again, I notice the breeze now making a whistling sound as it passes through the telegraph wires. The signalman goes back to his newspaper or pools coupon. His day is a solitary 8-hour shift. Soon I will have to ride off home, I know the time by the trains that run past. The Cornish Riviera Express races west at about 12-20, Grandad will not tolerate me being late for dinner. It is at 1 o'clock sharp, not a minute sooner or a minute later. I will speed down those hills. I might later be going out with him.

I am only eleven years of age, and am sure life will always be like this, it always has been so why should it change.

Wait a minute, by George! I have just snapped out of my daydream. It is nearly half a century later and I am in a cold sweat. My head is in my hands, and my elbows are hurting on the desk.

Could my favourite place still be like that? Of course not, there haven't been steam engines since 1968. I went there a little while ago to check it out.

Oh dear, the signal box is gone, but that is to be expected. All signalling for miles is controlled from Westbury. Electric lights have replaced all the arm signals. A train goes by but I don't hear any click clicking of the wheels, all the rails are welded together, the train looks very clinical and efficient. I moved to the bank and, oh dear! They have built houses right up to the edge of the slope where the signal box used to be. There goes the solitude. This housing has been permitted because both Bath and Bristol have been over-developed and now they have picked on Frome to take the expansion. I was shocked that it had crept this far,

Oh, by the way, the stone bridge has gone, replaced by a wider concrete structure to take more traffic. There is not much left of the old embankment that I used to sit on. A big 4-lane dual-carriageway road has been built parallel to the railway not 20 yards behind. I can now hear the drone of constant traffic.

Nothing is the same.

So, what was Frome like all those years ago in the sleepy 1950's? It was the last great decade of the steam engine, although I didn't know it at the time. I couldn't bear to watch the decline in the sixties, with those beautiful machines being scrapped. Also, the fifties was the last decade where Victorian values prevailed, and Britain's industry was still intact. It was before motorways, yellow lines, television (for most), and very few families had cars. It was the time when I was growing up.

For my version of events, I begin in 1945 when I was three.

One

My earliest recollections of life are in the garden of Conigre House in Frome. The large Regency style house just beyond the Singers Factory, and a good result that was too, I had no complaints about where life had placed me.

The large house was a warren, and to explore it was a game in itself. Outside there was the big lawned garden with a wooded area at the side to be lost in, and there was a chicken run to the other side with workshops at the back of the house.

Me being the only grandson, I was a novelty. Two girls had come along before, they were my sister Jill, and cousin Sue and so I was something new. I was to be there for my early years, and my grandparents would laugh at my antics and remarks. I played up to them quite willingly.

Grandchildren had appeared late in life for them, for they were both in their sixties. Long gone were the shackles of the family business, life for them now was for enjoyment. I would be running around the garden and getting into everything, while Jill would be sitting thoughtfully on the swing below the broken down Mulberry tree.

The Swaine family tailoring business had operated at No.6 The Bridge for nearly a hundred years, and had been wound up in 1936. Its last years had been a struggle in a depressed Frome, it was also a time when the multiple shops such as Burtons and the Co-op had moved in, the days of so many small traders were coming to an end. The Westminster Bank had forced their hand to close the business and the property was sold. The family though, came out of it quite well, and there was a little money left over afterwards.

The adjoining property No.5 The Bridge was still in the family, and was occupied by my great aunt. She had always run a hat shop there, from the turn of the century.

It was long before the winding up of the tailoring business when my father had moved to London, life for him was not to be in a small town, he pursued a career in the City of London. There he spent his early adult years and had met my mother. They had married and set up home. Life had seemed well set for them, until that is, there was the little matter of world war two being declared.

By 1942, Dad had been posted to Bracknell in Berkshire with the RAF, and they lived in accommodation in Maidenhead. Soon after this, they were to be delighted by the birth of their second child, me.

After I had arrived, the decision was made to dispatch us to Frome. Space in Maidenhead was limited, and going back to London was not an option. There were buzz bombs and V2 rockets about to be dropped out of the sky. Mother had taken us back their briefly, but it was too dangerous. Dad was to remain with the war effort, but for us it was evacuation. We would be going to Frome and Dad would only be able to see us when weekend passes permitted.

Evacuated to Frome as a baby, this was the life and place that I would get to know, and once out of the confines of Conigre House life was seen from a pram and pushchair. The little wrought iron lamppost that was on the first corner out of the house was an early landmark. It is no wonder that I was always fond of them.

Soon I was growing up fast, it was not long before I was following my grandfather everywhere. I was to have a very close relationship with him that lasted right through to 1962, a stern forthright man moulded from the days of the past.

He had a second garden on an island site down by the river at a place they called Waterloo, and sometimes I got taken down there. A lush water meadow with a wooden footbridge to be crossed to get to it, there was a platform on the other side for mooring a rowing boat. This was his little retreat, an idyllic little haven where the world stood still. It was always his garden from the days when they lived above the tailoring business on The Bridge. He had then rowed a boat down to it from the landing stage underneath the timber workshop. The island was almost totally secluded and he had made a garden among all the apple trees and fruit bushes.

Back at the house all the tools in the workshop fascinated me. Wooden planes, spoke-shaves, screwdrivers, and even a fretwork machine. There was what seemed like hundreds of other little chisels, drills and the suchlike, and they all had one thing in common - all the metal was black.

Grandad had largely furnished the big house with furniture bought from salerooms, a big selection there was too, all bought for a song. The house was full to the hilt with what today would be highly sought after pieces. There was one item that Jill and I were quite appreciative of, and that was a bed warming pan on a long pole. Grandad would put hot coal in it from the fire, and then slide the pan up and down in our beds before we got in. Very comforting it was too in the winter when there was ice on both sides of the bedroom window.

During 1943, Mother had had an accident when a branch of a tree fell and hit her. She was taken into Victoria Hospital for a while, and then needed a period of convalescence. Fortunately the grandparents were on hand to look after us.

Our stay in Frome was to last right through to the spring of 1947, but not all of that time was spent at Conigre House. Between the time that the war ended and our return to London, we had moved to stay with my great aunt at No. 5 The Bridge, it seemed that we had outstayed our welcome with my grandparents.

My great aunt was affectionately known as Aunt Peale, she had run her hat shop there since before the First World War. A very kindly lady who couldn't do enough for our family. She had willingly taken us in, and my younger sister Angela was born soon after this. I think that mum was more comfortable there and would feel less intimidated. Aunt was always on hand to take Angela out in her pram, with mum looking after the house and doing the cooking.

I attended the nursery at Rook Lane Chapel for a little while and remember that well. I was obviously none too impressed about the place, because on one occasion I ran off home. They had tried to make us sleep every afternoon on mats, and probably that was the last thing that I wanted to do. A young woman came looking for me. I expect that she was a bit distraught, but I was found at the back of the shop. She carried me back up to the nursery via Cheap Street and the Church steps. I don't think that I lasted there much longer after that. I did attend the little infant school in Christchurch Street before we came back to London, mum would take me, and we would each walk up one of the lines of cobblestones in Gentle Street.

Life Structure of the 1800's.

Catherine Street is on the edge of the Trinity housing and was built as part of that estate. With extensive workshops on the east side, their original facility was to serve the cloth industry. The workshops fronting onto the street had the ability to do trading with the public. Gradually this retailing side grew until they became fully-fledged shops from about the 1800's.

Catherine Street led into Catherine Hill where William Swaine had his home and business, and it was in Catherine Street that his wife Elizabeth, had formerly lived. Her father was a shoemaker, and the census of 1841 attributed 12 people to their household. William and Elizabeth married at St Johns in 1834, and they were to have 11 children. Only 4 of those survived past the age of 26 with the first three all perishing before 1840.

Formal Records began for births, marriages and deaths.

Although the town was mostly in depressed times during this period, due to the contracting of the cloth industry. It can be seen from the above introductions that the Victorian times were extremely progressive.

As time has gone on since the Industrial Revolution began in the century before, the speed of progress had got faster and faster. The progress made in the 1900's seems to have outstripped all the progress made previously since pre-historic days.

The daily life of those working in a tailoring shop, or any other inhabitant of the town, would have had their lives enhanced by the introduction of any one of these new modern services, during the later part of the 1800's.

Gas lighting took the gloom out of a winter's night and effectively extended the hours in an evening, before going to bed. Streets became less gloomy and slowly encouraged people to travel about after dark.

With gas cooking and with main sewers being introduced, hygiene around the home improved dramatically. All this gave better prospects for child survival, and as we have seen in the Swaine family many children who had not survived infancy.

The child mortality which hit the family was in fact very typical of nearly every family across the country. To look through the parish records of any town the picture is the same. A child born in Victorian times had more chance of death than survival.

At the time of birth, many families thought better than pay half-a-crown for the services of a mid-wife. In their place a 'knowledgeable' aunt may manage the birth proceedings, and many bad practices would thus be incurred. The conditions were mostly so bad that the infant did not have much of a chance of getting past life's first hurdle.

Any complication was nearly always fatal, and not only for the child, often for the mother as well. Whether at birth or in infancy the odds were stacked against a child's survival.

The typical housewife would very likely become pregnant in every year of her active married life and it is not unheard of for a woman to have had as many as eighteen children. How many of those that survived is another matter.

In the early years most children suffered from malnutrition and with hygiene standards so low, infants and young children were not able to show resistance against the many diseases, which were rife.

From the age of 12 a child was considered to be an adult and was expected to work full time. This may have been up to 14 hours a day and of course work may not have been a new experience for these 12-year-olds. Most would have been working in some capacity before this.

Schooling was not compulsory for most periods of the 1800's, but children were expected to attend certain classes. Those who did not attend regularly were those who were kept back by their parents so that they could work. Others may be dim kids who were considered imbeciles (many damaged at birth). They had to join with the unwanted illegitimate children to inhabit the workhouses.

With so much child mortality about during those times, it is sometimes difficult to trace accurately a family tree. There was a habit amongst families to give a first-born son the favourite family name. But if that child does not survive very long, that same Christian name would then be given to another son who came along afterwards. Hence, this can make some of the tracing back into the records a rather treacherous procedure. If the recording of a birth does not correspond with the exact age at death, then this duplication might well have happened.

With the coming of the railways the tailoring shop would suddenly have been able to expand its range dramatically. Soon they could stock Tweeds from Scotland, patterned cloth from Yorkshire, latest linens from London, and not forgetting the fine black cloth, which was still available locally from the Sheppard Mill. Soon my great grandfather would be advertising - London Fashions Regularly Received, and later to be followed by 'The Newest Materials and Latest Paris and London Fashions are Received Monthly.'

The railways also enabled people to be able to travel to the coast for the first time. Brunel's broad gauge railway ran directly to Weymouth passing through Frome, and families used this facility with great relish. More ambitious travellers may take the train to London. Many witnessed the greatest exhibition ever. The 1851 Great Exhibition of world goods in Hyde Park.

All these advances helped Frome to re-establish itself after the decline of the cloth industry. New trades used all the facilities available. Goods and materials were delivered, firstly to the Station Goods Yard, and then by the Railway's horses and carts right to the door. The railway was the 'common carrier' and was obliged to carry and deliver anything that anybody wanted. Many industries expanded during this time including, Brewing, Printing, Building, Newspapers, and especially Shops.

This ability to deliver enabled W Swaine to expand the premises in the 1870's, and by 1881 he was, according to the Census of that year, employing 11 men. Obviously both men and women took the chance to buy or have made a range of clothes that was not available to previous generations; it was the day of the Masher (snappily dressed person).

With great improvements in hygiene due to piped water and mains sewers, child mortality dropped dramatically. Nowhere was this more appreciated than in the Swaine family. The absence of these services had attributed to William and Elizabeth losing five children below the age of nineteen.

With the invention of the motorcar in 1886, it was to be a few years yet before it made an impact into people's lives. The great explosion in motor traffic began slowly at the turn of the century, and by 1910 it had taken hold. At last road building and road improvements could be a priority. In the previous seventy years the former Turnpike roads had been neglected with the clamour of people rushing to use the railways. The first three decades of the new century provided the road builders the opportunity to build a network of metalled roads. In the twenties bus services joined all the towns and villages to make communications really easy, and we were into the modern era. Buses could link with the railways and it was soon to be the heyday of the public transport system.

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Catalogue Information

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