A Voice from History: The Ballad of the Boatwright’s Daughter
I was driving across London yesterday, after a work appointment in East London, and had decided to take in the Stonehenge and Feminine Power exhibitions at British Museum, before the former closes on 17th July. As I was driving west along The Highway, the road that cargo, unloaded by the ‘stevedores’ (dock workers), would have taken in history from the docks in East London to the commercial centre of the city, the words of a poem I wrote were lazily snaking round my head.
‘Sea became Thames, and the first I met as we docked in London’s smoke
Was a stevedore strong, with kindly hands, and eyes like polished oak.
Those oaken eyes and gentle hands crafted a love with that stevedore,
At St-George-in-the-East we were coupled as one, like lighter-boats on the Stour….’
The traffic stopped, and I looked up and thought ‘What a beautiful Hawksmoor church’. IT WAS ST GEORGE IN THE EAST!
Saint George in the East church, Wapping, London, designed by Nicholas Hawksmoor
I wrote the poem at a writers’ retreat in summer 2017 at Flatford Mill in Suffolk, where John Constable’s family lived, and he painted many of his famous paintings, such as the Haywain, and this one, ‘Boat Building near Flatford Mill’. We were invited to write a voice from history. I chose (or maybe was chosen by) the little girl under the tree to the right of the painting, in the red skirt. The river that flows past Flatford Mill, and Constable painted here, is called the Stour (pronounced locally as ‘Stoor’). River Stour ‘lighters’ were clinker built shallow-draft boats or barges, mostly built in the basin at Flatford and also shown in Constable’s painting. Lighter boats usually travelled in pairs, sometimes coupled together.
‘Boat Building near Flatford Mill’, by John Constable
So the woman who had been that little girl spoke to me then, and told me her story. And I think she was reminding me of her story again yesterday. So I feel like it’s time to tell it….
The Ballad of the Boatwright's Daughter
My father was a boatwright's son, And a boatwright too was he
My mother died in the birthing bed Leaving him distraught, and me.
My childhood mate was a spaniel keen, My school the boatyard floor;
No streets knew I in those long-ago days, Just the sparkling River Stour.
On mornings when we rose, I saw my father wipe a tear.
In my heart I knew, though he would hide, He missed my mother dear.
Through winter evenings long and dark, With hammer and chisel and plane,
By fire's light my father would sit Making broken things whole again.
Each stool and ladder and shovel and axe Father mended with skill and with care;
Despite his toil, the heart in his chest Remained unmended there.
A maid was I when another had cause A box for him to craft.
In the Suffolk dirt, with Mother he was laid, His heart repaired at last.
As old and grey as I am now, My sight grows dim and poor,
The chance smell of tar transports me back To Father, the yard, and the Stour.
The Stour she took me travelling From Suffolk to the sea
Orphan though I was in blood and bone My parents were with me
As I stepped on board a Stour barge Wrought by my father’s hand
I was cradled by his living wood And rocked by my river dam
By night while curled in father’s arms I spied a heart-knot in his grain
A sign that father was at peace With his sparkling lady again
In the morning when I rose, with Sunlight glinting on the water,
I saw my mother’s flashing smile And knew I was her daughter.
As old and grey as I am now, My back is stiff and sore
The creak of timber carries me back To that voyage on the Stour.
Sea became Thames, and the first I met As we docked in London’s smoke
Was a stevedore strong with kindly hands And eyes like polished oak.
Those oaken eyes and gentle hands Crafted a love with that stevedore
At St George-in-the-East we were coupled as one Like lighter-boats on the Stour.
Happy as river-otters were we In the flow of our sweet pairing.
The current of life brought a litter of pups With bitter-sweet pain in their bearing.
The great London river bore me here From sea and Mother Stour;
My sweet boy-pup, on a navy frigate, She carried away to a war.
Life brings and takes and comes and goes Like the tide down at Thames’ shore
My pups all grew, life flowed them on Leaving me and my stevedore.
In time, like father, another had cause A box for him to craft.
In London clay, with my heart he was laid, And I will join him at my last.
Now life’s rich journey ends for me And this body can rise no more
Father’s boat is beckoning me home To sparkling Mother Stour.
Donna Gerrard