Accommodating Grandpa – A 19th Century Example

Co-residence with kin in old age past and present has been widely discussed by historians of old age, the family, and community, but one area that has hitherto remained somewhat of a mystery in co-residence situations is how, in the already cramped dwellings of the urban working-class and rural labourer, these elderly relatives were accommodated.

In my recent article in the Journal of Victorian Culture I have already begun to explore the accommodation of the lodger in these homes through a study of coroners’ inquest reports and I now seek to ask how offspring accommodated their elderly parents when they were no longer in the position to remain in their own homes. It is well documented that Grandma was, in increasing old age, far more likely to be taken in by kin, than was Grandpa – the arguments for which is numerous and beyond the scope of this particular blog post.

The case I want to explore today is a coroner’s inquest which reveals how one Grandfather was accommodated in his son’s household. In June 1841, the Census Enumerator for Butley, a small Suffolk village, recorded that the residents of one of its households was John Barham, a 35-year-old Agricultural Labourer, Emma Barham aged 33, three children – aged 15, 10, and 4, as well as Henry Barham, aged 75 years.[1] We can infer, from his surname, Henry was related to the family he was now residing with, but so many other questions remain as to his accommodation in this household: when and why had he come to live in this particular household? What was his relationship to the family with whom he resided? And, in what was most likely an already overcrowded household, where did Henry sleep? – are just a few of these.

Yet, a tragedy befalling this household just weeks before the Census was taken not only reveals that the Barham’s had four children in total, but it also begins to uncover some of those questions pertaining to Henry Barham’s domestic circumstances. On 19 April 1841 an inquest was held on the body of 20 month old Elizabeth Barham, who had died as a result of consuming (accidentally) bread and butter laced with arsenic intended to destroy the mice that had been overrunning the Barham’s home. Called to give his account of the fateful event was ‘Henry Barham of Butley, labourer’. Recounting to the coroner’s court his evidence, Henry Barham stated that he had come to live with his son ‘at Michaelmas last’ (so he had been living with them for some months) and during this time ‘my little granddaughter slept in the same chamber as me’.[2] One supposes that this sleeping arrangement was born out of practicality and cannot have been an ideal solution to accommodating ‘Grandpa’. Sharing a chamber with such a young child undoubtedly would have disturbed his sleep from time to time, although on the day of the fatal accident it was the chimney sweep arriving at half past five which woke the still sleeping members of the Barham household.

There are still numerous aspects I would like to uncover as to Henry Barham’s experience of living with offspring in his increasing old age. One frustratingly unanswered question is how Henry felt about his living situation. Did he relish sharing a household with his son and young family? Or, did he yearn for the peace and quiet of his own home? While I doubt, in this particular case, I will be able to answer such a question, other inquests do reveal such intimate and pertinent details regarding the various household arrangements of the elderly in 19th century society…

[1] HO107/1028/2/7 Page 7

[2] SROi HB10/9/55/15

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“He Lived Alone for Six Long and Weary Years”

Employed as a research assistant for the summer, much of my time was spent in the Salvation Army Heritage Centre in Denmark Hill searching through late Victorian and Edwardian copies of The War Cry. For those of you who follow me on twitter, you will have seen the range of items reported upon in this rather abundant resource – from cookery tips to illustrations of slum life. One regular feature that caught my attention was “Cellar, Gutter, and Garrett,” reporting on the work done by the Salvation Army in London’s poorest districts. The particular article I want to discuss in today’s post, is one reported in April 1885 which tells the tale of a ‘widower, seventy-six years of age, feeble and sick’ who ‘lived alone for six long and weary years…in a barely furnished and dirty room in Seven Dials’.

To reach him we had to climb some winding, creaking stairs, then, opening the door, we found him in his usual position before the fire–a scanty one its true. He had sat there for six years–cannot go to bed or lie down, because of his breathing; he was very thin, and as the clothes were still thinner, and in some places worn away, we could see how the bones stood prominently out, he had no shoes or stockings on, his feet rested on the cold hearth–he had on his head a hat, or rather the rim of one, the crown having been burnt out, by it accidentally falling onto the fire as he slept.

His health further declining, however, he was ‘induced’ to lie down on the bed, soon thereafter passing away peacefully.

Yet, despite the inference of a lonely death in the article’s subheading, as we go further into the story it reveals that in his final days he was tended to by the Salvation Army “lasses.”

On Saturday morning the lasses visited and washed him, tidied his room, talked and prayed with him…

Moreover, his daughter, ‘who occupied the floor beneath’ and was ‘equally poor, with a large family’, would bring him ‘a little food’. When her father’s health rapidly declined, it was she who called for the doctor.

We knelt and prayed in the darkened room beside the corpse and his daughter (the mother of three little children) promised God and us to meet him in Heaven.

This particular article resonated with me because of its similarity to a number of coroners’ inquests I came across during my PhD research relating to elderly widowers residing alone, who were–from the evidence given–far from alone. Despite living alone, these elderly widowed men frequently had around them support networks that they could rely upon both day-to-day and in times of crisis. The most predominant of these were female family members—daughters, sisters, and even mother-in-laws. Such networks, often untraceable in the census due to differing surnames, are opened up by the Victorian coroner’s courts. At one Ipswich inquest held in 1896 on the body of widower, Henry Peck, who had died as a result of a fall, the court recorded that it was his sister, ‘Tamar Balaam’, residing on a neighbouring street, who had noticed that her brother’s ‘shutters…were closed beyond the usual hour’ and, being concerned, had her husband break down the door. The Ipswich Journal reporting on the inquest peculiarly decided on the tagline of ‘A Lonely Man’s End’, but like the case reported in The War Cry, it is evident that while these widowed men were living alone they were not necessarily ‘lonely’ men.

Sources:

The War Cry, 1 April 1885, 4.

The War Cry, 18 April 1885, 4.

Ipswich Journal, 6 June 1896.

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The Elderly Lodger – Abandoned or Without Kin?

The image of the elderly lodger is often one of having been abandoned by or lacking kin. However, one finding that surprised me in the Ipswich coroners’ inquests reports was that some of these elderly lodgers had kin residing in the same neighbourhood or were, in the case of 72 year old Curtis George Senior, neighbours.

In the inquest report into the death of Curtis George Senior, where a verdict of natural death was recorded, it was reported that “[Curtis] had long since ceased to work, and was maintained entirely by his children, who were very kind and attentive to him.” However, he did not reside with any of his adult children, instead “[he] lodged with Mrs. Mary Stock, in St. Helen’s.” Nevertheless, he was not far from kin, as the census reveals that his son, a wood turner at the iron foundry, resided in the neighbouring house with his large and young family (six children aged between one and fourteen years are recorded in the 1871 census). One can speculate that Curtis George Junior’s household was perhaps too overcrowded to accommodate his elderly parent, yet wanting to be nearby to his father – whose “health had not been good” – brought him to lodge next door [1].

These elderly lodgers would, it seems, be in regular, sometimes daily, contact with their kin.

In 1893, when 79 year old Mary Ann Rodwell died suddenly in her Ipswich lodgings – Oak Villa, Portman Road – where she had lodged “for the past five years,” her daughter, Mrs Adelaide Bullen of 5, Berners Street, Ipswich, stated at the inquest into her mother’s death “that her mother came to see her during the morning” prior to her death [2].

Some inquest reports also reveal that while there may not have been an extra bed for an elderly relative to be permanently incorporated into the household, an extra space could, nonetheless, be found round the family table.

When 65 year old John Hignell’s body was found in the River Gipping in May 1878, his son, Arthur Hignell of Turrett Lane, stated at the coroner’s inquest into his father’s death: “[his father] was a widower, and lodged at the Duke of York, Woodbridge Road…formerly a grocer, [he had] several months previous to his death been out of employ. [He] saw him last alive on Tuesday morning.” It was further reported that as John “had no money… he frequently had money given to him by his son, who also gave him breakfast and sometimes his dinner” [3].

Like the son of Curtis George Senior, Arthur Hignell, a fishmonger with a large family, probably did not have the space to accommodate an extra sleeping body at night, but did nevertheless evidentially provide his father with both financial and almost daily domestic support.

So in conclusion, when we come across an elderly person living in lodgings recorded in the census, it does not necessarily entail that these are the ones who lacked kin and their support. Instead, it can perhaps be seen, in some cases at least, that placing an elderly relative in (and even paying for their) lodgings provided kin (unable or unwilling to accommodate them into their already overcrowded home) the ability to care for their ageing relatives from a short distance. Or perhaps, for the elderly relative, living in lodgings offered them a level of independence (and peace and quiet from young children) in their old age?

[1] Ipswich Journal, 8 Feb 1873.

[2] Ipswich Journal, 1 July 1893.

[3] Ipswich Journal, 14 May 1878.

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“Darby and Joan” – Bereavement, Lodgings, and Press Subscriptions.

Over the past few years I have been using coroners’ inquests, both the original records and the newspaper reports, to explore domestic life and domestic accidents in Victorian England. One thing that really stood out to me in the course of my research was the extent to which these inquests opened up the lives of the elderly at this time. Coinciding with my new research, this new blog intends to explore the domestic arrangements of the elderly living in England’s cities, provincial towns, and rural areas during the nineteenth century. In the next few posts, I plan to explore the domestic lives of those elderly living in lodgings – both lodging-houses and other people’s homes.

However, I am going to begin this blog with one particular inquest I recently uncovered in Lloyd’s Weekly Newspaper and was reported in numerous other London and provincial newspapers, a case I refer to as “Darby and Joan,” which tells the extraordinary tale of one elderly widow whose security in “comfortable” lodgings was provided by the substantial donations raised after the sudden death of her husband – although, this is far from a happy tale.

In October 1887, various London and provincial newspapers reported on the death of William Cox, a 77 year old artist’s model residing at 25 Elgin Terrace, Maida Vale, London. William, who had been out at sittings all day, was returning home to Elgin Terrace on a Kilburn omnibus:

Henry Gillows, conductor, said the Cox got into his omnibus at Regent-circus at ten o’clock on Monday night. Going along Maida-vale [Gillows] asked for his fare. Cox did not answer, but he seemed to be asleep, leaning on his stick. On arriving at Kilburn he was found to be dead.”[1]

His body was removed to Hampstead Mortuary, where his wife, Margaret (also an artist’s model “who sat with him for the picture of ‘Darby and Joan’ in [the 1887] Academy”), who had been “wait[ing] up for him,” identified his body.[2]

The news of his death soon spread throughout London society and at the inquest into Cox’s death, where the cause of death was determined as heart failure, the coroner:

Dr. Danford Thomas announced that the facts of the case had come to the knowledge of Mr. John Aird, M.P. [and a known art collector], who had sent him a cheque for £5 5s. to relieve the widow.”[3]

After her husband’s death and with this financial support, Margaret Cox took up lodgings down the street with the Parry family and, Reynold’s Newspaper states, was “in the receipt of 25s. per week. A subscription had been raised for her, and the money was given to her in weekly instalments.”[4] In spite of the financial support, “which enabled [her] to live comfortably”, the newspapers states, Margaret Cox had become “depressed because of the death of her husband” –“it was a case of Joan lamenting Darby” – and the following June committed suicide by overdosing on opium.[5] Her landlord, Samuel Parry, stated at the inquest into her death that, “Mrs. Cox had given way to excessive drinking. When not sober she was abusive, and he had served her notice to quit.”[6]

Reflecting on this particular case, one wonders had it not been for the press interest and the subscription raised as a result, whether Margaret, having “given way to excessive drinking” and lacking the safety net of family (her stepson, Reynold’s Newspaper states, was estranged from her), would have soon fallen down the ranks of London society and ended up at the doors of the workhouse soon after the death of her beloved “Darby.”

[1] The Morning Post, October 28, 1887.

[2] Ibid.

[3] Ibid.

[4] Reynold’s Newspaper, July 1, 1888.

[5] Lloyd’s Weekly Newspaper, July 1, 1888.

[6] Ibid.

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