Life at the Ongar Union Workhouse as told by the daughter of the Master and Matron, Vera Underwood

The Ongar Union Workhouse

My parents – John and Eliza Underwood – were Master and Matron of Stanford Rivers Workhouse from 1902 to 1920.

It was said that my mother was the first workhouse Matron in Essex to have been a fully trained Nurse and Midwife.

“Inmates”, as they were known, were sent to St Mary’s Infirmary, Epping when the Workhouse closed in 1920. I did not realise then what an awful upheaval it was for the inmates – but I do now. I was only 9 years old at the time, and did not realise it was happening until after they had all gone. My parents knew how upset I should be to say “Goodbye” to them. They had been such a large part of my life.

It was an upheaval for my family too. My father was given the Relieving Officer’s job under the Ongar R.D.C. and we went to live in the retiring R.O.’s (Mr Newbury’s) house at St James Avenue, Ongar.

Whilst they were Master and Matron, my parents’ salaries were very low – Mother had about £16 a year and my father £22, plus our keep of course. The post was advertised for a married couple and they were told they must not have any children. I was later told how very worried they were when first my sister Constance came along in 1905, and my arrival in 1911. However, they were not “sacked”, but I expect were given dire warnings by the Board of Guardians.

I realise I know only the women in the photograph and can still name most of them. Of the men I knew “Nightingale”, who was “on the gate” and also kept the gardens looking beautiful.

“Boxer”, who was about 30, was mentally handicapped, but could do many useful jobs. Fred Brewster used to take me to school in a push-chair and bring me home from “Dawsons School”, at that time in St James Avenue, Ongar.

“Merriday” did the same for my sister a few years earlier and used to help Nightingale with gardening. I vividly remember Merriday as being very old, with white hair and a beard, and bright blue eyes. Miss Ethel Jones of Marden Ash, Ongar, did an oil painting of him.

Lastly there was “Dent”, who did most of the painting and decorating.

Of the women, Louie Carr, about 30, who was mentally retarded, was our “maid”. She was not capable of doing a job without supervision, but she looked after us very well, bringing up our meals from the kitchens, clearing away, washing up and cleaning.

She also used to push me around the garden in my pram for about a couple of hours each morning. She was a “pet” and I loved her.

Martha Stock, a similar case, worked in the same way for Porter Colwill and the Assistant Matron, his wife – who had a son Horace, about two years older than myself.

Horace was in the choir at Stanford Rivers Church, and I remember him solemnly walking up the aisle behind the Rev. Thomas every Sunday morning, alone, for years it seemed to me, as he was the only choir boy.

My sister Constance played the organ there for a few years at this time. My mother and I would sit in our pew, which was the first one on the left-hand side of the church with a door!

The inmates at the Workhouse had a church service every Sunday afternoon also. In the beginning I remember Rev. Thomas taking the service, but during the latter years the Rev. Barber from St Martin’s, Ongar came, and stayed to tea with us afterwards.

This brings me to telling you about the service. In the School Hall at the Workhouse there was a very large cupboard at the top end, 5 or 6 feet in width and about 4 feet in depth. It had four hinged panels, lined with red ecclesiastical material, which opened out to form a reredos.

It contained an altar with a cross and candlesticks, altar rails and lectern, at which my father often read the lessons. I always thought it was a wonderful idea, as it immediately changed the atmosphere into a “Church”.

There were chairs and forms for all the inmates to sit on, and all who possibly could, went. If not, and they desired communion, the Vicar would take it to them.

When the Workhouse was closed, the altar cross etc. were given to St Martin’s Church, Ongar, and placed on the side altar. We later attended that church and often used to look at it and reflect!

There was a school building attached to the Workhouse at one time, and no doubt there were quite a few children there, as they had separate “boys and girls” playgrounds, and a school hall of a good size.

I can only remember five children there – particularly a girl of 16 years who was blind. She used to walk up and down the girls’ playground every day tying knots in a piece of string, and sometimes I would walk with her, poor dear.

There was a boy of about 10 years, who went to Stanford Rivers School, in a corduroy jacket and shorts and hobnailed boots; two toddlers and one baby. Horace used to play with the 10-year-old boy sometimes, but of course, he had very little to occupy him.

Mrs Crawford looked after these children – a house mother she really was. She was kind and dear to us all.

Fortunately, we only had one married couple there. All the rest were either widows, widowers or spinsters, and all “without visible means of support”.

The couple used to sit next to each other at the service on Sunday afternoons and hold hands all the time, as they were separated on admission – living in male and female accommodation respectively. As a child this upset me very much.

My father and mother, unofficially, used to arrange for them to be together as much as possible – easy in summer in the garden, but difficult in winter.

The Hall was used for various functions, for example Christmas dinner and concerts. My mother used to make huge material panels with large white cut-out letters stuck on them, with texts like “Peace on Earth and Goodwill towards Men”, and of course “Happy Christmas”.

The Hall was also decorated with a huge Christmas tree and evergreens. I loved it. Long trestle tables were spread with white sheets, I suppose they were, with decorations, crackers and forms at each side.

Some of the inmates would sing or recite after the dinner and “Boxer” always sang Daisy, Daisy, Give Me Your Answer Do.

One of the Guardians used to come and carve the huge joints of pork, from one of the Workhouse pigs, which I had watched being cooked on a spit before the huge fire in the kitchens.

The Christmas pudding, with custard and sauce, was delicious. There were always plenty of vegetables and fruit from the Workhouse gardens. Half the field at the back was vegetables and half for haymaking.

Going back to the Christmas dinner, the men all had mugs of ale, and the women too – or soft drinks as they wished. The men had extra tobacco – they had half an ounce a week normally – and the women had sweets.

We always held a Christmas Concert each year. Local people came and those who could, did turns to amuse the inmates. My sister, who was a good pianist, always played the piano and other people sang songs and did musical recitations.

Everyone came except those who were bedridden in the Infirmary. This was a separate, two-storeyed building at the back of the main front block, with a men’s and a women’s ward, with about 16 beds in each.

I remember one old lady, a Mrs Berry, who was over 100 years old, and I was allowed to go and chat to her sometimes. She could still read large print without glasses, and told me she had always bathed her eyes in her own “water” (urine) all her life!

There were also two spinster sisters, Mary and Martha Ewens, who were ladies. They had always lived with their brother and, when he died, they found that his solicitor had stolen all his money and they were in debt, so their house and contents had to be sold and they came into the Workhouse.

They were so grateful just to be fed and have a roof over their heads. They were half-starved and shocked when they came in, and so were in the Infirmary for some time. I can remember them well.

They both wore gold pince-nez glasses with a chain to the earpiece, and little gold stud earrings.

Also, I have to this day a cup and saucer which the two sisters insisted my mother accept, with a mark on the cup stating “AMHERST JAPAN No. 824” on a scroll and surrounded with blue flowers.

I remember Arthur Negus saying something about it in one of his programmes, and I believe it dates back to the 17th century. This was all that remained of their home.

The main front block was divided into a male and female side, consisting of a dormitory and living room each.

There was a large cupboard divided into square sections, and each person had a section to put their possessions in. There were no curtains at the windows and only floorboards.

I cannot remember any running water, so they must have washed in bowls of water brought from somewhere. The only tap I remember was in our bathroom and that was cold water.

The living rooms both had a long whitewood table in the centre for meals, wooden chairs, some with arms but mostly without, and a coal fire in winter, with extra oil stoves when very cold. My mother was always nervous of fire with these stoves, but fortunately it never happened.

My mother made all the women’s dresses, I think. They were blue and white striped cotton material, lined. Some wore white aprons and some did not.

As you will see in the photograph, they all wore white bonnets or caps. I think the ones who worked wore the caps and the dear old grannies who did not work wore bonnets.

They had woollen material shawls to wear, red flannel petticoats tied around the waist, thick black stockings and black shoes or boots.

The men wore thick corduroy trousers, thick black jackets and black hats, grey flannel shirts, thick black socks and hobnailed boots.

All the washing was done in the Laundry, which was a separate building. The Assistant Matron supervised, as most of the workers were inmates.

I can remember the huge metal rollers on which the clothes, bed linen etc. were dried. The rollers were on “tram-lines” and pulled in and out of a huge steam-heated “oven”.

Mrs Colwill was the Assistant Matron and Cook. She had a large outer kitchen with a huge range. I remember her making sausages, using well-washed pigs’ intestines for the skins!

In the inner kitchen there were seven or eight coppers, heated by steam which came from the boiler house next door. The vegetables were cooked in these coppers and the wooden sinks for washing them were in there too. There must have been running water in the kitchens too!

Some of the inmates worked here; there was no outside help. I also remember large barrels, like the full-sized wooden beer barrels used to be, being unpacked, and they contained herrings. They were packed so beautifully that they fascinated me.

I cannot remember the exact time of meals, but an outside bell was rung for the midday meal.

The inmates had breakfast – porridge and urns of tea. Other times, bread and margarine and marmalade, which came in large stone containers.

They had a hunk of bread and some cheese for “elevenses”, and dinner about midday. For tea, bread and margarine and cake, and the urns of tea. For supper, perhaps a herring!

They had their meals at the tables in their living rooms, carried by inmates from the kitchens mostly, but the Porter carried the urns of tea and hot containers at lunchtimes on a trolley, with the help of an inmate or two.

I am sure you will agree, none of them in the photograph look half-starved, so the food must have been good.

There was a long drive from a double gate in the six-foot-high front wall, which led to the casual wards, mortuary, stables, field and pigsties, and potato clamp. We always called it the “cart path”.

The men were allowed to walk around here whenever they pleased, and the women had a pathway along the other side of the garden, next to the girls’ playground, where they too could walk if they wished, or sit, as there were some garden seats, but not in the actual front garden.

Visitors were allowed on Sundays.

The “cart path” gates were opened at 6 p.m. every evening, and tramps would be waiting to queue in.

I was never allowed to go to the “Casual Wards”, as they were called, so cannot describe them. The tramps – mostly all men, as I do not remember a woman tramp – were given a disinfectant bath and their clothes “stoved” if they were verminous, and they were given a meal, bed and breakfast for the night.

For this, they were kept next morning for a few hours to break up lumps of granite with a heavy hammer into small chippings for newly tarred roads.

They were locked into cells. The cells had a small opening in front where the chippings used to come through, and Porter Colwill was on duty to weigh the stones at a certain time.

Each man’s chips were weighed separately and, if they had broken up the demanded amount, they were allowed to go. If not, they had to stay until they had done so.

I never knew the amount, but I know that if a tramp was very old, or not very well, he was let off.

I cannot imagine this all happening during my lifetime, but I remember it well. Some tramps must have walked miles during the day to get from one Workhouse to the next. Epping was our nearest, I suppose, about 10 miles from Stanford.

After the 1914–18 war we had ten wounded English soldiers staying for a time, convalescing. Some were on crutches and they had many visitors. They wore lightish-blue uniforms.

In 1904 my mother nursed six smallpox cases in a tent in a field near the Workhouse.

I was told she used to have to collect their food, which was in containers placed at the gate of the field from the Workhouse kitchens and, after use, sterilise them and then return them to the gate of the field for collection, ready for the next meal.

In recognition of this marvellous work, which she did for two months, she was sent a letter of thanks from the Medical Officer of Health, enclosing a cheque for two guineas!

In the Infirmary there was a smallish room known as the Lying-in Ward.

I remember one poor single mother there with her baby. I have always adored babies and must have done so at that early age, for I could not resist the temptation of going into this room secretly to see this day-old baby.

It was just lovely, but the young, frightened-looking mother said to me:

“Does your mother know you are in here, Miss Vera?”

I said:

“No, I just wanted to see your new baby.”

She replied:

“You had better get out quick then, ’cos she wouldn’t want you to talk to a bad girl like me.”

I was very surprised and hurt, and asked my mother why she was a “bad girl”, but she would not tell me. It was like that in those days, and so many of us “oldies” know. Anyway, she was the only patient I ever knew in that room.

I often wish I had been older to really talk to the inmates about their lives. Poor things – those who could must have worked so hard all their lives until they could no longer work, and then had nowhere to go, for they were not admitted unless they could prove they had no visible means of support.

The younger, mentally retarded ones must still have had parents who were too poor to keep them at home because they could not work and earn a small amount to keep themselves.

On Armistice Day, 1918, we had a big party for the inmates and staff, and our friends, who were also local friends of the Workhouse.

The front garden was all hung with “fairy lights”, i.e. coloured glass containers with night lights inside them, on and between the arches down the front path and in the trees. It all looked lovely. Like “Fairyland” to me!

Our cook, Mrs Colwill, made a wonderful cake, about two feet square, and she had iced it all over with a “Union Jack”. It really was a work of art, and there was enough for all to have some for tea.

One of the inmates had letters from a relative of hers. It was written across the paper in the normal way, but then the paper was turned and the writing continued over the top of the previous writing.

This was done to save paper, I believe, but was very difficult to read. It took her a week or more to decipher it.

My father, John Underwood, died in July 1928. My mother, Eliza, survived him and died in August 1944, not in Ongar, which she so loved, but in a London hospital.

On the day she was going to be evacuated to Wales because of the bombing of London – and I was proposing to give up my Sister’s post to go to Wales to be near her – she died at 7.30 a.m. on that very morning, and I was with her, thank God.

Both my parents are buried in Stanford Rivers Churchyard, I am thankful to say.

My sister Constance is unfortunately terminally ill in Australia, partly the result of being in a Japanese internment camp for four years. She was nursing in Hong Kong. She is having the very best of nursing and care and has her devoted husband nearby.

I, Vera Underwood, have now retired from my happy, busy life, which involved people’s troubles all the time, and which I always think my early years in the Workhouse prepared me for.

I must add that during the whole of my time at the Workhouse I remember no arguments between staff or inmates, and everyone seemed always to be happy. Maybe it was because I was a child, but I thought it was worth recording.

I have not mentioned that my father’s hobby was photography. Hence the photographs – all taken and developed by him.

He stupidly threw the glass plates away, not realising how valuable they would become one day.