Florence Minnie Palmer 20 Nov 1895-13 Feb 1978

An aspect of my family history I have found intriguing is one theme running through it- the strength of the women. This blog post celebrates one of these women- my paternal Grandmother, Florence Minnie Palmer.

Nanny (or Florrie, as she was also known, but obviously not by me) was born in Ramsgate, Kent, in 1895. Her father was Ramsgate mariner Walter Palmer and her mother was Eliza (known in the family as Lala) Horne, seventh child of Ag Lab- made-good- tenant- farmer George Horn; Lala was born in Garlinge, Margate. Upon marriage the couple lived in Ramsgate, where Walter Palmer continued his mariner exploits- Nan was the only child (that I know of) and adored her parents, who in turn appear to have been kindly and loving- my grandfather was also very fond of them. By 1901 the family had moved to Bermondsey, where Walter had a job in the London docks. By the 1911 census the family had taken up residence in Tooley Street, and a 15 year old Nan was an apprentice dressmaker; if the clothes she made for me when I was a child were any indication, she would have been a very good one. I remember fondly the matching pinnies she made for us, to be worn when I stayed with them; and she kept me supplied with a series of dresses, usually from the same pattern (she cut her own, a skill she never got round to teaching me) but in different materials and designs for different occasions (party frocks, or everyday dresses).

At some point she became friendly with the oldest son of her father's best friend, and when he headed off to fight in the Great War, she kept him entertained with a succession of letters and photos, now in my possession. The photos were all taken professionally by a studio photographer in the Old Kent Road; 'Florrie aged 17' is written on the back of one, and others include Florrie dressed as a cowgirl, and later, as a nurse. In return, the young man sent a succession of lace postcards - we see the correspondence progressing from teasing friends to something more serious. In September 1918, with victory close at hand, the young couple married in St John's Bermondsey, known locally as the Lousy Church, due to the peculiar design of the weathervane on the steeple.

Married life was not to prove smooth sailing. In the absence of a Land Fit For Heroes, the couple remained at the same address as the family had lived in 1911, in the first floor of a warehouse within spitting distance of London Bridge, but handy for Grandad to make the walk along to the queue of eager workers at the quayside each day, looking for daily employment. Children followed: a daughter within a year, twin boy (my father) and girl a year after that, another set of twins who died in infancy three years later. After the final births Nan was very ill herself and close to death; the doctor advised no more children, although I think they would have loved more. Life was hard; the oldest daughter was sent to Ramsgate to live with Nan's parents, following their retreat to Kent; the other children travelled up and down regularly and spent much time there with their grandparents. One cannot help but surmise this was designed to relieve the burden on the young couple. Eventually things started to look up; allocated a brand new L.C.C. house in the suburb of Morden, Nanny took to homemaking with a vengeance. She loved her new house, her neighbours and her new community; the death of her mother ensured that her father came to live with them, where he stayed until his death in the house in 1951. On the edge of suburbia, the children attended school, and spent the holidays roaming the countryside, obtaining seasonal employment with the milkman and any other deliveryman who would pay a few pennies; Nanny attended to her garden, fed and clothed her children and was content with her life. A piano in the living room proved a magnet for a good neighbourhood knees up.

When World War 2 was declared, she found herself facing yet more challenges- her son had joined the Navy the year before, her daughters both joined up, and her husband was recalled to active service. She remained at home with her father, writing letters, compiling family photo albums, collecting newspaper cuttings, and opening her home to friends of her children who came home on leave. Cards and letters attest to the hospitality extended to these servicemen as they recalled the respite they had enjoyed at 'Number 12- Sailor's Rest', as one called it. One young sailor, a shipmate of my father, enjoyed his stay so much he married the youngest daughter of the household! Sadly too, the photo album shows pictures of those who were never to return- I remember when Nan would bring out the album as a special treat, and the commentary ran along the lines of: 'he was a nice boy- was lost at Dunkirk' or 'he played the piano so well- he died on the Royal Oak/Prince of Wales/ (insert name of lost ship). I don't think Nan ever forgot any of them.

After the war, things settled down. The children married, she became the proud grandmother of 3, and although elderly when we were all born, spoiled us rotten. After Grandad retired, they fell into a comfortable daily routine; when I stayed, we would go out shopping on a daily basis (no fridge, just a larder which had cool marble shelves) for fresh food, come home and make dinner, clean up; then I would read whilst she had a little rest, and then she would either take me into the garden and try (in vain) to educate me about her beloved flowers, or she would teach me (somewhat more successfully) to sew. Once a week we would go to the afternoon pictures in the cinema at the end of the road; otherwise we would sit in the garden. I don't know that she ever left Morden, but then she had no need to; everything she needed was there, and anything that wasn't (such as the members of her family) always came to her. She sat on a horsehair chair at the dining table, which gave her a birds eye view of everything that happened in the street; visitors knew she would be there in the afternoon, and I lost count of the times I was frightened out of my wits when, seated on her chair for some reason whilst Nan was trundling away on her pride and joy, her treadle Singer sewing machine, someone knocked on the window next to her chair and grinned though the window pane, as a signal she should open the front door for them.

I hold Nanny fully responsible for my interest in family history. Her precious photo albums, her enjoyment and love of regaling me with family stories, her insistence on hanging onto various family artefacts despite the lack of money or space in her home, stuck with me. On her wall hung a barometer, awarded to her father by the RNLI for saving life at sea; in her kitchen was stored a 'rabbit pie', a piece of 19th century pottery; in her wardrobe were stored original newspapers covering events of national significance from 1930 onwards. She kept every letter and photograph her grandchildren ever sent her; and although very uneducated herself, as I re-read her letters with their grammatical and spelling mistakes, her love of family shines through.

She died in early 1978, as a result of complications following surgery on her shoulder after a fall. Nan and Grandad were six months away from celebrating their diamond wedding anniversary. After her death we found the amount of documentation she had kept regarding her family over the years; goodness knows where she kept it all. Aged 17 at the time, I refused to attend the funeral, but went to school instead, not mentioning the subject. If I didn't talk about it, it wouldn't be real. I got through the day until the early evening when my parents returned from the wake, and in a brief non accusatory sentence, my father let me know in no uncertain terms that my absence had been noticed by the extended family. I marched upstairs a la truculent teenager, climbed into bed, buried myself under the eiderdown, and cried myself to sleep.