One Summer, Eastbourne, 1880

In that long gone summer of 1880, my Aunt Eliza, who wasn’t actually a relation to me, but we persevered in the pretence, had paid for the whole family to take a few days down at the Albion Hotel in Eastbourne.

Aunt Eliza had been an assistant to a Mister Charles Dickens and when he had left this world in the Spring of 1870, she had retired on the little money that aforementioned gentleman had left her in his will. It was enough to keep her in comfortable surroundings, and she was also able to save a little. She had no real family of her own and therefore treated ours to a wonderful few days each summer.

With us, that particular summer was a remarkable man, called Henry Richards. He was whispered to be the beau of Aunt Eliza, but no one ever said as much in public. It was he who took this photographic plate of our clan standing down from the door of the Albion. Henry would later go on to use his science to assist the police in the search for the Ripper of east London Town. One who was never caught, unfortunately.

Due to the particular demands of photographic science, we had to awake very early in the morning to allow the plate to be unblurred. This meant that we were required to stand in the morning sun for over fifteen minutes while Mister Richards conducted his business. It also had to be early enough that no one would ruin the said plate by perambulating by, although Henry had a young lad available to ‘shoo’ folks away should they attempt to pass the spot we were standing upon.

Aunt Eliza sang little ditties of tunes to pass the time in a happy manner - ones that she had taught to the children of Mister Dickens when she was employed at his abode in Higham in Kent.

It was as we were ready to collapse from the standing about, that Aunt Eliza finished off with one more song, and to everyone’s relief, Mister Richards shouted that we were complete with the photographic exercise. Aunt Eliza turned to me and said the most curious thing, so curious that I still remember it after all these years.

“Of course you know, sweetest, it was I, Eliza Shoemaker who wrote all his stories”.

I didn’t have the heart to ask her to expand on her comment. She took that particular explanation to her grave.

Bobby stevenson 2019