Author: grahamauntiemabel

Topped by a large angel, and standing close to the foot of the grand stone staircase, the gravestone of George Pink (1845-1932) and his wife Elizabeth (1851-1922) is easy to find. Sadly, the angel has seen better days; her wings, right arm and left hand have all been broken off. I recall as a youngster, my grandmother being upset as she told us the angel was one of the victims during a spree of mindless vandalism in March 1978. Truncated though she is, and somewhat struggling with grime, the angel always draws me in during my perambulations around the cemetery. A distinctive figure, commemorating my 3 x great Aunt and Uncle Pink.

As this advert from an 1880s trade directory indicates, George and Elizabeth Pink set up in business as steam dyers, French cleaners and ostrich feather dressers. Mr Pink seems an apposite name for a dyer, but he wasn’t always in that line of business. Young George, it seems, inherited an entrepreneurial spirit from his father, a railway agent in Peterborough. Orphaned as a teenager, he settled in Leicester and worked variously as a hosier (1869), licensed victualler (1870), warehouseman (1878) and clerk (1881) before joining dyer Charles Jones in partnership.

I unearthed the first mention of George in his new occupation as a dyer in the London Gazette – a surprisingly fruitful online archive, full of bankruptcies and business dealings. It reveals that, on 14^th March 1883, the partnership between Charles Jones and George Pink “as Steam Dyers, French Cleaners, and Feather Dressers, under the style of C Jones and Co, has been this day dissolved by mutual consent  [and]… George Pink will continue the said business on his own account.”

George’s decision to take on Jones’ dyeing business was a well-judged move. Leicester trade directories during the ensuing two decades witness his expansion from two to seven shops, dotted throughout the town. A few grainy photos of one of the shops survives – in the almost Dickensian streetscape of West Bridge Street – and it was later sketched for a Leicester calendar in the 1980s. Here, and at their other shops, George’s wife Elizabeth and her team would welcome and serve their customers.

Pink’s ‘chief works’ were initially at Foundry Lane. Old Ordnance Survey maps come in handy to capture a sense of the streetscape; trace around Foundry Lane and you can almost smell the pungent whiffs arising from the cement works, bone factory and gas holders clustered around the Leicester Canal.

By 1889 George had relocated his works to Guthlaxton Street in Highfields, an altogether more residential part of town. His house and works there are long since demolished but counting, plot by plot, on an old map gives me the lie of the land. From his home at 54 Sparkenhoe Street he could nip through the back gate onto an alleyway, which in turn led to the dye-works, nestling squarely behind red-brick terraces.

Inside, the dye-house would have been equipped with large steaming coppers and iron pans. Ladies’ dresses would be steeped in dyestuffs, coloured according to fashion and fancy. Wringing posts, mangles, drying rails and steam irons are on hand for finishing off.

Traditionally dyeing had been a drawn-out process, with some batches taking weeks to turn out. In the early nineteenth century, it could involve soaking fabric in successive baths of lye, olive oil, alum and dung, to help the indigo or madder dye take hold.

But dyeing technology was revolutionised in 1856 when William Henry Perkin discovered, by accident, the first aniline dye. Whilst cleaning his chemical flasks after attempting to synthesise quinine, Perkin noticed that the rich purple residue – later christened mauveine or ‘mauve’ – acted as a colourfast dye. His discovery kick-started the synthetic dye industry; dyestuffs that had previously been extracted slowly and unpredictably from plants, roots, insects and shellfish could now be produced on an industrial scale from coal tar.

Perkin made his fortune and dyers such as George Pink were able to offer their customers a spectrum of colours. With only sepia photos available, it’s easy to forget that Victorian women’s dresses could be colourful. And men’s attire might be vibrant too, as journalist George Sala observed in 1859, “If the morning be fine, the pavement of the Strand and Fleet Street looks quite radiant with the spruce clerks walking down to their offices… the pea-green, the orange, and the rose-pink gloves; the crimson braces…”

But perhaps most significant to Pink’s was the Victorian preoccupation with mourning dress. There was a complex protocol of mourning attire, especially for women. New widows would dress for thirteen months – a period known as ‘First Mourning’ – in black bombazine, covered with crepe, a widow’s cap and lawn cuffs. The crepe and bombazine layers were reduced – and jet jewellery and ribbons added – through ‘Second Mourning’ and ‘Ordinary Mourning’. And finally during ‘Half Mourning’ – oh what relief – greys, lavenders and mauves could be introduced. All in all, the dyeing and cleaning of ‘widow’s weeds’ – coupled with the more industrial dyeing needs of a hosiery town like Leicester – could be big business.

As well as dyeing, Pink’s offered ‘French cleaning’ – or dry cleaning, as we know it today. His ‘New Chemical Process’ was guaranteed not to shrink clothing and could get up net curtains ‘as new’ for a shilling a pair. Rather like Perkin’s discovery of synthetic dyes, French cleaning came about by accident; in 1855, a French dye-works owner Jean Baptiste Jolly noticed that his tablecloth became cleaner after his maid accidentally overturned a kerosene lamp on it. Jolly began to offer ‘dry cleaning’ to his customers and its popularity took hold.

By the 1890s – with new shops on the High Street and Humberstone Road – George Pink was prospering. As the Leicester Chronicle and Mercury noted in their 1893 feature on ‘Christmas Preparations in the Shops’:

“The art of dyeing dress and other materials has of late years advanced at a great rate, with the result that some really beautiful work is now turned out. Mr G Pink of Sparkenhoe-street and 255 Belgrave-gate is rapidly taking a leading position in this branch of business, the dyeing of feathers and dress material being a special feature with him.”

So, at Pink’s you could also have your ‘Feathers Cleaned and Dyed in the newest and brightest colours, and Curled in the most approved style, daily, by French people.’  Dress historian and photo detective Jayne Shrimpton writes about the fashion for ostrich feathers:

“Neat hats of the 1860s were often trimmed with the tip of an ostrich feather or a bird’s wing, or were circled with feathers,” she explains. “Fashions grew more elaborate and by the late nineteenth century it’s unusual to see a woman’s hat that doesn’t include an arrangement of bows, flowers and plumage.”

But feathers were not restricted to hats. “They might also be incorporated into earrings and corsage ornaments,” Jayne continues, “and fans also became ultra-fashionable during the 1870s and 1880s, trimmed with a natural or dyed feather edging.”

Pink’s French feather curlers would have been kept busy, and family tradition too has it that Elizabeth Pink, George’s wife, was a most accomplished feather dresser. Alas, she isn’t sporting any feathers in her studio portrait, though she and her husband George still look rather spick and span.

By the 1901 census, the Pinks have retired from business. They later move to a substantial villa – Carnation House – appositely named, facing Victoria Park. They are generous hosts to an extended family of nephews and nieces. My Grandma and Auntie Mabel spoke fondly of visits to Uncle and Aunt Pink. And for my part, I visit their grave at Welford Road Cemetery from time to time.

Over a century later, the only tangible remains of Pink’s business are a few adverts, photos, newspaper snippets and inherited family memories. Yet with a healthy dose of imagination I can envisage their Victorian dye-house in Highfields, steaming with vats of bombazine black, with a flurry of French folk curling ostrich feathers in their workrooms alongside.

For the next family gravestone in my Grave Encounters series, we leave the Flat, head up the stone staircase and – after skirting round the right-hand side of the modern-day commemorative plaques, installed on the footprint of the old chapels – head to the perimeter pathway. Turn right and a short way along on your right-hand side, look out for William and Harriot Barker…

Pause for a moment beside the Symington’s family grave, marked out with a decorative ‘S’ on the stone cross: In Loving Memory of John William Symington. Born 27th December 1856. Died 27th March 1902. Also of Lucy Ada Lionnais. Born 14th April 1862. Died 10th July 1915. Herbert Andrew Symington. Born 8th May 1885. Died 6th December 1928. Margaret Symington. Born 31st January 1893. Died 9th October 1940.

As well as local Leicester voices in their household, I hear Mancunian, a hint of Scottish perhaps, and later French. Let’s hear Aunt Lucy’s back story…

The youngest of eight surviving children of George and Elizabeth Collis, Lucy Ada Collis was brought up living over the family pubs – initially at the Dixie Arms in North Bond Street, and then from the age of around seven at the Spinney Hill Tavern in Upper Kent Street. By the 1881 census, she and two of her four sisters – widowed Sarah Firn and unmarried Matilda Ann Collis – are running the Spinney Hill Tavern, helping their father George (“a retired publican”, he tells the census enumerator).

By the time George Collis makes his will in June 1882, it appears to be only Lucy who is “now residing with me”. He leaves items of furniture to each of his eight children, but Lucy receives “all the residue of my household furniture, linen, china, glass, books, prints, pictures” as well as his Darney pianoforte and £10 (along with Sarah Firn) “for mourning forthwith after my decease”.

The family arranges for the pub, together with three houses George Collis owned at Nos 6, 8 and 10 Gower Street, to be auctioned. “A VALUABLE and well-situated FULL LICENSED House, known as the “SPINNEY HILL HOTEL,”…. now [in the occupation] of Miss Lucy A Collis” is advertised (7 March 1884, Leicester Journal) with details of the accommodation:

Whether Lucy made a winning bid, or instead reached an agreement with her siblings, is not clear. But what is clear is that she was to remain landlady of the Spinney Hill Tavern for the next 16 years or so. It was not a single-handed undertaking but shared with her new husband, John William Symington, who she married in August 1884.

Quite why and when John William Symington – born in Manchester in 1856 – came to settle in Leicester is not clear. He first appears on record in Leicester in the 1881 census, lodging at 20 West Street, but no family links with the town are apparent. Local residents might know of another Symington connection in the county – Scottish-born James Symington (1811-1877) and his wife Sarah established a corset-making business in Market Harborough that became a substantial enterprise – but there are no known links with that Symington family. John William Symington worked as a brewer’s cashier, reflecting his family’s involvement with the drinks trade: his father Andrew Symington had briefly been a publican in Glasgow before becoming a beer store keeper in Hulme, Manchester, his maternal grandfather William Ritchie was a Glasgow wine and spirit merchant (died 1845) and, in turn, his widow Helen Ritchie ran the New French Horn Tavern on Glasgow’s Stockwell Street (1851 census).

John and Lucy’s son, Herbert Andrew Symington – their only child – was born in 1885. Within a year, they’ve set up a sideline to the pub as “Messrs Symington & Co” at the Spinney Hill Stores advertising their range of bottled beers: Allsopp’s pale and light dinner ales and Guinness stout.

They take on staff – a barmaid, a servant – and business appears to prosper. Links remain close with the Symingtons in north-west England: 5-year old Herbert from Leicester is staying with his Manchester grandparents at the time of the 1891 census, and ten years later the census records John William Symington (by then a 44-year old “retired publican”) staying with his widowed mother Elizabeth and sister Helen (a sweet shop keeper) at their new home in Wallasey. Glasgow accents blend with Mancunian tones.

Having sold the Spinney Hill Tavern around 1899-1900, John, Lucy and son Herbert move to No 18 Lincoln Street, a comfortable house in Highfields. From Melbourne Road School, Herbert wins an exhibition to Wyggeston Boys’ School, where his love of cricket comes to the fore, and he is articled around 1902 to a firm of architects, Messrs Goddard and Catlow, on Market Street. But family life takes a sad turn with John William’s premature death at the age of only 45 years. His probate record adds a further curious detail, as he’s described as “ink and stain manufacturer” as well as previously a “brewer’s cashier and innkeeper” – an enterprising man.

Lucy is on friendly terms with a couple over the road, at 23 Lincoln Street. Francois Lionnais lives with his wife Matilda and niece Leonie Jeanne Lionnais. Born in 1845 in Nancy, east of Paris, Francois had arrived in Leicester in his mid 20s to work as a French master at the Auburn House School in Narborough. As “a resident French gentleman”, Monsieur Lionnais merits a particular mention in newspaper adverts for the school (1873-74).

Maybe the demand for French lessons wasn’t there, perhaps he didn’t enjoy the work, but by 1881 he had shifted career to become a “foreign correspondent” and cashier, working in the Belvoir Street offices of elastic web manufacturers, M Wright & Sons, and lodging at 25 Upper King Street. At the age of 49, he marries Matilda Arkwright of Knighton in 1896 and they settle at 23 Lincoln Street. It’s a relatively short-lived marriage as Matilda dies “after a long illness” in 1905.

Roll forward to 1911; the friendship between over-the-road neighbours Lucy Ann Symington and Francois Lionnais has developed into a marriage. It was a romantic partnership – maybe that French accent worked its magic! – and they enjoyed a comfortable life together at No 23. Lucy is a woman of independent means – she had accumulated a portfolio of 18 rental houses, as well as her home – but Francois continued to work as a cashier, at least in their early years together.

But then WWI intervenes and the family has a tough time. Herbert is called up to join the Leicestershire Regiment in March 1915, “serving in the 1st, and later in the 4th Battalion, as a lieutenant. He saw active service in France, Mesopotamia, Egypt and Palestine, and was wounded while in the east,” as was later recorded in his obituary. His mother, alas, was not to hear of his gallant service as she died in April 1915, a month after he’d joined up. And as the end of WWI approached, Francois Lionnais died in July 1918. The very same month, Herbert married Margaret Wilson – daughter of Narborough boot manufacturer, Fred Wilson – and they settled at Ivyleigh, Narborough.

After the War, Herbert resumed his architectural work, initially for Howard H Thomson and then from 1922 in partnership with William J Prince – as Symington & Prince, based at offices in Market Street. His most notable project was the New Wyggeston’s Girls’ School on Regent Road but he also designed the extensions to the Leicester Isolation Hospital, and to the Liberty Shoe Co’s Building (which was originally designed by Howard Thomson), the St Alban’s Vicarage in Leicester, and the Westcliffe High School in Southend.

Rather like both of his parents, sadly, Herbert died at a young age – from complications after appendicitis surgery, aged only 43; who knows what else he might have achieved in a longer career.

When the architectural practice records were deposited at Leicestershire & Rutland Record Office recently, I was delighted to learn that they included a portrait photo of Herbert. And whenever I pass by the Wyggeston Girls’ School (now WQE Wyggeston & Queen Elizabeth College) on Regent Road, I glance across and think of him.

Now, having spent time with the Symingtons, let’s progress to our next family grave at Welford Road Cemetery. You can just about spot where we’re heading by taking another look at the photo at the start of this blog post. In the background, facing the rising lawned area, there’s an angel carved in white marble. From the Symingtons, it’s a very short stroll – head towards the bottom of the stone staircase and then off to the left. It’s time to meet the Pinks….

As you arrive at ‘The Flat’ from the grave of John George and Emmeline Collis, one of the first memorials you see is that of their eldest daughter, Cary Louisa Harding. It’s an imposing double grave, with two grey granite stones raised on a plinth and set under a pediment.

Cary Louisa Collis was born in December 1864 – when her father was a machinist (engineer) living at Sanvey Gate – but she spent virtually all of her younger years living and working at her parents’ pubs: initially the North Bridge Inn, then the Hinckley Road Brewery, and later as a barmaid at the Magazine Hotel on Newarke Street (1891 census). It’s possible that she met her husband-to-be, William Warrington Harding, when he came in for a pint but it’s more likely that their fathers knew one another, mixing as they did in the town’s business circles; after William and Cary’s marriage in 1892 there was a second Harding-Collis marriage a couple of years later when Cary’s sister Emmeline Collis married William’s brother Ernest Warrington Harding.

William’s father, Samuel Harding, had established a fabric dyeing business in Bath Lane in 1859. It grew to become a considerable enterprise, led successively by four generations of the Harding family, before shifting into property development (on the Bath Lane site and further afield).

Among those commemorated on the Welford Road monument is William and Cary’s eldest son, Samuel Collis Harding, who was awarded the Military Medal for his part in the Hohenzollern Redoubt. Commissioned into the Machine Gun Corps and later transferred to the first Tank Battalion, he was killed at Passchendale on 22 August 1917.

There is still an echo of Harding’s dyeing business in Bath Lane, even though the dye-works has long since closed down; a large metallic sculpture close to the canal near West Bridge depicts a length of fabric winding through a bucket of dye, inscribed with “Samuel Harding & Sons”, scourhouse, flashets, indigo blue and other phrases from the trade.

The Hardings would have known another relative of mine who worked in the dyeing trade – George Pink, who we’ll meet shortly – but in the meantime we have another family grave to visit. Continue through ‘The Flat’ along the central avenue towards the stone staircase and nip to the left down the third pathway before the end. Look out (a few plots in on your right-hand side) for a stone cross with an ‘S’ inscribed on the top of it…

As the pathway curves round, look to the right and hopefully you’ll spot a black granite headstone inset with gilded lettering, marking the grave of John George and Emmeline Collis (Consecrated E 1317). This is a photo I took of the headstone back in 1982. But these days, sadly, it lies flat on its back – like many others at Welford Road Cemetery – due to the health and safety brigade deciding back in the 1990s that headstones which had stood upright and untroubled for decades now posed a safety risk for playing children. Please don’t get me started… having so many headstone laid flat has changed the character of Welford Road Cemetery immeasurably… enough to make my ancestors turn in their graves…

“In Loving Memory of John George Collis, died March 31st 1912, aged 69 years. Also Emmeline, beloved wife of the above, who passed away Dec 15th 1909. At Rest.”

John George Collis (known as George), my 3 x great uncle, ran several Leicester pubs: the Red Lion on Highcross Street, the North Bridge Inn on Frog Island, the Hinckley Road Brewery, the Narborough Hotel, and the Magazine Hotel on Newarke Street. I was able to piece together snippets about his working life using the British Newspaper Archive, as you can read in my article – Trading Stories, Working Lives: John George Collis, a publican in the news.

Despite being a licensed victualler, Uncle George continued with his ‘day job’ as an engineer – rather like his younger brother Martin Collis, a publican and patternmaker. In practice, running the pubs was very much a family affair: for instance, at the Hinckley Road Brewery, Emmeline his wife is recorded as ‘Waiter in house’ (1871 census) and eldest daughter Cary is ‘in charge of the tap in her father’s house’ (1878 cutting) and works as ‘assistant in the business’ (1881 census). One or two servants add to the team. And no doubt George’s engineering skills come in handy for fixing the beer engine used to draw beer up from the cellar.

By the time they’d moved to the Magazine Hotel, George had developed an appetite for performing. At a concert in 1885 “Mr J G Collis was heard to great advantage in Reyloff’s new song ‘Steering for Home’ and the enjoyment derived from it was such that the audience demanded a further exhibition of his powers.” Now I can imagine him performing ‘The Jovial Beggar’, ‘Good Night’ and other party pieces around the pub piano.

On a more serious note, he takes a keen interest in town affairs; in 1892 he’s elected to represent St Martin’s Ward on the Board of Guardians and he’s “closely concerned in the management of the Conservative Club.” As well as an obituary in the local newspaper, John George Collis also had his funeral reported upon. Funerals of well-known local figures were often recorded in great detail in the newspapers, including lists of the principal mourners and floral tributes; it was a way to fill the column inches, and sell a few extra copies of the newspaper, I imagine, but thankfully it leaves behind for us family historians an invaluable source of additional information. For example, we discover from his funeral report that JGC was a member of the Granite Lodge of Freemasons (in Narborough), so it seems fitting that his headstone is made out of granite.

A short distance away – over on ‘The Flat’ – we can meet John George and Emmeline’s eldest daughter, Cary Louisa Harding (nee Collis). Step with me, it’s just around the corner…

As you curve from the perimeter path back into the cemetery, on your right-hand side look out for a couple of adjacent graves. The gravestone in the foreground (Consecrated O 370) marks the resting place of Eliza Ann Collins, wife of Alfred, and their daughter Ethel Lavinia…

“In Loving Memory of Ethel Lavinia, the beloved daughter of Alfred and Eliza Ann Collins, who died Dec’r 25th 1909 aged 24 years. Rest in Peace. Also Eliza Ann, beloved wife of Alfred Collins, who died Sept 8th 1911, aged 51 years.”

And the gravestone in the background (Consecrated O 479) commemorates another of Alfred and Eliza Ann’s daughters – Beatrice Alexandra Collis (nee Collins), mother of Edna Elizabeth Barker (nee Collis), who died aged only 28 years old. Among the family papers we have this rather touching memorial card.

Alfred and Eliza Ann Collins were my great great grandparents. As these headstones record, their daughter Ethel died on Christmas Day 1909, her sister Beatrice soon after in March 1911, and their mother Eliza Ann a few months later in September 1911. It must have been an especially sad and unsettled time for the family.

Although he’s not commemorated on the headstone, Alfred Collins was also buried here when he died over three decades later in 1945, as was his second wife, Sarah Ann (formerly Potter, nee Chambers). How do I know, given that he’s not mentioned on the inscription? Well, the Leicestershire and Rutland Family History Society have created a CD of indexed burials at Welford Road Cemetery, 1849-1950 – which can be searched by surname and plot number. It’s invaluable when undertaking family history research, especially as most graves are not marked with a headstone, and those headstone inscriptions that do survive can be incomplete or difficult to decipher. For example, for Consecrated O 370 here are the details the CD provides:

So, as well as the name of the deceased and the burial (not death) date, we also get their age and an address – which can be handy in cases where an extra piece of evidence can help pinpoint the correct grave. Piecing together information from the CD and the headstones, here’s a simplified family tree showing the relationship between my relatives buried in these two graves, as well as the grave we saw in the previous blog post.

Alfred and Eliza Ann Collins in fact had a total of eight children: as well as their two daughters Beatrice and Ethel who died in their 20s, four died as babies, and only two survived to later life: William Collins and Alfred Charles ‘Uncle Charlie’ Collins. Sadly, such mortality rates were not so unusual at the time. With his second wife, Alfred later went on to have another son, Robert Francis Collins.

Alfred Collins initially worked as a fishmonger for his eldest brother, John Collins, who was the subject of one of my earlier Trading Stories, Working Lives articles: John Collins, a Victorian fishmonger and game dealer. Alfred appears as a ‘fish salesman’ in his marriage certificate (1881) as well as the census returns for 1881, 1891, 1901 and 1911. By the time of the 1921 census however, he’s become a baker, and a “baker’s assistant retired” in the 1939 Register. For many years Alfred lived – firstly with Eliza Ann, then with Sarah Ann – at 1 Sheldon Street, a house owned by Beatrice’s parents-in-law, Martin and Elizabeth Collis.

Next, we’re off to see another member of the Collis family, Martin’s brother, John George Collis. Continue on the path you’re already on, ignoring side turnings to the left and right. Another path merges in from the right-hand side. Continue sloping uphill, cross straight over the wide-and-straight avenue, and then gradually the pathway curves around to the left of a triangle…

Tucked away in the westernmost sliver of the cemetery, and easily missed, you’ll find the grave of Martin Shipley Collis – my great grandfather – along with his second wife Ethel and her parents, Edwin and Jane Crew. It takes the form of a low headstone fronted by an open stone book (Unconsecrated S 3362).

“In Memory of Jane, beloved wife of Edwin Crew, who died 20th Sept 1933 in her 78th year. Also Edwin Crew who died 27th Oct 1939 in his 84th year, interred at Bournemouth” and on the book in front “Martin Shipley Collis, died 29th March 1951 aged 69 years, son-in-law of the above. Also of his beloved wife Ethel Collis, died 15th Sept 1964.”

This is the first grave in this series of blog posts that’s located in an Unconsecrated section of the cemetery. Consecrated sections of the cemetery, blessed by the Bishop when they were first laid out, were generally intended for members of the established Anglican church, whilst the Unconsecrated sections were intended for all others, often referred to as Dissenters or Non-conformists. So, Methodists, Baptists, Catholics, Quakers, Jews and those of other faiths or no faith at all might prefer to be buried in an Unconsecrated plot.

It can sometimes provide an indication of a family’s religious preferences, and in this case, I happen to know that Edwin and Jane Crew became members of the Wycliffe Congregational Church when they first settled in Leicester in 1889, though it seems they might have later moved their allegiances to St James the Great (Anglican) Church on London Road. But it was from the Wycliffe Church that they initiated – with fellow Congregationalist Thomas Harris – the Wycliffe Society for Helping the Blind in Leicester in 1893. The Wycliffe Society grew into what might today be called a social action project: a supportive community of blind residents on Gwendolen Road, clustered around cottages homes, employment workshops, a small infirmary, and a programme of social events. Edwin was also an advocate for health insurance at a time before the National Health Service.

This is not the place to tell the full life story of Edwin and Jane Crew, fascinating though it is; they’ll feature in future blog posts, I’m sure. Following Jane’s death in 1933, Edwin retired to Bournemouth to live with his eldest daughter. Despite the inscription saying “interred in Bournemouth” he was actually cremated and his ashes scattered at the inner garden rose beds at Bournemouth Crematorium. So, with his final resting place unmarked, I’m pleased he was commemorated on this headstone in Leicester where he’d been an active figure in civic life for over 40 years.

Among our family papers we have the original title deeds to this plot, showing that Edwin Crew paid the princely sum of £5 8s 0d for the freehold.

Edwin and Jane Crew’s youngest daughter, Ethel, married Martin Shipley Collis (his second wife) in 1922. Like his father, Martin Shipley Collis (known as Matt) worked as an engineer’s patternmaker – for Jones & Shipman, and later with in partnership with his uncle George Shipley on Freeschool Lane – and you can dip into his tool chest here: a patternmaker’s tool chest. He later set up as an electrical and wireless dealer with shops at 202 Melbourne Road and 2 Green Lane Road – the latter named ‘Ethlona’ after his wife – as these two adverts (1933 and 1936) illustrate.

Now, let’s meet Martin Shipley Collis’ first wife, Beatrice Alexandra (nee Collins) and her family. Continue along the perimeter pathway all the way to the far corner, curve around with it to the right and take the second turning to the right. See you there.

My great great grandparents, Martin and Elizabeth Collis – like their parents before them, and many of their siblings – are buried at Welford Road Cemetery. Their grave (Consecrated L 1339) is marked by a modest stone cross, lichen covered and these days propped against its plinth.

“In Loving Memory of Martin, the beloved husband of Elizabeth Collis. Born July 28 1853, Died Jan’y 17th 1912. Also Elizabeth, wife of above. Died Jun 18th 1937, aged 81 years. Also Mabel Gertrude Collis, Archibald Pink Collis, children of the above, and Martin Stanley Collis, grandson.”

I’ve written a few ‘glimpses’ into the lives of Martin and Elizabeth Collis over the years:

Census: Martin Collis at the Spinney Hill Tavern (1871)

In the news: the Opera Hotel is auctioned (1893)

Snapshot: Outside the Admiral Nelson (1911)

Martin worked as an engineer’s patternmaker and, with his wife Elizabeth, also ran a succession of Leicester pubs: The Fox and Hounds on Humberstone Road, the Royal Oak on West Bridge, the Cross Keys on Highcross Street, the Opera Tavern on Guildhall Lane, the Black Lion on Belgrave Gate, and the Admiral Nelson on Humberstone Gate. At some point I hope to write their story up in more detail, inspired – at least in part – by inheriting Elizabeth Collis’ photograph albums and family papers. In the meantime, here’s a family photo taken around 1892 showing Martin and Elizabeth with their three children: Ada Elizabeth, Martin Shipley and Leonard George Collis.

As the gravestone notes, they also had two children who died in infancy – Mabel Gertrude Collis (1885-86) and Archibald Pink Collis (1896) – with baby Archie’s ‘Pink’ forename being a tribute to Martin’s childless sister and brother-in-law, Elizabeth and George Pink (who we’ll meet in a later Grave Encounters blog post). Infant mortality was a familiar aspect of Victorian life, and most families across the working and artisan classes – and often in the upper classes too – experienced the death of babies, toddlers or older children. As the gravestone also notes, it was a pattern that continued into the next generation; Martin Stanley Collis – the baby son of Martin Shipley Collis and his wife Beatrice Alexandra – died at less than one month old in 1904.

Among the family papers there’s a simple fold-over booklet for the 1937 funeral service for Elizabeth Collis, a much-loved member of the family.

Now, let’s head over to find the grave of Martin and Elizabeth’s eldest son. Rejoin the path and continue to slope down towards the bottom perimeter path. On the sliver of land between the path and the railings – lined with trees and backing onto the railway – you’re looking out for an ‘open book’ sculpted in stone…

After visiting the gravestone of Elizabeth Collis, return to the visitors’ centre and follow the main driveway ahead. The view opens out in both directions; to the left, the cemetery lawns slope down – dotted with gravestones and trees – towards the railway line and to the right, an area known (in our family at least) as ‘the Flat’ follows a more orderly arrangement, with impressive monuments set around a grid of pathways. We’ve re-visit The Flat later in the series, so for the time being continue towards the end of the driveway. As the path begins to narrow, look out on the left-hand side for a monument looking somewhat like a stunted spire – the grave of John and Sarah Firn (Consecrated H 154).

“In Loving Memory of John Firn, who died October 21st 1873 in the sixty first year of his age. His end was Peace. Also of Sarah, beloved wife of the above, who died January 9th 1875 aged 65 years. Not dead but sleepeth.” with the side panel commemorating his parents: “George Firn, who died April 187th 1863 in the 72nd year of his age. Also Martha Firn, wife of the above, who died Nov’r 23rd 1832 in the 42nd year of her age. Interred at the Dover Street Chapel.”

John Firn was a notable stonemason and builder in Victorian Leicester, responsible for restoring and re-modelling at least 23 churches in the county from 1861-1874. And, as a monumental mason, he would have been a regular visitor to Welford Road Cemetery. In the course of his work, he and his team designed, sculpted and installed a number of significant monuments here including those commemorating the artist John Flowers, politician John Biggs, and the businessmen George Checkland and Thomas Partridge. Local historian Derek Seaton is currently researching some of the stonemasons who undertook work at the cemetery, which I’m hoping will reveal some more of John Firn’s craftsmanship.

In the meantime, you can read more about John Firn’s story – and that of his wayward son, George, who married Sarah Collis – here in one of my earlier articles: Trading Stories, Working Lives: John and George Firn, monumental masons. George and Sarah Firn aren’t buried in the Firn family grave however – George died in Sheffield and was buried there, for reasons I have yet to fathom out, and his widow Sarah chose to be buried with her own parents, George and Elizabeth Collis, elsewhere at Welford Road Cemetery.

John Firn’s family monument still stands out, even though it has not weathered as well as some of his clients’ commissions. From there, continue along the pathway – forking to the left at the triangle, and left again – in search of the grave of Martin and Elizabeth Collis (Consecrated L 1339).

(photo: Friends of Welford Road Cemetery)

Welford Road Cemetery in Leicester plays a pivotal role in my family history; at the last count, more than 80 members of my extended family have been buried here. Since the cemetery opened in 1849, my relatives will no doubt have visited many times. And one rather dramatically ended his life at the cemetery. Through a series of blog posts let me take you on a walk about, stopping off at some family graves and tuning in to the history of the cemetery as we progress.

Let’s begin at the main gates on Welford Road. As you head along the driveway, the traffic noise subsides and you’re soon surrounded by greenery, birdsong and impressive monuments. Like many early Victorian cemeteries, the landscaping of Welford Road Cemetery was inspired by the ‘garden cemetery’ movement which espoused that burial grounds should be designed not only for the dignified repose of the dead but also for the pleasure of the living. Visiting your dearly-departed on a Sunday afternoon, they argued, should also bring with it the chance to enjoy a beautiful setting.

To the right of the main entrance the visitors’ centre – opened in 2006 as a base for the Friends of Welford Road Cemetery – is a good starting point for those keen to track down their ancestors buried in the cemetery.

But today, on this walk, we nip immediately behind the centre. Tucked round the back, on a sloping embankment, there are serried ranks of slate headstones. At first glance, it’s an odd place for graves to be positioned, with lawn falling away so steeply. A closer look at the inscriptions also indicates something is amiss – virtually all of the years mentioned on the stones pre-date the 1849 opening of the cemetery. How can this be?