Early School days

The village school, midway between the two villages it served, Kirby Cane and Stockton, was a good mile from our home. It is still there, but now a private dwelling.

When I started school at five, two of my sisters were still there, making being at school considerably easier for me at first, as I was still very much the baby boy at home. This didn't help me at all, as the other youngsters, a lot tougher than I, soon took advantage and would have made my life a misery if it had not been for my sisters.

I very soon found out, however, that sisters or no sisters, I had to stand up for myself. I had one advantage, which was the fact that I could run a lot faster than the others. My motto, obviously, was that he who fights and runs away, lives to fight another day.

We were a rough, tough lot of little urchins, and I was soon as tough as the rest, ready to gang up on some other new arrival.

Getting ready for school was always one big rush. There was washing, or in my case being washed, in a big enamel bowl in the cold old kitchen. Mother would be standing by to comb someone's hair, tie boot-laces and anything else that cropped up. Then someone would spot a hole in my socks, and Mother had to leave off cutting sandwiches to mend it, for she would rather we went hungry than go to school with a hole unmended. What with getting us off, I often wonder how she coped, but cope she did.

My sisters had the timetable for getting to school all tied up. We had to leave, no sooner and no later than a quarter to nine. We would walk through the village, picking up more stragglers as we went. Here and there was a frantic mother trying to run but impeded by her long skirts, to catch someone who had forgotten his or her dinner. When we reached the Mission Room the school bell could be heard just starting up. Then, with me between them holding their hands, my sisters would run the rest of the way. I'm sure my feet never touched the ground for yards at a time. We would dash into the cloakroom just as the bell stopped. This gave us time to answer the register. Woe betide anyone who was late. This meant the cane, and no‑one wanted that, for the headmistress really laid it on. She was a real tartar, and no doubt she had to be to keep on top of us lot.

One horrible trick, if one of the boys was out of favour, was to take his boots off halfway to school and throw them over the hedge. By the time he had found them and put them back on, he was sure to be late. This meant the inevitable whacking, while the rest of us horrible little urchins watched with great relish.

We grew up to respect our headmistress, for she showed neither fear nor favour. Toe the line, and you were all right, but step out of it and you got whacked. It was as simple as that. Poor soul, she was taken ill and died, all in a few days, in the 1918 flu epidemic, together with others in the village.

The Infant mistress was a benevolent soul. I can see her now as she limped the long mile and a half from her home. Favouring her bad leg, summer and winter, she must have walked hundreds of miles over the years. She was always dressed in a long black dress, complete with bonnet, which rarely left her head even in lesson time. She was kindness itself, and did her job well. She got 'played up' in a mild sort of way, which was inevitable I suppose, but it was all good‑natured.

One amusing little memory of "Little Room Days" springs to mind. When one of us wanted to go to the toilet during class-time, we had to put up our hand and ask "Please Teacher, may I leave the room". At playtime, when everyone else had rushed outside, one little lad was left behind, weeping copiously. "Whatever is the trouble, Sonny?" said the Infant mistress. Amid sobs and sniffs he spluttered "Oh dear, Teacher, I've left the room on the floor!"

Once a week the parson came and took religious instruction. This consisted mainly of learning by heart parts of the Prayer Book and Bible. Believe it or not, this led indirectly to a bit of a crisis. I suppose roughly half the children were members of the village Wesleyan Chapel, whose parents, mine included, were "dyed in the wool" nonconformists. Everything went smoothly enough until we got to the Creed. When we reached ‑"I believe in God the Father Almighty, Maker of Heaven and Earth, and in Jesus Christ his only Son our Lord" ‑ the parson turned to the East in the time‑honoured way and bowed, expecting all of us to follow suit.

Now while our parents just tolerated the Church Prayer Book, they drew the line at this bowing business which smacked of what they called 'High Church'. In fact, to them it was almost heresy. This put our parents on the spot. Of course, us kids couldn't care less, and would gladly have stood on our heads if the parson so wished, just to relieve the monotony.

It certainly created quite a stir in the village. Numerous inquests were held in homes and chapel by our parents. Should we be told to defy the parson and not move hand or foot when the critical moment arrived, or should someone approach the rector to see if he was going to insist on the bowing?

The problem, luckily, solved itself. The parson left the village for pastures new, to be replaced by another who was 'Low Church' and didn't even bow himself. So Father, who had been praying fervently to be guided to make the right decision, looked on the outcome as a direct answer to prayer, and duly thanked the Almighty for helping out.

Periodically the school dentist rolled up with his horse‑drawn caravan. We didn't like this at all, especially when our turn came to enter what we looked on as a sort of Spanish Inquisition. A fair number came out weeping, to regale us who were waiting with hair‑raising stories of torture, which didn't help at all. However, we all survived, buoyed up with the thought that it would be a year before he came again.

As well as the dentist, a school nurse rolled up at intervals. She was more concerned with cleanliness than health, especially our heads. She would carefully comb through our hair with a steel comb with very fine teeth, a sort of nit remover. The night before this inspection was one long session of hair‑washing and scrubbing at home, for Mother would rather have been struck by lightning than send one of her offspring to school with a dirty head. Next day we couldn't wait to get home and tell all and sundry gleefully who it was who had nits!

I suppose a lot of what went on was sheer narrow‑mindedness, but this wasn't to be wondered at, as gossip was food and drink in the closely‑knit village. Drinking, swearing, card‑playing and even dancing were the devil's playthings. I knew just what to expect if I was heard swearing; the trouble was that if there was something you shouldn't do, you wanted to do it even more.

One afternoon we were happily on our way home from school, with all sorts of horseplay in progress, when someone hit me in the face with a dry cow-pat. I turned round shouting "You dirty bugger". The dreaded word had no sooner left my lips when our Sunday School superintendent who was a farmer, popped up from behind the hedge. I couldn't have been more shattered if it had been the Angel Gabriel himself!

"I heard that, Johnny, and I'll make dal well sure your father knows too". The fact that he had sworn as well in all senses except uttering the accepted swear word made no difference. 'Dal' was acceptable, but 'damn' ‑ oh dear no.

For the rest of that week I went indoors in fear and trembling in case Father had heard; not that he would have hit me, but he had a certain way of telling anyone off which made them feel lower than the lowest worm. However, I never heard any more about it, except that at Sunday School the following Sunday, he said in front of everyone that certain little boys had been heard swearing, and looking at me all the time!

Horseplay in Sunday School was strictly taboo, but I do remember one occasion when one of the boys turned up with a miniature catapult made of wire and bicycle valve rubber, with air gun pellets for ammunition. All was still, with teacher writing texts on a blackboard when suddenly there was a startled yelp, and one of the boys in the front jumped out with his hand clapped to the back of his neck. "Whatever's the matter Ben" said the teacher. "I've been stung" bawled Ben. So teacher had a look, and sure enough there was an angry‑looking red spot on Ben's neck.

For a few minutes there was hubbub, with everyone hunting for a non‑existent wasp. After a few minutes Fred out with his catapult again, took careful aim, and let go. Unluckily for Fred, the intended recipient bent down at the critical moment and the pellet whizzed over his shoulder to hit teacher on his ample behind. This was enough, and we all had to go to the front, one at a time, to have our pockets examined. Fred hurriedly slipped the catapult into his neighbour's pocket, but when his turn came he found to his dismay there were two or three pellets left in his pocket. Teacher, holding Fred firmly by the ear disappeared into the kitchen where, judging by the noise, Fred got his just desserts!

We knew that when we moved on from the "Little Room" to the "Big Room" that all the playing up would come to an abrupt end, for the headmistress had a certain cure for this.

One favourite game was played when one of the very small boys wanted to go to the toilet. He would put up his hand in the time‑honoured way and ask "Please teacher, may I leave the room?" Immediately half a dozen other hands would be raised, and there was a chorus of "Please teacher may I go with him to do his flies up?", with a wild stampede to the toilets.

The boys' lavatory was a brick place, only partly roofed and with a wall some five feet high. Periodically we would have a competition to see who could wee over the wall. Someone would give a sweet or an apple for the best effort. Some onlookers were astounded one day to see a stream pouring way over the wall. We rushed round to see who it was, and found one boy bending over, with another standing on his back to gain height. I reckon he was disqualified on the spot!

At dinner time in the winter, we all gathered round the roaring fire in the "Big Room". There would be a scramble for the toasting fork. The lucky winner would have first go, poking the impaled dripping or butter sandwich through the fireguard to make toast. The trouble was that with bread buttered on one side, the toast would curl up. Often it would drop off, and there would be a frantic effort to retrieve it. If we couldn't, someone would dissolve into tears to see half his dinner disappear in flames and smoke. I can almost smell the melting butter and burnt toast now. We all had bottles of cold tea, and plenty of short cakes, and didn't take any harm.

If the season was right, we could always supplement our diet with a turnip or a swede from the fields on the way home. The trouble was that no‑one had a knife with which to peel them, so we had to do it the hard way. The root would be knocked off on a convenient gate‑back, and then we would bite the peel off, spitting out equal amounts of dirt and skin. After eating we would spit on our jacket sleeves and 'wipe' our faces, arriving home filthy but happy. This meant a good telling‑off from Mother, but we expected this and didn't mind. There's nothing much sweeter or tastier than a young turnip or swede, eaten raw. Peas were not grown much in those days, but if there was a field of these handy, we would descend on them like a flock of pigeons. The farmers didn't seem to mind. No doubt they knew we were hungry, and turned a blind eye.

It was amazing how rumours of anything eatable got around. One farmer had barrels of molasses for mixing with the cattle food. He kept this in an isolated barn, and for a few days we had a right royal time knocking back the molasses until we felt sick.

One of the older boys had a part‑time job feeding pigs which were kept in an orchard not far from school. When he felt like distributing 'largesse' he would take one of us with him, to gorge ourselves on the sweet apples while he fed the pigs. He was certainly one of the most popular boys in school while the fruit lasted. This went on some time until the owner, turning up unexpectedly, caught one of the boys up an apple tree. He was rather reticent about what happened, but we noticed he couldn't sit still for long at a time on the hard wooden school forms, and we formed our own conclusions.

Coming home from school was a vastly different procedure from going. There was no hurry about this, and there was always some devilment to occupy our time. I'm sure that the older boys got more fun out of us than we did. When we got about halfway home ‑ a safe distance from both school and home, the older boys would hold two of us younger ones face to face. By pushing us one into another, and a bit of bullying, we would have to start to fight. After a bang or two on the nose, we didn't need any more encouragement and were at it hammer and tongs. There was no science, but plenty of whole‑hearted endeavour. The first one to start crying or run away was adjudged the loser. The winner would then be started off against another boy, and so it went on.

There were mostly three of us involved, and funnily enough despite the daily fights, we were always the best of friends even in later years. One of us, who went fishing when he left school, died tragically when he fell overboard in Lowestoft Harbour. It was a very sad business, as in those days the village was like one large family. The villagers turned out in force for the funeral. It was all sadly impressive. The hand hearse, surmounted by the coffin covered in flowers, was pulled by four of us, all old school mates.

As we slowly made our way the mile or so from his home to the church, there were no sounds except the crunching of the wheels on the gravel road, the creaking of the leather‑covered springs, and the rustle of many footsteps. As we passed the 'High Hill', it was inevitable that I recalled the daily fights, and the many happy hours we had spent playing together. I suppose it was one of those occasions one never forgot ‑ the quiet service at the grave side, then the long walk back. Some of the mourners went back to their own homes, and some nearer friends and relatives went to Jack's old home for tea and sandwiches, which was customary in those days, before leaving the sad and lonely parents to mourn in solitude.

Back to school days again: we got a new excitement when a telegraph line was erected along the school road. There was one place where the wires passed through the branches of an oak tree. We would climb the tree, and apprehensively put our ears to the wire, half expecting to be struck to death by an electric shock. Braving the consequences, we would listen in the hope of hearing the magic message. It was all in vain, as all we could hear was the whining of the wind vibrating through the wires. At least it satisfied our curiosity for the time being.

Inevitably, I suppose, in those days of catapults, we soon found out that white porcelain insulators which carried the wires were breakable. They proved an irresistible target, disintegrating with a satisfying bang when hit. We create nowadays about vandalism by the youngsters, but that isn't a product of the new generation, I'm sorry to say. We were a destructive lot of little demons when the urge came on. We knew well enough we were doing wrong, but still did it just for the devil of it. After a week or two, the village bobby found out what was going on. He called at the school and reported the matter to the headmistress.

As usual, she put the fear of death into us. She promised that the very next time any similar trouble was reported, she would personally visit our homes and tell our parents. That did it, for kind as our parents were, home discipline was rigid. We knew very well of the dire outcome if this ever reached our parents' ears. I suppose this is one of the big differences between those days and the present, for now a lot of the parents seem to be totally indifferent to the antics of their offspring especially where religion is concerned.

If you happened to be caught while engaged in some wrongdoing, justice was swift and complete. One of our gang was up a signpost busily engaged in sawing off one of the arms, when the bobby arrived all unexpectedly. In those days the signposts were much higher than they are today, and George, well and truly trapped, climbed up a lot higher and stood on the top. The bobby stood at the foot of the post, grinning, and said "Well, George, we will see who gets tired first". As you may be sure, it was George. He jumped down, hoping to escape, only to be met halfway to the ground with a huge and heavy boot up his backside, and another for luck to 'help' him on his way as he hit the ground.

A lot of our activities were seasonal. Spring was birds-nesting time. We would team up in twos and threes, and for a week or two all else was forgotten. My mate was the nest spotter, and I was the tree climber. I shudder to think of the scores of nests we despoiled, taking hundreds of eggs. Conservation was an unknown word. We used to 'blow' the eggs, pricking a hole in each end with a thorn, and blowing out the contents. Some boys would suck them, but after making myself sick two or three times, I left that activity strictly to the others. The eggs were stuck with gum on to a sheet of stiff cardboard, with the names written alongside. There was a large coloured chart on the wall in our schoolroom, which helped us to identify the various sorts. A good deal of swapping went on to complete our collections. I know now, of course, that it was totally wrong to do this, but then our little consciences were completely clear. We just didn't know any better, and no‑one told us.

Summer would bring out the bows and arrows. We hunted through the woods and coppices to find a piece of hazel wood, or 'nuttery' as we called it, the right length and thickness for the bow. The arrows were made from the dry, strong reeds from the marshes. For the 'business' end, a short piece of elder, with the pith pushed out, would slip nicely over the reed. The other end was notched to take the bowstring, and finally split for the feather flights. These were really lethal weapons, but we would shoot at each other with gay abandon. More by luck than judgement, I guess, I never heard of any serious injury. We would hunt birds as well, but these were never in much danger, as to get within a foot or so was considered good shooting.

Mention of the marshes reminds me of other activities by the streams and the river, mostly pike-snaring and eel-picking. For the former, we had a long pole, with a wire terminating in a noose suspended from one end. The idea was to find a pike basking in the sunlit water. They would lie there, perfectly still except for an occasional flick of the tail to counter the slow current. We would stand on the bank, taking care that our shadow didn't disturb the fish. The noose was lowered very gently into the water, a yard or so in front of the pike, and then carefully manoeuvred up to and then over its body. A quick jerk, and hopefully out would come the pike. Unfortunately, most times the pike was more alert than we were, leaving us with a noose full of nothing except weeds. On very rare occasions we were successful, and ran home in triumph with our prize. This meant that Mother had to clean it and soak it in salt water before frying it. I pretended to enjoy it, but I never did really like freshwater fish.

Eel picking was a much more satisfactory way of getting a cheap meal. The father of one of the boys had an eel pick, which we borrowed. It was of sheet iron, roughly triangular in shape, with barbed slots cut into one end, and fixed to a pole at the other. The drill was to plunge the pick into the weeds lying on the stream bottom, withdraw it, and then plunge it in again. We started at the far bank, and worked back to our side. The eels, if there were any, would be forced into the slots, and retained by the barbs. On a good day, it didn't take long to get a pail full of writhing eels. We didn't like them much ourselves, but there were plenty who did, and would give us a few coppers for the catch.

Late summer meant harvest, and harvest meant rabbits. The news that a farmer had started cutting his corn went through the village like wildfire. In no time at all the field was surrounded by us youngsters, all armed with knobbly sticks. The self-binder, drawn by a team of sweating Shires or Suffolks, would slowly gobble up the standing corn, spitting out the tied sheaves in orderly rows. These would be stood up in 'shocks' to dry, and later carted to the stack-yard.

The first hour or so of cutting would be fairly quiet, just the odd rabbit who got out while the going was good. The real fun started as the standing corn got smaller and smaller, when the rabbits would start to bolt in earnest. The excitement and noise was unbelievable, rabbits running all over the place, each one chased by a horde of kids whacking away at anything that moved, and dogs barking madly.

When the last round of the binder finished off the field, all the dead rabbits were laid in a row. We stood there in a fever of apprehension, in case there wouldn't be enough to go round. The farmer, picking out all the best for himself and his men, would dole out the rest to us kids.

Mother was always delighted when I turned up with a nice young rabbit, and next day we would feed royally on hot rabbit pie. Some of the farmers were noted for their meanness, and us lads knew their reputations only too well. When we went to their fields, as soon as we caught a rabbit, it would craftily be hidden in a ditch or hedgerow. Later in the evening, when everyone else had gone home, we used to sneak back and recover it. One of my pals had long trousers, and he walked, somewhat awkwardly 'tis true, off the field with a rabbit tied to his braces and hanging down inside his trouser leg!

The only trouble with harvest time was that after a couple of weeks, we got heartily sick of rabbit pie, so we got a bit artful. We would still enjoy the fun of catching rabbits, but instead of taking them home we took them to an old chap in the village who would give us a penny for the skins. There would be a quick rush to the village shop for a bag of sherbet, a stick of liquorice, or anything else in the sweet line. When we got home, and Mother asked if we had caught any rabbits, we unblushingly said no.

Harvest over, out came the pop-guns. You will have gathered by now that if we couldn't make the current weapon, or get someone to make it for us, we went without. It was as simple as that, for there was certainly no money about with which to buy toys. I was lucky because with my brothers now running the carpenters business, I had access to the shop and the tools. Couple this with the fact that in their wood-yard grew that indispensable component of pop-guns ‑ elder wood ‑ you can guess I was in great demand. A nice piece of straight elder, free of knots, and with a pith large enough to take an average acorn, was selected. The pith would be pushed out with an iron rod, and a plunger made from hazel wood, carefully trimmed to fit. The end of the plunger was gently banged on a stone till a fibrous end was formed. We knew where the oak trees were which had acorns the correct size, and after a visit to these we were in business.

One acorn was inserted in the big end, and pushed up to the other end with the plunger. Then another acorn in the big end just started on its way. With both hands holding the gun, and the end of the plunger pressed against one's stomach, a good hefty push would expel the acorn, leaving the other ready for the next loading. There were no anaemic pops like a bought gun, but a really satisfying bang, accompanied by a puff of steam caused by the moist compressed air.

We really did have fun with these. Make‑believe battles were the order of the day, with acorns flying all over the place. They really did sting when a hit was scored, and when bedtime came along there would be plenty of red blotches as evidence.

Spinning-tops, mostly home‑made, with a hobnail in the business end had their vogue. We only had one road, the main Bungay‑Yarmouth road, which was tarred and sanded, and this was ideal for top‑spinning.

Hoops, too, were popular. We used to go to the village blacksmith for these. Although he was a hard‑living, hard‑drinking and hard‑swearing old chap, he was kindness itself to us kids. He would bend and weld the iron rods to make the hoops, and also mend them if they broke, all for free. Looking back, I guess he could ill afford to give away the iron, or spare the time, but every year he would do this. It's a good job there was little or no traffic, just a few horse‑drawn traps and farm carts, for we raced about all over the road, whacking our hoops along with wooden sticks.

Ditch‑jumping went on all the year round. There were plenty of these down what we called the Canser, a long lane leading to the marshes. We passed the time merrily enough, until inevitably, someone would try to jump a ditch that was just too wide, and plonk into the water. My parents got heartily fed up with me coming home every night with wet feet. My mother told me straight out that if I did it again it would mean a whacking. Alas, the very next night I did it again. Panic stations, then, as I took my boots off and tried to dry my socks by hanging them on the hedge, but all to no avail. I then had what I though was a brain-wave. I would go home, sit on the back doorstep, and howl. Hopefully Mother would forget her promise, and let me off.

All went well so far, as I not only howled, but produced some real tears as well. Mother, however, wasn't born yesterday. She whipped off my boots, and felt my soaking feet. Fortunately her sense of humour triumphed, and it finished with both of us having a good laugh. Mind you, I didn't come home again with wet feet for a week or two, as I daren't tempt providence twice.

I was much luckier than one of my pals. He jumped in up to his waist, and was soaked. He knew his mother was out, and galloped home hoping to get dried and changed before she returned. His luck was dead out, for as he opened the back door, thoroughly bedraggled and dripping water all over the floor, there stood his father.

"Hello boy, you look a bit wet."

"Yes father."

"Well, my boy, seeing as you are soaked to the waist, we'll make a job of it, shall we?"

So saying, he grabbed young Willy, turned him upside down and holding him by his ankles, carried him over to the water butt and plopped him in head first.

"There you are boy, now you're well all over", said father.

It was a long, long time before Willy went home wet again.

There used to be a good deal of competition as to whose boots would 'fence' ‑ that is, keep the water out, best. We called the boots themselves 'fencers'. Actually, they had the tongue stitched in on either side for part of the way. The drill was to find a fairly shallow pool, and walk in gently until the water ran in the lace-holes. They would then be identified by the number of lace-holes that could be covered before they leaked. There would be 'one-hole fencers', 'two-hole fencers', and so on. If anyone had four-hole fencers, he was the envy of everyone until the novelty wore off.

In those days, compared with today, poverty was rife. I suppose everyone got enough to eat, one way or another, but clothes and boots created real problems. Summertime wasn't too bad, but when winter came, clothing the numerous youngsters must have been one enormous headache to our parents.

I was lucky, being the baby of the family, and in hindsight I suppose, practically worshipped by parents, brothers and sisters. Any one of them would gladly go without just to make sure I went to school tidy and warm. I remember in particular having a thick, grey polo‑necked sweater knitted by my sisters, thick short trousers, and a warm coat which Mother had conjured up out of a jacket which Father had been given by one of his numerous friends; knitted woollen socks made by Father, and a sturdy pair of boots from one of the pack-men who called regularly. He was quite happy to be paid monthly, knowing his money was as safe as if it was in the Bank of England.

I'm afraid the majority of youngsters were not so lucky. They rolled up in any old clothes, most of which had been patched and darned over and over again. Old boots and shoes full of holes were common enough, and the poor kids must have been half frozen by the time they reached school. At least, when they arrived, there would be a good fire in the classroom, which meant those lucky ones who sat in the front were roasted, but the others weren't so well off. It was common enough on a wet morning to see the top of the fireguard festooned with wet and steaming socks and stockings until they dried out.

The headmistress had a very cunning scheme as to who should sit where. Every Friday afternoon we had a sort of test on the week's work. She compiled a list of pupils in order of merit. The most successful were allowed to sit at the front, the others being banished to the back. This was a real incentive, and competition was keen. It seemed very fair, as the positions were adjusted weekly. Not that the losers looked at this method with much enthusiasm, and there would be a chorus of "favourite", "Teacher's pet" etc. when the winners came out of school. This lack of suitable clothing wasn't due to deliberate neglect by the parents, at least not in many cases. It was simply because the money wasn't available. Those fathers who had regular jobs on the farms only got enough to survive, but even these were better off than those who went fishing on the drifters at Lowestoft or Yarmouth.

Their normal stint lasted from about September to Christmas. All the rest of the year most of them had to rely on seasonal jobs on the farms ‑ haysel and harvest, ditching and thatching ‑ anything to turn over an honest shilling where they could. There must have been many weeks when they had no income at all. I suppose it was a case of what you never had you never missed. Even so, there seemed to be more contentment than in our present affluent society.

The farm workers were up bright and early. They drew out of their cottages singly, to join up in little knots as they neared their respective farms. Their working gear consisted of hob‑nailed boots which were a must, and over woollen jerseys they pulled their so‑called smocks, a sort of loose waterproof short coat. A big coloured handkerchief would be knotted round their necks. They used a variety of headgear ‑ old trilbys, caps, or in the summer loose wide‑brimmed linen hats. They each carried their bread and cheese and onions, cakes, cold tea etc. in so‑called frail baskets, strong woven straw containers with lids fastened down with wooden pegs.

On reaching their farm, they called the horses in from the pasture to the yard. Here they got busy brushing and combing, while the horses had their 'breakfast' of crushed oats. It was a real thrill to see the horses turning out for the day, their coats shining and harness glittering in the early morning sunlight. They came out of the yard, probably one man leading two heavy horses in order of seniority, with the head horseman leading the way as they plodded, snorting and steaming, to be harnessed up to whatever implement was to be used that day.

When ploughing or drilling, the head man kept an eagle eye on the rest to make sure each furrow or row of corn was straight and true. My father‑in‑law told me that each Sunday morning they would walk round neighbouring farms to see if they could find fault with the quality of the work ‑ all good‑tempered criticism no doubt. Stolid, and in many cases illiterate, they may have been, but the pride they took in their work had to be seen to be believed. No matter how menial the job, there was a right and wrong way of doing it, and only the best was good enough. I'm afraid there is a moral here somewhere for a lot of today's workmen.

All the men, hardly without exception, smoked. Most smoked pipes with their beloved shag or cut plug tobacco, although Woodbines were in fair demand. However hard-up they were, they would manage to find a few coppers for a smoke and a pint in the local.

When we boys felt like doing something especially wicked, we went on the Mill meadow to collect what we called wild tobacco. Heaven only knows what it really was, but when dried it would smoulder away. We went equipped with brown paper, and rolled the stuff into rough cylinders. We had to tie the paper to hold it together. Someone had been detailed to bring a few matches from home. It wasn't long before we were all blowing a cloud of smoke, and feeling quite grown‑up. We hadn't enough sense to smoke one and leave off. Oh no, we must keep smoking one after another. One by one we started to turn various shades of green, followed by horrible spasms of sickness, which more than satisfied our smoking appetites for a week or two!

I remember one day getting twopence for some odd job. I went to the village shop, telling the shopkeeper I wanted some fags for my brother, and coming out with a twopenny packet of five Woodbines. My pal and I retired into an empty pig-sty on the allotments and smoked one each. When it was time to go home to tea, we realised that our breath stank of tobacco. This was soon remedied, as there were plenty of green onions on the allotment, so we pulled a handful and chewed away. It did the trick, for when I got home all Mother said was "What on earth have you been eating onions for? When I give you any in salad, you won't eat them!" I mumbled something about wanting to try some, and no more was said.

When I went to bed that night I had another problem. I had three Woodbines left in the packet, so what on earth could I do with them? I knew Mother turned my pockets out each night to get rid of the accumulated rubbish boys love to acquire, so pockets were definitely out. The only solution I could think of was to put them under my pillow, and then transfer them to my pocket in the morning.

Alas, when I got to school next morning my heart turned over, for I had forgotten the fags. I knew just what to expect when I got home, and I wasn't disappointed! I was really on the carpet with a vengeance, and I got one of the worst verbal hidings it was possible to imagine from both Father and Mother, which I never forgot for many a long day.