Father's family, but mostly Magny Bone

Father came from a large family, as was usual in those days. There were nine boys and two girls, most of them born at Stockton, in an old thatched house called Mud Hall. The old house still stands, looking very spick and span, with colour‑washed clay lump walls, black and white paint, and still retains its old name. My Grandad Harvey worked as a coachman at Stockton Hall, and Grandma came, I believe, from Thurlton. They must have brought up their large family well, as all the boys had trades except three, two of whom emigrated to Australia while in their early twenties. There was a baker, two engineers and three carpenters.

The odd one out was Fred, who gloried in the nickname of Magny Bone. How on earth he acquired this I never knew. Fred got himself a living by fishing, thatching, hedging and tree‑felling, but his real mainstay was pit‑sawing timber. He was a real rough, tough character. I can see him now, in his tan 'slop', cord trousers tied with string, and red handkerchief round his neck. He travelled round the villages, doing a few days pit‑sawing at the various wheel-wrights and carpenters. The old saw-pit at Father's workshop was in existence until around twenty years ago, when the old shop was pulled down and new bungalows built on the site.

The saw-pit was about six feet deep, with a heavy wooden platform about two feet high built round it. The big logs were rolled up on to the platform and held in place with iron 'dogs'. A cord was stretched from end to end, covered with chalk, pulled up vertically and let go. This left a straight chalk line as a guide for the first cut. The saw was about eight feet long, with a permanent handle at the top, and a moveable handle at the bottom which could be moved to suit the tree. The master sawyer would stand on top of the tree, and his assistant was down in the pit. A plumb line was used to mark the vertical cut on the end of the log, and the saw was started on its way, the chap in the pit pulling down on the cutting stroke, and the sawyer on top lifting the saw ready for the next down stroke. It was his job to keep to the chalk line. It was killing work, especially for the man in the pit as there was a constant stream of sawdust coming down, which would get into his eyes and nose, and most everywhere else as well. He had a pair of wire mesh goggles which would save his eyes a bit. Some of the logs were two feet thick and perhaps ten feet long, and to cut this into boards all the same thickness was a work of art.

Magny Bone would always have a bottle or two of beer handy to wash the sawdust down. All in all, I suppose, he was my favourite uncle. However busy he was, he would always find time to tell me hair‑raising stories of his fishing trips, most of which I reckon he made up as he went along. Every summer, someone would take me by train to Halesworth where he lived, for a week's holiday. I loved this, for Magny would take me out with him in his pony trap when he was going out to work, complete with bottles of cold tea and bread and cheese. There usually was a pub somewhere handy where he could get a pint. He talked all the time to me, which I did enjoy. Mother and Father weren't entirely happy about me going there every year, as when anything did go wrong with Magny's work, his language had to be heard to be believed. I was old and wise enough not to ask the meaning of some of the words, or repeat them when I got home, or that would have been the end of my holidays at Halesworth.

Poor Magny Bone! He was to sustain a bitter blow in a few years' time. His only son, Wallace, was a full‑time fisherman in a Lowestoft drifter. This particular autumn his drifter had gone west, following the herring shoals through the Channel, and was based at Milford Haven. In a tremendous gale that blew up from nowhere, his drifter was blown aground on the rocky South Wales coast. She rapidly broke up, and all the crew were lost except Wallace. Somehow or other he managed to get to the foot of the cliffs. He was a powerful chap, as strong as a horse. Half‑drowned, in that bitter howling gale, he climbed the cliffs and got within a few feet of the top where an overhanging shelf defeated him. There he died of exposure, poor lad, his body being found later. My visits to Halesworth were never quite the same after that tragic incident; Uncle and Aunt put on a brave face, but it was a lonely house.


Thinking of Mud Hall and its houseful, I asked Father how they used to pass the time. He told me they found plenty to do, but boxing was the favourite sport. The boys had got some boxing gloves from somewhere, and on summer evenings they all went down to the bottom of the orchard, and fought each other in rotation. It wasn't make‑believe fighting either, and there were frequent black eyes and bloody noses for Grandma to attend to after the fun was over. Now and again fighting would boil up indoors, but Grandad soon put a stop to that. "Fight as much as you like, boys, but don't lose your tempers" was his very sound advice. They were a tough lot, and woe betide anyone who set on one of the Harvey boys unfairly, for retribution would be swift and complete.

Growing up tough had its advantages. Father, soon after finishing his apprenticeship as a wheelwright‑cum‑joiner, thought he would 'spread his wings' a bit. He saw an advert for joiners in Newcastle, answered it, and got a job. He eventually arrived at Newcastle Station complete with toolbox, feeling and no doubt looking, a rather bewildered 'country cousin'. His lodgings had been arranged, and as he wondered what to do next, he was approached by a cabby. After giving the address of his lodgings, he asked the cabby what the fare would be. "Half‑a‑crown" was the answer; so they loaded up the toolbox and luggage and set off. On arrival, Father unloaded his gear on to the pavement and said "Half‑a‑crown you said, didn't you?"

"I may have said it" rejoined the cabby, "but I want five bob, half‑a‑crown fare and half‑a‑crown tip." This didn't please Father one little bit. "Half‑a‑crown you said, and half‑a‑crown you'll get."

At this the cabby, a big fellow, said "We'll see about that mate", raised his fists and took a swing at Joe. He easily evaded the cabby's mad rush, turned around and as the fellow rushed in again, hit him just once right on the jaw. He collapsed in an untidy heap on the pavement, dead to the world. Father opened the cab door, hauled the unconscious cabby on to the back seat, laid half‑a‑crown on his chest, shut the door and departed, carrying his toolbox on his shoulder.

Father would laugh as he told me, saying "It's a good thing to work and pray, but even better to be able to fight." Another story he would tell me with great relish, but not to do with fighting, was told to him by Grandfather. He couldn't vouch for its veracity, but it always made me laugh.

A farmer who Grandad knew kept cows. One day a sort of official turned up saying he wanted to inspect the cows. The farmer was in a hurry to get on with his work, and said he couldn't hang about showing his cows to all and sundry. "Anyway, who are you, and what right have you got to demand to see my cattle?"

The chap, pulling a paper from his pocket, said "Here's my certificate giving me the right to do it."

The farmer replied "All right then, the cows are on that field just beyond that gate." What he omitted to tell the official was that there was a bull running with the cows, and a bad‑tempered one at that.

Anyway, the fellow climbed the gate, and got about halfway along the meadow when the bull spotted him. Head down, pawing at the ground, the bull started off, tail up and fairly making the ground shake as he thundered after the stranger. By this time, the official was breaking all records as he flew back towards the gate shouting "Help me, help me, what shall I do?", whereupon the farmer, leaning over the gate shouted "Show him your certificate!" I guess he left his inspection until another day, after that!

Another little story, told me by my father‑in‑law, illustrates the dry humour that seemed to abound in those days. He was working in Lincolnshire at the time. At regular intervals a pack-man would call on the isolated farms and cottages, selling clothes, boots, haberdashery and many other things. This particular day, John, my father‑in‑law, was ploughing on the far side of one of those enormous fields common in the fen-lands. It had been raining on and off all day, and the newly‑ploughed land was wet and sticky. The pack-man was trudging along the lane bordering the field when John spotted him. He stopped ploughing, and shouted at the top of his voice that he wanted to see the pack-man. He, of course, scented business, turned into the field and trudged over towards John. At every step he picked up more mud, and when he eventually arrived, he was a sticky mess from the knees down.

"Well, Mister, now I'm here, what do you want?"

Said John, with a sly smile, "Will you measure this old hoss for a pair of breeches?" You can guess what sort of a reply he got.