More of the Squire, and other Characters of the Village

In those days, the gap between rich and poor was pretty well unbridgeable. By and large, however charitably‑minded the upper class was, there was no particular love lost between the two extremes of the community. If ever the chance arose to 'take a rise' out of the gentry, it was eagerly accepted. One incident which kept the villagers laughing for days happened at one of the frequent pheasant shoots. As well as the gamekeepers and farm hands, anyone who wanted to could act as a beater, to do a days 'brushing' as it was called. Some of the older boys would play truant from school to earn a shilling or two, walking across the fields and through the woods, banging away with a stick at the undergrowth to drive the birds over the guns.

It was from one of these boys that the rest of us got a first‑hand description of what happened on one particular day. When the time came for the gunners to move from one 'stand' to the next, it so happened they had to cross a deep and dirty ditch bridged by a single plank. The gamekeeper, who had an old score to settle with the Squire, approached the bridge accompanied by his big well‑trained retriever. Just before he left the last of the undergrowth cover, he gave a quiet 'stay' to his dog, while he proceeded to cross the plank into the bushes on the far side. There he waited until the Squire got halfway across the bridge. A quiet whistle brought the dog galloping towards the plank. He bounded straight over it right between the Squire's legs. The poor old chap teetered uncertainly for a second or two, then fell with a resounding splash. As he staggered out, soaked and dirty, everyone within sight gave up the unequal struggle to look concerned and broke into helpless laughter. In between terrible swear words the Squire was shouting "I'll sack the bloody lot of you for this!"

It was a famous incident, and was even used to identify a certain year by being referred to as 'The Year after the Squire fell in the ditch'. It didn't cost the gamekeeper much for beer that night in the local, for he was the hero of the hour. Nevertheless, the Squire came up trumps in the end. When his two sons were sent to France to play their part in that awful bloodbath of the First World War, he and his lady must have suffered agonies. Happily the two boys returned unscathed, and the Squire's first act was to erect a brand new village hall, and give it to the village as a thank you for his boys' safe return. It was a marvellous gift, and from then on he was no longer looked upon as a sort of ogre, but as one of the thankful parents in the village, and the gap between rich and poor was finally filled.

It is impossible to have a village without a real character or two, and ours was no exception. The one who remains freshest in my memory, chiefly I suppose because he and his wife lived next door to us, was always known as 'Old Caddy'. I got to know him very well indeed over the years. They were a typical couple of that era, hardworking, honest, and hard‑up. Neither of them could read or write. When the Old Age Pension started Mother, and later me, used to see that their X was duly filled in at the correct place in their pension books. Boylike, my pals and I used to climb the old elm which stood in our wood-yard, and toss pebbles down Old Caddy's chimney. He was almost always down his garden, but the old lady would come rushing out on vengeance bent, but we were long gone, dropping to the ground and scampering into the nearby wood. We used to save this pastime until Mother was out.

The trouble was, our only water supply was a well on Caddy's property, and when Mother went round to fill her bucket she got an earful from the old lady. Mother of course told me off in no uncertain way. She eventually cured me of this mischief very simply; she just made me go round and fetch the water. I knew very well Caddy's wife didn't carry her walking stick just as an ornament, and the thought of me bending over the well drawing up the bucket, with the old lady coming up behind me with her stick at the ready cured me once and for all of playing tricks on her.

Then one day poor old Caddy came knocking on our back door in a rare old state. "Oh dear, Agnes," he said to Mother, "please come and see what's the matter with the missus. She's asleep in her chair an' I can't wake har up". Mother had a good idea of what had happened. She hurried round with the old chap, and as she feared, found the old lady dead in her chair. They had no family and as far as Mother could find out, no relations of any kind. So Mother laid the old lady out, my brothers made the coffin and arranged the funeral. Poor Caddy was in a complete daze, and couldn't help with anything.

The funeral was a sad little affair, with just Caddy, Mother, Father in his wheelchair, and one or two villagers following the hand hearse for the mile and a half's walk to church. When it was all over, Mother went and filled in the necessary forms so Caddy could get the death benefit from the Sick and Burial Club, enough to pay the funeral expenses. The old lady had managed to keep the subscriptions paid up, and it was a blessing she did for there was no money except for a few shillings in a pot on the mantelpiece.

So Caddy had to start off living his lonely life on his own. As Father said, "Thanks to Lloyd George" he had his ten shillings a week pension, and he lived on this for the rest of his life. He gave half a crown a week to the butcher for meat, scrag ends which no‑one else would buy, and which very often had started to go 'off' a bit. Mother cooked it for him, nearly making herself sick in the process. He bought two or three loaves of bread, a lump of cheese, margarine, sugar and tea. Vegetables he grew himself, which Mother cooked, and he managed to leave enough for an ounce of the black twist tobacco he so dearly loved. Mother was a godsend to him, for she took him cakes, fruit pies, or anything else she could spare to help him along. No‑one could have been more grateful, and Caddy thought the world of us all.

Once the initial shock of losing his 'missus' had worn off, he jogged along quite happily. Company was what he missed most, for he couldn't visit the pub any more. For one thing he hadn't the money, but the chief obstacle was the fact that he had bad feet, and could only walk with great difficulty. I kept him supplied with kindling and logs as he couldn't afford to buy coal. One big help was a village charity, which provided half a ton of coal free once a year. Eked out with logs, this lasted a long time, and my word if he didn't appreciate this.

In the wintertime when he was settled in his old armchair by the fire, I got into the habit of going round and sitting with him for an hour or two, and listened to his yarns about his younger days. I don't know who enjoyed it most, he or I: that is, except for the fact that after a time, I nearly always picked up a flea or two. Poor old chap, you couldn't blame him, for he lived and slept in that old armchair. Whether he ever undressed I don't know. He didn't need to shave, as he had a massive beard. Poor Mother nearly went crackers, for of all things she abhorred, fleas were the worst. Being spotlessly clean herself, and the house to match, she detested the things. They seemed to take an especial liking for me, and nearly crazed me with their bites. Mother was so afraid that I should carry one to school and get found out, for in Mother's opinion this would be the ultimate disgrace. So the drill was that after a visit to Old Caddy, I always had to strip, while Mother had a flea hunt. I can see her now, with my vest and shirt spread on the wash house table, wetting her finger and carefully examining the garment. Suddenly down would go her finger, and that was the end of another flea. To do her justice, she never stopped me going, although no doubt she wished she could.

It got so bad in the end that she wrote to the Council and asked for their pest officer, or whatever they were called in those days, to call. When he arrived, Mother helped him to get the old chap outside into the shed. They undressed him, putting all his clothes in the kitchen, blocked up all the doors and windows, and set to work with the fumigator which burned away giving off clouds of pungent smoke. It must have been powerful stuff, for we never had any more trouble with fleas, I'm thankful to say. After this incident the Council wanted to take Caddy off to the workhouse, but Mother hadn't the heart to agree, and said she would do her best to keep him reasonably clean and fed. It was the ultimate disgrace to finish up in the workhouse, and I suppose Mother felt responsible in a way for the old chap.

The yarns he told me were many and varied, and I only wish I could remember more. He must have been one of the strongest men for miles in his younger days. He stood around six foot three, slimly built, but with muscles of iron. His hands were enormous, with feet to match. Even now, well into his seventies he was as straight as a dart. All his life he had been a farm worker, except for one brief period when he worked in the local water mill. He was talking about this one day, and told me how, during every dinner break, the men would have trials of strength to pass the time away. One of these trials consisted of lifting a sixteen stone sack of corn onto one's own shoulders, and see how far it would be carried towards the station, about a quarter of a mile away. The current champion had actually reached the station several times. Caddy soon took up the challenge and bets were laid as to how far he could carry the sack. He then astounded everyone by not only reaching the station, but carrying it all the way back, up the granary steps and putting it back in the pile with the rest. The old man used to chuckle away when spinning these yarns and his eyes sparkled as he recalled the old days. After this exhibition, he approached the foreman and offered to carry a sack of corn to his home if he could have it, but although it was over a mile, the foreman daren't give him the chance.

His yarn about the boxing lesson was, I thought, one of his best. It seems that one of the packmen who used to travel the area selling clothes and boots also fancied himself as a boxer. He called in the local one day, complete with two pairs of boxing gloves. The traveller kidded up some of the locals to have a go, but they soon had enough. They then turned to Caddy to put the gloves on. After the promise of several pints he did so, but only after a struggle to get them on his enormous hands. At last, all was ready. The packman danced round Caddy, giving him a bang or two on the nose and face, while Caddy stood there, his long arms at his side, not really knowing what to do. The others gathered round him, shouting "Come on Caddy, why don't you hit him?" After a minute or so, the packman dropped his hands, whereupon Caddy raised his arms to shoulder height and swung them round to catch the unfortunate packman's face between his enormous hands with a tremendous wallop. Blood flew out of his nose and ears, and he dropped like a stone. After a few minutes he struggled up dazedly, first to one elbow, then to a sitting position, peering out of his bloodshot eyes at Caddy who now stood at the bar knocking back the first of the many pints standing on the counter. Caddy turned and looked down at the still dazed packman, and with a wide grin on his face said "Anytime you feel like another duddy boxing lession, jus' let me know bor". Duddy was a favourite word of Caddy's. If you asked him if he swore, he would say "Dal me bor, not so duddy likely, you know I can't abide swearin'". And he meant it too.

To digress for a moment, and talking of substitutes for swearwords, one resident, a dapper little man who was a retired accountant, was a past master at this. When he made a bad shot at billiards, he would come forth with "Hell rush it" or "blood and sausages". If he was particularly annoyed, it would be "Well, I'll be rammed, jammed, and bally well squeezed". Which no doubt eased his mind without offending anyone.

Back to Caddy; one little incident which happened in the pub was told me by the landlord. It was in the very first days of radio. The landlord had a crystal set with headphones. If you listened hard, and everyone kept quiet, the faint sounds of music could be heard. After several of the customers had duly 'had their go' with the headphones, all of them with suitable looks of wonder on their faces, it was Caddy's turn. But the poor old chap was now getting deaf. He was listening hard, but to no avail, when the landlord, who weighed all of sixteen stones, took a step backwards from the bar, and came down with all his weight on the bar cat's tail. As the yowl of anguish echoed through the bar, a look of bliss came over Caddy's face, and he said "Now fancy that, bor; an' all the way from Lunnon, tu!"

But alas, time was taking its toll of Caddy. As well as being deaf, he contracted gangrene in his poor old feet. On top of that, he lost the use of the muscles which controlled the eyelids, which left his eyes tightly shut. If he held an eyelid open with his finger he could see, but as soon as he let go it would drop again. At his suggestion I got some sticking plaster, and stuck one eyelid up to his forehead in the hope that it would keep up, but the downward pull of the muscles was too strong. It was so difficult for him, as using one hand to keep an eye open only left with the other hand to do whatever he wanted to do. When asked one day how he was, he came out with the understatement of all time ‑ "If it weren't for my duddy eyes shutting, and my duddy foot rotting orf, I should duddy well be all right!"

His poor foot got progressively worse. Mother did what she could, but it got too much for her, willing though she was. The doctor eventually took it into his own hands, and notified the Council who sent a representative along. As soon as he saw what a state the poor old chap was in, he made immediate arrangements with the workhouse to take Caddy in. We were all careful not to tell him where he was going, and dreaded the time when he would realise where he was. Funnily enough, he accepted the fact that he was going into a hospital, and I don't believe he ever really knew he was in the workhouse, or the 'Spike', as it was commonly known.

We had to clear the old house out as the landlord wanted to modernise it. Some of the better stuff we sold, and burnt up all the rest. Mother kept the few pounds it realised, and each week would buy sugar, butter, and an ounce of 'baccy'. Each Sunday I biked the four or five miles to have an hour with him, and take him the goodies. He used to put on a brave face during my visits, but reading between the lines there was little doubt that he wasn't at all happy. He was treated kindly enough, but he missed his independence a lot. He especially disliked being fed, for he couldn't hold his eyelids up and feed himself as well; and he hated being bathed, of all things.

After he had been there around four months, we got the shock of a lifetime. We sat getting our tea, when there was a knock on the back door. When Mother answered it, there stood Caddy! How on earth he walked over four miles in his condition, heaven only knows. What with having to hold his eyes open, and his poor foot a gangrenous mess, he must have suffered agonies. He had one boot on, and a lump of sacking tied over the bandages on his bad foot. It's no wonder he was out on his feet, poor old boy. Mother, astounded, led him through to where we all sat. After a hot cuppa or two and some food, he felt better. He calmly told us he thought he would like to come home again. The old cottage was half pulled down, in the first process of being rebuilt. He was determined to have a look, so I led him round. As he pulled his eye open and saw the state in which the house was, he turned to me. "Well, boy John" he exclaimed, "I can't duddy well live there no more, thas' for sartin". I took him back indoors, where we found out how he had got away from the workhouse. He had dressed before it got light, and got as far as a shed in the garden and found some sacking for his foot. He then set off on his marathon walk in the semi‑darkness. He said he had rested a lot, and we realised that for he had taken all day to do the journey.

After he had had a good rest and more food, my brother Charley got out his motor bike and sidecar. We fought a losing battle trying to get Caddy's six foot three into the sidecar. Luckily it was detachable, so we took it off and fitted the long box we used to carry tools and timber about. We fitted the old chap in, put some cushions behind him, and laid his bad foot on an old coat. I sat on the pillion with my arm round his back to stop him wobbling about, and off we went. I think he rather fancied it, for he was talking all the time, although of course I couldn't hear a word he said. We drove up to the workhouse to find it in pandemonium. The staff had spent all day hunting through all the rooms and toilets, the garden and the sheds, wondering where on earth Caddy could be. They had even searched the nearby woods and meadows, but never though he could possibly have gone far in his condition.

The workhouses of that era didn't have much of a name for kindness or humane treatment. This may have been deserved in some instances, but certainly not in this case. They were genuinely pleased to see the old chap back safe and sound. They had him back in bed in no time at all, with clean dressings on his foot. It seems as if Caddy, with his many yarns, marvellous independence and good nature, had carved out a special niche in their affections. We left him regaling some of his cronies with details of his walking adventure, and he hardly notice us leave.

Whether or not it was the exertion of his walk I don't know, but Caddy didn't last long after that. The last Sunday I visited him, he was partly unconscious, and two days after that they let us know he had slipped away quietly and peacefully. Mother had kept up his Sick and Burial contribution, so there was enough to see him buried in a good oak coffin with brass furniture. Charley and I made the coffin, and I lettered the nameplate. I couldn't put his age on it for no‑one knew how old he was, but he must have been at least ninety, going on various things he had said.

It surprised us in a way to see so many villagers turn up at his funeral, but no doubt he was well‑known and respected. We were surprised and pleased to see among the flowers a wreath from the workhouse staff. I'm sure it was most unusual for that to happen.

So Caddy was laid to rest, as tough and strong in his heyday as the oak of his coffin. The old cottage where he spent his life still stands, although as part of a larger modern dwelling. I don't go that way much these days, but when I do go past up comes the memory of Old Caddy, and I'm sure it always will.