Mostly Births and Deaths
The old School Room was, in those days, also used as a Club Room once a month by the Secretary of the 'Sick and Burial Club' ‑ not a particularly prepossessing name! There was of course no National Health Scheme at that time, and the S & B was one of the many Sick Clubs flourishing then. Each month the members would attend, with their Club cards, to pay their few coppers' subscription. This would entitle them to a free doctor and medicine, a few shillings a week if they were ill, and a grant towards funeral expenses. The last item was most important, as the one fear of a lot of the independent villagers was that when they died, they would have to be 'buried by the Parish' because they hadn't enough money for their own funeral costs.
There must have been some fund administered by the Parish Council to pay the funeral expenses of those who died penniless, and believe me, that was no unusual occurrence in those poverty‑stricken days. The worst of it was that it was difficult to conceal the fact, as the Parish coffins were made up as cheaply as possible, with unpolished elm and always with black furniture. Of course a lot of the villagers didn't care two hoots, but a lot of them took it deeply to heart.
I remember one old lady who had carefully put away a few coppers a week for many years against her burial. Unfortunately she had a long and painful illness, and all her savings were swallowed up. Mother, who used to visit her and do what she could, saw her a few days before she died. Almost her last words were "At least, Agnes, there's enough in the old tea caddy to bury me properly". Mother hadn't the heart to tell her the truth, but she did tell my brother who was now the village carpenter and undertaker. So Charley did what he could, polishing the elm coffin and fitting brass furniture for nothing. Later, I stood with Father at our gate watching the sad little procession pass by on the way to the church. I liked to think that maybe she was looking on from wherever we go at the end of it all, and seeing the sun sparkling on the brass handles, rested content.
Mother used to earn a few shillings by acting as the village midwife. She was always in demand when a new arrival was imminent. In those days, having a baby was a major operation. It meant a week or so in bed for the new mothers, and another week before she could resume her household duties. Mother would be nurse‑cum‑housekeeper for a couple of weeks, and fit in her own work at home as best she could, as Father couldn't get about to do anything to help. I gathered from various sources that a good many of the families were sorry enough to see Mother go back home, for from bitter experience she was adept at filling empty stomachs on next to nothing.
I remember her coming back home from one of her 'cases', and telling Father all about it. "Joe, you should have seen those poor kids when they got home from school. Seven of them, all as hungry as hunters asking me for something to eat. I asked them what they usually had, for all I could find in the house was bread and jam. "Oh", they all chorused, "we have bread and jam". Apparently they had bread and jam for breakfast, dinner and tea. When the husband returned from work, Mother quickly relieved him of his beer and baccy money, and went off to the village shop. She came home with a stone of flour, four penn'orth of bones, split peas, currants and sugar.
Next morning for breakfast they had steaming bowls of bone broth with plenty of bread soaked in it. For dinner there was pea soup, and stacks of newly‑baked shortcakes for tea and 'between times'. The kids soon wanted to know why they couldn't have things like that when their mother was about. Agnes had this all weighed up, and spent her second week educating the mother on how to make a little go a long way, for which she was eternally grateful. Apparently she was a town lass, and had worked in a shop prior to her marriage to the widower and his seven children. No‑one had ever bothered to initiate her into the art of village housekeeping, hence the perpetual diet of bread and jam. Believe me, it was a far happier house that Mother left behind.
Mother carried on with her midwifery long after she really needed, simply because she just couldn't say no. After Father died, and all my brothers and sisters had left home, she would still help out anyone who was in difficulty. I remember on one occasion being awakened in the middle of the night by a frantic prospective father banging on the door. "Could Mother come at once, please, as it looked like being an early birth". As the house was a couple of miles away, I got out my motor bike, Mother got her little bag, settled herself on the pillion and off we went. It was the first time she had ridden on the old bike, but we arrived safely after a decidedly wobbly ride. When she got off she exclaimed "And that's the last time I want to ride on that duzzy thing!"
There must have been some fund administered by the Parish Council to pay the funeral expenses of those who died penniless, and believe me, that was no unusual occurrence in those poverty‑stricken days. The worst of it was that it was difficult to conceal the fact, as the Parish coffins were made up as cheaply as possible, with unpolished elm and always with black furniture. Of course a lot of the villagers didn't care two hoots, but a lot of them took it deeply to heart.
I remember one old lady who had carefully put away a few coppers a week for many years against her burial. Unfortunately she had a long and painful illness, and all her savings were swallowed up. Mother, who used to visit her and do what she could, saw her a few days before she died. Almost her last words were "At least, Agnes, there's enough in the old tea caddy to bury me properly". Mother hadn't the heart to tell her the truth, but she did tell my brother who was now the village carpenter and undertaker. So Charley did what he could, polishing the elm coffin and fitting brass furniture for nothing. Later, I stood with Father at our gate watching the sad little procession pass by on the way to the church. I liked to think that maybe she was looking on from wherever we go at the end of it all, and seeing the sun sparkling on the brass handles, rested content.
Mother used to earn a few shillings by acting as the village midwife. She was always in demand when a new arrival was imminent. In those days, having a baby was a major operation. It meant a week or so in bed for the new mothers, and another week before she could resume her household duties. Mother would be nurse‑cum‑housekeeper for a couple of weeks, and fit in her own work at home as best she could, as Father couldn't get about to do anything to help. I gathered from various sources that a good many of the families were sorry enough to see Mother go back home, for from bitter experience she was adept at filling empty stomachs on next to nothing.
I remember her coming back home from one of her 'cases', and telling Father all about it. "Joe, you should have seen those poor kids when they got home from school. Seven of them, all as hungry as hunters asking me for something to eat. I asked them what they usually had, for all I could find in the house was bread and jam. "Oh", they all chorused, "we have bread and jam". Apparently they had bread and jam for breakfast, dinner and tea. When the husband returned from work, Mother quickly relieved him of his beer and baccy money, and went off to the village shop. She came home with a stone of flour, four penn'orth of bones, split peas, currants and sugar.
Next morning for breakfast they had steaming bowls of bone broth with plenty of bread soaked in it. For dinner there was pea soup, and stacks of newly‑baked shortcakes for tea and 'between times'. The kids soon wanted to know why they couldn't have things like that when their mother was about. Agnes had this all weighed up, and spent her second week educating the mother on how to make a little go a long way, for which she was eternally grateful. Apparently she was a town lass, and had worked in a shop prior to her marriage to the widower and his seven children. No‑one had ever bothered to initiate her into the art of village housekeeping, hence the perpetual diet of bread and jam. Believe me, it was a far happier house that Mother left behind.
Mother carried on with her midwifery long after she really needed, simply because she just couldn't say no. After Father died, and all my brothers and sisters had left home, she would still help out anyone who was in difficulty. I remember on one occasion being awakened in the middle of the night by a frantic prospective father banging on the door. "Could Mother come at once, please, as it looked like being an early birth". As the house was a couple of miles away, I got out my motor bike, Mother got her little bag, settled herself on the pillion and off we went. It was the first time she had ridden on the old bike, but we arrived safely after a decidedly wobbly ride. When she got off she exclaimed "And that's the last time I want to ride on that duzzy thing!"
posted by curlybonce | 2:40 pm
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home