Mostly Father

My eldest sister Hilda had now started work. There was very little for a young village girl to do in those days except go into service. So Hilda went as maid of all work to the village schoolteacher. Brought up as she had been on a diet of hard work, she cooked, washed, cleaned and scrubbed six and a half days a week for the princely wage of half‑a‑crown.

On her very first half day off, Father was standing at the gate, holding himself up against the wall, sucking his empty pipe. Hilda proudly showed him her first week's wages, noticed the lack of baccy, ran back to the village shop, and came back with a half ounce of the black shag he so dearly loved. Tears came into Father's eyes as he loaded up and very soon had a 'cloud' going. Father and his pipe were inseparable, loaded or not. I can see him now at Christmas time, sitting up in bed, undoing packet after packet of shag, with a fervent 'Praise the Lord' between each ounce.

He was a powerful man, with mighty shoulders, and could hold my brothers at arm's length while sitting in his chair, even when they were grown up. His poor legs were, however, utterly useless, completely paralysed. Before his accident, when he was working in his own business, he always had a month off to 'do a harvest'. One of his best friends was steward at the Hall Farm, and he always saved a place for Joe when harvest came round. This was all before I was born, but I would sit on his knee while he told me all about it. I only wish I had listened more to him and Mother when they were reminiscing, as it would have been of absorbing interest in later years.

It must have been a grand sight in the harvest fields to see them at work. All the corn was mown, probably seven or eight of them taking part. Whoever was considered the fastest mower would start first. When he had done two or three yards, the second one would start, and so on until the whole gang was moving in echelon across the field. The big idea was to try and catch up with the one in front of you. If one of the mowers did this, there were good‑humoured shouts of "Get out of my way", or "Make way for a better man!" The swish of the razor‑sharp blades, the seemingly effortless rhythmic swinging, and the corn falling in orderly rows, must have been well‑worth seeing. To keep this up, with just the occasional stop for a sharp‑up and a mouthful of cold tea, was really hard work. If you have ever tried to swing a scythe for a half hour, you could appreciate what it was like to do it all day, from daylight to dusk.

After the cutting was finished, the corn all had to be tied up. Even the thongs for tying up were made by twisting straw together. The sheaves were then stood up in 'shocks', left to dry, and finally carted to the stack-yard, to be stacked and thatched and left until threshing time.

The pay for doing a harvest was piece-work. The going rate for a harvest was, I believe, around six pounds. If you could finish in a month it was considered good, as this was on average thirty shillings a week, far more than a normal week's pay. The whole business was of course totally dependent on the weather. In a stormy, wet season, harvest could last six or seven weeks, when the reward was much smaller, as you were still paid only the six pounds. Nevertheless, it was a godsend to Mother as it was a sort of bonus, because the business still went on with Father's men carrying on without him. The money went on dress materials for the girls, new outfits for the boys and especially for boots or shoes.
The family was in fact doing quite nicely, and what a shattering blow it must have been when Father was brought home crippled for life. He was working on a house in the next village, when a rotten scaffold board broke and he fell some twenty feet to land with his back across a partly‑built wall. Being his own boss, there was no compensation or insurance. I was just a baby at the time, with Charley and my three sisters all at school. My eldest brother Reg had just been apprenticed to a joiner at Loddon, getting a shilling a week. Two of my uncles who had been working for Father took the business over, and apart from a few pounds from this, all income ceased. What a pitiful situation for poor Mother! She was so small, about five feet two, and weighed around seven stones. She looked frail enough, but my word, she had the heart of a lion. She did practically everything to earn a shilling or two. Housework, washing, baking, she would go anywhere and do anything including being caretaker at the Chapel, and the old schoolroom which served as a Village Hall. For all this, I never remember any of us being anything but tidily dressed, and we certainly never went hungry.

However she did it all, God only knows. Father was in and out of hospital, but it wasn't long before he was pronounced incurable. It must have been a special sort of hell for him, to see Mother working like a horse, with him a helpless hulk unable to do a thing about it. All friends of the family, and there were many, rallied round, helping in all sorts of ways. Without them I just don't believe we could have survived.

One in particular, a gentleman from Geldeston, who knew Father well through work, always kept him well‑supplied with clothes. It was he who found out there was a possibility of getting a pension from the Royal Hospital for Incurables. To qualify for this, it was necessary to get a number of recommendations from influential people, medical reports, and other things. He just about moved heaven and earth to help, and eventually succeeded in getting a pension of, I believe, thirty‑six shillings a month. This doesn't sound much, but it was regular, and with Mother's capacity for making a little go a long way it took a good deal of the strain from Mother's shoulders. I guess dear old Dad was praying overtime while all this was going on, and that God got a great big thank you for the outcome.

Father told me years afterwards that he never saw Mother at her wits' end, except once. She got us off to school, and when we had finished our breakfasts there was literally nothing left to eat in the house, and no money to buy anything either. This was before Father got his pension. She just sat in her chair, head in hands, beaten at last.

"Whatever can we do now, Joe?" cried Mother.

"Well my dear" answered Father, "there's only one thing left. We must pray to God for help, and he won't fail us." So Father prayed as he had never prayed before, and then said "Well, my dear, all we can do now is wait." Mother went off to work, and Father, sitting in his chair dropped off to sleep. He was awakened by an astounded and excited Mother.

"Joe, oh Joe, look what I found on the doorstep." There was a big basket of groceries, and half a sack of flour. "Where did it come from, Joe? Who on earth could have brought it?"

"Well my dear", said Father, "if ever there was an answer to prayer, this is it. Don't worry where it came from, it's here, and that's all that matters."

They never did find out where it came from, but if the kindly soul who left it knew what a heaven‑sent gift it was, he or she would have been amply rewarded.

Things began to improve after that. The pension started, and Charley started work, followed by my two eldest sisters. Best of all, Mother got the job of running the village Post Office for the old lady whose health was breaking up. It wasn't long before she had to give up altogether, and the Post Office was started in our own house, with Mother as Post Mistress. The salary was small enough, under two pounds a month I believe, out of which she had to provide light and heat, but again it was regular and sure, and the spell of bitter poverty was over.

By this time someone had fixed Father up with an old wicker bath chair. This of course had to be pushed, but there were no lack of friends or relatives to provide motive power. Then his whole life was altered, again by the thoughtfulness of friends; they all got together, and chipped in what they could afford. Indeed, in a number of cases they gave more than they could afford. All this, together with the family, raised enough to buy Father a real invalid chair. It had pneumatic tyres, was propelled by hand cranks and chains, and steered by a pivoted back rest which guided the rear wheel. It seemed that half the village turned out to see him make his first solo trip.

This opened up a new life for Father. He travelled hundreds of miles in it. There was even an umbrella which he could raise and lower. It was wonderful to be able to move around independently, and he took full advantage. He even made the journey to Lowestoft to see his brother, entailing covering some twenty‑eight miles. On Sundays he would visit neighbouring chapels, and to see Joe cranking himself round the countryside was a common sight. I used to go short distances after Chapel in the summertime, sitting between his legs. While I was enjoying the ride, he would tell me Bible stories. In my childish mind, Father and God walked hand‑in‑hand.

The idea of a stern, unapproachable God sitting up in heaven watching for some poor mortal to step out of line was not for Father. Father's God woke up with him in the morning, stayed by his side all day, and went to bed with him at night. His faith was unshakeable. One Sunday, after a particularly rousing sermon in Chapel, he got it into his mind that if he only had sufficient faith, God could make him walk again.

He was very preoccupied through teatime. Sunday teas were always a bit of a high spot for me, with rather a special menu. This particular Sunday evening was, as usual, a family gathering. When we had finished, Father called us to order and pronounced solemnly that he was going to put his faith to its greatest test.

"I'm going to try and stand on my own, Agnes", he said to Mother.

"Oh no, Joe" answered Mother, "it's too much to ask", and my brothers backed her up to try and make Joe change his mind. But Joe was fully determined to 'have a go'. He asked us all to pray silently for him to be given the necessary strength, while he sat gripping the arms of his chair, and prayed audibly. "Dear God, you have said that if only your children had sufficient faith, they could move mountains. I believe I have that faith, and that if it is thy will you can give me strength to stand." So saying, while we all watched in silence, he got hold of the mantle-shelf and pulled himself upright. Then he let go, and his hands fell to his sides. He teetered uncertainly for a moment or two, then collapsed in a heap on the hearth-rug.

We didn't know what to say, or do. My brothers lifted him back with difficulty into his chair. Mother, looking on the verge of tears said "We told you it was too much to expect, Joe. God couldn't do that." We half expected him to break down under the obvious disappointment and the bitter reaction, but Joe was undeterred. Looking at Mother he said "It isn't God's fault, my dear. He could do it, but I just haven't got enough faith. Now give me a cup of tea." We never heard another word about it. In his mind he had failed, not God, and he accepted that fully.