Of Stoves and Fires
As I have already mentioned, Mother used to supplement her income by being a caretaker at the Chapel, and at the old schoolroom which was at that time used as a sort of Village Hall. We lived practically next door to both places, which was a big help. As well as lighting the fires, she had to provide the kindling wood. One of my jobs was to keep a good supply of this ready cut, and I rather liked doing this.
During the year, one of the fishermen in the village would, when he wan't fishing, get in a big supply of faggots. Hedge cutting and tree lopping would provide him with plenty of these. He sold these round the village at fourpence a faggot. Once a year he rattled his way down the lane at the back of our house with his borrowed horse and trolley, and drop off our annual supply. These faggots would of course be all green wood. I stood these up on end on one side of our wood-yard, where they would gradually dry out ready for use the following year, or as Mother said, when they were 'seer'. I remember wondering how she started off, as in the first year she would have had only green wood. I used to stand chopping away trying to think this out, but in the end I had to ask her. She explained that anyone could always buy dry over-year faggots from the woodman who always kept a good supply. The trouble was, these cost sixpence a faggot, so Mother, by her system, saved quite a bit over the years. I had to chop a fair pile each week as there were fires to light nearly every night in the wintertime.
The chapel stove was a large, pot‑bellied affair which stood just opposite the entrance doors. It was an old devil to light, and even looked like a malevolent demon, with ears, nose and mouth. It must have been one of the most temperamental stoves ever designed. Mother and I would walk the few yards to the chapel, loaded up with paper and firewood in a skep. First of all we had to stand outside the door, and try and decide which way the wind was blowing. "Was it from Bungay way, Beccles way, Norwich way, or from the railway?" This little problem being decided, we went in.
The object of all this was that there was a certain system to follow for certain winds. A particular window must be opened a particular distance, a certain door to be open or shut, and meticulous setting of the draught controls. We then put in the paper, covered that with a layer of sticks, followed by a couple of shovelfuls of coke, and light up. If you got it wrong, or particularly a windless night, that awful monster of a stove would bellow forth clouds of acrid smoke, until one couldn't see across the chapel. We would stand there helplessly, eyes streaming, and praying that the wretched thing would 'go'. When it did condescend to go, we piled on more coke. For all its tricks, when it was really on the draw, it used to get pretty well red‑hot. The varnish on the ends of the pews near the stove would sizzle, and no‑one could sit within yards of it. It definitely had a mind of its own, for it was just as difficult to check as it was to light it.
I had some fun and games with it when on occasions when Mother wasn't very well, or dead tired, and I had the job of lighting it on my own. After struggling with it for a night or two, I had an idea. The chapel was lit by several big hanging oil lamps which had to be filled. Consequently, there was always a can of paraffin handy. The next night I put on the crumpled paper, the kindling, and a hod of coke. Finally, I poured on some paraffin. I then shut up the top, opened the bottom, and lit up the oil‑soaked contents. There was a tremendous 'whoomp', flames shot out of the bottom halfway across the chapel, singeing my socks en route, and scaring me silly. It certainly did the trick, and burnt like a bomb. I never did dare to tell Mother, but I never had any more trouble with that old devil of a stove when I was on my own.
The other fire we had to light was in the old School Room. This had an ordinary grate, and was a docile little fellow. I liked going there on my own to light this one. It was a long, narrow room and had, I believe, been used as the Village School many years ago. A little wooden bell tower, complete with bell, still stood on the roof. This was a favourite target for us boys with our catapults. Equipped with a pocket full of stones, we would whang away at the bell, every hit being acknowledged with a loud clang.
There was an old cottage nearby, and we crazed the life out of the old lady who lived there, and also her husband if he happened to be at home. The old chap would sally forth with his walking stick, bent on vengeance. He never caught us, for we always had a 'guard' out, and would be safely away into the wood at the first alarm.
As I said before, going back to the old School Room, I liked going down there on my own on winter evenings, and I dare say Mother was pleased enough to get the fire lit. There was a bagatelle table and a dart board, and I would amuse myself on these while the fire was getting through. One thing intrigued me for a long time. In one corner stood a cupboard which was always locked. I tried the doors every time I went, getting more curious each time. Then one evening I found a drawer in a small table, and in that drawer was a key. Lo and behold! it fitted the cupboard, and I couldn't open it quickly enough. I don't know what I really expected to find, but the contents were like Aladdin's Cave to me, being full of books. They were, I discovered later, the remains of a village library, and hadn't been used for years.
I was already fond of reading, but getting enough of the sort of books I liked was a problem. Well, it was a problem no longer. It opened up a new world to me. Dog Crusoe, Treasure Island, Coral Island, Children of the New Forest, were all there and many others. One I remember best of all was called 'Spun Yarn and Spindrift', all about a boy about my own age who sailed on a windjammer, was shipwrecked on a coral island, and of course eventually rescued. I can't remember who wrote it, but it was just my 'cup of tea', and I literally devoured it. Mother didn't mind me borrowing them; in fact she was pleased enough that I had something to occupy my mind in the long winter evenings.
Curiously enough, some ten years ago I had occasion to visit the old place. Imagine my surprise when I saw the old cupboard still hanging on the wall, still containing half a dozen or so of the old books, still in good shape, after a lapse of some sixty odd years.
During the year, one of the fishermen in the village would, when he wan't fishing, get in a big supply of faggots. Hedge cutting and tree lopping would provide him with plenty of these. He sold these round the village at fourpence a faggot. Once a year he rattled his way down the lane at the back of our house with his borrowed horse and trolley, and drop off our annual supply. These faggots would of course be all green wood. I stood these up on end on one side of our wood-yard, where they would gradually dry out ready for use the following year, or as Mother said, when they were 'seer'. I remember wondering how she started off, as in the first year she would have had only green wood. I used to stand chopping away trying to think this out, but in the end I had to ask her. She explained that anyone could always buy dry over-year faggots from the woodman who always kept a good supply. The trouble was, these cost sixpence a faggot, so Mother, by her system, saved quite a bit over the years. I had to chop a fair pile each week as there were fires to light nearly every night in the wintertime.
The chapel stove was a large, pot‑bellied affair which stood just opposite the entrance doors. It was an old devil to light, and even looked like a malevolent demon, with ears, nose and mouth. It must have been one of the most temperamental stoves ever designed. Mother and I would walk the few yards to the chapel, loaded up with paper and firewood in a skep. First of all we had to stand outside the door, and try and decide which way the wind was blowing. "Was it from Bungay way, Beccles way, Norwich way, or from the railway?" This little problem being decided, we went in.
The object of all this was that there was a certain system to follow for certain winds. A particular window must be opened a particular distance, a certain door to be open or shut, and meticulous setting of the draught controls. We then put in the paper, covered that with a layer of sticks, followed by a couple of shovelfuls of coke, and light up. If you got it wrong, or particularly a windless night, that awful monster of a stove would bellow forth clouds of acrid smoke, until one couldn't see across the chapel. We would stand there helplessly, eyes streaming, and praying that the wretched thing would 'go'. When it did condescend to go, we piled on more coke. For all its tricks, when it was really on the draw, it used to get pretty well red‑hot. The varnish on the ends of the pews near the stove would sizzle, and no‑one could sit within yards of it. It definitely had a mind of its own, for it was just as difficult to check as it was to light it.
I had some fun and games with it when on occasions when Mother wasn't very well, or dead tired, and I had the job of lighting it on my own. After struggling with it for a night or two, I had an idea. The chapel was lit by several big hanging oil lamps which had to be filled. Consequently, there was always a can of paraffin handy. The next night I put on the crumpled paper, the kindling, and a hod of coke. Finally, I poured on some paraffin. I then shut up the top, opened the bottom, and lit up the oil‑soaked contents. There was a tremendous 'whoomp', flames shot out of the bottom halfway across the chapel, singeing my socks en route, and scaring me silly. It certainly did the trick, and burnt like a bomb. I never did dare to tell Mother, but I never had any more trouble with that old devil of a stove when I was on my own.
The other fire we had to light was in the old School Room. This had an ordinary grate, and was a docile little fellow. I liked going there on my own to light this one. It was a long, narrow room and had, I believe, been used as the Village School many years ago. A little wooden bell tower, complete with bell, still stood on the roof. This was a favourite target for us boys with our catapults. Equipped with a pocket full of stones, we would whang away at the bell, every hit being acknowledged with a loud clang.
There was an old cottage nearby, and we crazed the life out of the old lady who lived there, and also her husband if he happened to be at home. The old chap would sally forth with his walking stick, bent on vengeance. He never caught us, for we always had a 'guard' out, and would be safely away into the wood at the first alarm.
As I said before, going back to the old School Room, I liked going down there on my own on winter evenings, and I dare say Mother was pleased enough to get the fire lit. There was a bagatelle table and a dart board, and I would amuse myself on these while the fire was getting through. One thing intrigued me for a long time. In one corner stood a cupboard which was always locked. I tried the doors every time I went, getting more curious each time. Then one evening I found a drawer in a small table, and in that drawer was a key. Lo and behold! it fitted the cupboard, and I couldn't open it quickly enough. I don't know what I really expected to find, but the contents were like Aladdin's Cave to me, being full of books. They were, I discovered later, the remains of a village library, and hadn't been used for years.
I was already fond of reading, but getting enough of the sort of books I liked was a problem. Well, it was a problem no longer. It opened up a new world to me. Dog Crusoe, Treasure Island, Coral Island, Children of the New Forest, were all there and many others. One I remember best of all was called 'Spun Yarn and Spindrift', all about a boy about my own age who sailed on a windjammer, was shipwrecked on a coral island, and of course eventually rescued. I can't remember who wrote it, but it was just my 'cup of tea', and I literally devoured it. Mother didn't mind me borrowing them; in fact she was pleased enough that I had something to occupy my mind in the long winter evenings.
Curiously enough, some ten years ago I had occasion to visit the old place. Imagine my surprise when I saw the old cupboard still hanging on the wall, still containing half a dozen or so of the old books, still in good shape, after a lapse of some sixty odd years.
posted by curlybonce | 2:40 pm
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