Religion

Religion formed a very large part of village life in those days. The village tended to be split into three groups, Church‑goers, Chapel‑goers, and those who went nowhere at all. The chapel diehards used to tolerate those who went nowhere rather better than they did the church‑goers. There wasn't a lot of love lost either way. Even the chapel folk were subdivided into small cliques. I didn't realise it then, but this narrow‑minded outlook couldn't have been much of an example to the other villagers. Notwithstanding all that, the chapel was very much the hub round which village life revolved. There were generations of staunch Wesleyans behind both Father and Mother, and we followed in their footsteps without question, especially as we lived next door to the chapel. Father met Mother, as did numerous other couples, at chapel functions, and the new generation followed suit.

There was always something on at chapel. Monday afternoon sewing meetings, Tuesday evening service, Wednesday prayer meeting, and Thursday Bible classes. Sundays were full, with Sunday School in the mornings, and then afternoon and evening services. No work of any kind was done on a Sunday. Even the 'heathen', as we tended to look on the non‑worshippers, seemed to call a sort of truce, no gardening, no work in the home, or anything else. In our house it meant dressing up in our Sunday best first thing, ready for breakfast and Sunday School. Sunday newspapers were strictly barred. When radio started, we weren't allowed to listen to Luxembourg because of the dance music. However, being brought up in that semi‑puritan atmosphere, I thought little about it till I grew older, when it all seemed a bit silly.

Father didn't rule us with a rod of iron by any means, but we knew what he liked and what he didn't, and we respected his wishes. When he died, Mother mellowed considerably. She liked me to take part in chapel life, but as I grew up I did less and less of this and went to church instead, chiefly I fancy because there were different girls in the congregation. Even when Father was alive, we never had family prayers, but we did have a Bible reading each night, and we were expected to kneel by our beds and say our own prayers. There was in those days, and maybe there still is, an organisation called the Scripture Union. For a copper or two a small card could be bought which set out a passage of scripture to be read each night. I heard it said, that by this method the whole of the Bible would be read in a year or so.

On Sundays when I was small, I would accompany Father as he shuffled in his slow way on his crutches to the afternoon service. Mother came along later with the older children. There were two rows of pews for the choir which faced the congregation, and Father and I always sat in these. He had a very powerful bass voice, and sitting beside him it was only natural that I soon began to pick up the bass in the good old hymns. Indeed, it was far easier for me to do this than sing the treble, for Father's voice drowned all other sounds in the immediate vicinity. I suppose singing a part is something like riding a bike or swimming ‑ once mastered it is with you for life. Even today, on my infrequent visits to church, there are not many hymns to which I cannot sing the bass, although it may have been many years since I heard that particular tune.

Sitting facing the congregation in chapel had one particular drawback as far as I was concerned. All my life I could fall asleep at the drop of a hat. During the seemingly interminable sermons, the warmth and the droning of the preacher's voice were as good as sleeping pills to me. I sat there fighting a losing battle against drowsiness. My neck would turn to rubber, and my head wobbled about as sleep overcame me. I must have looked a right "Charley", and I felt as if all the congregation was looking at me, having private wagers as to how long I could survive.

I wasn't the only one to be affected in this way, but if you were sitting in the congregation, at least no‑one except the choir could see you. One of the local farmers was far worse than me. Fortunately for him he sat in the back pew of all. He not only slept through the sermon, but the last hymn as well. Everyone else was standing up singing while he slept blissfully on. On one occasion he had to be awakened after the service was over. It was a good job someone did this, or I reckon he would have been there still, all ready for evening service.

The services were marathon efforts; opening hymn ‑ prayer ‑ second hymn, first lesson third hymn, sermon, then the closing hymn and final prayer. It started at two‑thirty, and if you were lucky would finish at four. When we had a parson preaching which happened about once a month, the whole service tended to be much shorter and more interesting. On all the other Sundays we had a so‑called local preacher. They came from all walks of life. It was only necessary to 'hear the call', so to speak, preach a trial sermon or two, and you were on the official list. Once a quarter a little booklet called 'The Plan' would be issued, and this set forth the dates and names of the preachers who would visit you during that quarter.
Most of the local preachers were indeed staunch, dedicated Christians. The only trouble was that most of them had the idea that to be a good sermon, it must be very long as well. Even the first prayer would sometimes last ten minutes or more, so it was no wonder people got sleepy. The same preacher usually took both afternoon and evening services, which meant someone had to ask him to tea. Some of the more popular ones would be fixed up in no time, but some of the others had to hang around after the service, while the various ladies kept waiting for someone else to ask him, or maybe slip out quietly to avoid being the hostess. Of course, none of the preachers were ever left stranded, but they must have felt decidedly uncomfortable at times, waiting to be invited.

It was an entirely different kettle of fish when the parson came. Competition was fierce to see who could land 'the big fish'. The good ladies would line up in a twittering line, waiting to shake hands with the parson, and trying to pluck up courage to ask him to tea. One lady who was always a hot favourite was a farmer's wife renowned for her 'good table'. To go there meant a big plateful of home‑cured ham, and plenty of fresh cream to go with the 'afters'. I had a rather unjustified feeling that the parson had already made his mind up where to go, and would take the necessary steps to ensure himself a real slap‑up tea. He would make a beeline for the lady before anyone else got the chance to ask him. Not that I blamed him one little bit; in fact, I often wished I was going with him, greedy little urchin that I was. We always had a nice tea on Sundays, with egg and cress salad, but you couldn't really compare this with ham and fresh cream. So usually the lady carried off her prize in triumph, leaving the others no doubt thinking there would be another time.

As well as the parson's visit bringing forth the best food and china, it was also an occasion for superior speech ‑ the hostess and family would try to forget their local accents! The trouble was that as soon as anyone tried to speak 'properly', they were said to be 'framing' ‑ viz ‑ "Did you hear her speaking to the parson? Wasn't she framing!" I don't know if it was called this generally in Norfolk, or just peculiar to our district. It is always difficult to be consistent when trying to speak differently from one's natural dialect. It was bandied around that one good lady properly put her foot in it when she spoke to the parson as he settled into his easy chair. "Now are you quite comfortable, or would you like another 'kewshon'?"

We did have a bit of a shock, albeit a pleasant one, when one day Mother collared the current parson for tea. We had finished the meal, and were about to start talking when he spotted my youngest sister's piano. He asked if he could have a tune. We all said "Please do", so he got out the stool, opened the keyboard and we sat there waiting for "Rock of Ages", "Onward Christian Soldiers", or something else in that strain. There was just Mother, my sister and I, and to our utter amazement he rolled up his sleeves and burst out with a real honky-tonk version of some of the popular song hits of the day. Mother sat there dumbfounded, not knowing whether to approve or not ‑ dance music, and on a Sunday at that! She must have thought to herself "If you can't beat' em, join 'em", and soon her feet were tap‑tapping away, in company with my sister and me. For around half an hour he kept us entranced, and when he finished he turned round and said "My word, I enjoyed that! I hope you didn't mind." When later in chapel listening to him preaching, I thought that if he could have dished up some more of that jazz, he would soon have had a chapel full.

Some of the local preachers were a hardy lot. To fulfil their Sunday appointments meant long bike rides, as they were drawn from quite a large area. It must have been no joke, when after evening service, they had to face a ten or twelve mile journey in the freezing darkness. One of these locals lived in our own village. He usually went off on his journey driving a pony and trap, for he was a farmer. I remember once, in the middle of winter, the roads were too bad with snow and ice for him to risk his pony. Not to be beaten, he walked from Kirby to Rumburgh, which must be all of eight or nine miles, took both services, and walked back home arriving about eleven pm. He didn't seem to think it was anything wonderful either. It was his duty, and that was that.

In later years when he didn't feel up to the longer journeys, I used to take him on the back of my motor bike. He must have been well over seventy then. He never seemed to get the idea of leaning forward and gripping me with his knees and I was scared I would 'lose' him on the corners. He sat bolt upright with his bowler crammed down over his ears, and wobbled about all over the place. Mostly I would deliver him, so to speak, come home, and then go back and collect him after evening service. If, as happened occasionally, there was only one service I stayed. He usually asked me to read the lessons, as his eyesight was failing, and I didn't mind this at all. There's one thing for sure, these tough old gents may not have won any prizes for oratory, but they certainly didn't lack in conviction or courage.

One or two in particular have remained firmly fixed in my memories. One who came, I think, from Loddon, was always welcomed by us youngsters. He looked what he was, comical and good‑humoured. He had a peculiar staccato way of speaking, linking two or three words together, then an abrupt pause. There was always something for the young'uns, an anecdote or a story. He obviously liked to hear us laugh, which was a change from the usual death and doom tales we were most likely to hear. One Sunday he came out with this. "And the Lord ‑ said ‑ unto Moses, Ye ‑ shall all have ‑ round noses ‑ excepting Aaron ‑ and ‑ shall have a square'un." Also this one. "And the Lord ‑said ‑ unto Moses, Come forth ‑ but he ‑ came fifth ‑ and lost his place!" This, coupled with the fact that he always preached a short sermon, made him a firm favourite with the boys.

There was also one never‑to‑be‑forgotten occasion when a new 'local' turned up, who had been a member of the Salvation Army. He arrived with two or three friends, complete with cornets, while he brought a big drum. My word, the singing went with a swing that evening. When he started on his sermon, he certainly woke things up. He had a voice like a foghorn and he started relating how he had been 'saved'. "Good people, to see me now, and to have seen me a year ago, would make you realise what miracles God can achieve. I was a miserable creature, bad‑living, hard‑drinking and hard‑swearing. But since I accepted the Lord, I've been happy all the time. In fact, I'm so happy now I could burst this bloody drum", and with that he gave the drum such an almighty whack that the whole congregation seemed to leave their seats for a second or so. It stirred up the old chapel all right, and there were no sleeping members in the congregation after that.

One year a notice appeared to the effect that a fortnight of evangelistic meetings would be held in a marquee on a meadow adjoining the chapel. News of the impending arrival was soon passing along the village grapevine. As the little cavalcade approached there was much peering through curtains and standing round gates. There was a trolley holding the tent, and a wooden living van pulled by cart horses. Of course there was a swarm of kids tagging along behind. The vans turned into the chapel meadow, and the farmer from a neighbouring village unharnessed his horses and departed.

We watched the erection of the tent with great interest, and it made our day when we were asked to lend a hand pulling on the ropes which raised the tent poles. By the time the marquee was ready, the chapel superintendent had arrived. He soon got us busy carrying forms and chairs across from the chapel. The platform complete with harmonium was finished, and we drifted away to await tomorrow, which was Sunday, when the evening service in chapel was cancelled, and by six o'clock the marquee began to fill. By half past it was full, and the service began with one of the rousing old Sankey hymns, accompanied by the evangelist's helper with his harmonium. It was during the first prayer that I began to wonder if it was all that it should have been, or at least all that I had expected. The prayer started off something like this. "Dear Lord, we are indeed honoured by you to bring the Gospel to this village. We come here almost as we were born. We have no money and very little food, but we know you will hear our prayer, and that you will provide." There was a stir in the congregation as he carried on praying, and a lot of whispering. Anyway, after the prayer he really got going. He could certainly put it over, and it wasn't long before you could almost smell your trousers scorching in the hellfire that was waiting outside for all of us unrepentant sinners.

He carried the congregation along with him from one degree of near hysteria to another, until some couldn't hold themselves in check any longer. There were cries of "Help me, Lord", "Save me, I repent", and such like. The climax came when the evangelist called out "Come forth all ye sinners, come out and repent, and be saved from eternal damnation". Dozens walked up to the platform to kneel, many crying openly and praying to be saved.

It all sounds a bit incredible now, but it must be remembered that this was the first taste of revivalist preaching they had ever heard, and this evangelist was certainly a past master at it. When the commotion had died, he went along the rows of the now repentant sinners patting their heads, and saying "Bless you all, you are now truly Christians, so help me to spread the glad tidings." If this was the climax, what seemed to me to be the anti‑climax was soon to follow. The overflowing collection bags made sure they were no longer penniless. Then the good ladies started slipping home, to return with loaves of bread, meat pies, jars of jam, bacon, eggs, tea, butter, and God knows what else. As they deposited their gifts on the platform, he patted their heads and blessed them.

The platform now looked more like a grocer's shop than a place of worship, and in my wicked little mind I imagined them rubbing their hands in anticipation of the feast to come. There was one thing for sure; they certainly lived on the fat of the land while they stayed in our village. It wouldn't have seemed so bad to me if they had asked openly for money and food without bringing God into it ‑ they would have got it just the same. But to ask God for it in that way, and then at the next meeting thank HIM for his answer to prayer, seemed more like hypocrisy to me. They had got to live, certainly but the whole business left rather a nasty taste behind. Mind you, by the end of their stay the size of the congregations had dwindled considerably, and I wasn't the only one who thought that a lot of poor people had been sort of conned out of money and goods they could ill afford. I think most of the menfolk heaved a sigh of relief when the fortnight was over, and the evangelist departed to pastures new.

There were often special functions going on, as well as the regular services. We used to have what were called "Services of Song" once or twice a year. These were in fact religious stories made up of alternate readings and songs. The words of the songs were part of the general story. The choir had a month or so of practising as it was all part‑singing, while the spoken parts were taken by the village schoolmistress. We certainly enjoyed it all, even if the congregation got a bit bored at times. We did one performance at our own chapel, and then we visited neighbouring villages as a help towards their fund‑raising efforts. Refreshments were provided which literally went down well, especially with us younger members.

Once a year, we had our really big day, the Sunday School Anniversary, always held on the Sunday preceding August Bank Holiday. A large marquee was hired with a platform for the choir and children, and seats moved from the chapel, or wherever else we could get them. All the children had to learn recitations or 'pieces' as they were generally called. We always had guests in the choir, including one old chap who always brought his double bass, and sawed away to good effect.

The novelty of having the marquee used to attract a large congregation. Many of the villagers who never came near the chapel all the year would never dream of missing the Anniversary. Often it was a case of standing room only, and there would be around two hundred in the congregation. We always seemed to get a nice day unless I just don't remember the bad ones. It was a lovely atmosphere, the sun shining through the canvas, the gentle creaking of the rope stays, the bright and cheerful hymns, and the colourful congregation all in their Sunday best. It was much of a social occasion as well, with many new dresses getting their first airing. These especially were the main topic of conversation between the ladies afterwards. "Did you see anything like that Mrs X", or "Not at all fit for a Sunday", and "Her dress was last year's dyed". Bless them all, they enjoyed it so much.

As I got older and more girl‑conscious, there was always the chance of giving the glad eye to some visiting young lady, with the chance of a walk after the evening service. Of course, it really was the children's day, with everyone swotting up their 'pieces'. The very worst thing that could happen was to forget one's lines, and have to be prompted, which was looked upon as a bit of a disgrace. It wasn't to be wondered at, really, for to stand alone on the front of the platform faced by the large crowd was quite an ordeal. Now and again some poor little soul would dry up altogether and retire in tears amid sympathetic applause. There was always considerable competition between the children as to who got clapped the loudest and longest. Plenty of good‑humoured arguments arose, but all in all it was a great day.

The following Monday was the best day of all for the youngsters. In the morning seats would be arranged round board and trestle tables. After dinner at home, all the Mums gathered in the marquee, cutting vast piles of sandwiches and arranging all sorts of cakes. About three o'clock all the children sat down and started demolishing the goodies, washed down with mugs of tea. Comparative quiet reigned for a time, except for the steady champing of dozens of youthful jaws. Then, when appetites were satisfied the talking and laughing broke out again, until Grace was said. We then congregated out in the meadow, playing around while the grown‑ups had their teas. Eating and drinking ended, and the washing‑up done, the grown‑ups joined us outside. We were organised into rough age groups, and had races round the meadow for little prizes of a few coppers. There was a high jump using proper equipment made by my brothers years ago, and which came out of cold storage once a year for this occasion.

The men and youths always had a cricket match, and us boys longed for the time when we would be old enough to take part. So the hours went happily by until the soft autumn twilight began to fall. This was the time for the final game, which probably went back scores of years, and which went on until the march of progress put a stop to our outside Anniversary. The hiring of the marquee got too expensive, and the meadow was sold for building plots, but happily this never entered our thoughts at that time.

The last event was a round game called "Here we come gathering Nuts and May". All the young people and a good number of the older ones as well, took part. A huge circle was formed, all hand in hand. A young man or boy was chosen to go in the middle, and the singing would start, everyone dancing as well. "Here we come gathering nuts and may, nuts and may, nuts and may, here we come gathering nuts and may on a cold and frosty morning." I can't remember the intermediate verses, but the penultimate one went "Now it is time to take him a wife, take him a wife" etc. The young man in the centre then walked around the circle and picked a girl who accompanied him back to the middle. Then the last verse rang out, "Now that you're married we wish you joy, father and mother you must obey, love one another like sister and brother, and pray your company to kiss together". So, amid shouts of laughter and calls of "Go on, she won't bite you", or "Hi there, that's enough", the couple would embrace, either bashfully or hungrily, according to their age or inclination. Another lad would then go in the middle and the game went merrily on in the gathering darkness. The darker it got, the more squeals came from the girl in the middle, for no‑one outside could see what exactly was going on. I'm sure many a romance started off by playing Nuts and May on the old chapel meadow. Tired and happy, we all wandered off to our respective homes, to wait another year before it all came round again.

We had another day, almost as unforgettable, when the Harvest Festival was celebrated. The actual Sunday services followed the usual pattern, with the chapel a mass of flowers and all the fruits of the season laid out in every available space. It was the Monday following which really interested us young ones. Anything in the food line was a high spot for us, and this annual 'nosh‑up' gloried in the name of 'Plum Pudding Feast'. In the morning all the ladies gathered at a farmhouse in the village which was the home of the chapel Superintendent. The butcher would arrive with his load of salt beef joints, and soon the copper was full, bubbling away, filling the house with a delectable smell. While the beef was cooking, all were busy at big yellow earthernware bowls preparing the plum pudding mixture to be cooked later. About four o'clock all was ready. We were all hanging about outside the chapel, with appetites like horses. Tables and forms were set out in the School Room.

The children sat down first, nearly driven mad by the wonderful smell of the salt beef, still warm from the cooking. Grace was said and the plates arrived piled up with thick slices of salt beef, potatoes mashed in cream, and chunks of bread and fresh butter. Nothing on earth could possibly have tasted better. We ate and ate, with second helpings for anyone with room to spare, until we were all stuffed to the eyeballs. How we ever managed the hot plum puddings and custard was a mystery. We must have had elastic stomachs, but at last we just couldn't manage another mouthful. We staggered out to play in the twilight while the grown‑ups had their meal. When they had eaten, and the piles of washing‑up done, the tables were cleared away and we all went back for a short service. Prize‑giving followed, which meant books for most everyone for regular attendance at Sunday School, and for collecting money during the year to help various projects.

Last, but not least, all the Harvest gifts were auctioned off. I remember that among all the other harvest far there were always piles of small sweet red pears, which were called Red Robins. By this time we were getting hungry again. We had no money to buy anything, but one good old chap would, every year, buy stones of Red Robins for us to help ourselves, and start stuffing all over again. When it was all over, alas, it was homeward bound for all, and another Plum Pudding Feast was nothing but a memory.

Collecting for Foreign Missions, which we did every year, produced a lot of healthy rivalry. Some dozen of us were given collecting boxes and cards. We walked miles calling on all and sundry, with the hope of swelling the contributions and trying to finish up more money than anyone else. It was all kept a closely‑guarded secret until box opening time. This was done by whoever was the preacher on that Sunday. We sat on the edge of our seats as the various totals on the cards were read out, for as well as a pat on the back from the preacher, there was a special prize for the winner. If it was a close thing, we hoped that the amount on the card would tally with the money in the box. We couldn't check up beforehand as the boxes were locked.

Father used to accompany me on these collecting expeditions when I was small. One incident I remembered well is worth recording. We had been out all afternoon, and had just one call left, at the Hall. the Squire, a staunch church‑goer, hadn't much of a reputation as a supporter of chapel functions, however worthy the cause. As it happened, the front drive to the Hall was much more convenient to us than the back, especially for Father in his wheelchair. So up the front drive we went, to stop outside the front door. In those days the Squire, who employed half the village, was a fearsome figure to us kids. Whenever we met him on his horse, it was a case of touching our cap, with a timid "Good morning, Sir". If we didn't do this, he had been known to report us to the school mistress, and we would be ticked off for not acknowledging our 'betters' in the proper manner.

You can guess it was with considerable apprehension that I tugged on the bell pull at his front door. He must have been in the entrance hall at the time, for he opened the door himself instead of one of the maids. "What do you want?" he said. Father replied that we were collecting for Foreign Missions. The Squire reared up immediately. "What business have you coming to my front door for that! There's a back drive and a back entrance ‑ use them!" As he turned away preparatory to shutting the door, Father called out to him "Well Sir, neither of us are exactly young, and we haven't got many more years to go. Perhaps, when the last day comes and we stand before the Angel of Judgement, I shall be welcomed at the Front Door, but you may not even get in at the back!" And so saying, he turned his chair round and we slowly made our way back to the road. I took a quick glance at the Squire's face, and he looked somewhat flabbergasted. I like to think that Father's words gave him considerable food for thought afterwards.