Introduction

Kirby Cane is one of the small villages nestling in the heart of the Waveney valley.

When viewed from the high ground on each side of the valley, but especially from the Suffolk side, they formed an attractive picture. In the foreground, the winding Waveney wandered along among the lush water meadows on its lazy way towards the sea. As the ground rose beyond the valley, the clumps of willows and poplars gave way to thicker wooded slopes, with clusters of houses and farms forming the hamlets and villages. In Kirby Cane, few of the old dwellings remain unaltered. Now surrounded by scores of identical bungalows, and improved to modern standards, they bear little or no relation to the originals. Inevitably, the way of life has altered in the same way, although there are signs of the return of the old community spirit.

My old home, which had adjoined the Chapel, was pulled down some years ago. All that is left are a few brick ends in the Chapel car park, and the elm tree still standing by the lane at the back. Old Caddy's house is still there, but now forms part of a larger dwelling. The old School Room has been converted into a smart bungalow. Chapel Meadow, the scene of many Sunday School Anniversaries, is covered with bungalows, and the old carpenter's shop and smithy have disappeared altogether.

It may sound a bit 'Irish', but it seems that the best way to relive the old days is to get among the dead! Kirby Cane Church stands isolated, about a mile from the main village. As one enters the churchyard, there stands a magnificent cedar, many hundreds of years old. As I stood and looked, the memories started.

The massive trunk still bears the scars where an unfortunate young villager tried to fell it. His brain was suddenly affected for no apparent reason, and he was found in the middle of the night backing away with his axe.

Almost every gravestone rekindled a memory. Just inside the gate lies "Noddy" Rendlesome and his wife, our next door neighbours for many years. He was acknowledged as a dab hand at catching moles, and I spent many an hour watching him skin the little creatures and pin up the skins on a board to dry in the sun.

Next lay a maiden lady, Miss Youill, who was Noddy's neighbour in life as well as in death. She had her first, and last, motor bike ride when my brother and I fetched her home on the old Triumph and sidecar from the hospital where she died.

Albert Osborne, a much respected citizen, who, amongst other things, taught me to play cribbage. He could turn out the most beautiful copper‑plate writing with each capital letter a joy in itself.

Ben Adcock, who spent a lot of his time as drunk as a lord. At his funeral, the four bearers, me amongst them, were just preparing to lower his coffin when the webbing straps broke. We all catapulted over backwards, and the head of the coffin fell into the grave with a crash. When we had struggled back on to our feet, there was Ben standing on his head in the grave, a most undignified but not altogether surprising way of departing this life.

Billy Read, the greengrocer, who drove his horse and loaded cart into Bungay every week. He would sit in the cart, flicking his whip, and singing 'Rock of Ages, cleft for me ‑ Giddup, y're learsy old bugger ‑ Let me hide myself in Thee!'

The old village came to life as I wandered round ‑ each stone a story. Finally, there was the resting place of Grandad John Harvey, Grandmother Celia, and of Joe and Agnes, my own parents.

What a host of memories came flooding back! Surely, I thought, these were too many and varied to be forgotten, and I promised myself that I would record as much as I could remember, before I, too, became just a memory.

Early days before school

Of life before school, recollections are somewhat scanty. I saw more of Father than most children, as he was always at home. He had been the village carpenter‑cum‑wheelwright‑cum‑undertaker, when a fall from a broken scaffold left him a helpless cripple at the age of 30. Although he lived to be 60, he never walked again without crutches. I can remember sitting on his knee in the wintertime, when Mother was out at work, watching the snowflakes drifting down. There was an old cold frame outside our living room window. The snow would gradually accumulate on top of the frame, and Father could tell almost exactly how many inches had fallen. I always had to check it with an old wooden rule, and he was seldom wrong.

Before I started school, I had a bad bout of scarlet fever and very nearly died, so I was told. There were only three cases in the village, which was a blessing. My bedroom door was draped in a blanket soaked in disinfectant, and my sisters were sent away to aunts and uncles to avoid the risk of contracting the disease. Despite all the doctor's advice, Father insisted on sleeping with me all the time. Every night when he came to bed he would pray for me, and also as God to prevent him being infected.

While I was still bedridden, my brothers bought me all sorts of toys to keep me amused. One of these was a clockwork aeroplane. This was suspended by a string from the ceiling. When wound up and released, it would buzz merrily round and round the bedroom.

My doctor was a pleasant young fellow named Simms. He took a real liking to that aeroplane and spent most of his visiting time playing with it. So much so that I was glad when he went, so I could have another go myself. When the spring eventually broke, I don't know who was the most upset, him or me.

Prayer was Father's answer to everything, and as I got better, and he kept well, he was convinced that God had done his job. When I got well enough to look out of the bedroom window, I would watch the children in the road. When they got to the Chapel, they covered their mouths and noses with their handkerchiefs and ran past like mad. When I got well enough to go out to play, I was a sort of pariah for a time, but that soon passed.

Even at that early age, the smithy and the carpenters shop were favourite places of mine. My parents didn't mind me going to the carpenter's, but they took a dim view of the smithy's, as the language floating around there was, to put it mildly, rather ripe at times! I came home one day, went to Father sitting in his chair and said "Father, what's an old bee?"

"Why", answered Joe, "it's something like a wasp. You know what they look like."

"Oh, I don't mean a wasp bee."

"What do you mean then?" rejoined Father, looking a bit blank.

"Oh, I heard the blacksmith say to a horse, 'Stand still you old bee', and I wondered what he meant!"

Poor Father didn't know what to say, except to warn me not to go there again.

My first memories of Mother were of hard work from dawn to dusk. With Father crippled, and my brothers and sisters at school, she was the sole breadwinner. It seemed such a shame that just as Father's business was nicely established, the shattering blow of his accident should fall.

About Mother's early life before her marriage I know very little. She was born in Broome, a neighbouring village, living there with her brother and sisters until she was six or seven, when her mother died, leaving five of them motherless, all of school age. Her brothers and sisters went to live with various relations, while the eldest left school early to see after her father.

Mother was taken over by an aunt in London. She was a good, kindly soul, and did all she could to be a mother to motherless Mum. She got Mother into a good school, where she stayed until she was about twelve, when her father died. Circumstances then arose which made it necessary for her to return home to Broome. She had two years of schooling left, and I well remember her telling me that when she went back to the village school she was way above the average standard due to the superior teaching she had received in London. She even helped out on the teaching side.

When she left school, she got a job in a silk factory in Ditchingham. All the old factory buildings still remain, although it is now a modern maltings. The only evidence of its former use is the number of small windows now bricked up. The factory employed a large number of local men and women. As in any factory there were all sorts employed. I gather that Mother's stay there wasn't too happy. She was a staunch chapel‑goer, and the language and horseplay which were part and parcel of factory life didn't suit Mother at all. As she was a good‑living and religious girl she came in for more than her fair share of a generally rough time. No doubt this contributed to her early marriage.

Chapel life was flourishing in those days. It was customary to visit the neighbouring chapels when something special was on, and it was through Mother visiting Kirby Cane that she caught Father's eye. It wasn't long before "pretty little Agnes" and Joe were courting. As her own parents were both dead, it was no surprise when they decided to "tie the knot" although Mother was only nineteen. Nippers began to arrive regularly. I was the youngest of six and, so I have been told, hopelessly spoilt, which was not altogether surprising.

Early School days

The village school, midway between the two villages it served, Kirby Cane and Stockton, was a good mile from our home. It is still there, but now a private dwelling.

When I started school at five, two of my sisters were still there, making being at school considerably easier for me at first, as I was still very much the baby boy at home. This didn't help me at all, as the other youngsters, a lot tougher than I, soon took advantage and would have made my life a misery if it had not been for my sisters.

I very soon found out, however, that sisters or no sisters, I had to stand up for myself. I had one advantage, which was the fact that I could run a lot faster than the others. My motto, obviously, was that he who fights and runs away, lives to fight another day.

We were a rough, tough lot of little urchins, and I was soon as tough as the rest, ready to gang up on some other new arrival.

Getting ready for school was always one big rush. There was washing, or in my case being washed, in a big enamel bowl in the cold old kitchen. Mother would be standing by to comb someone's hair, tie boot-laces and anything else that cropped up. Then someone would spot a hole in my socks, and Mother had to leave off cutting sandwiches to mend it, for she would rather we went hungry than go to school with a hole unmended. What with getting us off, I often wonder how she coped, but cope she did.

My sisters had the timetable for getting to school all tied up. We had to leave, no sooner and no later than a quarter to nine. We would walk through the village, picking up more stragglers as we went. Here and there was a frantic mother trying to run but impeded by her long skirts, to catch someone who had forgotten his or her dinner. When we reached the Mission Room the school bell could be heard just starting up. Then, with me between them holding their hands, my sisters would run the rest of the way. I'm sure my feet never touched the ground for yards at a time. We would dash into the cloakroom just as the bell stopped. This gave us time to answer the register. Woe betide anyone who was late. This meant the cane, and no‑one wanted that, for the headmistress really laid it on. She was a real tartar, and no doubt she had to be to keep on top of us lot.

One horrible trick, if one of the boys was out of favour, was to take his boots off halfway to school and throw them over the hedge. By the time he had found them and put them back on, he was sure to be late. This meant the inevitable whacking, while the rest of us horrible little urchins watched with great relish.

We grew up to respect our headmistress, for she showed neither fear nor favour. Toe the line, and you were all right, but step out of it and you got whacked. It was as simple as that. Poor soul, she was taken ill and died, all in a few days, in the 1918 flu epidemic, together with others in the village.

The Infant mistress was a benevolent soul. I can see her now as she limped the long mile and a half from her home. Favouring her bad leg, summer and winter, she must have walked hundreds of miles over the years. She was always dressed in a long black dress, complete with bonnet, which rarely left her head even in lesson time. She was kindness itself, and did her job well. She got 'played up' in a mild sort of way, which was inevitable I suppose, but it was all good‑natured.

One amusing little memory of "Little Room Days" springs to mind. When one of us wanted to go to the toilet during class-time, we had to put up our hand and ask "Please Teacher, may I leave the room". At playtime, when everyone else had rushed outside, one little lad was left behind, weeping copiously. "Whatever is the trouble, Sonny?" said the Infant mistress. Amid sobs and sniffs he spluttered "Oh dear, Teacher, I've left the room on the floor!"

Once a week the parson came and took religious instruction. This consisted mainly of learning by heart parts of the Prayer Book and Bible. Believe it or not, this led indirectly to a bit of a crisis. I suppose roughly half the children were members of the village Wesleyan Chapel, whose parents, mine included, were "dyed in the wool" nonconformists. Everything went smoothly enough until we got to the Creed. When we reached ‑"I believe in God the Father Almighty, Maker of Heaven and Earth, and in Jesus Christ his only Son our Lord" ‑ the parson turned to the East in the time‑honoured way and bowed, expecting all of us to follow suit.

Now while our parents just tolerated the Church Prayer Book, they drew the line at this bowing business which smacked of what they called 'High Church'. In fact, to them it was almost heresy. This put our parents on the spot. Of course, us kids couldn't care less, and would gladly have stood on our heads if the parson so wished, just to relieve the monotony.

It certainly created quite a stir in the village. Numerous inquests were held in homes and chapel by our parents. Should we be told to defy the parson and not move hand or foot when the critical moment arrived, or should someone approach the rector to see if he was going to insist on the bowing?

The problem, luckily, solved itself. The parson left the village for pastures new, to be replaced by another who was 'Low Church' and didn't even bow himself. So Father, who had been praying fervently to be guided to make the right decision, looked on the outcome as a direct answer to prayer, and duly thanked the Almighty for helping out.

Periodically the school dentist rolled up with his horse‑drawn caravan. We didn't like this at all, especially when our turn came to enter what we looked on as a sort of Spanish Inquisition. A fair number came out weeping, to regale us who were waiting with hair‑raising stories of torture, which didn't help at all. However, we all survived, buoyed up with the thought that it would be a year before he came again.

As well as the dentist, a school nurse rolled up at intervals. She was more concerned with cleanliness than health, especially our heads. She would carefully comb through our hair with a steel comb with very fine teeth, a sort of nit remover. The night before this inspection was one long session of hair‑washing and scrubbing at home, for Mother would rather have been struck by lightning than send one of her offspring to school with a dirty head. Next day we couldn't wait to get home and tell all and sundry gleefully who it was who had nits!

I suppose a lot of what went on was sheer narrow‑mindedness, but this wasn't to be wondered at, as gossip was food and drink in the closely‑knit village. Drinking, swearing, card‑playing and even dancing were the devil's playthings. I knew just what to expect if I was heard swearing; the trouble was that if there was something you shouldn't do, you wanted to do it even more.

One afternoon we were happily on our way home from school, with all sorts of horseplay in progress, when someone hit me in the face with a dry cow-pat. I turned round shouting "You dirty bugger". The dreaded word had no sooner left my lips when our Sunday School superintendent who was a farmer, popped up from behind the hedge. I couldn't have been more shattered if it had been the Angel Gabriel himself!

"I heard that, Johnny, and I'll make dal well sure your father knows too". The fact that he had sworn as well in all senses except uttering the accepted swear word made no difference. 'Dal' was acceptable, but 'damn' ‑ oh dear no.

For the rest of that week I went indoors in fear and trembling in case Father had heard; not that he would have hit me, but he had a certain way of telling anyone off which made them feel lower than the lowest worm. However, I never heard any more about it, except that at Sunday School the following Sunday, he said in front of everyone that certain little boys had been heard swearing, and looking at me all the time!

Horseplay in Sunday School was strictly taboo, but I do remember one occasion when one of the boys turned up with a miniature catapult made of wire and bicycle valve rubber, with air gun pellets for ammunition. All was still, with teacher writing texts on a blackboard when suddenly there was a startled yelp, and one of the boys in the front jumped out with his hand clapped to the back of his neck. "Whatever's the matter Ben" said the teacher. "I've been stung" bawled Ben. So teacher had a look, and sure enough there was an angry‑looking red spot on Ben's neck.

For a few minutes there was hubbub, with everyone hunting for a non‑existent wasp. After a few minutes Fred out with his catapult again, took careful aim, and let go. Unluckily for Fred, the intended recipient bent down at the critical moment and the pellet whizzed over his shoulder to hit teacher on his ample behind. This was enough, and we all had to go to the front, one at a time, to have our pockets examined. Fred hurriedly slipped the catapult into his neighbour's pocket, but when his turn came he found to his dismay there were two or three pellets left in his pocket. Teacher, holding Fred firmly by the ear disappeared into the kitchen where, judging by the noise, Fred got his just desserts!

We knew that when we moved on from the "Little Room" to the "Big Room" that all the playing up would come to an abrupt end, for the headmistress had a certain cure for this.

One favourite game was played when one of the very small boys wanted to go to the toilet. He would put up his hand in the time‑honoured way and ask "Please teacher, may I leave the room?" Immediately half a dozen other hands would be raised, and there was a chorus of "Please teacher may I go with him to do his flies up?", with a wild stampede to the toilets.

The boys' lavatory was a brick place, only partly roofed and with a wall some five feet high. Periodically we would have a competition to see who could wee over the wall. Someone would give a sweet or an apple for the best effort. Some onlookers were astounded one day to see a stream pouring way over the wall. We rushed round to see who it was, and found one boy bending over, with another standing on his back to gain height. I reckon he was disqualified on the spot!

At dinner time in the winter, we all gathered round the roaring fire in the "Big Room". There would be a scramble for the toasting fork. The lucky winner would have first go, poking the impaled dripping or butter sandwich through the fireguard to make toast. The trouble was that with bread buttered on one side, the toast would curl up. Often it would drop off, and there would be a frantic effort to retrieve it. If we couldn't, someone would dissolve into tears to see half his dinner disappear in flames and smoke. I can almost smell the melting butter and burnt toast now. We all had bottles of cold tea, and plenty of short cakes, and didn't take any harm.

If the season was right, we could always supplement our diet with a turnip or a swede from the fields on the way home. The trouble was that no‑one had a knife with which to peel them, so we had to do it the hard way. The root would be knocked off on a convenient gate‑back, and then we would bite the peel off, spitting out equal amounts of dirt and skin. After eating we would spit on our jacket sleeves and 'wipe' our faces, arriving home filthy but happy. This meant a good telling‑off from Mother, but we expected this and didn't mind. There's nothing much sweeter or tastier than a young turnip or swede, eaten raw. Peas were not grown much in those days, but if there was a field of these handy, we would descend on them like a flock of pigeons. The farmers didn't seem to mind. No doubt they knew we were hungry, and turned a blind eye.

It was amazing how rumours of anything eatable got around. One farmer had barrels of molasses for mixing with the cattle food. He kept this in an isolated barn, and for a few days we had a right royal time knocking back the molasses until we felt sick.

One of the older boys had a part‑time job feeding pigs which were kept in an orchard not far from school. When he felt like distributing 'largesse' he would take one of us with him, to gorge ourselves on the sweet apples while he fed the pigs. He was certainly one of the most popular boys in school while the fruit lasted. This went on some time until the owner, turning up unexpectedly, caught one of the boys up an apple tree. He was rather reticent about what happened, but we noticed he couldn't sit still for long at a time on the hard wooden school forms, and we formed our own conclusions.

Coming home from school was a vastly different procedure from going. There was no hurry about this, and there was always some devilment to occupy our time. I'm sure that the older boys got more fun out of us than we did. When we got about halfway home ‑ a safe distance from both school and home, the older boys would hold two of us younger ones face to face. By pushing us one into another, and a bit of bullying, we would have to start to fight. After a bang or two on the nose, we didn't need any more encouragement and were at it hammer and tongs. There was no science, but plenty of whole‑hearted endeavour. The first one to start crying or run away was adjudged the loser. The winner would then be started off against another boy, and so it went on.

There were mostly three of us involved, and funnily enough despite the daily fights, we were always the best of friends even in later years. One of us, who went fishing when he left school, died tragically when he fell overboard in Lowestoft Harbour. It was a very sad business, as in those days the village was like one large family. The villagers turned out in force for the funeral. It was all sadly impressive. The hand hearse, surmounted by the coffin covered in flowers, was pulled by four of us, all old school mates.

As we slowly made our way the mile or so from his home to the church, there were no sounds except the crunching of the wheels on the gravel road, the creaking of the leather‑covered springs, and the rustle of many footsteps. As we passed the 'High Hill', it was inevitable that I recalled the daily fights, and the many happy hours we had spent playing together. I suppose it was one of those occasions one never forgot ‑ the quiet service at the grave side, then the long walk back. Some of the mourners went back to their own homes, and some nearer friends and relatives went to Jack's old home for tea and sandwiches, which was customary in those days, before leaving the sad and lonely parents to mourn in solitude.

Back to school days again: we got a new excitement when a telegraph line was erected along the school road. There was one place where the wires passed through the branches of an oak tree. We would climb the tree, and apprehensively put our ears to the wire, half expecting to be struck to death by an electric shock. Braving the consequences, we would listen in the hope of hearing the magic message. It was all in vain, as all we could hear was the whining of the wind vibrating through the wires. At least it satisfied our curiosity for the time being.

Inevitably, I suppose, in those days of catapults, we soon found out that white porcelain insulators which carried the wires were breakable. They proved an irresistible target, disintegrating with a satisfying bang when hit. We create nowadays about vandalism by the youngsters, but that isn't a product of the new generation, I'm sorry to say. We were a destructive lot of little demons when the urge came on. We knew well enough we were doing wrong, but still did it just for the devil of it. After a week or two, the village bobby found out what was going on. He called at the school and reported the matter to the headmistress.

As usual, she put the fear of death into us. She promised that the very next time any similar trouble was reported, she would personally visit our homes and tell our parents. That did it, for kind as our parents were, home discipline was rigid. We knew very well of the dire outcome if this ever reached our parents' ears. I suppose this is one of the big differences between those days and the present, for now a lot of the parents seem to be totally indifferent to the antics of their offspring especially where religion is concerned.

If you happened to be caught while engaged in some wrongdoing, justice was swift and complete. One of our gang was up a signpost busily engaged in sawing off one of the arms, when the bobby arrived all unexpectedly. In those days the signposts were much higher than they are today, and George, well and truly trapped, climbed up a lot higher and stood on the top. The bobby stood at the foot of the post, grinning, and said "Well, George, we will see who gets tired first". As you may be sure, it was George. He jumped down, hoping to escape, only to be met halfway to the ground with a huge and heavy boot up his backside, and another for luck to 'help' him on his way as he hit the ground.

A lot of our activities were seasonal. Spring was birds-nesting time. We would team up in twos and threes, and for a week or two all else was forgotten. My mate was the nest spotter, and I was the tree climber. I shudder to think of the scores of nests we despoiled, taking hundreds of eggs. Conservation was an unknown word. We used to 'blow' the eggs, pricking a hole in each end with a thorn, and blowing out the contents. Some boys would suck them, but after making myself sick two or three times, I left that activity strictly to the others. The eggs were stuck with gum on to a sheet of stiff cardboard, with the names written alongside. There was a large coloured chart on the wall in our schoolroom, which helped us to identify the various sorts. A good deal of swapping went on to complete our collections. I know now, of course, that it was totally wrong to do this, but then our little consciences were completely clear. We just didn't know any better, and no‑one told us.

Summer would bring out the bows and arrows. We hunted through the woods and coppices to find a piece of hazel wood, or 'nuttery' as we called it, the right length and thickness for the bow. The arrows were made from the dry, strong reeds from the marshes. For the 'business' end, a short piece of elder, with the pith pushed out, would slip nicely over the reed. The other end was notched to take the bowstring, and finally split for the feather flights. These were really lethal weapons, but we would shoot at each other with gay abandon. More by luck than judgement, I guess, I never heard of any serious injury. We would hunt birds as well, but these were never in much danger, as to get within a foot or so was considered good shooting.

Mention of the marshes reminds me of other activities by the streams and the river, mostly pike-snaring and eel-picking. For the former, we had a long pole, with a wire terminating in a noose suspended from one end. The idea was to find a pike basking in the sunlit water. They would lie there, perfectly still except for an occasional flick of the tail to counter the slow current. We would stand on the bank, taking care that our shadow didn't disturb the fish. The noose was lowered very gently into the water, a yard or so in front of the pike, and then carefully manoeuvred up to and then over its body. A quick jerk, and hopefully out would come the pike. Unfortunately, most times the pike was more alert than we were, leaving us with a noose full of nothing except weeds. On very rare occasions we were successful, and ran home in triumph with our prize. This meant that Mother had to clean it and soak it in salt water before frying it. I pretended to enjoy it, but I never did really like freshwater fish.

Eel picking was a much more satisfactory way of getting a cheap meal. The father of one of the boys had an eel pick, which we borrowed. It was of sheet iron, roughly triangular in shape, with barbed slots cut into one end, and fixed to a pole at the other. The drill was to plunge the pick into the weeds lying on the stream bottom, withdraw it, and then plunge it in again. We started at the far bank, and worked back to our side. The eels, if there were any, would be forced into the slots, and retained by the barbs. On a good day, it didn't take long to get a pail full of writhing eels. We didn't like them much ourselves, but there were plenty who did, and would give us a few coppers for the catch.

Late summer meant harvest, and harvest meant rabbits. The news that a farmer had started cutting his corn went through the village like wildfire. In no time at all the field was surrounded by us youngsters, all armed with knobbly sticks. The self-binder, drawn by a team of sweating Shires or Suffolks, would slowly gobble up the standing corn, spitting out the tied sheaves in orderly rows. These would be stood up in 'shocks' to dry, and later carted to the stack-yard.

The first hour or so of cutting would be fairly quiet, just the odd rabbit who got out while the going was good. The real fun started as the standing corn got smaller and smaller, when the rabbits would start to bolt in earnest. The excitement and noise was unbelievable, rabbits running all over the place, each one chased by a horde of kids whacking away at anything that moved, and dogs barking madly.

When the last round of the binder finished off the field, all the dead rabbits were laid in a row. We stood there in a fever of apprehension, in case there wouldn't be enough to go round. The farmer, picking out all the best for himself and his men, would dole out the rest to us kids.

Mother was always delighted when I turned up with a nice young rabbit, and next day we would feed royally on hot rabbit pie. Some of the farmers were noted for their meanness, and us lads knew their reputations only too well. When we went to their fields, as soon as we caught a rabbit, it would craftily be hidden in a ditch or hedgerow. Later in the evening, when everyone else had gone home, we used to sneak back and recover it. One of my pals had long trousers, and he walked, somewhat awkwardly 'tis true, off the field with a rabbit tied to his braces and hanging down inside his trouser leg!

The only trouble with harvest time was that after a couple of weeks, we got heartily sick of rabbit pie, so we got a bit artful. We would still enjoy the fun of catching rabbits, but instead of taking them home we took them to an old chap in the village who would give us a penny for the skins. There would be a quick rush to the village shop for a bag of sherbet, a stick of liquorice, or anything else in the sweet line. When we got home, and Mother asked if we had caught any rabbits, we unblushingly said no.

Harvest over, out came the pop-guns. You will have gathered by now that if we couldn't make the current weapon, or get someone to make it for us, we went without. It was as simple as that, for there was certainly no money about with which to buy toys. I was lucky because with my brothers now running the carpenters business, I had access to the shop and the tools. Couple this with the fact that in their wood-yard grew that indispensable component of pop-guns ‑ elder wood ‑ you can guess I was in great demand. A nice piece of straight elder, free of knots, and with a pith large enough to take an average acorn, was selected. The pith would be pushed out with an iron rod, and a plunger made from hazel wood, carefully trimmed to fit. The end of the plunger was gently banged on a stone till a fibrous end was formed. We knew where the oak trees were which had acorns the correct size, and after a visit to these we were in business.

One acorn was inserted in the big end, and pushed up to the other end with the plunger. Then another acorn in the big end just started on its way. With both hands holding the gun, and the end of the plunger pressed against one's stomach, a good hefty push would expel the acorn, leaving the other ready for the next loading. There were no anaemic pops like a bought gun, but a really satisfying bang, accompanied by a puff of steam caused by the moist compressed air.

We really did have fun with these. Make‑believe battles were the order of the day, with acorns flying all over the place. They really did sting when a hit was scored, and when bedtime came along there would be plenty of red blotches as evidence.

Spinning-tops, mostly home‑made, with a hobnail in the business end had their vogue. We only had one road, the main Bungay‑Yarmouth road, which was tarred and sanded, and this was ideal for top‑spinning.

Hoops, too, were popular. We used to go to the village blacksmith for these. Although he was a hard‑living, hard‑drinking and hard‑swearing old chap, he was kindness itself to us kids. He would bend and weld the iron rods to make the hoops, and also mend them if they broke, all for free. Looking back, I guess he could ill afford to give away the iron, or spare the time, but every year he would do this. It's a good job there was little or no traffic, just a few horse‑drawn traps and farm carts, for we raced about all over the road, whacking our hoops along with wooden sticks.

Ditch‑jumping went on all the year round. There were plenty of these down what we called the Canser, a long lane leading to the marshes. We passed the time merrily enough, until inevitably, someone would try to jump a ditch that was just too wide, and plonk into the water. My parents got heartily fed up with me coming home every night with wet feet. My mother told me straight out that if I did it again it would mean a whacking. Alas, the very next night I did it again. Panic stations, then, as I took my boots off and tried to dry my socks by hanging them on the hedge, but all to no avail. I then had what I though was a brain-wave. I would go home, sit on the back doorstep, and howl. Hopefully Mother would forget her promise, and let me off.

All went well so far, as I not only howled, but produced some real tears as well. Mother, however, wasn't born yesterday. She whipped off my boots, and felt my soaking feet. Fortunately her sense of humour triumphed, and it finished with both of us having a good laugh. Mind you, I didn't come home again with wet feet for a week or two, as I daren't tempt providence twice.

I was much luckier than one of my pals. He jumped in up to his waist, and was soaked. He knew his mother was out, and galloped home hoping to get dried and changed before she returned. His luck was dead out, for as he opened the back door, thoroughly bedraggled and dripping water all over the floor, there stood his father.

"Hello boy, you look a bit wet."

"Yes father."

"Well, my boy, seeing as you are soaked to the waist, we'll make a job of it, shall we?"

So saying, he grabbed young Willy, turned him upside down and holding him by his ankles, carried him over to the water butt and plopped him in head first.

"There you are boy, now you're well all over", said father.

It was a long, long time before Willy went home wet again.

There used to be a good deal of competition as to whose boots would 'fence' ‑ that is, keep the water out, best. We called the boots themselves 'fencers'. Actually, they had the tongue stitched in on either side for part of the way. The drill was to find a fairly shallow pool, and walk in gently until the water ran in the lace-holes. They would then be identified by the number of lace-holes that could be covered before they leaked. There would be 'one-hole fencers', 'two-hole fencers', and so on. If anyone had four-hole fencers, he was the envy of everyone until the novelty wore off.

In those days, compared with today, poverty was rife. I suppose everyone got enough to eat, one way or another, but clothes and boots created real problems. Summertime wasn't too bad, but when winter came, clothing the numerous youngsters must have been one enormous headache to our parents.

I was lucky, being the baby of the family, and in hindsight I suppose, practically worshipped by parents, brothers and sisters. Any one of them would gladly go without just to make sure I went to school tidy and warm. I remember in particular having a thick, grey polo‑necked sweater knitted by my sisters, thick short trousers, and a warm coat which Mother had conjured up out of a jacket which Father had been given by one of his numerous friends; knitted woollen socks made by Father, and a sturdy pair of boots from one of the pack-men who called regularly. He was quite happy to be paid monthly, knowing his money was as safe as if it was in the Bank of England.

I'm afraid the majority of youngsters were not so lucky. They rolled up in any old clothes, most of which had been patched and darned over and over again. Old boots and shoes full of holes were common enough, and the poor kids must have been half frozen by the time they reached school. At least, when they arrived, there would be a good fire in the classroom, which meant those lucky ones who sat in the front were roasted, but the others weren't so well off. It was common enough on a wet morning to see the top of the fireguard festooned with wet and steaming socks and stockings until they dried out.

The headmistress had a very cunning scheme as to who should sit where. Every Friday afternoon we had a sort of test on the week's work. She compiled a list of pupils in order of merit. The most successful were allowed to sit at the front, the others being banished to the back. This was a real incentive, and competition was keen. It seemed very fair, as the positions were adjusted weekly. Not that the losers looked at this method with much enthusiasm, and there would be a chorus of "favourite", "Teacher's pet" etc. when the winners came out of school. This lack of suitable clothing wasn't due to deliberate neglect by the parents, at least not in many cases. It was simply because the money wasn't available. Those fathers who had regular jobs on the farms only got enough to survive, but even these were better off than those who went fishing on the drifters at Lowestoft or Yarmouth.

Their normal stint lasted from about September to Christmas. All the rest of the year most of them had to rely on seasonal jobs on the farms ‑ haysel and harvest, ditching and thatching ‑ anything to turn over an honest shilling where they could. There must have been many weeks when they had no income at all. I suppose it was a case of what you never had you never missed. Even so, there seemed to be more contentment than in our present affluent society.

The farm workers were up bright and early. They drew out of their cottages singly, to join up in little knots as they neared their respective farms. Their working gear consisted of hob‑nailed boots which were a must, and over woollen jerseys they pulled their so‑called smocks, a sort of loose waterproof short coat. A big coloured handkerchief would be knotted round their necks. They used a variety of headgear ‑ old trilbys, caps, or in the summer loose wide‑brimmed linen hats. They each carried their bread and cheese and onions, cakes, cold tea etc. in so‑called frail baskets, strong woven straw containers with lids fastened down with wooden pegs.

On reaching their farm, they called the horses in from the pasture to the yard. Here they got busy brushing and combing, while the horses had their 'breakfast' of crushed oats. It was a real thrill to see the horses turning out for the day, their coats shining and harness glittering in the early morning sunlight. They came out of the yard, probably one man leading two heavy horses in order of seniority, with the head horseman leading the way as they plodded, snorting and steaming, to be harnessed up to whatever implement was to be used that day.

When ploughing or drilling, the head man kept an eagle eye on the rest to make sure each furrow or row of corn was straight and true. My father‑in‑law told me that each Sunday morning they would walk round neighbouring farms to see if they could find fault with the quality of the work ‑ all good‑tempered criticism no doubt. Stolid, and in many cases illiterate, they may have been, but the pride they took in their work had to be seen to be believed. No matter how menial the job, there was a right and wrong way of doing it, and only the best was good enough. I'm afraid there is a moral here somewhere for a lot of today's workmen.

All the men, hardly without exception, smoked. Most smoked pipes with their beloved shag or cut plug tobacco, although Woodbines were in fair demand. However hard-up they were, they would manage to find a few coppers for a smoke and a pint in the local.

When we boys felt like doing something especially wicked, we went on the Mill meadow to collect what we called wild tobacco. Heaven only knows what it really was, but when dried it would smoulder away. We went equipped with brown paper, and rolled the stuff into rough cylinders. We had to tie the paper to hold it together. Someone had been detailed to bring a few matches from home. It wasn't long before we were all blowing a cloud of smoke, and feeling quite grown‑up. We hadn't enough sense to smoke one and leave off. Oh no, we must keep smoking one after another. One by one we started to turn various shades of green, followed by horrible spasms of sickness, which more than satisfied our smoking appetites for a week or two!

I remember one day getting twopence for some odd job. I went to the village shop, telling the shopkeeper I wanted some fags for my brother, and coming out with a twopenny packet of five Woodbines. My pal and I retired into an empty pig-sty on the allotments and smoked one each. When it was time to go home to tea, we realised that our breath stank of tobacco. This was soon remedied, as there were plenty of green onions on the allotment, so we pulled a handful and chewed away. It did the trick, for when I got home all Mother said was "What on earth have you been eating onions for? When I give you any in salad, you won't eat them!" I mumbled something about wanting to try some, and no more was said.

When I went to bed that night I had another problem. I had three Woodbines left in the packet, so what on earth could I do with them? I knew Mother turned my pockets out each night to get rid of the accumulated rubbish boys love to acquire, so pockets were definitely out. The only solution I could think of was to put them under my pillow, and then transfer them to my pocket in the morning.

Alas, when I got to school next morning my heart turned over, for I had forgotten the fags. I knew just what to expect when I got home, and I wasn't disappointed! I was really on the carpet with a vengeance, and I got one of the worst verbal hidings it was possible to imagine from both Father and Mother, which I never forgot for many a long day.

Sam the Blacksmith

Sam was a real character. When he was in the mind, and someone paid a bill, he would spend the whole morning in the pub and would have spent the whole day drinking if the landlord hadn't turned him out. Staggering all over the road, he would wend his very devious way back to the smithy, collapse on the floor, and in a few minutes would be snoring his head off.

One day my brothers, whose workshop adjoined the blacksmith's shop, found him in this state. They got two sacks, pulled one up to his waist, put the other over his head, and tied the two together. When he eventually woke up, you can imagine his consternation. You can also imagine his language! It's a wonder the sacks didn't catch fire. The elderly maiden lady who lived in the cottage opposite hurriedly shut her windows and retreated to her back room. My brothers stood and watched, helpless with laughter, until they finally untied him and made themselves scarce before he could get up.

Probably the biggest laugh was when the village parson happened to go past, and saw Sam lying in an unconscious drunken stupor. He took one look, then came running round to the carpenter's shop.

"Oh dear, Mr Harvey", he puffed, "Sam is ill. May I borrow your wheelbarrow, as I must get him home."

My brothers soon found the barrow, and wheeled it round next door. They got Sam loaded up with some difficulty, with his head hanging over the back, and his legs dangling between the handles. Then they left the parson to it.

Unfortunately for him, the two hundred yards or so to Sam's house ran right through the village street. Before he had pushed and wobbled the first twenty yards, the villagers had heard the commotion and were standing at their gates ready to see the fun. The parson, short and fat, his face as red as a turkey-cock, and dog collar all awry, staggered his way along. Now and then he tripped over Sam's dangling feet, the barrow tipped, and he almost lost his load. The sight of this, following by a procession of yelling kids, left the onlookers speechless with laughter.

I don't think the parson ever really lived this down, and 'The day Sam was taken ill' was a standing joke for many years.

The smithy was one of the focal points of the village, especially for the older men. On a wet day, when the farmers took the opportunity of getting their horses shod, there was always a half dozen or so onlookers, clay pipes well to the fore. However hard up they were, they always managed to get their half ounce of cut plug tobacco. They eked it out by first cutting a plug, and chewing that for an hour or two. The chewed plug was then tucked into their hat band to dry, later to be smoked in their short‑stemmed, blackened clay pipes. It was a toss up which smelt the worst, the burning hooves or their pipes.

It was warm and cosy, for all that. The bright fire, the rhythmic creaking of the bellows, an occasional oath as someone got in Sam's way, the ring of the hammer on the anvil, all seemed to stimulate the conversation. The horse shoes almost magically took shape under Sam's skilful hands, with a background of snorting from the horses. Then the clouds of acrid smoke as he fitted the shoes, and the hiss of the hot iron in the water trough as the completed shoe was cooled off, all ready to be fixed.

For all his drinking and swearing, Sam was an artist with iron. A pair of gate hinges, intricate fancy ironwork for a wagon, or an iron window, all would be wrought with loving care. There was a real pride of accomplishment, not so common today I fear. He had a real sense of humour, too, and found something to laugh at in the most unlikely of circumstances.

In later years, when I joined my brother in the carpenters shop, we used to get an occasional coffin to make up. As most of the cottages had narrow, winding staircases, Sam would lend us a hand to get the body down. One day, we just accomplished that, and Sam stood looking at the old man lying in the coffin. He had been very bowlegged, and whoever had laid him out had tied his legs together, with tape.

Said Sam "Aren't you goin' ter untie his legs, Charley Boy?"

"Why", said my brother.

"Well", Sam rejoined, "if you don't the poor old bugger won't be able to walk come Resurrection Day!"

Sam worked until he was half‑crippled with rheumatics, but he lived till he was ninety. He still staggered along to the forge every day, being a nuisance no doubt, to the new blacksmith, criticising everything he did, but all in good humour.

Wartime

It was hard to believe that while all these, to me carefree, days were passing, there was a war on. I was only six when it started in 1914 and it didn't register much with me until my two brothers went up to Norwich to volunteer for the Army. The full horror of the bloodshed to come hadn't been thought of in these early days. Consequently the first wave of patriotism was in full swing, and there were long queues at the recruiting stations. Charley, my younger brother, had always been the stronger of the two, but as fate would have it, Reggie was accepted but Charley was rejected. He had a displaced cartilage in his knee, and he came back to carry on with the little business while Reg went off to Ireland for his training in the Royal Engineers.

The last time he came home on leave, and was preparing to go back, I wondered why Mother was crying, while Father sat in his chair trying to comfort her. What I didn't know was that Reg was off to France. By this time, most everyone knew of the carnage going on at the Front, and that most of the young soldiers stood little more than an even chance of coming back whole, if in fact they lived to come home at all. After a week or two the little cards saying he was all right arrived periodically, as did the odd heavily‑censored letter. The first time he came home on leave he brought me a German pocket knife which boasted several gadgets, including a small saw. I was the envy of all the other boys for weeks.

I'm afraid all the talk of death and destruction left me cold. I was far too busy playing. In fact, the war didn't make much impact on village life unless you had a husband or son away in France.

Rationing, of course, was in force, but with gardens full of vegetables, eggs from your own chickens, a sack of flour from the local mill, we got along very well considering. Meat didn't matter too much, as no‑one could afford a lot of this even in peacetime. Butter was always available from farmer friends or relations, war or no war.

We felt the shortage of cooking fats and sugar more than anything. Father, who had a sweet tooth, would start the week with a basin holding his ration, but to make this last a week was more than Joe could manage. He would then have to use saccharine which he hated. I do remember a vile concoction of so‑called fat substitute, which looked and smelt like cart grease. The first shortcakes made by Mother using this stuff advertised their presence by smelling out the whole house, and you could have kicked them to Norwich and back without them disintegrating. Poor Mother, who prided herself on her cooking, never tried that again.

The war really did come nearer with the arrival of the first zeppelins. We were all sound asleep when there was a succession of loud explosions, and the water jugs on the wash‑stands were rattling around in the basins. For a few seconds everyone was paralysed, then the noise of doors and windows opening came from the street. Charley hauled on his trousers, and ran up the road to join the frightened and excited villagers.

"It's bombs, Joe!" gasped Mother from the next room. Then Father awoke. "Don't be frightened, dear. Whatever it is, God will take care uf us." I crept into bed with them, while Father held me with one arm and Mother with the other. As usual, Father went straight to the fountainhead, praying earnestly for our deliverance.

It all sounds rather silly today, after the last war's experiences, but believe me, we were scared stiff. All was now quiet except for the throb of engines slowly fading into the distance, and the voices of our neighbours still discussing the raid. A few of the younger men, Charley included, got out their bicycles to try and find out where the trouble had been. He was soon back with the news that the bombs had dropped 'Bungay way'. Actually they had fallen in an open field near, of all places, a nunnery in an adjoining village, without doing any damage. The next evening lots of people biked over to see the craters, and the sleepy rhythm of the village was broken for a time.

Someone would bike to the station each evening, to hear of any reports of zepps about. This was the only way of getting up‑to‑date news in those days before the radio.

The highlight came a few weeks after. It was a clear dark evening when a commotion started down the street ‑ the zepps were about. Before long we heard the sound of engines in the distance. Father shuffled as far as the gate on his crutches, and I stood beside him holding his hand, which was a never‑failing source of comfort to me.

Suddenly there was an almighty flash, and then, clearly outlined in its own flames, we saw the zepp. It was several miles away it's true, but as it drifted down, blazing fiercely, Father was saying quietly "Thank God", and a cheer arose from the onlookers. It actually came down somewhere in the Leiston area. Next evening Charley and some of his pals biked over to see the wreck and he came home with a piece of aluminium as a souvenir. Poor old Dad, prayer was a never‑failing source of help to him, whatever the circumstances.

Soon after all this, Reg came home on leave again, and got married. I can usually remember all the family weddings, but there is little I can recall about this one. Probably because they were normally happy occasions, with a good beano of a meal, but this one was so quiet. Everyone knew that Reg had to go back to the Front in a day or two. It was the only time I every saw my brother cry, when he strapped on his kit-bag, picked up his rifle and said goodbye to his new wife, and Father and Mother. Father, I could see, was praying silently, and I stood and held his hand, not really understanding what it was all about, except that it was a very quiet sorrowful house that night.

It was now 1916, and the dreaded envelopes containing news of wounds or death were arriving regularly in the village. I don't think Father and Mother really began to live each day until the postman had been.

Then the dreaded morning when he came up the path, with a buff envelope in his hand. Poor Mother, I can see her now, the pulse in her neck throbbing visibly, coming into the living room holding the unopened envelope.

"Give it to me, dear" said Father as he sat in his chair. He opened the envelope, pulled out the form inside, and read it to himself. His face changed, and he turned to Mother.

AIt's all right dear, he's only wounded."

I remember wondering in my childish mind what was all right about being wounded, but decided Father must be right, as Mother gave a huge sigh of relief and grabbed Father round the neck.
"I knew my prayers would be answered", said Father, "I knew God wouldn't let him be killed", and their tears mingled as he held her to him.

It turned out that Reg had a bad wound in his chest, but when he eventually came home on sick leave, it was a vast relief to hear he wouldn't have to go back to France.

It was around this time that Lowestoft was shelled from the sea by German warships. One effect of this was that as many people who could left Lowestoft for the surrounding villages. One of my cousins, Carrie, left the coast to come and live with us. She was a merry soul, and brought some much‑needed life to our old house. She and Charley were always playing tricks on each other, and in one of these Charley almost scared her to death. He tied a string to the bedclothes at the foot of Carrie's bed, then led it through a hole he had bored in the wall to his adjoining bedroom. In the middle of the night he pulled the string, and off came all Carrie's bedclothes, to the accompaniment of shrieks of fright and later, laughter.

Another trick was thought up by Mother. During the evening she went upstairs, and emptied a packet of baking powder into Carrie's chamber pot. We were all in the know except Carrie, and were waiting to see what happened. We weren't disappointed either, for the bedroom door burst open and Carrie, scared stiff, appeared screaming "My God, Agnes, I'm dying ‑ look at my water!" Small wonder, either, for the pot was full of frothing bubbles pouring over the bedroom floor.

By this time, most everyone was busy on war work of some kind. My two eldest sisters, and Charley's girlfriend, were all working in a munitions factory in Beccles. Charley was ship‑building at Lowestoft, just coming home for weekends. Even with us kids, war games had taken over, and Germans versus British was the order of the day, with our bows and arrows and popguns working overtime.

The months passed by, the news from France began to improve, and eventually the wonderful day in November 1918 arrived. When the news of the Armistice finally broke, one of the trains on the old Waveney Valley line celebrated by whistling continuously as it puffed its way along to Beccles. It wasn't long before the church bells started to ring, and it was then down tools everywhere for everybody. Union Jacks appeared from nowhere, and the village street was full of noisy, excited people. Father tied a pole, surmounted by a large flag, to his invalid chair, and cranked himself along to join in the fun. It was an unbelievable day, never to be forgotten, although the war itself was soon to be put in the background.

One wartime memory, silly though it was, concerned spying. During the war a new house was built on a little‑used back road in an isolated part of the village. The owner was a complete stranger, and worst of all from the gossip-mongers' point of view, he spoke with what they all fondly imagined to be a foreign accent. This all contrived to make the more suspicious of the villagers imagine all sorts of dark doings. The climax came when, no doubt to set off the appearance of the roof, he had a big stone eagle set at the end of the ridge. This did it with a vengeance! He simply must be a German spy! Believe it or not, when the zepps were about, some of the men armed with pitchforks would make their cautious way to within sight of the house. They then kept watch for any suspicious lights which might conceivably be a signal to the enemy. I don't know what would have happened had anything occurred. I wouldn't have put it past some of them to impound the poor fellow, and scare the living daylights out of him with their pitchforks! The house still stands there today, complete with eagle, and I often smile when passing, at those crazy days.

In due course, along came the day us youngsters had been anticipating for weeks ‑ Peace Celebration Day. We had a real beano of a feast in a convenient barn, then there were presents for all the children, with sports and competitions. The highlight of the competitions was catching the greasy pig. One of the farmers in the village gave a half‑grown young porker, which was smothered in thick grease, and then turned loose on the park. Whoever caught it could keep it. Competition was in deadly earnest. It wasn't the honour of catching it that attracted all, young and old alike, but the thought of all the lovely roast pork, sausages and pigs fry that would be available to the winner.

The commotion was unbelievable! The squealing of the frightened pig, dogs barking, and the shouts and screams of the chasers created pandemonium, especially among the ladies, with their hats flying, hair all awry, tripping over their long skirts as they made desperate dives at the galloping animal. If and when they made contact, they tried to clasp it in their arms, leaving themselves liberally smeared all over with cart grease, and trying desperately to hang on while a dozen others fought to pull it away.

There was a ditch running down the side of the meadow, and the pig bolted into this. One lady was standing astride in the ditch bottom, legs apart and bracing herself against the expected impact. It looked a dead cert for her, but at the last moment the pig bolted between her legs, ‑ the fact that she was very bowlegged didn't help! Mother, who was close behind, took a flying leap, landed right on top of the animal, grabbed an ear with one hand and the tail in the other, and hung on for dear life. And she made it, for the exhausted porker gave up the struggle, leaving Mother smothered in mud and grease, but triumphant! Piggy finished up in Father's sty, and later on all those mouth‑watering dreams came true.

I came across a relic of that wonderful day when I unearthed the book I got as my present. As I browsed through it, it made me smile. It was called 'Modern Inventions'. There were airships, aeroplanes, gyroscopes, and many others now part and parcel of our everyday life. One article which intrigued me was on sun motors, that is, low pressure steam engines powered by heat‑catching devices to heat the water and produce the steam.

This was way back in 1918. Now, after all these years, we see heat‑attracting panels appearing on people's roofs, and I wondered why all those years between had apparently been wasted. I suppose cheap and plentiful petrol didn't make research into alternative sources of power worthwhile.

Mostly about Food

Food, of course, was an obsession; not because we ever went hungry, but just because we loved eating. Mother was a good cook, and could be relied upon to fill our little stomachs somehow or other. Good, wholesome dumplings formed a substantial part of our menu, with plenty of vegetables and gravy for the first course, and then with jam or treacle for 'seconds'. We were well and truly full up after a meal like that. Another good standby was thick split pea soup. You could literally stand a spoon up in it! When someone killed a pig, there would be pieces of good fat pork mixed in, and how good it was to young hungry mouths.

Hasty pudding was another filler‑upper; I think Mother made it by boiling up flour and milk, then adding jam or treacle when we ate it. It looked exactly like the flour and water paste used for paper‑hanging. In fact, one of our neighbours, who went out to work, left her son's dinner ready as usual. After eating his stew, he still felt a bit peckish, looked in the pantry and found a bowl of hasty pudding. It was only after she came home to continue some paper‑hanging, and found the paste bowl empty that she realised David had eaten it!

Saturday morning was always boiled sausage morning. Father, Mother and Charley got the sausages, and the girls and I got the water in which the sausages had been boiled. It sounds awful, but actually a basin of this, filled with bread well‑soaked, with pepper and salt, made quite a tasty broth.

For all the lack of money, I never remember going hungry, and we all grew up healthy enough.

I even used to identify my various relations by linking them with the food they dished up when we visited them. My mouth would water as I thought longingly of Grandma's fruit cake, Aunt Minnie's sausage rolls, Aunt Jane's jam tarts, and last but by no means least, Aunt Nellie and her delicious shortcakes.

She was a farmer's wife living in the next village. Most Saturday mornings I would walk the half mile or so to her home, there to chop kindling, clean boots, knives and forks or any other odd job. For this I got sixpence, which was my week's pocket money. The highlight was mid‑morning when Aunt Nellie would call me in for a large mug of cocoa made with milk, and a plateful of her shortcakes. These were, without exception, the best I ever tasted, and I would demolish the lot. In fact it was the cakes rather than the money which kept me working when all my mates were playing.

This obsession with food wasn't limited to my generation either. Father told me that one of his boyhood chores was cutting firewood. For doing this, he would get one of his father's big plates to hold his dinner rather than the smaller ordinary ones. He was supposed to cut six bushel skeps full to get his reward. Grandfather would sit at the kitchen window and count the skeps as Father carried them past to the coal house. Father, who could think of many pleasanter ways of spending Saturday morning than cutting firewood, had a brain-wave. He threaded some 'brotches' or split hazel rods through the sides of the skep, about halfway down, and got away with cutting half the quantity there appeared to be, and still got his big plate for dinner. What he got in addition to this when Grandfather eventually found out was best forgotten!

Talking of rations and ration books, reminds me of poor old Mother's bitter experience with these. Grandma was at this time living in the village. When it became time for ration books to be issued, Grandma duly received hers. She couldn't write, so Mother witnessed her X. After a few weeks an incredible thing happened, for Grandma got a second book. Somewhere down the line of officialdom there had been a slip‑up. Now, Mother knew nothing of this second book, as one of Grandma's daughters or daughters‑in‑law had witnessed the old lady's X. Whoever it was kept quiet about it, so double rations were drawn each week for Grandma. After a time the cat was among the pigeons, for an official called to investigate. Worst of all, it turned out that the second book was the correct one, and the one signed by Mother was unlawful.

That started off what must have been the worst few weeks of Mother's life. She would no more have dreamt of doing anything outside the law than jumping over the moon; but according to the law she had done wrong, and was summoned to appear at the local court. The disgrace of this just about got Mother down. My brother Reg went to court with her, where she was found guilty and fined. Of course Father did all he could to comfort her, but villagers being what they were, it was the main topic of conversation for days. Poor Mother, she didn't even dare to go to chapel the following Sunday. Of course all her friends rallied round, and after a week or two things returned to normal. Nevertheless it was a long, long time before Mother returned to her normal self.

I well remember having a miserable time at school after the court hearing. When school was over for the day, I was followed down the road by a group of yelling kids, shouting "Old Ration Book, old Ration Book!" I think I howled most of the way home, but I did have sense enough to keep quiet about this at home. If Mother had ever heard about it, it would have been the last straw!

My sisters did all they could to help. They did most of the housework, for Mother was just about dead on her feet when she returned from her day's drudgery. Even then she had no peace or rest. There was the next day's food to prepare ‑ sandwiches for Charley and the girls, and Reg's dinner at work. Tea for the lot of us came next. Then after tea, out came the sewing machine, to conjure up dresses and pinafores for the girls and herself. I don't think even lion‑hearted Mother could have kept this up indefinitely. A good deal of relief came when kindly friends and relations took the girls over. One great friend in the next village took my middle sister, Gladys, while Hilda, the eldest and Queenie, the youngest, went to stay with one of Mother's sisters in Lowestoft.

Father had periodic stays in hospital, to see if anything could be done for him. I think the Sick Club to which Father belonged must have been responsible for doctors and hospital fees, and some of his many friends took care of railway fares when he went to Norwich.

He had a wicker bath‑chair, and Mother, with Charley's help, pushed him to Ellingham Station, and from Norwich station to the hospital. He used to have electric needle treatment , not to help the paralysis, for this was impossible, but to determine its extent. The needle would be inserted in various places, and by Father's reaction the specialist could form some sort of picture of his condition.

The last time he went, Mother came back in a sorry state. Charley said that after the examination the specialist came in, and turning to Mother said "Of course you know your husband will never walk again, as there's nothing we can do!" Mother no doubt had a good idea that this was the case, but she had hoped against hope for better news until she heard the verdict herself. Even then her incredible courage and Father's prayers kept her going until things began to improve.

Father's family, but mostly Magny Bone

Father came from a large family, as was usual in those days. There were nine boys and two girls, most of them born at Stockton, in an old thatched house called Mud Hall. The old house still stands, looking very spick and span, with colour‑washed clay lump walls, black and white paint, and still retains its old name. My Grandad Harvey worked as a coachman at Stockton Hall, and Grandma came, I believe, from Thurlton. They must have brought up their large family well, as all the boys had trades except three, two of whom emigrated to Australia while in their early twenties. There was a baker, two engineers and three carpenters.

The odd one out was Fred, who gloried in the nickname of Magny Bone. How on earth he acquired this I never knew. Fred got himself a living by fishing, thatching, hedging and tree‑felling, but his real mainstay was pit‑sawing timber. He was a real rough, tough character. I can see him now, in his tan 'slop', cord trousers tied with string, and red handkerchief round his neck. He travelled round the villages, doing a few days pit‑sawing at the various wheel-wrights and carpenters. The old saw-pit at Father's workshop was in existence until around twenty years ago, when the old shop was pulled down and new bungalows built on the site.

The saw-pit was about six feet deep, with a heavy wooden platform about two feet high built round it. The big logs were rolled up on to the platform and held in place with iron 'dogs'. A cord was stretched from end to end, covered with chalk, pulled up vertically and let go. This left a straight chalk line as a guide for the first cut. The saw was about eight feet long, with a permanent handle at the top, and a moveable handle at the bottom which could be moved to suit the tree. The master sawyer would stand on top of the tree, and his assistant was down in the pit. A plumb line was used to mark the vertical cut on the end of the log, and the saw was started on its way, the chap in the pit pulling down on the cutting stroke, and the sawyer on top lifting the saw ready for the next down stroke. It was his job to keep to the chalk line. It was killing work, especially for the man in the pit as there was a constant stream of sawdust coming down, which would get into his eyes and nose, and most everywhere else as well. He had a pair of wire mesh goggles which would save his eyes a bit. Some of the logs were two feet thick and perhaps ten feet long, and to cut this into boards all the same thickness was a work of art.

Magny Bone would always have a bottle or two of beer handy to wash the sawdust down. All in all, I suppose, he was my favourite uncle. However busy he was, he would always find time to tell me hair‑raising stories of his fishing trips, most of which I reckon he made up as he went along. Every summer, someone would take me by train to Halesworth where he lived, for a week's holiday. I loved this, for Magny would take me out with him in his pony trap when he was going out to work, complete with bottles of cold tea and bread and cheese. There usually was a pub somewhere handy where he could get a pint. He talked all the time to me, which I did enjoy. Mother and Father weren't entirely happy about me going there every year, as when anything did go wrong with Magny's work, his language had to be heard to be believed. I was old and wise enough not to ask the meaning of some of the words, or repeat them when I got home, or that would have been the end of my holidays at Halesworth.

Poor Magny Bone! He was to sustain a bitter blow in a few years' time. His only son, Wallace, was a full‑time fisherman in a Lowestoft drifter. This particular autumn his drifter had gone west, following the herring shoals through the Channel, and was based at Milford Haven. In a tremendous gale that blew up from nowhere, his drifter was blown aground on the rocky South Wales coast. She rapidly broke up, and all the crew were lost except Wallace. Somehow or other he managed to get to the foot of the cliffs. He was a powerful chap, as strong as a horse. Half‑drowned, in that bitter howling gale, he climbed the cliffs and got within a few feet of the top where an overhanging shelf defeated him. There he died of exposure, poor lad, his body being found later. My visits to Halesworth were never quite the same after that tragic incident; Uncle and Aunt put on a brave face, but it was a lonely house.


Thinking of Mud Hall and its houseful, I asked Father how they used to pass the time. He told me they found plenty to do, but boxing was the favourite sport. The boys had got some boxing gloves from somewhere, and on summer evenings they all went down to the bottom of the orchard, and fought each other in rotation. It wasn't make‑believe fighting either, and there were frequent black eyes and bloody noses for Grandma to attend to after the fun was over. Now and again fighting would boil up indoors, but Grandad soon put a stop to that. "Fight as much as you like, boys, but don't lose your tempers" was his very sound advice. They were a tough lot, and woe betide anyone who set on one of the Harvey boys unfairly, for retribution would be swift and complete.

Growing up tough had its advantages. Father, soon after finishing his apprenticeship as a wheelwright‑cum‑joiner, thought he would 'spread his wings' a bit. He saw an advert for joiners in Newcastle, answered it, and got a job. He eventually arrived at Newcastle Station complete with toolbox, feeling and no doubt looking, a rather bewildered 'country cousin'. His lodgings had been arranged, and as he wondered what to do next, he was approached by a cabby. After giving the address of his lodgings, he asked the cabby what the fare would be. "Half‑a‑crown" was the answer; so they loaded up the toolbox and luggage and set off. On arrival, Father unloaded his gear on to the pavement and said "Half‑a‑crown you said, didn't you?"

"I may have said it" rejoined the cabby, "but I want five bob, half‑a‑crown fare and half‑a‑crown tip." This didn't please Father one little bit. "Half‑a‑crown you said, and half‑a‑crown you'll get."

At this the cabby, a big fellow, said "We'll see about that mate", raised his fists and took a swing at Joe. He easily evaded the cabby's mad rush, turned around and as the fellow rushed in again, hit him just once right on the jaw. He collapsed in an untidy heap on the pavement, dead to the world. Father opened the cab door, hauled the unconscious cabby on to the back seat, laid half‑a‑crown on his chest, shut the door and departed, carrying his toolbox on his shoulder.

Father would laugh as he told me, saying "It's a good thing to work and pray, but even better to be able to fight." Another story he would tell me with great relish, but not to do with fighting, was told to him by Grandfather. He couldn't vouch for its veracity, but it always made me laugh.

A farmer who Grandad knew kept cows. One day a sort of official turned up saying he wanted to inspect the cows. The farmer was in a hurry to get on with his work, and said he couldn't hang about showing his cows to all and sundry. "Anyway, who are you, and what right have you got to demand to see my cattle?"

The chap, pulling a paper from his pocket, said "Here's my certificate giving me the right to do it."

The farmer replied "All right then, the cows are on that field just beyond that gate." What he omitted to tell the official was that there was a bull running with the cows, and a bad‑tempered one at that.

Anyway, the fellow climbed the gate, and got about halfway along the meadow when the bull spotted him. Head down, pawing at the ground, the bull started off, tail up and fairly making the ground shake as he thundered after the stranger. By this time, the official was breaking all records as he flew back towards the gate shouting "Help me, help me, what shall I do?", whereupon the farmer, leaning over the gate shouted "Show him your certificate!" I guess he left his inspection until another day, after that!

Another little story, told me by my father‑in‑law, illustrates the dry humour that seemed to abound in those days. He was working in Lincolnshire at the time. At regular intervals a pack-man would call on the isolated farms and cottages, selling clothes, boots, haberdashery and many other things. This particular day, John, my father‑in‑law, was ploughing on the far side of one of those enormous fields common in the fen-lands. It had been raining on and off all day, and the newly‑ploughed land was wet and sticky. The pack-man was trudging along the lane bordering the field when John spotted him. He stopped ploughing, and shouted at the top of his voice that he wanted to see the pack-man. He, of course, scented business, turned into the field and trudged over towards John. At every step he picked up more mud, and when he eventually arrived, he was a sticky mess from the knees down.

"Well, Mister, now I'm here, what do you want?"

Said John, with a sly smile, "Will you measure this old hoss for a pair of breeches?" You can guess what sort of a reply he got.

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.

The Men of the Village

I have mentioned earlier that a good proportion of the men and youths from our and the surrounding villages were fishermen. Each year the herring drifters would congregate at Lowestoft and Yarmouth, coming from various ports along the East coast including Scotland. The local men were ready and waiting for the Home Fishing to start, as it did, I believe, in late August and early September. When this had finished, some of the skippers would follow the herring through the Channel and round to the 'westward' as they called it. The majority, however, would call it a day when the Home Fishing ended. The men, I believe, got a wage while fishing, but when the ships 'made up', there would be a share of the profits, if any, to all the crews. The shares were paid out according to the status of the men. I don't know exactly what the system was, but the skipper would get perhaps a share and a half, the mate a share, the deck-hands a three‑quarter share, and the cook, usually a boy, a half share.

It was all very much of a gamble, as the herring harvest varied considerably from year to year. It was a hard, tough life. Some skippers would be blessed with a sort of intuition as to where the herring were in greater numbers, and year after year would come out among the top boats. There was always a lot of competition to try and get a berth on the top money earners, and these skippers in turn would be 'choosey' about picking their crews.

Paying off always heralded a tremendous 'binge' in whatever were the men's local pubs. Some would be sensible enough to hand a good proportion of their bonus to their wives, or save it against a rainy day. But a lot of them practically lived in the pubs for days, or maybe weeks, in various stages of drunkenness until their money was gone.

They had no lack of so‑called friends while the money lasted. We would hang around outside the pub, waiting for the right man to come along. There were four brothers from the next village who would always come, sooner or later, to the Bird‑in‑Hand. As soon as the grapevine started buzzing, dozens of us made a beeline for the pub. As the brothers arrived, to be instantly surrounded by a yelling throng, they would toss handfuls of half-pennies or pennies in the air amongst us. No doubt they came well‑supplied, knowing what was expected of them, and year after year they never disappointed us. You can imagine the commotion, as we scrabbled around on hands and knees after the coins, with the odd fight breaking out here and there. Then, of course, there was a stampede for the village shop for sweets.

I daren't say a lot about this at home. Father, who wouldn't have been seen dead inside a pub, hated me hanging around. This couldn't be wondered at, for the language there, with all the drunks around was pretty awful. It didn't last for long, of course, for as soon as the money ran out, it was a case of back to work if they could pick up a shilling or two.

Grandma

I was only four years old when Grandad died, consequently I remember very little of him. In fact, the only memory I have of him is peeping through the door of the room where he lay in his coffin, and just seeing his nose and beard.

Grandma, however, lived on for many years. I can see her now, cleaning up for Sunday at Mud Hall. The floors were all brick, with a sprinkling of sand. On Saturday she swept up all the sand, threw it away and spread a fresh clean layer. The massive old cast‑iron cooking range was carefully black-leaded, while the bright steel parts were cleaned with 'Monkey Brand' powder till they stone like silver. The doorsteps got their share of attention, being swept, scrubbed, and then whitened. All was now ready for Sunday, and she was happy that her home, at any rate, was fit for the Lord's Day.

All the family were married, and had left home when Grandad died. After a year or so, at whose instigation I don't know, she left Mud Hall for a small cottage in the village street. She must have missed it terribly at first, after a lifetime with all its associations of family life. Notwithstanding that, the little cottage, with a shop nearby, was a lot better for her, especially the company.

She was a good old soul, but I'm afraid not very popular with me. She always called me Johnny, which I detested. Worse than that, the little house where she now lived looked out on the Bird‑in‑Hand corner, where us boys congregated and played. She spent hours at her open door, watching us play, and as I believed, me in particular. I found that often, after a visit from Grandma, Father would sit in his chair when I came home, looking very stern.

"A little bird told me you've been fighting again" or "a little bird told me you have been swearing". "Yes," I thought to myself, "and I bet it was a little old bird in a bonnet, too". I think I really hated the poor old soul at times, and no‑one was more pleased than I when she gave up the cottage and went to live with her daughter in the next village. I must have been a horrible little urchin at times. Before she moved, we were celebrating Guy Fawkes Night, gathered on the corner letting off our fireworks. One of the favourites was a 'whizz-bang'. One of my cronies let one of these off, and it whizzed right through Grandma's open window. It exploded with a bang inside, and must have scared the poor old lady to death. I was tickled pink, and was so pleased that I gave him another out of my precious stock to see if he could do it again!

We were never happier than when we were being a nuisance to someone. One of the favourite games was to tiptoe up to the front doors of two adjacent cottages, one of which would be Grandma's for preference, and tie the door handles together. Two of us would bang on each door simultaneously, then gallop away to hide and watch the fun. You can guess what happened! As soon as one door was opened, the other would shut with a bang. This would go on for a minute or two, bang, bang, bang, while we laughed our nasty little heads off in the distance.

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!"