CHAPTER 11

I REMEMBER

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought

summon up remembrance of things past.

Shakespeare

I was born in the village in 1919, the first child of my parents who were married just as the First World War ended.  My sister arrived three years later. My mother was a Bedfordshire woman, her father a valet at the time of his marriage, later becoming an innkeeper and small farmer. As was usual at the time my mother went into domestic service, and was working in Stevenage when she married. My father was a gardener at Shephall Bury; his mother had been widowed when her three boys were all under five, and it must have been very hard to keep them fed and clothed. Her family had been in Shephall for three generations and my grandfather's family came from nearby villages.

Although there had been some material changes in the village over the years some new cottages, the school, the new manor house ‑ I think that the way of life of the Shephall people that I

The two cottages on the right were pulled down just after the Second World War; the other pair are now modernised

knew as a child had changed very little over the centuries. In the early twenties no man went out of the village to work; the farms held the men, domestic service the girls, although several girls had living‑in jobs outside the village. Men worked a six day week, perhaps finishing by midday on Saturday; but if you were a cowman or a horsekeeper you were seldom free even on a Sunday, for there was stock to be fed, cows to be milked, a sick animal to tend. A gardener needed to return to his greenhouses, in summer to check humidity and to water, in winter to stoke boilers to maintain heat in the hothouses. Farmers, their sons and their men worked side by side with the common aim of making the earth yield its crops, suffering the bad and enjoying the good years together. At harvest time they would work from dawn till dusk, then gather the symbolic bounty into church for the Festival. Sheaves of every kind of grain, roots scrubbed, vegetables trimmed, fruit polished, the biggest and best, all decorated by the autumn flowers, would fill the aisles and window ledges. Barrows of produce would be wheeled up from the Bury with specially selected bunches of grapes to decorate the screen. This was one time when everyone from the village came to church, the harvest hymns raising the roof by singers and non‑singers alike. During the next couple of weeks an unaccustomed clanking would herald the arrival of the steam engine and threshing tackle, which travelled from village to village. One man who worked with it didn't always go home, but would sleep the night on the table tombstone under the great yew in the churchyard ‑ handy for the Red Lion!

The women were kept busy caring for their families and homes; without any labour‑saving devices their chores took a long time. Cottage homes were fairly basic; one or two downstairs rooms, sometimes a small scullery with a stone sink and a brick copper. Usually one of the rooms was a kitchen/living room with an oven by a coal fire providing for both cooking and heating. Sometimes the copper was built into the corner of this room, making an extra table top when covered by a cloth. A plain wooden table which could be scrubbed was used for all purposes including a safe place for the oil lamp lit as night fell. During the latter part of the day and evening it would be covered by a thick cloth and all the family might gather round for sewing or reading Where the light was brightest. The floor of this room would be covered by lino or coconut matting, with a pegged rug in front of the hearth and fireguard. The second room, known variously as the parlour, sitting room, front room or other room, was kept for Sundays and visitors, the best furnishings would be there, together with any precious bits of china and other prized possessions. There might be a carpet in this room, a piano or a gramophone, or a few books.

Upstairs two or three bedrooms, the third often opening directly from the stairwell. The bedsteads were of iron or brass, and there were unlikely to be really adequate bedclothes; in most homes they would be augmented by coats in the winter. Any warmth rising from the downstairs fire was dispersed by the early hours. The parents' room might have a wash hand stand with a jug and basin, and an open fireplace, the fire seldom lit except in illness.

In the morning the adults rose early; the country work day began by 6.30 or 7 a.m. The kitchen fire would have to be lit before a kettle could be boiled for tea. The ashes had to be cleared every day and the stove polished to remove the film of ash; it would only be black‑leaded once or twice a week. The hearth was washed and chalked by rubbing a layer of chalk over the damp stone, which would dry white ‑ it was much later before red Cardinal polish took over! The outside doorstep was treated in the same way. At this time there was no piped water, gas or electricity in the cottages, and each had an earth closet outside.

The everyday business of living took up most of the time. To get the washing done, the copper must be filled by carrying buckets of water from the pump on the green. The husband might do this the night before, but extra water would be needed during the day. The fire underneath the copper had to be lit early; the water took some time to heat up. The only washing aids were bars of household soap and soda, a laundry brush and a washing board. Some women might have a mangle or a wringer. The last to be dealt with were the sheets and table cloths plunged into the copper to boil clean.

Village cottages: those in the centre now demolished

The school, in the foreground the entrance to Shephall Green farm.

The council cottages were built about 1922, now demolished

These white things would have the special attention of a 'blue bag' in the last rinsing water. Linens were stiffened by starching; the steaming kettle turned the Robin starch from an opaque creamy liquid to a lovely translucent shade of pale blue as the hot water changed the texture. The washing out on the line, the water in the copper was used for baths and other household cleaning, sometimes being re‑heated another day for this purpose. The housewife would have to pause at midday when the children and sometimes the men came home for their meal. It is easy to see how Monday's dinner became cold meat with bubble and squeak (Sunday's joint bought with Monday in mind, and enough vegetables cooked then to fry up the next day). With the copper fire alight, the kitchen fire would be allowed to stay low, giving just enough heat to cook a rice pudding in the oven. The washing dry, it all had to be ironed and aired. Flat irons were heated on a trivet in front of the fire, or on top of the range; if a woman had only one iron it took that much longer.

... when all paths led to the village pump and magnificent elm trees bordered the Green

Floors had to be swept and washed. Rugs needed frequent shaking outside the door. Brass door knobs and knockers, and brass tops to fenders, needed regular polishing. Cutlery was often old, but silver; knives had steel blades which had a special cleaning process. Daily chores were chopping wood and getting coal in. The lamps needed frequent attention if they were to give a good light; the wicks to be trimmed, the lamp glass cleaned. By 5.30 the men were home for tea except at haymaking and harvest time. If they had already had a main meal this would be of bread and jam, perhaps scones or buns ‑ cake was for Sunday and didn't always last all week. The adults would probably have bread and cheese later in the evening.

Food was plain. The Sunday joint and cold meat on Monday might be followed by a shepherds pie of the remains of the meat. For the rest of the week there would be sausages, liver, stewing meat or mince, and almost certainly one meal of egg and bacon. Rabbit or pigeon might be available, and boiling bacon or a pork hock; some families liked tripe. Chicken was only for Christmas or special occasions, a few chickens being kept on household scraps in most back gardens for their eggs. All but the most feckless men had an allotment in addition to their cottage gardens so there was always a good supply of fresh vegetables. In the winter there were the more filling puddings made with suet, and fruit tarts. Yorkshire puddings could be used to augment the meat, and any over served with jam for 'afters'. The summer brought a welcome change with blancmanges, jellies, stewed fruits and fools.

Father being gardener at the big house had certain 'perks' which our parents always impressed on us not to boast about. The occasional partridge or pheasant from the shoots, and, from the hothouses, peaches, nectarines, melons and grapes, and in their season tomatoes, cucumbers and strawberries. Father was allowed to shoot pigeons and rabbits on the estate. In our garden we had two prolific fruit trees, a Bramley apple and a Victoria plum, which provided us with fruit dishes and jam for many months. No glut of anything was ever wasted, being given away to neighbours. No one would have dreamt of accepting money for such largesse. Those who had no fruit trees could always reciprocate at some time in the year with a nice hard cabbage or a few parsnips if their neighbour's crop was not ready, or if they had a vegetable the other did not grow. Some of the village people made wines; elderberry, dandelion, parsnip and cowslip. Nature's wild fruits were exploited to the full. Crab apples were turned into jelly, blackberries added to apple for pies and jam. Hazel nuts and filberts were harvested from the hedgerows, and although chestnuts and walnuts grew mostly on private ground, some way or other everyone seemed to get a few. For the early riser there were mushrooms to be had for a couple of months in the year, and over towards the Aston parish border was a running stream where watercress grew.

The women prided themselves on getting dirty work finished in the mornings as they had been used to doing in domestic service. By mid‑afternoon most would have tidied themselves and changed their hessian aprons (often made from a sack), the older women for a large white starched apron, the younger ones for something prettier. This would be a time to catch up on sewing and mending, and in the warmer weather a kitchen chair would be brought outside the door so that the sunshine could be enjoyed and a few words exchanged with neighbours.

The nearest shops were at Stevenage but we had very good deliveries from tradesmen. The baker came every day, butchers two or three times a week. Our grocer sent an assistant out to take orders which were delivered the next day. Milk was obtained from the farms, mostly collected by the children, earning them a copper or two for pocket money. Few people had a daily newspaper; I suppose we only had one because they were delivered to the Bury ‑ or more likely the chauffeur was sent to pick them up. At one time there was a post office in the village, later transferred to Broadwater. The innkeeper kept a few groceries, and tobacco and sweets. The doctor came out from Stevenage, sometimes riding a horse across the fields. Perhaps because the children mixed with few outside the village, childhood ailments were few; occasional cases of measles, chickenpox and whooping cough; one case of scarlet fever. There were odd outbreaks of impetigo and ringworm within families, but head lice were easily passed on; a cake of Derbac soap was a must for mothers, along with Germolene, zinc ointment, cough mixture, California Syrup of figs and camphorated oil. Cod liver oil and Parrishes chemical food were other standbys for youngsters under par. The adults placed great faith in Enos or Kruschen salts, and Sloan's liniment!

Some of my happiest memories are of the countryside around. Walking was a favourite relaxation of many people. After school Mother would take us off for a walk, sometimes accompanied by a friend and her children. We could go along the old lane towards Fairlands Farm. Here grew honeysuckle and old man's beard, wild pink roses and the lovely scented cream canker roses. In the spring the woods, where at night the nightingales sang, were carpeted with anemones and primroses. Later there was the verdant green of dogs mercury and the contrasting colour of the bluebells, just as the cherry trees came into blossom overhead. The mossy banks along the lane disclosed delicate violets, and there were other joys as Mother helped us find the tiny nests of the wren, the robin and the bluetit, and lifted us up to peer into the homes of the blackbird and thrush in the hedgerows above, or hushed us as a tiny mouse paused before scuttling for shelter. As we came to Donkeys Whim, the local name for the pair of cottages marked on the map as New Farm, the dogs would often start up a frightful din, and the gamekeeper's wife would pop out to see who was about. Here we might see tiny fluffy baby pheasants and partridges mothered by domestic hens. Nearby was a bit of woodland which was being cleared and planted with new trees, and here the primroses and violets grew thickly; the few we carried home in our hot little fists weren't missed at all. We didn't venture much farther than this after school; it was about a mile. Tiny legs didn't walk very fast and we had to get home and have the table laid for tea and the kettle boiling for my father coming home from work.

Another lovely walk was up the short lane to the Brickill (a corruption of brick kiln) where there was a deep pond thickly edged by bushes and bulrushes, where we were forbidden to play. Nearby was another pond where the farmers dumped chaff and broken carts, and (some said) dead horses, and they all got sucked down and disappeared ‑ and this was an even worse place to play. (When the New Town came, building was started on this spot; when the houses were up to the first floor they showed signs of cracking, so the site was excavated and the old brick kiln discovered.) Bypassing the ponds on our walk, a chalky track led down to Shackadells, a magic kind of place. Where soil and chalk had been dug out in the last century, hillocks and dells had been left, now covered with soft vegetation. One 'hill' in particular had to be climbed, to chant "I'm the king of the castle". Here many a lad had carved his initials with those of his sweetheart on the trees. Along the track down to the wood grew all kinds of chalk‑loving plants; rest harrow, rock roses and harebells to name but a few, and in the shelter of the wood was a lovely stretch where our small fingers could harvest the tiny sweet wild strawberries. This was another place where primroses and violets ‑ purple, blue and white ‑ grew in profusion. Here too we might see a woodpecker, a bright jay or a sleepy owl. We would watch gleefully as the squirrels scurried up the trees and leapt from bough to bough. The chalk was seldom carted off to the fields by this time, but a soft piece or two was carried home for chalking the hearth. This was a good place for wooding; a bundle of dry wood shed from the trees was a very satisfactory bonus to take home for fire kindling, the children too carrying their own small bundles or dragging a branch.

Sometimes we would walk to Broadwater by road, coming back across the fields, or go the other way towards Aston. A footpath near the church also went to Bandley Hill and Aston. When we were a little older and could manage a longer walk we might go on a Sunday to visit cousins who lived in Aston. We had an aunt who was a nanny at Chells Farm, and as small children this was strange territory to us, but Father led the way up through Half Hyde Farm, by the sheds where the bull lived, along paths and beside hedges and a deep chalk pit. Even more of an adventure was when he brought us home after dark along Lantern Lane towards Fairlands, and back along the old lane.

We went across the fields to Stevenage along that lane, past the two little woods, Peartree and Siansear Springs, taking the path from the sloe hedge down the clover fields, where there was a gooseberry tree in the hedge, and where every summer we found the clustered bell flower. We climbed out of the valley, which in the summer rippled with corn, above our heads when it was ripe, but holding such lovely treasures at our level ‑ tiny heartsease, mousetails, scarlet pimpernels and forgetme‑nots. And there was that vivid glory, now all but destroyed by weedkillers ‑ blue cornflowers, purple corncockles, white oxeye daisies, scarlet poppies and golden marigolds. On we went, into a narrow little field by Umbley Wood, another slightly bewitched place, because here grew some of the flowers beloved of country folk who appreciated their medicinal properties ‑ bedstraws, toadflax, marjoram and mignonette, borage, valerian, St. Johns wort, rosebay and yarrow. Then we would go very quietly around the corner of the wood, because there would be hundreds of rabbits of all sizes, white tails in the air dashing for shelter as their sharp hearing picked up even our tiny tiptoes. That was the best part of the journey. There were several more fields before we arrived in Stevenage, and we liked coming to the row of little cottages at Ditchmore Common; on a sunny afternoon the elderly residents would be out in their patches of garden, which were full of old‑fashioned flowers, and we would exchange courteous greetings.

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