Tom Brown was a member of one of the largest Glemsford families. Apart from a few years away working, and a few more important years as a prisoner of war, he lived in Glemsford from his birth in 1916. He died in 2002.
These are extracts from an unpublished text. Tom gave me written permission to publish them here, but any further reproduction, other than for research or personal interest purposes is forbidden without permission from his estate. I would, in any case, be grateful to be told of any use to which these extracts are put.
I was considered to be doing fairly well at school and was nominated to take an entrance examination to Sudbury Grammar School, but during the run-up period when special tuition was being given, I was taken ill with measles or mumps or some such complaint that children get. I had all these complaints in turn, as did the rest of us. I am not for one moment offering this as an excuse, for I recovered in time to take the exam, which I failed.
The local Women's Institute bought or rented an old disused factory in Brook Street, which they converted into a hall for their meetings. The baker's family for whom I worked were very involved in this, and I went along with them to do what I could to help. This was mostly helping to remove the rubble and rubbish, drinking tea and eating buns. The ceiling and upper floor were mostly removed to give greater height, one end being left intact and made into a gallery. They said they would have to put tie-rods across the centre of the building to stop the walls caving in.
I had visions of the place falling down about our ears, but of course it was not that urgent, and in any case was probably safe enough without the tie-rods. Ernie Hartley, the wheelwright, supplied the irons, and the 'S' or 'X' outside irons. The ceiling was very high and it was quite a feat, especially fixing the down iron that was to hang from the ceiling and take the weight in the centre of the cross iron. It went off well without incident, and I breathed again. After the conversion it was opened by the Duke of Kent and I got free admission to the Grand Opening Concert. A real festive occasion.
My brother Basil was also working as a backhouse boy at the same time. He worked for Mrs Debenham, the builder's wife, who lived at Patches House, and they were also very involved with the Women's Institute and in the conversion. No signs of our labours remain, though, as the Women's Institute moved out after many years and the hall reverted to the Gould family, who were the original owners, and was only used on rare occasions. It was eventually closed completely and finally went the way of so much of our national heritage, becoming a pile of bulldozed rubbish making way for yet another housing estate, another example of our heritage being sacrificed to the hungry jaws of the bulldozer and the greed of the property developer.
I had a mate referred to earlier, Arthur Mealham, who was a bit younger than me. We called him 'Ginger' or sometimes, more unkindly 'Fishy'. The name Ginger was obviously because of his red hair, Fishy because of the aura surrounding him. He was scrupulously clean, but it was difficult to live at close quarters with wet and fried fish without some of the smell penetrating into your clothing. His parents kept a fish shop a few doors away, and fried fish in the evenings. My brother Bernard and I used to go round to his house most frying evenings to keep him company while his parents tended the shop. We used to play an old gramophone with old, scratchy records.
The most interesting part of the evening came just as the shop was closing, about I0pm when the odd pieces of fish which had broken off during the cooking and any left-over chips would be brought in for our supper. The fish supplied would be mostly cod, rock eel, or rock salmon, and the demand was for 'a bit and a pennorth', a bit being a great piece of fish cut into steaks or cutlets, none of the slivers sold as portions today. A bit cost 2d, a 3d bit was as much as anyone could eat (that's lp and l½p) and a stack of chips cost a penny. We would sometimes go round during the day and scrub the potatoes, they were not peeled, cut out the bad bits and put them through the chipping machine which was a small hand-operated gadget.
By this time we had also acquired a gramophone. It was hand-wound of course, and it had a big horn and needles that had to be changed frequently as they soon became blunt. Occasionally when we ran out of needles, someone would trim thorns and they would serve a turn. The sound quality was not of the best but that did not worry us too much as our ears were not that sensitive.
Some of the old titles were 'The Miner's Dream of Home', 'Little Grey Home in the West', 'The Mistletoe Bough', 'Two Little Girls in Blue', 'Don't Go Down the Mine, Dad', 'The Laughing Policeman', and a whole lot of favourites as they were then. Many of these old songs survive to this day, not like today's 'Pops' which are forgotten in a couple of weeks. The gramophone gave us a lot of fun.
Mr Gilbert and Miss Ivy Fenn used to take me out on various trips, not very long journeys but always a delight and eagerly looked forward to. They had a bull-nosed Morris Cowley car. The seats were stripped out during the day and the car used for bread deliveries, afterwards the seats were replaced and the car converted into a taxi. The car really belonged to their father who owned the baker's business. I used to ride in the dickey seat, the dickey being something like a boot in the back of the car which opened outwards and had a seat fitted to the inside of the lid. They took me to ace my very first film at the Gainsborough cinema in Sudbury. It was called 'The Orphan's of the Storm', a silent film as talkies had not been introduced by then. Background music was provided by a pianist, sometimes reinforced by a violinist who sat just in front of and below the screen. The storyline was followed by the use of captions. The stars were Lilian Gish and I think her sister, Dorothy.
We also visited Kentwell Hall. I thought they had a lawn made completely of moss. I have since been told that my memory is at fault here but I am not completely convinced. We used also to go to the Saracen's Head at Newton Green where I would be treated to lemonade, although the object of these visits was not to have a drink. The landlady was a Miss Glass, if my memory is correct, and she was a relative of the Fenns. Gilbert, who was very handy with a paintbrush, was repainting the inn sign for her.
These outings and events were crowding my life, and life was rushing on.
Christmas time was always a wonderful time. There were no luxurious foods but plenty of good, solid fare. We did have a chicken. This would generally be a hen which had finished its laying life, and which could be boiled and finished off in the oven. The carcass would provide mother with her 'supper of the year' as it was a tradition - almost a ritual - that she picked the carcass.
We would have plenty of company as the elder members of the family would bring their mates in, and we were a family of eleven, all told. The friends would stay the night, sleeping on mattresses laid on the floor, and the fun would last well into the early hours. Everyone would take a turn at singing, telling tales or giving a monologue. The songs were all of the old folksong and ballad type. Regrettably I have forgotten most of them, and much of our folklore as told in song is lost now that the old singers have gone. Some of those songs I have never heard since.
One of our visitors was 'Masser' Parker. I only recall just a snatch of one of his best songs 'That's a lie, that's a lie. Sing afore ye 'Riddle-I-dee'.' Another one, still sung today was 'The End of my Old Cigar'.
Dick Mizon, himself a character and brother of the well-known Percy, came for Christmas, and often at other times. He kipped down with the rest of them. He was a cornucopia of old folk songs which he delighted in singing. What a pity they were not recorded for posterity. Dick is still with us, but it is so long ago that he cannot recall much about them, but here is a snatch from one of his songs. (It is not very respectful to women, and is about the hen-pecked husband).
"She makes me do the dishes
She makes me sweep the floor
She makes me run the errands
Until my feet are sore.
She makes me blacklead the grate
While it is steaming hot.
But worst of all she makes me
Empty the you-know-what.
But I'll get even with her,
And I will, so help me never
For I'll slit her throat
And away I'll float,
And I will, so help me never."
Tommy Beevis was another regular visitor. Another was my future brother--in-law, Arthur, a very lively chap, full of wisecracks and humour. His brother, Charlie, or as he was better known 'Koidy' was a regular visitor and provided us with a lot of laughter. He would say that if he remembered going to bed the night before then he could not have enjoyed himself much. And he would also say that it wasn't truly Christmas if you didn't get up the next morning and tread on nutshells in your bare feet.
They did not have a lot to drink, and what they did drink was mostly home-made wine, come of it very new. Almost every household made its own home-made wine, and there would always be a supply somewhere, which people were always willing to share.
Back at school we were now old enough to learn a bit about gardening. The school's plots were on a piece of land just up Shepherds Lane beyond the school. These plots were later built on, but the house that was built has since been demolished and part of the land has reverted back to the school and is now used for outdoor recreation. After vacating these plots we transferred up to the Rectory, or Coldhams as it was known, and we learned to cultivate all the usual vegetables and fruit crops. Classroom gardening lessons were all about pruning, propagation, transplanting etc., and the gardening master was our headmaster.
In the autumn one of our regular walks was to the avenue of trees on the Boxted Road, just outside Squire Pooley's place, Boxted Hall. Some of these trees were sweet chestnuts, which we would collect.
The annual Flower Show was held on the Rectory meadow, and we would gain free admission by entering a bunch of wild flowers in a jam-jar. We would patrol the meadows and river banks the day before to pick the flowers, and there was keen competition to see who could get the best bunch.
A feature of the Flower Show, apart from the races, was the race by the members of the Brass Band who would do a sprint round the ring, carrying their musical instruments. The big drum player would get a big start.
The greasy pole always provided a lot of fun. The pole would be erected, well greased, and the older boys and the men would attempt to shin up it. Then there were the pillow fights. A pole laid across two tripods, two men armed with pillows would bash at each other in an effort to dislodge each other. Sometimes it would be constructed over a pool of water which added to the spectators interest, and if the pillow burst it was even more interesting.
The band would provide the music for the evening dance on the lawn, not hot jazz but just normal old-fashioned waltzes, two-steps, quick-steps, foxtrots etc.
The most popular spot during a hot summer was New Bridge. Just off the Lower Road where the railway bridge crossed the river was an ideal bathing and swimming spot, and many of us would gather there for the bathing. It was a bit deep in places and not too safe for us children unless there were some adults present.
A little bit later a pack of otter hounds was kennelled down the bottom of Skates Hill. I understand that at the outbreak of the 1939-45 war, owing to the difficulties of obtaining food, the hounds were slaughtered and buried in the field at the back of the Three Turns.
The parish church had two lady organists who shared the organ on a rota basis. It always struck me as very comical that it was a Miss Knight who played by day and a Miss Day who played by night. Miss Knight used to have a whole string of Pekinese dogs which she exercised twice a day. Their yapping could be heard a long way off.