Contents

Introduction
Setting the Scene
Inside the Family Room
Pecking Order
Outside Privy
The Privy
Errands
The Thornbush Scene
The Runcton Farm Bull
Drawing Water from the Well
Thornbush Walks and Ornithology
Back’us Boy 1934
River Gipping Barges
The Corn Mill
Axle Grease
River Pollution 1930’s
The Washing Run
The Allotment
Down by the River
Egg Collecting
Runcton Stables
Briton Goes Walkies
Depper Bolts
Runcton Dairy

CHRONICLE OF TWENTIETH CENTURY BRAMFORD MAN

By L F Beckett

By the grace of God, I was born on 23rd April in the year 1921, in a small tied cottage in the tiny hamlet of Runcton which forms part of the village of Bramford in East Anglia.
The celebration of my arrival, that Saturday, was over shadowed perhaps when my brothers read in the Sunday newspapers, the following day, of the success of Tottenham Hotspurs in the Football Association Cup Final played at Stamford Bridge in London (before Wembley Stadium was constructed). In my very early days father nicknamed me Tottenham.
William Shakespeare’s birth and death anniversary is also commemorated on this date of St. George’s day, but I doubt whether this autobiography will convey the wealth of learning produced by his quill.
Genetic scientists who have studied the origins and the evolution of man, tell us that through our modern knowledge of DNA hereditary selection, we are born of a common ancestral structure evolved in Africa at the period known as Homo Sapiens, after 198,000BC. … and so I wonder, would the wide spread of my family tree show that I am related to William the Conqueror, but more likely to Thomas a Becket, whose family were merchants and are believed to have come over from Normandy soon after the conquest.
It is important to preserve the interesting facts and the memories of our lives and what we know of the lives of our parents, grandparents and colleagues so that the recollections live on and are accessible to our families and future generations. If we do not talk, and record in some way, of our life on earth, history slides into the ‘mists’ of time and is soon forgotten, and younger people will never know how we lived and spent our lifetime.
This booklet, among others, collates recollections and anecdotes drawn at random from my childhood.

The cottage where Les Beckett was born

Sam and”Granny” Leech

Inside the Family Room (1920’s)

A white grapevine, supported by a trellis, covered the front door of the house. The doorway led directly into the family living room. A couch stood along one wall and a metal folding bedchair, probably of Indian military origin, stood against the wall opposite the huge fireplace. The bedchair was covered in a colourful red, blue and brown material and was used as an easy-chair and a hiding place for my toys in the baggy cover. Father’s slatback armchair stood at the left hand side of the fire and in the corner stood his mandolin, while his accordion lay conveniently on the foot of the couch. On a shelf at arm’s reach rested his tin whistle. Mother’s armchair was smaller but similar to father’s and stood to the right of the fire and at the same time close to the dining table. Both parents sat on cushions placed on the hard chair seats. A large-paned window gave a good view of the garden. Pink and white geraniums and purple cyclamens blossomed on the window-sill throughout the year. The room never seemed cold; in the centre stood a large wooden table where meals were prepared and eaten. A colourful oilcloth covered the table, which was wiped clean with a damp cloth. A heavy twin-burner oil-lamp stood on the table centre to provide light at dusk. When frightening thunder-storms hung overhead, my young brother and I crawled in fear under the table for safety; while mother in her superstitious manner – she hated storms – turned the mirrors to the wall away from the lightning or covered them with a cloth or towel in fear of the house being struck by lightning.

Pecking Order (1920’s)

Our family, at meal times, sat in pecking order round the dining table. Reg, the youngest, sat in a high chair between mother and father near the fire. One brother sat by himself at the end of a small table, close to the wall under the window. In the twenties and thirties rabbits were quite plentiful and consequently rabbit was a popular family dish. They were mostly caught wild from the harvest field. Pecking order also prevailed, particularly with the sharing of rabbit dishes• one recalls that the thick back portion of the rabbit was placed on father’s plate, mother and the oldest son each had a hind leg, two other boys received a front leg; what was left of the body section was placed on my sister’s outstretched plate. The rabbit stays or rib-cage fell to me, and the youngest was left with the head to pick and perhaps a kidney – good helpings of vegetables with delicious piecrust and gravy, supplemented the baked rabbit.

Outside Privy (1920’s) (Not for the squeamish!)

The uneven garden path, bordering the sweet-scented flower beds, led to a small lavatory outhouse, which stood under the field bank at the end of the row of three farm cottages. The brick and tiled twin lavatory was probably as old as the houses and had been in use at Runcton some two hundred years. The pair served as a ‘resting’ place and relief for the three families. Inside each privy was a wooden, low box-type seat for children and a larger one for adults. Sam used our latrine and his wife used the other with the family next door. There were no buckets under the seats and the waste fell directly into a shallow hole in the ground, commonly known as the ‘bumby’, which was partly inside and partly outside the building. A low boarded lean-to roof covered the outside section of the sewage pit, liquid drained directly into the ground and the solids gradually decomposed and never, to my recollection, was the waste dug out. Scores of soft-bodied legless larvae thrived in the decaying filth, sometimes, as I sat there, one would come out and crawl like a caterpillar across the brick floor. The larvae were dark grey in colour, some 4 mm in diameter, 2cm long with a pointed tail almost as long as its body. Toilet rolls were unaffordable or unheard of and so the daily newspapers and comics hung on a string to be torn in pieces for use as required. A large round tin, with holes in the top, containing what appeared to be strongly disinfected earth, stood on the box seat and one was supposed to shake the upturned tin through the seat hole and pepper the faeces below.
In 1929, when I was eight years old, I was diagnosed as having the contagious disease Scarlet Fever and accordingly, I was removed for five weeks to the Barham isolation hospital (but that is another story). The Council Official who investigated the outbreak decided that the ‘bumby’ arrangements would be done away with and a bucket system installed, but we still had to dispose of the contents; no one liked the emptying job when the bucket was full and perhaps overflowing, A strong man was required to carry the huge pail down to the bottom of the garden and tip it into a deep hole. Occasionally, we used the field next door. It was another twenty years before authority was given for the ‘night soil’ horse and cart to make its fortnightly collection.

The Privy – (Knock before you enter!)

An obnoxious odour drifted around the privy most of the time, particularly during the summer months. We had not a second thought for the smell, it was nothing more than the aroma that one became acclimatised to in the farmyard, besides, Sam’s pigs rooted around in a pigsty attached to the end house only three or four yards away. A Suffolk latch secured the privy door, but it was advisable to leave it ajar! Faggot bundles of sticks and standing logs, cut from Elm trees in the autumn, for the household winter fires, screened the lavatory from sight. As infants, mother reminded us before going out, to have a ‘weewee’ behind the sticks. Her guiding care was twofold: one, to prevent wet trousers and two, to ensure we did not run into the closet and come face to face with Sam smoking his pipe, and most likely, sitting there with corduroy trousers and long johns down over his boots. Alternatively, father might be resting, sucking the wet end of a Darkie shag, roll-your-own fag. Smoking both pipe and succulent fags seemed a relaxing pastime and a worthwhile ozone-freshening exercise. There were no air-freshening gadgets in those days. As the dark winter evenings set in, we, as children, carried a candle-lit lantern to light the way along the garden path to the lavatory. The need to go to the privy after tea was, in many cases, an excuse to delay bedtime and if it was necessary to put on coat and hat, there was further delay. Mother didn’t seem to mind – it perhaps saved the use of a potty in the bedroom. We were often overcome with fear in the darkness when cloud shadows moved as they played hide and seek with the moon. It was doubly fearsome when creeping along the path to the faggot screen and when reaching the end of the cottages a gust of wind blew the lantern candle out. Standing there in complete darkness holding outstretched arms and hands before us, we felt our way back indoors to relight the candle. Mother became irritable, pointing to the large pendulum clock nailed to the wall, she reminded us that it was already past bedtime.

Errands (1933 – 1935)

From the age of twelve, I ran daily errands for Miss Ethel Fiske. Each morning and afternoon on my way to school I called at the servants’ entrance of Runcton House to see whether there were any notes or letters to deliver around the village. I received 10d (4p) a week for these little jobs. Sometimes I had a letter for the Headmaster, Vicar or other such people who lived in the locality, but if the delivery was further afield it was necessary for me to run, or perhaps cycle, to ensure I was back within close proximity of the school by 9 am or 2 o’clock.

1880 survey of Runcton (shown as Runton) showing Thornbush Hall

Thornbush Hall before 1886

Thatched cart lodge at Thornbush

Runcton Farm Bull (c 1937)

A flat-bottomed, wooden mud barge was usually tied to the bank on the river Gipping, near Harry Fiske’s boathouse. The barge, approximately 12′ by 8′ and 18″ deep, was used to clear weeds and maintain the river banks after the winter floods. Throughout the summer, milking cows and their bull were, at night, turned out to feed on the riverside marshes and lush green meadows. One warm evening, after working all day in the harvest fields, Percy, with babbing line and pole in hand, walked some two hundred yards across Home field to enjoy the peace and quiet and a spot of eel fishing from the river bank near the boathouse (and at the same time, wash his tired smelly feet in the cool river water.) The air was still warm as he ducked through the barbed wire and walked peacefully across the meadow. But not for long. The beady eyed brown and white bull, guarding his herd, had him under close observation. Bull turned angrily in the direction of Percy, at the same time stamping his hoof and blowing loudly from his broad nostrils. The meadow was fenced, on the side away from the river, by a hedge and trees stretched with barbed wire. The field gate was at the other end of the pasture. There was no escape. Bull, with head down, trundled along snorting, and gathering momentum, he approached Percy who increased his gait and hobbled in the direction of the river bank. What should he do? He could not swim but knew the mud barge was tethered close by – it saved his life! He jumped and half-fell into the barge, at the same time slipping the mooring rope to ease the boat a few feet from the bank, just far enough to prevent bull getting his feet on board. Bull stood his ground on the river bank, his massive head was low down beyond his shoulders, he stamped and dug with his hooves, making a hollow in the ground, at the same time throwing up clods of grass, earth and gravel into a heap through his legs. Teased by gnats, perspiration oozed from Percy’s face as he retreated to the extremity of the small flat-bottomed barge. He sat down and tried to scheme a way home while bull bellowed into the waning sunset. Len Sheppard, the farm stockman lived in the thatched cottage only a field away and while working in his garden, taking up new potatoes to feed his growing family, had heard bull making a fuss. Being the good cowman he was, when twilight fell, Len, with pitchfork over his shoulder, decided to take a look at the cows and ascertain why bull was being a nuisance. Percy called into the fading light, “Len, I am caught up on the barge and can’t get off ” Len had probably guessed earlier what the problem was and had delayed rescue purposely. A few cows, chewing their cud, were already laying down to rest for the night. Len got them to their feet and moved the herd further along the pasture. Quietly, but reluctantly, bull followed. Percy was relieved, he scrambled off the barge to thank Len for his help; they turned for home, walking together along the dusty Drift. A nightingale sang a melodious song from the high elm trees, while the evening transformed again into one of tranquility.

Drawing Water from the Well

A thirty-foot deep, drinking-water well, covered by a wooden housing, stood in the backyard near the sheds. The water in the well was quite deep, but often in a hot summer the spring to the well became only a trickle. If one was not careful when drawing water the bucket dragged on the well-bottom and clouded the water. I was almost fourteen years old before I was allowed to open the well hatch and try my hand at raising a bucket of water from below; I had watched my father and brothers many times and knew that great care was needed and a certain amount of strength required to raise a full bucket of water to the top.
When not in use, the well winding-handle, which controlled the roller and roller-chain, was held to the well-housing by a short chain and hook. It was important to know that when the well door was opened and the hook was removed from the winding-handle, it had to be held tightly in order to take the weight and strain of the roller, chain and empty bucket, when it unwound itself to the water below. If, when the winding handle hook was removed and precaution was not taken to hold tightly on to the winding handle, it spun with a loud clatter, at tremendous speed, out of control, when the heavy bucket on the long chain plunged down the well and bounced on the water with a terrific splash.
Faces quickly appeared behind half-opened doors and curtains. Considerable effort was needed to wind and raise the full pail of water to the surface. With one hand taking a firm hold on the roller handle, the other was used to drag or lift, by its handle, the heavy bucket of water which was attached to the long chain, on to the top of the well wooden ledge, which then allowed the water to be poured into the house pail standing on the ground. The fresh water was used for domestic and drinking purposes only and stood on the cool brick kitchen floor.
Every year, almost without fail, the heavy galvanised well bucket became detached from the long chain and was lost when it fell down the well. Sometimes by accident the bucket fell off the ledge and plunged to the well bottom. Father spent many frustrating Saturday afternoons leaning over the top of the well trying to recover pails from the water far below. It could take hours, drawing in pendulum style, a grapnel attached to the end of a long rope, backwards and forwards, in an endeavour to pick up the lost bucket. Recovery depended on a lot on luck. While salvage work was taking place, all children were confined to the front garden or taken inside the house, mother did not like us to hear the mutterings echoing down the well.

Thornbush, Field Walks and Ornithology (1928 – 1931)

The housekeeper at Thornbush was a kind lady who sometimes sent home to us a honeycomb or a dish of dripping to keep colds and coughs away throughout the winter. A row of goose eggs were often displayed along the kitchen dresser, they seemed so large when allowed to hold one. A row of bells hung from the wall above the sideboard and occasionally one would ring; the housekeeper knew immediately which room Squire was in. Bessie shuffled off mumbling, “I expect he wants some coal on the fire or he has had a nap and let it go out”. Perhaps a postage stamp was required for an urgent letter?
Throughout spring and summer we took many walks with father along the footpaths which surround and criss-cross the patchwork fields of Runcton, Thornbush, the Fens, Fidgeons and Duckamere. He invariably carried his walking stick to direct our attention to items of interest. Yellowhammers nested in holes in the banks of Thornbush Lane and later, in August, wasps used the same holes for their nests. Bee hives stood in the Thornbush orchard and so father, at dusk, destroyed any wasp nest he found by poking strips of rag-soaked paraffin in the ground hole and setting it alight to burn and smoke out the wasps, at the same time retreating a safe distance from the angry stinging insects. Numerous birds nested around the Hall gardens, the loganberry hedge was a favourite site for thrushes and blackbirds to build. Many times blackbirds were released from under the large strawberry nets where they picked, what always seemed, the best fruit. Linnets, too, frequently built their nests and raised families in the gardens at Thornbush. Linnets are wonderful song birds and when the fledglings were ready to leave the nest, father gathered them in his pocket and brought them home to Runcton and placed the young birds in cages nailed to the outside wall of our house facing Thornbush. The parent birds soon traced the hungry calls of their offspring and continued to feed the youngsters. Later, we fed and cared for the Linnets as caged birds.
Sometimes on a warm Sunday evening, a popular walk took us round the stackyard and along the top of Pightle field where, at the junction with the Duckamere cart track to Fidgeons, the path, in the other direction, led directly to the village street. Here the opportunity led father into the open front door of the Cock Inn, where Tom Lloyd, the landlord, always had a friendly greeting. Mother shepherded us through into the ‘Cyclists Rest’ a green painted lean-to shelter, where we played in the pub gardens while our parents, for a few minutes, enjoyed a glass of Cobbold’s ale.

Back’us Boy (1934)

I was old enough at the age of 13 to help the housekeeper at Runcton House with the kitchen chores, such as cleaning the dining-room knives and forks and the ladies shoes. Every Saturday morning I found the knife box full of stained cutlery waiting to be cleaned and the kitchen and dining room coal-scuttles standing to be filled. The shoes were often caked hard with mud, but never difficult to clean and polish. I did this work in an outhouse where there was a bench and knife-board, upon which I scraped brick dust, and then rubbed the vinegar-stained knives backwards and forwards on the board until they shone with the brilliance of silver. A piece of damp cloth was used to clean and brighten the table forks. In order to keep me further occupied, Agnes sometimes asked if I would grind a fresh supply of coffee, the aroma was delightful, but it was a tedious job filling the caddy. Until that time, I always thought coffee came out of a bottle with a colour-kilted soldier and the word ‘Camp’ on the label. If there had been a shoot on the farms, a brace of pheasants, pigeons or a hare appeared on the kitchen table and I had the job of plucking or skinning them. I remember plucking a couple of pigeons which I thought had been hanging too long. The birds were infested with maggots and falling apart as I plucked away at the feathers. I walked back to the kitchen and on my way dropped the birds in the refuse bin. I am certain Agnes retrieved them after I had returned home.

The Corn Mill

Ours was the freedom to wander round the farm at Runcton. I recall having a secret peephole in the barn woodwork where I could ascertain whether Fred, the carpenter, was working at his bench. If Albert Hogger was there hoisting or stacking sacks of milled grain or feed for the animals, I was reluctant to enter. After a long harvest the generator-driven corn mill worked continuously under Albert’s watchful eye in the barn. When passing the stables on my way to school I could hear from across the yard the monotonous singing of, “Flippity flop, flippity flip, flippity flop” as the mill driving belts passed over the pulleys on an endless daily marathon. If the diesel-driven mill behaved itself, Albert took the opportunity to leave the hubbub and barn dust to collect the eggs of hens and ducks which roamed freely round the stackyard, cartsheds and nearby hedgerows. Albert knew exactly where to look for their nests – and so did I. I had watched him many times from a safe distance.

Axle Grease

Fred Brown worked at his long bench repairing or making wooden field gates, posts and wagon wheels or carrying out other maintenance work around the farms. Occasionally tumbrels wheels had to be greased; this was, I think, the most difficult and back-breaking job on the farm. Greasing tumbrel wheels was done mostly during inclement weather under the cover of the open cartshed. A farmworker raised the heavy wheel off the ground by chocking the tumbrel axle with solid wood logs. With a heave from the shoulder the tumbrel and wheel was raised an inch or so off the ground. Turning the wheel the lynchpin was removed and, with a heave, a strain and a grunt, the labourer lifted the heavy wheel off the axle spindle and held it upright against his shoulder. At the same time, bending over, with one hand holding a thin piece of wood which he used as a spatula while scraping inside the large grease drum to scoop a dollop of grease to smear round the spindle. Single-handed and sometimes with smudged sweat on his sleeve which dripped from his face, there remained another difficult task to lift the heavy iron-banded wheel on to the spindle and insert the lynchpin again but the job was only half complete. Holding his aching back, the farm worker pulled and pushed the chocks beneath the tumbrel closer to the wheel on the other side so that the laborious axle greasing procedure could be carried out again. Both wheels had to be greased to ensure the elimination of the squeak. Hard luck on the greaser but never mind, he had been working in the dry.

River Pollution (c1930’s)

Soon after the barges stopped trading, the river became clogged with weeds and the locks and banks fell into dilapidation through lack of funds to maintain them. Pollution followed and fish dying in their thousands fouled and clogged the river. The stench was almost unbearable; coarse fish such as bream, perch, roach, tench and pike rotted in the weeds and debris. Some very fine specimens came to the surface, many were larger than any which had been caught on rod and line. For many years fishing and swimming in the Gipping was curtailed.

The Washing Run

Every Monday, on my way back to school after the midday dinner break, I trotted with my new handcart to the back-door of Runcton House. The two-handled wicker linen basket fitted perfectly into the cart which father had made and painted pink and green. Over uneven bricks, I rattled past the kitchen window and tapped on the door. Agnes, the housekeeper, opened the heavy door with the Suffolk latch and placed the linen basket filled with washing and covered with a woven cloth into the cart. The delivery took me on a long run, past the stables, the junior school and over the river bridge and under the railway to Kate Read’s cottage laundry near the station. It was a bit of a struggle to push the cart along the narrow overgrown garden path to the back door where Kate removed the basket on to the wash-house brick floor which, like the walls was wringing wet from steam condensation. I ran off quickly and left my cart in Fred Dedman’s builders yard on Church Green before the school bell rang for afternoon lessons.
Kate Read was a frail old lady who, presumably, took in washing to earn a living. On Friday, before afternoon lessons, I returned with my empty cart to collect the clean and ironed laundry. The empty cart was an open invitation for friends to seek a ride and partake in a bit of devilment. Kate placed the nicely packed basket into the cart and I ran off to Dedman’s yard behind the school. It was a convenient pick-up for a quick run home to Runcton. After washing my hands in a bowl of water standing in the kitchen, I was ready for tea.

The Allotment

Next morning, I used the same cart to collect horse muck off the road for father’s allotment. Top garden, as the allotment was called, was located immediately apposite the entrance to Runcton House where a very large holly tree grew by the gateway. This tree, every year, produced beautiful holly for the House and our family Christmas tree. The tree base was a heavy wood log drilled with a large hole to hold a few small holly branches. When decorated, tinsel trimmings and small parcels made Christmas seemed so much closer. At the far end of the allotment stood a mature Bramley apple tree which, every year, was laden with parasitic mistletoe bringing joy and laughter to the festive season.

Down by the River

Mr. Harry’s boat-house stood on a large bend in the River Gipping at Runcton meadows. Chained within the boat-house was a strong wooden rowing boat, where two pairs of oars lay overhead on the rafters. The boat laid idle during the winter but as soon as the weather improved father called at Runcton House for the boat-house keys to check the boat’s condition. A treacle tin was kept handy to bale out water which had seeped under the floor boards. Invariably choking weeds allowed us to row only to the next bend on the river and return, but it was a wonderful feeling to trail our hands through the cool water and tug on to golden-yellow water lilies which came to hand. If the weather was warm, we were allowed to stand in the water close to the river bank and hold on to the boat-house woodwork, up to our ankles in mud. Like most children we wiped our feet and legs on a piece of old towelling and then delayed, for as long as possible, the homeward journey and enjoyed a chase and romp around the dusty meadow. Mother was annoyed to see our dirty state, while father had not realised we were perhaps a bit unkempt. A quick stand up bath, before bed, was soon arranged, in readiness for Sunday school in the morning.
The river meadows and marshes near Runcton flooded during the winter months and when the hard frosts arrived, thick ice covered the flooded area. Many people from the village enjoyed skating and others joined in the fun of being on the ice. I recall, at the age of five or six, sitting on a stool in a Tate & Lyle wooden box, being pushed by my brothers across the ice, but when my fingers turned blue with cold, I was glad to go home and thaw out in front of the glowing log fire. The young Misses Fiske and their friends were keen skaters and when thick ice formed on the marshes, father was asked to mark out a large oval so that the young ladies and their friends could skate and dance to music played on the portable gramophone which they had taken to the meadows.

Egg Collecting (c1930’s)

Spring was not far away when the thaw set in. The rough grass was soon lush and the reeds and rushes stood erect in the ditches. Waders, moorhens, buntings and harnsers (herons) quickly took possession on the marshes and young lads carrying long poles with dessert spoons tied to the end went on safari to collect moorhens’ eggs for breakfast. In early summer when it was drier and wanner, pheasants’ nests also came in for attention. Laury built up a good set of birds’ eggs, collected on his walks in the fields, meadows and expeditions to the local chalk, clay and sand pits. People who lived close to the river and wealthy enough to own rowing boats or punts gradually disappeared from the river scene. There were no more pretty ladies in billowing dresses holding coloured parasols, listening to gramophone music nor men in straw boaters showing off.

Runcton Stables (c 1930)

Many times on my way home from junior school, at Vicarage Lane corner, I met Walter Blake, the head horseman, returning on his rickety bicycle to the Runcton farm stable, where he ensured the horses had been properly fed, groomed and settled down for the night. Depper, Prince and Briton were fairly old brown-coated shires. Sharper was dapple grey, probably an Ardenne cross introduced in WWI. The other mares and geldings, Smiler, Sprite, Smirke and Blossom were Fiske bred, light chestnut in colour, Suffolk Punches. Ten horses, each with their own stall, were stabled at Runcton and ten at Thornbush. Mr. Walter Blake lived in a very old tied cottage at Gables Corner. Walter was a friendly gentleman and often, when we met at Street Barn corner, I tagged on and ran beside him as he cycled along. He talked and quizzed me, sometimes pedalling a little faster to see if I could keep up. I was fit and well enough to run all the way to the stables without slowing down or walking for a breather.
The smell of stables and steaming horses was one I loved. At the end of the working day I looked forward to watching the tired horses come into the stable yard and take a long drink of freshwater from the large tank standing outside the stable door. Before going home the men, who had worked the horse(s) during the day, fed them hay and mash. While the tired horses enjoyed their satisfying bait they were given a good brushing down.
Tom Sheldrake was the deputy head horseman and he lived next door to my grandparents, immediately opposite the stables.

Briton goes Walkies

It was at a time, before the fire at Street Barn, when the Runcton farm milking cows needed a top-up to their green fodder rations. Percy had the regular job of collecting silage from the tall, round, wooden silo at Street Barn. On this particular afternoon he drove Briton, a powerfully strong brown shire gelding, and tumbrel to load silage and return empty corn sacks to the barn. On reaching Street Barn he backed him close against the large double doors which had to be opened from inside. Percy walked round to the rear and entered a small doorway near the silo. Groping his way through the darkened barn, he opened the main doors to daylight. Horse and tumbrel were nowhere to be seen. Briton, on that dull afternoon, took it into his head not to wait. Ready for his bait, he was on his way home to the Runcton stable. Briton, and tumbrel, cleared the farmyard gateposts and was halfway along the main road before Percy, running to exhaustion, caught up and turned him to finish the job. The sacks were removed, and silage loaded. Briton, now with the leather bridle restraint resting at his forefeet, waited patiently for his instruction from Percy “Home boy”.

Depper Bolts (c 1930)

Bill had a hair-raising experience when he and Depper, an oldish shire mare with a full white blaze, were returning to Runcton farm with an empty tumbrel.
Quite unexpectedly, a steam-traction wagon came chugging round the bend of the narrow road towards them. These vehicles made a frightening loud hissing noise when excess steam escaped from the safety vent attached to the funnel at the front end of the driving cab. Steam-driven wagons which ran on solid rubber tyres were very noisy and an uncanny clanking noise came from the huge driving chains which changed the direction of the wheels or brought the vehicle to a halt.
Bill, holding Depper’s driving reins, and sitting quite comfortably in the tumbrel, was caught unawares when Depper took fright at the sudden appearance of the hissing, fiery mechanical monster. Raising her head, she reared and bolted with the rumbling tumbrel in her wake. Bill was unceremoniously dumped on the road and the nearside wheel went over his boot, removing the heel, and at the same time bruising his left thumb. Depper bolted for a good half-mile, but came to no harm when the tumbrel rode up the bank and tipped over near the Grindle, without further damage.

Runcton Dairy

Beyond the barn stood a modern, brick constructed cowshed and dairy where Dairy Shorthorns were milked by hand. I was intrigued, as a lad, by the manner in which the cows pushed their noses on to a hinged platform which, when pressed down, acted as a valve to automatically release fresh water in a drinking bowl. The automation was quite an innovation for the late twenties when Reg Garrod, Les Green and later Len Shepperd were the cowmen. Every evening it was my job after school, completely in the dark in winter, to walk through the farmyard and lorry shed to hang our milk can on a hook, screwed high on the dairy doorpost. It was an arrangement whereby we received fresh milk every morning before breakfast. Mother dropped a sixpenny coin (2.5p) in the can every other day to pay for the milk. Many times when the weather was severely frosty the milk had frozen solid by the time it was taken off the doorstep where, before light, it had been placed by Len. Sometimes during the summer school holidays, when the afternoon milking was taking place, we crept into the dairy where the milk churns were being filled as the full pails were brought in from the cowshed. Inside the top of the churn rested a filter which collected thick milk foam and extraneous material such as small pieces of straw or a fly. We were hardly tall enough to see over the top of the churn but, on tiptoe and with an outstretched arm and bent forefinger, we could wipe round the filter and lick our grubby finger. One had to be quick before the door opened, and Les or Reg, with their cap round the wrong way, brought in the next pail of warm fresh milk from Daisy or Buttercup.