CHRONICLE OF TWENTIETH CENTURY BRAMFORD MAN – Volume 2

Introduction

Volume two continues the recollections of my childhood and preserve the interesting facts and memories of my life and my family and acknowledges those with whom I had contact. The salient feature of this booklet is the record of my Junior schooldays where, with pleasure, I am able to record many names of boys and girls who attended with me.
At the end of this volume is the story of the untimely death, in 1912, of Captain Eustace Broke Loraine. The 90th anniversary of his tragic accident, while not part of my autobiography, is worthy of record at this time in 2002.

Storm over Burstall (c1929)

Fen Lane is a continuation of Thornbush Lane and stretches away through the fields to Burstall. The lane was no more than a cart track; in winter tumbrel wheels sunk axle deep into mud but in summer it was a pleasure to walk into the countryside. This particular ramble took us alongside the Fens on our left and Fidgeons, Block Hills and Bullen Wood on our right. I was around eight years old when, one day with my sister and elder brother Stanley, we walked along the field hedgerows and across the meadows in the direction of Burstall. Wandering along, perhaps searching for birds nests or picking a young cobnut or two we had not noticed black storm clouds forming in the sky. Lightning and thunder threatened, heavy rain began to fall and in no time we were drenched. We hurried along knowing we should not stand under trees during a storm. Phyllis held tightly onto a soaked bunch of wild flowers she had gathered along the way. Stan must have known that Jimmy Finch and his wife lived in a small cottage on the edge of the wood at Burstall. We ran for sanctuary as fast as we could, my brother knocked loudly on the cottage door. It was opened by a small woman whose face was aged and weather-beaten; hovering behind my sister, I looked up into her face with fear. The old woman must have been surprised, if not shocked, to see three young children on her doorstep in the middle of a severe thunderstorm. With smiles, we were hurried inside to dry out while the inquisitive lady asked our names and where we came from. All was well when she revealed that she knew father. Mrs. Finch, who handed us sweets and cake, was kind and homely. Jimmy was not there – he was probably in the wood shed sharpening his hedging billhook. Before long, the sun beamed again through the tall trees while the heavy storm clouds scudded away. We expressed our gratitude to Mrs Finch before leaving to wend our way home through the Fens to Grindle Lane.

Runcton Cottage Garden

The large open gardens at the front of the south-facing house were well maintained by Sam and dad. Father was a very keen and experienced gardener and mother was always thankful for a regular supply of vegetables to feed a growing family of eight. From a very early age I stood and watched father digging deep straight trenches across the garden. At the same time, he turned in weeds and muck to enrich the soil for the next root or brassica crop. Working with spade, fork and hoe, he rarely walked on the newly dug garden; he planted as he worked the soil. It was, in a way, my early learning in crop cultivation and a gardening system I always used.
Flowers bloomed in abundance from spring onwards. One could inhale the fragrant scent of sweet peas standing in a straight row across the garden close to the cottage front door. Yellow blossom Evening Primrose opened daily and closed again as darkness fell. Silky orange Eschscholzias bloomed in competition with light blue Cornflowers waving in the warm breeze and tantalising the hovering honey bees. Dahlia blooms, in beautiful array, dazzled from early summer until the first frost turned the foliage black. Mother made satisfying fresh fruit pies and puddings when apples, blackberries, gooseberries and Victoria plums came into season. We helped with the gathering but took care not to be stung by wasps.

Bruises and Black Leghorns (c 1927)

At a very young age we had the run of the open uncultivated areas to chase and play. If we stumbled and bumped our forehead mother placed a cold penny coin on the sore bump, holding the coin in place for a few moments, while our crying subsided and weeping eyes closed in sleep. Next day the bruise had been forgotten.
There was ample space in the garden for chicken sheds and wire-netting runs where father’s favourite hens, Black Leghorns, scratched and picked. Throughout the summer when eggs were plentiful all surplus eggs were placed in a large brown earthenware pot containing isinglass. The preserved eggs were used for cooking throughout the winter when the hens laid less frequently. In addition to the daily household scraps, the hens received a daily ration of maize and mash, a mixture of meal mixed with the hot water drained from the boiled potatoes. If I was hanging around at the time I frequently got the job of mixing chicken meal.
When we were very young father sometimes placed a broody hen in a coop on the garden to hatch a dozen eggs. Three weeks later, we would be up early to watch the tiny chicks emerge through the coop slats to scratch around for grit and insects but always within mother hen’s clucking call to scurry back for food, or in case of danger, the protection of her widely spread wings and warm body. It was a wonderfully exciting time to feel around the coop and gather a fidgety downy chick in the palm of one’s hand.

The Family Living Room

This is the room where we lived together, ate our meals, washed-up and the younger children took their weekly bath. A wood and coal burning range with left-hand oven, was set deep into the huge chimney flue. The range fire was lit daily and burned throughout the year for cooking, hot water and heating the room. We all took our turn in clearing the fireplace each morning and disposed of the ashes in the garden rubbish hole or in the ditch in the field beyond the fence. On the right of the range, near mother’s armchair, the constantly brewing teapot stood on the hob. Friday was, by ritual, baking day and whosoever lit the fire in the morning had to remember to remove the false grate in order to increase the oven heat. It was great on a bitterly cold day to return from school and feel the warmth as the front door was opened and savour the day’s cooking and baking. Surrounding the fire was a large wire mesh fireguard securely hooked to the mantelpiece. Removing our hats and coats, we quickly drew up stools beside the guard to enjoy, until father came home, the warmth. Outside it was perhaps almost dark, but as the blazing fire gave ample light, mother was reluctant to light the oil lamp until dad appeared for tea. Occasionally, if mother was in a good mood, we were allowed take a few grains of maize from the chicken food bag and lay them out on the hot coal shovel which we rested on the fire bars. Within minutes, in the fierce heat, popcorns exploded all over the hearth. Burnt perhaps, but picking them up to eat after a dip in the sugar bowl was great fun. The smell of hot, crusty fruit pies, currant buns and milk puddings was mouth-watering. Father’s kippers would perhaps be cooking in a jug of hot water on the hob or the gridiron loaded with sprats or herrings would be cooking over the hot fire coals. As the fish oil dripped into the flames the fire flared and died until the next drip caught alight. It was nice to sit by the fire and make toast on the home-made three-pronged fork. Perhaps when tired and day dreaming, or earwigging a conversation, the toast sometimes burned, but even so, there was nothing nicer than a round of hot toast thickly spread with beef dripping which perhaps had been sent down from Thornbush by the housekeeper. Occasionally, particularly on a wet washday, it was necessary to move damp and drying clothes, such as pants, knickers, vests, shirts and towels stretched along the fireguard in order to feel the warmth of the fire. Granny called regularly on Friday afternoon to enjoy the comfort and to chat with mother and update herself on local gossip. Gran and Grandad resided in a small cottage opposite the farm stables, less than two hundred yards from where we lived.
Children were bathed in a large galvanised iron bath on the hearth in front of the fire. It was the same bath in which mother washed the clothes on Mondays. Hot water from the kettle on the hob was used for topping up. The youngest child was bathed first, followed by the second who used the same water while the first was taken to bed.

The Family Cat

Tiny, our tortoiseshell longhaired cat, gave birth to kittens as a regular occurrence in a warm, sack lined, wooden box in the shed near the well. While it was sad that father disposed of the majority of each litter before their eyes opened, there was much happiness gathering the kittens out of the box and holding them gently. When the mother was stroked gently she rolled over on her back in a playful manner. Tiny was father’s pet really and while she was well fed in the shed, she always looked for tit-bits from the table. No sooner had he sat down she would jump on his knee and, if at the table, she waited patiently for a small cube of cheese and bread from his plate.
On two occasions dad saved her life. One day Tiny struggled home with a rabbit snare entangled round her neck. With hardly a breath of air in her body, father, with snips in his hand, found difficulty in releasing the snare without being scratched to pieces. Sometime later a piece of meat gristle lodged in her throat. Tiny could not swallow and breathing was very difficult. She laid on the camp bed exhausted through trying to disgorge the blockage. In the evening dad decided it was time to eradicate the problem but as he picked her up she scratched and behaved in an ill-tempered manner. Father had a brainwave! He kept his accordion in a strong canvas bag that could be closed with a drawn cord. The accordion was removed and while Bill held the bag wide open father, wearing leather gloves, gently but firmly picked up the cat, who was now almost at an end and gently placed her inside with her head above the noose. The cord was drawn and the bag closed round Tiny’s neck. Bill using both hands held the bag and cat firmly under his arm. With difficulty, father prized opened the cat’s jaw and while using a large pair of tweezers tried to dislodge the offending piece of meat. It was not an easy task to keep open the mouth of a struggling moggy and also keep a firm grip on the gristle. Father was almost at the point of giving up but he could see we were tearful and so with one more tug and a twist the throat was cleared. With joy and a sigh of relief, we could see the long piece of gristle dangling from the end of the tweezers. The poor old cat went berserk when the bag was opened, she raced up the garden path, through the hedge and disappeared into the field. Tiny was upset and traumatised by the ordeal, it was a few days before she returned home, probably due to hunger but none the worse for her distressing operation.

Rat Catching

Wheat stacks were usually surrounded by wire netting at threshing time in order to restrict the escape of rats. I well recall while threshing was in progress at Street Barn, joining in with Walter Peck one Saturday morning to catch rats and mice when they sprang from the stack as the sheaves were lifted onto the threshing tackle. Walter was an expert shot and caught scores of rats with his .22 sporting gun but he was always assisted by his black and white Jack Russell bitch. She was a fearless dog when picking up both live and dead rats.

Threshing

On a Saturday morning during the winter months I stood perhaps in a dream when listening to the belts buzzing and humming, backwards and forwards around the pulleys and working parts of Harry Fiske’s steam traction engine and threshing tackle, particularly when threshing corn near at hand at Runcton. It was important to have a stick handy to catch the mice as they were uncovered on the stack by the men who, with pitchforks, lifted the sheaves of wheat or barley onto the threshing drum. If a nest of young mice was disturbed I picked them up and dropped them in a paper bag which I carried in my pocket, for the cat at home. The cat could smell the mice as soon as I walked in the back door. Swearing with her mouth full she still grabbed at those remaining alive. If any mice were left over, I stored them in a tin for later.
Threshing was in full swing at Runcton, the stack was half finished when the shout ‘a rat’ was heard. In one huge leap the rat was away running along his escape route. One had to turn them quickly into the open to give oneself a chance of catching the vermin. This large rat, I recall, tried to escape by running along a furrow in Home field. George Pipe, wearing heavy farm boots, jumped off the stack in pursuit and tried to tread on the rodent as he caught up. In a flash it turned and ran up his trouser but there was no escape when it reached his knee where the trouser was tied with binder string. George dragged out the squealing rat and stubbed it with his heel. Holding it up by its tail he joked and joined in the laughter from the gang who had watched the chase from the stack.

Fisk threshing engine

Waste Burning

Chaff waste, husk and fluff from the corn threshing drum and barn mill, was dumped for burning at the end of Marsh Lane. The ash heap burned in a hot glow for weeks while a fine whiff of spiraling smoke threaded its way through the trees. When passing the burning waste on our way home from school, we stopped to play and warm our hands by stimulating the ash heap with a few prods from our sticks to enliven the embers. Heaps of chaff waste were also left to burn slowly at the end of the Drift near the Runcton meadows and at the bend in Fen Lane near Block Hills.

Block Hills

Block Hills was a delightful area beyond Thornbush, particularly in the spring, when the water meadows were literally smothered in yellow clumps of marsh marigolds, primroses and cowslips, to be followed later by swaying bluebells. A sparkling spring water stream gurgled through the centre of the meadows and fresh watercress was always available, by the handful, from the pond at the gateway. We were reminded as small children to be careful of wild cats that lived in holes under the large holly trees. At the time scores of cats lived at Thornbush and probably some wandered away and turned feral.

The Death of Brag

The Block Hills meadows were drained by a stream and the maintained deep ditches. It is sad to recount the death of Brag a carthorse from Thornbush. Following their late afternoon bait of hay and mash and as an alternative to spending the night on the Fens, the mares and geldings, after working hard bringing in the hay and corn harvest, were released to the Block Hills pastures to spend the night in the open. The horses were free to stand head to tail swatting flies, gallop around or munch the lush grass. But after wintering in the stables it was an exalting time for loose horses to chase and charge around the meadows. Unfortunately, as darkness fell, a horse slipped or perhaps was nudged by another into a deep drainage ditch from which it could not recover its footing. Having struggled all night to extract itself from the mud and water, Brag, a powerful horse, was by daylight deeply distressed. Frank Moss, the early morning collecting horseman, realising one of his charges was unaccounted for, found the distressed animal stuck fast and suffering. Time was at a premium in a crisis such as this, but before help could be summoned to erect a rope and tripod block tackle to lift the gelding from the quagmire, the horse was dead. Tears seeped from my eyes as the unfortunate animal was winched onto a horse-drawn cart and driven off to Keeble’s slaughterhouse at Burstall.

Gun Carriage Way (1920’s and 1930’s)

Annually, before WWII, the vehicle track through the fields between Burstall and Thornbush Lane was kept open as an unmade road by the Army. Soldiers from Ipswich Barracks, using a two or four-wheeled gun carriage pulled by two horses, drove to Burstall and returned by the rough cart track to Thornbush. Bypassing Block Hills, the route followed the field hedges and headlands, dropping into a hollow to skirt Long Piece and onto Fen Lane. Using hand shovels, the soldiers cleared saplings which stood in their way and filled in rabbit holes and deep ruts ensuring the little known trail was maintained for horse and wagon traffic in the event of an emergency.

Bramford School – 1860

The village school, standing in Ship Lane, was built in 1860. Standing near Church Green it was, until 1930, for the education of children aged from 5 to 14 years. For many years the school was well administered by Mr Rumsey and later by Mr Wilfred Hurry the Headmasters. From 1930 it became known as the Junior school for children in the 5 to 10 years age group.
I was registered by my brother Percy at the school in 1926. Mr. Hurry was a slim, sprightly and upright gentleman, who dressed in a smart suit and invariably pince-nez rested on his somewhat long, sharpish nose. He was a firm disciplinarian who walked smartly and wore an old trilby hat at a rakish angle. I was warned at an early stage that he had been known to use the cane but only on older pupils for serious misconduct.

Grey-black flat flints and red Suffolk bricks were used to construct the school. The structure was typical of many built in the 19th century, originally there were two main classrooms, one of which was partitioned to form three rooms. Later, in 1873, an additional room was added at the end nearest the church. The floor of this room was terraced and long bench desks to seat at least four small children stood on the steps. The infants’ school, for children of five and six years, which stood in its own playground and was a later addition, constructed of brick with tall windows, the sills were too high for a five-year-old child to peep and gawp. A wooden folding partition divided the main room into two classrooms.
My first teacher was Miss Joyce who, with Miss Stanniland and later Connie Southgate (Mrs Firmin) taught the infants. Teachers from Ipswich journeyed by bus or bicycle. One young teacher, a tall Dorothea Fuller, looked even taller as she cycled along on her upright framed cycle. I recall too, Misses Lee and Barnard, and Miss Ena Hunt (Mrs Shortland) who was a round faced, rosy-cheeked young lady. Other teachers were Miss Mullins, Mr. Woolnough and Leslie Piper, they assisted mainly with the teaching of the ten- to fourteen-year-old children.
Although there was little traffic on the road through Runcton in the late twenties, I preferred to walk to school along the Sandy Field footpath into Vicarage Lane, accompanied by Alfred and Arthur Lloyd. We occasionally, by the churchyard, came across a grass snake wriggling away to safety among the tombstones. Phyllis, my sister, during inclement weather wore handed down lace-up boots, and as we know, teasing playmates have no bounds. Phyllis’s reply to probing questions was always the same — the boots were needed to support her weak ankles.
Due to overcrowding and lack of facilities, boys and girls on reaching their final year, at the age of 13, travelled by train to Claydon School on one day per week to learn elementary woodwork and cooking.

Wilfred Hurry

School teachers Mr Woolnough second from left back row Ena Shortland sitting far right

Bramford School

Junior School Days

Infants

Almost daily in the infants class, we were told to lay our heads on our arms and rest on the desktop, invariably we all fell asleep. I listened intently when sitting around teacher at story time and if in the next lesson we were allowed to draw and paint, I thought school was wonderful.

Cocoa

During the winter months I carried packed honey sandwiches and an apple or banana for my midday dinner. The honey probably came from honeycomb produced by the Thornbush bees. A teacher was present to supervise the dinner break, and to make a hot cocoa drink for the children. (No cooked or other meals were served). A harassed teacher while pouring, steaming, boiling, water into a large blue enamel cocoa jug was heard to lament, “Tom! don’t speak with your mouth full, that’s a good boy.” A mug of cocoa cost ha’penny a day or tuppence a week payable on Mondays. (less than 1p).

‘Nit Nurse’ and Dentist

At the age of seven children moved to the main school building and came in contact for the first time with the ‘Nit Nurse’ (who was none too careful, in her search, with a sharp comb) and the travelling Dentist. We were encouraged to buy a 10d tooth brush and a round tin of Gibbs pink tooth paste for 3d. Mother had no spare money, but 1/1d (6p) was raked up from somewhere so that I could have my own tooth brush and paste for the first time.

Teachers

English, composition and spelling were never easy, particularly under the
tuition of Miss Mullins, not my favourite teacher. She had the honour to teach music and occasionally, for a special half-hour, we listened, as I now appreciate, to certain light and classical movements of music from a record playing portable gramophone. It was pointless to raise one’s hand to leave the room during a music lesson, but one boy was persistent, “Yes, Smith what is it?” asked the annoyed teacher, “It’s too late Miss, I’ve done it in my trousers, Miss”.
Leslie Piper, who taught the older age group children, assisted the Headmaster, while Mr. Woolnough, in his earthy manner, taught the younger boys and girls arithmetic, history and geography. Under Mr Woolnough’s teaching; if one did not pay full attention he rapped our heads with his knuckle or a 12″ rule as he passed by. Bill Woolnough had fought as a soldier in the Great War of 1914-1918 and sometimes he described his experiences on the battle fields of Belgium. His vivid stories were so exciting.
A picture which conveyed a wartime naval story of sadness hung on the wall of Form 4. The picture of boy hero John Cornwall VC always attracted my attention; he died from mortal wounds received at his gun position on the cruiser Chester in the Battle of Jutland in 1916.

Male Scholars (c1929-30)

There are far too many names to record them all and I therefore extend apologies to those whom I may have disappointed. The following names were boys around my own age: Frank Barker, Reggie Beckett, Jack Benstead, Peter Bowman, Bernard Blowers, Chas Chittock, Vic Cockerton, Alby Coleman, Tim Crooks, Albert ‘Tank’ Dale, Stan ‘Dodger’ Drane, Stanley Ford, Maurice Garrod, Chas ‘Wag’ Hood, Cyril Jackson, Ron ‘Jummy’ Johns, Len Lancaster, Reggie Lay, Bert Leech, Alfred and Arthur Lloyd, Eric Merchant, Doug Moss, Albert Offord, Dick Packer, Don Page, Fred ‘Ribby’ Page, Cyril ‘Tiger’ Pipe, Reggie Rosier, Dennis ‘Spud’ Ruffles and Russell Sparrow.

Empire Day

Mr Hurry encouraged competitive games and sporting events when the weather was suitable. All children at the age of seven were placed in one of the school teams, recognised by the colours Red, Blue, Yellow and Green. I became a member of the yellow team. Team achievements appeared on the corridor notice board where, at regular intervals the scores were updated and one could follow team marks and merits.
On special occasions such as Empire Day (24th May), I sported a yellow rosette stitched and made up by mother from horses braid purchased at Mr Cook’s harness making workshop and business in the Street, opposite the Post Office.
Empire Day was looked upon as an annual ceremonial event. The whole school assembled in the playground or in the main hall to sing the anthems of the home countries eg. ‘Land of My Fathers’ and ‘Land of Hope and Glory’ etc. In the afternoon, children carrying drinking mugs walked in classes to the school meadow in Vicarage Lane. Here everyone was expected to take part in sports and running races. I well recall in 1927, my first year, Reggie Piper and Ken Read winning most of the older boy’s races for prizes presented by the village British Legion {now Royal British Legion). At the end of the afternoon’s fun, teachers handed round buns, sweets and ginger beer pop. The celebration of Empire Day was always eagerly looked forward to, a day of happiness.
The school meadow, loaned by Harry Fiske, was used mainly for playing football (soccer) both in and out of school hours. Cows from nearby Street Barn farm cropped the meadow daily and left cowpats in their wake, to be avoided at all cost.
A high brick wall divided the meadow from the Vicarage kitchen but it was not high enough to prevent hot ruddy-faced boys, after an exhaustive game, from straddling the wall and calling the young maid for a glass of water.

Headmistress

Miss Salter was appointed Headmistress at the Junior School in September 1930 when Wilfred Hurry became Head of the new Senior School, which had been constructed at Duckamere. The old school had become overcrowded and quite incapable of accommodating all the children from 5 to 14 years, in an expanding village population. Children in the 11 to 14 years age group moved to the new school with modern facilities. Teaching at the old school went on very much as before. It was noticeable however that the Headmistress was not prepared to allow the young children to work the school gardens. Mr. Hurry had built up a tradition in teaching horticulture. For many years plots of twenty gardens had been laid out in two rows at the rear of the infants classrooms and previously children of 12 to 14 years learned the skills of cultivation, budding, grafting and pruning of fruit trees and rose bushes. The planting of seeds and harvesting of the resultant crops of beans, carrots, lettuces, peas and potatoes was educationally important for boys who, later in life would have gardens and allotments of their own to cultivate.
Miss Salter curtailed the cultivation of the gardens due to the young age of her pupils and six plots near Vicarage Lane were returned to arable farming and four plots near the school were redesigned to form a lawn where, in summer, children under supervision were allowed to play and take their reading books. Potatoes became an important vegetable with which to cultivate the remaining garden plots whereupon Miss Salter insisted on planting Kerrs Pink main crop; they were not one of father’s favourite varieties and one will never know if the Headmistress was an expert in potato varieties or whether the name ‘Kerrs Pink’ had a certain appeal to a lady. Seventy years later it is interesting to note that ‘Kerrs Pink’ is still a popular potato.

Female Scholars (c1929-30)

The following girls were of a similar age as myself but please accept my apology for any errors and omissions:
Vera Allen, Daphne Barker, Marjory Bass, Phyllis Beckett, Beatrice Brown, Grace Cook, Constance Cummings, Marjory Dedman, Ruby Drane, Vera Earthy, Molly Fakes, Avril Fenton, Daphne Fuller, Pearl Green, Sheila and May Hancock, Millie Hicks, Vera Hill, Daphne Hood, Joyce Keeble, Joan Leech, Daphne Lewis, Ruth Lloyd, Joan Miller, Betty Norman, Peggy Page, Vera Pipe, Elsie Pryke, Beattie Rodwell, Yvonne Rosier, Eileen Ruffles, Winifred Spiers, Olga Welham, Edith Worledge and Olive Wyatt.

Cigarette Cards

Collecting picture cards from cigarette packets in sets of 50 or from boys’ magazines in sets of 48 was a very popular hobby. Boys were often seen huddled together in the playground swapping duplicates. My favourite set was named ‘Speed’. Mr. Fiske was quite a heavy smoker of Churchman’s No.1 sold in a green box of 50. Thoughtfully, he saved his cards in a box and from time to time gave them to father for our collection and enjoyment. The ‘Speed’ set included pictures of famous record-breaking drivers such as Sir Henry Segrave in his Golden Arrow, Sir Malcolm Campbell in Blue Bird and later, George Eyston and John Cobb — wonderful memories.
Playing games with fagcards was very popular during school playtime. When the weather was fine ‘dropsie’ or ‘flicksie’ was played with grubby and dog-eared cards carried loose in the pocket. I was always keen to challenge anyone to a quick game of flicksie. Standing some eight feet from the school wall, two boys alternately flicked cigarette cards, held between the first and second fingers, towards the wall until a card fell partially covering one already on the ground. The lad who played the covering card now picked up all those on the ground except one. His opponent then started a new game until such time as one boy had exhausted his cards or the whistle sounded for the return to lessons.

Playground Scuffle (1931)

Playtime continued until such time as the duty teacher blew his or her whistle or rang the school bell for lessons to commence. There had to be complete silence immediately. We were aware of the punishment if the rules were not abided.
I assume it is acceptable to record a playground fight under the heading of ‘games and sport’. Occasionally, amidst the playground clatter, din and screaming, an argument and scuffle broke out between boys. Fists would fly in a heated punch-up, a little blood and a bruise was nothing for concern. Quickly from all parts of the playground a circle of boys formed to perceive the exchanges and encourage their particular favourite to resolve the disagreement and, at the same time, offer best advice in attack and defence. All other games and activities ceased as boys converged on the distraction. Children congregated more quickly than hens being fed a meal of grain. I was never one to back off from an argument or a punch-up and one day I was, by some means, drawn into a fight with Alfie Orton, a big, raw-boned, smelly lad who lived on the local gypsy encampment. Tension was high as the Headmistress approached in her brisk manner and demanded instant peace. Rowdy boys, who, moments before were shouting for more action dispersed almost before she arrived. With heads bowed, we sheepishly had to listen to Miss Salter’s verbal cascade of horror that we should find it necessary to fight.

Mother MacKenzie

When I was seven or eight years old walking by myself, on my way home from school along the road to Runcton, I sometimes stopped in my tracks and was absolutely petrified to go any further. The sight and thought of Mother MacKenzie gripped me with fear. The old woman came along talking to herself and shouted to anyone passing. She wore a battered hat over her greying hair which resting untidily on her shoulders and pushed a rickety pram lumbered to overflowing with bundles of old clothes, bottles and pots and pans. Without hesitation I turned on my heels and ran as fast as I could in the direction of Street Barn and returned home along the path across Sandy Field.
Mother MacKenzie was a vagrant who travelled the roads and byways and slept under hedgerows and haystacks and wherever she could fine warmth, comfort and shelter. She begged for hot water to brew tea and ate whatever anyone gave her. She also shuffled along in lopsided boots wearing two top coats and a ragged skirt which reached almost to the ground. I had heard so many weird tales about Mother MacKenzie that I was really frightened and afraid to pass her on the road.

Rag and Bone Man

Outside the school gates on the odd occasion stood a ‘Rag-and-Bone’ man who, in exchange for a large bundle of rags, wool and rabbit skins offered goldfish in jam-jars. Very few children received goldfish but many received coloured transfers to decorated the back of their hands, arms and faces. Without thinking, others plastered their exercise books, the decoration of which didn’t please teacher.

Frogs from the Clouds

This strange occurrence happened at least twice while I was at the junior school and I am still puzzled. During severe summer storms in the early afternoon we found, on our way home in Ship Lane, perhaps hundreds of small frogs the size of the thumb nail. The frogs had been washed along in the gutter or were hopping around on the footpath. Where did they come from? Were they washed down the bank from the field of maize adjacent to the Victory Hall or fell from the sky having been carried aloft by the heavily condensed clouds? It is known that freak storms and thunderclouds on occasions cause strange phenomena.

St. Mary’s Church – Bramford

Sunday School. In addition to my obligatory education, there were many things of a practical aspect to learn and develop, but also within a responsible family life and upbringing, religion played an important part.
Morning Sunday School, under the leadership of Mrs. Geo. Southgate, was held in the day school building before the 11 am church service. Mrs Southgate taught us the principles of the Common Prayer Book and finding our way round the Church Calendar. The Sunday school children were not expected to stay for the full service and left the church during the singing of the hymn before the vicar gave his sermon.
In the days of my childhood the church organ stood at the chancel end of the south aisle. Mr. A. Shipp, the church organist, assisted by George Keeble the organ blower, played the organ for many years but not all in one session.

The Good Samaritan

I recall vividly as a very small child, of no more than five years, attending kindergarten and being introduced to the parable of the Good Samaritan. One Sunday afternoon I was taken for the very first time into the large annexe at the rambling Vicarage. The home of the Rev. W. H. Lillie. My roving inquisitive eyes fell upon a small wooden tray, some 16″ by 12″ containing fine dry sand, a few small pieces of rock and four matches rested on a low table in front of a large window facing the Vicarage water-meadows. The sand and rock represented the wilderness in the Dead Sea area. Lying on the sand close to a rock was a matchstick portraying the traveller who, on his journey down to Jericho had been set upon by thieves. The good Samaritan, who went over to help the unfortunate person, was portrayed by another match stuck upright in the sand close by. A third matchstalk further away represented the Priest who didn’t have time to stop and journeyed on his way. A fourth match not far away was supposed to be the Levite who looked but also didn’t want to know and one who made no effort to assist a distressed man anxious for his help. The Samaritan, with compassion, dressed the injured man’s wounds, set him on his ass and took care of him. A wonderful biblical parable and an early childhood story which, in the fullness of time, brought a deep understanding and an awareness of the needs of others.
Please read Luke 10 v. 30 – 37 to fully enjoy the story as told by Jesus.

Sunday School – Organ Blowing

Over a period of many years it was deemed necessary for many children, including myself, to return to the church for religious instruction again on Sunday afternoon. The vicar was assisted by his wife and the regular class leaders Clifford Mills, Jock Willis and Sylvia Southgate. Throughout the dull days of winter we huddled, in small classes, under the light twinkling from paraffin burning lamps hanging on long chains in the aisle arch structures. If Sylvia took the role of organist, a couple of boys, including myself, volunteered to ‘pump’ the organ from behind a curtain screen. While the organ was playing music a wooden toggle on a piece of string moved up and down the side of the organ, to indicate the volume of air in the bellows. If one started to daydream or become inattentive and did not pump the long wooden arm up and down sufficiently to top-up the bellows, the toggle marker rose too high through lack of air and the organist struggled to prevent the tune stuttering along in competition with giggles from both sides of the curtain.
I have been reminded many times since our Sunday school prize ceremonies by my contemporaries that the Becketts’ seemed to gain all the prizes at the Sunday school prize giving ceremonies. Firstly, by my brothers and sister, but as I recall, my book prizes were for attendance only.

Missions

When I was a child Church Missions travelled the countryside preaching the word of God. Annually they set their gospel van in the corner of Sandy Field, or camped in the corner of the meadow close to Street Barn. The missionaries erected a marquee for services and invited everyone to attend. The services were so timed that children could call in on their way home from school. I remember entering the large tent with other children. A few long seats stood inside, but young children preferred to sit on the grass in a semi-circle to listen to the stories of Jesus and of the Missionaries work with Pigmies in darkest Africa.

Bell Ringing and St Mary’s Church Tower

Under the supervision of the church sexton Mr. W. Dedman, we, as children, were sometimes allowed to pull on the long bell ropes that hung down on the tower south wall from the belfry to the ground floor. As a dozen small hands jostled to tug on a rope, the bell rang out across the village but never in a classical or rhythmical tune.
On the north side of the tower a solid oak door opened to the tower access stone steps. The door, hidden by a thick curtain, on occasions was found to be unlocked and one could enter when the wrought iron latch was raised. Without hesitation, boys scrambled up the worn stone steps to the bell-ringing room at the top of the tower. It was possible from here to obtain access to the six large bells that hung on massive wooden frames above. Clambering dangerously through the bell frames, one was able to reach a trapdoor leading to the tower rampart and the tall steeple mounted by a cock weathervane. Outside, on the lead-cladded spire, one’s eyes focused on the many scratched names and dates left behind by people who, like ourselves, had reached the top of the tower. Among many markings was an interesting etching of a biplane dated 1912.

View from the Belfry

Looking far below, beyond the graveyard, the green weed-blotched River Gipping seemed motionless as it meandered downstream through the water-meadows alongside Hazel Wood to Sproughton. In the other direction, beyond Deepwaters and the Mill, eyes searched between willow trees, seeking the large rounded and tarred roofs of the manure works buildings beyond Bushman’s bridge. The view to the east was framed by the straight railway embankment where white bulldaisies swayed in fear as the London to Cromer express roared by. The view into the setting sun was one of cottages and smoking chimney pots which formed the village street, stretching from Well Cottages to the Wesleyan Chapel. Now at the beginning of the third millennium, smoking chimneys are a rarity.

View from the bell tower towards Bramford bridge

View from the belfry looking towards Bramford Bridge

Motor Cars

Mr. Harry Fiske, I would imagine, was one of the first persons in the village to own a motor car. I well recall father driving the grey ‘bull-nose’ Morris Cowley with a dicky seat. It was garaged at Thornbush in the locked building where previously the pony and trap were stabled. Occasionally father drove the Misses Fiske, Ethel and/or Hilda, to the station or village functions. One Saturday afternoon we attended a fete at Willisham. On our return to Runcton Miss Ethel, who was riding in the front beside father, invited Reg and myself to ride home with her. Miss Hilda climbed in the dicky and father squeezed us in beside her. It was a wonderful experience, as small children, to ride in an open motor car in the nineteen twenties.
Shortly after, Mr. Harry bought a second car, a Buick, it was the first two-colour vehicle I or many others had seen, a rarity in those days. The car was a soft-top coupe, with a sleek body in a livery that attracted immediate attention. The bodywork was coloured a brilliant scarlet, the wheel wings (covers or mudguards) and running-boards were in black. My eyes were envious every time I saw it, the car was a classic and one Harry Fiske was proud to drive. Later, he bought his first new Vauxhall, a brown coloured saloon, with its recognisable fluted design along the edge of the bonnet.
The ‘bull-nose’ was now relegated to the farmyard and stored in the lorry shed at Runcton farm where the old vehicle, soon covered in muck, was the roosting and nesting place for free-range hens and guinea fowls. The Buick, in due course, was replaced when Mr. Fiske purchased one of the first 8hp, £100 cars, put on the market by Ford. He used this small Ford principally for the numerous business visits he made to his many farms in Bramford (five), the Somersham area (five) and three in Alderton, namely ‘Virtue’s’, ‘Buckanay’ and ‘Cedars’ where his pedigree Suffolk Punch stallion stood.

Thorneycroft and Chevrolette Lorries

Two lorries were garaged at Runcton farm in the twenties, one a large Thorneycroft with a canvas top cab, solid tyres, carbide lamps and a large ratchet brake lever. Its carrying capacity was perhaps around three tons, a good carrying weight in those days. The lorry, I suspect, was an ex-army vehicle, surplus to requirements after WW1; it was driven regularly by Jim Hardwick and Bill Leech. The Thorneycroft carried sacks of barley, wheat and similar products to the Ipswich docks flour mills, and perhaps returned with a load of ‘Kositos’* for the Thornbush and Runcton stock. The Thorneycroft was also used to carry loads of sugar beet to the new factory at Sproughton but was soon replaced by one of a similar make but one with pneumatic tyres and a rigid cab. Bill Leech was the principal driver of a smaller lorry, a new Chevrolette. It did much of the carrier work around the farms, such as fetching sugar beet pulp, sacks of grain and meal to and from Sproughton Mill and business with Boss Hall.

*’Kositos’ Trade name of roasted and flaked maize. (similar to cornflakes)

A Broken Axle

The day in December 1929 was cold, dull and miserable. The sugar beet harvest was in full swing and beet from the Alderton farms to the Sproughton sugar processing factory was being conveyed in the large high-sided Thorneycroft lorry on loan from Runcton. An urgent telephone call to Thornbush disclosed that the lorry, probably overloaded, was stranded with a broken rear axle on the road near Shottisham. It was late morning when father was asked to take the old ‘Bull Nose’ Morris to Alderton and establish the extent of the breakdown. I was on convalescence at the time, recovering from scarlet fever and unable to attend school. Dad arrived home for an early midday dinner and asked if I would like to accompany him. I was pleased to go for the ride, thinking it would be an adventure that murky afternoon.
It seemed a long journey, travelling at a speed of no more than 30 miles per hour, along winding narrow roads and lanes. Father, driving the car with the canvas top closed, obviously knew his destination but I had no idea of where we were going. I was cold and drowsy and my interest in the journey waned. After a while we found the troubled lorry, heavily loaded with sugar beet and ‘listing to port’ by the side of the road. The driver was not there, the place was desolate and civilisation seemed miles away. I remained in the car and father stood around wondering what to do. Within minutes a van arrived and conveyed him in the direction of what I now know to be Alderton. Dad instructed me to stay in the car. The van disappeared from view and I was left with nothing to do but sit and wait. Alone, I waited and waited and became frightened at being left so long on my own. The light was fast fading as the afternoon was drawing to a close. I wanted so much to be brave and not let father see tears of anxiety on my face.
Shrouded in fear I opened the car door and stepped onto the road. I walked and trotted in the direction he had been taken but within a short distance a van, with dim headlights, came out of the gloom towards me. I guessed right – it was father. I turned and ran back to the car, I was so pleased to see him. He put his hand through the car door window flap to adjust a couple of small levers on the steering wheel then walked to the front of the car bonnet and turned the cranking handle. Thankfully the engine fired first time. Quickly, father opened the door and sat down beside me. The car rocked, there was a waft of warm air and a smell of body odour, oil and grease. I settled down to a feeling of contentment and happiness as the car was turned in a field gateway and directed home. We spluttered along between the firs and pines standing as ghosts across Sutton Heath. Darkness had fallen, there was little conversation so my eyes gradually closed with tiredness. Next day the sugar beet were offloaded to another vehicle and the Thorneycroft was towed away for an axle replacement.

CAPTAIN EUSTACE BROKE LORAINE (1879-1912)

The Ninetieth Anniversary of Captain Loraine’s Flying Tragedy

The year 2002 is an appropriate time to recall the premature death in 1912 of a brave Bramford Army Officer, Captain Eustace Loraine in a flying accident.
The story of Captain Loraine’s flying tragedy unfolds in 1899 when he was commissioned into the Grenadier Guards, following which he served with distinction throughout the South African War and later in West Africa, where Hugh Trenchard was his Commanding Officer, and who, after the formation of the Royal Air Force in 1918, became the first Chief of Air Staff and later, Marshal of the Royal Air Force. Loraine was one of the best-known military airmen, highly regarded and one who holds a special place in the annals of the 20th century. He was the aviator whose flying enthusiasm and encouragement was inspirational to Hugh Trenchard who also took up flying, was Knighted and in the fullness of time changed the course of military history.
At 4.30am on the 5th July, the morning of the accident, Capt. Loraine and his passenger took off in a Nieuport aircraft and climbed to 1,000 feet. Turning steeply to the left the monoplane lost height quickly, stalled and went into a spin. Calmly, Loraine extracted himself from trouble and established an engine misfire. He returned to Larkhill where the aircraft engine received attention. Within the hour he took off again in the direction of Shrewton with Staff Sergeant Wilson as his passenger. Captain Loraine climbed quickly to 400 feet and again turned steeply to port, the aircraft stalled and suddenly lost height, leaving Loraine insufficient time to recover height, whereupon the monoplane crashed to the ground.
At the time of their deaths Staff Sergeant Wilson and Capt. Loraine were flying with No.3 Squadron of the Royal Flying Corps. Wilson was a very capable aero-engineer who, taught by Loraine, became only the second non-commissioned officer in the British Army to qualify as a pilot. They were both very courageous and possessed outstanding ability.
In 1912 flying was still in the early development stage and the deaths of pioneers Staff Sergeant Wilson and Captain Loraine were the first to occur in a flying accident while on service duty. Another pilot who had witnessed the crash landed his aeroplane in the field close to the accident. The two occupants were still alive but Wilson died before help could be summoned. Captain Loraine was taken by horse-drawn ambulance to Bulford hospital, where he died soon after arrival.

1912 A Year of Tragedy and Captain Eustace Loraine’s Bramford Burial

The people of Bramford must have taken the news of Captain Loraine’s sudden death as a personal loss. This was the third tragedy to distress the Nation in 1912 and one which reached major headlines in the national and local press. The residents, when they met in the street, the pub, the Post Office or the barber’s shop, were probably still mulling over the tragedy of Capt. Scott’s expedition which perished in January 1912, only a few miles from their Base Camp on their return from the unsuccessful attempt to be the first to reach the South Pole. Some perhaps reminisced the aftermath of the Titanic sinking on her maiden voyage; an unbelievable tragedy which shocked the world when the great liner struck an iceberg on the 14th April 1912, some 500 miles off the coast of Newfoundland
Captain Eustace Loraine’s coffin, resting on a gun-carriage, was taken to Bulford Camp and then to Bulford station. On the 10th July, the cortege, escorted by four hundred officers and men and led by the full band of the Duke of Cornwall’s Light Infantry, was placed on the waiting train for the long journey to the Captain’s Bramford home. H.M. King George V’s representative attended the funeral service in St. Mary’s church where family mourners, members of the parish and over two hundred officers and men of the Grenadier Guards filled the church and overflowed outside. It was one of the largest funeral services to be held in East Anglia.
The Loraine family resting place is under the shadow of the church tower, but alas! Captain Loraine’s headstone is now hardly decipherable. An oval commemorative plaque can be seen inside St. Mary’s church. This very honourable and dedicated pioneer of British aviation should not be forgotten.
Notes: Capt. Loraine’s family seat was at Bramford Hall, Ipswich.
His father was Rear Admiral Sir Lambton Loraine XIth Baronet.
His mother was Frederica Mary Horatia, heiress of the Brokes of Nacton.
The memorial to Staff Sergeant Wilson and Capt. Loraine stood in the open for over eighty years near the windswept Salisbury Plain military camps. Over the years, the Air Force Cross became weather-beaten and dilapidated. In 1993, Air Vice-Marshal Newton (retired) considered the memorial worthy of restoration and he campaigned through the local County Council who, in 1995, declared the monument a Grade II listed building. The Royal Engineers carefully restored the memorial, and on July 5th 1996 the Chaplain-inChief led a rededication service.
The restored monument is worth a visit and can be seen on the grass triangle on the crossroads of the A344 and the B3086 between Shrewton and Larkhill, near Stonehenge.

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