Walking in time with Nan

THE WRITER’S LIFE

Recently in the real world (after advice from another writer), I’ve tried not to be ashamed to be proud. Even more lately, I’ve realised there are other people around who are simply proud to be themselves, which has encouraged me. People who’ll laugh as you stumble, but catch you before you fall. Those are people I’ve been spending some time with in writing too, as I’ve travelled back in time to the era of a barbed but cuddly matriarch…

Fairytale CottageNot my Nan’s house

Back in the 1970s, and mum’s mum’s war memorial bungalow in Tudeley, it was small, basic and communal. There was a living room, a kitchen and a double bedroom. When us kids stayed, we’d sleep on the living room floor. It was like camping.

There was no bathroom, just an outside toilet. The bath was a tin one, hung by the coal shed out the back. Water was boiled in a kettle on the stove, and in a water heater over the sink. Us kids tended to eschew a bath on the odd night we stayed, with my mind at least assuming that baths would be very shallow and very hot. And the way Nan sometimes sat in that chair, and that cat…

Nan’s oven apparently had two settings: Incinerate, and off. Fortunately, we had roast beef most Sundays, with potatoes roasted in the dripping, and home-made Yorkshires.

Before my radical auntie Margaret started renting X-rated films for the teenage me, we’d all go for long family walks on a Sunday afternoon, sometimes to other countries it would seem, to little legs. One such journey into foreign lands was to “The Old Church”, St. Peter’s in Pembury village. This from the church website:

The first known record of Pembury, originally Pepingeberia, is to be found in the ‘Textus Roffensis’ (c1120). It tells of the manors of Pepenbury Magna (Hawkwell) and Pepenbury Parva (Bayhall).

The Advowson was granted by Simon de Wahull to Bayham Abbey c1239. (Advowson is the right in English Law of presenting a nominee to a vacant parish. In effect this means the right to nominate a person to hold a church office in a parish).The current Patron is Christ Church, Oxford University.

Pembury has two churches dedicated to St Peter. The oldest, known as the Old Church, stands outside the modern village in the woods to the north of the A228 bypass. The newer building, known as the Upper Church, stands in the heart of the village on Hastings Road.

The plan of the Old Church and the little Norman window above the South door indicate that the original Church dates from 1147 at least, or even 1100AD. Most of the present Church was built in 1337 by John Colepeper of Bayhall. He also built the chantry chapel of St Mary in the churchyard in 1355 but this was pulled down at the Dissolution of the smaller Monasteries in 1547 and three windows in the body of the Church were inserted with the money gained from the sale of the lead which had covered the chapel.

There was another church, nearer to nan’s house: All Saints (now Capel United Church). From that church’s website:

Tudeley has had a church since the beginning of the seventh century – it was one of only four in the Weald at that time. The earliest parts of today’s church are the sandstone footings of the nave and tower, which date from before the Norman conquest. It is mentioned in the Domesday Book under Tivedale – one of its many name variants:

Richard de Tonbridge holds TIVEDALE of the bishop of Bayeux. It is assessed at 1 yoke. There is land for 1 plough, and it is there on the demesne and a church, and woodland (to render) 2 swine…”

It’s where granddad Funnell and uncle John are buried. They both died from consumption (tuberculosis), with John aged only four (it’s from my uncle that I get my own middle name). Their graves are un-marked, just a large and small grass mound. Occasionally they were decorated with flowers, side by side, a young man and his son. There were many more graves like granddad’s and John’s, mainly farm workers from the area.

There’s a ‘Prayer labyrinth’ in the churchyard:

Labyrinths were a feature of many medieval churches, most famously Chartres Cathedral in France.

Their origins go back much further, long before the birth of Christ. They were adopted by the church to be used as shortened pilgrimages, probably because of their cross-like symmetry.

The labyrinth has no walls and only one path. The path way leads to the centre and then continues outwards. There are no dead ends.

The labyrinth at All Saints is based on a design found in a fountain in Damascus. At the centre is a carving designed by Frances Hawken and executed by Joe King, depicting The Cross and the hands of God:

“The eternal God is our refuge and underneath are the everlasting arms.” (Deuteronomy 33: 27).

To earn some extra cash on the side, my dad would sometimes go foraging. Back then, fly-tipping wasn’t a scourge, but neither was the country big on recycling. So official dumps were dotted around, and there was one just down the road from All Saints church. It was a children’s adventure playground cavalier to health and safety. This was the rubbish of the wealthier, away from those upper class homes my parents worked at. These were middle class treasures, as the late 1970s and early 80s saw a rise in consumerism with increasing earnings among white and blue collar workers.

In the days before reclamation yards became an industry, and long before the internet, there was a make-do-and-mend working class, and the beginning of Sunday boot fairs. For a while, my dad was a bit of a trader and many exciting cardboard boxes would find their way home to the house in Ightham, including once, when a box the size of us kids was full of Scalextric track.

Back at Nan’s, we’d have Sunday tea, which included optional beef dripping on toast, from the congealed joint juices. There was an open fire in the living room and a coal scuttle in the back garden, topped up every few weeks by a coal man. One of my dad’s many talents around the houses (besides the gardening), was as a chimney sweep, and he was nan’s sweep.

Dad’s kit was that of the traditional sweep: a bundle of interconnecting bendy sticks, with a wide brush on the end. There’s a long and fascinating history of the chimney sweep to be read elsewhere, and a small trade survives today, with many practitioners hiring themselves out as good luck omens at weddings. It’s a profession which included many humanitarians, eventually leading to The Chimney Sweepers and Chimneys Regulation Act 1840, which made it illegal for anyone under the age of 21 to sweep chimneys.

This was a Britain long before the NHS and when the mean life expectancy was 41, a low figure weighted by the size of the poor population. Before that 1840 Act of Parliament, boys as young as four were sent up chimneys as narrow as nine inches square. If they got stuck, they’d be prodded from below, and some master sweeps weren’t averse to lighting a fire in the fireplace to encourage the boys up. Of course, many perished and large numbers led only short adult lives, because of the impact the job had on their health.

The best bit for us kids, was seeing the sweep’s brush pop out the top of the chimney, not after dad pushed us up ahead of it, but when we stood in the garden and dad waved at us and all around, with his chimney sweep’s brush a conqueror’s flag.

Silent Gardens is published in March (ISBN: 978-1974367900).

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Walking in enchanted gardens

THE WRITER’S LIFE

I’ve rarely been asked why I’m in someone’s garden, but I’m metaphorically looking over the wall of one now, from the inside. I’m writing my planned family history book, and in a different comfort zone than my usual ones. I’m finding it a fascinating journey of discovery, and although it’s planned as a gift to my parents, the style I’ve adopted may widen the audience beyond those it’s intended directly for.

The book is the story of my parents, and all the places they’ve passed through. For me, the greatest interest is the domestic servants. But those they worked for and the houses where they lived are full of stories which wouldn’t be told if those parents of a future writer hadn’t happened. So I thought I’d share a rough draft introduction, of how things came to be, and how the journey started.

Enchanted GardenYra De Mesa

SILENT GARDENS
A quiet history

I can imagine what life in 2042 will be like, when my children are in their 30s, because I’m normally a science fiction writer. I can find out what life was like a century before, because I can research history. I’m a writer who can imagine many things, but my parents can tell me the facts. That’s why I decided to write this book.

This is the story of a working class family, who passed through some of England’s fine estates; of a gardener and groundsman, a cook and matron, and two kids. One of those was me, so I decided to use the hands my parents gave me to give something back, a book about small lives, with a lot of heart. It’s a brief history, of people who might otherwise have passed through undocumented.

The Laker family name was originally an occupational one, where others are characteristic. If I wasn’t a Laker, I might be called Smallman, or Shorter, those being descriptive names. If there were two Steves in a group, they might be assigned second names to differentiate between them, and in most pairs of Steves, I’d be the smaller one (interestingly, my maternal nan’s maiden name was Shorter). But as an occupational name, Laker was one who fished on lakes, where a Fisher might fish rivers or streams. It’s also a residential name, where those who lived by lakes became known as Lakers (of the lakes).

I’ve not traced my own family back far enough to discover which we are, and some of my genealogy enquiries have pointed me to emigrants to the USA in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. One thing I’m sure of, is that we’re from a group originating in Kent and Sussex, which grew to include many other families. What I’ve found is that my own family line can be traced back through the working classes: farm labourers, factory workers, gardeners, caretakers, cooks and housekeepers.

So they were all probably very nice, hard-working people, who helped and supported many others. The problem with those working class people, is that there is scant record of them. But they did leave their marks, in houses, on landscapes and in gardens. They made things, they repaired and made good, and they made stories. Few would be noteworthy outside their social circles, but they played small, quiet parts in changing times, like millions of others in the silent majority of untold tales.

The first character to emerge into this story, is my dad, George, on 6th February, 1942. Then Rose, my mum, on 22nd January, 1945, both to farm labourers. I never met my maternal granddad, as he died of Tuberculosis, along with my young uncle John, who gave me my middle name. I met the other three, and often wish they were still around to tell their stories at greater length. Like so many things, I left it too late. But I can go further back in history later, as the future reveals more of it so that it can be documented.

For now, the first chapter opens on 18th March, 1967, when mum and dad married. Things happened when people were younger then, so when I came along in 1970, mum and dad were 28 and 25. My sister Lisa arrived in 1973, to compliment my parents’ one sister each, both Margarets.

It’s said that most people will have a first memory around the age of two or three, and it was in 1972 that I remember dad saying, “Don’t touch that.” This wasn’t so much an early sign of how life was going to pan out, as a quick lesson in motorbike mechanics: Chrome exhausts are hot.

Before us kids came along, dad had a motorbike, which mum would ride pillion. When I came along, they got a sidecar, so me and mum could sit together. It was only when Lisa arrived that we upgraded to a family car. Money was tight, and I quite like the idea of being a biker aged two, even if I was transported precariously in a motorcycle sidecar. Health and safety forgot those days.

The first family car was a red 1966 Reliant three-wheeler, as a motorbike license also allowed the holder to drive a three-wheeled car. That was later replaced by a 1971 model, which somehow chugged mum and dad in the front, with mum’s mum and sister on the back seat, my sister and me perched on their laps, on family holidays and days out. We’d alternate between years, one year spending a week in Bournemouth or on the Isle of Wight, in a chalet or caravan, and the next we’d go on days out, to zoos and beaches. Those were us kids’ favourites (when the grown-ups would tell us we had to go home, to get a bath and have dinner. “But we’ve been in the sea all day, and there’s a fish and chip shop over there”) but there’d always be at least one day when we’d visit a stately home or a museum.

Those odd days were mainly for my auntie. Margaret had a keen interest in history, and especially royalty. I wonder now what she’d make of the world. She could access the internet, where once she visited libraries and borrowed books. But back then, exploration and discovery were to be had in real places. And at the time, my sister and me had no interest in where we were, unless there was a maze or a decent park, where dad would normally get lumbered with us. While mum and her sister had life’s rich tapestry to enjoy, he had a picnic blanket.

All of this revolved around a house in Wateringbury, Kent. Old Hoy Cottages took their name from The Kentish Hoy public house, which was already known to be in operation in 1807. The earliest landlord I can trace is a Stephen Walter, who’s listed in Pigot’s National & Commercial Directory of 1828. According to a Wateringbury Remembered blog, the building pre-dates the pub, with the original structure damaged by fire, but retaining examples of Crown Post roofing, a form of French architecture popular from the 11th to 16th centuries. The pub ceased trading around 1892, when it was bought by Richard Henry Fremlin, who converted it into two cottages in 1894. The property was further divided sometime before the Second World War, and that’s where we lived.

I found an obituary for Mr Fremlin, in an extract from the Parish magazine from 1916, from the Wateringbury Local History Society:

The name of Richard Henry Fremlin will be remembered in Wateringbury long after those who were privileged to know him personally and now mourn his loss shall have passed away. For 45 years, or thereabouts, he lived his bachelor life at May Lodge, the house attached to Upper Mill Farm, which, with the Lower Mill and “Wardens,” the old home of the family, he inherited from his father, James Fremlin, on the death of the latter in 1881. May Lodge had at one time been occupied by Dr. William Rutter Dawes, F.R.S., the astronomer, and afterwards by Mr. Arthur Fremlin, who went to live at Court Lodge, Teston, in or about the year 1870. When Mr. Richard succeeded his brother Arthur in the management of Upper Mill Farm the house was but a small one: before entering into residence he enlarged it, and he added to it again at a later date.

After a time he was asked by his brothers at Maidstone to assist them in the management of their growing business there. The additional responsibilities which he thus undertook made his life a busy one, so that he had little time. And being moreover of a retiring nature he had little inclination, to enter into what is known as public life. But he fully recognised the responsibilities of his position and opportunities in the parish.

In early days he joined with his brother Ralph and his friend Mr. E. J. Goodwin in carrying on a night school in a cottage in Old Road: those were times before the State recognised the importance of elementary education. His name appears for the first time in the minute book of the Vestry in the year 1873. In 1879 he was elected to serve on the new Burial Board, and also on the Sanitary Committee which created a drainage system for part of the village. In 1884, at the time of the enlargement of the north aisle of the Church, he was elected by the people as their Churchwarden, an office which he discharged continuously, with the exception of one year (1891-2), until Easter, 1897.

Under March 25th, 1889, there appears a vote of thanks to the Churchwardens for the many services rendered by them to the church and parish; and again under March 27th, 1894, “to Mr. Fremlin and Mr. Jude for their liberality in connexion with the new organ erected in the church in the course of preceding year.” Without being an expert musician he was very fond of music and took much interest in the musical rendering of the Church Services.

For the last twenty years, the period for which the writer can personally testify, though Mr. Fremlin was not fond of attending public meetings, no movement projected for the welfare of the parish was carried out without his careful consideration and backed by his generous financial support: the enlargement of the schools in 1896, the building Parish Church Rooms, the erection of the Lych Gate in memory of the Jubilee of Queen Victoria; the establishment of the Queen Victoria Memorial Essay Prize, may be mentioned among the public undertakings which the place owes in a great measure to his assistance; and he was always ready to lend a willing hand to any request for assistance of a less public nature—in fact his kindness cannot be measured, for he was a man who always preferred to keep in the background and to do good by stealth so to speak.

It was a great joy to him to be able to share the pleasure of his plentiful garden with friends—a garden which he was continually extending and stocking with precious plants collected from all quarters of the globe, and indeed lovers of flowers came from all parts of the world, one may say to make his acquaintance and to see his treasures. During the spring and summer months the grounds were thrown open on Wednesday afternoons to the public, and many parishioners habitually availed themselves of the privilege thus accorded to them. A man of wide culture and reverent mind, albeit of independent thought—” no doubt we shall have what we want there,” he replied simply to a friend who going round his garden with him, connected its beauty with a reference to the hope of the future. That was not long before he began to be confined to his house by his last illness, borne throughout bravely and patiently. He reached the full term of fourscore years, and was laid to rest in his parents’ grave near the Church Porch on March 30th.

Probate records show: Richard Henry Fremlin – died 25 Mar. 1916. Probate at 17 May 1916 to Alfred Charles Leney, Harry Leny – Brewer, the Rev. Frederick Fremlin – Key Clerk

£248,413 11s 10d.

In an online blue plaques unveiling walk of Wateringbury, one in particular stood out:

The next stop was at the oldest house in the village, The Wardens, just off Bow Road, where in 1833 Ralph Fremlin, founder of Fremlin’s Brewery, Maidstone was born. The mayor unveiled this plaque telling of Ralph’s life and his own boyhood memories of the area.

So many links, to be found in places I’d never explored before, and yet I lived there. The Fremlins sound like liberal, social country folk, with their livelihoods in farming (and brewing), private people but for their human kindness, quietly changing the world, like so many other unwritten histories.

Our Old Hoy cottage was typical of that described by the Wateringbury Remembered blog article: As the original building was built on a steep slope, the front parlours were much higher than the kitchens and access from one room to the other was by a wooden ladder, until at least the 1950s.

Other than than ladders with snakes, there were no more to climb in the house when we arrived, the descent to the kitchen then via concrete steps from the living room. I don’t recall any sort of regimen in any of our houses, and when I look back (especially to my teenage years), family living was more a commune.

Dad worked at Yotes Court, now a Kent Gardens Trust site, in Mereworth. The original house dates from 1658, and was redesigned in 1735, with improvements made to the gardens and a walled kitchen garden added sometime in the 18th century. The modern lawn and pool date from as recently as 1970, which must have been my dad’s main preoccupation at the time.

As an aside, in the 1970s, some old myths prevailed, not just in Wateringbury. One such was left-handedness, and a belief that it represented all which was sinister. This has its roots in some religions, but left-handers were still considered to have a handicap throughout the industrial revolution, when southpaws found machinery awkward. I was the first such oddity in my family that I know of, and when I started favouring my left arm, my mum’s health visitor suggested she might tie my left arm behind my back, so that I might be cured of some curse and return to the right side.

My mum refused, because she was radical, and she used to carry me around in a motorcycle sidecar, Gromit to dad’s Wallace. So thanks mum and dad, for letting me find the left hand which now writes this story.

***

After some of the history of Yotes Court, we’ll move on to Ightham, with its historic buildings, Roman and Palaeolithic archaeological sites, and a Kentish Ragstone stable cottage where we lived. Then to Tonbridge, with the castle, and many famous painters commemorated in the names of roads where my parents now live. Finally, the book will bring everything up to date, including where I live now (West Malling), which itself has many links to my parents’ and previous generations, through farms and the old air field.

It should be a book which my parents find interesting, for all the history they knew little about. It’s a book for those who like finding new history, and the stories of people they might not otherwise have read. And for me, it’s an interesting and rewarding book to write. I hope it will be as much fun for others to read.

I’m hoping to make it enchanting.

Silent Gardens will be available around March 2018.