An Article submitted by Ray Gaubert
‘HENHAM – OUR VILLAGE. A SUMMER’S DAY BEFORE THE
ZEPPELINS CAME’
by William White (born at Henham 24th August 1903)
A lovely summer morning. The sun stands up above Green End Farm. Birds are in
song, cocks are crowing, and the village is waking to the warm air and the dew
on the Greens, sparkling in the slanting sun.
The men of the village leave for the farms. Jim Clayden, his coat and vitals bag
slung over his left shoulder, makes for the Lodge. Arthur Snow, on his way to
Old Mead, puffs from his clay pipe, a trail of blue smoke that hangs about the
High Street. The Warners from Church End crunch their way along the gravel path
on their way to Parsonage Farm. Thatcher Dixon, with a large bundle of thatching
spindles across his shoulder, accompanied by his son George carrying a huge
trimming knife tucked under his left arm, sets out to patch a Dutch barn at The
Parsonage.
Alf Yarrow, leaning on the gate of Ducketts Meadow, calls his cows to come for
milking – "Hi daisy. Hi, Daisy. Come, come, Daisy.
Old Bill Newman, his shirtsleeves rolled up, trundles his wheelbarrow home via
Rotten Row after emptying the school lavatories.
Willie White leaves The Bell to deliver milk to customers – usually carrying
six cans each time, which in turn are emptied into the customers jugs.
Mr. Knight, the coal merchant at The Starr, returns from Elsenham Station with
over a ton of coal loaded on a wagonette drawn by his overworked pony. Postman
Smith on his round of the village greets everyone he meets with a smile and a
cheery word. Old Baker White and Mr. Ward kneed their dough and bake their bread
in Gardiner’s bakehouse. The ringing of the anvil in the smithy warns the
village that Jack Hayden is preparing to shoe his first horse of the day. Milk
floats clip-clop from The Parsonage and Lodge farms on their way to Elsenham
Station to catch the milk train to London. A commuter, late as usual, leaves The
White Cottage carrying a briefcase and umbrella, and runs to catch the Thaxted
Flyer at the Mill Halt on his way to the City.
The children of the parish make their way to school. The Camps and Palmers from
Chickney via Spring Lane. The Coopers from Little Henham via Sparley Lane. The
Palmers from Plegdon Green via Carters Lane. The Maidmans and Whites from Old
Mead via the Quick Hedge Path. The children converge on the school, and
according to their mood of the day, spin tops, trundle hoops, skip, walk or run.
Miss Benfield and Len Snow perched high on their grocery delivery cart, proceed
smartly down Crow Street on their way to Broxted. Two roadmen, using bass brooms
(besoms?), sweep the horse dung from the streets into heaps at the side of the
road. Mr. Hollingshed trots his bay cob in style down the High Street on his way
to The Lodge. Mr. Williams, dressed in his usual clerical garb, leaves The
Vicarage for his morning visit to the church.
Carts owned by Wrights of Stansted (the council transport contractors) pass down
the High Street with gravel from the gravel pits of Ugley on their way to the
council road-repair gang working in Spring Lane. Various laden wagons and carts
belonging to the surrounding farms pass to and fro from the goods depot at
Elsenham Station. Julia Snow and Mrs. Dennison of Churchend pay Miss Gardiner’s
shop a visit to purchase some requirements and to pass the time of day. Emma
Clayden and her neighbour take up positions against their door-posts to chat and
bask in the sun.
Just before noon a smart coach drawn by a four-in-hand swings smartly from
Churchend into the High Street, pulling up at The Bell. A party on a day trip
from the East End of London disembark, the men wearing straw boaters, open
jackets with flashy watchchains stretched across their waistcoats. The coach is
turned round and drawn in close to The Bell signpost. The horses are taken out,
unharnessed, and turned –out to graze in one of the two meadows behind The
Bell. The company make merry with food, beer, and song accompanied by an
accordion. For the children of the village, their entertainment will probably
include racing for pennies on the Starr Green, their having gathered to admire
the coach and to observe the antics of the foreigners from London
More entertainment centres in Thurston’s Fair in The Bell meadow for The
Summer Fair, which in the evening is turned into fairyland by an umbrella of
naked kerosene flares. A powerful engine drives the roundabout, and a steam
organ broadcasts’ Rosy O’Grady’ and other catchy tunes across the sleepy
field to Elsenham and Ugley. People on their way to the fair are joined by
others, some walking, others cycling, from surrounding villages: the girls in
hobble skirts and blouses, or long cotton dresses and ribbon-decked straw hats:
the lads who mostly work on the surrounding farms, are sporting their
Sunday-best suits. Children, light of heart with an odd copper or two in their
pockets, chatter with excitement.
All look forward to a few glorious hours in which to squander their hard-earned
cash as they enter the magic circle beneath the flares. The glamorous moment has
arrived as they climb up into the high steam-driven roundabout and mount the
fiery horses, three abreast, to ride at a gallop, round and round, faster and
faster, to the strains of throbbing music. They visit the swings: the girl sits
on one side of the boat, the boy stands on the opposite seat. To show off, the
lad swings the boat higher and higher, until it would seem to the bystander that
it must go over the top, but the attendant, using his brake board, makes sure
that it doesn’t. They try their luck at the hoopla stall, laugh as coconuts
fall to the ground at the coconut shy. They goggle at The Fat Lady, swing the
Sledgehammer in attempts to ring the bell. Biding their time, shy young girls
slip into the mysterious tent to cross with silver, the fortune-teller’s palm:
they will be sent away with dreams for the future. All, from time-to-time, eat
helpings of tasty shellfish from tented stalls, and refresh themselves at the
bars of The Bell with real bodied bitter.
The show is ending, the powerful steam engine blasts of its excess steam, and as
the roundabout comes to rest, the music dies. The swings are immobilized one by
one by the attendant with his brake board. The entertainment stalls no longer
ply for trade. The fortune-teller removes her yashmak and laces up her tent.
With tired, dying hisses, the kerosene lamps are extinguished one by one,
breaking the magic spell. The fair is closing, and tomorrow it will be gone. The
country people, young and old, depart to their cottages and to their pleasant
dreams. The clock in the old church strikes the last hour of the day as shadowy
figures tread the quiet streets and cross the village greens.
It is the end of a summer’s day.
