In August, when the wheat was ripe, the binder would come. This splendid machine was

invented in late Victorian days, and superseded the scythe, was drawn by 3 horses, and was

usually driven from a high seat by the farmer himself. There was probably something biblically

satisfying about riding high into this great, swaying ocean of corn. The binder cut the wheat,

tied the sheaves automatically with binder twine, and spilled them out on a big canvas to the

ground. Men with sleeves rolled down came behind and erected the sheaves into stooks to

dry. When dry, they were hauled to the farm in the hay wagons. In the autumn, on our way to

school, we could hear the hum of the threshing machine from the farm-yard. This machine

was driven and hauled from farm to farm by a steam tractor identical to those beloved of the

late Fred Dibnah. They also hauled the fairground attractions to fairs and harvest-homes, and

Many years ago, an old Wringtonian, whose epitaph declares ‘fell gently asleep in 1974’, said

to me that he believed that no one who had ever lived had seen such changes as he had seen

in his time. He had, he said, lived from the days of the bone-shaker bicycle, and seeing water

delivered door-to-door in Redhill, to sitting in his own sitting room and seeing live pictures of a

man walking on the Moon. If I meet up with him some time, I will tell him that I have lived from

a time of wheat being cut by 3 horses and a binder, to seeing a combine harvester steered to

an accuracy of 2cm. from a satellite in outer space. But of IT mobile ‘phones and broadband

and odd words like ‘Google’ and ‘download’, &c, I will not tell him because he won’t believe it.

He used to tell me what magic it was to speak to someone the other end of the village, in the

The village school in the 30s had about 130 pupils and 6 teachers. All the teachers taught all

the time. There were no free periods and none was engaged in admin. Staff and pupils were

controlled by a look and a word from Headmaster LWB. LWB was a tall, large man, who had

played rugby for Weston. He was always smartly dressed in sports-coat and flannels, his hair

carefully parted, his handkerchief tucked in his jacket sleeve. His large hands were always

Looking back, I think he might have been a bit vain as he towered over us all. There were few

light moments in school hours; keeping the attention and concentration of pupils was not a

serious teacher problem. Corporal punishments were reserved for more serious lapses of

discipline. One such I remember well. The lady teacher, AME, had got a bit overwrought and

was raising her voice, and LWB came and looked through the glass door adjoining her room.

The lady said that if anyone made one more sound there would be trouble. As a tiny act of

open defiance, Bumper, the biggest boy in the class, lifted his ruler about 6” from his desk and

LWB had fetched his cane and strode into the classroom and beckoned to the boy to come to

the front. Bumper got up quickly and stood in front of the master. “Get them up” said the

master, and Bumper raised his arms out level with his shoulders, and a very adult punishment

ensued. The schoolmaster bringing his cane down from above shoulder height thrashed it

down on each hand six times. If the boy’s hands sagged a bit, they were banged up from

underneath. At the end, the master left the room. Bumper resumed his place; no words were

spoken, the lesson resumed. It was a salutary lesson to us all that in this world into which we

had been pitched willy nilly, there were boundaries that should never be crossed, and that, if

On our way home from school, sometimes we would climb up onto the wall to the field where

houses now are in School Road. The field belonged to the butcher, Mr Lawrence in Clock

House, his business established far back in the C19th. Mr Lawrence died in 1942 aged 80. In

the centre of this field was dumped in a great pyramid, all the entrails and rotting waste of the

In this field Mr Lawrence also kept his horse, an ex-army steed, and on days when we had a

fete or jubilee or coronation, or any event involving a brass band, he would prance excitedly

round the field, probably reminded of his youth in the regiment in far away Quetta or old

Peshawar. On our way down Station Road we would usually meet a small dairy herd of 4

cows, including a little, very knock-kneed Jersey, driven by Bill Long to their stalls at a small-

holding in that road. Bill did the milking, the milk was delivered door to door by the farmer. We

He lived somewhere on the premises. Behind the cows, calling “Cow, cow” he walked with a

very loose gait, his legs thrown outward from the knee, his feet splayed at still greater angles,

his cap far over to one side. Viewing him from behind I thought Mr Toad might have looked like

that, swaggering down the drive of Toad Hall. Sometimes on a Saturday afternoon, I would

see Bill in the barber shop at 8, Station Road, where he went for his weekly shave. Bill’s face

Mr Hurley, the barber, was a postman/barber, a tall, clear-speaking man with spiky grey hair.

Mornings he did his distant post round by bicycle, and in the shop he would invariably still be

wearing his heavy boots, now unlaced. Under the window of No. 8, to distinguish it from the

rest of the terrace, which was unnumbered in those days, was displayed a WD & HO Wills

sign. When his shop was open so was his cottage door, and if you just wanted cigarettes or

tobacco (double Woodbine 4d. or single 2d) a tap on it would bring him to the door in white

gown, razor or clippers in hand, to serve you. Over the sink in the shop, which was, of course,

the little front room of the cottage, was a large notice, colour-washed in red ink. It read:

Part 2

This notice to take effect on and after June 6^th, 1910