Living On The Farm

Malting Farm was not just our home, but was a fully working farm. There were other people who made the place function. The actual house, built in 1764 (how do I know? We had the ground plan of the original house framed and on the wall of my father's office, as well as being quite clearly marked on one of the down-pipes of the guttering.) My father employed several men, and during the summer months there were extra hands, usually during the harvest. My mother had to run the house, a large Georgian red-brick building. Two ladies came in to assist with cleaning, Mrs Freemantle, whose husband, Bob was the ploughman and tractor driver. They lived in a cottage which was behind the main house. I imagine at one time it must have been joined to the farm house. Bob was an avid gardener and had a plot behind the main garden. He grew vegetables. If you went near his beloved garden without his permission, woe betide you. He had a short temper. I don't think the other men on the farm liked him much.

Mrs Freemantle was a lovely lady. If Mum and Dad went away on there own (which wasn't very often, but when they did it was usually to sail at Brightlingsea.) she would come in to make sure we had meals and generally look after the house. We often went to stay with my grandparents, who lived at Mill Farm, abut two or three miles from Cardington Village.

The other lady who came in to clean the house was Mrs Jacques, who lived in the first house coming into the village from Bedford. Her husband worked as a farm labourer, but not in the village. The two ladies were great friends, as far as I know. I presume they were. I recall an incident when my mother had to lay off Mrs Jaques (I don't know why or what it was about.) But during one of the many village fetes or bazaars which were held during the year to raise money for the church, she had a stand-up row in public at one of these events. It was really embarrassing and I don't know how my mother managed to deal with it. I think it was the fact that it was so public which made it so embarrassing. I don't think Mrs Jacques ever came back to work at Malting Farm. I am fairly sure my mother didn't get rid of her as a worker because Mrs Jacques was very good at her job. When I think what a large house Malting Farm house it it was obvious that you would need extra people to help run it, particularly cleaning and the fact that there were seven of us as a family when I lived there.

Miss Fuller, who I've mentioned in an earlier post, came in every Wednesday to do mending (those were the days when people had their clothes mended, such as socks darned, trousers turned up, you mention it, clothes were expected to last longer when repaired. I suppose it was a hang-over from the War when there was the culture of 'Make Do And Mend,' which carried on into the 1950s and beyond with austerity. Perhaps it aught to come back today, although I suppose we have recycling.) She had come in from our neighbour's, the Porter's, and eventually came to look after my youngest brother Andrew, who was a baby at the beginning of the 1960s. She lived in a cottage which was immediately next to the garden of Malting Farm, but later moved to a cottage on the Green in the centre of Cardington Village.

Doug Pattle was stockman, meaning he was responsible for looking after the cattle. We had what was called a 'house cow' which was milked and the milk used by the household. This milk was 'raw' not pasteurised, although each year all the cattle on the farm were tested for T.B. I have to say 'raw' milk takes so much better than pasteurised, which took a lot of getting used to when we eventually had to have our milk delivered. The milk was taken to the dairy in the house and put in, how can I describe them any other way- flat pans, and left to stand and the cream scammed off for our use. Definitely great to have an almost limitless supply of such fine, tasty cream as well as full-fat milk for cooking, in tea and coffee and other drinks. As a child we had no choice but had to eat porridge for breakfast. Doug Pattle also drove us to school in Bedford. Some mornings my dad would take us, but on others Porter's pigman, Geoff Caves, took us. He used to look after their pigs at their farm in Cople as well as in a unit they had in Cardington. I remember the old car they used to ferry us into Bedford. I think it was a Rover of some kind. It always smelt of gone-off milk because I think he carried buckets of milk about in the car and it must have slopped over. The smell was unpleasant and sort of rank. I imagine the milk was used to feed the pigs. Strange how such things stick in your mind when you're a child. Smells particularly have a strong ability to bring back memories.

There were several other men who worked on the farm. Bert Gadsby, who was ancient when I remember him. He must have been well past retirement age at the time I'm thinking of. A Mr Huckle. Don't remember his Christian name. But when you were a child everyone was 'Mr' or 'Mrs' and you weren't supposed to call adults by their Christian names. I still don't know Miss Fuller's Christian name. I know it sounds strange now, but that was the sort of respect your had for your 'elders and betters.' Or Mrs Fremantle or Mrs Jacques Christian names.

There were also a set of ladies how appeared at certain times of the year, who came from Bedford. My father would go and pick them up and take them home in the Land Rover. They used to come to work in the Brussel sprout seed-bed (or whatever it was called) My father grew Brussels on the farm and the seed bed was a fairly small plot where the Brussels seeds were set and then, when it came to planting, they had to be hand-pulled and sorted, the poorest quality rejected and then taken to the field to be planted using a machine which was connected to a tractor and which was operated by several people sitting on he back and hand-planting the Brussel plants. Quite a difficult job, considering the plants had to be set at the correct distance from each other and whilst the machine was moving. I don't think I could have done the job as I think I would have suffered from motion sickness. My father produced Brussels which were a good deal larger than those you find in a supermarket today. It seems that the modern housewife wants Brussels which are probably a quarter of the size of those my father grew. They were picked in the autumn and winter months by men out in the fields, in all weathers, cold, rain, fog, bitter cold. Bent double. I think their hands much have turned to ice. I don't know how much they were paid, what their hourly rate was. These Brussels were bagged up and sent by lorry to Covent Garden. The farm dealt with a company called Bennet and Hawes and they came each evening for the day's load. They might have come daily or weekly, I don't know thinking about it now.

The same happened with potatoes. They would have been set from seed potatoes on a similar machine to the one used for Brussels. Potatoes need a lot of water and there was an irrigation system which was a set of aluminium pipes stretching across the fields and linked to a pump which was set up in the brook which ran through the farm. These irrigation pipes had to be moved at regular intervals and we had to help with this job.

Then there was the grain harvest, during the months of July and August. I was usually a tractor driver (probably my first experience of driving any sort of vehicle.) corn-cart, driving along side the confine harvester when it was still moving and when the cart was level with the augur which came out of the side of the combine, the corn was loaded into the cart behind the tractor (moving along in tandem with the moving combine. Not an easy job.) and the corn was loaded into the cart and then taken off to the drier unit at the bottom of Hill Foot outside Cardington or to Jordan's silo at Mile Road in Bedford. Or it was stored in a barn in Malting Farm in a pit and then lifted up via augur into a contraption devised by my father who was very adept at constructing such things. Probably taken somewhere  to be milled into flour for making bread or whatever.

I may have more to write about on this subject, so look out for a further blog post.

Food Favourites (And some not quite so)

I have written extensively about my school days and in particular at Rushmoor School in Bedford. Of the many not quite so pleasant memories of that establishment must surely be the totally disgusting dinner that was served up. More like slopped up. I have absolutely no idea how much my father had to fork out to send me there, but I would have hoped if I had a son and I was paying for their education, I would hope the food that was dished up was a good deal better. I think they could have made more effort to make it, at least, half edible. I think most people when they look back on their school days (which, you keep being reminded are supposed to be 'the happiest of your life.') it's generally the dinners that get mentioned the most frequently if it's for how bad they are, or even, how good. I can remember gristly, chewy meat. What sort it was, I can hardly imagine. I should think beef or pork, but possibly a horse, mule or donkey. More likely road-kill from some country road in and around Bedfordshire. Sorry, I know we've had food scares in the past. But expecting your progeny to eat such disgusting food should come under some form of an act of parliament for child cruelty in this day and age.  I don't know about the time I was at school. You just put up with it and didn't make any sort of fuss. Liver, I seem to recall, looking like and having the consistency of rubber erasers and tasting bitter, and swimming in gravy. No, struggling to survive. Usually watered-down, like the custard. I think they could make a reasonably fine sponge pudding, but then they ruined it with lumpy custard. But tell me, how difficult is it to make the custard, minus the lumps? Shove it through a sieve to remove the lumps and then boil it to death. Similarly, cabbage, which has been boiled to within an inch of its life. And stinking the place out to high heaven. Enough to put anyone off for life, and it probably has. Rice pudding was another staple. Actually, to tell the truth, I do actually like rice pudding. They served it up with watered-down treacle I seem to remember. I've heard of stretching things until it breaks, like a piece of elastic (yes, another metaphor. The liver and meat had the texture of elastic. Chew it until your jaw ached!) Which reminds me that once, at Rushmoor, one dinner time they served up plain boiled rice. I think it might, on reflection, have started out being a good old fashioned rice pud, but someone forgot that it's made with milk. So we were expected to eat it, along with very watered-down treacle. Not nice. Can you imagine being made to sit and eat it until it was all gone? That Mrs Richardson, who presided over the piano-playing for assembly (see my earlier post.) was in control of the ladle and spoon, doling out the dinners, slapping the custard, gravy and other comestibles onto our plates as we queued up, in a similar fashion to the inmates of the workhouse in 'Oliver Twist.' We had liver, as I've said. Pretty disgusting. I expect it put a lot of people off liver- for life. No 'asking for more' as you can imagine. I think even poor old Oliver would have passed on the rubber-consistency of this. I actually rather like liver, as an adult. I don't have a problem with it and know how to cook it, slowly, in a nice rich gravy. It's quite nice, for a change. It's a cheap meal and is good for you. It contains iron, amongst other things. But the thought of eating boiled rice, on it's own, with thin, watered-down treacle, that was just disgusting. 

My mother was a very good cook. She made plain, simple food. As there were seven of us living at home, five of us brothers and my mother and father, what you had put in front of you, you were expected to eat up and not leave anything. No room for finicky eaters. I don't think my mother would have put up with such behaviour, and certainly not my father. We had porridge for breakfast. Actually, even as an adult, I quite like porridge, so long as I'm making it and it's not lumpy. Better for you, and a good deal cheaper, than sugar-filled cereals from a packet.  I don't think we ever had any other cereal such as Rice Krispies, Sugar Puffs or even Corn Flakes until I was perhaps around 12 years old. Also, bacon and eggs. A good old fry-up, because, being a farm, my father and two eldest brothers needed a substantial breakfast each morning as they would have got up early, around 5.30- 6.00, to feed the cattle and other animals and do other early-morning jobs, and then come into the house to have their breakfast at 7-8 o'clock. That was after they left school.

Sunday lunch we'd usually have a roast, such as chicken, beef, pork or lamb. Naturally, if it was beef or pork it might possibly be home-produced. And with the roast, roast potatoes and other vegetables from the garden. My father grew Brussel sprouts on the farm, which were sent off to Smithfield Market, and we had with our meal. A much larger variety than the tiny variety that you'll find in your average supermarket. For pudding, something like sponge pudding and custard (although I don't remember having custard. Probably cream, straight from the cow which was reserved for the house. Something I don't expect would be allowed today, what with the E.U. and all the regulations that go with it. The cattle were tested for T.B. or whatever it was once a year, can't remember what else for, to fit the current regulations. I just know that you wouldn't be able to drink 'raw' untreated milk. I have to say that it tasted a good deal better than pasteurised milk, and the cream was thicker and richer. We also had a lot of fruit from the garden, such as strawberries, raspberries and rhubarb, when in season, and ate it stewed with more cream, or in a sponge pudding of some sort. Also, celery and asparagus, which, looking back, we were very fortunate to have growing in the garden. When you see these things in a supermarket, and the price they charge, I realise more than ever how lucky we were to be able to eat these fruit and vegetables. There was a quite substantial orchard at Malting Farm, with plenty of plum, apple and pear trees in it. Sadly, the last time I went to the farm I saw that it had all been removed and the land used  as animal pens. I suppose the cost of maintaining it all was too much and was better being used for the sheep and other farm animals.

My mother was a good baker and we had ample cakes and other delights for tea. I don't think she ever bought a cake, although I seemed to remember her buying the odd treat from a cake shop in Harrowden Road, on the road going into Bedford. Doughnuts, filled with jam, as well as little cakes in fancy paper trays, I think called Viennese Whirls, made, I think of choux pastry and with a dob of bright red jam on top. Not jam probably, more like a thick gooey substance with a sweet over-flavoured taste. She was a dab-hand at making shortbread, I believe being given the recipe from one of my father's Scottish relatives. There is a certain knack to making this Scottish delicacy, made of real butter and it has to be kneaded carefully. Just delicious, cut into triangles and sprinkled with sugar. Also, scones with cream and jam, Victoria sponges, also filled with jam (I'm quite good at making them.) as well as fruit cakes and her piece-de-resistance, cream slices, which had not jam and cream in them, but confectioner's custard, which is quite difficult to make. Tea was at around 4.00 p.m. and you can see why we had so many visitors to the farm, usually 'reps' from the various companies who did business with the farm. They would not only get an order out of my father, but a decent cup of tea, a piece of cake and a chat, before they got back in their cars and drove back to wherever their company was based, such as Biggleswade or Sandy, which are further up the road going towards the A1.

My grandmother, who lived at Mill Farm, made rock cakes, and she covered them with little seeds I think they were caraway seeds. I didn't particularly like them as a child. If you went to tea you weren't expected to pick and choose. You couldn't be finicky. You ate what was put in front of you. So, if you found yourself eating something you didn't like (such as the aforementioned seeded rock cakes) you put up and shut up. I do remember though, one family (who shall remain nameless) coming to tea with their two children who would have been quite young at the time, and my mother had made her usually delicious teas with plenty of cake (although the rule was generally 'bread before cake' in our household.) and there was a plate full of delicious-looking little cakes (probably filled with jam and cream.) One of these children had an eye for the plate of cakes and was determined to get on. So, in order that one, in particular, was taken for him to consume, he licked a finger and then stuck it in one of the cakes and said 'that one's for me!' meaning that, because he'd shoved his finger into it with a licked finger, no one else would possibly want to eat it! Not a particularly pleasant little boy, I must say, and I'm not entirely sure what my mother made of this strategy to get one of her delicious cakes!

As for some  other of my favourite foods: I like pancakes, and I'm fairly good at making them myself. As it's Shrove Tuesday this week ('Pancake Day') I shall no doubt be making some myself. The knack is being able to make a good batter and leaving it to stand for well over an hour. Whisking the batter is the secret. Also, making batter for Yorkshire pudding, making sure the oven is hot and the pan you cook it in has hot oil in it before you put in the batter. I like mine crisp and crunch with a most or soggy centre.My grandfather liked his Yorkshire pudding soggy and I remember going to lunch with my grandparents and my grandfather deliberately slammed the oven door when we had Yorkshire pudding with our roast beef to make sure they sunk and wouldn't go crunchy! I also like bread and butter pudding, so simple to make, but easy to make. I'm good at making that also.

Early Childhood Memories

What are my earliest memories? That's a difficult one. I remember once going to stay at Mill Farm, where my maternal grandparents lived. It's unfortunately no longer there, having been demolished and replaced by a business park. I was staying there with Jonathan Kendall, one of my cousins. We can't have been very old. There was a channel that ran along the concrete path outside the back door of the house which caught the water when it rained. This particular morning my grandfather and uncle Michael who still lived there had gone out to work on the farm and were about to come in for their lunch at midday. It had been raining heavily and Jonathan and I had nothing better to do. When grandad and uncle had gone into the house to have their lunch they had to take their Wellington boots off before going inside and put them in the glassed lobby. Little me and Jonathan saw the Wellingtons sitting there and decided it would be really amusing to take each one and scoop the water up in the boots from the channel where it was running fast. We then put the water-filled boots back in the lobby, so when uncle and grand-parent came back out to return to work they put there feet into their Wellingtons. As a result they were not pleased at getting very wet feet! Amusing for a very short time as both grandmother and father gave us a good hiding which we never forgot! I can't think this incident was repeated but it sticks in my memory!

My mother had been a nurse before she married my father in the late '40's. She had worked at Bedford Hospital. She had kept in contact with the hospital  after she got married.  I was taken to quite  few events at the hospital, usually held in Rye Close, which I believe is, or was, the private ward. Thinking back I don't remember any of my other brothers going with us.  Generally they had an annual Christmas party for the children of staff, past and present. My mother kept in contact with one lady, Sister Watson. I have no recollection of her Christian name, as she was always referred to as either Sister Watson or 'Watty.' All this would explain why I know South Wing Hospital so intimately as an adult. I have done several shifts as a carer and support worker in that hospital usually on Weller Wing and elsewhere, working with both mental patients and those with varying degrees of learning disability. I imagine I get my abilities for this work from my mother. 

One particular Christmas we went to the Christmas party in Rye Close and in the front entrance there was a quite amazing decoration which included a model of the Moot Hall which is in Elstow, the village just outside Bedford which is associated with John Bunyan (author to, amongst other books, "The Pilgrim's Progress.") This model, about the size I suppose of a doll's house, had windows in it which had been cut out and then the inside had lights which shone through the windows. Well little John saw this model and immediately decided that he wanted it! I presume I kept on and on about this model Moot Hall, to such an extent that I was given it! I imagine it would have been given it because I kept going on about it and it was far easier to give in than refuse!

Watty quite often came to tea at the farm. As far as I can remember she lived in a flat in Kempston, which is a town bordering on Bedford. I think the flat over-looked Kempston Park and you went up some steps to the front door. Anyway, on one occasion when she came to tea we must have gone into the garden at Malting Farm (which was quite large and had a magnificent double-trunked sycamore tree in the centre of the lawn which has since been cut down due to the fact that it became unsafe, sadly. Due no doubt to decay or something.) In the garden, somewhere near the lawn, were a couple of plinths for urns. The urns presumably had been broken or something or moved elsewhere. I think one had survived and had plants in. Anyway, one of these plinthss was reasonably low and on this particular afternoon Watty decided she needed to have a rest and sat on one of the plinths. Young John,  had quite a way with words and descriptions had to point out that this elderly lady looked as if she was sitting on the toilet, much to the amusement (or not, I should think!) of all and sundry!  Children, as I know with having my own, have a way of coming out with things which their parents wished that they didn't. No doubt this was one such time. Another was when my mother went to a shop along the main road going into the centre of Bedford. This was to a  shop which sold all manner of sewing and knitting items called I seem to remember Elsa Currah. My mother did a lot of knitting and sewing so perhaps she had gone in the shop to buy knitting wool or a dress-pattern.  I doubt very much if it's still there. Anyway, the lady who either ran it or was an assistant in there had a rather unfortunate facial feature, quite a heavy moustache. Some older ladies do unfortunately have facial hair and do nothing to either hide it with make-up or even attempt to remove it. This young boy saw this and had to come out and say, in quite a loud voice which I'm sure she must have heard, something  like ' Look! That lady's got a moustache!'  as well as any other customers, who would have been in the shop at the time and my mother took me by the arm quite firmly and dragged me out of the shop, no doubt in a lot of embarrassment.

I've never been able to point to one particular event which got me interested in theatre. Being a farming family we didn't have any connection with theatre in any way. I remember being taken to pantomimes at various stages of my childhood. We went to pantomimes in the West End and if my memory serves to one at the County Theatre in Bedford, in Midland Road, which had been the venue of Bedford repertory theatre company up until it's demise in the late 1950's or early '60's. It later became a Mecca bingo hall and is now run by an evangelical church called the Mount Zion Church.  I think this was a pantomime of  'Alice In Wonderland' and was amazingly on ice. I think I saw another pantomime based on the 'Alice' books somewhere in London which had Frankie Howard in and he seemed to play more than one character, including the Mad Hatter. Don't ask me where the theatre was. We also went to a circus, probably Bertrum Mills or Chipperfield's which was put on somewhere like Olympia. Where the Horse of the Year show would have been staged. I remember we must have gone with my grandmother Ferriman. She had a love of hats, and made of raffia, with wide brims and quite striking. These were worn on all outings including church on Sunday. On this occasion when we'd gone to London we had to use the Underground and we were standing waiting for a train to come into the station. Whenever this happens, there is nearly always quite  draught as the train comes out of the tunnel and draws up to the platform. The wind caused my grandmother's hat to be blown off and it landed on the train tracks and was run over and completely destroyed by the wheels of the train! No doubt my grandmother was upset by the incident but I have no further recollection of the incident.

Watty took me to London one Christmas. I don't think my brothers came with us. We went to see 'Peter Pan' which was staged every year for decades at the Scala Theatre. I think this was in Covent Garden somewhere but is sadly no more. I was frightened apparently by the scene with the pirates and Captain Hook in and where some very loud cannons were fired and there was supposed to be lots of smoke and as I say loud explosions. I loved the fact that Peter Pan actually flew across the stage but had no idea at the time how this was achieved. I also remember that in the interval we had tea brought to us and served in the auditorium on a tray which was quite a  treat. I doubt that you'd be allowed to do this today, considering all the 'Health and Safety' regulations we have to contend with now.