Dogs (and other Pets)

We always had dogs when I was a child. My father had greyhounds, although I don't really think they'd be classed as 'pets' as such. They lived in their own kennels and there was a run for them in the garden at Malting Farm. Some were put into greyhound races, but others were used for coursing. I know it's not considered 'P.C.' (Politically Correct) and hunting with dogs is now illegal, that is still what they were basically used for. I'm not going to get into a discussion on the rights or wrongs of it in this post, although in some sense, in the early part of the 21st Century, perhaps it's a good thing that we don't continue with such things, but I'm not convinced one way or the other. One of the dogs won some race, it may have been at the White City Stadium in London, back in the early 1960's, because he had a large trophy which sat on the sideboard in the lounge at Malting Farm, which was the prize for this race. I'm not sure whether there was any money involved. Dad was a greyhound trainer, which is one reason the greyhounds were kept in separate accommodation. There were several litters of puppies born at Malting Farm, and the dogs made exceptionally good mothers. Contrary to what you believe about greyhounds they are very affectionate and do make good pets and I know people re-home retired greyhounds. One, in particular, called Ben, who became a stud dog, was often bought into the house and made a fuss of, but unfortunately he was poisoned during one event, I think the Waterloo Cup, which was held every year in Lancashire (now no more since 'hunting with dogs' is illegal.) Although you must not call greyhounds 'dogs.' I don't know what the outcome of the poor animal who was poisoned, whether the culprit was found or whether the police were involved. I think the poison was paraquat or some sort of poison used to keep down weeds.

Being a farm, there were always labradors around, usually black. Beautiful creatures used to retrieve game during shooting expeditions and the annual 'shoot', which was quite a big event, culminating in a large meal, provided by my mother and comprised of quite an elaborate meal in the dining room at Malting Farm. Later, my brother Andrew had a black-and-white Cocker spaniel, called Pippa, who came from a litter produced by a bitch owned by my Kendall cousins who lived at Eyeworth, near Sandy. Pippa was a sweet-natured little dog, who always went around with a wagging tail. We went to Fronton-On-Sea for summer holidays as well as to Brightlingsea, a little further down the Essex coast, where my father had a sailing boat called 'Flashpoint' on which we occasionally stayed. The boat was moored in the Colne estuary, and to get to it you had to use a small rubber boat or 'tender.' Trying to get out to the yacht with a load of shopping as well as Pippa was quite an ordeal. She had a tendency to always want to swim, which is what all spaniels seem to love. But on one particular occasion, she decided that she couldn't be contained on board ship for too long and took off by jumping in. But, as there was a  strong tide in the Colne estuary, she got caught in a song current which means she could possibly get back to the yacht. So we had to get in the tender and row after her in order to rescue her, otherwise, she would have been lost and possibly drowned. Even though she was a strong swimmer, she couldn't swim fast enough against the rapidly ebbing tide and would have been swept out to sea, never to be seen again. On the beach at Fronton, Pippa would enjoy the sea, and it was quite difficult to keep her out of the water. Her one abiding passion was chasing things, which is what a Cocker excels at, along with swimming. It was at a time when Frisbees were all the fashion, but if anyone was seen playing with one, usually someone or other of our family or friends, or complete strangers, merely throwing the things between one another, Pippa had the idea that the Frisbee was being thrown for her entertainment, and if the thing landed, she would run and pick it up and play with it herself, which could be quite embarrassing, particularly as she had a tendency to chew the things.

My brother James had a couple of black labradors. One I think was called Flon. She had a tendency to run off. As a child, I seem to remember another black labrador called Sorrel. I don't remember much about this dog. We had small Jack Russel Terriers in the 1960 and 70s. We had a small, tan and white terrier which had a wiry coat and called Honey. Unfortunately, it died. I think Dad took it to show the greyhounds and one barked and it scared the poor little pup to death. Sad. A really sweet little dog. I think she came from family friends who lived in Carlton, whose dog had puppies. Then Dad got another little Jack Russel, small, black and white and with an undershot jaw. Funny how you remember these things. She was called Spike. I don't know why. I think it was because her tail was like a spike. Then we got a second dog, a bit bigger than Spike, who got called Milligan, after the Goon's writer and comedian. I think it seemed an obvious name, come to think of it. He was black and white with tan markings, on his face and legs. He took to me and pined when I went to school. He used to sleep on my bed and followed me around like a shadow. Unfortunately, he rather liked the neighbour's chickens. I think he might have chased a few and killed them. Then he wasn't around anymore. I don't know what happened to him. Went to a new home, away from chickens. I was quite upset, as you can imagine. Then, a few years later another dog came into our lives, another Jack Russell Terrier. She was called Lucy. She had a problem with her skin. She got an allergic reaction to flea bites and her skin came out in a horrible load of sores. She was small, and to relieve the itching caused by the sores she rubbed herself underneath the armchairs in the lounge and made the sores bleed. Poor little thing. She had a sort of epileptic fit one evening when she was let out into the garden. It was quite distressing to see this, laying on her pack, with her legs shaking. She came out of it a few minutes later, but I thought she was going to die. I just think she was prone to have an odd sort of metabolism or something, which meant her heart raced at too high a level, which was what caused the epileptic fit.

Another dog we had, probably a good deal earlier, was a dachshund, called Chippy. He was light brown with white markings. He was very like a sausage (I know, dachshunds are often called 'Sausage Dogs.) and called Chipolata, hence, Chippy for short. He loved music, or so he seemed to, because if you were to play a mouth-organ (or harmonica) he would howl along. It was very amusing. He got his tail, which was very long for such a little dog, and got caught in the rear door when my mother had a Hillman Husky, which had a rear door which was operated by a lever on the car's dashboard. How on earth his tail got caught in the door when it got shot I really don't know, but as a result, the end of his tail had about half an inch missing. It never recovered and ended in a rather abrupt tip and the hair never grew back.

So, now Carol and I have two dogs, as you will know if you have been reading my posts on here over the years. The oldest one, Poppy, is a Shitsu-West Highland Terrier cross. She has a stubborn streak and does what she wants, particularly when we take her out for a walk, and you have to put her back on her lead and she runs off and won't return. When I first met her, at Carol's house in Crownhill (a good ten years ago now.) she was so excited to meet me that she weed on my leg! Take her anywhere with water, such as a lake or river, and before you know it, she'll be in and swimming.
The other dog we have is Alfie, who is a Yorkshire Terrier. A faithful little dog, who took to me very early on and follows me around the house like a shadow. He's even-tempered and has a lot of courage, especially when we're out walking and he comes across far larger dogs. He hates cats and if one comes into our garden he barks loudly. Both dogs sleep on our bed at night, but disturb Alfie at your peril and he will growl to warn you off. He doesn't like being disturbed and falls asleep at the merest opportunity.

My brother Robert was keen on horses. We had a pony called Meg from quite early on and Andrew had a couple of ponies, one called Whiskey, a black and white pony as well as a white one whose name I forget. My younger brother, Sandy, used to go to gymkhanas around Bedfordshire and take part in the various events and got quite good at it. I'm not sure these are still going, but there used to be an annual one at Clapham as well as the Young Farmers' rally at Silsoe. My grandmother Ferriman was President or something for several years. I do recall, from quite an early age, being taken to these events, even though I never took part. I did ride, occasionally, but what put me off was all the mucking out and tack cleaning which went with caring for horses. The fact that I was kicked by one of the horses and then bitten by another, quite badly, in the fleshy part of my arm, might have something to do with it, as well as being on one of the ponies which bolted with me on board and nearly going through a five-bar gate has definitely got something to do with it!

I'm fairly certain we had other pets. A budgerigar, which I seem to remember lived in a cage in the kitchen at Malting Farm. Whether it was male or female I have no idea. There was a tortoise, but it lived in the garden and wandered as tortoises do and was rarely seen, no doubt hiding away amidst the flowers and other plants, but was rarely seen. Which makes me wonder how it ever survived winter. No doubt it hibernated somewhere or other. One of my brothers, Robert perhaps, had a fish in a tank, and I think it was in his bedroom, but whether it survived I can't recall. That is all I can remember of any pets we had as children. Growing up on a farm there were always animals, such as cows and pigs (I don't actually think there were pigs at Malting Farm. The Porter's, who lived next door, had a pig unit, and there were some at Mill Farm, my grandfather's farm. Sheep didn't come onto the farm until my eldest brothers took over when my father retired in the 1970's. We were never allowed to become to attached or over sentimental with any of the animals, although we sometimes reared some of them, such as bucket-feeding calves. They were all treated with respect and had good lives.  And my mother had chickens and we had chicks which were hatched somewhere or other and put in a deep litter house and laid eggs which were sold.

A Country Childhood

I think it's quite easy to take for granted my childhood, growing up on a farm in Bedfordshire. Compared with what children have now, we were really lucky. There was plenty of space to run around, wide open meadows to roam in and the farmyard itself, although by today's standards of Health and Safety, I suppose a farm would be considered a dangerous place for children to play. I suppose it was then, but we seem to have created a generation which is really over-protected . We built hideouts in amongst the bales of straw and treehouses in many of the trees in the garden and around the farmyard. There was always something or other to explore and to generally get into some sort of trouble. Life was an adventure and we really knew how to enjoy it.

Malting Farm is still there, in Cardington, Bedfordshire, about four miles to the east of Bedford town, but I know that things have changed drastically since I left in the mid 1970's. For a start no Murdoch lives in the house, which is sad when I think that some three generations of Murdochs had lived there, although I know my eldest brother James still farms the land there. My grandfather Ferriman managed Mill Farm, which was a few miles from Cardington village, and his son, my uncle Michael took over from him and ran that farm up until only a few years ago. That farm is no more. It was completely bulldozed to make way for a business park. Beford Southern By-Pass crosses what was Malting Farm land and borders the Priory Business Park, which was Mill Farm. My grandmother created a really beautiful garden at Mill Farm, and the house itself was really homely. It seems a real waste that such a lovely house had to be sacrificed to a business park. They would say that it's progress, but I really don't see it that way.

Malting Farm house is a Georgian building dating from 1764. It was built of red brick and was immediately opposite St Mary's church in Cardington village. It has a curved bay at one end which over-looks the garden lawn, and the windows of the house are of a highly distinctive diamond design. The lawn at one time had a double-trunked sycamore tree growing in the centre of it, which you could walk between the trunks, but it had to be cut down because it had become dangerous. In the attic there were a couple of rooms which we used to play in. One room had held a really large model trainset, and we slept there sometimes, particularly if our bedroom was being re-decorated. You had to get into these rooms up a narrow, steep staircase. It was great to have somewhere that was away from adults, a place where you could 'do your own thing' without being spied on. The rest of the house was the ideal place to play such games as 'Hide and Seek' as there were no end of places to hide, lots of corridors, cupboards and odd secret haunts. A game such as that could last most of the day, particularly if you were to hide somewhere and kept quiet for long enough!

In the winter the house could be incredibly cold, as it didn't have the benefit of central heating. I remember waking up in the morning in my bedroom and finding ice on the inside of the windows and you could see your breath when you breathed out. You'd have to run along the passageway to the bathroom to keep warm and get dressed in there as there was an electric heater. In the kitchen was an Aga which was used by my mother to do most of the cooking and was fuelled with coke which was store in an outhouse. The dining room was heated by a wood-burning stove and had to be kept alight most of the time.

I have four brothers, James, Robert, Sandy (Alexander) and Andrew. I am the third, born between Robert and Sandy. James and Robert took over the farm when my father retired in the mid 1970's, and the rest of us went off to 'do our own things' in other areas of work. I believe, if my memory serves, that Sandy did spend some time on the farm after he left school, but didn't remain long.

Miss Fuller was someone who featured quite a lot in our lives. She had originally come to us from working at the Porter's, the next door family, where she mended and sewed. She then came to us on a Wednesday afternoon to do a similar job. Then, when Andrew was born, my mum needed someone to look after him, as it would have been quite difficult to bring up four boys together with a baby, on her own. We went on holiday each year to Frinton-On-Sea in Essex, where we stayed in a rented house. Jean Freemantle, the daughter of the ploughman on Malting Farm, and who lived in the cottage at the back of the farmhouse, came with us for several years, and was employed to look after Andrew. I believe she came with us for a couple of years.Then it came out that Miss Fuller (I don't know, even to this day, what her Christian name was.)had been a nanny in the past, and she began to take Andrew out for walks in the village in his large pram. After a while she became more and more involved in his care, and she eventually came with us on holiday to Frinton.

I remember one particular incident which happened when we were at Frinton. My grandmother came to stay, and there was some sort of animosity between her and Miss Fuller, particularly over who should look after Andrew. My grandmother said that, as his grandmother she had a natural right to his care and also taking him for walks. There was a stand-up argument in front of our beach-hut, with them going hammer-and-tongues. I don't actually remember how it ended, but it was somewhat embarrassing for us children to have your grandmother shouting and arguing in front of them and in such a public place.

We had horses and ponies although I wasn't really horse-minded. Three of my four brothers, Robert, Sandy and Andrew, rode horses and kept them at the farm. I rode occasionally, but certainly never to a particularly high standard. Robert used to go to showjumping events around the area and was involved in showjumping at Bedfordshire Agricultural show (which is no more, but merged with the East Of England Show some 35-40 years ago.) and Sandy and Andrew went to the occasional gymkhana around the county. I used to like to go for what you might call more leisurely rides on the horses, but not galloping around the countryside, jumping hedges and ditches. I was put off by all the tack-cleaning and mucking-out that was involved in keeping horses. Also, I was bitten by a horse we had, one day when I was minding my own business, sitting on a fence in the farmyard, near the stables. A cow in a nearby field had the nerve to moo, and this horse decided that it didn't like being mooed at so it attempted to take a chunk out of the fleshy part of my arm. On another occasion I was riding a black-and-white pony we had called Whisky. I remember galloping across a meadow and not being able to stop this particular pony, and very nearly landing up jumping over a five-bar gate which was rapidly approaching, or at least crashing through said five-bar gate! It was really quite frightening and was what must have put me off horses of any particular variety.

My father owned a boat which he sailed on the River Ouse and Grafham water. We had a place down by the river near Cardington Mill where we used to go every weekend during the summer. There was a hut there where all the equipemnt for the boat was stored, together with deckchairs, table and Calor gas ring so we could make tea. Mum would pack up a really substantial picnic and we'd decamp there for tea, particularly on a Sunday afternoon. It seemed to work like a magnet for all-and-sundry who would turn up to sail the boat and then take afternoon tea, sandwiches and delicious home-made cake. I think there were several boats. A large clinker-built yacht called "Amaranda," a small sailing boat which my mum sailed frequently called "Nimbus" and a motor boat which had an Evinrude out-board engine, and was called "Nimbus." This motor boat was used to ferry people from the centre of Bedford town to the riverside hut and he had devised some sort of ski board which was used to tow behind and people could sort of water ski. Looking back, this must have been incredibly dangerous, as it went quite fast along the river and there was always the danger or running into other boats, over-hanging branches of trees and one hundered and one other things, but he still did it, as he had a greeat sense of adventure. I remember that dad eventually sold "Amaranda" to a family friend and he eventually bought a fibre-glass yacht which he sailed at Grafham Water and it came with us when we used to go on holiday to Frinton-On-Sea in Essex. "Amaranda" was built in a boatyard at Brightlingsea, further down the coast and in the Colne estuary near Colchester. That seemed to be the best place for sailing. Dad eventually bought a very much larger boad called "Flashpoint" which had a cabin and galley on it so it was possible to sleep overnight on it and cook very basic meals. The small clinker-built boat became the 'tender' vessel, and was used to get to and from "Flashpoint" as she was moored out in the estuary. We had gone to Frinton for annual summer holidays for years and years through the late '50 and into the '60's, but then Mum and Dad went to Brightlingsea on their own and stayed at a rather nice pub near the seafront called the Old Swan and on some occasions some of us children would go with them, but later we used to actually live on board "Flashpoint"for the time we were there.

Every summer there was a village fete, held in order to raise funds for the church, St Mary's. This was always held in the gardens of Howard House, owned and occupied by Humphrey Whitbread. It was never opened to the public at any other time of the year, so it was a treat to be able to look around such a beautiful garden. No doubt it is now open, rather in the fashion of a property owned by either the National Trust or English Heritage. I imagine that the money raised went towards keeping the building maintained. Everyone in the village seemed to got involved in some capacity, either running a stall, making cakes for the cake stall, or putting on some money-making activity. My mother always ran the fruit and vegetable stall, but there were many stalls on offer, including a tombola, White Elephant (I still, to this day, have no idea why it is called a White Elephant stall . From my visits to Whipsnade, elephants are grey, or at least, a darkish colour, but certainly not white, and there was certainly no sign of any elephants on that particular stall, white or otherwise. It was always stuffed full of the old junk that nobody really wanted to own any more, such as really unattractive vases, pots and pans, candlesticks or ornaments, that was cluttering up their garage, attic or sideboard.)The other stalls usually consisted of a flower stall, cake stall, books, and hoop-la, bran tub and a tea tent. There seems to me to be something forever fixed in my mind that the smell of hot canvas brings that suggests a warm summer afternoon when we ate curly-crusted, slightly stale sandwiches, sticky cakes and tepid tea which comes from that period of my life. All in aid of keeping St Mary's standing.

Another event which came round annually was the Bedfordshire Agricultural Show, held in meadows on one of the main roads leading into the centre of Bedford. These meadows were actually within what is the Ouse River flood plain, and was sold by the local authority for building and where Tesco and the Oasis Beach Pool was built several years ago. This show ceased to be around thirty-five or forty years ago and merged with several other county shows and became the East of England Show at Peterborough.Local firms connected with the agricultural industry had elaborate stands which showed off their products, such as tractors, combine harvesters or other machinery, or the corn merchants, such as Banks and Jordans, had displays of corn, barley and so on. The best part was that my father, being a customers of these companys, would take us to these tents and he would discuss the latest agricultural business with the company representatives over tea, cake and (for the adults!) alcholic beverages. We knew these ‘reps’ really well, as they were constantly turning up at Malting Farm, and usually at teatime, so there was always an excuse for a cup of tea and to sample a slice of one of my mum's delicious cakes.

There were also displays of animals, pigs, cows, sheep and horses. It would take a great deal of time and effort to get show-animals prepared for the show, with a great deal of shampoo used to wash them, their coats brushed and groomed, their tails plaited.

Teatime was an important meal in our household. As I have said, my mum made a real spread, usually including some lavish cake, a sponge-cake usually, filled with jam and cream, as well as shortbread, scones, fruit buns and the usual bread-and-butter. ‘You can’t eat any cake until you’ve eaten your bread and jam’ we were told. This meal was eaten in the kitchen, which was the centre of operations of the house and, in some respects, the farm. We rarely ate in the dining room, but when we used that room it was for special occasions, such as Christmas lunch. As regards teatime, a lot of people would suddenly turn up when the kettle was put on, the tea made in the teapot and the table laid. I have said somewhere here that we had a lot of ‘reps’ who were connected with agricultural firms who always came to the house at coffee time in the morning and teatime. Also, my granddad Ferriman and Uncle Michael, and another honorary ‘Uncle’ Percy Brocklehurst, affectionately known as ‘Per’ by my mother and father. He was a friend of my father’s, and was a sort of odd-job man. He never married, but would turn up when we had our tea. For some unfathomable reason he had a boiled egg made specially made for him, and his excuse was that ‘he’d come a long way,’ but to this day I’m not sure whether it was one of his little jokes, or whether there was a tradition where he came from that you gave people a boiled egg when they’d travelled a long distance. Perhaps it was a sort of in joke he had with my mother, but I have no idea.

Percy was really good at odd jobs, he could wire a house, mend furniture, hang cupboards, repair leaks, fix lights and generally do any job that was required around the house. Percy drove an ancient grey Morris Minor car, and in it’s boot there was all manner of items which could be put to practical use, such as fuses, lengths of cable and wire, nuts and bolts, along with the usual toolbox, all of which he carried so that when a job required it he could use it to repair whatever item it was.

There are two particular stories concerning Percy which I want to record here, as they are worth mentioning. When my father retired in the 1970s, my parents moved to a house in a village just outside Huntingdon, around 25 miles north of Bedford. In the early 90’s, or thereabouts, this village, Great Stukeley, became the home of the then Prime Minister, John Major, as he was also the Member of Parliament for Huntingdon. Anyway, they didn’t stay living in Great Stukeley for that long, and in 1977 my mum persuaded my father to move back to a house she had found in Cople, the next village to Cardington. Percy was drafted in to do some work in the house, and one of the jobs was to move some kitchen cupboards which were on the wall of the kitchen in the house in Stukeley. They were to be used in the kitchen at the house in Cople. My dad had helped, or, more likely, supervised this bit of work, and when the cupboards where eventually fixed in place in Cople, my mum noticed that there was something odd about them. Percy and dad had only managed to put them upside down on the wall, and hadn’t obviously noticed! They were never moved the right way up, because, in all honesty, there wasn’t a lot of difference, as the handles worked just as well the wrong way round as the right way.

The other story was about sherry. My mum used to make the most amazing sherry trifles, and they were the talk of the county. They used lavish amounts of whipped cream, confectioner’s custard and a small amount of sherry. This ingredient was purchased from the village shop, specially for the purpose of being used in these famous trifles, and was stored in a Bristol Cream sherry bottle. It was just very ordinary, cheap, cooking sherry. One afternoon Percy came to visit and dad sat at the table chatting and my mum was in the other room, reading or something, and could hear them talking in the kitchen. My dad asked Percy if he’d like a glass of sherry, and Percy said, yes please, he would, so my father got the Bristol Cream bottle out of the drinks cupboard and poured them a glass each. They sat and chatted, taking occasional sips of the sherry, and my father was saying ‘Oh, it’s Bristol Cream. It’s the best sherry you can buy!’ and all sorts of stuff, and my mother, who was overhearing the conversation in the next room, laughed to her self that it WASN’T actually Bristol Cream (although the bottle was a Bristol Cream bottle) and they were really drinking cheap cooking sherry. I have an idea that my father couldn’t tell the difference between the more expensive Bristol Cream and the cheap cooking sherry, but the incident caused a good deal of hilarity in the family thereafter.