Vagueness and the Aftermath - A sporadic diary

[Kev B]

Brilliant Tom just brilliant. I remember the horse and cart coming around crying "any rag bone" or "any old iron", and sharpeners, and peg sellers peddling there wares. I lived next door but one to my nan in  a terraced house and remember nan shovelling up the manure left behind for the roses she grew in the back yard.

[Kev B]

Obviously I read it before you removed it.

[RED-DOG]

A brief extract from my mam and dad's book "A Wandring of Gypsies"

This is from the first part of the book "Tom's Story"



The first horse I can remember was an aged mare called Dolly. Half legged with a bit of blood, she stood about thirteen two hands. Not quite big enough for a waggon horse, she was nevertheless a good and willing worker. With the waggon stuck in soft ground, the only way she could move it was to rear up in the shafts and take a leap forward. This usually got the waggon moving all right but was very hard on the harness.

Pulling off a muddy stopping place one day, a Gypsy man called Harry Watton insisted in yoking a little thirteen hands mare, heavy in foal, to our waggon.

"It'll save you breaking your bits of straps," he said. Probably he just wanted an excuse to show off his mare. Certainly she was worth showing off. Black and white, well marked with plenty of feather to her legs, she pulled our waggon out of the mud an inch at a time. Sadly, I heard she subsequently lost the foal.

When Dolly saw a hill in the road ahead she would set off with the waggon at a fast trot. The momentum would get her so far up before she had to scratch and scrape to reach the summit and have a blow. I remember her slipping and going down in the shafts on one particular nasty hill. She suffered no serious injury; but chipped her knees. Dad rubbed soot into the cuts to make the wounds less visible, lest the cruelty man should stop us for ill-treating the mare.

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No two days were the same when we were travelling, so it's difficult to write of a typical day. Aged ten or eleven, for me a day in summer might go like this. Up around seven thirty, Mother and Father having risen earlier. Dress and down the waggon steps. Dad is having a wash and shave in a small bowl on the waggon frontboard. Mother is cooking bacon on the outside fire and the kettle is on the kettleprop, singing merrily.

If I'm lucky and we have some of yesterdays milk left that hasn't gone sour, I settle down to breakfast. Should there be no milk my first job is to go to the nearest farm and fill the little enamel can we have for the purpose. At other times we'd have Nestle's sweetened condensed milk in our tea, but we preferred fresh milk when we could get it.

I liked fetching milk. Most farms still used horses and I liked to see them going about their work. Other animals on the farms were also of interest to me and I would chat to the farmers about them. Cow sheds, or shippings as we called them were always warm in winter and cool in summer, and whilst I waited, the farmer would run someto finish milking a cow before he could serve me.

"Won't be a couple of minutes son," he would say, with his head pushed into the hollow of a cow's flank and I would sit on a spare stool chatting to the farmer and listen to the steady swish, swish, as the milk went into the bucket.

"I saw cows being milked with a machine the other day," I volunteered to one farmer, as I waited for my milk. "It was doin' two at a time."

"Machines aye?" retorted the farmer. "I wouldn't 'ave one on the place if they gid it to me. Taint natural. Not many cows'll tek to them contraptions, you wait an' see. It just ain't natural. Anyhow, them'll not catch on; not round these parts them won't."

Coming out of a shipping one morning with my milk can in my hand, I tried to take a short cut across a corner of the yard that looked like hard packed earth. The earth turned out to be cow dung, four feet deep with a three-inch crust on top. I sank to my chest.

The laughing farmer pulled me out, stripped me and hosed me down with the powerful hose he used to clean the shipping. His wife gave me an old pair of trousers and a jumper, both several sizes too large. My milk can was irretrievably lost in the muck.

Carrying my boots between finger and thumb, I walked home barefoot. Being the only footwear I possessed, the boots had to be washed, dried and pressed into service again. Everyone seemed to think this incident hilarious, I saw nothing funny about it.

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After breakfast, and a wash if I couldn't avoid it, I'd be off to see to the horses, moving them down a tether's length to enable them to get at fresh grass. The dogs would be allowed to accompany me on this trip and the job often turned into a rabbit hunt.

One of the terriers would bolt a rabbit from a hedgerow or bush and the lurchers would be after it in a flash. Should there be too much cover the rabbit would get away, but with a fair run, a dog would soon have it and bring it back to me. Rabbits were always welcomed by someone back at the camp. They're not to my taste however so I always gave mine away.

Horses attended to, it would be time for the business of the day. If Mother was hawking wooden flowers she would dye them in a two bowls of hot water in which she'd dissolved a couple of Drummer dyes, one of daffodil yellow and one of pillar box red. Should she be selling clothes pegs she would clip them on lengths of willow bark, a dozen to a strip.

When a pony and cart was available, all the women that were going out that day would pile onto it and drive to their hawking. Otherwise they would walk to the nearest village, or if going further afield, to the nearest 'bus stop.
Having reached their destination they would then hawk their wares, perhaps begging a few cast off clothes or some items of food along the way. Tea, sugar and butter were always welcome. Occasionally one of the women would come across someone who wanted their fortunes telling.
Money from this was usually shared amongst the group. Hawking done for the day, they would get the day's shopping and make their way home.

Dad would be off on his grinding 'bike for a day sharpening. His 'bike would have a grindstone clamped to the frame in a bracket. Wired into the back wheel would be a rim made from a large pram wheel with the spokes removed. This rim took a belt to drive the stone. Jinney Band, a kind of cord, usually procurable from ironmongers’ shops, was used for the belt. Should Jinney Band not be available, builder's line would do.

To complete the contraption, a stand was fitted to raise the back wheel from the ground and keep the 'bike upright when in grinding mode. Grinding finished, it was only necessary to slip the belt off, push the 'bike off its stand and it was ready to ride as an ordinary 'bike, the stand now forming a carrier.

Dad was very good at his job and had regular customers in many areas. He would sharpen not only knives and scissors, but garden shears and lawnmowers too. I accompanied him often and learned a trade that has stood me in good stead on many occasions.

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Days when I wasn't going grinding with Dad were the ones I liked best. There was always plenty to do at home, but I enjoyed doing it.

Horses had to be watered. Often this involved taking them to a nearby stream or perhaps a pond, and on occasion, a farmer's water trough. There was always one horse that the rest would follow, so I would ride that one and let the others run loose, dragging their tethers. Traffic wasn't a problem; very few cars used the country lanes in which we stopped. Frequently a day would pass without site of a single car.

Cutting elder to make wooden flowers or willow for pegs was another daily chore, but one that I didn't mind. Hunting along a stream bank for willow, or a hedgerow for elder could be combined with a bit of rabbiting. Water for drinking I would bring in specially made cans, or jacks as we called them. Goodwin, a tinsmith in Sutton-in-Ashfield made our two. They held about five gallons each and were quite heavy when full. I would slip their handles onto the handlebars of my 'bike and wobble off to the nearest farm.

Keeping the fire going and laying in a stock of firewood would keep me busy for the rest of the day, or at least 'till my parents got home. When a few of the other children were at home, the work was more fun. We all had similar jobs to do and would unite to get them done and leave more time for play.

The kettle would be simmering on the kettleprop when Mam and Dad got home. Mother would wash her hands and immediately start to prepare the main meal of the day - frequently some kind of meat. Chops or sausage perhaps when available. Perhaps she'd part prepared a stew in the morning and it only needed the addition of potatoes and such to complete it. Whatever the meal, it would be supplemented with thick slices of bread and we would sit on the grass round the fire to eat it. Everything was cooked and eaten outside except in the severest of weather.

Much of our food was gathered from the fields. Never thinking of it as stealing, we would gather in season: Mushrooms, turnips, cabbage, swedes, carrots and potatoes, in fact all the commonly grown vegetables. Only enough for a meal or two were taken at any one time, we didn't have the facilities to store much. Bird eggs were also collected: Pheasant, water hen, duck and partridge. Partridge eggs are particularly nice and were my favourite. With the odd rabbit or hare, and now and then a hedgehog, we rarely went short, even during rationing.

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After the evening meal, the men and boys would set to making pegs or wooden flowers to be ready for next day. If it was to be pegs I would have already peeled off the bark from the willow rods earlier in the day and stood them up teepee fashion to dry in the sun. Willow bark is best peeled with the teeth and comes off in long strips.


Now I would chop the rods off into two peg lengths and pass them to father for tinning. When the pegs were tinned, I would chop them into single pegs and pass them back to Dad to be split and mouthed.


Should flowers be the order of the day my job was to saw the elder into the right lengths to make two flowers. Dad would then make the most beautiful chrysanthemum type flowers. Holding the flower knife against his right knee and the elder in his left hand he would quickly strip the bark. Holding the knife still against his knee and turning the elder as he shaved he would then carry on to make the flower head. Two-dozen flowers or two-gross of pegs were usually required.


Many of the families stopping with us would be similarly engaged but one by one, as they finished their jobs, many of the men would gather round one of the fires to talk.

'Ave yer bin out?' one man would ask of another.

'I had a couple of hours,' might come the reply.

'Do any good?' the first man would continue.

'I got a bit of bread,' was the inevitable answer. No matter how successful or otherwise a man's day may have been, the reply to any query as to what he had earned, was always, 'I got a bit of bread.'

The day's events would be discussed and stories told of bygone days and deeds. Sometimes a bit of dealing would take place. Horses, carts, chickens, cagebirds, dogs, waggons, carts and harness were all likely to be bought and sold round the fire, with many shouts of encouragement from the others present.

Anyone listening from a distance could be forgiven for thinking a violent argument was taking place. Gypsy men talk very loudly, with much waving of the arms. Mostly it was good-natured banter and every so often the circle of men would erupt in a roar of laughter. Should the deal not be concluded there and then, it would probably be adjourned to the pub. This kind of behaviour often got Gypsies barred from public houses, the landlord, judging by the raised voices that trouble was brewing. Not a bit of it, it was just normal conversation to them.

Children would play their endless games or sit around the fire listening to the men talk. In this way they would learn about their history and ancestors along with a valuable lesson in the value of horses and other trade goods.
All children were taught to respect their elders, older men and women being addressed as 'Aunt' and 'Uncle', even though they be of no relation.

Gypsy children were often threatened with extreme violence by their parents. They took not the slightest notice, knowing it to be all bluff. For instance, should a man be seated round a fire, and a small child walk between him and the fire, (very bad manners) the child's father or mother might say, 'There's a higerant child, come out of the man's face will yer? When I gets 'old on you I'll rip yer neck out.' The child might then laugh and run away in mock fear, but knew that to be the end of the matter.

Small children would be strip washed by their mothers beside the outside fire, before being packed off to bed in the waggon. We old men of seven or eight were allowed to wash ourselves and stay up 'till dark.
* * * * *

[sofa----king]

great stories red,.,.,you have been very lucky in your life mate.,.,.

i been mixing a lot with the locals here and i wonder if you knew that they eat blackcaps
they cath them the old ways on a sticky pole.,cook them and eat them whole and the heads .,.,crazy,..,

[tikay]

Lovely stuff Tom, even though I've read both books.

This intrigued me.....

Jinney Band, a kind of cord, usually procurable from ironmongers’ shops, was used for the belt.

When I was in construction, & before mechanical or electrical Hoists became available for lifting building materials up  building, we used what I thought were called "Jenny Wheels", a rope pulled manually over a winding wheel. Would this name in fact be derived from "Jinney Line" do you think?

[RED-DOG]

Some spoked wheels, like "Pit head" wheels, those on locomotives, and the ones that the chain loops over on a block and tackle are called "Jenny Wheels". I think they are named after the spinning Jenny but I'm not sure.

I'm sure "Jinney band" originated from "Jenny wheel"

[ShatnerPants]

As always

 

and double

  .

Always worth taking a couple of minutes out to read this stuff.  It sort of calms the day down, just a tad, if you know what I mean. 

[Snatiramas]

I absolutely love these stories..........

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It's hard to imagine how many spiders there are, 100s of 1000s in even the smallest of gardens. The thing is, we don't notice them, they are unobtrusive and their webs are almost invisible, but get up early one morning after a heavy dew and take a look around, you will be astonished.

This morning I found a web attached to everything it was possible to attach a web to, dozens on every bush. I tried to photograph a few.

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Just as I was photographing this one, a tiny fly hit the web. Incy Wincy was there in a flash ready to wrap him up in silk and cart him off.

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In this one, I caught him in a shaft of sunlight.

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[Laxie]

Blimey!  What kind of spider is that?  Looks nothing like the big lad living at our house.