Alf’s Gone: the boy who fell off Tattershall Castle

 ‘Alf’s Gone’- The Boy who fell off Tattershall Castle 

A few years ago, whilst researching something unconnected. I spotted a reference to, “a declaration of Mr Alfred Elmitt and others as to a fall from the top wall of Tattershall Castle.” Unfortunately I could discover no more than this teasing reference at the time. However, my interest was sparked and trawling the internet I discovered a document in the Devon County Archives. It is dated -28th June 1909- and has the name ‘Clitherow and Son, Tattershall’ written in a neat, copperplate style at the foot of the page. Only the image of the document’s cover is accessible online although there is an indication that the declaration extends to over seven pages. Further enquiries suggest that another copy may reside in the Lincoln Archives. 

 

Being raised within site of the castle (albeit over the river in Coningsby) I was curious to learn more about Master Alfred Elmitt’s claim to fame. There was nothing to be gleaned from the National Trust either online or making enquiries using the property website. However, I managed to trace Alfred through the census returns from 1871 through to the 1911 census. These suggested Alfred was born on 21st September 1870  at Tattershall Thorpe (to Charles Elmitt and Mary (Mastin) of Lawn House, Coningsby). Although it appears Alfred married Emily Creasey (1900) and died in 1934 very little is revealedregarding his early life or his adventures at Tattershall. However, I did find someone has uploaded an Elmitt family tree onto a genealogy site with references to not only the declaration statement but also to newspaper cuttings from the 1930s which reveal a few of the details surrounding Alfred’s accident.

Published in 1933 under the heading ‘And Lived to tell the Tale’  articles in the Lincolnshire Standard and Boston Guardian revisit the eventful occasion in 1879 when Alfred Elmitt left his home (2 Princess St, Boston) on Whit Monday (June 2nd) to visit the castle. He journeyed with his three brothers; Henry, George and Joseph because Henry had been commissioned to make some drawings of Tattershall Castle for his employers, Messrs. Bellamy and Hardy of Lincoln. The group of lads managed to climb to the top of the castle keep and it was whilst stepping across the south-east corner of the battlement terrace that Alfred believed he either “slipped or turned dizzy and fell to the bottom” a distance of 76ft down the inside of the keep. This might sound confusing to those who know the castle today but one should remember that allthis was all prior to the castle being renovated by Lord Curzon (and subsequently the National Trust) when it must have been in a pretty ruinous state. Indeed the castle is described in one of the articles as having ‘no floors or roofs.’ George Elmitt told reporters that he heard his older brother Henry exclaim, “Alf’s gone” and remembered “hearing a thud at the end of his brother’s fall.” Nine year-old Alfred was taken straight to his home at Lodge Farm (Tattershall) where he was attended by a Dr Blades. Some believe Alfred must have been severely disabled by the fall but the cuttings suggest that luck was on his side and he suffered no more than a pronounced limp.

 

That would have been the end of the tale were it not for local historian, Phillip Skipworth who spent a good deal of his free-time showing visitors around the castle in the early years of the 20th century. Again this was prior to the efforts of Lord Curzon in 1910 to see the castle saved from decay and pillaging and long before it was restored and handed over to the National Trust (1925). Apparently few visitors would believe Mr Skipworth when he told them a boy had fallen off the keep and survived. Mr Skipworth recalls being told to ‘tell it to the Marines’ and got so tired of being disbelieved that in 1909 he had the affidavit drawn up by Clitherows (Horncastle solicitors) and signed by many of those connected or witness to the incident. One of the deponents was Mary Jane Unthank, of Castle House, Tattershall, who had been the caretaker and keyholder at the castle for nearly 40 years. Another, Alfred’s brother George, by this time the Rev. George Elmitt of Stockton Manitoba (Canada), was contacted so his signature could be added; perhaps in the hope that none would dare question the word of a cleric. Even Alfred’s schoolmaster, Mr Richard Seed, recalled an entry he made in the school log-book for June 5th 1879 which read, “Alfred Elmitt, a boy of about nine, absent from school through a fall from Tattershall Castle, a distance of upwards of seventy feet.”

Sadly Alfred died at what we may regard as the relatively early age of 64 on November 22nd 1934 it seems only a few newspaper cuttings survive to bear testimony to his fifteen minutes of fame and amazing escape from death.

 

Mark Temple

10th March 2019

 

Poirot’s Christmas Carol

An air of gloom surrounds Whitehaven Mansions,

Where England’s great detective used to dwell.

For Monsieur Hercule Poirot has decided to retire

And leave behind his life in Clerkenwell.

He is planning to grow marrows but he doesn’t have a clue

And stuffing one, that’s really not his style,

By Christmas he’ll be bored to death with no more crimes to solve.

And country life is bound to prove a trial.

 

And sure enough when Hastings pays a visit to King’s Abbot

He finds Poirot in a state of some distress.

“My word you’re looking dreadful and your moustache needs a trim.

You must return with me to convalesce.” 

Captain Hastings makes a toast. “This night is Christmas Eve.

Tomorrow’s Christmas Day we should be merry.

So whilst you go and pack your bag, I’ll brew a pot of tea

Or would you like a glass of cooking sherry?”

 

“That's the trouble with you Hastings,” snaps the great detective.

“Extravagance and excess are a sin.

Christmas is a humbug! Now I've told you that before.

It tastes of mint, is hard and in a tin.”

Poirot’s feeling stubborn and throws Captain Hastings out.

“Zut alors, you’re wearing out the mat.

I’ve no reason to make merry for I have no case to solve 

So I’m staying in my bed, and that is that.”

 

Poirot retires to his room, and soon falls fast asleep.

‘Til a fearsome sound is heard to pierce the night.

Then the spectre of a woman, emerges through the mist;

Miss Lemon, makes her entrance, dressed in white.

She tells Poirot that some spirits, will visit him quite soon.

And says he ought to listen to their tale.

“The first will come at one o'clock, I’m sure he’ll be on time.

Despite the latest strike on southern rail.”

 

Just as she said, at one o'clock, the mantle clock doth chime.

At which point Poirot’s nerves are rather weak.

He slowly sips his tisane as the spirit form appears

The Ghost of Roger Ackroyd starts to speak.

“Come with me Hercule Poirot to that time so long ago

Where innocence and youth you knew so well.

Although you helped solve many crimes, at Scotland yard they snubbed you. 

Perhaps they couldn't stand that garlic smell.”

 

The spirit slowly fades, like some artificial tan,

Poirot’s left confused and full of fear.

Upon the wind a second chime, then blinding lights above.

As ghosts of other victims soon appear.

They remind him of the crimes he’s cracked at Styles and on the links,

On planes and on the orient express.

Involving counts and countesses, an actress and a nurse

And sneaky crooks reluctant to confess

 

They drop in on a family, together in their hovel.

Inspector Japp lives here. It’s rather grim.

Mrs Japp’s called Mabel, she’s a backside like a table.

And the weakling in the corner’s Little Jim.

When Poirot left, Japp lost his job and started drinking gin

The crime rates started rising to a peak

Miss Marple moved into a home and Father Brown lost faith,

When Clouseau joined Scotland Yard last week.

 

Japp hasn’t got much pension so he can't afford a goose.

And they're worried Little Jim’s just growing thinner.

They might have to dig that budgie up they buried in the spring

And stuff it with some birdseed for their dinner.

When the third and final spirit comes, Poirot’s left bemused

For once again the home of Japp they pass.

He's pointing to the churchyard, and a grave that’s freshly dug, 

Inspector Japp’s there, kneeling on the grass.

 

Without a diagnosis Little Jim just won’t survive

And Poirot’s quick to notice that nearby

Upon another gravestone his own name has appeared 

So unless the future changes both will die  

Then all at once the mist swirls round and Poirot’s in a swoon

Realising he has fallen out of bed.

He rushes to the window and opens up the shutters

A good job or he would have banged his head.

 

“My little grey cells, I must use, to help save Little Jim, 

For I noticed he was sick straight after tea 

My dear Japp, I am such a fool. I should have known at once, 

Little Jim, he needs a diet, gluten free!” 

So Poirot goes to buy the biggest turkey he can find 

When Japp’s wife sees the bird she has a fit.

With some stuffing made from rice flour, Jim climbs inside the beast 

And sleeps there til they put it on the spit.

 

So Poirot’s quite determined to visit Scotland Yard

To urge the force that Japp be reinstated

He helps him solve a spate of crimes involving abc 

Within two weeks the culprit is located

Poirot has been quite transformed, his life is turned around.

He’s taking Capt Hastings for a break

They’ve booked the S.S. Karnak for a cruise along the Nile

I’m hoping that this isn’t a mistake.

 

Our tale now is over, and all has been resolved

The sun is up, all swirling mists have gone,

With Japp returned to office and Poirot to his flat

It’s time to say “God bless us everyone.

Isolating with JB

When faced with any crisis we should always be prepared

To take the right precautions ‘gainst the threat.

So I’m locking doors and windows and I’m isolating now 

For that pesky virus hasn’t got me yet.

I’ve found a bar of lifebuoy and some wet wipes in a box

There’s fairy liquid somewhere ‘neath the sink

With that double pack of Andrex on the airing cupboard shelf

That should be enough ‘til summer, I would think.

The fridge is rather empty though the freezer’s nearly full

With gluten-free puff-pastry, kale and bread

There’s some kippers in there too, but I think they’re out of date

So I’ll have to raid the biscuit tin instead.

I’ve got a plate of nachos and a bowl of salsa dip

And I’ve made some milky cocoa in a mug

I’m putting on my onesie-the purple fleecy one,

With the heating turned to twenty, I’ll be snug.

I’m recumbent on the sofa with some hobnobs and a gin 

For I couldn’t find a single thing to cook

There’s not much on the tele apart from more repeats

So I’ll settle down and try to read a book.

I want a book of poetry, I’m thinking something light

For I need to raise my spirits at this time.

I’m avoiding T.S.Eliot, and Larkins far too dour,

I’m just yearning for some Betjemanic rhyme

With Betjeman it’s sense of place that really draws you in

Be it urban sprawl or craggy mountain peak

As the rhythm of his poetry paints pictures in my head

I’ll just relax and let the master speak.

So though I’m isolating, staying in and all alone

Within a house that’s locked at every exit

A daily dose of Betjeman should keep my spirits up

And at least I’ve now forgotten about Brexit

The Ballad of the Pier and Louise

There’s a famous seaside place called Skeggi,
That’s noted for fish, chips and peas
And Mr and Mrs Lockwheaton,
Went there with their daughter, Louise.

Louise was a right little madam
With her ringlets and ribbons of silk
She’d a pink little nose like a piglet
And a voice which could curdle the milk

Lou didn’t think much to beachfront
“You can’t see no waves for the mist.              
 That fisherman doesn’t look jolly
Quite frankly he looks round the twist.”    

Still the prom was quite crowded with trippers
In their “kiss me quick” hats, what a laugh.
No doubt on a ‘jolly’ from Leicester
For their chance, once a year, of a bath.

The stroll ‘long the front proved quite bracing
Then Pop said he fancied a beer
So mother suggested the cafe
That stood on the end of the pier.

Now Lou, knew the pier was a long ‘un
So whilst pa was fetching the tea
Lou suggested a stroll to the pier head
To wave at them Dutch ‘cross North Sea.
   
But Ma claimed her seat, near the window
To get a fine view of the place
Then a young lad arrived with his parents
And a scowl on one side of his face.

The boy was young Albert Ramsbottom
His parents were with him as well.
Lou turned her back on ‘em and mumbled
About the peculiar smell.

They ordered pork pie and some pickles
And plum loaf washed down with some tea
Some brawn and stuffed chine with a slice of brown bread
They wasn’t that hungry you see.




“This Skeggie’s a bit of a dump,” said the lad.
They ain’t got no tower, nor zoo
Them donkeys, they’ve all got arthritis
And t’sea here’s the colour of poo!

“I just can’t believe what I’m hearing.”
Said Pa in a voice loud and clear
“And where, might I ask, do yer came from
For there ain’t no place better than ‘ere?”

“We’re here on a day trip from Blackpool
“It’s finest resort on west coast.
We’ve one of them towers, like Frenchies
And winkles and pilchards on toast.”

“So what?” said Louise, “We’ve a pier ‘ere,
That’s longer than any you’ve seen.”
“You’re kidding.” The young lad retorted
“Look yonder and see what I mean.”

So all of them gazed through the window
The pier-head was stuck out at sea
But a great chunk o’ pier was just missing
Pa pondered, “Now, where can it be?

Louise, she had heard about piers now.
That they should be fixed to the ground.
“Some vandal’s been here and they’ve nicked it.
So come on, it’s got to be found.”

Now the coastguard looked older that Moses
he’d no idea where it had gone
Lou thought they should call out the lifeboat
So that was decided upon.

God bless the brave crew of the lifeboat
All risking their lives on the sea
But with no wrecks and nobody drownded
Most were home, having their tea.

And as for the crew at the boathouse
Some were already in bed.
So Lou and her parents decided
They’d take out the life-boat instead .

“I think that the pier has been stolen
So our mission is perfectly clear
We need to find out where it’s got to
Cos It’s clear that our pier is not here.”


Young Albert persuaded his parents
That they should assist in this quest
“All we need is a large picnic hamper.    
And an orange inflatable vest.”

Their search went from Cromer to Yarmouth
Past Walton-on-Naze and Southend
Albert said, “P’raps they have disguised it.”
But Lou said, “You’re quite round the bend.”      

For three days and nights they kept sailing
Past Kent and the Isle of Wight
They turned a sharp left after Cornwall
But Skeg’ pier was nowhere in sight.

Then Albert’s Pa shouted, “There’s Blackpool
I know it because of yon tower.
So you’d better slow down in the ‘arbour
Cos we’ll crash if you don’t reduce power.”

It was Albert who spotted the headline
On a billboard, it read, “I confess.
Ship’s captain pleads intoxication.
I was driven to drink in Skegness.”

 Albert then found a newspaper
“‘Twas a ship, the Europa, I fear.
It says that the captain weren’t looking
And drove his boat straight into pier.”

“We wouldn’t want your pier in Blackpool.
We’ve three of ‘em here, as it is.”
He’d a Polaroid snap just to prove it.
Which put Louise in a right tiz.

Lou’s dander was up when she realised
“Three piers in one town, that’s not fair.”
Then a thought crossed her mind, “We should take one
For nowhere needs more than a pair.”

Steel ropes wrapped around with silk ribbons
She tied to the legs of the pier
And t’other end fixed to the lifeboat
The throttle Lou put in first gear.

Slowly the strain it was taken
And soon the pier, broke away free.
Full-steam ahead, they went northwards.
They hadn’t no compass you see.


So somewhere out there on the oceans
Where a pier and those Skeggi folk roam
Should you spot a flotilla approaching Manila
Just tell them it’s time to go home.

The Fifties - a commercial break    

Remember, remember the fifties, the festival?
Science, art, industry all put on show.
Beacons of change arrayed on the south bank,
Pavilioned in splendour, and British you know.

The modernist skylon, and dome of discovery
Welcomed the masses to Festival Hall.                    
Iconic images plastered on posters,
Brands from an age we just love to recall

Our new baby Belling, in shining enamel,
The iron’s a sunbeam, that kettle’s a swan.
A goblin teas-made should wake us up early,
That slumberland mattress might let us snooze on.

The sofa and chairs are from Gimson and Slater
The sideboard is G-plan, now that isn’t cheap
The Axminster’s grufty but who needs a hoover
I’m trusting our Ewbank will make a clean sweep

Picquot-ware teasets with sycamore handles
Toby’s from Doulton and tureens from Spode
Models of spitfires, in kit-form by Airfix.
A new Raleigh cycle to whiz down the road

Guinness is good for you, Craven ‘A’ wasn’t,
Mappin and Webb produced best Sheffield plate.      
Vases from Whitefriars, Ercol-made furniture,
Midwinter pott’ry designed by Miss Tait

Lean-leaded windows, inspired by Mackintosh?
Tana-lawn fabrics and Liberty prints
Willow by Morris on Sanderson wallpaper,
Bring in the Conran and throw out that chintz.

Only two years ‘til the Queen’s coronation
Our new Bush tele, the first in the street.
“Remove all those nets Stan, the neighbours are gathering.
Tell Nan to hurry or she’ll lose her seat.”

Somerset ciders and gorge-ripened cheeses
Ales from Burton and Kippers from Peel.              
Melton pork pies with Long Clawson Stilton
Pudding or Tart? What’s the real Bakewell deal?

Lyons Maid mivvis and McVitie penguins
Caramac, Spangles and Quality Street.                                          
Fry’s Chocolate Cream, they’ve all came off ration
And few can resist such a sugary treat



Some drinks for the kiddies? We’ve Vimto or Tizer.
A small ‘gin and it’ should satisfy Nan
The Bristol cream’s empty. Mum’s found the Babycham
Get out the Mackeson for the old man.

Now feeling off colour? Well, try Pepto Bismol.
There’s no Andrew’s Liver Salts left in the tin.                      
For Nan’s jippy tummy we’ve milk of magnesia.
She should stick to tonic and leave off the gin.

Home Service fav’rites each day on the wireless,
John Snagge, Nan Winton and Cliff Michelmore
Dimbleby, Alvar Liddell and Fyfe Robertson,
William Hardcastle and Corbet Woodall.

On the light program Dick Barton, Paul Temple,
Hancock’s Half Hour, Appointment with Fear.
Mum likes the series that’s all about country folk,
It’s called The Archers, but won’t last, my dear.

The kiddies watch Crackerjack! Ivor the Engine,
Sooty, Blue Peter, Noggin the nog,
Muffin the mule, Rag, Tag and Bobtail,
The star of the Woodentops; old Spotty dog.

We listen to skiffle on records from Decca.
Dear Ivor Novello and Jolson are dead.
So stick Nan’s old gramophone up in the attic
We’ve got a new Dansette with speakers instead.

Mother knows best with all products domestic.
Tide, Daz or Omo when clothes need a wash
Bricks of carbolic like Lifebuoy and Sunlight
Imperial Leather, to make us smell posh.

Your favourite comic, the Dandy or Beano?
Beezer or Topper? The Eagle was mine
Fans of the Bunty, remember Four Mary’s?
And that headmistress who kept them in line.

Ladybird books, we’ve plenty to choose from
Tootles the Taxi and Lost at the Fair
The Gingerbread Boy, What to look for in winter,
Piggly Plays Truant, The Tortoise and Hare.

‘O’ gauge by Bassett-Lowke, Triang and Hornby
Clockwork’s outdated now ‘lectrics the thing
Boys with Meccano, tin-plated creations
Off’ring a glimpse what the future may bring

Every girl dreams of a new pram by Silver Cross
Fine Witney blankets in salmon or peach
A doll’s house in plywood, some boxes of Bayko
A seersucker costume to wear on the beach

Palettes of paints straight from Windsor and Newton
Crayons by Lakeland and gummed paper squares
Boxes of plasticine, Painting by Numbers,                            
 ‘Don’t stretch that Slinky or fall down them stairs.’

Paintings by Piper, some sketches of Shropshire
Shell-guided journeys their latest book shows
JB has captured each village and hamlet
Pen portraits of people and places he knows.

Only last week I caught up with Betjeman
Took out the Morgan to meet him in Wells.      
Cheese and herb scones at the Tudor-house cafe
List’ning to extracts from ‘Summoned by Bells’

“We’ll try the Earl Grey dear, with some of that Parkin,
The third programme hopes for an excerpt next week.
But the section on Marlborough is barely half-finished
The chapter on Highgate? That still needs a tweak.

The poet once said that, “childhood is measured...
By sounds, smells and sights” from times long ago
Gathered, preserved in the vast vaults of memory
Before the “dark hour of reason can grow.”

So gone are the fifties, that childhood of innocence
The Hand-knitted swimsuit, the Cotton-string vest
We’ll see them no more but can treasure the memories,
Knowing those times were prob’ly the best.

Mark Temple.

The Parish Visitor

It's no use hiding from him in the wardrobe or the loo

For he seems to know by instinct when you're in.

He never gives you warning, otherwise you could pop out 

You may as well give up, you just can't win

It's not that he might hurt you, or try to steal your things

He's not coming for your vote or any money.

But still you dread those visits wishing he would go elsewhere

You always feel on edge, and that's not funny.

You tried to put him off last month by saying you had mumps

But he said that he had had ‘em years ago.           

So then you said the drains were blocked and smelt like rotten eggs

But he said, "I'll fetch a plumber that I know."

Each September you may spot him at the horticulture show 

He'll be stalking the refreshments as a rule.

He turned up at your wedding and you couldn't keep him out

He creeps into assemblies at the school.

Your neighbour, Mrs Fawcett, says she saw him yesterday

He was down in the allotments with the barrow

She saw him kneeling down so she thought he was at prayer,

'til he asked her if she'd like to see his marrow!

His visits make you nervous and last month he made you swear

You must admit you muttered, "Ruddy hell.”

What's that? You can hear footsteps, he's approaching down the path

Any moment now he'll knock or ring the bell.

"How are you Mrs Scarbro', what a lovely day it is

I was passing so I thought I'd look you up."

"Oh it's very nice to see you, I'm about to make some tea

Now then vicar, shall I pour us both a cup?

The Shepherds' Ballad

Some say it's cos we swear a lot and others that we smell
Cos we doesn't wash from one week to the next
Whatever is the reason, the townsfolk call us 'scum'.
And shunned by all is summat we expects.

To then be called "the chosen few" was quite a turnabout
And many said it shouldn't have been so,
"Them shepherds don't deserve it, so why should they be first?
Let's face it they're the lowest of the low."

But first we were, no doubt you've heard, upon them blasted hills
Where night by night we'd shelter on the ground
From out the dark and silent night, there came this shining light
And the glory of the heavens shone around.

I don't mind saying, we were frit, and many sheep far-weltered.
Despite that voice saying "Do not fear"
It's not a thing you often find, the sky jam-packed with angels
All singing, "Alleluia" in yer ear.

For quite some time the mighty dread then seized our troubled minds
Until the message came forth loud and clear
That God's Son would be born that night, a saviour for mankind.
In Bethlehem, Yes! God had chosen here.

"Now get you off down yonder, your sheep will all be safe"
Is what them angels then went on to say.
"And there you'll find a stable where the Christ Child has been born
You'll find him in a manger, in some hay.”

Now we're quite use to stables, we're shepherds after all
But a stable's not a place for God's own son
Yet that's how we found the babby, within an ox's stall
Above his head, a star that brightly shone.

But what could lowly shepherds bring to offer to the bairn
We had one newborn lamb, that seemed just right
His mother smiled sweetly saying, "That's the perfect gift
To bring to him, the Lamb of God, this night."