The WC - A Place to Repose or a Necessary Convenience?

Several years back my mother, a district nurse working on the edge of the fens around Coningsby, mentioned to me that one of her patients was descended from George Jennings. Who? I hear you ask. He was the pioneer plumber who patented in 1852 a design for a flush toilet. In Jennings own words it was, “An improved construction of water-closet, in which the pan and trap are constructed in the same piece, and so formed that there shall always be a certain quantity of water retained in the pan itself, in addition to that in the trap which forms the water-joint.” Other improvements followed including, in 1858, the Jennings and Lovegroove Patent Plunger Closet. In the downstairs toilet my mother’s patient proudly showed off to her an original Jennings pedestal toilet bowl, still in everyday use, decorated inside and out with garlands of blue and white peonies. 

 These days we are more self-conscious about our sanitary ware, the avocado or pampas suites of the 1970s would be considered rather passé these days and brilliant white is considered, by the design fraternity the only acceptable colour for domestic use. But looking back a couple of generations what facilities did our forefathers have in which to perform their daily ablutions.

 The middle classes may have had their porcelain or even enamelled sanitary suites but members of the working class, both in town and country, did not have the luxury of a plumbed system. Perhaps there was a tin bath hung on the wall to be fetched down every Friday to be put in front of the kitchen fire but the toilet was still firmly outside and for many it meant a nightly trek down the garden to the privy. About twenty years ago my mother attended a talk at the local WI given by Mollie Harris who was known by many as Martha Woodford in The Archers and presenter of Radio 4’s The Countryside in the Seasons. She talked about the many books on country life she had written but her latest work at the time was a collection of the amusing tales and anecdotes she had amassed over the years surrounding privies and earth closets. In her book, Privies Galore, she traced the

history of the dry closet and looked at privies through the ages, from medieval monasteries through various ‘bucket’ and ‘box’ contraptions to the services of the lavender cart men in the early 20^th century. There are stories about and pictures of privy survivals in gardens around the country, the humorous reminiscences of a bucketeer whose skill was to empty dry closets which hadn’t got a cesspool without spillage.  Mollie offers the most comprehensive list of alternative words for the privy I have ever read. Some of the terms she found I recognised like the necessary, the convenience, dunny, the jampot, the shants, the John and the Jericho. Others were new to me like the chuggie, the honk, the duffs, the hoojy-boo, the porcelain pony, the old Bombay and the Sammy. Phrases for what went on in these places are also included: having a Jimmy, going to pick daisies, a place to repose, going to see my aunts and stacking the tools. Some choice Victorian graffiti and ‘privy poems’ are also reproduced by Mollie Harris; including a delightful ditty called “Down the Garden Path” by Forest of Dean poet, Joyce Latham.

Coust thee remember, owd ‘un, when we all had WCs

Away down in the gyarden where we used to take our ease?

‘Twere like a palace wi’ some matting on the floor,

Thic seat were scrubbed as white as snow, and hung behind the door

Upon a large and sturdy nail, in pieces cut to size,

All threaded on a piece of string, unheeding of the flies.

Thee’d vind a yup o’ newspaper-its paper plain to see,

In them days proper toilet rolls seemed awful posh to me

Carbolic and Jeyes Fluid seemed to ooze dru’ every crack       

And though there weren’t no chain to pull, we never felt the lack

A candle in a jamjar were our only bit o’ light;

It came in very handy when old nature came at night!

To add to the excitement as you sat there in the dark

A large fat hairy spider on some errand might embark;

He’d swing about quite gaily clinging to his silken thread

As hypnotised you watched and prayed,

‘Please, don’t fall on me yud.’

Ay, many were the pleasant hours spent there in reverie,

Gone now, but no forgotten- That old outside WC.

    There was an interesting discourse on the origins of the word loo.

Some authorities think it derives from the French, lieux d’aisances, a term largely replaced by the more usual salle des bains for bathroom. Others believe it simply comes from the words ‘ablution’ or even ‘luliana.’ To those working out in the countryside natural functions had to be performed in the open, in the shelter of a hedge, in the lee or loo i.e. out of the wind. Early privies often had no doors but placed under a tree or near a wall so as to be out of the wind or ‘in the loo.’ However, my favourite explanation comes from a story quoted in “A Book at Bedtime” by humorist, Frank Muir. In 1867 Lord Abercorn threw a house party at his home, Viceregal Lodge in Dublin, attended by, amongst others, the Lord Lieutenant of County Roscommon and his wife and Mr Edward King Tennyson and his wife, Lady Louisa, daughter of the Earl of Lichfield. For some reason she was not popular with lord Abercorn’s two sons, Lord Ernest and Lord Frederick Hamilton so they pinched her name card from her bedroom door and fixed it on the door of the only WC in the guest wing. Rumour of the trick spread around ducal circles and soon the select few started referring to going to the Lady Louisa. This shortened to ‘the lady Lou’ and eventually seeped down into middle and working class parlance as simply ‘visiting the loo.’

I remember my granny living in a little semi near the Coningsby War Memorial. In the mid 1960s she was still using an ash closet privy down the garden just a matter of yards from the banks of the River Bain. It was a 2 seater, scrubbed almost white, and instead of a proper toilet roll, upon a large nail hung behind the door, there were pieces of newspaper, cut to size and threaded onto a piece of string or binder twine.  She later had a plumbed lavatory (she never called it a toilet, always referring to it as the WC) fitted into the old whitewashed coalhouse just outside the back door. But when my brother and I went to visit we still liked to use the garden privy under the apple tree.

I remember Aunt Kit, my godmother from Toynton All Saints, recounting a version of this story to us one Christmas about 40 years ago. A prime example of miscommunication I find still find it quite humorous.

Some time ago, an American couple living in London decided to retire to the country. The wife wanted to buy a small country property on the edge of the Lincolnshire Wolds so she journeyed up to look around for a suitable property. She eventually found the house of her dreams, had her offer accepted, and returned to London to pack. Whilst packing up in her bathroom, she suddenly realised that she didn’t remember seeing a bathroom in her new house. So she wrote to the current owner asking for the whereabouts of the W.C. The old chap, having resided in the area for a long while as a Methodist minister was unfamiliar with the use of W.C. as an abbreviation for Water Closet, he felt for sure that the letters W.C. stood for Wesleyan Chapel and so sent the following reply.

    “Dear Madam,

I take great pleasure in informing you that the WC, built in 1888, is situated a mere 3 miles from the house in the centre of a beautiful grove of pine trees.

It is capable of holding up to 70 people, and is open on Sundays and Thursday afternoons only. It can get a little busy some weekends so I suggest you come early if you want a seat. However, there is standing room at the back for a further 20 people or so. As yet we haven’t had to turn folk away but last summer we had people standing outside the open doors peering in to observe the various proceedings inside.

Incidentally my wife and I were married in the WC  and it was there we first met. I can remember the rush for seats. There were five folk to every seat usually occupied by one. The expressions on their faces were a sight to behold.

This coming Sunday we are having a little celebration at the WC as we thought where better to renew our wedding vows. A string trio will be performing and I’m hoping to persuade my wife to do a solo. So please feel free to join us.

  Because of its isolated position out of the village a good many people having walked to get there often take a packed-lunch and make a day of it. Our neighbour takes the field path and often only arrives just in the nick of time. If you decide to pay a visit on a Thursday afternoon you will able to enjoy an organ accompaniment. The acoustics are excellent, even the most delicate sounds can be heard everywhere. The local Mayoress pops in occasionally and although it’s not an official duty she always seems to enjoy her visits.

If you intend to go this Sunday let me know and I will make sure I’m there to welcome you. In fact I’ll reserve you a front seat. I trust you don’t mind being seen by everyone. I’ll also make sure you get one of our new sheets, you’ll find it useful to keep in your handbag so you can use it every time you pay a visit. Will your husband be coming along with you? If so I‘ll make sure you are able to sit together, otherwise I will be delighted to sit with you.

My father has been a regular visitor to our WC since he was a young boy, and he recently donated a bell to commemorate the 50th anniversary of his first visit, and so we try to ring the bell every time somebody enters the WC.

A bazaar is being held next month to raise funds to help to upgrade the seating, I must admit it can get a little chilly in the winter if you have to sit for a long time. If you are in the habit of going regularly I recommend bringing a hot waterbottle or blanket as those old wooden seats are hard and last year mother picked up a splinter.  She is rather delicate and can't attend as often as she would like. It has been six months since her last visit and I can assure you this situation pains her greatly as she would really like to go more often.

Yours faithfully…’

PS: You might like to bring your camera along, as I am sure you will want to keep a memento of your visit to our WC. If you don't have a camera, do not worry, as I have my own and I’d be delighted to take one of you for our newsletter.

Ten Steps to a Perfect Jumble

  For many charities fundraising remains a time-consuming yet obligatory chore. In a rural community like ours it is particularly difficult to keep on raising money especially in today’s financial climate. Many times loyal supporters will dream up schemes to boost flagging funds only to find that they are burdening the costs among themselves. More opportunities to draw in new money from outside are needed. At our special school we have tried sponsored walks, a mile of pennies, raffles, number lotteries, cake stalls and enough coffee mornings to make us all caffeine dependent. All have their place but none of them seem to come close to achieving the returns realised through holding a good old fashioned, Jumble. For those rummage virgins among you there are a few ideas worth considering if you want to become adept at holding a profitable Jumble.

1. First think of when to hold your event. Saturday is the obvious choice. You not only get your buying clientele but also volunteers to man the stalls. The afternoon gives you more time to set up and folk the chance to finish their daily chores (and lunch) before attending the event. If you are short of helpers don’t be afraid to advertise for volunteers when publicising your rummage.

2. Speaking of advertising don’t spend all your hard earned funds on expensive newspaper ads but make and distribute posters and leaflets to the local area. Bill-boards on the day are good for passing trade but parading your teenage son in a wooden sandwich board may get you a call from the local child-welfare office. 

3. Have a strong fairly butch character manning the door who will not be coerced into letting in non-paying customers. Ideally employ an aspiring night-club bouncer who will not even let his dear old granny in without frisking her handbag for loose change. Often veteran car-booters and other traders will try and sneak in early, even offering up a box of Readers’ Digest and old plant pots to try and sneak in early past your security cordon.  Once in they can be like magpies ravaging your best items before you’ve had chance to price up.

4. Use the knowledge of local specialists when pricing up unusual items especially bric-a-brac. It’s wrong to think that all you get at a rummage is rubbish. Even today things still turn up at jumbles that are potentially worth quite a bit. Not every trinket is costume jewellery; some of the cutlery may be plated but other bits, solid silver.  That hideous waistcoat that resembles your Nan’s curtains might be 1970s kitsch and sell in a city retro-store for around  £50. With a dealer you can trust see if he will make you an offer, then you have a baseline to work from.

5. Place all your better pieces together then you can keep an eye on them and customers know, that you know, they are worth more than the rest of your jumble fayre. If you have no dealer friend to take such pieces off your hand don’t be afraid to barter but don’t be too eager. If they are holding onto to it like it’s “Golum’s Precious” then they want it and won’t dare put it down in case some-one else snaps it up.

6. Don’t overprice anything damaged. Sell it on quick, even a nice piece of Crown Derby if its damaged isn’t going to bring you much return.

7. Sort through items before hand and have your stalls clearly defined. We all like to rummage at a jumble but it’s not a scavenger hunt. You’ll make more money if people can see what they’ve come to buy. Avoid piling things like books, tapes and plates into towers. The first person trying to look through them will scatter them and most people just won’t bother looking. Paperbacks, in particular, should be displayed with their spines showing. Don’t have tables inaccessible or create areas where, once you are in, you can’t get out. I recall a woman having a panic attack once because she couldn’t get down off the stage at our village hall because they had provided one way in and blocked a second door that led back down to the main hall.

8. Serve teas and refreshments. People who cannot donate items of rummage will often be glad to contribute a cake or offer to serve refreshments. It’s a good earner in the none-too-fragrant atmosphere of the average jumble and most customers will be gasping after twenty minutes or so of hand-to-hand combat. It is also worth noting that some people, my wife’s one, won’t be seen dead selling jumble but will willingly serve teas until the urns run dry.

9. Raffles, tombolas and competitions can bring in some extra cash particularly from those who want to be supportive of the cause but either haven’t found a bargain to pick up or just cannot bring themselves to buy anything “used” by someone else. But don’t put your best bric-a-brac into the raffle as a prize. Time and time again people make the mistake of filtering out items they think, “ will do better as a prize.’ No, it won’t. A dealer will offer you far more for a Victorian, Whitby-jet pendant than you will get from those chancers buying tombola tickets just hoping to win a bottle of Asti Spumante . At a recent event in our village a ten year old boy picked up this very prize, after shelving out his 20 pence and he was, to say the least, unimpressed.

10. Get someone to agree to take all your jumble leftovers. In this age of recycling it is great that there are companies willing to take away everything, even your rubbish, and some will even pay you!

    Pitfalls at jumbles are varied and difficult to predict. Collect and try and get items for the sale delivered well before the time the sale is due to start. Be careful when sorting through bags of goods. I have heard of used nappies being donated! Personally I’ve not encountered anything too shocking or nasty although I do recall opening a box of crockery once to find a plate loaded with mash potato, gravy, baked beans and the remains of a steak and onion pie. Don’t get conned into disposing of peoples dodgy electrical items it is illegal to sell them on. Don’t waste your time making up jigsaws customers won’t believe you, even if you say you’ve counted every piece. Don’t sort magazines sell them by the dozen. Don’t sell items belonging to any of the helpers . Yes, we did this once, a lady came to help on the nearly-new stall and took off her coat, laying it on the stall whilst she was trying on a cardigan. Her coat was picked up and bought by an eagle-eyed customer in a jiffy. On another occasion a carved wooden panel was sold to a customer who decided it would make a useful workbench in his garden shed. It was not until after the sale ended that a rather irate caretaker pointed out that a panel was in fact missing off the front of the Village Hall’s piano.  Luckily the customer was traced and was willing to forgo his purchase so peace, and the panel, could be restored.

 One last cautionary note, about it five years ago my daughter announced she was going to a ’Tarts and Vicars party’ and needed something special to wear for the occasion. She arrived back from the jumble and appeared in the hallway in her purchase. “It’s great!” she said, “really hideous and over the top, don’t you think? Can you imagine anyone wearing something like this?”   Luckily before I could say anything my wife spoke, “Yes,” she said, “I can, it was mine.” 

Picnic at Culverthorpe

 As far as I recall we didn’t have ringworm, we didn’t live on dry bread and we didn’t run barefoot along the cobbled streets. But neither did we go on family holidays. It wasn’t until many years later that this struck me as anything unusual. We weren’t on the poverty line, my parents were both in work but they were careful with their money. We had most of the mod-cons around in the early 1960s: a car, a TV and, even though Mum still kept a hand mangle in the shed,  a washing machine.  But we just didn’t do holidays. However 1964 was the one exception, my parents relented that year and we found ourselves going to Great Yarmouth. We stayed in an old-fashioned, green and beige caravan on what appeared to be an abandoned aerodrome, outside the town. Not a great start, nothing around for miles and it poured with rain for most of the week. I recall being sat at a rickety table most of the time doing jigsaws with my younger brother whilst the raindrops trickled relentlessly down the windows.  There exists a photo of us both on one of those hi-di-hi side-by-side tandems proving that there must have been sunny spells between the showers but it was hardly what you would call a memorable experience.  The caravan wasn’t unusually small but we were just not caravan-sized people and found the cramped conditions difficult to adapt to. So the experience was not a positive one and sadly put paid to the idea of going away on family holidays for good. My parents obviously decided once bitten… so instead what did we do in the school holidays? We went on picnics.

Nothing very grand, no wicker baskets packed with chilled cordial and salmon en-croute for us. No, just simple fare; usually hard-boiled eggs, sausage rolls and a Lincolnshire haslet or pork-pie if we were lucky. Sometimes we had a choice of sandwiches; tomato sandwiches with either salad cream or tomato sandwiches with cottage cheese. If we were really unlucky they were home-grown tomatoes which had come from Dad’s homemade green-house. I say unlucky because Dad was always too eager to pick the tomatoes before they were fully ripened; hence they were often rather small, green and as hard as radishes. I should also explain that Dad was a bit of a bodger. His greenhouse was not the most conducive environments in which to propagate produce. It was constructed from a couple of railway sleepers laid horizontally, surmounted by what I can best describe as a cuboid of old window-frames, most of which he had managed to salvage from some local building site. This in turn was topped with a pyramid of Perspex sheets fastened together with strips of silver gaffer-tape.. Although a thrifty person herself my mother despaired at the D-I-Y efforts of my Dad. He would never buy anything fit for purpose but always came up with hair-brained schemes to “save a bob or two” by making things himself from the various materials he had scrounged from people in the neighbourhood. Consequently our garden resembled a scrap-yard with half-finished projects dotted about like bad exhibits in a sculpture garden. Food apart the picnics were rather hit and miss affairs because of the appalling weather that seemed to coincide with our planned trips. In fact most picnics took place inside the car as we sat in some remote spot with a “nice view” that mother had picked out. In the early ‘60s we were rather conservative with our choice of transport. Mum , a district nurse, used the car for business everyday. The first car I remember was a sky blue, Ford Poplar, succeeded by a couple of Austin A35s and then an A40. Then we went a little bohemian, splashing out on a Renault 4. I remember going off to Well Vale, with its lovely Georgian church in a landscaped park, Hareby Top, Revesby Abbey Park and Langton sheep-walks. Yet by far the two most visited locations were the fields below Marden Hill at East Keal and the Culverthorpe Fish Ponds. My mother’s family had connections with both these places. She had been brought up at East Keal where her parents had farmed at Brickfields (or the 'brickyard') since the 1920s. Even though the house had changed hands over the years we were still able to picnic in the meadow field adjacent to the old brick pit and enjoy the quiet and solitude of the spot. I knew Culverthorpe also had some connection with my mother’s family but it wasn’t until four years ago that I discovered what it was.

  I often wondered where my mother was born and when I started researching my family tree I soon discovered my maternal grandmother’s family, the Longlands and Sharpes, came from a small group of villages between Grantham and Sleaford. Longlands it seems, at one time or another, were scattered among the villages of Oasby, Welby and Heydour as well as the hamlet of Aisby. I discovered my great, grand-father, Edward Longland, made his living as a carrier and cottage farmer at Aisby but his father, Richard, was a carpenter living on and working for the Culverthorpe Hall Estate. With a brother as blacksmith in Oasby they were clearly at the very centre of life. I’m still trying to gather and link in all the names I’ve found (any help, gratefully received) but at least now I know why when we requested a picnic my Mum dragged us back so often to the lovely countryside surrounding the hall and lake at Culverthorpe. Perhaps I’ll find a nice summer’s day this year and persuade my own family that the time has come to return to this old haunt and we too will share a picnic by the fishponds; I’m just not sure whether the idea of resurrecting the tomato and salad cream sandwich will go down too well!