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!

A Whine about the Wine

Let’s face it  red tape is to blame for many facetious rules and regulations that seem to blight our everyday lives. Sometimes we are told it is in the name of equal opportunities, health and safety or for the protection of the young. But whether it exists for the soundest of reasons or not there are times when one can only marvel at the daft effect some policies have on the real world. A case in point: the regulations surrounding the supply of intoxicating liquor to minors.  Admirable regulations they may be for ensuring that the young are protected from direct access to the potentially harmful effects of alcohol yet sometimes we can only laugh at the ways these regulations are interpreted. A friend recently went to do some shopping at a local supermarket on a Saturday morning with his 21 year-old daughter. They arrived at the self-check tills and were confronted by a zealous cashier who asked if they had proof of age in order to purchase the wine in their shopping trolley. The daughter said she had nothing on her so the cashier said they could not purchase the wine they had chosen. Dad explained that the wine was for himself and his 21 years old daughter had driven him to the supermarket indicating the plaster on his arm as testimony to the fact it was broken.

Let’s face it  red tape is to blame for many facetious rules and regulations that seem to blight our everyday lives. Sometimes we are told it is in the name of equal opportunities, health and safety or for the protection of the young. But whether it exists for the soundest of reasons or not there are times when one can only marvel at the daft effect some policies have on the real world. A case in point: the regulations surrounding the supply of intoxicating liquor to minors.  Admirable regulations they may be for ensuring that the young are protected from direct access to the potentially harmful effects of alcohol yet sometimes we can only laugh at the ways these regulations are interpreted. A friend recently went to do some shopping at a local supermarket on a Saturday morning with his 21 year-old daughter. They arrived at the self-check tills and were confronted by a zealous cashier who asked if they had proof of age in order to purchase the wine in their shopping trolley. The daughter said she had nothing on her so the cashier said they could not purchase the wine they had chosen. Dad explained that the wine was for himself and his 21 years old daughter had driven him to the supermarket indicating the plaster on his arm as testimony to the fact it was broken. Jobs-worth immediately retorted with, “You needn’t pick on me, if you’ve no proof of age you can’t take the wine!” A patient man, he told his daughter to return the wine to the shelves he then suggested that his daughter go and wait in the car and send his mother in to the shop. He paid for the remaining goods and waited until his mother arrived and she went with him to get some wine which she planned to pay for. As she approached the tills the aforementioned cashier, having obviously been stalking my friend throughout, appeared with the shop supervisor, another keen jobsworth, who told them that as they had ‘already been refused service once’ they couldn’t buy the wine. My friend’s mother, who was not a patient woman, repeated that ‘she’ had not been refused service and added that her grand-daughter was of the age of consent and she was at that moment outside driving the car as they were welcome to observe. On top of this she pointed out to them that the wine they were buying was in fact labelled non-alcoholic! It was however not until they insisted on seeing the store manager did they have any success escaping with their purchase. That wasn’t even the end of the tale because they had forgotten that the wine they were purchasing was one on special offer and they had a voucher, offering a 75 pence saving, which had been sent to their daughter by the supermarket chain in the first place!

Shaws the Butchers : Tragedy At Halton Holegate

About four years ago I started researching into my family history with nothing more than the names of my grandparents and a rough idea about the geographical area in which they lived. Since then I have managed to trace some branches back to the 1700s but like most people I found nothing very exciting as far as the individuals on those branches are concerned. In fact I found that my paternal ancestors were living on the same road that I was brought up on over two hundred years later. Most it seems were fairly well down the social ladder being agricultural labourers although one gt gt grandmother was recorded in the 1881 census as “keeps a mangle.”  However, last year I stunned by a rather shocking yet sad tale regarding the siblings of my maternal great-grandfather living in the village of Halton Holegate. The Shaw family were well known in the village as butchers having their own shop and slaughter house on the Firsby Road which was only demolished last year to make way for a new building development.




Shaw's The Butchers , Halton Holegate ~ Scene of the Tragedy

 

The business was owned and run by William Rowston Shaw in the latter part of the 19^th century after which various sons, of which there were at least five, took over. At the time of the 1901 census son Joseph it seems was training elsewhere under a Thomas Cunnington at Donington near Spalding. Brothers Charles and Moses remained at Halton working for their father William up until his death in 1904. Certainly my great grandfather Aaron had left years earlier, running the Coach and Horses at Toynton before moving back to take over another butchers shop in Spilsby on the Boston Road. In the 1911 census William’s widow, Anna-Maria Shaw, is recorded as employer in residence with two of her sons, Joseph and Charles, working for her in the Halton shop.

 Sweeping forward to 1932 , the time of these tragic events, my godmother, who was a child of 5 at the time, recalls that both Joseph and Charles were still working at the butchers in Halton. She remembers her parents and relatives speaking in hushed tones about something dreadful having occurred at the shop involving a gruesome death.  Having recalled seeing a newspaper cutting about these events several years ago she encouraged me to search for information through the Lincolnshire Standard archives at Louth library. The library staff were tremendously helpful in tracking down microfiche copies of two particular extracts that told much of the following story.

Leading up to the tragedy there are few clues to suggest that anything was going awry with the business at the Halton butchers.
So the headline “Cut Throat in Presence of Brother” must have brought a chill to anyone opening the Lincolnshire Standard in August 1932.

The article recounts the events which occurred on the evening of Wednesday 17^th August. At 8:30 that evening Joseph Shaw (49) was assisting his brother Charles in the slaughter-house on their Halton premises when he turned the knife on himself inflicting a terrible gash in his neck ‘almost severing the head’. Dr C.S.E. Wright of Spilsby was summoned to the shop but could only report life was extinct. An inquiry into his death was swiftly arranged for the next day to be presided over by the local coroner Dr Francis J. Walker JP. Brother Charles, called as witness, was asked about events leading up to the tragedy and said his brother had come into in the slaughter house after fetching a pint of beer from the adjacent ‘Bell Inn’ and having had a brief conversation with a customer, Mr Atkinson.

Charles said he asked Joseph “Does Mr. Atkinson require anything tomorrow morning?” to which Joseph replied he “Could look after his own business without any interfering.” Charles repeated that he was “A bit nasty with me” but he didn’t know why because he had asked him about the meat before. Charles went on to say Joseph told his brother to “look after it then” he immediately crossed over to the other side of the room and grabbed a knife to slice across his throat. Charles said he went over to his brother but could not prevent him from giving himself another gash. Questions were asked regarding Joseph’s state of mind as Charles admitted that he had been lately ‘altered by the hot weather’ and  ‘it didn’t take much to worry him’ When questioned further about going to the adjacent inn for beer Charles said that Joseph was not the worse for drink and had never threatened to harm himself before. Another witness who spoke at the inquest was a schoolboy, Stephen Marshall King (13), who was employed as an apprentice and had helped the deceased cut the garden hedge and slaughter a beast earlier that afternoon. He had also seen Joseph in conversation with Mr Atkinson, a grocer from Candlesby, and later witnessed Joseph shouting at his brother over the meat order before taking the knife to his throat. Bernard Atkinson was called to give evidence but only to say Joseph was in a jovial mood when they spoke, he didn’t seem depressed and merely talked about Mr Atkinson’s son wanting to be a butcher and then Joseph went on to promise him a leg of mutton for the following morning.  

Dr Wright who attended Shaw the previous evening reported that the wound was 9 inches long from ear to ear, that there were 3 cuts altogether in the man’s neck all of which appeared to be self inflicted. No jury was summoned to assist the coroner in reaching a verdict as the coroner was satisfied with all the witness statements and returned a verdict of ‘suicide while temporarily insane.’ Apart from listing the mourners who attended the funeral, the article also paid tribute to Joseph as a soldier who had bravely served his country in the Royal Garrison Artillery in France during the war. However this was not the only tragedy to unfold in Halton Holegate in August 1932.

  It emerged that Joseph had left behind a young sweetheart Winnie, the twenty-five year old daughter of a local chauffeur who was employed as a cook at Halton House by the minister, Richard Barrow. The standard article revealed that at about 1:20 p.m. on the Friday afternoon whilst Joseph’s funeral was taking place Winifred Mary Wilford told her father that she did not want to hear the church bell tolling so she was going to walk across the fields by the allotments to Spilsby.

Her father, William Henry Wilford, said her mother could accompany her but Winnie said she would rather go on her own and didn’t even want to take the dog as he would “be too much bother.” Mr Wilford never saw his daughter alive again. What happened next was revealed by Laura Richardson, an assistant employed by A.C. Farmer’s the chemist in Spilsby, who served Miss Wilford when she asked for a small tin of weedkiller for her employer, the Rev. Barrow.




The Wilford's Cottage, gatehouse to Halton House

 

She then changed her mind and asked for a larger tin and signed the register for it. Next to speak was Lucy Ellerby a schoolgirl from Newtown, Spilsby who said that she was walking on the footpath over the fields to Halton when she spotted a woman’s hat lying on the grass between two stiles. She then heard a girl cry out for help from an adjacent field so she turned and ran home to get help. The girl’s brother, Herbert Ellerby, reported that he followed the path with his sister and, after seeing the hat , soon spotted the girl lying under a hedge in the field belonging to Mr Cade. The girl told him she had poisoned herself with weed-killer. He sent his sister back home and stayed with her until his mother and a neighbour, Mrs Parkin, arrived.

They were soon joined by another neighbour of the Ellerbys , Edith Robinson, who having heard the commotion in the street had gone and fetched some mustard and water to administer to the girl. Another Spilsby resident Arthur Goring also arrived on the scene and rode in the car with the girl to Spilsby cottage hospital. Returning to walk across the Halton footpath later in the day it was Arthur Goring who had found a note (in what her father admitted was Winifred’s handwriting) in which the following words were written “Take me with Jack, lay me beside Joe. Put all my photos of him in with me. I can’t live without him. Tell Charlie not to worry. Winnie”   

  There was some debate about this note when the coroner asked the girl’s father who she might be referring to as ‘Jack’. Mr Wilford said that although Winnie’s dog was called Jack it was more likely that it was a reference to Joseph Shaw’s horse, also called Jack, of which she was very fond and in fact had been employed to pull the cart  taking Joseph’s body to the church on the day of the funeral. Mr Wilford said that in the six years his daughter had ‘been keeping company with shaw’ they had often ridden out together on the horse and cart.

Arriving at the hospital at  4:00 the girl was already in a bad state according to the matron on duty, Miss C Crummock. She administered a nasal emetic to the girl but she died at 4:30 without giving any more information with regard to what had happened. The doctor who conducted the post mortem testified that his examination of the deceased revealed an inflamed stomach full of a yellow fluid, apparently mustard and water. He went on to say he believed the inflammation was due to some irritant poison which was most probably arsenic and that death could be attributed to arsenical poisoning.

In his concluding statement the coroner said he was saddened by the fact that within nine days he had presided over three deaths in the parish of Halton a village with a population of less than 350. Once again he returned a verdict on Winifred Mary Wilford of “suicide while temporarily insane.” Curiously under the subheading, “Mourning village : Three inquests in 9 days” the issue of the third inquest was not explained or whether there was any connection with the other two deaths. 

Two further paragraphs detailed the funerals of both Joseph Shaw and also that of his sweetheart Winifred. Both services were conducted by the rector, Canon H. L. Harrison in Halton Holegate village church. Both the coffins were brought to the church gates on Shaw’s butcher’s cart, the horse Jack being led by the young apprentice butcher, Stephen King.  Although at this time suicides were rarely permitted a burial in sacred ground the Standard account from August 1932 suggests that Joseph and Winnie were indeed buried together and in Halton churchyard

 There are however still a few unanswered questions surrounding this tragic affair. Joseph’s death certificate confirms everything that was reported in the newspaper but I must seek out more information regarding brother Charles as it is clear he did not die at the same time as his brother and Winnie. However both my godmother, and lately a cousin of hers, insisted that that Charles Shaw too met an untimely end. There is no evidence of this in the newspaper articles at the time of Joseph’s death in 1932 although online BMD records do show a Charles Shaw, aged 50, dying in the vicinity in 1936. This may merit some further investigation. 

There were however still a few unanswered questions surrounding this tragic affair. Joseph’s death certificate confirms everything that was reported in the newspaper but both my godmother, and lately a second-cousin of hers, insisted that that the brother Charles Shaw also met an untimely end.  I was uncertain why they should both think this as there was nothing further in the newspaper articles at the time of Joseph’s death. However, online BMD records revealed a Charles Shaw, aged 50, died in the vicinity in 1936. So I decided to obtain a copy of this certificate.

The Entire Shaw Butcher's property at Halton Holegate

The copy of Charles Shaw’s death certificate arrived from the GRO and showed that on 20^th January 1936 Charles Shaw died as a result of a gunshot wound in head, suicide, Temp.Insanity No P.M. The same coroner, Francis J. Walker, presided at the Inquest held on the following day, 21^st January and the death was registered by J.N. Radford.

Thanks again to the staff at the Louth Library I received a printout of a report which originally appeared in the Standard for Saturday, January 25th 1936 under the headline, “Village's Train of Tragedies.” A second headline stated: Third Halton Suicide in Grim Drama:  Fatal End to Romance Recalled. The article recalled the story of Joseph and Winnie and how their deaths affected the village and in particular brother Charles who witnessed his brother's suicide in the butcher’s shop.  

The article revealed that the body of Charles Shaw had been found in an outhouse behind the butcher’s shop in Halton. He had a terrible gunshot wound in his head and near his feet lay a single barrel shot-gun minus the stock. At the inquest in the Halton reading room friends testified that his brother Joseph’s death four years earlier had changed him although, ‘lately he had appeared in better spirits.’ He had apparently been in some financial difficulty which he had kept secret from another brother William who had a butchery business in Spilsby. The story unfolded that on Monday 21^st January Charles had risen shortly before 8:00 a.m. gone out into the yard and was never seen alive again. His body was found around 9:15 a.m. by a young lad Shaw employed, Douglas Boyall, who, after feeding the horses, went into the house for breakfast at 9 o’clock. He didn’t see or hear Charles go to the outhouse but after breakfast he had gone out to the outhouse noticing that the door he had left open had been closed. He fetched housekeeper Miss Edith Rebecca Dawson. She’d been lighting a fire at 7:30 when Charles came down for breakfast. To her he seemed cheerful although she commented that he had not enjoyed good health lately, “He was often tired and sometimes seemed worried,” although she didn’t know why. She was questioned whether he was likely to have taken any alcohol that morning but she said not. Nor had he had any breakfast. The medical evidence from Dr C.S.E. Wright suggested the gun had been very close to the head when discharged and death would have been instantaneous. The doctor considered the wound was self inflicted. He hadn’t attended the deceased since the previous summer when he had complained of indigestion and nerves. P.C. Skelson confirmed what the doctor said and went to say the gun didn’t belong to the deceased but had been borrowed by the lad Boyall about a year earlier for shooting rats. When found it contained one spent cartridge and was resting over the deceased’s right foot. The coroner was surprised that the gun-stock was missing. No explanation was given. Strangely there was no mention in the report of any witness hearing a gun-shot at any time that morning. A member of the jury, Mr Clough, examining the gun commented that the trigger had a very light pull. No other evidence was offered but the coroner, who had also presided at Joseph’s inquest, considered the facts of the previous tragedy most probably had a bearing on Charles’ state of mind at the time of his death.. A verdict of “suicide during a fit of temporary insanity” was returned.

  I have been unable to discover anymore about the tragic events in the butchers shop in Halton and only discovered a couple of months ago that the shop itself is no more having been demolished last year to make way for a new building development. Fortunately Google maps still contains an image of the premises from the roadside as a spooky reminder of this grim story. So anymore information would be gratefully received.

The Trouble with Totos

With winter rapidly approaching we prepare once more for that annual celebration of joy and goodwill of sexual stereotypes and cross dressing… yes the Panto season is upon us. What has this to do with man’s best friend I hear you say? Well not a lot, unless, like us, you choose to put on a pantomime that features an animal, specifically of the canine variety, in a pivotal role. Now I don’t want to revive the argument of whether the stage is or is not the right place for our four-legged friends to strut their stuff: others can have that debate. Instead I simply wish to draw attention to some of the issues that may arise should your local community decide (in a moment of total abstraction) to stage a seasonal performance which necessitates the appearance of a dog.

Last summer our local drama-group committee debated over a couple of pints before coming up with the decision to stage a production of … the Wizard of Oz. Not everyone’s idea of a traditional of pantomime but a popular choice none the less. It is a seasonal favourite on the box and a few pantomime versions of the story do exist. The 1947 film is what everyone knows and everyone expects; and thereby lay our first problem. The pantomime version of the story is nothing like the film. The story line follows the same… yellow brick road and most of the main characters are still in there but there is a problem. What makes the film a perennial success and what people remember the most is the music. Unfortunately it is virtually impossible to use any of this familiar music in an amateur production-legally! MGM still have all the musical rights sewn up.

 Pantomime calls for certain traditional elements. A fantasy setting, thwarted young love, a quest, a comedy dame, a villain and good triumphing over evil. Some of the elements are there in “Oz” but others are distinctly absent. But what you have is a bonus in the starring role of Dorothy’s lovable doggie companion, Toto.

 The casting of the human stars was tricky enough with seemingly half the village female population competing for the role of Dorothy. We made a slight error in not stipulating a ‘preferred age range’ and we had one or two rather ‘Baby Jane’ types turning up for the auditions. Yet human auditions are a piece of cake compared to the pitfalls that dog auditions present any casting team.

First you assume most people come to an audition understanding why they are there, what they can and can’t do and wanting to perform. However, dogs are different. Unless they have trod the boards before most have no personal ambition to pursue and no audition technique. We weren’t sure how to conduct a dog audition so naturally we tried to conduct it the same way as we had for other cast members. Big mistake! None of the dogs in our village seemed to know how to perform. Walking in a straight line was a challenge most accomplished but sitting on command proved beyond the majority of our candidates. Some found the social nature of the audition experience just too much. A couple of them refused to stand up, let alone go onstage unless carried on by their owners. Others proved quite vocal, performing repetitive, monotonous monologues (that in no way resembled what was written in the script) the instant they espied the auditioning panel sat out front. Some were simply the wrong shape or size –perhaps a politically incorrect thing to say even in the dog world but in essence we needed a dog that could be carried and fitted comfortably into our wicker basket. One turned up that frankly would be pushed to fit into a basket hung beneath a hot air balloon. A boxer called Rudi, seemed very eager to perform but we should have spotted the clue in the name. He had a certain… habit that the panel felt could prove…show-stopping in the wrong sense of the word and quite unacceptable in front of any family audience.

 It is worth pointing out that some dog owners are like stage mothers. They are there for one reason only- to see all opposition vanquished and their own little angel achieve centre stage. We were lucky to encounter only one archetype of this phenomenon who, with her Pekinese, Cherub (it had to be a Pekinese of course!) directed proceedings whilst her “precious one” performed. And that was just the problem; Cherub didn’t perform. In fact she didn’t seem to do anything except pass wind when approached by any cast member. She would start with a low rumbling sound which would eventually emerge along with a short, high-pitched bark.

However, two candidates did stand out. They both had the usual perquisite number of limbs (they could walk under their own volition in a more or less straight line) and seemed to get on with strangers without needing to ‘nibble a sample’ first. One, Shelley, was a bright-eyed, black and white Jack Russell. She belonged to a cast member who had clearly spent some time coaching her for her stage debut. Shelley was young (just over 2 years old) keen and like her owner, very enthusiastic. Enthusiasm was unfortunately her downfall. She would run up excitedly everytime another character came on stage, following them around, wagging her tail and licking any dangling hand within reach-and the dog would do pretty much the same. No honestly Shelley was lovely but she was more a… Lady Gaga when we were really looking for a Little Nell.  And that’s what we got. Our second hopeful was a shiatsu called Nell. She was a little older than Shelley, four years old, again black with a white belt, but a little more demure. She was calm onstage and friendly with her fellow performers. She didn’t seem to need to ingratiate herself every time someone showed any interest in her. She was pretty cool and obliging each time our leading lady tried to pick her up after coaxing her with a rubber chew. In fact the only one person she didn’t hit it off was the panto dame.



Toto strikes back



Now Brian, a self-confessed cat owner, never mistreated Nell. It was just every time Brian bent down to attempt any close communication Nell would turn tail and run offstage. Whether it was something about Brian’s face that Nell didn’t like or the over-large bosom or the purple and yellow frills on his costume we were never quite sure; but Nell was having none of it.  Even the cackling witch with her warts and straggly hair didn’t draw such a negative reaction. Brian found the situation difficult to cope with and several times bemoaned the fact that despite being late with her entrances and having to be carried onstage a couple of times Nell always manage to get more applause than he did and she had never bothered to learn her lines. Nell, as Toto, was only in three scenes as during the rest of the performance her part was taken on by a girl in costume. She was significantly better at the singing and dancing than Nell but why she was dressed as a Dalmatian I was never too sure. It did cause a bit of confusion for at least one young member of the audience who was puzzled when the human Toto appeared in the walk-down a few seconds before Dorothy and Nell took their bows. We all heard her shout out, “Why are there two Totos, Mum?”



The Panto Walkdown



The walk-down at the end of the show often presents a challenge to directors getting all the cast onstage in order before the music ends. One walk-down was made more memorable than the rest when Nell chose to leave a small deposit onstage about a foot in from of the backdrop and just too far out of reach for the stage hands to get to. Fortunately the cast managed to negotiate the little pile so it was left to our Dame to nip on with the marigolds, dust pan and brush to do the clean up . Not too disastrous as it happened and it gave Brian probably the best line of the night “Look at that the dog does a whoopsie and still gets a laugh, if I did that I’d get the sack.”

Who wears the Trousers?

Confession is good for the soul they say, so I feel it is about time to reveal what befell me a few years ago whilst striving to fulfil my duties as a steward in our local church.

The occasion: a farewell service for our minister and his family. As it was a warm July evening it was decided to combine this with a faith tea beforehand in our ‘upper room.’  As tea was drawing to a close my wife and I slipped downstairs to prepare the elements for the communion table as sacrament was to be shared during the service.

Like many other churches we had for several years used a well-known blackcurrant cordial as our communion wine. What I discovered on this occasion, which I hadn’t seen before, was that the small glass jug previously used for pouring out the wine into the individual communion glasses had been replaced by a plastic bottle with a long curved spout to dispense the wine into the glasses. Being unsure just how efficient this new device was going to prove to be I tested it - by squeezing. A little too hard as it turned out for the purple liquid gushed out the spout all down the front of my trousers.  My wife suggested I took off the trousers and wait in the downstairs lavatory whilst she attempted to remove the stain by washing it in the sink. I was a bit reluctant but I was persuaded that this was our only option. Luckily the stain hadn’t spread very far and to my relief she was able to wash most of it out. But of course this left the trousers soaking wet. She assured me it would probably be all right as she would be able to dry them under the electric hand-drier in the upstairs kitchen. She disappeared. It wasn’t long before she returned with the news that the hand-drier wasn’t working. Unfortunately because the trousers were made of a light coloured material the wet patch remained very noticeable and there was no way that I could wear them in that state. Whilst we were considering what to do next my wife was summoned upstairs where she was required to make a presentation to the minister of a small watercolour she had been commissioned to paint as a departing gift. Despite my remonstrations she departed to carry out her duties leaving me stranded trouser-less in the downstairs loo. Then I had a brainwave I had left a pair of gardening trousers in the boot of our car. Luckily my car keys were still in my sodden trousers. I grabbed them and crept out the side door of the church along the passageway to the small car-park at the rear of the building. I was hopeful no-one would be around to see me in my socks and navy underpants skulking between the vehicles but, of course, I was wrong as a couple of visitors, presumably from one of our circuit churches as I didn’t recognise them, were also in the car-park having a furtive cigarette. I decided no explanation was necessary, merely said, “Good afternoon,” and advanced towards my car. I pressed the button on the remote, nothing happened. I tried a second and third time before noticing that the key and remote I had in my hand was the one belonging to my mother-in-laws car.

It is a long story but basically when my mother-in law gave up driving at the age of 84 we had inherited her little Amica which I occasionally used and which was now sat on our driveway back at home. It was only then I recalled that my wife had driven us down to the church in our car which had been parked behind the Amica. I retreated back down the passage to re-enter the church only to find the door-closer had shut me out. Realising the only way back inside was through the main doors I sprinted down the passageway and around to the steps leading up and into the small vestibule at the front of the church. Amazingly no one was about and I was soon in the church heading for the door at the far end of the chancel leading into the preachers’ vestry. As luck would have it I hadn’t been there long when the other door, leading from the rear corridor, opened and my wife appeared. She asked, “Where have you been?” adding rather gratuitously I thought, “you haven’t any trousers on.” I explained as succinctly as possible and told her I needed her car keys to retrieve my spare trousers. She handed them over and within a couple of minutes I managed to rescue them from the boot of my car. Clearly my gardening trousers were not in pristine condition. In fact they were an old pair of navy jeans with one slashed knee and a rear pocket hanging off at the corner; but beggars can’t be choosers and they were all I had. I had only just managed to pull them on when I heard footsteps indicative of the fact that folk were returning downstairs to gather for the start of the service.

 I thought all my troubles were over but that wasn’t quite the end of my nightmare. My wife had finished setting out all the elements on the communion table leaving me, as duty steward, to do a quick check on the microphones. I avoided the curious glances of other stewards as I stood at the lectern ready to do my speech of welcome and the notices. Ah! the notices. Unfortunately they were still in the pocket of my trousers, the other trousers. I blagged my way through the notices like a true pro and even when a fellow steward cheekily shouted out, “cool trousers” I carried on regardless.