PIC: The schoolchildren at East Marden with my Nan Mrs Davies on the right-hand side and my late Mum in the centre looking rather mischievous. Please see my post-script to this blog.
By HILARY GAVIN
WHEN our late Mum Enid Gavin died ten years ago my sister penned the most moving eulogy for her funeral at St Wilfrid’s CofE Church in Chichester.
As her daughters growing up, our Mum captivated us with childhood tales of her seemingly carefree countryside adventures in the tiny hamlet of East Marden in West Sussex.
Of course, the Second World War featured greatly in her stories when Canadian soldiers were stationed around the village as the Allies prepared for the D-Day landings in Normandy in 1944.
In her touching eulogy, my sister shared Mum’s joyful account of a party in the wooden ‘scouts hut’ at East Marden where: “Canadian troops, with peonies in their caps, danced in the village hall and the vicar shouted out: ‘Mrs Cartwright, the pianist, has kindly agreed to chuck in another ½ hour’.”
In all honesty, my sister remembers our late mother’s childhood stories much more vividly than I do and – as the eldest daughter – she has many more memories of our late grandad Myrddin Davies who Mum always described as “a kind man”.
Of course, I was just a toddler when my grandad died in the mid-Sixties but I remember visiting my grandparents’ council house in Lavant after Nan had retired as headmistress of Singleton Primary CofE School and they had moved to the nearby village.
Back then, my grandad fed me Jaffa Cakes as the family listened to the rugby on the radio on Saturday when he’d be cheering on Wales as a proud countryman and ex-miner from the Rhondda Valleys.
By all accounts, family and friends have told me that our Grandad was a quiet, shy yet just and fair man who wasn’t afraid to fight for the underdogs in society who were struggling in life.
In her eulogy, my sister told funeral-goers that Grandad had “got so angry with British officers in WWII for allowing Canadian troops to sleep in filthy, ice-cold cattle sheds” that he “invited them to sleep downstairs in the house”.
Now, no doubt some people reading this blog post will simply dismiss our late Mum’s stories as apocryphal because, they’d argue, we weren’t born until the late Fifties and early Sixties.
Of course, I studied history at university so I know better than to believe second-hand hear’say and I appreciate how important it is to follow up oral histories with pains-taking research of primary sources along with historical and scientific data.
Saying that, I’m mentioning my mother’s childhood briefly here because I’ve recently been wondering what village life was really like living on the South Downs in the Twentieth Century.
Now, I have to admit that I’ve never been a fan of the The Archers radio show on BBC4, but devotees have told me the storylines are full of village intrigue. I have, however, always been a fan of Agatha Christie detective novels where idyllic, chocolate-box English villages aren’t as genteel as they seem on the surface.
I love these Agatha Christie murder mysteries and I’m especially fond of them because I seem to recall Mum telling me that Joan Hickson, who starred in the BBC TV series Miss Marples in the 1980s, once had links with Singleton.
I should say here and now that Mum wasn’t a gossip, so I only remember her telling me that Joan Hickson (Butler) had a son called Nicholas who she’d tease sometimes for being ridiculous by saying: “Nicholas don’t be so dikalas.”
As a teenager I’d visit Singleton with my late Mum every Christmas to call on May Howard, who had been the kindly housekeeper at the village schoolhouse and who, I know, my late Mum adored.
We’d always take Mrs May a poinsettia plant and I remember sitting in her home listening to the pair chatting away over a cup of tea and cakes. We’d also pop by to see my Godmother Mrs Geddes (Miss Morris), whom I affectionately called Aunt Katharine, for a chinwag.
My late Mum and Dad on their wedding day at the church in Singleton in 1954 flanked by their parents and my father’s niece and nephew who acted as Matron-of-Honour and Best Man.
Over the years I’ve had very few reasons to visit Singleton but I have popped into the church a few times to honour my late Mum and Dad who got married there in the mid-Fifties.
If I’m being honest, I didn’t really know many of the old villagers in Singleton, although my Dad’s sister Beatrice Kerridge and her family lived there for a while, and the children’s novelist Ian Serraillier* sent my late Mum a lovely condolence letter after my Nan Mrs Davies died suddenly in the late Seventies.
Our family has also kept a fabulous hand-written “high-society wedding spoof” of Mum and Dad’s big day at St John’s Church in Singleton in October 1954, which I believe was written by the county council’s director of education at the time.
Although he hasn’t signed it, I think Evan T Davis must have written this humorous send-up of the wedding in which he teases my Grandad who – as a shy man – must have found making the Father of the Bride’s Speech arduous.
It’s a pity I’ve not got this colour sketch to hand whilst I’m writing this blog post because it’s a tender piece and you’re left in no doubt that the author – who might have also been a fellow Welshman – was very fond of our Grandad.
I believe he must have liked our late Dad Gordon Gavin too because he joked about the happy couple leaving in a plume of smoke as their car backfired as they drove off – rather embarrassing for a respected local mechanic!
PICTURE: A screengrab of a photo I took of Singleton Village Hall last summer when I joined a friend living locally for a cream tea
Over the past year or so I have to admit that I’ve only been to Singleton to sample the delicious cream teas that villagers lay on at the old Village Hall opposite the “new” primary school – so I was rather upset to hear that the hall’s days may be numbered.
I’m saying this after sharing a survey the village hall’s trustees posted on Facebook asking villagers whether they want to save it as a community “hub”. Apparently, the building is costly to maintain and difficult to market as an events venue so the trustees are eating into reserves which, they say, can’t continue.
Now, I’ve not researched the history of the village hall but its website says the building was “gifted” to villagers in Singleton by the Goodwood Estate.
All I know is that I think nursery and Sunday schoolteachers might have held classes there – along with scouts and brownies troops. If I’m truly honest, I don’t know what stories that building has to tell, but I do know that I’d hate it if unthinking developers simply turn it into a private dwelling, holiday lets or, heaven forbid, tear it down.
I don’t know about you, but I’ve always travelled abroad to other countries to learn about their history and culture, and I’m sure tourists to Britain – especially from the States – would like to visit “little olde England” with its quaint Agatha Christie villages.
There’s no doubt that the village ticks all the English Tourist Board boxes with its village cricket ground, ancient church (St Mary’s, of course), a traditional village pub (if not the name) and an old village hall that serves cream teas on balmy summer days.
And, if the occasional Canadian visitors make it across The Pond to England’s south coast, they might just be interested in East Marden’s history during the Second World War.
Afterall, perhaps their grandpa or great-grandpas might have been one of those young soldiers dancing around the village hut with a peony in his cap preparing for D-Day?
Postscript: Does anyone recognise the schoolchildren in the top picture from East Marden? I think some of the children might have belonged to the Ablewhite family who still farm there.
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Hilary Gavin
Journalist & Writer
6 Southover Way
Hunston
CHICHESTER
West Sussex
PO20 1NY
Tel: 07940 444664
Email: grumpywoman@hilarygavin.blog
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