A Chiddingly history by William Chives

Now I always remember when Mr Birchett ran his first motor bus, i.e. Boxing Day on its trial trip. We ordered it for our Wedding, it being taken to Berwick to collect my wife's various relations from there and bringing the whole party up to Chiddingly Church. I learnt some time after that while my wedding was proceeding at the Church, Mr Birchett's bus was ditched by the Post Office. It seems that while trying to turn it round, which by the way needed a good deal of room, it ran into the ditch, and they just managed to get it out before we came out of Church.

But today, December l941, with the Southdown Bus Co. running buses to the Golden Cross from Brighton, Uckfield and Hastings and Eastbourne every hour, one would think that there was nothing left to grumble about, but no, alas, folks grumble very often. In fact, so often that I have felt prompted to write the verses below to place for them read while waiting. Also, it often attracts my attention to see how hard and callous-hearted some folks can behave when boarding and disembarking, to the aged, the weak and the mother with children. Maybe my effort may be the means of stemming some of the harsh treatment which I have mentioned. And don't forget, my friend, that your actions and influence may affect another, even to the extent of making their decision for good or evil, one never knows.

Talking of smiles, brings back to me a verse which I write once. So here it is, it may help to cheer you, should you feel blue.

Rook shooting days
The months of April and May were eagerly watched for while I was attending school as the annual Rook Shoot meant a bit of sport for the six or eight eldest boys that happened to be at school on the ... of the former month. The shoot always took place down at "Latchetts" Rookery, that wood being reached by proceeding from the village (The Street, to give it its proper name), thence past the Place Farm, keeping to the left at the fork in the roads, (the right hand road leads one to the Friths Farm). Then another 80 to 100 yards, one would turn left off the road (opposite Coopers Cottage) into the public footpath (public, mark you, as these short cuts, very pleasant walks too, will be fading out if not used and claimed as public rights of way), and there one can see at the farther end of the first field what then in my early days was a very thickly well timbered wood.

So thick and high in fact were those giants of elms, oak and fir that they made a happy, if sometimes noisy breeding place for the rooks, magpies and squirrels. The little reddish brown fellows would often breed there unmolested. As for the magpies, they always took great care to keep their distance, when selecting the trees or site for their nests. Occasionally one would see a pair of the saddle-backed crows gliding and wheeling around at the breeding season, but the old-fashioned rook held the position of ruler of the rookery. I will now return to the day known as Rook-shoot Day, after which I will venture to write a small piece of poetry which I learnt while a school - you may remember it, if I err. Usually the gamekeeper would call at the school on the date fixed, generally the ... of ... and ask for a number of the eldest boys, who however must be good at climbing (for some of those trees were a great height). Why climb, do you ask? Well there were often so many of young rooks hard hit but suspended in the branches or in the nests, that these boys were needed to climb up and shake, or poke them down.

I remember people asking, "What were the birds used for?" Well, if you, dear reader, have never partaken of a rook pie, then you have certainly missed a treat. The poor people in the village would sometimes look forward to that day with delight, for the ordinary wages did not allow for much butcher's meat to be had. The labourer's weekly wage was 15/- [75p] and often less. Talking of wages, I recall a man in mid-Sussex saying to me some thirty five years ago that if I lived to see it, I should find that the farm hands would be getting two pounds a week in twenty years' time from then. Well, he was not very far out today - 1941 - they are getting well over that, and they earn it, if any class of workman does. That is, if they are conscientious workers, especially carters and stockmen.

But I ask this question, are they that much more better off, do they save like the men of earlier days? I doubt it. The majority I mean. There are so many ways nowadays for spending one's money. Neither does one hear them whistling and singing at their work enjoying every bit of it. Don't misunderstand me, my friend, I am the last one to begrudge anyone anything in the naure of an advancement of wages or amusements. Work boys work and be contented to plough, and sow, to reap, and to mow, and to be a farmer's boy.

A fair little girl sat under a tree,
Sewing as long as her eyes could see,
She finished her work, and folded it right,
And said, "dear work, goodnight, goodnight."
A number of rooks flew over her head
Crying "Caw, Caw" on their way to bed.
She watched them speed on their homeward flight,
Then said "dear rooks, goodnight, goodnight."

The Brickfields of Chiddingly (1897)
Alas the art of making bricks by hand will in a few years' time be a thing of the past unless the demand is so great after the war which is raging at the time of writing this. But it is a great joy to look back to my happy schooldays when, while living on the Hilders Court estate, I passed through the brickyard owned then by Mr C Benge. I see those men now as then making the bricks, under the shelter of a rough shack erected to shield them from the wind or, more often, the sun, as the hot weather was needed to dry the bricks better.

The most familiar figures to me employed there were Mr Harry Goldsmith, his sons, Dick, Solomon and Benjamin, Mr C Higgins, Mr Silas Guy, Mr G Guy. The year's routine in the manufacture of bricks was digging and stacking of the clay (or pug, as it was called) in the month of ... when for weeks the men would dig until it seemed that more space would be needed from the joining fields. In fact I have seen three footpaths dug away. Often I have watched, sometimes breathless, at the bending of the long planks suspended between two trestles, one each end, with an intermediate boy, between. Now a boy was two stumps driven in the ground on to which a piece of plank long enough to make a support for either a single track of running plank or a double track, i.e. one for loaded wheelbarrows, the other for the returning empty ones.

One thing often puzzled me when watching the operations of wheeling the clay (or pug) up to the lump, that being the accuracy with which the men ran those barrows on the single 9 inch planks, often over a space of 50 yard, sometimes spanning large pieces of ground which were from 4ft to 6ft and occasionally a greater depth below. Another happy memory is the way those men whistled or sang while at work, cracking of jokes, and often one would hear a good bit of (what folks call today) leg-pulling. A truly happy, jolly lot of fellows.

What were they, the songs they sang or whistled? Well, here are a few of the most familiar in my mind: Rule Britannia; Life on the Ocean Wave; A Bicycle Made for Two (or Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do); If I was a Blackbird, I'd Whistle, I'd Sing; Work boys, work and be contented; Dolly Gray; Chase me Charlie; Old Folks at Home. And how they sang and worked. Again at lunchtime all would proceed to the kiln, where the glowing furnaces would do anyone's soul and eyes good and there they would enjoy a well-earnt lunch of homemade bread and a good wedge of cheese. Round, Red Dutch seemed to be the favourite kind then. Also an onion helped to make up the snack (as it is called today), but the main thing seemed to be a bottle of good beer, homemade or from the Six Bells Inn for which about half-an-hour previously a boy, or the youngest of the gang, was sent up to purchase, also baccy and snuff.

Often, potatoes were roasted in the ashes under the furnaces, and how appetising those potatoes smelled when I have gone and taken a nip of the said lunch with them on a Saturday morning. I will make it clear here that having lived close by in the little South Lodge entrance to the estate, directly at the bottom of the lovely wooded slope, from which often on a still night, almost heavenly still, the nightingale and eve-jar (or nightjar) would fill the night air with their song being answered by their mate in the yonder wood, on the edge of Honeywick Lane...

Ah, many a half hour before going to bed I have sat and listened to their music, as also while living in the North Lodge entrance to the same estate have often been enthralled by the night birds' songs, being answered by their colleagues from yonder wooded slope at Foxhunt Manor (Waldron). Likewise, one could often hear some roaming vixen fox calling her mate from the same wood, when having received the reply one could track their calls until they would meet not very far away from me. It is such happy moments in the slowly deepening twilight that one gains far more precious thoughts, comforts, and joy in the feeling that God rules all: Heaven, Earth, and Sea.

While on this particular line of thought, dear reader, have you ever (or often) experienced the fullness of joy when ending a happy day of labour there has come some marked instance of joy to you, which has crowned the whole day's pleasures? If so, then you will to some extent know that such moments have many times meant to me.

Do I hear someone say, "Work is work to me and nothing else." Well, alas my friend, there is something radically wrong, or missing, in your existence, for existence it surely is. My most earnest wish is this, that you may be given at least the joy of doing your daily labour to the best of your ability, then you will find far more joy in doing whatsoever your hands find to do. Life will then be less irksome, nay more than that, it will be a joy to you. You will soon be looking forward to going to your duties each morning, and having a thankful, cheerful heart. You will soon see God's hand in all around you. If I am not mistaken you will soon be eager to know more about Him, and feeling the blessed comfort of His presence throughout the day, the happy experience of the fullness of joy of life will be yours.

The Making of Bricks by Hand
When having spent several weeks in digging, and wheeling the clay into the large heap, there comes the stage of making it into neat and shapely bricks. That procedure usually began in the month of ... when there was a general collection of all the tools which were stored away at the end of the previous summer. Having got them into good working order, let us go and see them being used. Here is one of the several stools, or benches. Standing near is the pug mill, which is being continuously fed while it is grinding or mixing the clay to the right texture, from which each stool, or bench is kept supplied, as each lot is used.

Now watch the making of bricks. Notice how each man as very little clothes on about the waist, as all freedom may be had, for the easy working of the arms. Also see how the perspiration rolls off their faces. Each maker has a mate who cuts off each piece of clay about the size needed to fill the mould, or wooden frame, the size of a brick 9 inches long, 4 inches wide, 2 inches deep, which fits on to the top a piece of embossed, or raised steel, or iron, which explains the dip on one side of some bricks, usually those used for building of good houses.

See how the brickmaker takes the lump of clay from his mate into both hands, lifts it up, and brings it down with full force into that mould, then he presses it into the frame with the thick part of the hand and into the corners he presses the clay with the pads of his thumbs. Having assured himself that the mould is filled fully to do it whole shape, he picks up two small boards by this mate, about 10 inches long, 6 inches wide, three-eighths of an inch thick, one of which he places over the end of the mould, and having dipped it into a pan, or tin of water first, he cuts off with a swipe, or raking movement, all the clay which happens to be above the brim of the mould, leaving it beautifully even. Whereupon he places the other board flat over the mould, gives in a lifting twisting motion (similar to tossing a pancake) and there is the brick, perfect in shape upon the board.

Now he puts it on to the barrow in a straight line with the others already there in readiness to be wheeled away, to be stacked in straight rows (like a perfect line of soldiers), set at the right angle so as to allow the sum and air to blow right through from side to side and from end to end. Ah, many a time I have peered through those straight rows of newly made bricks to see my mate the other end sometimes nearly 50 yards away at the other end.

Should a spell of wet weather come along, or frost, the whole rows of bricks has to be protected. I have seen men who have come back after leaving off work covering up the bricks with louvre or loo boards (as they were called) which were stood with tops tucked up under the Hack Caps placed on the top of the bricks and the bottoms stood 18 inches, or 2 ft away, to act in such a way as to conduct any rain away from the newly made bricks. Again sometimes a print may be noticed on a brick of some animal, mostly a cat's pad or paw, for these hack caps made a good shelter from the rain, while puss had her eyes open for a mouse on the ground, or a bird which too may have sought shelter therein. On one or two occasions dogs have walked over the bricks, unseen, when the row was being built. When however that was the case the print would sometimes mean a waste of bricks. A fox played havoc once to my knowledge in that same brickyard, rendering nearly 50 bricks of second grade value.