A Chiddingly history by William Chives

Now travelling in those days was much slower with horses. I remember on one occasion the carter's boy (who found it a hard job to get up early in the morning) saying he would try having his breakfast overnight, to save time in the morning, but having done so he found he was no better off, for he felt just as hungry in the morning. On returning homeward the waggons were loaded with sometimes beach, sand or chalk, clinkers, or even kiln faggots for burning to bake the bricks. There was quite a number of brickyards in Chiddingly at one time: Benge's, mentioned above, Guy's at the old millhouse extending to Willow Hyrst on the Lower Dicker. I am informed on good authority that a very great percentage of the bricks made there went toward the building of some of the houses in the vicinity of The Avenue in Eastbourne including Enys Road.

While yet another brickyard well-known was the one at Broomham near Whitesmith, Chiddingly, which was owned and worked by the late Mr Peter Kennard and his sons. Mr Fred Kennard told me only a few days since that almost all the bricks made there were used in helping to make the seawall at Eastbourne, a point of interest to bear in mind should you, dear reader, ever be fortunate enough to spend a time on holiday at Bourne (Eastbourne) in the days to come, when the war is over and the sunshine lures you to the seaside, for the sun will go on shining after the conflict is over, as surely as it has done in the days before the war, and may you enjoy it.

Now let us look at the change which has taken place since those days of 40 to 50 years ago. Motor lorries, steam foden engines, ah, and six and even eight wheeled lorries are being used largely for heavy haulage taking anything from three to twelve times as many bricks per load as the old time friend, the horse, was capable of drawing. And again, three times as quickly too, saying nothing of ease with which the huge loads of bricks are sped along. Whenever I see this, it fills my mind with joy, knowing full well that it eases the horse, whatever their names, maybe Prince, Dobbin, or Darling.

A Gallant hero at Work
To those who happened to be living in the period of 1890 or thereabouts at Chiddingly, they will no doubt remember a very popular figure, our smiling postman, Mr Mark Guy. Now, I am fully aware that there may be other heroes, but this particular personality I must admit had a very great deal to do with the way in which my own temperament and character has been built up. Never once have I regretted having endeavoured to copy him. The memory of him still lives with me, very often at work.

Now for his history as I have known it to be. When having read it through I feel you will agree with me, that he deserves the title I have given him. The day began for him by rising at 5 am, for he must not be late over at Chiddingly, a good five or six miles distant from his home at Halland (then called The Nurseries for some reason unknown to me, unless for the fact that there were some very notable nurseries there). Starting on the road at about 6.30 winter and summer alike, he picked up the mail at the Halland Post Office, whereupon he proceeded to East Hoathly Post Office to have the letters and parcels extracted for that village. That having been done, he started his walk across the fields, through the hopfields, over Haleys Lane, through the kissing-gate on the opposite side of the lane. While crossing the lane, he crosses the parish boundary of the two parishes mentioned, i.e. East Hoathly and Chiddingly.

He mounted the banky field upon which the farmhouse The Haleys looks down to the lovely sweep of the South Downs. Ah, the sky is becoming lighter away over Clarklye, the dawn of another day is being born, while straight in front of him Mark can see the noble spire of Chiddingly Church. How many times had he seen that same lovely old landmark standing up so tall, heralding as it were the birth of another day. He passes on down the bank into The Redlands, on the the Friths, where he catches the first sight of a man since leaving East Hoathly. It was the well-known figure of Mr Gideon Holman, who held the farm there.

"Ah, good morning, Mark. I thought you was somewhere about according to my time." (Many a time folks has said one could set their watches or clocks by Mark the Postman, so regular was he to time.) See, there he goes towards the village, past The Place, and as upright as a signpost, being nigh, if not quite six foot in height with broad back and shoulders. He made a very attractive sight swinging along with rgular stride, while in his right hand he always had his friendly walking stick. He now enters the Village Post Office of Chiddingly. His eye goes up to scan the office clock, he is just on time.

Finished? No, dear reader, he has not finished yet. Come, let us accompany him. Off we go together to deliver the letters down the village, past The Place, on to Coldharbour, round to Whitesmith Green where he clears the letter box (which still stands today 50 years later). Ah, I see you have caught that smile from his face. Yes, he always has that same smile for everyone, rich and poor alike, always attractive, sympathetic, willing and obliging, mostly whistling, or singing his way along. Now we reach Golden Cross. His load is getting lighter now of letters to deliver, but he clears the pillar box here, then proceeds to Muddles Green, and on to The Street, Chiddingly, having made both ends of his journey meet.

Now he books in at the Office and that ends his work for the GPO for a few hours. What does he do now? Come with me and you will see. There he goes across to The Six bells Inn to have his lunch. It is about eleven o'clock. "Hark, what is that?" you ask. Well step inside with me. Now your query is answered for there beside the fire in his favourite seat is Mark, playing his beloved concertina, with his eyes shut. A sight truly worth seeing. He is lost entirely and has not seen us enter. What does he play? Anything almost. You like The Old Rustic Bridge, well there it is, and Annie Laurie; While London Sleeps; Oh No, John, No; Home Sweet Home; Farmer's Boy. Yes, and dozens of other old favourites, and to finish up, he usually paid the contribution of playing the landlady's favourite, Sweet Clementine.

Well, his lunch of bread and cheese and pickles with good old-fashioned beer is over, so now he must needs get busy or people will be laying the law down if their shoes are not already mended. Rest? No, definitely no. Let us follow him to his little cobblers shop. It is only a few yards down the village, almost opposite the schoolmaster's house. He takes the shutters down, then turns the large key in the old boxlock, and the smell of leather hides meets one as we enter. On the right, inside is his machine room, where all sewing is done. On the left, we enter the general snobs shop.

My, what an army of boots, shoes, leggings and clogs there are. Over there on that set of shelves are specimens of Mark's handiwork, neatness in itself. Look at this pair of ladies shoes. How neatly the stitches are placed. Again look at this pair of thigh tan-coloured leggings. See here is completely new bottoms sewn on. Now even the straps are sewn on too, even to the buttonhole which must be bound round to take the strain when fixed over the carter boys' trousers buttons. Last of all these clogs (pattens), which the housewife of that day used to wear when pegging out the washing.

See how neatly the irons are fixed on. Oh, look and here is a purse he has mended, a cricket ball, a football, and some young laddie's school bag, and numerous other things, all bearing that same brand, "neatness". His motto was, "If you tackle a job, do it, not half do it." He is a first hand at making waxends for sewing by hand too. That quaint looking little stove? Oh, that he has for warming his dinner upon as well as heating the shop. See here this tray is full of little trinkets - hobnails in all sizes, brads no ends, steel and brass. Blakeys protectors, pelts, heel and toe both, all sizes. Those neat little wooden pegs? Oh, those he uses to fill the old holes which nails have made, when he is re-nailing hobnailed boots for men, heavy watertights.

Well, now our old friend is going to have a wash before getting his tea at the Six Bells. Ah, that cheery, smiling, motherly landlady has put a warm glow in to many a man's heart; well-liked and respected by all, Mrs David Gutsell. Having enjoyed his tea, with a little time left on hand, our old friend is complying with other men's wishes in playing their favourite tunes on his concertina, he now sees that the time is come when he must get to the Post Office. Yes, it is 6.40 pm and he is due to start back on his return journey to Halland. While proceeding through the fields he notices all the outstanding changes in nature, trees turning colour, the different songs of the birds, the lovely smell of the honeysuckle.

And again the hop-picking is in full swing, and as he passes through the hopfields, he begs a bunch to hang in the bar at the Six Bells to be the admiration of all who enter. As he mounts the field joining, he catches a glimpse of the glorious sunset. The same charm fills his heart as it did when he saw it this morning soon after dawn. Dropping down past the old established Chapel, he comes face to face with East Hoathly P.O. He must needs pick up all the mail from there and take it down to Halland when after having done this he has completed his day's work for the GPO. He now wends his way home some 50 yards or so down the road, where he must secure some sleep so that he may be ready at 5 am again tomorrow to carry the mails again to Chiddingly and he has been doing this for the space of thirty-two years at least; some say he did it for four years more.

Today, 1941, things are greatly changed. Motors are used now for all long journeys, but even today the several postmen seem to be lacking that benevolent smile which was the means of our old time friend being so well loved. In the winter snows I have heard him say that he has had to battle through snow almost up to his thighs, saying nothing of floods which he endured. Yes, dear reader, I take my hat off to our old hero, for hero he was. For he's a jolly good fellow, and so say all of us. Truly we should appreciate to the full what the delivery of our letters mean, saying nothing of our parcels, especially at Christmas time.

Have you ever given it a moment's thought, do you appreciate it? I wonder. Time was when one had to pay sixpence on delivery of a letter. And wages only 10/- [50p], 12/- [60p]and 15/- [75p]weekly. Bullseyes? Ah, here comes the old Bullseye Lady up the Hilders Court drive. She is growing very old, and how very shaky she gets. "Yes, my boy, I have come up this ere road for a good thirty years. Bullseyes, yes I've got aniseed balls, black peppermints, clove, humbugs, butter dabs, all eight a penny. Acid, raspberry and pear drops, sweethearts, valentine hearts, all twopence (tuppence) a quarter. Sherbert (shurbut), two ounces a penny. Whatsay? Penoth (pennyworth) of aniseed balls."

Our little old lady's name is Mrs Maria Funnel. Where does she live? Down on the Lower Dicker nearly opposite Rose and Crown Inn. The landlord? Mr Stephen Faulkner. How old is her old chestnut pony? Well, "he's bin cumming up ere for thirty years, but is thirty-two come next hopping. He was a tidy anfull one time aday, but like meself he gits older every day. Well, I mus be gooing, cum on old boy, git up, goo on, wake up you old raskal." Then she would carry on with her hawking of sweets. There she goes over the hilltop at Sandpits, to be met by the children at Hale Green with their pennies and farthings.

Yes, she always had a lot of farthing customers, two aniseed balls, clove or peppermints for a farthing, while a lovely large humbug would cost only a farthing. That bag swinging underneath her cart? That is where she puts rabbit skins, with which she does a good trade, ½d and 1d each. She knows where to send them to, to get the best price.

Take it, or Leave it
It should be clearly understood by all who read this story, or incident, that the writer cannot vouch for the truth of it. Be that as it may, there is at least one statement which the writer has proved to be correct. As far as the truth of the whole story goes, I have good faith in the old parishioners who told it to me. The name of the place I will not mention, nor any names.

Time was, it seems many years ago, when the whole family of a well-to-do farmer was regular attendants at the Parish Church. Now this certain farmer had a butler, or manservant, who was left to look after the house while the family was gone to Church. The farmer, however, had suspicions that the manservant paid a visit to the cellar during their absence, so he made up his mind to return to the house one Sunday morning after a short space of time, and on doing so he was annoyed or maybe amused to find this trustworthy sevant down in the cellar, perched astride a barrel of beer, jovially patting the sides of the barrel and shouting, "Woa my little ..." (mentioning his employer's name), repeating it several times before he was aware he was being watched, he sitting back to the door was thoroughly enjoying it, taking a refreshener from time to time. Needless to say, the servant's services were soon dispensed with, with little doubt if he ever rode a barrel astride ever after.

The Statement which Proved True
In relating the story the old man laughed, and chuckling (at the same time assuring me it was quite true) added these words. If ever you chance to be in Hellingly Churchyard you will see a tombstone, or is it two, where that gentleman's family are buried. Twenty years passed by, the incident having gone out of my memory temporarily, when one summer's evening while working, voluntarily trimming there, I stopped to sharpen my scythe, and there straight before my eyes was the familiar words In loving memory, or sacred memory of ............ of Chiddingly. I was so struck, the name Chiddingly caught my eye. Needless to say, I read the whole of the inscriptions through. My mind leapt back to the gardens at Hilders Court where the story was told me over twenty years before. I must confess laughed aloud while going over that incident as clearly as though it had been told me but a few days previously. Ah, I thought poor old ... was right in his statement when he said at Hellingly you'll see his name.

Have you, dear reader, ever experienced a thrill when catching sight of the name of your home village? If so, you will realise how that good old name Chiddingly always thrills me. For after all, the old time saying is perfectly true. You have guessed the one I am alluding to, yes, that's it, "There's no place like Home."