Childhood Memories of East Garston
This poem was written by the late Bill Frankum of Ivy Cottage and curated with historic photos by Dawn Tonge.
It reflects on his memories from the early 20th Century.
If I told you a secret would you keep? Would you tell?
Dare I trust you. As I hope you’d trust me
Tho in my weakness as I write my pen may some names spell
To illustrate my meaning don’t you see
For I am going back now, fifty years or so, perhaps more
And relive all those years when I was a lad
And I would like to tell you although we were very poor
How rich we were in things that made us glad
Always I was by nature so romantic, soft at heart
Sometimes I’d weep when someone told me that
All there was needed to complete and make me look the part
Was a feather, or a straw, stuck in my hat
Well never mind it’s got no part in what I have to say
For other things were closer to my heart
And I remember them, as I reflect on bygone days
When motors took the place of horse and cart
Tho I have travelled far and wide my memories vivid still
Of little things you would not understand
The things I loved in childhood days, so many books would fill
My first love was of course my native land
For in this valley where I live, the village here was known
As Argosson but some had disagreed
Esgarston was the proper name said someone well renowned
Because they thought is sounded so refeened!
And down through this grand valley flowed what’s known as Lambourn Brook
And where, as boys, we’d sail our little ships
And in imagination we would harbour in some nook
Made by the rippling waves or floating sticks
You sail with me and I’ll point out the landmarks as we go
We’ll start where Jim Whale lived, right at the top
There on the banks are cottages, so neatly in a row
And further down the well- known Blacksmiths Shop
How often I had in my youth seen sparks fly from that forge
And wondered vaguely, dreaming as it were
Was this the Village Smithy where Longfellow wrote his poem
Under the spreading chestnut tree the village smithy stands
Cart horses from the many farms nearby
Were shod by Mr Denton’s large and strong sinewy hands
That was the scene when I was just a boy
Often alone I’d wander around that spot so loved by me
The charm of singing birds up Rogers Lane
And thrushes, nightingales and tits all sang in harmony
The scented flowers, perfumed by April’s rain
But sad I was one fateful day to miss the song I’d heard
For as I listened all seemed strangely hushed
And glancing down to my dismay I saw my little bird
Bleeding at mouth and wings so cruelly crushed
What pleasure had it given some great lout to do this thing
To slay God’s creature singing sweet in June?
And killed that melody I’d loved when trilling on the wing
They’re lost chords now and my world out of tune
Maybe the crack of rifle shot was music to the ears
Some thoughtless brute who needlessly had slain
My feathered friend and left it there heedless of cries or care
And I was mute with sorrow, grief and pain
The village church All Saints stands hard by Manor Farm
Where I, in solitude, now often go
To tend my parents grave, to shear the grass and leave the flowers
Tis fitting as they are so, I should do so
And as I look around I see the names of those I’ve known
Each one would bring to life some memories
Some good deed done, a life cut short, why had God called them home?
And we are left – Such are His mysteries
But come back to the Smithy’s forge we left anon
For nearby there stands a noble cross
Where sacred to the memory of those lads who fought and won
Are names of childhood playmates written on
I too had played my part with bayonet fixed and with them shared
The mud and Flanders blood where poppies bloomed
I only know too well but for my Father’s earnest prayers
I would be lying there sharing their tomb
We’ll leave them now as on we go, we see the chapel door
Through which as boys we’d enter sacredly
To hear the preachers and my Father kneeling on the floor
In prayer to God to save humanity
Our little brook flows gaily past meadow and workman’s cot
To Middle Bridge where locals stood and yarned
And there’s School Lane where stands the school right at the very top
And further on you’d come to Jimmy’s barn
What memories the mention of those names bring to my mind
My governess was Victorian prim and straight
She taught us the three R’s, the way to win the Bishop’s Prize
To live and learn from others “who were great”
And there were other days I find so easy to recall
Like Garston Feast, the fair and pancake days
The simple games like Erky Tip cat, hoops and playing ball
‘Twas all so different in my day and age
There was Amos Townsend, Old John Bags and dear old Tommy Snob
And Stivvy Bush, who on us boys would frown
For when we played at marbles we would say “you stick him up”
Then we would choose one hand and knock him down
Then there was Isaac Early to whom rabbit skins we’d take
Sometimes he’d say, in very kindly voice
“He’s not a very good ‘un must abin thin as a rake
I’ll give you a penny” – so you took your choice
There’s one thing more I think, that stands out in my memory
The ‘Magic Lantern’ and the stories told
Of how our soldiers fought the Boars away across the seas
And pictures showed them marching brave and bold
That was the saddest story perhaps, twas titled “Nellie’s Prayer”
How still we’d sit to catch each spoken word
For there were Mothers who had husbands fighting over there
The pictures showed them charging with their swords
Gentle Jesus meek and mild safe guard my Daddy dear
And send him safely back home again to me
Oh how we tried so hard to stem those quickly welling tears
While sisters sobbed we’d hug them tenderly
They showed us Nellie praying as she knelt beside the bed
“Don’t let the Boars take Daddy” she had cried
“I’ll be so good, I’ll try so hard” those were the words she said
But in the cause of freedom many died
Sometimes the picture man would put the slide in upside down
Then how we’d roar and laugh and dry our tears
Especially when a mouse or frog on shadow screen was shown
We’d stand and shout with joy as well as cheers
As we sail on we’ll see the artists with their magic brush
Painting with colours mixed some placid scene
A willow tree or tufted grass. I’ve marvelled at their touch
Artists like this to me were joy indeed
But just one moment ‘ere we pass the place where standing still
Is Bridle Barn and Goldhill House from which
Those better off would throw us coins and then we boys and girls
Would scramble legs in air into the ditch
Then off we’d race down to the shop. Twas Pocock’s then you know
Where they baked bread, sold oil and lollipops
And you could buy your cheese and bacon, also lumps of coal
Twas all mixed up in these village shops
Nearby there’s still the sycamore, now old and so forlorn
Its branches, once so strong, we used to climb
And then sometimes we’d fall and – horror - find our trousers torn
That meant two things, a scold and smacked behind
We’ve nearly reached the bridge at Mabberleys Lane
Where farmers made a water lock in which they dipped their sheep
And where my sister fell when playing games
I was the hero of that day for, without thought I plunged
Into the powdered slimy sheepwash deep
But God had, with those unseen hands and from a sure death wrung
Brother and Sister - saved from deaths long sleep
If we would take the footpath on the way to Maidencourt
Four hundred yards or so, you’d see a place
Shielded by willow trees, high banks – the lock wherein we’d sport
Twas our selected spot in which we bathed
In innocence we boys and girls spent many happy hours
Now please, don’t blush, for we were unashamed
As often we were caught by Mr Hughes all in the nude
And chased by him through meadow lands and lanes
We’ll leave the running brook which forms the nucleus for your scribe
To pen his thoughts, as often old men do.
Retracing steps, recalling times when youth was in its prime
And pondering which was best, the old or new
Those fleeting years, the joys and tears we know they were ordained
Not all was sad though they were hungry days
Sometimes we’d find a ducks egg and to Mother we’d explain
“We’ll share the egg, all six of us” – but how and in what way?
Our brook flows on, but I remain and still join in the fun
And by God’s Grace – for I know he has heard
In his good time to meet again my childhood friends and chums
My pets and dogs and perhaps my little bird.
The End
W. Frankum (Frankham)
Ivy Cottage
East Garston
Nr. Newbury Berks
1970