The Valley Diary

Poetry

The Village School
by Albert West

Midway through East Dean and very unpretentious,
Roughly plastered walls, roof alien dark grey slate,
Playground flintwall bounded, to kirb us kids boisterous,
At the rear stood the toilet block quite out of date.

Faced south was attached The Junior's classroom,
There schooling began until we got to eight,
When up to the larger room we were promoted,
In buildings, Church owned, to be taught by the State.

We tore down to the school, first thing in the morning,
The field at the back gave ample room to play,
We let off our steam with general rough and tumble,
Til the bell rang to herald the start of the day.

The attendance roll was called out in due order,
We then sang a hymn and had a short prayer,
Got stuck into sums, English or composition,
But sometimes we would out of the window stare!

A quarter hour break came at mid-morning,
We raced outside like some prisoners released!
Then back to our lessons til lunch hour occurring,
We dashed home to have appetites appeased.

Routine in the afternoon followed a pattern,
We knew beforehand what to expect,
But there was the occasion when custom was broken,
And for nature studies we went for a trek.

The school still stands, recently renovated,
Now a village hall open for functions galore,
There socially mind people come together,
Where us kids found our lessons a bit of a bore!

Perhaps the venue will of past times remind us,
And serve a good purpose for folk of today,
School come Village Hall, Church, Chapel, Star and Garter,
Will character give, East Dean's identity.

The Common Cold
By Albert West

What are these pestiferous things that come,
You catch but find it hard to throw them off.
In varying temperatures they find a home,
Afflictions you endure though you feel rough.
They seize you in the head and block you up,
Despite your vaunted mental brilliance.
Your nose drips though you're not really a dolt,
And friends put up an unsociable defence.
They make you sneeze like pepper from Cayenne.
Your throat is sore like a sandpapered cheek.
They migrate to the chest and maybe then,
Make a loquacious person loath to speak.
I catch them, but they do not cost a dime,
Faulted am I if I give them away.
They come unwanted, unprescribed their time,
I've never known one last for just a day.
Togged up I sweat become shiftless and old,
If I disrobe then I become quite cool.
How can you stop yourself from catching cold,
I have no panache or patent rule.
Some people have a jab ere winter break,
Some regularly take some vitamin.
Some haunt the chemist shops, their tablets take,
Some grin and bear whatever comes to them.
I have no cure that I can guarantee,
Our world is not a sanitised abode.
So when this happens to you or to me,
Remember you have just a common cold.

Southdown Buses
by Albert West

They plied up through The Lavant Vale
Adorned in unobtrusive green,
At eight, ten thirty, one or five,
And lots of other times between.
Some villagers might own a bike,
Or walk three miles and go by rail,
A few well heeled could own a car,
But Southdown Buses served us well!

Leaving his normal work behind,
Dad off to town fortnightly went,
Met clients in the market place,
And once a month collected rent.
It cost just one and six return,
For any in the adult stage,
And half the price for juniors,
And those below school leaving age.

One day when going for a ride,
I spied a cow chewing a sheet!
Hung vulnerably near the hedge,
Strange fodder for a cow to eat!
Poor cottager whose washing line,
Was put in this precarious place,
Instead of bedclothes clean and dry,
She must chewed bit of rag replace!

And once when travelling on the bus,
A gentleman across the aisle,
Sitting beside a sweet landgirl,
Advising with disarming smile,
To bathe her face in morning dew,
Add to her beauty and her grace,
The unpolluted moisture there,
Gives fresh complexion to the face!

G I's in wartime crammed our bus,
Upstairs and down, in aisles and seats,
Caused tyres on mudgurads to contact,
When cornering the winding streets!
Once crammed like this and going to town,
A G I sat, sniffing his snuff!
And pressed his fellows sitting round,
To take a pinch and try the stuff!

Contrasted were our drivers. One
Was genial, robust and well filled,
The other, dour in temperament,
But both were competant and skilled.
Conductors too contrasted were,
Swithin was pleasant, debonair!
Eddie was shy and diffident!
Both clipped our tickets -
Took our fare!

The local folk would sit and chat,
Village gossip or world news,
With neither good or ill intent,
Nonchalently express their views.
It was a weekly social ride,
Normal routine, domestic round,
Contacting friends beyond the door,
Relief to those else just housebound.

Tying up Faggots
by Albert West

Nature is waking, signals of the spring,
Flowers are emerging, buds on trees appear,
The fields are tilled, soon to be tinted green,
The impress of man's hand imprinted there.
March winds have blown, the soggy soil is dry,
And Winter's dormancy retreats at length,
A resurrection of life surges resonsively,
Sun beams benign with increasing strength.

The copseman greets the livening of the year,
Ceases his Winter toil with sap-flow rise.
Looks at the long, straight rows of coppice tops,
Which on the Winter's clearing, ordered lies.
At 6 am - early his day begins,
He finds his billhook hidden in the leaves,
Tool half-moon shaped just suited for the job,
Then he his wet-stone from it's nook retrieves.

Winds the first withe, first of about five score,
The climate of the day affects the twist,
Tough on the hands with cracks greased for the time,
A test for muscled arms and powerful wrists.
The withe is laid then five two-inch thick sticks,
Sometimes stick numbers two and four are split,
The faggot, a professional look to give,
When stacked in lines they do appear, (just it!)

The trimmings from the last day's final count,
Are spread upon the sticks, a spongy base,
The frith is cut, forked from the hand held end,
To form the bundle on the five stick face.
Frith is cut roughly to about four feet,
Then piled upon the base, twelve inches high,
A two-inch stick is placed upon the top,
Pushed is the butt, through the withe's open eye.

Hands grasp the withe then with extended arms,
The bond is tugged to partial tension brought,
Then with the hard heels of kip leather boots,
With vigour kicked the bond is made quite taut.
Then twisted to a neatly rounded knot,
Trimmed is the faggot for convenience sake,
Ready to go into the baker's oven,
To heat the bricks, bread buns and scones to make.

A COPSEMAN'S LAMENT
by Albert West

Oh where have all the copses gone,
That used to give variety.
Their character to hill and vale.
Their names to each locality.
Scratlea, bleak facing to the north,
Then vaster far stretched East Dean Wood.
Red Copse sat gently to the sun,
Where every kind of coppice stood.

East Dean and Charlton Park were set,
North looking, rather gloomily.
Bob Holts similar was aligned,
Not always the best place to be.
Benges was in a chilly place,
Hydes Common sat upon the top.
Thus round East Dean the coppice brew,
A self perpetuating crop.

These all are gone, the beech and fir,
Are everywhere, especially beech.
A duel culture at the best,
If you require some of each.
I can locate the old Ridge Lane.
New Road is easy to find still.
Forest Lane goes up to the Scrubs,
Straight through Red Copse I see the Mill.

Where can I find the northern star.
Six ways which once unique converged.
In East Dean Wood, near to the top
Now they with beech trees are submerged.
These paths were pleasant walking tracks.
These ways I now no longer see.
Once giving access to the copse,
Kept open and trimmed annually.

Now I can see long lines of trees.
Symmetrical, planted in rows.
Regardless of what used to be,
Or whether what is planted grows.
The access roads are in straight lines.
Precision of geometry.
Obliterated is the past,
Buried in ancient history.

SPAR MAKING
by Albert West

Copses of hazel clothed the steeper Downs,
With scattered heads of chestnut oak and ash.
Some dogwood, maple, willow interspersed,
Blackberry, thorn, privet and various trash
We started cutting as the Autumn loomed.
At leaf fall when the sap was going down.
With shortening day and signs of winter chill,
And dormancy descending all around.

We cut the heads of hazel, sorted out,
The long straight rods and threw them into rows.
These were for hurdle making, the best wood,
Spar timber was cut roughly as it grows.
We tossed this timber into tidy heaps.
Tied it in bundles in late afternoon.
The tops we put into a long neat line,
For pea sticks, faggots when the Spring had come.

We had spar timber carted to East Dean.
Wet days we spent spar making in the dry.
Short two feets were the most convenient there,
Demand seemed always greater than supply.
In late Spring we were fully occupied,
When all the faggot making was complete.
We set our bench up under the elm tree,
For cleaving, and for pointing, a nice seat.

We made a frame and set our timber up.
Cut to the needed length orders to fill.
Cleaved with a special shaped spar-making adze.
And pointed with a special moon shaped bill
Placing the adze upon a round of wood.
We tapped it firmly on the maple post.
The timber halved, then split to suited size,
Up to sixteen small pieces at the most.

It took about an hour for four feet lengths,
To split two fifty which a bundle made.
And about half that time to do two foots,
Then ready for the pointer they were laid.
A rubber guard protected our left side.
When pushing timber through against the post.
Old boot tops were strapped tight above our knees,
Our left hand knuckles suffered nicking most.

Pointing we sorted spars into their grades.
Facers tossed in a heap behind our back.
Crooked ones thrown into a place apart.
Medium ones made by far the largest stack.
To tie the bundle, facers were laid down,
On two withes parallel upon the ground.
The crooked ones were in the centre laid.
Mediums were added, then the bundle bound.

Daddy O Brien
by Albert West

He was upright, near middle age, an agile robust Irishman.
We called him Daddy, one of many temporary teachers.
A Welshman too was one time sent along.
To cope with us uneducated creatures.

Daddy 0 Brien came from Singleton each day.
Armed with a stout ash walking stick which served duel intentions.
One was to help him walk along the road to school.
The other was a threat when patience had outrun dimensions.

I well remember Meachens living at Broadham.
And habitually coming into school an hour late.
Once Pop 0 Brien seized the older boy.
To show the class that he was most irate.

Stuffing poor Arthur's head between his legs.
And bending over, he took careful aim.
The ash stick fell with oft repeated blows.
Until from Arthur's side a movement came.

Arthur with all his strength across the floor.
Watched by the pupils, eyes agog bemused.
Pushed Daddy up against the cupboard door
Who was the abuser, who was the abused?

Another odd occasion I recall.
It was the rule when we required the loo.
To lift the hand and ask to be excused.
The teacher knew what we needed to do.

But Nancy being shy remained quite mute.
She would not lift a hand or say a thing.
Until a puddle formed upon the floor.
Daddy 0 Brien asked; is this a spring.

The titters in the class were ill suppressed
Embarrassed Nancy bolted for the door.
Eyes filled with tears, she found a hiding place,
While pupils quickly mopped the schoolroom floor.

A country man at heart our master was.
Long nature walks were suited to his bent.
We took him up into the coppice woods.
And gathered chestnuts as along we went.

Our nature walks were lengthly for we knew.
Intimately all the land for miles around.
And nature walks became our pleasure time.
In school time rambles on familiar ground.

Daddy 0 Brien came temporarily.
Supply teacher officially defined.
He stayed a while, but left these memories.
Walks and not whacks impressed upon the mind.