Gardening Tales

On the end of our dwelling was an adjoining garden bounded by the road (now First Avenue) and directly opposite it was Hurtching's shop. In the attached photgraph of Grandad Tudor and my sister Jane, it is possible to see the garden in the background as well as the home of the Jordan family. The oak tree I referred to in a previous article is also showing above the roof of their dwelling.

Typical of my father's opportunistic tendencies, as well as cultivating this garden, he commandeered a sizeable patch of ground adjacent to the building that became the Social Hall which stood on the lower side of today's Huntley Close.

He worked hard on the overgrown plot to turn it into a very productive vegetable garden. Its fertility no doubt improved by the contents of our Elsan toilet surreptitiously emptied and buried there under cover of darkness. My father had lost his sense of smell when his nose was broken boxing for the Regiment during his military service. This no doubt proved rather fortunate when performing this malodorous chore.

His major crop was potatoes which he would supplement with others he grew on a customer's farm. He also grew peas, runner beans and broad beans,very welcome by us kids, raw or cooked, but the cabbage or sprouts - ugh!

It never ceases to amaze me thinking back how he ever found time to do everything he did after working from 8am to 5pm week-days and 8am to 12-30pm on Saturdays. This was a minimum as sometimes he worked much later for which he never received any reward.

To supplement our vegetable supply I was never discouraged from returning home with the rewards of a "scrumping" expedition. Apples for eating or cooking, but not cider apples.

Ocasionally, I would bring back some swedes or turnips if we past any fields where they were growing and ready to harvest. We would walk miles to gather bluebells or daffodils from the fields or primroses from the hedgerows and then put them in bunches to sell door- to-door for a penny or two. Then a quick visit to Hutching's shop to fritter away our hard earned money on sweets.

One reminiscence that still lives with me concerned the storage of Dad's potatoes which involved my sister Molly and myself. Dad had scrupulously sorted through the potatoes he'd dug and picked out all the damaged ones. He left instructions for Molly and me to bag up the remaining pile of good potatoes as these were going to be stored for use throughout the coming winter months but seeing I had far better things to do outside I decided the quicker we could get the job done the better.

I got Molly to hold the sacks open while I shovelled the potatoes into them. Unfortunately, the shovel had a sharp edge which cut and damaged the potatoes Dad had so carefully selected for winter storage. When he eventually discovered what had occurred, to say he was angry was an under-statement.

Molly was much quicker than me and disappeared outside while I ran into the house with my father chasing after me. I could see he was gaining and about to smack me so I rapidly ducked as his hand sailed over my head and collided with a pile of dishes on the draining board sending them flying.

There was an almighty crash as they hit the floor sending broken crockery everywhere. By then I had run into my bedroom and buried myself underneath the bed clothes where I stayed until things were a little quieter and his temper was once again under control. One good thing came of it though, I was never asked to bag up potatoes again!

Another episode that comes to mind found Dad and myself in the garden when Willy Salter, a friend of mine, walked past holding a jam jar with one hand while his other hand covered the top. He told us he'd just caught a slow worm and was taking it home. He came into the garden to show us and sure enough there it was wriggling around in the jar except it wasn't a slow worm. He had caught an Adder!

My father quickly took it off him, emptied it out onto the garden and set about cutting it into pieces with his spade. Why Willy wasn't bitten by the Adder while he was carrying it in the jar remains a mystery, but he ran off in tears after its demise under Dad's spade. Later my father had to explain to his irate mother. who turned up on our doorstep, why he had killed Willy`s pet slow worm.

Lucky 'Lucky'

Our family totalled seven at this stage if you include 'Lucky' the cat and 'Amethea' who was Mum's pedigree Cairn terrier. Dad bought the dog to replace 'Nippy' who had been so tragically killed by a car when he was out with me near Weycroft Mill. 'Amethea' was rather a grand name for a dog in our situation but my mother decided if she had a pedigree she should have a grand name to go with it. Where she plucked it from, I've no idea.

The dog and cat were great friends, so much so that it led to one saving the other's life. 'Lucky' the cat always slept outside in the outhouse overnight where she could come and go as she pleased. 'Amethea' slept in the house and would be let out first thing in the morning and then, like the cat, would have free run of the surrounding area.

This particular morning we heard barking and scratching outside our back door which was quite unusual for 'Amethea'. Mum opened the door and there was the dog stood beside the cat whose head was stuck, and completely hidden, inside a tin can. My father quickly removed the can, never thinking any more about it until later when a neighbour, who lived a few blocks away, informed us she had seen 'Amethea' leading 'Lucky' back to our dwelling.

She explained that the dog barked and pushed the cat back on course every time it turned in the wrong direction. This continued until they were both safely on the path leading to our back door. A very clever dog and definitely a lucky 'Lucky.' They probably spent the rest of the day curled up together in the basket they shared.

One thing we were never short of on The Camp was visitors who I will write about next time.