I decided to take a look at the story of the young man lying in the grave at the wee church I visited the other day. Like many of such tales it is sad indeed.
Gunner Frank Raven, artillery men are always called 'gunner' not private, was born in Great Tey in 1896 to a ploughman working on the farms round about. By 1901 there were nine in the family and he was the fourth brother out of six. His sister I suspect would still be the house bully, they usually are! Each one was born in Great or Little Tey indicating how dad moved from farm to farm according to the possibility of work. Ploughmen however were highly skilled and better paid. The eldest brother, at twenty years of age, was a pork butcher and by 1911 all the working boys were farm hands. By then the sister and elder brother had gone, not unlikely married, possibly however sickness was rife before the NHS.
I have no idea what sort of dwelling they rented but I suggest an outside loo, a pump or well for water and crowded rooms, par for the course at the time of course. Some villages retain their pump making it a visitor attraction. Occasionally I notice them removed into peoples gardens as ornaments. Life on the land would be run according to the light, and summer would mean long days of hard back breaking work, especially later when harvest had arrived. No transport bar a horse if you were lucky, or possibly a chance ride on the cart on the way home.
The census of 1911 shows the family at Broad Green, Great Tey, not far down the road where he worked on the farms. Five sons lived here with their parents those not at school were on the farm. Not much else available I suspect or was there no desire to move away I wonder?
War left its mark on every part of the kingdom. Agricultural workers often saw this as a chance of escape from a hard, dull life, especially if foreign travel was involved. On November 1915 Frank signed the attestation form pledging to serve for the duration of the war. He travelled to Colchester, a few miles down the road, possibly walking all the way, and enlisted in the Royal Garrison Artillery Regiment. Did his brothers go with him or had they already enlisted? I do not have time to look. He was by then 20 years of age, five foot six in height and I suspect very fit.
Within six days hew as posted to Great Yarmouth for basic training and by the 13th of December with what appears to be the 13th Company. He remained there, based I guess at Yarmouth defending the coast against enemy shipping and Zeppelins passing over. That are was on their main route into the hinterland.
I suspect Frank had never travelled far in his life. Possibly into Colchester, maybe Braintree, however I doubt he would have been to Great Yarmouth before. Certainly he would never had considered travelling to Cricklewood where he was posted to the 6th AA Company on the 1st of May 1916. This anti-aircraft company were part of the answer to Zeppelins and Gotha Bombers that upset the people of London so. Faded writing makes things unclear but he appears to be there until September when he possibly developed a sickness. This was indeed serious. So serious that he was discharged from the army on medical grounds on the 8th of February 1917. This was a time when men were desperately required and only serious illness or wounds would enable such discharge. The cause was a form of cancer and on the 28th March he died. He was 21 years of age.
His address is given as Houchins Farm, next door to the 1911 address. farm workers, especially good ones, did not have to travel far for work even if the wages were poor. It comes to mind that eight shillings a week might have been the wage while factories nearby paid twelve. Franks character is described as 'good' by his officer so he no doubt was a reliable worker. The army rewarded the deceased with a war gratuity (£4 in Franks case) and a medal to remember him by.
I don't think we should forget him, do you?
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I decided at the last minute I was going to take advantage of the bleary sun that appeared in between the clouds to go somewhere new today. Remembering the buses use a different timetable on Saturdays, and don't run at all on Sundays, I checked the supposed times online. This gave me just enough time to grab my coat and run. I then returned and put my shoes on.
I thought of a place to go and sitting upstairs at the front with the sun shining through the windows it was almost like Spring, if you ignored the clouds. We proceeded apace and after about twenty minutes I judged we were nearing the stop for the place that was in my mind. So I rang the bell and as they say, alighted. Quite what that word means I am not sure. Does it mean I got lighter by getting off, could they imply be leaving the bus that object of delights felt lighter? I know not and worried little about it at the time.
It appeared to me my goal lay just down the road and I proceeded in an easterly direction, as the constables would say, before deciding to first walk up the short street marked 'Dead end' as the sign pointed to the church of 'St James the Less.' Less what we will ignore for now.
On the way up the road I noticed the kind of thing often seen in the back roads of English villages, on this occasion it was the turret of an American tank sitting in the front garden as if this was a normal sight to see. In this part of the world, in among the quiet bungalows where nothing but wife swapping and money laundering are the usual pastimes people often parade their hobbies for the few passers-by to enjoy.
Whether the old tractor in the rear actually works these days I doubt but the American truck looks like it may sometimes be used.
I sauntered on passing the quiet houses, enjoying the near seclusion from the world hurtling by less than a mile down the road and arrived at the small church. To the right, just behind the car park, lay a field, the recently ploughed earth a light brown colour as it waited for the offerings beneath to start sprouting. Two houses stood on the other side and nothing moved, not even a bird.
The church was erected in 1130 but I failed to discover by whom and for whom. Such churches were often built by the local Lord for the villages in his area but I know not who he may have been.
Much altered since the 12th century, and renamed St James the Less in 1365 in stead of St Mary for some reason, the church conveys and impression of age. The mustiness in the air pervades the building heightening its attractiveness rather than lessening it. Somewhat darker than the photos show light fills the place today through two large windows on either side, I think these may have been the ones inserted in the 14th century. It is always something to admire when we talk of buildings renovated so long ago. This small church has been used by people for hundreds of years, mostly agricultural types, I suspect there was little else on offer then, working themselves to death every hour of the day on what must have been back breaking toil on the fields.
One interesting recent discovery was the aged paintings that once ran round the walls. Most of these were removed during the reformation but the majority of these appear to have survived reasonably well. Of course years of whitewash have hidden them so this may have preserved them to some extent but it also damaged them so these are difficult to interpret at first sight. The explanation booklet I could not find but one day I will discover more.
The old beams above the window may hold the roof up but originally this was probably a thatched roof, tiles would come later. Many houses around here remain thatched and the Thatchers art was dying out by the 1960's but demand has once again trained men to the job. needs must I suppose.
One small portion of coloured glass dating from the 1400's is found high above the window in the apse. Too insignificant for reformation zealots but maybe the windows in this church were not stained in any way, money would be scarce.
Sadly such buildings are usually locked as light fingered peoples appear looking for treasure, I however was fortunate enough to get into this one today. There is no treasure here, the building itself, and the wall paintings, are the treasure and one worth visiting.
I was much taken by the organ, which I suppose actually works, especially because of the size. What a delight, however I am not keen on organ music as such and my delight might fade if I heard it in operation.
The round end and building material can be clearly seen here. The rubble used is typical of local churches. No stone in sufficient quantities here, occasionally Roman bricks can be seen where once proud villas have fallen apart and been reused by the Saxons and later Normans for their buildings.
Naturally I found a dead soldier in the graveyard, there is usually one somewhere. Even little villages like this, still only a handful of houses, only seven families in 1810 and only a couple of dozen hoses in the area now. How many attend the church I wonder?
Anyway having enjoyed my fill of the delightful place I wandered on towards what I thought was my intended destination. As I walked I realised I may have made a mistake somewhere as this appeared to be failing to make an appearance. My knees ached, the weather became warm, so I jumped on a bus to discover I had indeed got off at the wrong stop by about three miles! The bus pass came in useful!
The destination was a church I often pass on the bus, it was locked!
Maybe the good Lord took me to a better place, certainly he knew more about where I was going than I did!
My knees now ache, I need to eat a large steak and sleep for a week!
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