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| Men ate large amounts
of food then, compared with today's meagre diets, but their hard
physical labour burnt it all off and it was extremely rare to see
anyone overweight. Farm workers had breakfast before they
started work then stopped for lunch at about nine o'clock, then a
more substantial dinner at about mid-day followed by a cooked tea at
about five o'clock which was the main meal of the day and supper
before they went to bed. Supper might consist of a slice of
fruitcake with a lump of cheese washed down with a mug of cocoa if
they were lucky enough to have any cocoa. In their sandwiches,
they would often have pure fat without a trace of lean meat in it.
It doesn’t taste as disgusting as it sounds, but I could only eat it
if it was smothered in brown sauce. A very common sandwich
filling was thick slices of cheese, which everyone loathed. I
still can’t stand cheese and look upon it as poverty food.
An old dog used to walk round the village. It always looked old. I think it was old when it was a puppy. It's name was "Guess." I think you had to guess how many breeds were in its pedigree. It was very tall, extremely thin and 90 per cent hair. Everyone liked it but I often wondered what sized needles God used when he knitted it. Probably the most important man in the village was Mr Bradley who was a farm worker who took the Sunday school in the chapel. It was a Primitive Methodist chapel and I always felt a bit upset about the word "primitive" as I didn’t think it was all that bad. Mr Bradley played the organ and organised the annual prize giving as well as the annual Sunday school outing. I think we always went to the seaside at Cleethorpes, where our first stop would be the nearest shrimp stall. We would wait a whole year to sample those shrimps. It was the highlight of our lives. Mr Bradley organised the annual Garden Fete when there would be races and sports for the children, and games and competitions for the grownups. The women served home made food and drinks, and the magnificent Barnetby Prize Silver Band musically entertained us. My father swore that they would not play a note until they had a bottle of beer under each seat. Two of the most important events were the bowling and skittles for the pig. Farmers gave two young pigs as prizes. Another event was a long rope laid along the ground and people had to measure a "chain" ie. Twenty-two yards, when the nearest to the correct distance won the prize. An area about six feet square was roped off and you had to put a peg, with your name on it, in the spot where you thought the treasure was buried. There was no treasure, but an important person was invited to decide where the treasure would have been buried if it had really existed. The whole village turned out in their best clothes. It was an exciting social event. Mr Bradley was a good man and Melton Ross owes him a lot. Generations of children had their lives changed for the better by being touched by the generosity of spirit and dedication of both Mr Bradley and Miss Whittam. I bet he is still organising Garden Fetes in heaven, supported by Miss Whittam holding the hands of the little children. He was also the sergeant in the
Home Guard. He drilled the elderly recruits and we all slept
soundly in our beds knowing that if the Germans dared to attack us,
Mr Bradley and his men would bravely defend us with their wooden
guns and sweeping brushes. No one seemed to know the
difference between the Church and the Chapel, as people went to
both. Anyone who only went to one would have been regarded as
odd. Church was for weddings, christenings and funerals and
the chapel was for Sunday school and hearty singing. One year my father let me grow a marrow in his garden and I was determined that it would take pride of place at the Harvest Festival. I stole sugar, (which was then rationed and highly valuable), from the pantry, mixed it with water, and fed it to the marrow. I reasoned that if it was so precious and good for us then it must be very good for the marrow. The marrow grew and grew and my father was amazed that I could grow such a prizewinner. I glowed with pride on the day before the festival as my father and I went out to cut it. As we lifted it up, to our horror, it turned into a sloppy mush and completely disintegrated. I must have overdone the sugar. It was probably the saddest day of my life. I always found the Harvest Festival service to be very moving. The harvest hymns, I think are the loveliest hymns ever sung. Their words are so descriptive and appropriate. In the congregation, the honest, hard working men, with their deeply burned red faces, and dressed in their best suits, sang their hearts out and really did praise the Lord for giving them another bountiful harvest. For a whole year they had ploughed, dragged, harrowed, sown, and tended to the crops for this one glorious moment when everything came together and made a whole year’s effort worthwhile. This was the reason for their whole existence. Their wives and children worked just as hard and it was their harvest time as well. Countrymen never seem to look right in suits. They never seem to fit properly and the wearers look as if they would like to rip off their jackets and roll up their sleeves. Suits look better on white, pasty-faced men with thin necks. One day I was sitting alone in my parent’s house when I heard a noise and looked up and saw a neighbour standing next to me. It was Mrs Hatcliffe, Roger’s mother. (Roger Hatcliffe is the creator of the magnificent Melton Ross web site. He encouraged me to write my memories and kindly included some of them on the site. He did not realise what he was starting, as this account has now grown to an enormous size). People then did not bother to knock before entering houses. They just walked in. I knocked and waited at one person's house and the owner told me off. She said, "You don’t knock, you just walk in. Knocking is for strangers." People did not bother to lock their doors at night either. [Continued]
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