Tales from the Vale | Andy Palmer

Tales From The Vale with Andy Palmer

Stalbridge back in the 60s and 70s was a bustling village. Roughly half the size it is now, the main street was full of shops and we had some great characters.

Probably top of the list was Reverend Frederick Saunders (shortened to ‘Derek’) – an eccentric, likeable, scatter-brain of a vicar resembling Alistair Sim, who’s enduring legacy of forgetfulness and haplessness still keeps village elders entertained.

Typically, once a month he trooped us primary school kids, delighted with the diversion from lessons, up to the church, only to find he’d again forgotten the enormous brass key – so we kids would again amuse ourselves among the gravestones while he dashed down to the enormous Rectory just behind the wall by the Stalbridge market cross (officially ‘the finest market cross in Dorset,’ says Hilary Townsend, author and broadcaster), now The Old Rectory Care Home.

And come the time for his sermon, he’d start to look a bit panicky and search his pockets, a benign smile in place, until it dawned on him that his notes were, again, back at the Rectory, so he’d extemporise in an entertaining way, pretending to refresh his memory by looking at non-existent notes on the lecturn. We all knew he’d forgotten them. He always did.

The Rectory is where I first tasted ginger wine. I was nine and it was at Christmas carols, held in a cavernous room that was definitely a few degrees centigrade below the freezing outside air. The ‘heating’ came from a minute paraffin stove that absolutely stank.

Rev Saunders drove around in a battered old slide-door Dormobile the colour of butterscotch Angel Delight. It was battered and scraped because he was forever driving or reversing into buildings, telegraph posts, walls and the few parked cars there were in a Britain barely out of post-war austerity – rationing didn’t end when we finally clobbered Johnny Hun, it continued for another nine years, ending at midnight 4th July 1954. Some youngsters moaned about ‘austerity Britain’ after the financial crisis of 2008 – they should have been around for the real austerity and what followed.

London’s Imperial War Museum, at the very top floor, has a wonderful, nostalgic replica of a 1940s home – stark, barely furnished. I was overwhelmed by it. That was the house I grew up in.

The Rev Saunders caused much mirth when, on a typical occasion, he drove into the petrol station (still there, and brilliantly run by very friendly staff), went and paid for five quids worth of petrol, then drove away without putting any gas in the tank. He then phoned the garage for assistance ten minutes later when his car spluttered to a halt for want of fuel.

On a later occasion, which thrilled the village, he survived accidentally driving off the road up at Thornhill. But he was impressed at how his car was efficiently towed out of the field - through a hedge - and showed the greatest cooperation with the local policeman, PC Spencer Meacham, whose son, also Spencer, was a mate of mine. Yes, we had a village constable who lived opposite The Green in an official ‘police house’ with official police light and notice board. How very Dixon of Dock Green.

Another character was the head of St Mary’s school Geoff Mallet, who lived in Snowdon House in Gold Street, probably one of the loveliest and architecturally distinguished streets in all Dorset. Worth a slow, appreciative walk up and down.

We school kids liked our headmaster. I had the added advantage of seeing Geoff in a social context as my mother, Audrey Palmer, was an infant teacher at the school and she and my father were friends with Geoff and his rather brisk PE teacher wife, Molly.

learn algebra, Sir, I’m never After the primary school, we older kids queued for the bus which took us to Sturminster Newton High School – a good,

strict school with excellent academic standards. A few years later I went to Weymouth Grammar School which was Stalbridge High Street - image courtesy of Stalbridge Archive Society astonishingly lax by I had a particular reason in being He was brought up comparison. friendly with Mr Mallett. I found by his grandfather At Stur High School, we had to his daughters Catherine and who worked on the call female teachers ‘ma’am’ Celia very agreeable. I’m not sure this was reciprocated. But then I Sherborne Castle estate which felt grown-up and rather American, and I wasn’t the only was 12 years old and girls were a and gave him a love of one that liked it. The maths mystery to me. the outdoor life. teacher, a Scot, Mrs Warren Geoff Mallett was a man of Years later, when I bought a very strict and an excellent enthusiasms. He suddenly cottage in Dorset, I found that teacher, showing us how to do felt that the senior kids at the John Head, long-retired, had quadrilateral equations, which primary school should learn been head teacher at Bishops amazed my new teacher at the school should learn basic French. Caundle school, so I went to see Grammar school. It was obvious that no teachers the head teacher who put us I was a year ahead of other 13 knew the language, so Geoff was in touch. We arranged to meet year-olds at the Grammar, I horrified (I later found out) that at the White Hart close to the believe. he had to do it himself. That school. wasn’t the PLAN. He’d stare I was so excited. The French teacher Mrs Minnear incomprehensibly at a text book So, 42 years after I last saw the was the mother of Kerry in his desk drawer, which he teacher I really respected, in Minnear, then a relatively famous clearly believed was unseen by walked John Head and his lovely progressive rock musician in the us pupils, as he hammed his wife Sally. I’d have recognized band Gentle Giant. Knowing of inaccurate way through, barely him anywhere. some kids’ interest in the genre one step ahead of his charges. I couldn’t not call him ‘Sir’, she generously invited a group despite him entreating me to call to her home when Kerry was He also had a sudden passion him John. I just had to call him visiting. He was very kind and for teaching Algebra. One of ‘Sir’ or ‘Mr Head’. That’s how I awed kids with stories of how my mates, clearly ahead of Billy thought of him for nearly half a albums (as they were then called) Connolly, said, ‘why should we century. were made. (who we knew as ‘Haggis’), was going to go there.’ My mate was However, both John and Sally He was pushed to open up serious. He thought the French looked rather subdued. about other aspects of a was enough. A few months later Sally mailed rock star’s life, but with his me that John had died. Just mum looking on pretended There was one teacher before coming to meet us, not to know what was being I really liked, Mr Head. He was considerate, enthusiastic and obsessed with fishing and hunting. and I mean their previous appointment, they had learnt that John had terminal cancer. What courage and kindness they had in still coming along and listening and smiling patiently to asked. The geography teacher, Mr Newton, I believe had had a particularly ghastly time as a prisoner of war, I’ve an inkling 33

TALES FROM THE VALE in Burma or Thailand. He chainsmoked cigarettes during lessons. Oh, that dreamy past.

Our form teacher had been a rear-gunner in a Lancaster – he was lucky to survive. Roughly 55,000 young men in Bomber Command died, and the rear gunners were usually the first to go.

Weymouth.

The enthusiasm for sharing and engaging others in Stalbridge history discussion is still as strong as ever with the Stalbridge History Society, even though they haven’t been able to hold any of their popular talks for almost a year now.

A new website https://www. stalbridgehistory.co.uk/ is proving to be quite a hit, and an engaging Facebook page https:// www.facebook.com/groups/ stalbridgehistory has attracted nearly 120 group members since its New Year launch. The very first post on Facebook was a request for information about the New Inn at Stalbridge One rainy November evening in the late 60s, two young scamps from the primary school, knowing that a meeting was being held in Stalbridge church, crept through the gloomy damp entrance, and in true French resistance style, threw fireworks

Stalbridge Weston - image Dee Judd Weston from Dave Hucker. His father, Henry George Hucker, had been the landlord 19441951. As word quickly spread and new members signed up that same day, various snippets of information emerged, including a list of landlords and even a photograph from Dee Judd (above), whose father, Vic King was the landlord for many in before scampering away in a state of great rebellious excitement. One of them was Brian Trevis, whose dad farmed down Station Road – the farm’s now a housing estate. I can’t tell you who the other imp was, but I caught a dreadful cold that night.

The first job I had after university (after a summer in the Pocono mountains, Pennsylvania, teaching teenage girls to windsurf) was to head the education department in a Sussex military museum, Fort Newhaven, similar to the Nothe Fort in

I knew that boys would enthuse over the guns and tanks etc, but wanted females to be interested too. So, apart from getting a display of women’s fashions from 1914 to 1945, and female military uniforms (the girls particularly admired the WREN officers uniform, and do you know what? So did I), I got the art department to mock-up a typical adults’ weekly ration: this included a 57

gram blob of butter, four thin slices of ham and bacon, 227g of gristly minced beef, 57g of tea, 57g of cheese and, wait for it, one egg.

Get out the kitchen scales and see how many feasts you’d get from 57g of cheese!

The school children I took round this fascinating display could not believe what their grandparents had to put up with. And they’d return with parents and their parents, all paying the hefty entrance fee. What a marketing genius I could have been!

Bloody good fun, though. Andy years (1959-1975). School photos are becoming a hit with the group at the moment. As faces of long ago are recognised and names added, we are able to record and store this valuable information for the benefit of all. Take a look. Join the group. Become a member of the Stalbridge History Society.