Pavenham 1945 1970

A Memory of Pavenham.

This is the village where I grew up, my parents moving into their very old, somewhat dilapidated cottage at the end of the war. This was 'The Folly' at the eastern end of the village opposite one of Tandy's farms. Why it had that name I have no idea; it certainly wasn't built as one. I am now 75 but my memories of and love for Pavenham haven't dimmed. My very first memory is of crawiling along the brick floor of what would become our dining room and peering around a doorway to see workmen removing a blackened old range in the adjoining kitchen. I was then aged one and have been told it's impossible to remember anything at that age - however I strongly dispute that, especially as I have several others all dating to the years between one and four.

Directly opposite us were an elderly couple, Mr & Mrs Boyd, who had a daughter Dorothy who stayed on there long after her parents had died. Right next door to us on the west side was a cottage owned by the Wesleys; they had a daughter a bit younger than me called Christine. Beyond them was another farm (now Beazleys), then owned by Mr Rogers, a nice old soul who seemed quite introverted but let us walk through his fields down to the river, where of course we swam every summer. We chose a spot close to the old horse-drawn bus that had been left there by the Linnel brothers ('The Retreat' at the west end) as a bathing hut, way back in the 1920s probably. A field drain also used as a sewer emerged from a nearby hedge just upstream but the river, after only 100 yards or so, seemed clean enough. Mum said it would keep us healthy! The old bus still had a bit of glass in the windows at that time and we used to play on it. Over subsequent years I watched it gradually crumble away to almost nothing. A thorn tree had grown around much of the ironwork but last time I went there in about 2005 there was really nothing left. I watched otters being mercilessly hunted there once. So sad and misguided.

1947 was desperately cold with deep snow lasting a long time. Somehow my father got himself to work at the BBC in London often by walking to Oakley Station every day. No central heating in those days, rationing of many foodstuffs and a general mood of deep depression everywhere. But my mother was determined to get into village life and quickly made friends, especially with those having children of my age. I had a very good chum called Charles who lived in Mill Lane. We rapidly got into model aeroplanes as his father had been a pilot in the first war. We are still firm friends. The bottom of Mill Lane was to me always a deeply mysterious and exciting place; you could walk through man-high nettles to get to the "island", on the far side of which was a good little beach for swimming and picnicing. The island itself had been formed by cutting a mill stream for the mill which by then had long disappeared although there were visble bits of foundation masonry. Horace Church lived at the far end of River Row and owned much of the land to the east including the famous osier beds; he had a huge vegetable garden down at river level and was very active in the rush cutting that took place every year for the renascent mat and basket making industry started by Charles's mother Pamela.

The river here became a hugely important part of my early life. We swam in it, fished in it, had punts and canoes, made dens in the wooded bits and trespassed into Mr Church's osier beds. Its course is very sinuous and I remember being very confused by the stretch at Hurdlefoot which seemed to me as a little boy like a different river going in the wrong direction! I loved that bit too, when my father would hire a punt for the afternoon and we would go upstream and listen to the lapwings around a nearby gravel pit on the Milton Ernest side. On the Pavenham side were the remains of old boathouses and jetties that had belonged to the Bury.

The Bury! I remember going to a big tea party there held in a sort of orangery I think, for the main house was already semi-derelict in the mid 1950s. In the following years the house was abandonned and gradually fell into complete ruin, the garden overrun with brambles. But what joy for little boys! We would creep inside and pick our way across rotting floorboards fascinated by the dereliction, the smell and the sense of something very important that had now gone for ever. Our route to the church was by footpath that led past overgrown fields and the Bury garden. One of these fields, nearest the road just behind the spinney, had a mysterious low building all boarded up with no access at all. What was inside? We had to find out. We dug under the door and were rewarded by the discovery of a huge steam engine that would have provided power for the Bury's water supply. All rusted and unused probably since before the war. That whole area is now covered with modern houses but there were fairy rings (mushrooms) in those fields, huge estate type trees: elms, limes, oak and of course the back drive to the Bury. My mother was a great fan of ancient footpaths and was never afraid to battle through undergrowth to find a disused one.

Another great influence on my life was dear old Mr Russell who lived in the cottage on the east side of our garden. He had an old nissen hut in a nearby field which was his workshop. He could repair anything mechanical and I'm sure was well known in the village. He must have had every hand tool known to man, all well oiled and gleaming in their racks; there was some ancient machinery too and a lovely warm stove where you would often find some very elderly companion warming himself. Mr Russell showed me how to sharpen chisels and how to use his lathe and was always my first port of call when something I had attempted to make at home wasn't working out. His advice and encouragement meant a lot. He was tall and very thin and my father said he was a distant relation of the Duke of Bedford!
At the road end of that cottage was Mrs Catlin's shop. Yes really! It had a door made partly of wire netting and was very dark inside. I used to buy matches there and sweets probably. The cottage is now called the White House - the adjoining wooden garage was the shop. The farm opposite is now all houses. One in particular, Lammas Cottage, is sited right on the old cow shed where I learnt to milk by hand. Behind the long row of new cottages was a dutch barn where thrashing by steam engine was carried out - all very exciting to me.

The main village shop was owned by Mr Manton next to the school. I think it was the PO as well before that moved to a premises in Weavers lane opposite. Mr Manton was a very nice fellow and treated us children with a certain indulgence. His sweet jars were always alluring and there must have been ice cream as well.

I grew up with absolutely no interest in the church despite being marched there regularly by my mother. I did once have to read a lesson during a carol service, was slightly late in leaving my pew, so had to take a run to the lecturn. Such unseemly behaviour was noticed; " he RAN" the old ladies exclaimed! I also managed to inadvertently walk off with the borrowed prayer book. Feeling ashamed, I hid it right at the back of my toy cupboard and said nothing for years. Eventually it was surreptitiously returned.

Walking towards Oakley one came to the outermost part of the village, passing a caravan park and a street of council houses before reaching the entrance to Hurdlefoot. Carrying straight on at the bend led to a track going over the railway. This was a super place for watching trains. In those days of steam there were long water troughs containing softened water drawn from the river via a softening plant at the foot of the viaduct. The result was a huge pile of lime just beside the river. The expresses usually hauled by Jubilees or Black Fives, sometimes Britannias, would often pick up water here with a huge amount of spray and commotion while we naughty boys would try to drop pebbles into their chimneys from above - always missing I'm glad to say. But the real excitement was to catch a huge Beyer-Garratt loco hauling an immense coal train from the north down to London.

Carrying further along that track you entered a field and then were able to cross the river by an old Bailey bridge and go into Milton Ernest.

My father died in 1970, my mother remarried and carried on living at the Folly until the early 1980s when she moved to Oxford. By then I had left home and eventually settled in the west country where I have been ever since. Pavenham however still feels like home. I have many more memories of Pavenham people, including one old friend who still lives there. I was sent to Polam School in Bedford where I was taught by Timmy Caddick and Margaret Lake who both lived at Hill Cottage.