Woods Ware China at the Serving Hatch

I recently read an excellent book called “Square Haunting” by Francesca Wade. If you’re interested in London between the wars and women who flaunted society rules to live the life that they wanted, this is the book for you. The book focusses on five different women, all of whom lived in Mecklenburgh Square at some point. The most famous of those residents was Virginia Woolf, and it covers both her time in the square and in the village of Rodmell, where she was to take her own life in 1941. The book reveals that when she was living in Rodmell, Virginia was a frequent visitor to her local village hall. This was because, quite surprisingly, she became a member of the Women’s Institute. It would be easy to imagine that she would see herself as being above such things, and perhaps occasionally she did get frustrated. “ We’re acting village plays; written by the gardener’s wife, and the chauffeur’s wife; and acted by other villagers.” Wade makes reference to Virginia’s diary en...

“I promise that I will do my best” The community centre mass drone Voiced boredom at Brown Owl’s behest A pack in brown berets and yellow ties Dress pockets bulging with string and ten pences Ready for non-existent emergencies The most exciting Brownie moment Was camp (not even tents) at Sleaford And packed-in dormitory torment Though I yearned to be a pack sixer I did my best not to be noticed Too introvert to be a mixer Other girls did their best to be nasty Even though they had promised to be good Their slights were underhand and crafty Lines of brown and yellow suppressed howls Shuffling around the dusty parquet floor Nurtured by not the wisest of owls. Sarah Miller Walters Visit my collection of poems inspired by 1940s problem pages

Extract from “The Countryman” journal, Spring 1946 At the end of the casual workers’ season last year we had as usual our harvest tea. The “boughten” cakes must have been fairly good; and the bread and butter was helped down by some home-made preserves and potted meat.   Although it was a poor spread, things being as they are in the food line, our guests seemed to understand and enjoyed it…for decorations there were flags, and the words on a rather faded portrait flag stood out, “God bless Queen Victoria.” After the tea Harriet recited “The Boy Stood on the Burning Deck” and “Dare to be a Daniel”, and sang “The Bells of Aberdovey” and “Don’t Hang My Harry; You’ll Break His Poor Mother’s Heart.”   During the applause the board placed on apple boxes for a seat collapsed. There was a bit of a mix-up and it was agreed that Polly, who weighs 15 stone, should have a box to herself. Up to this time young Tommy had had 10 cups of tea and 15 cakes, and Jim had dropped...

Virginia Graham is one of my favourite poets, though sadly she seems to be almost forgotten. I treasure my first edition of her only collection “Consider the Years”. Virginia was a contributor to publications such as Punch; she was a good friend of Joyce Grenfell and Celia Johnson among other well known names of the 1940s and her poetry collection is dedicated to Celia and her husband, Peter Fleming. “Consider the Years” is a series of poems inspired by Virginia’s experiences on the Home Front in World War Two. As a member of the WVS, it is inevitable that the collection will include a mention of the kind of the things that we associate with village and parish halls.  Here’s a lovely one about a tea urn, that gives a real flavour of her work: Ode on a Thermot Urn (With apologies to Keats) Thou still impure slave of thirstiness, Thou foster child of mutton broth and tea, How can a dictionary of words express The inspissated gloom you raise in me! What pu...

Wethersfield Village Hall in Essex is pleasant old building, an old brewery maltings that was converted for use of the parish in the 1920s. Villagers themselves had helped to pay for the conversion by purchasing shares. Money was raised to board over the concrete floor so that it would be suitable for dancing upon and it was well used. More information can be found on the parish council website here:   http://wethersfield.org.uk/wethersfield-village-hall-2/ The regular dances, and the sense of ownership by local residents, led to a little bit of trouble in 1937, however. Towards the end of that year, a hunt dance was held which could be attended by ticketed invitation only. A 25 year old girl called Evelyn from Cambridge turned up with a ticket that she said she had obtained from a friend. This appearance of an uninvited guest seemingly rubbed up the organiser, a Mrs B, the wrong way. She was forced to deny that she had been rude to the girl or had deliberately cras...

The art of fundraising is closely associated with the village hall. Not only will the village hall committee need to bump up their income on occasions, the hall is often the host to the fundraising activities of others. The charity fete, whist drive or auction will all find a home here. Perhaps the hall kitchen needs refurbishing so that a dinner club can use it – all kinds of markets and minor gambling will take place to try and secure it. Or perhaps a grant application will be put into the Lottery or a charitable trust – a way that rich people can sooth their consciences and avoid taxes is to distribute grants to good causes from these trusts, often modestly named after themselves. There are some obscure ones with fun names that will only cover a small geographical area, and there are some well known ones with recognisable names that anyone can go for. I have spent much of my career applying to these grant making trusts and know the names and criteria of many of them practi...

Extract from an article in the Summer 1951 issue of “The Countryman” on an Essex village: “Miss A runs the village boy’s club. It is about 50 strong at the moment, though that figure is perhaps misleading. Its real membership runs into many hundreds, and it is on this shadow strength that the lady’s reputation rests. The club is held on two or three nights a week in the village hall, the usual pitch-pine-and-varnish building which elsewhere seems to produce an atmosphere of genteel apathy. We went to see it. During the day it was deserted, but hardly empty; for round the walls, with scarcely a break, hung the framed photographs which recorded the club’s annual beanfeasts. Instead of showing the year’s crop of thirteen and fourteen year olds, each picture was crammed full with young men and women, and older ones as well, ranged at the supper tables, row on row, until beyond the reach of the flashlight glare the faces faded into the background. The photographs went back year by yea...