PREWD'S PRUNINGS

Being those portions of the Mousehold Press book 'Prewd and Prejudice' deemed too long, short, irrelevant, irregular or downright irreverent for inclusion in the original publication.

November 1904

"Remember, remember the fifth of November,

Gunpowder, treason, and what?

There must be some reason

To remember this season,

But whatever it is, I've forgot."

1 November, Tuesday

(regarding Mrs Prewd's failed attempt at divination)

Perhaps it was a mistake for Mrs Prewd to dabble in things beyond her experience, such as divination and dreams.  Dreams have always been immensely powerful things.  Joseph, you may remember, successfully predicted seven fat years and seven thin, although some people think it was just a lucky guess on his part.

In country areas there have always been those ready and able to explain the meaning of dreams.  The name of Freud had not reached such places as St Just-near-Trunch in 1904.  After all, his 'Interpretation of Dreams' had only been published four years earlier.  In fact the name of Freud has only just reached St Just, since Mrs Dace bought a remaindered copy of 'Henry's Favourite Dog Meat Recipes' in a book shop in North Walsham.

3 November, Thursday

(regarding Farmer Trout's insistence on hand threshing)

Sid:  They reckon in the village that he wouldn't have no thrashing machine because of one day when he went into the Goat Inn when the Trunch rugby team were in there.  They were singing all them old rugby songs, like 'The Hair on Her Dicky Davies', and 'Ging Gang Ghoulies', and the like.  He didn't take a lot of notice until they started off singing a song about a thrashing machine.  Well, he was shocked.  Then he was outraged.  Finally he was totally disgusted.  He reckoned the whole thing was a disgrace - I suppose he thought it was a terrible abuse of agricultural machinery.  And from that day on he couldn't look at a thrashing machine without getting his blood up.

5 November, Saturday

(further to the explanation of Burns Night)

My research into the customs of November 5th took a strange detour when I asked Sid Kipper about the matter.  As soon as I raised the issue he visibly paled, refused to speak and, most unusually, turned down the offer of another drink.  By now my interest had been aroused, so I looked to other sources of information.  One day, while going through back numbers of the Trunch Trumpet in the Coote Memorial Museum, I came across the following on the front page of the edition of November 11th, 1904.

NUDE JUDGE

CONDEMNS FIRE TRAGEDY

In Gimingham on Tuesday one of the judges of the Miss Naked Norfolk competition said that although it had nothing to do with him he thought it was a rotten shame about the bloke who got burned to ashes in Trunch on Saturday.  On being questioned further he quickly added that what he had meant was that it was a tragedy that Guy Fawkes had got caught, with which the whole company heartily agreed.

The winner of the contest was number 16, Miss Hemsby.  her father, Mr Hemsby, said that the whole family were delighted.  "It's a very fair contest", he said, "because anyone can enter as you don't need any expensive clothes".

It should be pointed out here that good taste was not offended at any point.  The girls do not, of course, actually appear in the nude.  They parade in their normal clothes, and the judges undress them mentally before awarding points.

The only problem arose when one of the judges, Gimingham policeman P.C. Compatible, forgot to mentally dress one of the girls again afterwards, and later mistakenly arrested her for indecent exposure.

See page 3 for our artist's impression of the lovely ladies.

Without even opening the paper I hastily returned it to Annie Kipper and left the Museum.  What could the judge have meant about 'the bloke who got burned to ashes'?  I decided to tread carefully.  In fact I trod carefully out of St Just-near-Trunch and back home to Norwich.  I was unhappy about returning to the village, in case there was trouble about what was beginning to look like a nasty secret from the past.  I busied myself with some back numbers of the Trunch Trumpet, until I came upon an item in the May 11th 1962 edition.  It was a regular feature in which the paper looked back to stories from years gone by:

IT WAS IN THE TRUMPET

57½ YEARS AGO

On page seven of our edition dated Nov. 11th 1904 we announced the opening of Trunch Crematorium, and the first cremation there on November 5th.  It seems odd now to read of the great controversy this caused, many people believing that it was an abomination.  It caused a great stir, and throughout the paper people commented on it.  One vicar said "If god had meant us to be burned when we were dead he would have given us heads like matches".

The first person cremated was local body builder Mr Graham Guppy.  His trainer commented "It was a terrible tragedy.  Thirty years work has just gone up in smoke".

I was unable to visit the crematorium itself.  It burnt down in 1912.

With some relief I was able to return to the village and continue my research in safety.  There I learned that Sid Kipper had recovered from his sudden bout of his 'old trouble', and was able to drink as much as ever.  He gave me yet another explanation of the celebrations of Nov. 5th:

Properly speaking it's called Bunfire Night.  It commemorates the time when King Alfred burned the cakes and invented the Navy.  They burn all the stale buns that have been left over from rained off picnics and the like.  We never have an buns left over, so mother usually bakes some specially, using the very same recipe as Alfred used.

Then there's the fireworks.  Now a lot of people wonder why we have fireworks at this time of year.  Well, that's easy.  It's because this is the time when they come into the shops.

For weeks before the event all the children go round the village shouting "Penny for the Guy", but you don't want to be fooled by that.  The pennies aren't for the Guy at all.  They keep them for themselves.  They're supposed to make a Guy, but mostly they don't bother.  Mostly they just go out and nick a scarecrow.  The whole thing symbolises a relation of mine, Guy Kipper, who tried to blow up Parliament once.  He would have succeeded too, only he lost his tinder box.  There's an old song about it, which you still hear today, called 'Haste Thou A Light, Boy?'

Who would have thought that in a little place like St Just-near-Trunch there could be so many explanations for a simple bonfire?  It just goes to show that there is still much about traditional English customs which is yet to be lost.

11 November, Friday

St Just is usually associated with Cornwall, where there are two towns named after her, but my researches actually suggest that she actually lived most of her life in Norfolk.  My long search for St Just eventually led me to a small, ancient cell in Fakenham.  The misunderstanding was soon cleared up, however, and the police were very nice about it.

I had gone to the area in pursuit of a story that St Just had been an associate of the holy woman Matilda of Walsingham, sometimes known as Walsingham Matilda.  This in turn led me to the village of Great Snoring, and it was here that I at last found the true story of St Just.  How sad, then, that I lost it again in the scuffle which drew the attention of the police (see above).

What we do know of her seems a little strange.  She had, for instance, at least seventeen fingers, that being the number still remaining in the form of authenticated relics.  Since some must have gone missing over the years, it seems likely that she in fact had many more than that.  Sadly the most exciting of all the evidence about the saint has recently been debunked.  The so called Trunch Shroud was found to be a fake when Mrs Dace announced that it was, in fact, her best table cloth, and demanded its return.

15 November, Tuesday

Herring seems to have been allowed considerable latitude, but then, the relationship between Doyley Silver-Darling and his butler was a most unusual one.  Herring hated his master, yet he served him faithfully for many years, eventually becoming butler at the Great Hall when Doyley came into his title and took up residence.  And Doyley, in turn, despised Herring, but nonetheless allowed him to get away with murder.  The story, when I eventually learned it, proved to be stranger than truth.

Let me take you back to December 1899, when Ladysmith was besieged.  Doyley Silver-Darling was a young subaltern, and had as his batman a grizzled veteran by the name of Herring.  One night, in a sleazy little bar in a rough quarter of town, a man committed a terrible crime.  Another man saw the first man leaving the bar.  This other man, for whatever reason, did not report it, thus making himself an accessory to whatever it was the first man had done.  In military law they were each as guilty as the other.

The crime was discovered, and the suspects narrowed down to two - the first man and the other man.  It was certain that one of these men must have committed the crime, and that the other man was covering it up, but as long as they did not know which was the first man and which was the other man, then neither man could be charged, since they were guilty of different things.  In the end, since the military could never admit failure, both men were sent home in secrecy, once the town had been relieved, and all records destroyed.  Technically they were both retired hurt, and no more was ever said about the matter.

Documents recently released under the 90 year rule only serve to deepen the mystery:

22.10.00.  Department of Information to DOI.  This department has been asked about the return of Lieutenant D. Silver-Darling and Corporal Herring from South Africa.  We would be grateful for any help.  B.F.

23.10.00.  Department of Intelligence to DOI.  The people of whom you speak has never been in the British Army to our knowledge.  S.F.A.

25.10.00.  Department of Information to DOI.  Come off it!  The pair of them were seen in your office last Tuesday, in uniform.  B.F.

26.10.00.  Department of Intelligence to DOI.  Well, we might know something about the Corporal.  I'm not saying we do, but we might.  But if we did I couldn't tell you, because that might implicate the Lieutenant, and he doesn't exist.  S.F.A.

29.10.00.  Department of Information to DOI.  Over the weekend I ran into your non-existent Lieutenant.  He would tell me nothing, however, as he said it would implicate his batman.  Can we get together in your office and discuss this further?  B.F.

30.10.00.  Department of Intelligence to DOI.  Please stop writing memos to me.  You are wasting your time, but not mine, as I do not exist.  Neither does this office.  S.F.A.

The whole thing seems to hinge on the question of which was the first man, and which the other?  The truth, following extensive research, can now be revealed.  They were both the other man!  All their lives each man thought that the other man had done whatever it was.  But, in fact, it was done by a third man, who left by a back door, and was never caught.  Each of our two men had seen the other man leaving the bar as he left it himself - something he could never admit to, since he should not have been there in the first place.

So they lived, each one hoping to catch the other out in a slip which would finally allow them to implicate him whilst not needing to put themselves in peril.  Each hated the other, since he blamed him for putting himself in this position.  But, as neither of them actually did it, they never gave themselves away.  Neither dare let the other out of his sight, because each thought that the other knew too much.  I only wish I could say the same.

16 November, Wednesday

The original leader of the Trunch Coronation band was a relation of Sid Kipper:

So was the bloke what brought up the rear.  But the one that started it was Ephraim.  It all started when Queen Victoria got coronated.  You see, he noticed that when she descended on the throne there were loads of events, so all the bands in the area got loads of well paid work.  So he thought what he'd do was to start a band that specialised in coronations, so that when the next one came around they'd be the first ones in.  They practised in the village hall every Monday night, and by all accounts they were pretty good by about 1873.  Of course, what they didn't know was that Queen Victoria was going to go on for so long.  I mean, she didn't so much reign as pour.  By the time the next coronation came along they'd gone off the idea.  Well they'd gone off altogether, actually, because they were all dead.

In 1985 four young musicians formed the New Trunch Coronation Band, in an attempt to recreate the sound of that original group.  Thankfully they failed, and actually sounded very good.  They even recorded a long playing record, with Sid and his father, called 'The Ever Decreasing Circle'.  And their music, if Mrs Prewd will forgive me for saying so, was much appreciated.

19 November, Saturday

I include a typical order for Victorian lingerie.  This is purely for purposes of illustration, and should not be regarded as an invitation to titillation:

Please supply:

one dozen pairs of you know what (frilly)

one gross doo dahs (gusseted)

two score knick knack (khaki)

one bushel unmentionables (ladies)

one only whatsit (lace trimmed)

24 November, Thursday

Today was election day for the Parish Council.  The matter does not concern me, except for the fact that the streets were blocked by carts supporting the various parties.  They bore banners with cryptic inscriptions such as UCP and CUP, plus a large number which were simply blank, which at least reflected the expressions of those who waved them.  I was tempted to ask Ffreddy Ffookes-Ffordyce just what a monster raving loony might be, but feared the answer.

Amongst all this unnecessary behaviour I came upon Farmer Trout.  He was standing outside the New Goat Inn, buying drinks for all and sundry, and holding the bridle of a horse.  In his other hand was a large placard which read 'Vote Dobbin - You know it makes horse sense'.  I asked him if he was seriously proposing that his horse become a councillor.  He surprised me considerably by pointing out how successful Caligula's horse had been in ancient Rome.  "And that horse weren't half as clever as this one, Mrs Prone", he said.  "For instance, if I want to come here for a drink in the evening I don't have to worry about how much I have to drink, because the horse can find its own way home.  That way I can stay in the pub and have a couple more after the horse has gone if I want".

I told him firmly that he was talking gibberish.  Indeed, I told him, most of the village talks gibberish most of the time.

"Exactly", he said.  "That's why the horse stands a good chance of getting in.  He never talks gibberish at all".

I was reminded of something the vicar had told me on my arrival.  "Life is different here", he said.  "Just remember the golden rule;  When in Trunch do as the Truncheons do".  I would dearly have loved to do as a truncheon unto Farmer Trout, but unfortunately uncle Wesley's pacifier is no longer in my possession.

When the news came this evening that the horse had been elected I was not surprised.  It might almost have been expected in this perverse place.

****************************

One of the Parish Council's main duties was to administer the footpaths, and to this end there were three main parties in the village.  The Union and Conservatist Party were, as their name implies, based on the trades union movement, and wanted to change everything in the village except for the footpaths, which they regarded as the single truly working class institution existing.  The Conservative and Unionist Party, on the other hand, wanted to get rid of all the footpaths and leave everything else severely alone.  These two parties fought long and hard at every election for control of the Parish Council.  Despite this, however, neither ever gained a single seat.  People in St Just-near-Trunch could never bring themselves to ally themselves to any particular creed, and so voted steadily for the Independent Party, which had no policies whatsoever.  They were loyal to their Councillors.  'Chippy' Fry was returned at every election for fifty-seven years, including three victories after he had died - although he only just scraped in on the last occasion.  So all that canvassing was actually a waste of time.

Elections of years ago were far more colourful than our modern, grey-suited events.  Votes were bought and sold, candidates were heckled and pelted at the hustings, and fights often broke out.  But Parish Council elections in the area are still keenly contested, and always arouse a great deal of local interest.  Sid Kipper told me about one recent election:

Well, we had a bye election, caused when my uncle Len's seat became vacant.  He didn't mean it to be vacant, mind you.  He just got up to go to the toilet, and by the time he came back they'd called an election.  The reason was that Lord Silver-Darling wanted the seat for his new son-in-law, the Honourable Charles Guppy, who married Veronica Silver-Darling not so long ago.

Now years ago we used to have a system of 'one man, one vote', and the one man who had it was Lord Silver-Darling.  Nowadays, of course, we all get a vote, whether we want it or not, so come the day I went down to the polling station.  In I went, and there I saw old Herring junior, the butler from the Great Hall.  He was acting as teller.

"You'll be voting for your uncle Len", he told me.

"Well hold you hard", I said, "This is supposed to be a secret ballot".

"That's all right", he told me; "I can keep a secret.  Cross my heart and hope to die".  Well, he's not the only one hoping that.

"So who did mother vote for?"

"Oh, she voted for Len alright", he told me.

"So much for you keeping a secret", I said, but he said it was alright because it was just between me and him.

So I asked him what we knew about the Honourable Charles.  "They say he's very big in the city", Herring told me.  "Well, I don't care where he's big.  Size isn't everything you know.  I reckon I'll vote for Len again.  I don't want any honourable people on the Council.

He told me in that case I'd be pretty safe with Len.  So that was that, and I'd done my duty.

The result was posted out side the village hall on the Tuesday.  Then they took it down again, and waited till after the voting.  Of course, the Honourable Charles won both time.  His sort always do.

In fact his sort did not always have their own way.  As we have already seen, in Mrs Prewd's time the ordinary people ran the Parish Council.  It is a shame that the radical spirit which was then abroad in Norfolk, the county which elected the first ever Labour MP, has so deserted it today.  I put this point to Sid, but his only response was to ask how something could be abroad if it was in Norfolk.

27 November, Sunday

In many of its aspects Christmas in St Just-near-Trunch owed more to pagan origins than to Christian ones.  Much of it can be traced back to the worship of the Iceni.  They had many gods, such as Bale, the god of harvest, Pan, the god of cooking, Juno, the god of rambling beneath the moon-oh, and so on.  Others included Thor, the god of deflowered virgins, and Vesta, the goddess of Italian underwear.

The greatest fear of the Iceni was that they might have missed a god out.  Such a god could wreak a terrible revenge on them for their failure to worship him or her.  To safeguard themselves they invented 'the unknown god or goddess', who they called 'X'.  As time went by X became the most popular god of all, partly because he or she never came down from Mount Muckleborough, where the other gods and goddesses lives, to demand tributes.  And partly because the other gods and goddesses were afraid of X.  Even deities, it seems, are afraid of the unknown.  Eventually the festival of the midwinter solstice was dedicated to X, and became known as Xmas.

In later years the Christian church cleverly adapted many of the activities of Xmas into its own calendar, and now X worship has been almost forgotten.  Some symbolic activities do survive,  Hunting the wren, for instance, is a hangover of virginal sacrifice - especially in the Navy, of course.

That, at least, is the usual explanation.  Others disagree.  Ludmilla McGregor, the self-proclaimed 'High Priestess of X', has an alternative theory.  She claims that the whole thing is actually quite the reverse, and that Christianity was in fact absorbed into X worship.  "After centuries the secret is finally out", she declares in her worst-selling new book, 'The Integration of X'.  "Now everyone can admit to celebrating Xmas, by over eating, over drinking, and generally behaving in a thoroughly pagan manner".

There seems ever reason to believe that she is right.