Bert Phasey was born in 12 High St Kinver in 1910 and led a typical Kinver childhood of the time & went on to Marry Cis Lidiard who was also born in the High St.
Bert lived with his Grandfather at the Acre whilst his Father was serving in France in WWI.
Bert would go on to live within the village well into his adulthood before making a life changing decision to move to Australia and at the grand age of 84 and at that time, would sit down and write the Memoirs we hold within these pages.
Bert’s Daughter Marion Mcgill also now living in Australia was kind enough to pass on Berts Memoirs to allow all to read of Berts growing up in small village he clearly loved and remembered even across the other side of the globe.
In the year of my birth 1910, the industrial Revolution was being moved from Kinver, my native village. They were closing down the mills and forges which used the power of the river, that was dammed about every quarter of a mile.
We lived at the bottom of The Cliff that overlooks the High Street. The church looks down from its flat top land, and it was my grandfather, William Dorrington, who fixed the first clock face on that side of the tower in 1917. I took up his hot dinner in a basin each day when I was seven years old – I reckon I must mention that Mr Davies of Whittington Hall paid the expenses for this project.
I recall we had a well that must have gathered its water after it had seeped through the churchyard, round the church and down the steep hillside.We survived, and by the time my schooling had arrived, we had piped water, a flush lavatory and taps that gave clean water that was so up to standard that no purification was necessary. I remember with what great glee, will and energy, we dismantled the quaint little building – our old thunderbox at the far extreme of our garden. It was a strange structure, built of part brick, part wood and topped by an iron roof, a door with leather hinges, two big holes, one lower than the other. These holes were like heart shaped photo frames where we put the part of our anatomy that never got photographed.
I recall we planted some rose bushes by the new brick ‘convenience’ and took turns to pull the chain. Isn’t it amazing how quickly one gets used to the new gadgets and forgets digging holes? This is the first time I have remembered it for almost 80 years.
Footnote – the waterworks mentioned above were installed by my mother’s father – Albert Lidiard the village plumber.
Kinver Childhood Recollections by Bert Phasey
My dad returned from the war with five holes in his leg (shrapnel wounds) to find our entire household confined to bed with the ‘killer flu’ that was filling the graveyards of England and Europe with more dead in six months than the first world war managed from 1914 to 1918.
Wireless and of course T.V. had not yet happened, so indoor fun was a game of Alma, Snakes and Ladders, Draughts, Chess, Dominoes or cards. Light was by lamps filled with oil, glasses cleaned and wicks trimmed daily.
Kinver streets were dark at night and usually flooded yearly.
The games for boys were too many to record. Boys played Rounders, the affluent Yankees call it Baseball. Boys tied string round a bundle of rag to make a soccer ball – they played ‘In and Out the Windows’, begged a pigs bladder from the butcher, Mr Brettel, blew it up, and had a wonderful game – till the inevitable happened. Does anybody remember Arthur Fitton of West Bromwich soccer fame? He was my near neighbour and can (or could) vouch for this.
Marbles, fag cards, skims and drops, Jack-a-five stones, button on a window (harmless fun) kick back blind hoss and at night a game of hide and seek. The seeker filled the air with “Sound yer holler” and in the distance the boy replied. If he did not the seeker would add lines to his plaintive call, “Sound yer holler or the little dogs won’t foller.” usually got a quick response.
written by Bert Phasey around the time of his diamond wedding anniversary
Dad came back from the war Jan 1919 with his wounds and a thirst that had to be attended to. Sometimes he would recite poetry he had written. I recall he wrote a piece about the pubs in Kinver. The old iron workers in the early mills and forges must have had at least a passive interest in the hops brew , for such a small place Kinver had many pubs in those days. I will try to recount his poem as best I can;
The lightening struck the Elmtree down
The Anchor fell and broke the Crown
The Car and Horses all shattered about
The Green Dragon had it’s White Harte cut out
The Royal Exchange taken home in a barrow
Bought the New Rose and Crown for the old Plough and Harrow
The George and Dragon in terror fled
When they saw The Plough above their head
The Stag was nailed to The Cross that day
He’d ate all the grapes of The Vine they say
Old Dick Whittington lost his cat
Which he found asleep on Penhole mat
The writer of these lines growing hazy
Should be Locked up
His name, Harry Phasey
It may not be word perfect but near enough, and got him many a glass of beer. He wrote serious stuff too.
I recall the actress Miss Nancy Price. She wrote to me down the long years. My dad played with her in childhood. A lovely gracious friend to old Queen Mary, yet she still had time for the likes of me who went to a charity school – Oldswinford Hospital School.
Not too bad for two Kinver kids (Bert Phasey and Cissie Lidiard) who walked hand in hand in the dark and thought no one knew – Till we heard someone say “It will never last.”
Ye Gods! Sixty years goes a fair way towards it lasting!
Anyway I was glad she was there to remove the bricks, wood and glass when I was buried under part of our home in Shirley, bombed in WWII
Two Kinver kids still very much in love.
Almost every year of my life, at least once a year the village would flood, water would enter the houses of the High Street. We accepted it as though it would go on for ever, but at last a real effort was made to save the dwellers this yearly inconvenience. Drains were made or deepened, a new bridge was erected by the mill and at the same time large pipes were installed under the road approaches to the bridge. It was not until the deep pumps were installed in the area where the trams and other pumps were built at a place called Six Ashes some five or six miles away that the flooding was conquered.
The water was sweet and clean coming up from below the sandstone, yet for centuries people had been using well water that often drained through the churchyard burial ground at the top of the cliff.
The tram stopped running and buses took over. For a time Samuel Johnson ran his little green buses, but the large concern The Midland Red buses soon ran him off the route and a monopoly was established. Incidentally I think Samuel Johnson was an old boy at the Blue Coat School.
Cars became more plentiful, but I can clearly recall my first ride in a motor car – Ray Everly drove a Ford Van for Lloyds A I Bread when the horses were done away with, and he took me with him on one of his first runs.
Later I was sometimes taken to Shatterford with Alex Morris from Wittington in his Essex open tourer to work on his farm.
Motor bikes were already killing the young men of the village and elsewhere and have continued to do so through the years.
At Stewpony the old inn came to the pavement edge (the new one is much further back) so it was considered necessary for an AA man to take up his duty where the road divided. He was smartly dressed in a uniform; coat, breeches and leggings. He had a phone box, a motor bike and side car box that contained tools for repairs and maybe a first aid kit.
Men who were wealthy enough to pay a chauffeur to drive them about and keep the car clean and serviced, insisted that the driver had a special tunic, breeches and leggings – highly polished as were the strong black boots. A peaked cap completed the outfit, usually in a greeny blue or grey colour. So the stable man and the coach man gave way to the chauffeur and the horse drawn vehicle gave way to the car bringing new fumes and a lack of free manure for gardens.
Horses, on the road and on the farm gradually gave way to the motor car and the farmer was quick, indeed, to realise that the motor would start more easily if the car was run up some planks over the manure heap in the farmyard and left to stand there during the cold night. The heat from the manure kept the motor at the right temperature – no fools those men of the soil.
Sugar beet was a new way of getting sugar – this seems to be one of the things that the war taught the farmers of Europe, and of course a Governing Board was quickly set up in Britain. The farmers planted a percentage of land with sugar beet. Men, boys and women pulled these strange big parsnip like things, cut the leaves from them and put them in piles in the field – cold wet work, but “work”.
They were then carted from the fields and stored, simply by putting them in long heaps on the side of the road to await the big lorries – usually Foden steam trucks, at first, but later more convenient trucks were used.
A sugar mill has been erected at Stourport. The sugar was extracted and quite often the pulp residue was returned to some of the farms to aid in feeding cows and beef cattle.
Machinery was taking the place of men’s arms and hands and gradually the horse gave way to machinery. My grandfathers blacksmith’s shop became a coal yard and the wheelwrights shop nearby closed down. A new era was with us. The old order changeth but the people of the industrial Midlands still came to my village for relaxation, fresh air and leisure.
At holiday times they came in their thousands to spend their money, and thank God they did, for without the visitors money our lives would have been lived in a very frugal manner. Most of the houses in the village High Street had a sign to say ‘Plain Teas 9d’ or ‘High Teas 1/6 or ‘Wash and brush up 2d. Stalls in the street had long sticks of white candy called rock, it was coated pink on the outside and the name of the village ran all the way from end to end. My wife smiles recalling how it was often carried back to the place where it was made.
For entertainment Mr Carloman had a permanent Fair at the Fairgrounds. He seemed to have an uncanny instinct when enough visitors would come to the village to warrant opening up and starting the roundabout with it’s gaily coloured horses, cockerals and coach like seats. It’s music would fill the village, spreading a message of gaiety and fun, and raising the hopes of the shop keepers of the village.
Mrs Riley would get out her camera and props for her smiling clients to lean against or sit upon. I recall a motorbike and side car. Often I would pose for her; a platinum blond with a broad grin. She would take a shot or two of me and develop it in the instant developer mixture contained in a cup arrangement on one of the legs of her tripod. Usually she gave me the resultant picture, a small area of some metal like substance, but not always. If it was very good she pinned it up as an example for her future posers to see the quality of her work. Mrs Riley was one of my grown up friends. It was one of these photos that I gave to a young girl who much later in life became my wife. The first of many gifts we exchanged through a long life spent together.
FOOTNOTE FROM MARION – *The blacksmith shop and wheelwright we at The Acre, part of the car park behind the White Hart. in 1977 a garage was built on the site of the Blacksmith’s shop.
*My mother, Cissie Lidiard was given a tea rooms to run for her 17th Birthday
Halfway up the Fairfield was Wells Tea Rooms – Food, fun, drinks of tea, coffee and lemonade, ice-cream being made all day through. A large outdoor area for dancing was well patronised.
At the top of the Fairfield Mr Postlewaite had penny in the slot machines. One could See What the Butler Saw, take a shock of electricity, weigh yourself or flick balls to catch in small cups – in short all the fun of an early pinball parlour.
Teas, snacks, sandwiches, fruit or flowers – you name it – if the visitors would buy, it was on hand. The hills absorbed the thousands. The ferns, bracken, gorse and heather hid them from view. Children played in safety and sweethearts did what sweethearts do. Mum relaxed and dad often slept in the great peace of countryside.
This happy state of affairs would soon change. With the coming of motor vehicles folk went further afield for their holidays and the women of the village who told fortunes on the fairground as genuine gypsies soon converted to more mundane chores. Mr Bunn and his family built a new horse drawn caravan and moved elsewhere to perhaps erect his coconut shy and continue their way of life. Who knows? I missed Sydney and his two little sisters, Emily and Blackie. They had pitched their caravan on the spare ground by the blacksmith’s yard and had stayed for years.
Since leaving school aged 14 I had been working at any type of work I could find, first as a gardeners boy then in a factory at Cookley. I worked from 6am till 6pm for 10/- per week, I picked up nine shillings and fourpence and the other 8d was absorbed in some mysterious way to pay for stamps for insurance or something. The two and a half miles was hard walking, being up hill and down all the way. To be clocked in and at my place to commence work when the whistle blew at 6am meant rising at 5am. It was almost 7pm by the time I arrived home. I was as black as a crow from head to foot. It was my fault that I lost that job; I threw a snow ball and a man came around the corner and received it. He was Mr Abel Morris, the managing director of Cookley Steel Stamping Works. He made it plain that they could go on making wheels for motor vehicles without my help. I am glad to say it was the only time in my life I was ‘given the sack’.
I followed the threshing machine which threshed ricks of corn, oats, wheat, rye or barley. I usually cut the bonds and handed the sheaves to Bert or Bill Smith. They were a father and son act that ran and looked after the threshing machine and the steam engine that drew the great threshing machine from farm to farm. (The whole rig belonged to Mr Robinson of Compton.) They set it at the correct distance and attached a crossed belt to the fly wheel, and as long as they threw a full shovel full of coke into it’s fire, the monster that we fed corn etc went on saying “more, more, more.”
Walter Micklewright cleared the straw boltings away over to the rick that quickly grew under skilled hands. Walter also cleared away the rowins and the loose straw. In turns Bill or Bert Smith took two hourly shifts feeding the spinning drums then 2 hours at the steam engine.
I was not given, nor did I expect relief from my constant picking up and cutting. It was a good job. I only worked for 8 hours – 4 hours, 1 hour lunch, then another 4 hours and a long walk home. I drank cider all day – every time the jar came around I filled the cows horn and drank. Sometimes a farmer would say I was too young for cider and I would get a quart of milk morning and afternoon, fresh and warm straight from the cows. So despite my hands having to have thistle thorns removed every evening and my lungs being full of mould dust, I was in good health. I ate and drank and grew. My shoulders became broad and I outgrew my clothes at an alarming rate. Of course it was all too good to last, but it was good while it lasted. I was seldom fatigued by the constant work and the constant bending worried me not at all.
I worked for any farmer who would employ me and Mr Morris at Wittington employed me on a permanent basis. I spread muck, cleaned out the bull pen, fed and cared for the old sow, I fetched eggs, fed fowl, cut thistles, took horses, three at a time to be shod. I cut chaff, pulled and ‘head and tailed’ swedes, cut marigolds, turnips and sugar beet. I picked peas, planted potatoes, picked them and put them in the long bury to keep them till the selling time came along when I opened the bury. I did the riddle, sorting and bagging. The handle of the riddle got sort of harder to turn as the day gave way to night. I fed young beef, I dipped sheep from sun up to sun down. I loved it. I was fit young and full of life.
Ezra Morris, the farmers younger son, had a Triumph motorbike and side car so his pedal bicycle was no longer used. One day we had been dipping close to Norton, we came back to the farm at Whittington to discover we had left behind a new can opener, used to open the ‘dip’, so I was told, “git on the bike Bert, and fetch it.” I had not been on the bike five minutes when, of all things, coming towards me in that narrow lane – a motor car.
It was driven by the Foot and Mouth Disease Inspector and I think he still thought it was a horse and cart. If so, he forgot to say “Whoa”! The car hit me and the bike went under the car and I went over the hedge into a field.
I was laid up with a knee that was so swollen it shone, and it would not go down. I was bed ridden – “Absolute rest young man, or you may never bend that leg again.”.
Of course, I did bend it again, but it took quite a few weeks. It was about the second week after leaving my bed that I was allowed to try to hobble with a stick. I managed to get to Jennings Newsagent to buy a paperback book, I think it was a Sexton Blake the detective yarn, anyway, I met my mother, and as the girls came out of school and walked down the drive toward us, I pointed out to my mother, “The girl in the middle of those three is the girl I will marry.” (It was Ruby Harvey, Cissie Liddiard and Rosa Davies)
My mother clipped my ear and snapped “Here you are scarcely sixteen years and talking marriage!” Mom did not know I was in love, then, as I am to this day, with the ‘girl in the middle’.
Out of work and lame, I knew Mr Morris would have re-employed me, he was a good man. but my knee was not yet ready for the rigours of the land, so I had to take it easy for a while longer.
Since the war years (1914-18) much work and alterations had taken place at the old church. Paths had been re gravelled, major repairs to the bells, I believe they were rehung. The roof had attention, the new tiles did not seem to match the old ones too well, I seem to recall. A new system was installed to heat the church – hot water pipes down the aisles made worship so much more comfortable in the winter months.
The organ came in for attention too, no longer would anyone’s brother be needed to pump the bellows – the air was now supplied by electricity and the gas lights also gave way to the same power.
The altar rails were repaired by Mr Basterfield and it was impossible to see where his work had taken the place of the ancient craftsman who made the original. A lytch gate was also fashioned and erected by Mr Basterfield. Water was laid to the church and a tap was put close to the lytch gate for the convenience of those who wished to place floral tributes on the graves of loved ones.
New hassocks found their way into the pews for worshippers to kneel on. The chairs with the holder across the backs that were used for the children’s Sunday School were removed, as was the font. The font found a new position by the doorway. In the area cleared the memorial was erected to those who died in the First World War.
The pulpit was stone and cold for the Vicar because the wooden one had been removed for some purpose or other – I really know little about this and I may be at fault, but I think the wooden one was a gift to the church in 1911 when I was still at my mother’s breast.
I marched with the ex-soldiers, in my school uniform, to unveil the out door memorial on the Edge. I was 12 years old.
The hut that was erected half way up Vicarage Drive was a labour of love by the youth of the village. It was no easy task to cut away the bank and make a level for the ex German Prisoner of War Hut to stand for the use of the village folk.
Having Evening Services for church affairs there saved the climb to the church on the cliff. Sunday School was taken there.
The Boy Scouts used it for meetings, as they did for money raising concerts. How many times I saw Walter Micklewright swing his Indian Clubs to the appropriate music for the entertainment of those good folk who never seemed to tire of the spectacle – of if indeed they did, you would never have guessed by the generous applause that always followed.
How many times I sang solo for the Scout’s Concerts and acted in small plays.
Yes, the hut was well used, and the German who was depicted on the outside wall must have been done in a very durable paint, for it survived rain, hail and sun for many years.
1926 was a year to remember. Electricity came to the village and I was responsible for rescuing the poles that were beginning to float away in the flood. I called some of the young men of the village to come and help. I half swam, half waded, to put a strong rope around the poles and together we tied them to the new post and rail fence by the bridge.
The boss came to my home to thank me and all the others, and offered us all a job – we were delighted – that was till he learned that I was only 16 and his limit for employment was 18 years. I was the only one who did not get a job, but like many of the lads who fought in the wars, I learned, by experience, that it sometimes became necessary to adjust one’s age.
It was in 1926 that my father brought home a box of mystery for me – an odd looking contraption to put on my head with round pads for my ears. I had in my hands a miracle – a crystal set. I put them over my ears at a sign from dad who was watching the clock very closely. From nowhere came the words; “This is 2LO calling. This is 2LO calling.” My very first wireless set.
Towards the end of 1926 Mr Bache, a local bricklayer, gave me a job as a bricklayers labourer. We built a house for the Vicar on the slope behind the Vicarage. He usually laid 1000 bricks a day and would throw his trowel into the remaining mortar with the words “Wash the tools and pack up. Goodnight Bert.”
If anyone wants the real definition of a gentleman – I’ll answer Mr Bache. A bricklayer, builder and repairer of homes, with hands that gave the best he had to give – a quietly spoken man, who smiled easily and nursed and cared for his invalid wife with uncomplaining devotion.
He kept me at work as long as he was able, I even worked in his garden for weeks to see if any building work came along. He gave me a written reference, we shook hands and parted.He was delighted, that was till he learned that I was only 16 and his limit for employment was 18 years. I was the only one who did not get a job, but like many of the lads who fought in the wars, I learned, by experience, that it sometimes became necessary to adjust one’s age.
Starting from Acre entrance (two signs square) where in 1914 lived the Pursalls (related to me) He was the Kinver Postman. Jack, his son was about 5 years older than I. He was my brother Fred’s pal. Fred died aged 19 years in 1924.
In the first house lived the Bourne family; Mrs Bourne, Eve and Bernard. Mr Bourne was killed (army 1915), next this way was Swithertons Newsagency Shop, Then came Archie Taylors Hairdressers (and band practice)
Next was Edwards Butchers Shop, next opening to behind the Bakers Shop – Dones. (Two ladies gossiping)
Next White Harte Inn – first door had a macaw parrot to welcome the ‘glasses lifters’, mostly Black Country trippers. Raglan Heale, the landlord employed my grandmother, Edith Dorrington, who lived up the Acre, as cook.
Next lower old cottage and ‘Stable Storage’ was removed when Mr Priest had the Kinver Kinema built in, I think, 1921?
Up the Acre Pursalls – shop and living – postman and greengrocer – later in life to become the CoOp where my pal Bill Davies must surely be the youngest manager they ever employed. (Bill and Rosa were our life long friends) The row of cottages up the left of The Acre (no 1) was the Micklewrights – Jim (killed 1914-18 war) Tom, Walter and Joseph. Jo was the eldest son and lived to great age. He married Miss Cox and was living in James St, Kinver in 1977 when we visited.
Next house the Gilberts – Mrs G, Dolly and Beatrice – perhaps the man of the house was killed in the war?
Next house Mr and Mrs Walton and son Peter – Mrs Walton was a Micklewright before her marriage.
Next house was the house where Arthur Fitton lived with his dad, mother, Margaret and Jane. My father (Harry Phasey – ‘Nipper’) helped Arthur in his football training and introduced him to Jessie Pennington the ‘soccer scout’. Arthur Fitton played for Preston North End before he played for W.A.A. and won the cup. He finally became Warden on Kinver Edge, where I saw him and shook his hand when we (Cis & I, our daughter Marion, her husband John and baby son Timothy) visited in the Jubilee year.
The twin houses, opposite and further up housed my Dorrington grandparents and, when my dad went to war, my mother, brother Fred and myself, as well as other family members – but I was the only one in petticoats – a ‘pretend girl’ to fool the ‘bad spirit’ or ‘the devil’ (strange superstitions in those days) till I turned 5 and Archie Taylor cut my platinum curls (still pressed tween the pages of the family bible).
There was also a wheelwrights shop worked by Mr Griffiths, who could, and did, make anything in wood, but mostly wheels for carts and wagons. How I loved to watch Mr Addison the blacksmith heat up steel rims to red hot, and put them on the wooden wheels.
So Blacksmith, wheelwright and cabinet maker worked side by side – their workshops being about, say, 50 yards apart.
I did not mention that Mrs Riley lived next door to the Dorringtons in the twin houses. I think her husband was another war victim. Mrs Riley took up photography in the Fair Ground (Stone Lane) when Carloman had his fair there and stayed for many years. Her partner was Bob Plant (perhaps her brother?)
The houses were twins with wall to separate them and had only one difference – Mrs Rileys had a small cellar.
Mr & Mrs Wilkes with son and daughter took over Mrs Riley’s house. The only other people to reside in The Acre were the gypsies who lived in their wagon near the blacksmith’s shop – Mr & Mrs Bunn, Sydney, Emily and baby Blackie. They had a coconut shy up the fairground and Mrs Bunn told fortunes to raise a meagre living – Poor souls. Mr Bunn had only 1 leg – a good, caring man as I recall.
The year was 1920. The First World War was over. My dad had returned with five holes in his leg. I was a young boy, eager to please. I’d been sent down the village high street to fetch some Ready Rubbed Red Bull pipe tobacco from Boddies shop.
At the top of the High Street something very unusual was taking place. I forgot my errand and sped off to watch a great gathering of young ladies whose numbers were growing.
I’ve got a feeling that all the towns in the Black Country had sent their lasses to gather there.. They were lovely – with bobbed hair or shingled. On their heads they wore bell shaped hats known as cloches. The colours were many and varied. They wore dresses with boat shaped necklines, very low waist-lines, long bodices to the hips with short flared or pleated skirts. Their long necklaces of artifice pearls or beads were not only decorative, they were also put to use. They were grasped in one hand and twirled around as they lined up shoulder to shoulder, line after line, like the ancient Romans in the film Ben Hur. The girls were flat breasted. I learned later that they wore flat bras or bust bodices to effect this impression.
There were no cars in those far off days to hinder progress and the horses with their carts came to a halt. It seemed all the menfolk disappeared as the ladies swung their beads, threw back their lovely well-coiffured hair and cloches, bowed and started to sing and dance down the High Street.
They were giving a very unusual display of being very, very brave. These were the lasses who had lost their sweethearts, lovers and future husbands. They were saying goodbye to those who would not return to their loving arms.
A few tears fell, but most of them forced a fixed grin or smiled as they danced along and sang.
Horses standing at the roadside snorted into their feed bags and sent the chaff from the oats swirling into the air, smothering the girls in a symbol of the real confetti that would never be used for marriages that would never be blessed or consummated.
The song and dance fell silent as they passed one of the oldest houses in the street. Whether this was intended or it just happened I do not know. I do know that Mrs Beresford was alone in the house. Her two sons lay under the turf of France.
In the front window of her cottage she had placed a card with a printed poetic message. It did not speak of her sorrows – It was her plea to us all to ask us to be kind and understanding of others;
Don’t look for the flaws as you go through life
And even if you find them
It is wise and kind
To be somewhat blind
and look for the virtues behind them.
I am now well into my ninth decade on earth, but no matter how the years pile up for me, nothing will ever erase those boyhood memories. The lovely girl singers still dance on in my old memory.
I had left school when I reached 14 years, so was about half Cyril’s age when I first met him and came under his spell. A challenging time in my young life. I was fishing the river. I was alone, quite alone. Even the fish had gone elsewhere, or were observing the fishy season of Lent. Maybe no one had told them I’d come to feed them
I was lay on my back. I had heard no one approach, so was mildly startled when a voice quite close enquired “No luck?”
We chatted of this and that. He was such a wholesome sort of guy. It was when we got onto his one ambition in life, and listening to how he hoped to bring it to fulfilment, that I got a probable meaning to my old grandad’s adage ‘There is a destiny that shapes our lot, rough hew as we may.’
As I listened to Mr Cyril King tell me of his ambition to march in front of the boys, most of whom had lost their fathers in the 1914-18 war. I can hear him now; “I want to show love and gratitude to those who marched in long lines and never returned from the mud and blood of that long bitter war, and in some way help their kids as much as I possibly can.”
In brief, that is why he became a scout master. Single handed at first, he formed his little troop. He had to learn as he went along, just as the kids did. Cyril was the son of the local school marm, one of four who taught at the village school. He was well educated, proud to serve. At quite a tender age he became relief organist at the church. He held his scouts together. He taught us knots, first aid, the rules, the laws and the lores of scouting. He taught us to sing – solo and in harmony. He gave concerts that raised necessary meagre funds. He was tireless. It became a full time job for him.
Cyril suffered from both grand mal and Petit Mal – Epilepsy. He was a proud man and it was a devastating experience to see his fits. He would have only a moment of warning, give a loud involuntary cry and his dignity would leave him. He would fall to the ground unconscious, a moment of stiffness to his muscles. His arms, legs, face, eyes and trunk would begin to jerk convulsively. His muscles of chest and abdomen would contract and he could scarcely breathe, turning blue in the face.
Every boy in the troop knew what to do when an attack came. The first concern was to protect him. Loosen off any tight clothing, get his mouth open and insert a rolled up handkerchief to prevent him from biting his tongue. We saw to it that no one tried to give him any kind of restoratives or stimulants. After the attack was over, to see his determination to fully recover to normality always gladdened our young hearts.
Why, oh why, should such a warm, kindly, clean living considerate man have to suffer like this? He worshipped God and gave inspiration to all who knew him. He was rightly named King – he was a king among men. For him to be afflicted like this was something none of us could grasp. But he accepted his fits and never once was heard to complain.
Cyril gave his all. Soon other decent young men came forward to assist. More and more joined to swell the troop. In church parades, with flags, drums and music, the king marched proudly at least three paces ahead of his subjects and his friends.
The troop went overseas to a Jamboree, but still the indomitable leader suffered epileptic fits.
I was serving abroad when I had a letter from my brother; apparently Cyril was striding it out as usual, but alone, when he fell and struck his head a horrific blow on the curbstone, blood everywhere.
My brothers words were so graphical, as I read the letter it was as if the scene was unfolding before me. For once, no scout was to hand. Sympathetic friends found him and got him to hospital where he lay a considerable time. When he finally recovered he was completely cured of epilepsy.
Early on Monday morning, about 5.30am, already pillow slips and sheets had been tossed to the bottom of the stairs. Shirts, smocks and blouses had been gathered and tossed down too to be added to the other clothes in the big basket standing in the brew house. All this took place before the difficult job of starting a fire under the copper, always referred to as the boiler.
I can picture my mother in my mind’s eye, down on her knees raking out the old ash remains of a previous fire, loading old newspaper and kindling wood – sticks gathered from hedge rows, probably only the previous day whilst out for a Sunday stroll. Wood was in constant demand, old and young all helped gather it. Men carried their frails, a woven bag carried on their shoulders. Every day, if wood was to hand, a fire had to be lit, even before a pot of tea could be brewed, hence some poor unfortunates started a day of work with a drink from the well.
So, back to mother and her wash day preparations. When once the fire is persuaded to go a wet sloppy slurry mixture was the best possible fuel to boil the clothes. Water had been poured in together with the mixture of tiny flakes of soap and a powder.
It gave a powerful heat, and the copper was kept boiling merrily along. Without the boiling copper the clothes could not have been really clean. It was with meticulous care and attention that the whites were prepared before placing into the boiler, cuffs and collars were soaped and rubbed before being poked down into the boiler with the copper-stick. This stick must surely have been the most hygienic stick of wood in the world from the constant immersion in boiling water. When dry, it was so clean – I can see it even now in memory. Originally a piece of broom handle, it became a useful tool to push the clothes down in boiling water, or to lift clothes out transferring them to the maiding or ‘dolly’ tub. Nearby was a contraption known as a mangle, its purpose was to squeeze water from the clothes. It had two wooden rollers, arranged in a weird and wonderful way – steel cog wheels at the ends of the rollers connected to a handle to supply the motive power. One turns just as one would turn to draw water from a well and, if I was given one guess, I would say that’s where the inventors mangle idea was born. This monster stood about 4 foot 8 inches high, an ornate cast steel frame mounted on four tiny wheels to facilitate movement from place to place. A very decorative design, it came up in a half hooped shape. The top arch was made of steel leaves much like modern day car suspension springs, of course, inverted. Top centre housed a hand grip to enable on to decrease or increase pressure on the rollers. This mangle was the latest of modern appliances in 1915. It was easier to use if someone else was turning the handle for you.
To the right of the brew house was a long narrow pantry, fully lined with wooden shelves which housed jars, bottles, stone pots, jugs of all sizes and shapes – some had basket ware weave to protect them. Jam, pickles, onions and red cabbage in pickle. There was wine, beer and pop, mute testimony to my grandmothers skills; the whole lot home made from plums, damsons, elderberries and parsnips. A near whisky had it’s origin in the humble potato, sloe gin from the small fruit of the blackthorn – these small damson like fruit were very bitter and difficult to gather.
Another thing carefully stored in that pantry, was, of all things, my grandfather’s spade – his pride and joy, meticulously cared for – highly polished and spotlessly clean. It hung on it’s handle on two pegs.
His large allotment was only 200 yards away as the crow flies, but by the road way it was a longer walk.
This allotment, coupled with a large home garden, put the spade to constant usage. Perhaps this was the reason it was kept so handy in it’s rather unusual place in the larder.
The rest of the room was taken up with all sorts of odds and ends There were small stools, boots and shoes, leather repairing kit, a last, needles, bodkins, twine and wax in a box,, boot brushes and polish, the blacklead rag and brushes for the fireplace, brooms, besums and a container for the wet slack, a small shovel, baskets hung on the wall and other odds and ends of all kinds. In short, a utility room that housed necessities that had a use, but not in constant every day use. If I talked for a long time, I could not name everything that could be found there – rope, wire, string, twine…. such a mixture.
As I sit here remembering grandma’s workroom I recall that she became a very frail old lady who was bedridden for a short while. I recall my grandfather saying one evening “I think Chuck (his pet name for her) is only waiting for her call.” A statement that was a complete puzzle to my young mind. The fact that I have no memories of her decline shows how well I was shielded from anything that may have been distressing, and speaks highly of those who loved and cared for me. I was sent to stay with an aunt so know little of her illness, her passing, her funeral and her being laid to rest in St Peters Churchyard at the top of the cliff.
Just after leaving school I was surprised to see the row of cottages by the White Harte Inn, being demolished and taken away. This proved to be the beginning of the Cinema. Mr Priest gave us the chance to see the silent films without going to the big towns, a bus ride away. For the first four or five weeks the only film available to the cinema was an amateur film of Enville races taken two nad a half miles away. We didn’t mind. We knew it was only a hitch..
I have fond memories of the evenings spent at the flicks and can recall quite clearly the films, comics and serials – Pearl White in The Velvet Glove, Lilian Gish and her sister Dorothy in Bride Thirteen, Monty Banks, Charles Chaplin and his imitators, Harold Lloyd, Chester Conklin. Sunshine Sammy and Snub Polard – Our Gang – a gang of kids who got up to all kinds of mischief and good deeds. One of the boy actors was Micky McGuire – I think when he changed his name he became Jimmy Cagney.
Little Jim by Edward Farmer was an all time favourite tear jerker silent film so well known that the audience provided the sound track.
The cottage was a thatch’d one,
The outside old and mean,
Yet everything within that cot
Was wondrous neat and clean.
The night was dark and stormy,
The wind was howling wild;
A patient mother knelt beside
The death bed of her child.
A little worn-out creature—
His once bright eyes grown dim,
It was a collier’s only child—
They called him Little Jim.
And, oh! to see the briny tears
Fast hurrying down her cheeks,
As she offer’d up a prayer in thought—
She was afraid to speak,
Lest she might waken one she loved
Far better than her life,
For there was all a mother’s love
In that poor collier’s wife.
With hands uplifted, see, she kneels
Beside the sufferer’s bed;
And prays that He will spare her boy,
And take herself instead.
She gets her answer from the child,
Soft fell these words from him—
‘Mother, the angels do so smile,
And beckon Little Jim.
‘I have no pain, dear mother, now,
But oh! I am so dry;
Just moisten poor Jim’s lips again,
And, mother, don’t you cry.’
With gentle, trembling haste she held
The tea-cup to his lips;
He smiled to thank her, as he took
Three tiny little sips. (and all the audience counted – one, two, three)
‘Tell father when he comes from work,
I said ‘goodnight’ to him,
And, mother, now I’ll go to sleep,’—
Alas, poor Little Jim.
She saw that he was dying—
The child she loved so dear
Had uttered the last words that she
Might ever hope to hear.
The cottage door was opened,
The collier’s step is heard,—
The father and the mother meet,
Yet neither speak a word.
He knew that all was over,
He knew his child was dead;
He took the candle in his hand,
And walked towards the bed.
His quivering lips gave token
Of the grief he’d fain conceal,
And, see, his wife has joined him—
The stricken couple kneel.
With hearts bowed down with sadness
They humbly ask of Him,
In heaven, once more to meet again,
Their own poor Little Jim.
I recall Iron Foot the Mysterious, The Vanishing Millions, The Birth of a Nation, The Key Stone Cops and their capers. I could bore you with a long list of memories and names but I will mention only one more – Back to God’s Country, the film that Nell Shipman took the star roll, mostly filmed in Baffin Land, and I only mention this because on the way home my father made up a few lines that he sang to a favourite tune – Way down in Tennesee
Way down in Baffin Land
Midst snow piled high and grand
Nell Shipman there you’ll find
With Bears of every kind
And dogs you’ve seen before
Flock round her by the score
When you get back
When you get back
Back home in Baffin Land
One morning, I was passing the house where Miss Nancy Price, stage and screen star, lived as a child. The ‘new’ owners in 1927 had just had a great truck load of small coal delivered. I was quickly to the door to ask the good ladies housekeeper if she wanted it put into the cellar. She said yes, but asked me to find somebody to help as the job would not be finished by night if only one worked on it.
Coming up the street I spied one of my brother Fred’s pals, his name was George Mills – for a time he worked for Mr Addison, the blacksmith up the Acre – so we were old pals, the difference of him being my senior by five years made little difference.
“George, want a job?” says I, already knowing the answer.
To cut a long story as short as possible we shovelled and wheeled a big wheelbarrow from the load to the cellar opening until it was almost dark. We swept the area clean and knocked on the door.
“Have you cleaned up everything?” the housekeeper asked, “Oh yes. That will do.” Into my outstretched palm she placed a half crown coin – half a crown, two shillings and sixpence for two men’s work for almost a full day, during which time she did not even offer us a drink of water. George and I touched our caps and climbed the stile to go and sit on the grass to rest for ten minutes or so before going home to move the grime and coal dust.
“We’ll have to split this Half Crown George. Got any money?”
“No, I’m skint” says George.
So we tossed up, winner takes all. I lost. It didn’t matter, I had not been out of work as long as George.
We sat quietly, and then suddenly George said, in the old dialect of the village, “I’ll goo, if you’ll goo.”, I said, “What are you talking about?”
“Let’s join the army. At least we shall have grub of some sort and somewhere to sleep.”
I did not give it even a moment’s thought. That day in August we made a pact to join the army. I walked with my 15 year old sweetheart and told her what I intended to do. For the first time in our lives we kissed. I knocked off her pretty black hat as I threw my arms round her. I’ve kissed her thousands of times since, still do quite often, but the first time I was clumsy and knocked off her hat. She did not seem to mind, maybe she was thinking of the long years we would have to be apart. I know I was. For the first time it hit home and I understood what joining the army meant.
Saturday morning, 27th August, George and I went to the Drill Hall, Stourbridge and received instruction and travel tickets to Worcester for Monday 29th. We went before the doctor who had some hydrogen peroxide put in our ears, tested our eyes, told us to cough and we were sworn in, signed our Attestation Papers, received a ‘kings shilling’, swore our oaths and were sent to Norton Barracks.
Ye Gods – Now we were going to be soldiers. He became 5247641 and I became 5247642. Not long before, at The Blue Coat School I had been no 66, but I had learned a lot since leaving school. When the army officer asked “What is your age?” I was only 17 but the answer came out with conviction “I was 18 last birthday Sir.” Oh yes, I’d learned my lesson from the Electricity pole era when I had not been quick witted enough.
Chapter 20 – Letter sent back to a Kinver resident in Bert’s twilight years
Draft of a letter to David Bills written early 1988
Sorry I have not sent our usual Christmas Greetings to you and our native village. I have been in hospital for quite a spell. Home now, and recovering. What a thrill and pleasure you sent to me, i.e. The Moseley Will. Your timing was perfect! I shall treasure the book that gave me such a mental lift that I forgot my ailment.
Firstly let me congratulate you on being elected to the Board – as you look on it as a privilege – suffice to say ‘It could not happen to a nicer bloke’ as the Aussies would have it.
The Moseley Will – I’d pictured a single sheet of ‘Olde English’, some sort of scroll. Instead I receive a lovely book, the result of many hours of painstaking work by so many people.
I have known George Humphries all my long life. He was my brother’s school chum and I was allowed to bask in the camaraderie of those two, five years my senior. During my many years of absence from Kinver I have received news of George Humphries. His letters have kept me in touch with his interests and activities, always to the benefit of Kinver and its people. His insatiable interest in the history of our native village and its people was ever a present ongoing devotion. I know he’d be the first to acclaim the work and effort put in by so many of you in the making of this book. As you, David, so rightly said ’58 people heard George Humphries deliver his paper in 1975. It is to be hoped that copies of this book will, over the years, reach a much wider audience and increase the awareness of the Moseley Benefaction.
It seems that William was hale and hearty when he made this Will and not, in the custom of the times, on his death bed. One can only marvel at the prodigious effort to get it all down legally on paper, and the magnitude of his foresight that saw his Will still working after all these years.
So we all hail William Moseley and the Leather Sellers Association. Was it this association that left behind the name for the sloping grass hill known to me in my childhood as The Hanging Leather that abuts the Cliff and the middle church yard. Yes, I know about the sheepskins, but its original usage must have been for hanging leather as the old name tells us.
Can any sort of gen be gleaned from the ancient borough of Moseley off the Hagley Road in Birmingham? Worth a look?
The Kinver Historical Society can be justly proud of the presentation of William Moseley’s Will. I note your appreciation of John W King, the Rev M Walker, Tony Evers (or Even) (Chairman of Kinver Exhibition) John Greaves-Smith, Mrs Marie Roper, Dudley Fawkes and Mr & Mrs Fred Hodges.
Congrats on a job well done – My contribution was the easier task and you have paid me too much kindness in linking my name in the dedication, telling unknown friends of my existence. I note, David, you’ve been very low key as to your own quite formidable effort in the birth of this book.
I butted into your life with only the mutual love of Kinver, and the fact that I knew your grandfather, and your father, and the interests they shared with you. I am grateful that you put up with this ‘old codger’. I want to write to you of other things, and will in the New Year, if I may.
My wife Cecilia keeps a scrap book of Kinver. We never tire of talking to exiles and others of the ‘homeland. If we can be of any help in the future, in any way, to the Kinver Historical Soc, Please let us know.
So our wishes for 1988. May you prosper, be healthy and enjoy life.
Happy New Year to you and yours from me and mine.
Once more – Well Done!
Bert & Cis Phasey.
Chapter 21 – Bert giving his thanks for his education
I offer my belated, very humble, sincere thanks to Thomas Foley Esq. who became Lord Foley. In the year 1667 he had a charity boarding school built in the Midlands of England. He named it Old Swinford Hospital for Boys. The school was for the poor. The largess was to cherish and nurture young boys; give them education and decent dwelling. His descendants dedicated to his cause down the long years made it possible for me to enter the school in 1919 at the tender age of 9 years. I wore the same uniform as the original entrants, and it was because of our long frock tail coats that the colloquialism ‘Blue Coat School’. I was a pupil fro 5 years. School leaving age had risen to 14 years by then.
With other boys I was invited to the family residence, and ate in the great banqueting room in Hagley Hall. As we trooped in I heard a lasy, whose name was Cobham (or Corham) I think, say quite softly, “Suffer little children to come…..”
To the Foleys, because you cared, my life has been wonderful, wherever in the world I have lived – My heartfelt thanks.
Albert William Phasey
(Pupil number 66)
Chapter 22 – Humour the zest of life
In tough times black humour prevailed. Even the graveyards around the churches did not escape this great need to express humour. For quite some time odd grave stone epitaphs were remembered and retold. Here is an example I recall;
There was an old man who averred
He had learned to fly like a bird
So cheered by thousands of people
He gaily leaped from the steeple
This tomb states the date it occurred
Songs and poems were melancholic for the most part. To go to the theatre, slide night or a silent film was thought a good night out if one could sit in the darkness and have a good cry. The greatest tear jerker I recall was Little Jim, written by Edward Farmer, and numerous parodies were written on this famous poem.
My father often told poems and monologues and made up many numerous pieces of humorous poetry to recite. I suppose it was his liking for this sort of thing that made me cock an eager ear for anything I could pass on to him. Here is an example of a favourite limerick;
There was an old lady of Ryde
Who ate some green apples and died
The apples fermented
Inside the lamented
Made cider inside her inside.
Such simple distractions certainly did no harm, for times were grim and getting grimmer. Already the streets were filling with unemployed men, ex-soldiers, with trays of laces, studs, matches or pencils walking the streets. Too proud to beg, they often left home and became tramps living rough, rather than take bread from the mouths of their wives and children. If anyone ever tells that it was never like this in England, tell them they lie, for even the young, fit men found it difficult to find regular work.
A camaraderie amongst the poor became a sermon not even Rev. T.A.Cooperslipper could not better – even when he was at his best. To have, even a little, was to share. Many of the small shop keepers, my wife’s mother included, gave till it hurt, and forgot to send the bills for past favours or debts. I speak here of my beloved native village, Kinver.
Chapter 23 – Emails from Paul Phasey ( Berts’s Son )to contact back in kinver recounting his memories
Hi Trev, I’m Paul Phasey. ( FUZZ) I lived at 100 High St, back in 1958, Both my mom & dad were born in Kinver. I worked at the Kinver saw mills before I left to return to Australia. I would love to have a contact back in Kinver. To talk of old times and may be find news of old friends.cheers Paul.
Number 100 is where it was. used to be a white with black beams 2up 2down cottage with a red doorstep, next to Archie Taylors Barber shop. I went to the boys school in 1952 but never went to Edgecliff although I went to the youth club there. I went on a long walk from the LongMindd in wales back to Kinver one 14 of July weekend with Ivor Dunn in charge. I knew Ken Wrigly had gone, I visited him at the mill in April 1994, he was ill then. Talk soon.
Hi. Trevor. I have lots of memories from Kinver but they are from 3 stages in my life.1st my grandmother lived at Iron House & we spent time there while the war was on. We left England in 1948, for Australia, only to return in 1952 when Grandma became too ill to live alone. So we lived there till we moved to Acocks Green in B’Ham. Sold up and moved back to kinver in 1958, left to return to Australia in 1959. But now it all blur’s into one and sits in a time warp in my memory. The last year I lived there I used to be friends with Brian Hudson, Brian Cox, Brian (tack) Naylor, Phil Baker, Robert & David Mickelwright. And a group of kids that I used to meet down by the British Legion hall. But it was all nicknames then and they are lost in my memory. Girl’s name that come to mind, Ann Tobin, Angela Pratt, Barbara Cunningham, Myrtle Harrison, Gloria Webb, etc. You may have known some of the Glasby family. Cousins of mine also out here. Its all over 40 years ago but its fun for me trying to fit it all back together. P.S. I’m sure more will come to me as you jog my recall like Beakey Fletcher. Your pal, Paul.
Hi Trevor. I’m sure Yvonne was in our group that used to go to the dance at the Legion hall. Brian (Tack) Naylor and Robbie ? used to play guitar there. Robert Mickelwright. Brian Hudson and I were into ham-radio. We pushed an ex tank transmitter in a wheelbarrow up to the top of the cliff to invite my best friend, David Baylis from B’ham to a rock party at Nannies Rock. The transmission was picked up by some uni-student, who asked if he could come. ‘Yes if you bring your own bird and bottle’. The party was so big that it even made the newspapers in Australia. Where did you go swimming with John? At the Kingfisher or the Stewponny Lido? Yes it’s hard to forget the noises that came from Archie Taylor’s when the practice was on next door.
Hi Trevor. The Iron House is on the Comper I think. Walk with me, Up Meddins lane, to the oaks trees on the Edge turn right along the road .Red hill ? at the top there’s a cross road go straight ahead about fifty yards on the right is where Iron House was, It’s now next to the sleepers cottages. Sorry the names of roads are not to clear. It’s a long time since I walked the walks of Kinver and even then I knew where they went not what their names were.
Iron House belonged to the Newtons, (Grandma’s family) they also owned the shop called Chapel House, at the corner of High St and Stone lane that backed onto the car park of the Plow & Harrow pub, also owned by extended family, – The Salters. I used to take Ann Tobin to the Stewpony the last summer I was in England. I went back to have a look at it in 1994 and it was all overgrown with blackberries.
Hi Trevor., Yes Adrian and Glyn are cousins. They lived at the Pub next to the Chapel house shop corner High ST & Stone lane. I’m not sure if it was the Plow or the Plow & Harrow. But I am sure she broke more than one little boy’s heart. I did write to Yvonne but no response as yet. Do you know anything of Brian Cox? I think his father had the electrical shop in Kinver back then. I know that Brian Hudson died after a Heart lung transplant about 1990, he had a brother David, a teacher I think. He lived up White Hill. Ok BE WELL. Your pen pal Paul.
Hi Trevor. Brian Cox was lodging at Cookley when I last saw him, so you’re spot on with your memory. He did the sound van at the Kinver show, and when the Fire brigade had all their hoses leaking he played “Water Water Every where, not a drop to drink.” over the P/A. The census CD sounds great. My sister Marion would find it very useful for her family tree. I have a Wedding Anniversary on the 23rd. Dec. Forty years. “With no time off for good behaviour.” Only joking it’s been good, and I could not have found a better Mother for my five children. Seven Grandchildren and one great grandson.
G’Day Trev. You asked me where number 100 High St was back when I lived there. Well it was next to Archie Taylors shop where you went to band practice. Before that I stayed at my grandmothers at 96 High St next to a little shop and next door at 95 the Glasbys lived before they went to Foster St. I hope all is well for you and all your family. I look forward to hearing from you if you can find the time. Paul
Hi Trevor. I just thought I’d drop you a line to say G’day. its been a while since Mick brought me up to your place in Castle St to meet you face to face for the second time. The first time I recall was back in 1959, when I walked Yvonne home the night she broke up with Tack Naylor. My brother John & I had a good holiday on that trip & look forward to doing it again sometime soon. I have been sick in hospital for 5 months, but am now home & recovering from Acute Myeloid Leukemia. I have been through 3 lots of Chemo & am now in remission. I was over in New Zealand when I was taken ill. It was quite a shock to be on a glacier one day & hospital a week later. I hope you & yours are well. best wishes to you all in Kinver.
FOOTNOTE – sadly Paul was lost to his battle with Leukaemia in Oct 2008. RIP Paul
Chapter 24 – Known Names and address’s taken from the Directory of Kinfare Parish 1851
Number reference 1 reside at Compton, 2 Dunsley, 3 Gothersley, 4 Iverley, 5 Whittington, 6 Stourton, and the rest at Kinfare.
Adams Henry, plumber, painter, etc.
Arnold Sarah, schoolmistress
3 Bate George. Esq., Gothersley House
Bennett James, schoolmaster (post office)
1 Bennett Joseph, ironmaster
6 Bennett Captain William, Stourton
6 Binder William, gardener
1 Brindley Joseph, gentleman, Union Hall
Burgess George, miller, Check hill
Clissett William, coal merchant
Coley Henry, saddler, etc.
2 Davenport Mrs. Jane, Dunsley
Dorees Frederick, hair dresser, etc.
5 Edwards Thomas, ironworks manager
Foster James, Esq., ironmaster; house Stourton Castle
Green Mr. Edward
2 Hancox Mrs. A.
Hodgson Henry, Esq., Kinfare House
Holyoake Thomas, surgeon
Johnson Eliza, Infant School
Lea & Boulton, bar and rod iron, etc. manufacturers, Hyde Iron Works
3 Maybury Joseph, manager
Mills William, hair dresser, etc.
Morris John, grocer and draper
1 Musselwhite Ralph, gentleman, Iron House
Parkes Benjamin & Jesson, spade & shovel manufacturers, Hyde Mills
Parkes Thomas, draper, etc
Pearce William, land agent, Kinfare Hall
Powis James, draper and hatter
Reynolds Edward, parish clerk
6 Robins Benjamin, gentleman
Robins Thomas, solicitor
Shaw Hannah, earthenware dealer
5 Southall William, iron refiner
Turner Charles, hat manufacturer
5 Warden William, bar iron, etc., manufacturer; house Birmingham
Welch John, chemist and druggist
Wharton Rev. George, M.A., vicar and master of Grammar School
5 Williams James & Benjamin, bar, rod, and sheet iron, etc. manufacturers, Whittington Iron Works
Williams Charles roll turner
Woodyatt Thomas, screw, etc. manufacturer, Kinfare Mills
Yarronton Rev. Thomas Charles, M.A., curate
Inns and taverns
5 Anchor, John Johnson
Cross, William Underwood
Crown Inn, Rachel Hawkes
Dragon, Charles Nicholds
Fox, Francis Lloyd, Clambrook
George and Dragon, George Laughton
Lock Inn, William Williams
Old Plough, James Parkes
Plough and Harrow, Benjamin Mees
6 Strewpeny Inn, John Mantle
Stag, Benjamin Cookson
Swan, William Matthews
Unicorn, Mary Church
White Hart, Jesson Parkes
5 Whittington Inn, William Dunn
6 Shaw Joseph
Boot and shoemakers
6 Corfield Joseph
6 Webb Thomas
4 Parr Thomas
5 Archer William
4 Brown William
2 Burgess Thomas
1 Caswell Thomas
6 Cox Joseph
5 England Thomas Hutchings
1 Hill Edward
1 Horn John
6 Norris May
1 Palmer Thomas
4 Parr Thomas
Pearce William Hall
5 Pointer Thomas
2 Robins John
2 Savage Thomas
2 Mantle John
at James Bennett’s – Letters via Stourbridge
William Rowley,to Stourbridge daily.
Ref WHITE’S HISTORY, GAZETTEER AND DIRECTORY OF STAFFORDSHIRE, 1851