We all knew not to question his decision, so we didn’t. We just got to work.
On the Sunday before the auction, which was being held on the Monday morning, we all met at the stables. Charlie and Tommy sorted the carriages. I started on the horses with Jack. I began with Tommy – my favourite. I loved them all but I’d learnt the ropes with him and he was a bit special to me. I was talking to him, as I always did, but this time my voice kept cracking. Normally he stood still when he was being groomed but today was different. He was nuzzling and pushing me with his nose. I truly believe he knew something was going on; it was the way he kept leaning into me. As I bent down and started on his legs, the tears that had been welling up just dropped down into the straw. I was finding it hard to stop them. I got my handkerchief out and wiped my eyes quickly so the others wouldn’t see.
I was then left with Tony, who was also acting strangely. He was the opposite of Tommy – normally quite lively and enjoyed being brushed, but today he stood dead still with his head dropped. I kept trying to get him to lift it but he wouldn’t. During that hour I have never felt such sorrow. Our beautiful horses were going and we would never see them again. We were heartbroken.
After they’d been groomed we harnessed them up to the three carriages and, without a word being spoken, drove them through London to the Elephant and Castle and left them at the repository. Although there was a war on this would be only the second time that I’d witnessed grown men cry. To this day I don’t know how we walked away from them.
The following morning I was up at 4 a.m. I hadn’t slept a wink all night; in fact, I cried for most of it. Mum heard me get up, so she got up too, wanting to cook me breakfast, but I just couldn’t face it. I left carrying a paper bag of carrots and caught a No. 40 bus back to the Elephant and Castle to meet Jack. Uncle was coming later for the auction.
When Jack arrived we made our way to the horses. We’d arranged that we would groom them together for one last time to get them looking extra special for the auction. They whinnied when they saw us, as they always did, and my throat closed up and tears filled my eyes again. I could barely see.
‘Let’s get this done, Stan, let’s make ’em shine one last time,’ Jack said, stroking Archie. His voice had started to quiver, so he quickly looked away and began to brush him.
I thought the previous day had been hard, but now my heart felt as if it was literally going to break. I had a physical pain in my chest; I couldn’t breathe. It was impossible to hold back the tears any longer.
‘I’m sorry, Jack, I can’t help it,’ I said, burying my head into Tommy’s neck as I sobbed.
‘It’s alright, son. I know,’ is all he said, not looking around.
After we’d finished I went back to each one, feeding them carrots whilst whispering how much I loved them and gave them one last hug.
We left them in their stalls and went outside to meet Tom, then waited for the auction to start. Within half an hour, Prince, Tony and Tommy had been sold and so had our hearse and two mourning carriages. We were stunned when my grandfather’s original hearse, which he’d had specially commissioned in 1912 and had paid a king’s ransom of £200 for, went for a mere £14. The only items we kept were our ‘velvets’, which were stored away in a trunk in our office.
Later on, our worst fears came true. Baby, Archie and Stanley were not sold, as they were deemed too old. That afternoon they were taken away to be destroyed.
How I wanted to save them!
I would have done anything absolutely anything to stop them being taken away. Without a word of a lie, if someone had walked up to me right then and said, ‘If I cut your right arm off you can keep the horses,’ I would have held it out, closed my eyes and said, ‘Do it!’ I really would have, but that didn’t happen; in fact nothing happened. Uncle was adamant. ‘I’m sorry, boys, but there’s nothing we can do,’ he said, shaking his head.
Tears blinded our eyes as we watched them being led away. All their lives they had trusted us but now we had betrayed them – our wonderful, loyal beautiful friends. Not only was it unbearable to see three of them sold, but for the others to be destroyed was beyond comprehension.
I would not work with horses again for another forty years.
It was around four months after the auction. I was getting ready to leave for work when Grandma called to me from upstairs.
‘Stan, will you come up a minute, please?’
I ran up to her and she was in the bedroom brushing her hair in front of the mirror, getting herself ready for work.
‘Take these cheques in for me; give them to Tom when you get there. I’ll be in a bit later this morning,’ she said, as she handed them to me. Even though she was now eighty-seven, she was still in charge of all the accounts at the shop.
‘Course, Grandma. I’m on my way now,’ I said, putting the cheques in my pocket. ‘See you later.’ And I walked back downstairs.
Just as I got to the front door I heard a crash from upstairs. I turned and ran back up and there, lying on the floor, was Grandma, her hairbrush still in her hand.
I bent down shouting: ‘Grandma, Grandma, wake up, please.’ But she didn’t move. She was dead.
I ran to the top of the stairs, calling out for Mum, who was hanging washing in the garden. She ran up the stairs and gasped as she saw her lying there. We managed to lift her onto the bed, and I remember thinking how peaceful she looked. Mum called Uncle and he came down with the rest of the family. I had to leave them, as we had a funeral in the afternoon, and I told Uncle that Jack and I would be able to deal with it, as it was a relatively simple affair.
I was numb. I couldn’t believe my lovely grandma had died, and so suddenly – one minute she was there and then the next . . . gone!
At services, on a daily basis, I would hear the vicar saying: ‘In the midst of life, we are in death’, but it was only at that precise moment I fully understood what it meant. I suppose you could say it was a ‘wonderful way to go’, and for her it was, but to us left behind it was a massive shock. She was a huge part of my life and, together with Uncle Tom, she’d taught me so much about the business. I would miss her so much. The men at the stables were devastated too, as they’d worked with her for over thirty years.
That afternoon, with both of us feeling sad and low, Jack and I finished the funeral at the East London Cemetery. As I came out of the service I was alone and making my way to the car when a voice called me. I turned around and there was Mr Hitchcock, our rival. He was looking at me strangely and it unsettled me, but I didn’t know why.
‘There’s someone to see you, Stan,’ he grinned.
‘Sorry, Mr Hitchcock, but I don’t know what you mean,’ I politely answered.
‘Round the back there . . . go on!’ he said, pointing around the corner of the crematorium.
I was puzzled, and shook my head. ‘Who is it?’ I asked. I didn’t know what it was all about, but I certainly wasn’t in the mood for jokes, although Mr Hitchcock wasn’t famous for his fun personality.
‘Bloody hell, boy, go and see . . . it’s a surprise!’
With that I walked round the back. As I turned the corner there they were – Tommy and Prince. Their heads shot up when they saw me, they whinnied and started to pull the carriage forward, but the coachman stopped them. I couldn’t move. I just looked at them. I wanted to run up and hug them but knew I couldn’t; then I wanted to run back to the car but knew I couldn’t do that either.
As I turned away, Mr Hitchcock was standing silently behind me, sneering. My hands automatically clenched into fists at the sight of him. I started to shake. I wanted to smash his face in, thinking, ‘How could you be so cruel?’ Then, to make matters even worse, he says, ‘Well, don’t you want to pat your ’orses, Stan?’
I looked straight at him and rage engulfed me. I could feel my hands clenching and unclenching, but something deep down stopped me. I knew I had to control myself. I couldn’t let Uncle down. You know, in some perverse way I think he wan
ted me to snap, so he could spread the news and try to damage our reputation. So all I said was, ‘No thank you, Mr Hitchcock,’ and with that I walked past him. As I made my way to the car my legs felt as if they were going to give way, my hands were still clenched, and my eyes were filling with tears. All I could hear behind me was laughter.
As I mentioned earlier, during wartime it never ceased to amaze me how animals and humans adapted to the most horrible of situations, and from that moment it never ceased to astonish me how heartless some people could be.
Years later, Uncle received a phone call from Mrs Hitchcock.
‘Mr Cribb,’ she said, ‘Mr Hitchcock sadly passed away last night and he left strict instructions that I was to call you and ask you if you would conduct his funeral. He said to tell you that he knew you didn’t have a lot of time for him, with the rivalry of the two companies and all. He also said to make sure I told you that he had a great admiration for you. “Tom Cribb always passed the time of day when our paths crossed,” he said, “and I always respected him for that.”’
Amazing, isn’t it, how things turn out.
For all the sadness we had during that horrible year of 1944, the following year proved to be a lot happier. The war was finally over. VE Day or ‘Victory in Europe’ came on 8 May 1945, virtually a year after the D-Day landings.
Britain was victorious, and everybody was glued to the wireless. The whole nation sat in silence listening to King George VI and Winston Churchill making their speeches. It was an unforgettable moment, especially when Churchill’s deep, resounding voice came through:
‘This is your victory!’ But then the crowd shouted back: ‘No, it’s yours!’ He carried on: ‘It is the victory of the cause of freedom in every land. In all our long history we have never seen a greater day than this. Everyone, man or woman, has done their best. Everyone has tried. Neither the long years, nor the dangers, nor the fierce attacks of the enemy, have in any way weakened the unbending resolve of the British nation. God bless you all.’
There was never in our history a day like this. We were FREE. We had won the war with Germany – six long years of living in constant fear, surrounded by death and destruction was finally over.
They’d been horrible years; petrifying. Relatives, neighbours, friends from school – one day they were with you, the next they were gone. Our childhood had been taken from us; we lived for the day, never knowing what the next would bring . . . if you were lucky enough to have a next one. It taught me to cherish every morning, as when the nights drew in and the bombings started you’d never know if you would live to see another.
Street parties were held all over the country but mostly in the East End. It was incredible to witness such jubilation. You could sense a wonderful difference in the atmosphere – relief had replaced terror.
The evil tendrils of the war had reached out and touched every family. I don’t believe that one would’ve been left unscathed. So many of our men, women and children were lost and families would never ever be the same again. As for our magnificent troops, who had fought so hard for their country and for our freedom, one of Churchill’s most famous sentences could not have been truer: ‘Never in the field of human conflict was so much owed by so many to so few.’
8
Duration of Emergency
1946 (age 18)
I arrived home from work after one particularly long day and I was shattered, as always. It was normal to see Mum in the scullery preparing our tea when I got home. But something this evening wasn’t right. She hadn’t called out her usual, ‘Hello, Stan, had a good day?’ and I couldn’t smell any tea cooking on the stove.
As I went into the living room, she was sitting in the armchair, something she never did at that time of the day.
‘What’s wrong, Mum?’ I asked, walking up to her. ‘Aren’t you well?’
‘I’m alright, Stan,’ she answered, looking up at me.
‘Is it Dad or the girls?’ I was starting to get worried.
‘No, no they’re fine . . . this came for you today,’ she said, handing over a brown envelope.
I automatically knew what it was, and my heart skipped a beat. On the front was stamped: On Her Majesty’s Service. I stood there holding it. I wanted to open it but didn’t. I just kept looking at it.
‘Go on, then, open it, you know what it is,’ Mum said.
I tore it open and inside there was a travel permit and a letter that read:
Dear Mr Harris,
You are required to report to The Bedford Barracks on the 16th June 1946 at 12 noon to complete your ‘Duration of Emergency’ training etc etc.
That was just two weeks away! I was full of emotions, excited, nervous, but also petrified. I’d known it was going to come but now it had I was in a daze.
The ‘DOE’ or Duration of Service still continued even after the war had finished in 1945. It was to be followed several years later by National Service.
‘How do you feel, son?’ Mum asked, looking at me with concern. To be honest, I think she was more upset than I was.
‘Well, I don’t know, I feel strange. I can’t take it in . . . I mean, I’ve only got two weeks before I have to go. They don’t give you much time, do they?’ I smiled. I wanted to reassure her that I was OK, as I knew if I didn’t she would worry.
‘I’m going to miss you so much,’ she said, and stood up and hugged me.
‘I’m going to miss you too, Mum. But don’t worry . . . I’ll be home on leave, and the time will fly by, you wait and see.’
She then kissed me on the cheek and turned away, heading for the kitchen. ‘I’ll go and get the tea on,’ she said.
Dad was fine about it. I think he was quite excited for me. As the war had finished, the danger aspect had been reduced. There were still dangerous places where I might be deployed but it wouldn’t be anything like when the main war was on, or when Dad had served in the 1914–18 World War. He had been just sixteen (two years under the age for joining up) when he volunteered. He lied about his age, as did so many young men to enable them to fight for their country. He was in the Royal Horse Artillery and he would ride up to the front line next to the big guns, which caused the hearing in his right ear to be permanently damaged. Strangely enough, his horse was called ‘Kitty’, like my mum, even though it would be another five years before he would meet her.
Kitty was one of the 120,000 horses rounded up in just two weeks from farms and stables up and down the land. These poor horses were removed from their comfortable lives, leaving their owners distraught, and thrown into utter turmoil. Many were forcibly dragged onto ferries at ports all around the country, and if they couldn’t be dragged they would be winched on, hanging from huge canvas harnesses. They were then taken to the Western Front and put into battle. These sensitive creatures must have been so bewildered and petrified, as were the soldiers who endured terrible hardships of extreme cold and hunger.
I remember Dad telling me that most of the men didn’t have a clue how to look after a horse, so they were given a small booklet from the Blue Cross titled The Drivers’, Gunners’ and Mounted Soldiers’ Handbook, etc., to Management and Care of Horses and Harness, which they all kept in their pockets and read religiously. During these bleak, traumatic years, the soldiers and their horses created a unique bond, and this gave the men something to focus on other than the constant threat of death. They would feed, groom and chat to them, and some would even sleep close to their horses for warmth and companionship. Dad told me that when he rode Kitty up to the front line he could feel her trembling with fear between his legs, but she would never back away. The bravery of those men and horses brings tears to my eyes.
Without the ‘war horses’, Britain could never have won the war, and at the end around 750,000 survived but the majority never received the heroes’ welcome they so richly deserved. Around 25,000 of the youngest and fittest were kept but, incredibly, 85,000 were destroyed and their meat used to feed the starving French and the prisoners of
war. Around 500,000 were sold to farms in France and Belgium to help restore the countryside and 60,000 made it to Britain where they too were sold. Can you imagine what those years must have been like? I’ve tried, but I can’t even begin to comprehend the fear those boys, men and horses felt. Dad never spoke about the day he was parted from his beloved Kitty, and I think that was because the pain of losing her was too much.
After dinner I got on my bike and went to see Joan. Since her family had moved to Denbigh Road I’d been going round regularly on the pretence of taking bunches of rhubarb from Dad’s allotment, as well as the odd bag of potatoes, lettuce and tomatoes, just to see her. I later discovered that all the adults knew we were sweet on one another but they just let me carry on turning up with these food packages because they enjoyed them.
We’d been carrying on like that for a few years. Romances didn’t move fast in those days, especially when we were still young and with a war on. But around April 1943, when she reached seventeen, she left me. That’s when she decided to join the Women’s Land Army. Around 75,000 women joined up over the course of the war to help run smallholdings and to grow fruit and vegetables. She was allocated to Little Hallingbury, Bishops Stortford, Essex, and spent two years with a Mr and Mrs Bass, helping them look after their small farm, which kept cows, turkeys, chickens and rabbits and also provided food for the local community. They loved having her stay with them; she was like the daughter they’d never had.
I missed her so much while she was there, so one Sunday I decided I’d cycle over to visit her. I swear to you, I never did it again. It was around forty miles! I hadn’t realised until I was halfway there just how far it was . . . it was a nightmare. I left at the crack of dawn but when I reached Epping Forest the ground mist suddenly became incredibly thick. It started swirling around my feet, then my legs, and it was soon up to my neck. I literally couldn’t see my body. It was so eerie. If anybody had seen me they would’ve thought it was a ghostly apparition of a bodiless head floating in the early morning mist.
An East End Farewell Page 8
