|
Barbara Murfin nee Sarney born 1940s
Dairy Cottage home of Stan (Dixie) Smith
Stan's tiny house had a scullery and a living room, both adding up to about the size of a small modern bathroom, dominated by an open coal range. This was kept going, night and day, summer and winter. He used oil lamps as there was no electricity, like many in the village, and he lived very simply. There was a cold water tap in the scullery at the rear of the house, and a tight staircase to upstairs. Looking back, I don’t think washing was a problem, he never did it. What Stan had was a fantastic collection of polygraphs. Either hand wound, or a penny in the slot (that’s an old penny). Some worked with very large metal disks, about 2 feet across, others were paper fed. There were lots of precisely cut holes to make the music as he turned the handle to work the bellows. His pride and joy was his barrel organ, kept in the cow shed because of space. Many a Sunday he would push it out of the shed and its notes could be heard drifting over the orchard and common. He kept a big old goose and some hens, and when the goose was laying I would get an egg once a week when delivering Dixie’s newspaper.
Ann Clark b 1940s
Stan Smith (1897–1978)
Just off the Common in Flackwell Heath, beyond the War Memorial, you will find yourself
in another world.
For here in the Dairy yard the chickens scratch. A cock crows in the orchard and old Jack the gander reigns supreme, warning the occupants of the two flint cottages of another visitor.
Pause outside, the door is always open inviting you to step inside. A black and white cat is
curled up on the mat. She rouses and stretches from her sleep, casting a disdainful eye on the
noisy world outside. A cheery voice calls out a greeting as you step in on the quarry tiled floor.
Uncle Stan is at home and there is always a welcome. He is never short of a visitor, many old friends and relatives pop their head round his door for a chat with a bit of news and eager to hear his news. Even the local boys bent on mischief had a personal regard for Uncle Stan.
He is an upright gentleman with a tidy head of white hair, a weathered complexion on a kindly face and blue eyes that twinkled when he laughed. He dresses simply in dark serge trousers and a collarless shirt, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, all held together by a wide leather belt. Uncomplicated clothes that didn't interfere with his work. A dairy farmer of many years. The youngest son of John and Eliza Smith who kept the local dairy. He remained at the farm, a bachelor, tending a small dairy herd and an orchard.
Uncle Stan rakes through the ashes of his old Pickwick stove, he throws on some more kindling and the fire glows brighter as he sets to right the scarred black kettle over the trivet. A tabby cat snoozes in his chair close by, her ears alert to the antics of an assortment of kittens playing in the hearth.
The shelf on the wide chimney breast is cluttered with small brown photographs of loved ones past, one of his black dog Tiger is captured in a wooden frame. A black china cat sits at each end of the shelf, with letters and bills tucked behind the one nearest Stan's chair. Little space is left for his many clocks, each with its own characteristic tick. In a corner a grandmother clock chimes the hour.
You can't help noticing his appreciation of his clocks and each one tells you a different time. But what does it matter, time in this old cottage stands still.
A splendid picture of The Copper Horse in Windsor Great Park hangs above his dresser.
Uncle Stan is very proud of his collection of old musical boxes. If you have time he promises to show you some of his rare masterpieces. Perhaps his Seraphone hand organ on which he will treat you to the tune of 'Over the Waves'. You will watch in wonder as he turns the handle and the perforated music sheet slips smoothly through the rollers.
He'll play you a tune on his Polyphon. He selects a large silver disc from alongside his dresser, opens the door of the tall cabinet, as old in years as he. Stan places the disc, upright, on the spindle inside and finds an old penny and inserts it into the slot. He cranks the handle and the Polyphon creaks a little as the silver disc slowly revolves sending out a well loved melody. It maybe 'Home Sweet Home' or 'Kathleen Mavourneen'. 'Last Rose of Summer' or 'Old Folks at Home'. He chooses one of his favourites ' I'll take you home Kathleen'. He eases himself into Granny Smith's rocking chair, softened only with a tired chintz cushion. The tabby cat jumps into his lap, he ruffles her ears affectionately. Stan studies the fire for a moment, listening to the music. He raises his head and says, "Someone has to preserve the old tunes. You seldom get a good song nowadays like my sisters used to sing"
Stan sits back in his chair and reaches for his baccy tin. He is partial to his Bondman tobacco. Then begins the patient art of rolling himself a cigarette. The kettle is singing and presently comes to the boil. He prepares to make you some tea in the old brown pot. The cat jumps down from his knee and busies herself in the endless task of washing her babies and another harmony fills the cottage as the purring kittens nuzzle in the warmth of their mother.
Now you must take your time over your tea to hear his news. There is always a tale to tell, his home holds many memories.
Stan is bound to mention his seven brothers Mark, Luke, Rowland, Owen, Percy, Sid and Harold. His sisters Louisa and Martha who loved to sing in the Wesleyan Chapel. His father was the Chapel teacher and the village policeman, known locally as Honest John or Civil John whose handcuffs and truncheon still hang by the door.
Photos courtesy of Ann Clark,
Martha’s granddaughter
|
