Gatley - The End of the Line

By Peter Boden

13. SUMMERTIME.

The seasons passed by and soon it was summertime. This was the time when some of the more bizarre events occurred in Gatley. At least I think they occurred, or were they just rumours? (One has to be aware of the libel laws!)

For instance, was there really a merry vicar’s tea party where the fruit cup had become laced with sherry? Do I recall one flower show held on the recreation ground where no prizes could be given. It was said that all of the Judges had not followed the old saying about being sober, and were too tiddled in the beer tent.

Of course, for sheer excitement and social mayhem there was the Annual Fete. This a special occasion designed to ensure that friends did not remain friends after the event! Probably they spoke together again only as a greater event, such as Christmas, approached. The reason for this odd behaviour was due to the highly competitive nature of the day’s events.

Firstly, you should consider the bonniest baby competition. Now who is going to concede that their shining product did not outshine every other infant on the entire field or from any other village? (Without doubt!) Similarly, you could consider, in a like manner, the best cake award, the best fancy dress, the best embroidery award, the most spectacular hat award, and the best country wine award.

I will not talk about the best jam award, except to write that my mother Emily, my grandmother Martha and a friend, Rita Harding of Church Road, aspired to have the best jam in Gatley or Cheshire, bar none! The various fruits were grown at the bottom of Mrs Harding’s garden which backed on to Gatley Brook and the recreation ground (formerly Hob Croft. Did the Devil himself once visit there? (I know that my eldest brother John went there to a scout jamboree one year!)

I helped to pick the fruits; raspberry, damson, greengage and the rest. They had to be harvested quickly when the omens and the weather were just so. Then came the really hard work of extracting the true fruit from the damaged fruit and other non-essential rubbish.

A string of “village carriers”, just like me, would trudge with baskets full of approved fruit from the Church Road garden down to Oakwood House at the bottom of the village. Jam making could begin, after the last load arrived, behind the sealed doors of an outhouse. Enormous aluminium bowls would appear from nowhere and be placed, in turn, by my Mother, on to a large gas boiling ring. Sugar, water, fruit and small amounts of unspecified secret ingredients were added to the bowls. The “great boiling”, as I called it, went on for hours and hours. Steam filled the outhouse and soaked everyone’s clothes. The only compensation was the glorious smell of the boiling fruits.

It was like a scene I saw later in life in Macbeth, where the three witches chant:

“Double, double, toil and trouble;
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.”

“And now about the cauldron sing,
Like elves and fairies in a ring,
Enchanting all that you put in.”

Cautious tests by the experts would be made on cooled samples on wooden spoons. The potion would be declared the best ever and ready for bottling. Hundreds of 1/2 pint and 1 pint glass kilner jars would have been scrupulously cleaned and sorted for each type of jam.

The precious liquid would be poured into the jars through strainers. This was to eliminate debris, such as blue-bottles and wasps, from the finished product. After sealing each bottle it would be labelled. Another harvest was thus safely gathered in! Perhaps this year my mother Emily, grandmother Martha and Rita Harding would win the title-but they never did.

Although there was no overt jealousy amongst the organisers, there were tensions in committee when the prospective chairman for the fete was being discussed. Should we ask Lady S of R again? It had become very difficult to hear or understand her speeches. Usually the good old stand-in, the Reverend Whittle would officiate satisfactorily. He would say, each year, that Lady S of R was unable to officiate due to pressure of other engagements. There would be audible sighs of relief.

Each of these events was just another story to be placed on the tapestry of life in Gatley during the 1930s.

Chapter 14