Brian Smith, “the Aldington poet”, has produced two more poems about Badsey life. The first poem is about the rigours of market gardening. It was inspired by Brian’s memories of growing up on Bretforton Road in the 1950s, close to the premises of F Stewart & Sons who were growers and merchants; their premises were roughly where Hither Green is now. Some of their land was up in the Cotswold hills, the cold climate being ideal for growing sprouts, if not for the pickers! The 'Green ' footpath emerged through their yard on to the Bretforton Road and Brian and friends often played football there. They paused their game as lorries returned from the hills, loaded with pickers and sprouts during late afternoon. To Brian it seemed to be a hard life, and he decided that it wouldn't be for him, come what may !
Taking to the hills
It dawned on Jack that he'd been a fool,
That he should have studied hard at school.
Then he wouldn't be frozen at half-past five,
Waiting for the driver to arrive.
What a way to earn his money.
Life was tough and rarely funny.
But never had it been so hard
As it seemed that morning in Stewarts' Yard .
Eight of them there were all told,
Stood there shivering in the cold.
Then the lorry driver wandered in,
Offered no apology, just a grin.
Then they all clambered into the back,
Sat on benches covered with a sack,
Inside a sort of mobile open shed.
Jack almost wished that he was dead.
His workmates uttered not a word,
He thought the silence was absurd.
So, as he never really knew,
He asked where they were heading to.
"To Snowshill , where else d' you think?"
Said one, who smelled of last night's drink.
As the lorry bumped and lurched and rolled,
Jack thought Snowshill sounded rather cold.
At last they stopped for them to disembark.
Halfway between the light and dark,
They stood at the edge of a frozen field,
Where snow and ice refused to yield.
The sprouts were frozen to the stem,
Which made it hard removing them.
Soon his fingers were completely numb,
Then the fog came down, and he thought of Mum .
At last they halted for a break,
He fumbled a sandwich and began to shake.
Then the foreman said, most scathingly:
"You picks half a net while we picks three!"
So with frostbite and an aching back,
At the end of play Jack had the sack.
He felt humiliated, but underneath
It came as a mighty big relief.
* * * * *
The second poem is about Brian’s mother, Doris Smith (née Savage). Brian loves this picture. His grandad had a copy which he had with him throughout his war service. The original also has Brian’s Uncle Fred on it, and his grandad's address and service number on the back.
Little Doll
This is little Doris Savage,
Who lived in the terrace called South View.
Everyone just called her Doll,
She looked like a dolly, too!
She came to Badsey when one or two,
Went to the village school at four.
Her father took this photo with him,
When he was away at war.
Much later on , Doris and me
Became acquainted with each other,
Because amazingly this tiny girl
Grew up to be my mother!
And Doll she never moved away,
Stayed in Badsey all her life.
She was a lovely lady,
And was a wonderful mother and wife.
Brian Smith, August 2024