Part 2: My ancestry - My most remote and famous ancestor
Another so-called uncle was Uncle Shep. He was a shepherd on a
large sheep farm on the Downs. I never knew his real name, or
relationship. I think he may have been my Grandmother’s cousin. We
all called him “Shep” or “Uncle Shep”[1]. Like many shepherds, the intense solitude
had developed or caused some queer habits. He was as shy as a big
girl, used to blush and stammer when talking to strangers except,
as Gran used to say, when he had a skinful of beer which happened
once a year at Findon Fair. Whether it was losing his flock which
he drove to the fair, or the annual meeting of so many of his
fellow shepherds I couldn’t say, but there is no doubt about his
getting completely tight. The usual procedure was Gran would take
all his money from him on Findon Fair day except 2/6, extract a
promise that he would come back that night, and off he would go in
his best smocked “frock”, a low crowned bowler hat, corduroy
trousers with a strap round the leg under the knee, at about 4 a.m.
He then walked up to his flock on the Downs, crook in hand, food
for the day tied up in a red ’ankercher, and Paul, his wonderful
old sheep dog, trotting by his side, with a bunch of dirty red
ribbon – the remains of a rosette – tied on his collar. Granny used
to say Paul was as big a fool as his master over Findon Fair. What
happened after that is difficult to say. Presumably, Shep drove his
flock to Findon where it seems they were invariably sold. His
master would stand him a drink and having no more responsibilities
that day, well he had another drink or two. Finally, being beyond
walking, Gran supposed Paul would ask a farmer to drive him home,
but Shep always insisted on being driven over the Downs to the
remainder of his flock. I remember him telling me, “Ship is good
cattle to lay rough with; they be warm and soft, and don’t ask no
questions.”
St Peters Church, Steyning
He would return with Paul, usually after one, but sometimes two,
nights away, rather shamefaced - I don’t think Gran nagged him –
and go through the usual routine. First in the back room, take off
his heavy hand-made boots. These were stiff and heavy with hob
nails all over the soles. And something like a horse shoe on the
heels. This Shep called a “pilt”. The he pulled out of each boot a
sock of undressed sheep skin – this he called the “sola”. Finally
unswathed his feet which were wound about with toe rags. These were
about 2’ or 2’6” long by 6” wide and had to be of old linen. Shep
said “This ’ere furrin cotton trash en’t no good for toe rags.” He
then carefully washed his feet and dried them, I sitting on a
little stool and eying him, and trying to get him to talk. Then I
would go to a shelf and fetch a turned wooden box with a lid
containing wool fat. This he rubbed on to his feet very carefully,
explaining “Yer wun’t never ’ave cold feet or chill blains neither,
ner yet no corns if yer rubs plenty of wool fat on ’em.” He then
carefully washed his toe rags, and gave them to me to hang up
behind the beam in the chimney corner, explaining with a chuckle,
“Yer’ll never wear ’oles in yer stockings if yer has toe rags –
stockings is the devil, they grab yer toes up in a bundle and yer
gets corns. You tell yer Mum to make you toe rags like mine, and
you have a nice pair of boots like mine, and when you grows up
you’ll be a fine spit of a man. Maybe you’ll be a so’jer and go
furrin and have a red coat and a gun, eh, what ’bout that?”. I well
remember at 6 years I was elated at the prospect and pestered my
mother for big boots and toe rags. A compromise was effected by
Shep making me a pair of “solas” of sheep skin. Alas, when they
were in my shoes, there was no room for my feet.
Shep, having dealt with his feet, then stripped to the waist and,
with a tremendous huffing and blowing, had a “runce” in a red crock
of cold water. I used to note he wore no braces as I did but was
contained by a leather belt. He explained “he didn’t ’old with
braces. They mucks yer up. Belt is better, keeps yer innards where
they oughter be.” But the most astonishing thing to me was the
growth of hair on his chest and the lack of it on the top of his
head. This puzzled me for a time. One night I made some comment on
it. He explained, “I ’spect it slipped down off my head and
couldn’t go no further, so it just stuck here,” pointing to his
hirsute chest.
Having finished his ablutions, and this was a nightly routine, Shep
toddled off on his bare feet into the brick-floored kitchen living
room and ate his supper-cum-tea at a table in the corner of the
room. He made his own tea in a big brown pot into which he put the
sugar. Milk was an unusual luxury, except what Shep called “this
’ere ’dense milk” which he did not ’old with. He would cut off the
bottom end of a loaf with a large pocket knife with a curved blade,
cut this up into chunks, put it into a fair sized yellow dish, pour
out three cups of this sweetened tea, one for him, one for me and
one for Paul which he poured onto the bread in the yellow dish.
Paul in the meantime, taking no interest in the proceedings, or
apparently not, after about five minutes would uncurl himself from
under the table. Shep then helped himself to a thick slice of bread
and a slice or rather a chunk of boiled bacon which he held on the
bread with his thumb. He would at times give me a similar slice and
chunk and promise to buy me a real man’s knife to eat it with, but
he never did.
Poor old Shep. I have a vague idea that he ultimately became
semi-lunatic and ended his days in an asylum. According to Dr L.P.
Jacks[2] this was a fairly frequent
end of the solitary Southdown shepherd’s life.
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