Ride on a dead horse

The previous posting concluded the chronological record of Billy Hoad’s early working years with an account of his venture into a business of his own in the early years of the new century. This final entry of the site will go back some fifteen years earlier to when he was juggling the demands of school and part-time work.
 
Billy  Hoad worked at many jobs before he commenced his apprenticeship to the “three branch trade” with Sendall Brothers, Horsham. One of these was relief postman to allow the regular postmen to have their day off every second Sunday. This is an account of one particular Sunday postal run that Billy wrote some seventy years after the event. He was living in retirement in Norwich at the time and he wrote the account as a letter to his daughter Mary who had emigrated to New Zealand with her husband and children in 1948.
 
18 June 1960
 
My dear Bup[1],
 
Last night was very hot; I did not sleep very well, woke up about 2 a.m. and began to ruminate, quite peaceably, I find I do this at times, and without any conscious effort of mine, some incident or adventure of my lurid past , that I may not have thought of for years, looms up, as clear cut as if the affair only happened yesterday. Memory plays queer tricks! I find I can read a book with interest and forget it within a week; on the other hand some things that may have happened years ago are remembered in detail quite uncanny. I had such an experience last night, regaled our little Ma with it over our early morning tea.
 
Kit and Billy Hoad, c.1958
 

She responded with: “Now why don’t you write this and send it to Bup, she would love it, so would the boys!” Well, there is no accounting for taste; I’ll accept no blame. You don’t have to read it or pass it on to the boys. I may have to be rather windy to make things clear, but I won’t exaggerate. So here goes:
 
I think you may have heard that we as a family did lots of odds and ends of service for the Post Office at Horsham, among them my worthy Pa drove the mail on alternate Sundays to West Grinstead and Champions Gate; later I did a similar trip to Cowfold and about two miles beyond, also on alternate Sundays. It was considered necessary to give the regular Postman – and his horse – one day’s rest in 14.
 
Postman with horse and cart, Sussex, 1902, courtesy of West Sussex Past Pictures; Photo credit.
 

One Sunday during the winter of 1888/9, I being a man of some 15 years, Dad and I got up as usual on these mornings at about 5 o’clock, went to stable to feed our two steeds and found the roads ice bound! Only one horse was “roughed”. i.e. special front nails had been fitted to its shoes on the day before. The other was not “roughed”. I did not fancy driving the 8 miles there and 8 miles back with a horse slipping all over the place and possibly coming a cropper, so it was decided that I would walk and Dad have the horse that was “roughed” and safe on ice as the Champions Gate round was usually heavier than Cowfold.
 
So, home to breakfast then to Post-office to sign in, sort mail and out by 6 o/c.
 
Well, I got to my journey’s end without incident, walking on the grass verge when I could to avoid slippery road. On the way back, near Woldringfold (the home of Lady Archer).
 
Woldringfold, Photo credit.
 

I was hailed with “Hullo young Hoady, what yer doin’ out here?” There was old Jim Langley with a knacker man’s float or cart and a dead horse on it. I explained I was doing George Wooster’s post round. Sez he “Want a lift? Jump up behind. Hang yer bags on sideboard and mind yer don’t slide off!” I explained I had to stop at sundry places to clear boxes, pick up private bags etc. “Or’right, I kin stop too, it’ll give the old nag a blow, it’s bad goin’, he could do with a blow. I had to knock up Jim Sharp goin’ down to get him roughed. Bimey, he sez, what the hell do you think I’m a goin’ to git up Sunday to git you roughed? Yes I do, I sez, so he sez, I’ll see you damned first! Or’right, I sez, you git on with yer damning, I kin wait , when yer done you’ll rough my ’oss and I’m stopping here till yer do. Bi’m’by he gits up, gives me a glass of home brewed, roughs the old ’oss and off we goes.”
 
Later he remarks, “How come you a walking, yer old Dad got two ’osses ain’t he?” I explained one horse only was roughed , Dad had gone to West Grinstead with it. I said I would walk rather than travel with a horse with smooth shoes on roads like this. “Yes, you’re a wise kid, yer might ’ave broke yer bloody neck goin’ down Birchin Bridge hill. I slided all over the shop, nag went down on his arse once, had sense enuf to git up. But why didn’t yer knock up old Frank Parkhurst (a farrier in Denne Rd.) an get ’im ter rough yer?” I explained I thought Mr Parkhurst would not want to be knocked up on Sunday morning etc. “You bet yer boots he wouldn’t,” said Jim Langley. “I’d like to bin there, you thro’in’ stones up at his window, he pokin’ his ’ed out, and when he sees yer, blimey, wouldn’t he create!”
 
I should explain, Mr Langley is a big burly lump of good humour, 6’2” long, proportionately thick, rather beyond upright, a well cultivated taste for beer, a Bardolphian countenance like a November sunset, dressed in a very old coat with shoulder capes like old coachmen used, two waistcoats, both unbuttoned, a pair of riding breaches too small to encompass his middle, finishing just below the knee, then a patch of hairy leg and finally boots.
 
Well, we rode along talking of horses alive or dead. I enquired as to the history of the horse I was sitting on. Mr Langley explained it was from George Isted’s place. Mr Isted was a baker some mile or so beyond Cowfold. I asked Mr Langley had he slaughtered the horse? “No,” said he, “I got there just too late to save his life, as yer might say, with my pole axe, the poor critter.” I asked Jim Langley what he thought was the cause of the horse’s untimely end, it appeared to be the corpse of a not very old, healthy animal. What caused it? “Why, heart disease caused it,” said J.L. with confidence, “These bloody bakers kills all their ’osses sooner or later. I’d’s sooner trust a tailor with a ’oss than a baker. They loads up the cart widout any notion of balance, they gerally ’as a ’oss too big or a cart too small consekently the belly band is too tight under his guts and the critter can’t breathe and his heart conks out, or the load rides on the pad all the time and that’s like enough to break his back and his heart too.” Then quite suddenly JL stopped and said, “Yer old Daddy had one of George Isted’s ’osses a time back, then after a week or two I see he was back in Isted’s cart again. Did the old man forget to pay for it?” “No, Mr Langley,” I replied with some warmth, “My Dad paid Mr Isted £5 for Jack and reckoned it was one of the wisest and best horses he ever had, then one day Mr Isted called and offered Dad £6 for him. He said he had a new man with a new horse and neither knew the round. Jack did, so my Dad let him have Jack back again for £6 and when the new man knows the round we are going to have him again!” Mr Langley seemed to accept this, remarking “I reckun old Isted never know’d the round ’isself. The man who used to drive old Jack got sick and died, so he gits another man and a new ’oss and I reckun he was in a proper fix.”
 
Well, we drove along up Crabtree Hill to Lower Beeding Post Office, collected the bag, calling at South Lodge, and on to the lower entrance gate to Leonardslea.
 
Lower Beeding Post Office, Photo credit.
 

I explained I had to go in here and out at upper gate. This meant passing front entrance of mansion. Mr. Langley was rather dubious about this. “If,” said he, “old Lordy Loder catches sight on us, he’ll send for the copper, or get his gun and shoot the lot on us. Look ee boy, you walk on, leave your mail bag here, I’ll wait for you at the gate.” (Lordy Loder was Sir Edmond Loder, BT., a mean and selfish aristocrat, in due course he was gathered to his fathers, Lady Loder produced a posthumous son a few weeks later, but the title would have become extinct but for the grace of the most gracious Queen Victoria. So this son succeeded to the title. He was killed at the Battle of Gaza while leading the 7th Sussex which included our two boys Geo. Winder and Fred Cook.[2] His wife also produced a posthumous son, Sir Giles Loder of that ilk. He, Sir Giles, succeeded me as Chairman of Kenneth’s boy’s club[3], it had by then become fashionable. Roy thought he made a good chairman at A. Gill but was of no further use so he had been tactfully got shut of. The Loder family concern is the old established firm of Russia merchants. Giles Loder Ltd., importers of Russian tallow etc.)
 
On coming out of Leonardslea top gate there was Jim Langley with the dead horse and a lady on the float.
 
Leonardslee, by Mlednor, Photo credit.
 

A mature and weather-beaten personage of what was used to be called the nailed and pelted variety who tramped from place to place doing all sorts of work on farms when there was a seasonal demand. She and J.L. were evidently talking about my mail bags and didn’t see me for a minute or so. “Got a new passenger, Mr. Langley? Hand my bags down and I can walk the rest.” To this J.L. replied, “Walk be damned, this is an old sweetheart of mine, there’s plenty of room on the poor beast for the two of yer. Git yer legs tucked in over his shoulder, yer won’t slide off then. Pull those rugs off, boy. Make her tuck her legs in same as I sez, the old ’oss ain’t cold yet, he’ll keep yer both warm, that’s right, now pull the rug over yer, they stinks a bit maybe but nothin’ to hurt yer!” J.L. is directing operations from his high seat in front of the float and having a rather disjointed conversation with the lady as to the ownership of something she is inclined to think Mr Langley has stolen. Well, off we go. The lady is still unhappy about something, turns on me rather sharply with “Now look here, you tell me straight where you got this stuff (my bags). He sez they’re yours. They look like Post Office kit.” I explain they are Post Office kit, that I’m a Postman. “You a Postman! Where’s yer Postman’s hat?” I explain I am a Sunday substitute etc. “Now look here young un, I don’t want ter get mixed up in anything. If yer don’t tell me what’s in them bags and where you come by ’em I’ll give yer a wipe across the kisser. A pretty sort of fool I’d look, and old Jim, if a copper come along and got a bit nosey!” At this Mr. Langley losing patience remarks, “Oh for Christ’s sake leave the kid alone Nell. I tell yer he’s alright. I know him and his Daddy, known him fer years. Look here, are yer cold, or are yer hungry, or what?” “I be both, Jim,” said the lady. “Or’right,” says Jim, “Wait till we gets to Felix Thorn’s place and we’ll see what he got to eat.” (Felix Thorn kept a little pub at Mannings Heath).
 
When we got to the road leading to Mannings Heath, old Jim said, “Well, yer better slide off now, young Hoady. You can tell yer Mum you been for a ride with a lady on a dead ’oss.” I thanked him. He replied, “That’s alright, cocky. Mind yer don’t slip up on yer arse, roads wuss’n ever. Giv’m goo’bye, Nell,” and Nell did.
 
P.S. I should explain Mr. Langley was just such a chap as John’s friend Tom Lambert but a size or two longer. He was employed by Jim Tidy whom you may have known. His duty on that Sunday afternoon would be to take the ‘jacket’ of the dead horse before it was cold, prepare it for tan yard, then next day boil the flesh for dogs meat, the innards thrown on a heap after treatment with lime to keep rats and foxes off. This in a yard in Pondtail Lane close to the railway. You may have seen the shacks from the train, and sensed the aroma!
 
This concludes the diaries and reflections of Billy Hoad.

• [1] Billy and Kit’s pet name for their daughter Mary.
• [2] Billy is referring to a couple of employees of Hoad and Taylor, the building firm whose early years is described in the previous posting: ‘Starting a business on our own’.
• [3] Billy’s son-in-law, Rev. Kenneth Prebble, was a curate in Horsham at the beginning of WW2. One of his duties was to get a boys club started. 
  
   
  

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