"Dreams - Really Do Come True" - A Book By Gordon Beard

Cully

One of the highlights of my young life was the occasional visit of my paternal grandfather. Affectionately nicknamed Cully because of his mop of grey curly hair, he earned a living buying and selling at the local markets, poaching pheasants, rabbit and mole, and by rat catching. He would cut the tails off the rats he caught and claim 3d. per tail from the government. Mole and rabbit skins were also in great demand.

‘Cully’ Beard (grandad) on the Village Green c.1926-7

In my mind, he was rich because he owned a donkey and trap, whereas all my uncles and, indeed, all the men in the neighbourhood, only had bicycles. Uncle Ephraim, his blacksmith son, actually owned a penny farthing.

The trap was round-shaped on two wheels, with an entrance door at the rear which you got to by negotiating an iron step. The bench seats along each side were covered in green leather and the front end had an iron rail with loops for the reins to pass through. My grandfather would sit on the right hand side holding the reins and I would be given the privilege of holding the hand-made whip. The handle had obviously been hand carved by my grandfather’s bill hook and was fitted with a hand-woven cord. I expect the poor donkey was far from pleased by how much I enjoyed using it to make him trot.

Grandfather was well liked by all who met him. He wore grey leather buskins above his hobnailed boots that were fastened at the sides by buttons threaded through eyelet holes by a button hook. His small frame was covered by a three-quarter length brown long-haired coat which would have looked more at home on a Shetland pony. Come to think of it, and knowing Cully’s horse trading skills, it may well have been recovered for sentimental reasons from the knacker’s yard. One day, he sat by our log fire in that coat, telling us how he had just captured a swarm of bees. I was engaged in the tale when I suddenly realized that these hundreds of live bees were still crawling through his coat’s thick fur. Grandfather was certainly a colourful character.

It was shortly after I started school that the baker’s rounds’ man told Mum of an instance he had witnessed at Good Easter where Cully lived. A ruthless property dealer, Mr. Ralph Coates, who owned shops including the village store at High Easter, accosted Cully as he staggered home from the pub late at night and threatened to throw him in the village pond if he didn’t sell him his thatched cottage.

Cully with (l. to r.) Keith, Phyllis and Donald

A recent photograph of Little Pipers, Good Easter where grandfather Cully used to live

Grandma Helen Beard (née Beaney)

After a bitter fist fight, Cully was forced to submit and, a few days later, he arrived at our farmhouse. I’ll never know the truth but I suspect Cully owed Coates money, as it was noticeable what few belongings he brought with him. There was no donkey or trap and only an old hand made wooden cupboard which housed a few pieces of family china. I could see by my mother’s face that she was not happy about the cupboard and I thought it would have been more suitable outside behind the privy with the other rabbit hutches. But my parents were glad of the extra cash for boarding him, plus probably a small lump sum from the sale of his house.

I spent hours in the garden with my Grandfather and learned a lot. I remember him teaching me a new method of chopping kindling, which was my chore. But I was absolutely dumb-struck when he missed and cut his finger. Without hesitation and in my full view, he undid his fly buttons, pulled out his willie, peed on the cut and then carried on chopping as though nothing had happened.

We also inherited his mongrel black and white terrier, Tip, so named because of the black tip on its tail. The dog was another mouth to feed but Cully continued his trade from Hopkins Farm. Great Dunmow was five miles away and Chelmsford ten, but he walked regularly to the cattle markets there on Tuesdays and Fridays with his sackful of rabbit and moleskins, whole ferreted rabbits and, of course, the odd, poached pheasant. He walked right past the many pubs on the way, calling at them all on his return journey. I remember him walking to Chelmsford on his 80th birthday.

Next Chapter