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

John And Bertha

I was always impressed by the cosy nature of my parents’ relationship. It was a very close and trusting one and, in all my years, I cannot remember one altercation or cross word passing between them. Mum adored dad and I’m sure he did her. It was a remarkable friendship, begun in their puberty, dad having got her pregnant at the age of 17. My brother Alfred was born one month before they were married and rumour has it that, to escape the wrath and indignation (and the stocks, maybe?) of the locals, he volunteered for military service which would have exempted him from prosecution. (But I have yet to prove this.)

My father John Beard in the stackyard

There was a strict dividing line between their responsibilities in the home. Dad took responsibility for happenings outdoors but mum was completely in charge of all matters within the four walls of the marital home. Mum nursed, fed, clothed and strictly controlled the offspring and dad never interfered, except, when, on the rare occasion mum considered the cane insufficient punishment for an offence and she ordered him to apply the belt. This, I found, he was reluctant to use. Mum repaired the shoes, even wallpapered the rooms, which was no mean feat considering that the bedroom walls were oak beamed and she somehow managed to paper over them. Her mood swings might suggest that she was a Gemini but, in fact, she was a Scorpio. Perhaps her permanent state of pregnancy was the real cause of her moods as she suffered the most dreadful morning sickness. She could be as loving and kind as she could be cruel and she spent hours nursing the baby between her household chores, suckling it and rocking it on her knee on the special low chair which Dad had sawn the legs off to make it lower for her whilst she waited for the pots to boil with the evening meal.

(back row -l. to r.) Keith & Bertha (mum) with Nancy. (front row l.to r.) Fred, Phyllis & Donald, circa 1934

As soon as Dad came in from his long day in the fields, he would take the baby from her so she could dish up and he would pace back and forth across the room, rocking the baby in his arms and singing the slightly blue songs he had learnt in France during his spell at the front. They were: ‘Mademoiselle from Armanteers, Parlez-vous, Hadn’t been done for donkey’s years, Inky Pinky Parlez-vous.’ or: ‘There was a pretty maiden at the battle of Waterloo, The wind blew up her petticoats and showed her cock-a-doodle-do.’ Mum would burst into hysterics at these songs every time, even though she had heard them many times before.

Bertha (standing left) picking peas

My mother was the child of my grandfather Cully’s housekeeper, later to become his second wife (i.e. Helen, photo page 12). She lived in a thatched cottage at Good Easter in Essex. Each Sunday afternoon, mum and dad would set off to see her with my sister, Madge, in the wooden push chair and me, dressed in a sailor suit, with my hat that had Horatio Nelson HMS Victory inscribed on a ribbon around the brim. Mum would wear her best Sunday clothes and dad would walk proudly beside her in his blue pin striped suit and flat cap, puffing on Digger Shag tobacco in his pipe and holding my hand.

My parents were proud to dress me in the sailor suit but I hated it and kept getting smacked for removing my hat as we strolled along because the bow of the ribbon would flap in the wind and keep hitting my ear. Three miles was a long walk for a two-year-old and, as we approached the hill leading into Good Easter, I was allowed to stand on the foot rest of the push chair and ride the last few hundred yards.

John Beard with Nancy circa 1935

I loved visiting my grandparents. Granny always dressed in a long, black, ankle length dress and black, patent leather shoes. Her black hair, now slightly greying, would be swept back tightly into a bun, held by numerous black tipped hair pins and, around her neck, she wore a double string of black pearls.

Madge Beard at Hopkins with father John in the background

My most striking memory of their house was of the mantel border. It had white polka dots on a red background and was pleated and neatly held in place with drawing pins. Every household had a mantelpiece above the kitchen stove, but none as outstanding as this. The cottage had an inglenook fireplace with a big Dixie pot hanging from a chain above the log fire. During the daytime I was usually in the garden, feeding hay to the donkey, or sitting by the apple tree, trying to turn the heavy grindstone on which Cully sharpened his billhooks. But at night, I would sit by the fire, my eyes following the smoke up the chimney, until I saw the stars in the night sky. These nostalgic visits ended in 1926 when Granny died. At that time I was three years old.

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