returns in the morning with three or four bucketfuls of the small transparent fingerlings, which he hawks round the village at one and six a pound. It is a familiar thing in Brensham, at breakfast-time on April mornings, to hear Jakyâs nasal voice vying with the cuckoo as he marches up the village street, with his bowler hat cocked on the back of his head and a couple of buckets slung over his shoulders on a yoke.
âYelvers! Yelvers! Yelvers all alive-o!â
The Trophy
In the last war, although he was nearly fifty, Jaky joined up and fought in the Battle of Alamein. He once told me a story about that battle while he sawed the side of a coffin in his workshop, and a draught coming in under the door teased the sawdust into miniature dust-devils which reminded him, he said, of the sands of Egypt. âI minds as if itwere yesterday,â said Jaky, âboiling a can of strong tea over a petrol fire . . .â A small man wearing an Australian hat had suddenly appeared as if from nowhere and offered him a cigarette. Thinking the man was some sort of war correspondent, for such people were free with their cigarettes, Jaky had conversed with him in his usual free-and-easy manner for several minutes. He had also expressed a forcible opinion about Generals. The man smiled slightly and got into his car. Jaky was about to light the cigarette when he noticed the flag on the carâs bonnet; so he saluted as smartly as he could (but in the manner, I expect, of one who touches his hat to the squire) and put the cigarette away, swearing that heâd never smoke it, not if he was dying for a puff, but would take it home as a trophy for his son and his sonâs sons. This high resolution was sorely tried next morning; for he was wounded in the first assault, and as he jolted down the line in an ambulance the pain came on suddenly and he wanted a smoke more than anything else in the world. He resisted the temptation, however, and there was the cigarette â âin case you donât believe me, Mateyâ â in a neat little glass case, suitably inscribed, hanging on the wall over his work-bench. âHowâs your father,â observed Jaky, for no reason in particular; and he began to whistle, as he performed his sombre task, that gay and lilting air which was one of the fruits of our desert victory, that piece of unsubstantial booty which we took from Rommelâs men, the tune of
Lilli Marlene.
âA Foolish Thing Was but a Toyâ
William Hart had a hobby which he practised in his wainwright days and which made all the children love him. It was the reason why one would almost always see a crowd ofbrats hanging about outside his workshop on their way back from school. He could never pick up a piece of wood without wanting to carve it into some fantastic shape or other â âWhat would you like,â heâd say, âa Helephant or a Cock-yolly Bird?â and swiftly in his strong, blunt-fingered hands, the knife and the chisel would fashion the curling trunk and the great ear-flaps, or the long beak and the extravagant plumes. Being a born carpenter, he loved wood above all other materials, the feel, the smell, the grain of it, the sweet sawdust and the white shavings and the flying chips; if he saw an odd-shaped piece of oak or pitchpine lying about on his bench he couldnât keep his hands off it, he perceived at once the hidden possibilities lying dormant in the wood, the possibility perhaps of a hunch-back dwarf or a giant with a club or a caricature of his next-door neighbour; and almost at a touch, it seemed, he caused the creatuies to spring to life. There was hardly a mantelpiece in Brensham which did not bear two or three of these curious sprigs and offshoots of his fancy which he poured out from his workshop as from a cornucopia to all the children who eagerly waited there.
But there were other figures which he carved for his private amusement only; for sometimes he
âYelvers! Yelvers! Yelvers all alive-o!â
The Trophy
In the last war, although he was nearly fifty, Jaky joined up and fought in the Battle of Alamein. He once told me a story about that battle while he sawed the side of a coffin in his workshop, and a draught coming in under the door teased the sawdust into miniature dust-devils which reminded him, he said, of the sands of Egypt. âI minds as if itwere yesterday,â said Jaky, âboiling a can of strong tea over a petrol fire . . .â A small man wearing an Australian hat had suddenly appeared as if from nowhere and offered him a cigarette. Thinking the man was some sort of war correspondent, for such people were free with their cigarettes, Jaky had conversed with him in his usual free-and-easy manner for several minutes. He had also expressed a forcible opinion about Generals. The man smiled slightly and got into his car. Jaky was about to light the cigarette when he noticed the flag on the carâs bonnet; so he saluted as smartly as he could (but in the manner, I expect, of one who touches his hat to the squire) and put the cigarette away, swearing that heâd never smoke it, not if he was dying for a puff, but would take it home as a trophy for his son and his sonâs sons. This high resolution was sorely tried next morning; for he was wounded in the first assault, and as he jolted down the line in an ambulance the pain came on suddenly and he wanted a smoke more than anything else in the world. He resisted the temptation, however, and there was the cigarette â âin case you donât believe me, Mateyâ â in a neat little glass case, suitably inscribed, hanging on the wall over his work-bench. âHowâs your father,â observed Jaky, for no reason in particular; and he began to whistle, as he performed his sombre task, that gay and lilting air which was one of the fruits of our desert victory, that piece of unsubstantial booty which we took from Rommelâs men, the tune of
Lilli Marlene.
âA Foolish Thing Was but a Toyâ
William Hart had a hobby which he practised in his wainwright days and which made all the children love him. It was the reason why one would almost always see a crowd ofbrats hanging about outside his workshop on their way back from school. He could never pick up a piece of wood without wanting to carve it into some fantastic shape or other â âWhat would you like,â heâd say, âa Helephant or a Cock-yolly Bird?â and swiftly in his strong, blunt-fingered hands, the knife and the chisel would fashion the curling trunk and the great ear-flaps, or the long beak and the extravagant plumes. Being a born carpenter, he loved wood above all other materials, the feel, the smell, the grain of it, the sweet sawdust and the white shavings and the flying chips; if he saw an odd-shaped piece of oak or pitchpine lying about on his bench he couldnât keep his hands off it, he perceived at once the hidden possibilities lying dormant in the wood, the possibility perhaps of a hunch-back dwarf or a giant with a club or a caricature of his next-door neighbour; and almost at a touch, it seemed, he caused the creatuies to spring to life. There was hardly a mantelpiece in Brensham which did not bear two or three of these curious sprigs and offshoots of his fancy which he poured out from his workshop as from a cornucopia to all the children who eagerly waited there.
But there were other figures which he carved for his private amusement only; for sometimes he
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