name – I’m Stanley George, there’s Stanley Eric and Stanley Peter. I wish folks would just call me George, but they never do, not around here.”
I settled on a newly made chair at his side and explained the reason for my visit. He listened intently and said he’d make sure everything was locked up. In any case, he and his wife were always pottering about the premises during the day, and she’d notice any strangers lurking about. We talked happily and his wife, whose name I learned was Millie, brought us a cup of tea. She stopped for a chat, and I told her of my mission. She had heard about the thefts and house-breakings and promised to be a little more crime-conscious.
I had a look around his workshop and marvelled at the quality of his work. There were chairs galore, Windsor style in the main, which he had fashioned from the piles of wood stacked in one corner. But he had also made cupboards, wardrobes, even bedsteads and a whole range of large items like dining-suites and kitchen-fittings. He told how he had been compelled to give up farming because of his legs. He’d let his land to neighbours but not being a man for idling his time away, he’d turned to his life-long hobby of carpentry. Suddenly, the orders had boomed – he found himself making complete dining-sets for customers, and Windsor chairs which sold rapidly to the city stores, and a host of other items. He’d had offers of more than enough work and had been surprised to suddenly find himself in demand. He worked to suit himself and accepted jobs which meant he could remain seated for much of the time. All his work was hand-finished and polished with a care that bordered on the fanatical.
I began calling on him every time I was in Briggsby, once aquarter or so, and we had long, interesting talks. Gradually, I realised his farm was not connected to the mains electricity supply; he had no electrical apparatus in his workshop and even his drill was hand operated. His wife cooked on a large Aga in her ample kitchen and the light came from oil lamps strategically placed about the premises. The whole farm had an air of calmness and peace, very reminiscent of the last century.
I grew very fond of Stanley George and Millie. He would chat away to me in the rich dialect of the locality, and I could chatter back in like terms. I told him about life in a modern police force, with motor vehicles, personal radio sets and improved facilities. He told me about the old days on the farm, before tractors came along and before combine harvesters had shortened the harvest period.
It was some months later that Stanley George sought my advice on a matter which was troubling him.
“Thoo’s a man of the world,” he said one day as we drank Millie’s tea. “I’d like a spot of advice.”
“Of course,” I assured him. “Ask any time.”
“Well, it’s like this,” he began, sipping slowly from his mug. “We’ve no ’lectric in this house. We’ve grown used to makking do wivoot it, me and oor Millie. Never missed it, you understand . Onnyrooad, some ’lectric fellers were fixing poles and cables just over that hill behind our house. Last week, this was. Yan on ’em come to me and asked if I wanted t’electric in this house. He’s given me till this weekend to think it over.”
“And do you want it?” I put to him.
“Nay, now I can’t be sure,” he admitted. “Just can’t mak up my mind. I mean, what good would it be to me, at this stage of life?”
“It would make life easier,” I assured him. “You’d have instant light all around the house, you could boil kettles of water much faster, you could have power tools in here, like drills and saws.”
“It would tak me ages ti get accustomed ti it.”
“What about Millie? How’s she feel about it?”
“No idea,” he shook his head. “She’s no idea. She’s got relations in Richmond with t’electric, but they burn t’toast, t’custard gits tak tiv it, and all soorts goes wrang.
I settled on a newly made chair at his side and explained the reason for my visit. He listened intently and said he’d make sure everything was locked up. In any case, he and his wife were always pottering about the premises during the day, and she’d notice any strangers lurking about. We talked happily and his wife, whose name I learned was Millie, brought us a cup of tea. She stopped for a chat, and I told her of my mission. She had heard about the thefts and house-breakings and promised to be a little more crime-conscious.
I had a look around his workshop and marvelled at the quality of his work. There were chairs galore, Windsor style in the main, which he had fashioned from the piles of wood stacked in one corner. But he had also made cupboards, wardrobes, even bedsteads and a whole range of large items like dining-suites and kitchen-fittings. He told how he had been compelled to give up farming because of his legs. He’d let his land to neighbours but not being a man for idling his time away, he’d turned to his life-long hobby of carpentry. Suddenly, the orders had boomed – he found himself making complete dining-sets for customers, and Windsor chairs which sold rapidly to the city stores, and a host of other items. He’d had offers of more than enough work and had been surprised to suddenly find himself in demand. He worked to suit himself and accepted jobs which meant he could remain seated for much of the time. All his work was hand-finished and polished with a care that bordered on the fanatical.
I began calling on him every time I was in Briggsby, once aquarter or so, and we had long, interesting talks. Gradually, I realised his farm was not connected to the mains electricity supply; he had no electrical apparatus in his workshop and even his drill was hand operated. His wife cooked on a large Aga in her ample kitchen and the light came from oil lamps strategically placed about the premises. The whole farm had an air of calmness and peace, very reminiscent of the last century.
I grew very fond of Stanley George and Millie. He would chat away to me in the rich dialect of the locality, and I could chatter back in like terms. I told him about life in a modern police force, with motor vehicles, personal radio sets and improved facilities. He told me about the old days on the farm, before tractors came along and before combine harvesters had shortened the harvest period.
It was some months later that Stanley George sought my advice on a matter which was troubling him.
“Thoo’s a man of the world,” he said one day as we drank Millie’s tea. “I’d like a spot of advice.”
“Of course,” I assured him. “Ask any time.”
“Well, it’s like this,” he began, sipping slowly from his mug. “We’ve no ’lectric in this house. We’ve grown used to makking do wivoot it, me and oor Millie. Never missed it, you understand . Onnyrooad, some ’lectric fellers were fixing poles and cables just over that hill behind our house. Last week, this was. Yan on ’em come to me and asked if I wanted t’electric in this house. He’s given me till this weekend to think it over.”
“And do you want it?” I put to him.
“Nay, now I can’t be sure,” he admitted. “Just can’t mak up my mind. I mean, what good would it be to me, at this stage of life?”
“It would make life easier,” I assured him. “You’d have instant light all around the house, you could boil kettles of water much faster, you could have power tools in here, like drills and saws.”
“It would tak me ages ti get accustomed ti it.”
“What about Millie? How’s she feel about it?”
“No idea,” he shook his head. “She’s no idea. She’s got relations in Richmond with t’electric, but they burn t’toast, t’custard gits tak tiv it, and all soorts goes wrang.
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