about his father’s fractured journey to manhood, my father was able, to some extent, to forgive Geoffrey’s dramatic swings from emotional froideur to hot-blooded rage. If he concluded that his father was unconsciously lashing out against his own childhood experiences, he kept that to himself. But I think this was probably at the heart of it. And I have supporting evidence; the domino effect of these beatings clicked and tripped its painful way into my own childhood.
But these almost ritualised punishments–the sacred stick broadcasting its mute warning from corner or cupboard; the appointed place of execution (always the parlour where the best furniture was)–were not peculiar to Kiln Farm. They were de rigueur for the day. Most parents still imposed discipline on their children according to the Victorian mantra of ‘spare the rod and spoil the child’. Fathers–and mothers too–cheerfullywielded straps, canes, belts, rulers and shoes on their erring sons and daughters and would have been astounded to be told they were child-abusers.
But there were limits, even in 1930s rural England, a line across which overenthusiastic child-beaters stepped at their peril. A story, still whispered years later, concerned two small children, brother and sister, who went to the same village school as my father. Pale, pinched, often badly cut and bruised, it was obvious they were being seriously knocked about at home.
One morning they appeared in class after an absence of several days. The marks on them were so severe that the headmistress brought them into her office for gentle questioning. It gradually emerged that both parents had recently been particularly free with their fists, feet and sundry objects that came to hand. The girl had compression fractures and her brother was passing blood in his urine. Both were half-starved; they had been locked in a coal shed for a day and a night.
The outcome was swift and decisive. Social services not being quite the über-force they are today, a discreet meeting was arranged that afternoon between village elders. The broken children were sent to stay at a friendly home for a few days, and that evening a small party of villagers (my grandfather always refused to say whether or not he was among them) paid a private visit to the parents. Matters were simply and efficiently laid out, a few judicious strokes of someone’s walking stick were added for clarity and emphasis, and the pair were then introduced to the delights of their own coalhole.
They were released the following night, with a final reminder of their parental responsibilities. The children were returnedhome; the abuse abruptly ceased. Not for the first time, Shawbury–like other communities across the country–had quietly, efficiently, and of course entirely illegally, resolved their own problems.
Against this background, the beatings my father suffered were perfectly acceptable. The social norm would slowly change, and over the next thirty years such thrashings came to be increasingly regarded as grotesque.
Geoffrey’s explosive reaction to a wasted biscuit should, in fairness, be placed in the context of the Depression. Every penny had to be squeezed. He was under ferocious financial pressure; neighbouring farms were going to the wall and Kiln Farm could be next. He had built his herd up to fifty head of cows with an impressive daily milk yield but local dairies were going under too and frequently there was no one to collect the brimming churns. Granddad would wait as long as he could and then, in defeat, pour hundreds of gallons of perfectly good milk straight down the drains. My father and his older brother stood with the farm hands, watching in silence as the creamy white torrent frothed and gurgled away. It was heartbreaking.
The freshly milked cows would plod back into the fields, with no one certain that the whole soul-destroying process wouldn’t be repeated the next day.
Granddad kept his nerve, but on other
But these almost ritualised punishments–the sacred stick broadcasting its mute warning from corner or cupboard; the appointed place of execution (always the parlour where the best furniture was)–were not peculiar to Kiln Farm. They were de rigueur for the day. Most parents still imposed discipline on their children according to the Victorian mantra of ‘spare the rod and spoil the child’. Fathers–and mothers too–cheerfullywielded straps, canes, belts, rulers and shoes on their erring sons and daughters and would have been astounded to be told they were child-abusers.
But there were limits, even in 1930s rural England, a line across which overenthusiastic child-beaters stepped at their peril. A story, still whispered years later, concerned two small children, brother and sister, who went to the same village school as my father. Pale, pinched, often badly cut and bruised, it was obvious they were being seriously knocked about at home.
One morning they appeared in class after an absence of several days. The marks on them were so severe that the headmistress brought them into her office for gentle questioning. It gradually emerged that both parents had recently been particularly free with their fists, feet and sundry objects that came to hand. The girl had compression fractures and her brother was passing blood in his urine. Both were half-starved; they had been locked in a coal shed for a day and a night.
The outcome was swift and decisive. Social services not being quite the über-force they are today, a discreet meeting was arranged that afternoon between village elders. The broken children were sent to stay at a friendly home for a few days, and that evening a small party of villagers (my grandfather always refused to say whether or not he was among them) paid a private visit to the parents. Matters were simply and efficiently laid out, a few judicious strokes of someone’s walking stick were added for clarity and emphasis, and the pair were then introduced to the delights of their own coalhole.
They were released the following night, with a final reminder of their parental responsibilities. The children were returnedhome; the abuse abruptly ceased. Not for the first time, Shawbury–like other communities across the country–had quietly, efficiently, and of course entirely illegally, resolved their own problems.
Against this background, the beatings my father suffered were perfectly acceptable. The social norm would slowly change, and over the next thirty years such thrashings came to be increasingly regarded as grotesque.
Geoffrey’s explosive reaction to a wasted biscuit should, in fairness, be placed in the context of the Depression. Every penny had to be squeezed. He was under ferocious financial pressure; neighbouring farms were going to the wall and Kiln Farm could be next. He had built his herd up to fifty head of cows with an impressive daily milk yield but local dairies were going under too and frequently there was no one to collect the brimming churns. Granddad would wait as long as he could and then, in defeat, pour hundreds of gallons of perfectly good milk straight down the drains. My father and his older brother stood with the farm hands, watching in silence as the creamy white torrent frothed and gurgled away. It was heartbreaking.
The freshly milked cows would plod back into the fields, with no one certain that the whole soul-destroying process wouldn’t be repeated the next day.
Granddad kept his nerve, but on other
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