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Don McDouall was evacuated from London during World War II when he was five years old. He was sent to the small country village of East Hanney to live with Grans and Grampy at a house called Tamarisk. He now lives in Australia.
Gramps was a nice man. He was very friendly to both Roy (the other evacuee) and me, but he couldn't read or write. Not even write his name, not that that worried me any. Gramps was a very quiet person, he never ever got angry and always worked very hard. I think everyone who knew him liked him. I loved him.
He had a wonderful rapport with animals. He never hurt anything. He never hit a horse or got angry with one. If a horse was playing up a bit Gramps would whisper something to it and the horse would behave itself. He was very well known and respected for his work with horses.
In all the time I lived with Gramps he never had a bath! He used to have a wash though! Every night when he came home from the days work, he would open the neck of his collarless shirt and make a lot of snorting sounds as he washed his ears and neck in the soapy water. I would sometimes copy him when I washed, but Grans would give me a clout if she caught me doing it.
Gramps was a labourer on a farm in East Hanney and was known as what was then called as a 'Fogger'. This meant that he worked with horses and cattle.
Once Roy had gone back to London, Grampy would take me to work with him on most Saturdays and school holidays. I would help him in thatching corn ricks.
Horses were at that time the main means of energy on most farms. Gramps looked after about thirty of these wonderful animals that all towered over me. They were mainly Clydesdales. They had names like Blossom, Colonel, Betsy and General.
Each horse had great big feet with shaggy hair around their hooves that looked like very large bedroom slippers. I remember it use to hurt my legs to sit astride their large backs. I use to sit up on their neck and hang on grimly to their massive shaggy manes.
Some mornings after a breakfast of bread and lard, we would go to the stables and I would help to harness up the horses. I use to get very frustrated with some of them. I would be holding this heavy collar above my head, while standing on a box and as I lifted the collar up higher and higher the horse would raise its head higher and higher until the weight of the collar was too much for me and I would fall over.
It would make me lose my temper and start into punching the horse's belly. But the horse would just go on eating and I would be crying from sheer frustration.
Then Gramps would notice all this mayhem and speak gruffly to the horse playing up who in turn would reach down and nuzzle my head. I would hold the collar up again and the horse would poke its head through it and throw the collar down onto its shoulders and then I'm sure, smile down at me.
There was ploughing to watch. These tasks using horses were very hard work. Lunch and dinner times were great times for me. Gramps would produce from his large red handkerchief some bread that he would cut up. Then with a flourish give me a large chunk of it. Then using his sharp pocketknife often as a fork, he would deal out a sliver of hard cheese that would appear from the large red handkerchief as well.
Most times, somewhat mysteriously, a large onion would appear from the confines of his overcoat, it always made your eyes water. Then we would quench our thirst from a bottle of cold tea.
This elderly man was always my champion. Without his ongoing protection, life would have been really grim for me.
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