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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.
There were two churches in the twin villages of Hanney. One of which was in the village of West Hanney. It was at the time a very old church and had a massive pipe organ. The organ player at the time was a very old man who looked remarkably much like a gnome! The gentleman's name was Aubrey Taunton Eaton and was the West Hanney organist for some 42 yrs.
I can't remember just how I came to be the 'organ pumper' but I held this dubious position for quite a while. To be the organ pumper one sat in a small alcove that was set back into the massive stone wall to one side of the actual organ. Along the wall was a long wooden lever. There was a wooden bench that one sat on and in another frame, attached to the opposite wall, was a bead that moved horizontally along a metal rod.
There were two marks on the rod and it was highly desirable to keep the wooden bead somewhere between these two marks, which represented the maximum and the minimum air pressure obtained by working the bellows. Pumping the handle manually worked these bellows that in turn pressurised the air.
I quite liked the job of pumping the organ. No pay of course but at least one didn't have to put up with the boring hymns or prayers. Sadly for me and the organ player and I suppose, the congregation, it didn't take me very long to work out the unfortunate results of first not pumping enough air or secondly the hilarious results of over pumping too much air.
My favourite prank was during a prayer I would slowly keep pumping and the bead would move up past the maximum. Then when the organist brought his hands down on the keys there was one almighty noise! I probably got the sack for my poor performance, but I have this feeling that I was egged on by the old organist. His eyes would twinkle a lot after the stunned silence of such an act on my part!
Roy and I were always sent to church on Sundays, first in the morning then again in the evening. In the afternoon we had to go to Sunday school. I hated church, perhaps because we didn't have any good Sunday best clothes or perhaps because we were not really wanted. We were always banished to a pew right at the back, away from the main congregation.
I didn't mind Sunday school at all. A woman taught us the scriptures and we would get to draw things of a biblical nature like Jacob climbing his ladder or the birds bringing the people bread in their beaks.
Evening church was a terrifying experience for us especially during the winter evenings. The church was only lit by oil lamps and down our end of the long building only candles were used. It would be very cold and extremely drafty. The wind would make those horrible sighing sounds that just had to be dead people calling to us!
To make matters worse people had long ago been buried under the stone floor that we stood on. We knew this to be fact as their names were carved into the stone floor or on brass plates. You can well imagine the absolute unholy terror of two small boys sitting alone in the gloom with their feet on someone who had been buried three hundred years before!
Any rustling noises that could be attributed to cats or even rats and bats would have us both crouched tightly together on the wooden pew with our feet up on the seat and our hearts in our mouths waiting for god knows what to grab us!
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