Do you remember the little streams of babies walking about the village this summer? There were about 48 of them between the ages of 2 and 5 and they came from a nursery school in the heart of Stepney and were spending a fortnight at Rogues. I shall always think of them as the Water Babies. The weather was perfect and they were never seen in anything but little hand-knitted bathing pants of the gayest of colours. One evening when I went up to see them, they were sitting in a little group on the tennis lawn eating their supper of porridge and bread and butter out of brightly coloured bowls – each group having a father or mother who saw to the wants of the others. Supper ended, they were allowed to go and paddle; and there was a rush of little feet over the long grass, under the trees and past the flower beds down to the water, where their small garments were discarded and the round pool became fringed with tiny scraps of humanity each in his or her birthday suit. Those in charge told me sad tales of unhappy homes, dirt squalor and neglect – verily it must have seemed a Paradise to them.

For 18 months Harold Bond was our organist. I want to start by praising him because, in spite of all his faults, difficulties and shortcomings, he was never absent, never late during the whole of that time.

He and his somewhat insignificant wife and his daughter Cynthia, lived in Beaconsfield and he had a small jewellers shop in the Old Town along the London Road.

His physical bulk was considerable and his weight hardly to be guessed at. In spite of this. in fair weather or foul, Sunday by Sunday, he would bicycle backwards and forwards to Tylers Green, arriving there with the perspiration streaming down his face. And because of that, and alas on account of a certain weakness which he had for “the bottle” his near presence was anything but desirable.

He taught in the Sunday School but his good natured and somewhat comical appearance gave him no authority over his class or with the Choir Boys. The Vicar rang me up one evening after a Choir Practice and asked me to take him home in my car as the weather was so bad. I had a boys Bible Class that evening and offered 3 or 4 of the boys a joy ride. They all squeezed into the back of the car and there was a very perceptible “dip” when Mr Bond climbed in the front. We drove down to Beaconsfield where Mr Bond suggested that I put him down at the corner to save myself having to turn into the main road. As we were driving away one of the boys chanced to look back and saw him creeping stealthily into the Bar of the White Hart Inn. It was this craving which brought about his downfall. To help him financially (the organist’s salary was only £20) we Church people used to give him our clocks and watches to mend. As time went on, it became increasingly difficult to get them back from him. Yes – it wasn’t quite right – he would keep it just a little longer – and so it went on.

Then one day we heard he had been arrested. Most of the articles were eventually redeemed from Pawn by tickets found in his pockets. I have a valuable carriage clock which was so rescued after having been in a London Pawn Shop for about 3 months.

In his case, it was misfortune or weakness rather than crime, for his was a kindly guileless nature and it was hoped that his time in jail, he got 6 months – would effect a cure. I think every single one of us was sorry for the old man.

They say that no one is indispensable but for many years, we, who lived in Tylers Green and Penn would have fared very badly without Sam Taylor. For about 40 years he and his van were an institution in the village and his figure was familiar to every household. He was dark and of medium height, with shrewd brown eyes that missed nothing and a beard that in his latter years was changing from iron grey to white. Those who have come to live here recently perhaps do not realize how isolated this village was. There were no buses and only one or two private cars. It was a long way to walk to Wycombe and back carrying a heavy basket, so Sam Taylor did “the shopping”.

Scrupulously honest, he was entrusted with every kind of message, and his many orders were carefully executed and duly delivered on his return in the evening.

He and his wife lived first at Upper Coppice Farm in Hazlemere Road. Afterwards they had rooms in the Bell Inn on the Common and about 11 years ago they bought the house in St John’s Road. By that time he had changed his horse and van for a motor.

In March 1926 Mr and Mrs Taylor celebrated their Golden Wedding. They had a special service of their own choosing in Church and sat hand in hand at the Chancel steps. For some time previously Mrs T had been collecting pennies, so that on this happy occasion she might have plenty to distribute to all the children she chanced to meet. She died in March 1933 and for some years previously had been in very bad health. Besides his job, Taylor took on the nursing, cooking and housework, it was his proud boast that he could look after a house as well as anyone.

He suffered with his heart and the combined work was too much for him and he gave up the business. A year or so after his wife’s death he went to live at Fulham with his daughter. A Londoner by birth, he went back there to die; but his heart was in Tylers Green and he longed to return. He died in September, just a year after he had left and his body was brought back and laid beside that of his wife in Tylers Green Churchyard on Tuesday, October 1st.

Those of us who saw him tending his wife during the years when she was so ill, knew of his patience and gentleness, and his outstanding personality and the part he played in the life of the village will long be remembered by all who knew him and particularly those whose personal requirements he so faithfully executed.

I t must always be something of a shock when someone well known to the whole village passes on into the Unseen World. Charlie Wheeler was known and respected by all and held in affectionate regard by the many with whom he had to do.

He was a familiar figure as day by day, perched high on the butcher’s cart with his rug tucked round him, he went his rounds, his whip raised to the salute as he smilingly greeted his friends. And whether the sun shone or the rain poured down, whether h.is clients were full of blame or praise, he exhibited an unfailing cheerfulness which triumphed over all difficulties and temperaments.

His life was lived entirely in Tylers Green. As a boy in the Council Schools he will be remembered for his universal popularity with both pupils and masters; and for some years he was a regular member of the Church Choir.

He knew no other employment but that which he entered on leaving school and for 26 years he served loyally and very faithfully the master whose work he had come to identify almost as his own.

Thirty eight years is a short time to have lived, but he has left behind him a fine example of cheerful courage, hard work and tenacity of purpose coupled with the gift of universal comradeship, the amazing proof of which has shown itself in the very real sorrow of the whole village and in the multitude of flowers which covered his grave.

May a mere member of the congregation offer her sympathy to the organist and choir on what must have been to them a disappointment. I refer, of course, to the abandonment of the new pointing to our Psalms. An artist, and such most certainly is our organist, has a natural urge to put originality and something of himself into his work, and surely, just there lies the whole difficulty of the situation.

All true artists are creative, and originality and progress are the essence of all creative work, and the courageous way in which the new Books were laid aside last Sunday and the old pointing so enthusiastically rendered, is deserving of our highest praise.

However great the disappointment there must also have come to them a measure of consolation in the response of the congregation as voices, silent for many a Sunday, were once more raised aloud in praise. For there is another side to it, the side of the inarticulate worshipper. To him the organist so often seems like the examiner of younger days, who lays traps for the unwary, so that if possible he may be caught out.

After all the majority of us come to Church hoping to be allowed to sing quite simply the appointed words and to find there a Choir who will so effectually lead and encourage us that we can lift up our voices without effort or self-consciousness.

It is a hard thing we ask of our organist – to subordinate his art so that others may express themselves; but sacrifice brings its own peculiar reward and the response on Sunday was most assuredly a part of it.

Christmas saw the laying to rest of those who had lived the allotted span of their lives in Tylers Green and who died a stone’s throw away from the Church within a few hours of each other.

Richard Lacey, chimney sweep – known as Dick to his many friends in all walks of life, was in his 74th year.

At one time closely connected with St Margaret’s Church he had acted as Sexton and grave digger and had fulfiIled the duties of stoker. Before the churchyard was kept in the beautiful condition it now is, Dick was called in from time to time to scythe the long grass. No one else could do it as weIl as he was able to do it.

Was there a wasps’ nest in a dangerous place? Dick was the person to see to it and never a wasp remained after he had attended to the business. A familiar figure in his corduroy trousers strapped below the knee, and his kindly eyes, Dick Lacey was an institution in the village. For some time past he had been unable to follow his profession, but he was always ready to pass the time of day as one met him passing up and down the road, in his husky hesitating voice.

It was said of him that he could only sweep a chimney properly if he was drunk and his language was often unspeakable. The rent of his house was 5/- a week and on one occasion when in arrears he presented his landlord with a vegetable marrow. Being gently reminded about the little matter of the rent he went off to return presently with another marrow, larger than the first.

A selfish spoilt child with a disarming manner, and such perhaps is the best description of Dick Lacey, so often seems to inspire a wonderful affection in those whom he makes to suffer and it was true of him.

He returned from an exhibition where he had shown a selection of his honey [part sentence iIlegible].

I hear that his tiny cottage and the little garden where he kept his bees has now been reconstructed and nothing remains but the walls of the house which he shared with his wife and children and delight his orphaned grandson.

It will not be easy to forget the beautiful serene face of Mrs Lacey and the patient eyes which, tho’ she never uttered a word of complaint, yet betrayed a wealth of suffering which must have-been her lot down the years.

As she was carried to her last resting place there was placed upon her grave by those who knew her best, a magnificent wreath depicting the golden gates of Heaven opening to receive her.

Phoebe Hazell, one of the last of the old school, whose habit it was to curtsey in the old fashioned way when one met her on the road.

She had nearly reached her four score years and ten and the gentleness and patience of old age seemed to radiate from her face and the calm blue eyes that had been growing very dim. As a child she had been caused by her father to see the dedication of the Church, and she was full of memories of the village of 80 years ago.

Died: 21st December 1936, Aged 88 years. Her husband William Hazell died, 31st August 1921, aged 73,  Their son Daniel died at Ypres, died May, 1916, aged 36.

Gruff and ill tempered, ill mannered to everyone be they high or low, King the Butcher is not popular. And yet I like him because he says what he thinks and is quite consistent even in his rudeness. His opinion of women is high, but the young men of the present day are, to him, lazy and beneath contempt.

I wouldn’t call him either fair or just, and yet I like him because I feel that he could be touched by pity, and also because I think that much of his disagreeable manner is put on to hide a desperate loneliness.

His wife suffered from a distressing and painful complaint, and soon after I came to Tylers Green, she put an end to her suffering by drowning herself in the rain water tank. He has lived alone ever since and I have never heard of anyone who was his friend.

Kings Butchers Shop (2018)

Charlie Wheeler, delivering for King the butcher