Old Simms” – “the Major” as the villagers affectionately called him.

Patient and humble, with a devotion to duty and a capacity for work which are truly amazing. He had 48 years service in the Army (he was a sergeant before he was born!) and all the training he went through and his subordination of himself to the many officers under whom he served during all those years, has produced in him that efficiency and capability coupled with the beautiful humility which we all know so well.

He has a quick smile; and a sense of humour with a transparent honesty that looks out from the grey eyes.

The Tylers Green Branch of the British Legion is a flourishing concern and it is not an exaggeration to say that Simms is its mainstay. On official occasions he appears with a formidable row of medals, conspicuous among them being those for Good Conduct and Long Service.

He has had his share of sorrows. His second wife became totally blind before she died and not many years ago he suffered the tragic loss of his grandson aged 17.

He is an old man now and his heart is not strong; but he has a wonderful reserve of strength which never seems to fail him while there is work waiting for him to do.

During all these years of self-surrender he has learnt to care nothing for the praise of men, or for their gratitude. He loves the Church and its services, and in his simplicity and single mindedness he is content to give his life for others without thought of recognition or reward.

There comes before me a busy little figure, full blooded face with wiry white hair piled high on her head, and blue eyes. An excellent housekeeper, and conscious perhaps of her worth. She was the wife of one – Elborn who had a flourishing sausage shop somewhere in London. They were both Theosophists but loved to come to Tylers Green Church.

Her end was sudden and tragic.

She accepted an invitation to drive to Amersham, and turning into Penn Street Road at Potters Cross, the wheels became locked and the car van ran down into the muddy pond and turned over. When the 4 occupants were rescued Mrs. Elborn was found to be drowned.

To lose the sight of one’s eyes – To lose it gradually year after year and to know that after a little while darkness would come – total darkness – for ever. To face the future, to learn what one could while sight was still there – to refuse to give in – to keep cheerful and never complain – to fight despair and to conquer, to have a happy smile for everyone. To have gone through the valley of desolation and come up bravely on the other side. To have created sunshine out of darkness – in short to have conquered one’s fate if that is really to live – then Tom Burrows has lived life to the full.

I have found him, in the days of oil lamps, when totally blind, filling the lamps in the Church and knowing exactly how much they needed. He was so familiar with it all that he would step into the pew and reach up for the lamp without making a single mistake or letting fall a drop of oil.

He plays the tubular bells by ear and the hymn tunes he rings after Evensong on Sunday evenings are a delight to everyone. It makes a perfect finish to the Sabbath day.

A visit to his workshop on Beacon Hill finds him squatting comfortably on the floor weaving baskets with a wonderful dexterity. He has told me that orders come with unfailing regularity and never on one single occasion has he been left without work to do.

He has implicit faith in the Bible promise “The Lord will provide” There have been dark days when he has nearly finished his last order and yet nothing will shake his faith. Always there has come fresh work to meet his need.

He comes of a gardening family and loves to show you his garden and tell you about his plants. He knows all our voices and responds gaily to one’s salutation as he walks fearlessly and unhesitatingly through the village with his white stick as protection. The disability of complete blindness is to Tom Burrows as if it did not exist. What a wonderful example to us all.

Tales of old Tylers Green would not be complete without mention of Miss Devereux.

She lived in the cottage next to Slades Garage (up Beacon Hill) and when one went to see her, she would be lying on a sofa by the window, covered with frilly coverings of all kinds. This sofa, which one imagines was also her bed, she shared with many cats – black ones.

I only remember her as an old sick woman and towards the end, as she lay looking out onto the road she had delusions and would describe how she saw a long row of black cats sitting on the wall which were knocked down and flattened out by the cars which passed. They would all straighten up again in readiness for the next car to come along.

She claimed relationship with her namesake the famous murderer who adorns Madame Tussauds. As an appreciation of all his kindness to her, she bequeathed to the Vicar at her death her fuschia plant which he had always admired.

Old man Grove – May he rest in peace!

There have been Groves living in Penn since ? and tho’ at one time a great deal of land belonged to the family, the property now consists of Stonehouse, Watercroft, some fields at the back of the houses and one or two cottages.

With the laying to rest of Julius Charles Grove in Feb. 1937, Penn lost a very familiar figure and a very good friend.

Hard of hearing, he was a difficult proposition in a bus or public place for his curiosity and interest were insatiable, and tho’ his deafness sometimes caused heart searching and misunderstandings, it was easy to forgive him, for he possessed the royal gift of humour, he was always ready with a cheery word and a very real companionship.

A warm welcome awaited all who came to see him at Stonehouse and his hospitality was a sure thing. His house was a veritable museum, and he loved nothing better than to show off his treasures and tell yarns about them – the pewter dinner plate, and the silk handkerchief with the royal monogram left behind by George III after dining at Stonehouse; the flagon full of golden guineas found in a crevice up the old chimney only a few years ago.

He was intensely interested in everything that concerned the villages of Penn and Tylers Green and never failed to respond generously to an appeal for help.

No one loved gossip more than Julius Grove, but he listened to it – and passed it on – with a great sense of humour, and it never made any difference to his loyalty or friendship.

He once asked me to get some ants eggs for his goldfish and his reply when I was rather a long time in sending them, was characteristic:

“My dear Mrs B. Thank you so much for the ants eggs. I enclose a cheque just to shew that some people can be quite prompt. Yours ever J C. Grove.
P.S. I think the fish will pull round, now we have such a stock of food. I am very hopeful.”

During his last illness it became necessary to have a night nurse. She arrived one evening and going up to his room for the first time, found him sitting fully dressed on a chair reading the paper. She suggested that it was time to go to bed. He made no response whatsoever. After a while she tried again and at last he turned his head in her direction and asked her: “Would you go to bed if a strange man was sitting in your bedroom?”

I fancy the mantle of his forefathers, who had been squires of old had fallen upon him for he was everyone’s friend: and yet he was shrewd enough to sum them all up for what they were worth.

I like best to remember him with his infectious laugh, his kindliness and the way he put back his head and smiled through the half open mouth and his twinkly brown eyes with a wealth of experience in their depths.

Thomas Griffin – only known to us who came lately to the village as a Patriarchal ageless figure, unique in the matter of expressing himself.

Solemn of face with a carefully trimmed beard, he took himself, and life in general, very seriously; and related his own experiences as if they bore directly on the Divine Guidance of the world as a whole.

“One we know, living not a hundred miles away” was his tactful way of referring to a near neighbour whose conduct he was discussing.

Rather than refer to his eldest daughter by name, he would speak of her as “my first born” and in telling the tale of some moving experiences in the lives of his children he would turn his earnest brown eyes sadly on one’s face, shake his head very slowly and remark in short clipt sentences “You are a mother – you will understand”.

His business was that of a Builder and Decorator and this was carved on at the Gable, an old house standing in the grounds where Burke’s school for French boys used to be carried on. His workmanship was above reproach and his workmen could be trusted. His statements of account were marvels of exactitude, accuracy and detail and were, I believe, written out by Alice Griffin, his first born.

He was held in the highest respect by all and at his going the village lost a unique figure who tho’ steeped in the history and gossip of Tylers Green and Penn yet knew how to keep his own counsel.

Note:  Thomas Griffin was elected Churchwarden sixteen times from 1892.

On her 50th birthday, and that was a long time ago, she appeared as she said she would, in pure white. I can see her now, coming up the hill to Church in her white garments; her face wreathed in smiles.

Her youthful figure and alert walk give the lie to her years and are perhaps the keys to her character, for she is a consummate liar and the most adaptable person I know. She must have been lovely in her youth and is still fascinating with the most engaging and disarming smile which spreads over the whole of her face and into her eyes which, placed just a little too close together can express so clearly the joy of social intercourse. Life to her seems an adventure and every gathering of people the opportunity for interesting experiences.

But there is another side, and I have seen those eyes ablaze with fury and dislike and with a green light that comes into them expressing cruelty and jealousy with something which is akin to madness.

I think she would stop at nothing to attain her purpose and I suspect that her loyalties are tinged with personal ambition. She will shew liking and even affection where her own interests are likely to be furthered and nurtured, but I think no pity would be shown to those who crossed her path.

And yet her great personal attraction, the position which she holds as her right and the ease with which she can show affection, real, albeit spurious, have won for her a fugitive hold on the hearts of the villagers. She has more money than most of us and she gives it generously as a rule; and in cases of sickness would be very ready with practical help. Her personal, physical courage is amazing and few women could have gone through the mental suffering which she has endured and won through as she has done.

Her love of popularity easily causes her to lose her sense of proportion and many an acquaintance has been ignored when her mind has been set on a special purpose. I have heard her talk (and she can tell an excellent story) for hours on end until she has made herself hoarse. Her great interest in her neighbours and her sympathetic manner gain easily for her the confidences of most. These confidences she is capable of using in an unscrupulous manner and are passed on to anyone she may happen to meet. According to her likes and dislikes, so is the information coloured to suit and I have heard her lie with a ferocity that dares anyone to contradict her.

She is an exceedingly clever woman and her ready wit is often used to intimidate her adversaries; and few would dare to stand up to the punishment which she would be quick to give.

Editor’s Note: Mrs Editha Lancaster Rose, (1874-1963), the White House Church Road, widow of Bateman Lancaster Rose (who died on 11 May 1912 at age 60).

They will begin to assemble soon after 10.00 am and stray children will be running about the Common waiting to see the Ex-service men, complete with their medals and the British Legion Standard, who are gathering at the Post Office. The local band in their smart uniforms with the scarlet stripes and their shining instruments. The Girl Guides and the Scouts join in with their colours. And now the procession moves off and marches in time to the strains of war time tunes. One among them carries a wreath which he will presently lay at the foot of the War Memorial.

The Church is already full as the men file into the pews specially reserved for them. The Guides have chairs in the Chancel and the Band are at the back of the Church. The special speaker arrives – in uniform – and the Vicar has to make a way for him up the crowded aisle to a seat below the pulpit.

The light streams through the South window on to the Altar with its covering of the Union Jack and a shaft of sunlight rests on a wreath of laurels, tied with crimson ribbon, which lies across the Sanctuary steps.

There is a stir of expectancy among the crowded congregation. One lives again the moments immediately following the cessation of war and the laying down of arms after four long nerve wrought years. It is, for many of us, as if the years between had fallen away and we are standing dazed and thankful – till a sudden realization steals over us of what life ahead is to mean for us, whose loved ones will not return from the hushed battlefield and for those whose bodies and minds have been broken and shattered.

There in front of us sit men who went out and have come back again – one among them totally blind, one or two without an arm or a leg – who shall say what their thoughts are as the remembrance of war years surge over them once more.

“My friends and fellow comrades, we are gathered together on the 19th anniversary of the signing of the Armistice” the solemn service has begun and we are wrapped in contemplation of the Almighty Father of us all, who is greater even than war and the horrors of war – in whose keeping are all those, who, living or dead “gathered rank on rank to war and heard God’s message from afar”.

Then comes the moment when we leave the Church and stand in front of the War Memorial to hear the names of the fallen, and the voice of one of their brethren asserting that “We will not break faith with those who died” A laurel wreath enriched with a mass of blood red poppies is laid on the memorial and the Last Post and the Reveille ring out in the chill November air over bowed heads.

And now we break forth into one last hymn of hope – our minds are lifted to the thought that “far more glorious day when all the Saints triumphant shall stand in bright array” and as the last Amen dies away we are brought back to hear the Vicar with uplifted hand calling down the Blessing of God Almighty upon us and upon all whom we love.