Post by wilbarra on Nov 18, 2016 10:41:56 GMT
Uncle tom was a rogue
a very nice rogue but never the less, a rogue.
mr peters, the village policeman, described him as "the only
honest rogue in the village.
he was not really my uncle,having attached himself to my mum
when they were very young and remained attached to her all
through his life.
he had an allotment when he was very young but did not do much
on it,claiming that the ground would not grow anything decent on
it.
after being given another plot,near the end of the site, he still
claimed that it was not right for him, this time though, it was not
the ground that was wrong but the clump of trees that was at the
bottom of his plot.
he finally asked for and got the plot that he wanted, right at the
end of the site.
there he kept his plot neat and tidy but with very little growing on
it apart from two rows of runner beans that stretched right across
his plot ,which he sold to the local shops and anybody else that
wanted them.
he also had a shed on the plot which he kept securely locked even
when he was on the plot.
now although uncle tom never grew any, he was able to keep the
local shop supplied with strawberries all of the growing season.
he also supplied local butchers shops with rabbits and the occasional
pheasant very much on demand and most surprising of all, he kept
us and and our next door neighbour supplied with eggs.
i say surprisingly because uncle tom never kept chicken.
in 1939, at the outbreak of war, uncle tom surprised everyone by
volunteering for the r.a.f.
but it was no surprise to my mum.
he had told her that "before long everybody is going to get called up
and i reckon the r.a.f is going to be the safest one to be in and thats
why i voluntered to join up before they called me up"
before he went away he gave my mum the key to his allotment shed
saying she was the only one he could trust with it.
then off he went to war.
two days later my mum took me up to uncle toms allotment and we
opened his shed.
in the shed there was not one single garden tool but hanging neatly
all round the shed was all that a poacher could ever want, to ply his
trade.
behind the shed was a tiny gap in the hedge that seperated the
allotments from miss Buckleys land and the allotments.
just one field away was a smallholding where they kept chicken and
grew strawberries.
a very nice rogue but never the less, a rogue.
mr peters, the village policeman, described him as "the only
honest rogue in the village.
he was not really my uncle,having attached himself to my mum
when they were very young and remained attached to her all
through his life.
he had an allotment when he was very young but did not do much
on it,claiming that the ground would not grow anything decent on
it.
after being given another plot,near the end of the site, he still
claimed that it was not right for him, this time though, it was not
the ground that was wrong but the clump of trees that was at the
bottom of his plot.
he finally asked for and got the plot that he wanted, right at the
end of the site.
there he kept his plot neat and tidy but with very little growing on
it apart from two rows of runner beans that stretched right across
his plot ,which he sold to the local shops and anybody else that
wanted them.
he also had a shed on the plot which he kept securely locked even
when he was on the plot.
now although uncle tom never grew any, he was able to keep the
local shop supplied with strawberries all of the growing season.
he also supplied local butchers shops with rabbits and the occasional
pheasant very much on demand and most surprising of all, he kept
us and and our next door neighbour supplied with eggs.
i say surprisingly because uncle tom never kept chicken.
in 1939, at the outbreak of war, uncle tom surprised everyone by
volunteering for the r.a.f.
but it was no surprise to my mum.
he had told her that "before long everybody is going to get called up
and i reckon the r.a.f is going to be the safest one to be in and thats
why i voluntered to join up before they called me up"
before he went away he gave my mum the key to his allotment shed
saying she was the only one he could trust with it.
then off he went to war.
two days later my mum took me up to uncle toms allotment and we
opened his shed.
in the shed there was not one single garden tool but hanging neatly
all round the shed was all that a poacher could ever want, to ply his
trade.
behind the shed was a tiny gap in the hedge that seperated the
allotments from miss Buckleys land and the allotments.
just one field away was a smallholding where they kept chicken and
grew strawberries.
