Open Writing

If I walk down Castlegate, in Malton, an attractive market town lying midway between York and Scarborough, I will pass the house where my Great-grandfather Metcalfe lived with his wife and family. Continuing right, and on to the bridge over the River Derwent, I shall have a good view of the old flour mill, a large, high building, which belonged to my Great-grandfather, and later to his two sons, William and Robert.

No longer does the name read William Metcalfe and Sons, for many years ago the mill was sold and it has passed into a number of different hands; but it still, in 1962, stands four-square, rising up out of the river and reminding the old generation of passers-by of the family of Metcalfe.

Great-grandfather was very handsome as a young man. With warm colouring, light brown eyes and brown hair, and the fashionable mutton-chop whiskers; with a high collar almost hidden by the cravat wound round it and finished in a bow-tie; with his cut-away coat and tight trousers, his elegant hat and erect bearing, he was a man to be noticed. He married Elizabeth Rutter and they had a family of seven, five girls and two boys, of whom one, Robert, became an alderman and a J.P. In old age Robert was known as the "Grand Old Man of Malton".

I heard little of Great-grandfather Metcalfe. I suppose when Florrie, my mother, visited her grandparents, he would be away all day at business, and her life was caught up with the womenfolk in their daily pleasures and activities.

I know that he was an expert carver, a skill sadly neglected in these days, and he was greatly in demand at Masonic dinners throughout Yorkshire, to carve at their banquets. He took a keen enjoyment in this art in which he trained his family.

I know, too, that when the edict went out that flour was to be refined and made white, Great-grandfather strode up and down the room in anger. "Mark my words," he stormed, "from now on the health of the nation will decline. There will be stomach ailments galore. Rubbish, nonsense, to take all the good nourishment out of the wheat." This impressed Florrie and alas! she was to suffer from stomach ailments herself, having both gall-bladder and ulcer trouble. I wonder what William Metcalfe would have said to that!

His wife was a remarkable woman, clever and able, very particular about the upbringing of her children, and active in the kitchen and in the running of her home. They had servants, but Great-grandmother Metcalfe was a keen organiser and there was much to be done with so large a family.

At Christmas-time one of their pigs was killed, and all the produce from the animal would be dealt with in the home. There was great activity and bustle for a period. The brawns were boiled, mixed and moulded; the chitterlings and the haslets prepared; after which the body was salted down to hang from the rafters to be cut as required.

Florrie, as a child, used to watch all these preparations, and would wonder at the number of different dishes and joints one pig could provide. There was bacon, and ham, and pig's cheek; the legs, spareribs, the trotters and loin. She thought no other animal was so splendid, so delicious, so plump and so tasty.

A story is told of my Great-grandmother that used to fascinate me as a small girl, and, indeed, still holds awe. She was taken ill and the doctor pronounced that she was dead.

"No! No!" protested her husband, "she is not dead, I know she is not dead."

The doctor insisted that it was so. A colleague was called and he made the same pronouncement. Still her husband reiterated that she was not. "I feel it, she is not dead," was all he could say.

The coffin was made and his wife laid within but her husband refused to leave, staying beside it day and night. Gently and quietly, at the last possible moment before the lid was to be nailed down, the body stirred and his wife looked round in puzzlement and said, "Where am I? what has happened?"

I would imagine the house silent in suspense, the tenseness of that figure watching, watching, willing the still, cold form to revive so that all could see what he could feel. I would imagine the horror of rising up in a coffin and then the joy and delight ringing through the house, the hugging and thankfulness, and later, the sense of shock that so nearly had this dear woman been buried alive.

For years and years my mother used to say "When I die I wish my wrists to be cut so that there can be no mistake that I am dead."

Florrie visited her grandmother for months at a time, and had a healthy respect and deep affection for her. Throughout her life she said what a great debt of gratitude she owed for all she had taught her. I would marvel that there was never any resentment, for the old lady was very definite and strict in her instructions. Florrie, too, enjoyed being with her aunts of whom Annie was her favourite, and as they were reasonably close in age they had much in common and had great fun with their young men.

Annie became engaged, and was stricken when her fiance died, it was a deep grief and spoiled her life. She remained thereafter single, as also did her sister Jessie.

The remainder of the family married and Eliza Jane, who was to become my grandmother, had a very romantic wooing which must have caused quite a sensation among the girls. A young Scot of twenty-five years, James Thomson by name, saw Eliza Jane one evening waiting on the doorstep for the bell to be answered at the house of mutual friends in Huddersfield. He opened the gate, and as it squeaked Eliza Jane turned towards him, and he promptly fell in love with her.

I wonder what it was that made such an instant impression; her bearing and grace, her features, or perhaps a gentle look she bestowed upon him. James' heart was in a flutter, and that same evening he remarked to one of the guests "I am going to marry that girl" and to his friend's protest of "Don't be a fool, James, you scarcely know her," he retorted "I am going to marry her, you'll see!" After a whirlwind courtship this, indeed, he did!

Some years previously, when the family were still at home, Great-grandfather bought a house on the Mount called "Rockingham House", and they removed away from the mill and the main road to a more residential part of Malton.

In the course of time Great-grandfather and Great-grandmother Metcalfe died. When great-Grandmother was laid to rest an old friend wrote a poem to her memory which I find rather charming, and a tribute to her happy nature. It was entitled: -

"In memoriam."

And they turned away in their sadness,
As they left her there to rest,
But her spirit sang in its gladness,
At home, with the Loved and Blest.

In St. Michael's Church, at Malton, there is a stained-glass window consecrated to Great-Grandmother. This depicts the "Light of the World" from the famous painting by Holman Hunt, and the words read:-

"To the Glory of God and in loving memory of Elizabeth Rutter wife of William Metcalfe Rockingham House Malton by their sons and daughters obiit Jan 21 1889 aetat 69."

I think it is a wonderful thing to have a poem dedicated, and a stained-glass window consecrated, to one's memory. Elizabeth Rutter must indeed have been a remarkable character.

After their parents' deaths Annie and Jessie continued to live at the family home. When Jessie died from a stroke, Annie gradually became an invalid, and bedridden.

There was a strange twilight in the house for the Venetian blinds covering the windows shadowed all the rooms, and instinctively we lowered our voices as we entered the cold, dead atmosphere.

It was not so in Annie's bedroom, however, for she had a love of blue and pink and the room had a lightsome air. I remember Annie as charming and easily amused, and although she led such a restricted life I do not recall hearing her grumble. She was greatly helped by the wireless for she listened intently to the services from St. Martin-in-the-Fields, and admired and loved the Revd. Dick Sheppard, pioneer of religious broadcasting.

When Annie died at the age of eighty-six, in 1937, she was the last of that generation of the family of Metcalfe.