memories of yeovil
A Yeovil Childhood
A Poem by Heather Murphy
The town’s
population was
twenty three
thousand
It must be
double that now.
Little market
town so lovely
then
What would my
grandparents
say?
Middle Street
boasted the
ancient George
Inn
Tudor jettied,
timber framed,
survivor of wars
Beneath it,
Chubb's Bakers
where mother
bought yeast
To bake homemade
bread and two
ounces of
rainbow drops
For me for a
treat.
One Good Friday
morning town
planners (God
damn them),
Sent men to
demolish these
bastions of
history
And widen the
road to make way
for traffic.
Within a
heartbeat road
changed to
precinct,
Those medieval
frames died in
vain.
The street still
thrived with so
many shops -
Drapers, Home
and Colonial and
Timothy Whites.
Lower end
vibrant - Hodges
Bakers, Lushes
greengrocers,
Childrens’
clothes and
Hockey’s toy
shop
Where young
brother bought
Matchbox toy
cars.
They all looked
so welcoming
with their
sunshine
canopies,
None boarded up,
no slot
machines,
takeaways or
charity shops.
Princes Street
bustled, Sawyers
fish shop,
butchers, bakers
and ironmongers.
Whitby’s book
shop had pillars
and creeper clad
greenery.
We bought penny
brown envelopes
to reseal our
school reports
Before we got
home, parents
unaware of our
sneak preview.
Policemen with
tall hats walked
through the
town,
So much respect
then, schoolboys
raised their
caps to adults.
Murder a rare
and terrible
crime of
national
importance.
The gallows a
strong deterrent
to most of
today’s heinous
crimes.
St John’s
churchyard full
of ancient old
graves
and fading
headstones.
“Don’t walk on
the grass” we
were told “it’s
disrespectful”
So we kept to
the paths.
Now college
students call it
“the beach”
And disport
themselves all
over.
The headstones
long gone.
At Pen Mill
Junior each
class planted
trees
Around the edge
of the school
playing field.
Ours, class
seven, a
splendid horse
chestnut.
Mr Whale said
“When you are
grown you will
sit in the shade
with your own
boys and girls”.
Fifty years
later I went
back again.
The field was
much smaller
with neat houses
on.
No one
remembered the
old school as it
was,
Or teachers and
pupils, no sign
of our tree.
It felt like
bereavement, a
longing and
loss.
Ninesprings more
natural then,
magic playground
for children
A tiny thatched
cottage housed
an old couple.
For sixpence
you’d sit on the
porch and drink
lemonade.
Now, a few
hamstone steps
the only clue
That the fairy
tale house ever
existed.
Lovely steam
trains - Pen
Mill, Yeovil
Town and
Junction
stations,
Huge coal fires
glowing in the
waiting rooms.
I remember the
turntable where
mighty engines
changed
direction.
Numerous glove
factories,
exceedingly
smelly but
providing
employment
For large
swathes of the
community.
Out in the
suburbs, grocery
stores on many
street corners.
I remember the
meat slicer - no
plastic ham
then.
My sixpence
pocket money
eagerly spent
On Fry’s Five
Boys chocolate,
bright sherbet
and gobstoppers.
Most of my
childhood
confectionary
withdrawn
Years ago to
protect todays
little darlings.
Our teacher told
us that salt was
precious
To be added to
most things
including cake
mix.
Streets full of
children
laughing and
playing -
During school
holidays we
stayed out all
day.
Hopscotch,
roller skating
and making dens
- so few cars
then.
If it rained we
amused ourselves
- drawing,
painting,
reading and
sewing.
Big brother with
Meccano, plaster
of Paris
modelling
Or developing
snaps from an
old Box Brownie.
No TV or
electronic
gadgets for us.
Old fashioned
plain cooking
with bread to
fill up.
Olive oil
something bought
in the chemist
for baby‘s
earache.
Contented and
healthy, the
phrase “I’m
bored” had not
been invented.
The dawn chorus
was deafening
but as estates
grew
Fields and
woodland shrank
and the birdsong
faded.
Do my ancestors
sleep peacefully
in the town
cemetery?
I’ve learned to
look up now over
the brash shop
fronts
Look up to the
Georgian windows
above.
Sometimes a
whisper, a ghost
of a memory
Recalls that
lost time of
innocence.
Heather Murphy