The Sandbag Times Issue No: 50

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MRS FOX GOES TO WAR Mrs Fox Goes To War... The Chronicles of Little Hope 1939 - 1945 Villager of the month: Mrs Lavina Fox Lavinia Fox. Old school. Born 'behind the Colours' to military parents somewhere in India at a date she keeps conveniently forgetting to mention. Hardy perennial Girl Guide. Diarist. Avid collector of odd people. Scourge of the Wehrmacht. Churchill’s greatest admirer (read: stalker). Letter of the Month There’s a cautionary tale from Hilda Ffinch this festive season! The moral: Better a pig in the bath than a night in The Stoker’s Arms... Miss Dora Millington ‘Trollop’s End’ Slack Bottom Greater Hope 7th April 1942 Dear Ms Ffinch, Dear Ms Ffinch, I share my home with my great aunt Doris - a wonderfully stoic lady who is an admirably self sufficient character. Anyhow, I have just returned home from my weekly WI meeting, I was greeted by the hanging corpse of a fully grown pig over our bath tub! Fortunately for Winston, the Cabinet War Rooms were jolly secure... Hilda Ffinch: The Bird With All The Answers To say it was a shock to see this big porker hanging in the bathroom is an understatement and I wonder how on earth to broach the subject of having a bath this evening. The thought of wallowing in the bath tub with pig trotters dangling over my head makes me feel rather queasy. Please could you advise on how to broach the subject of how I may perform my necessary ablutions? Yours sincerely Dora Millington (miss) Dear Dora, If, as I suspect, your great aunt Doris is actually Doris ‘Curmudgeon’ Millington, the former landlady of The Stoker’s Arms on the moor above Greater Hope, where the best brawn in Yorkshire was to be had prior to the Meat Emporium on the High Street here in Little Hope opening, then you’re skating on very thin ice indeed, my dear. Let me take you back to the great blizzard of 1913 (long before my time, obviously) to the night when your great aunt first appeared at The Stoker’s Arms, having travelled | 36 www.sandbagtimes.co.uk
THE CHRONICLES OF LITTLE HOPE alone through the deepening snow from Nottingham on a mercy mission from her father (Mr Sweeney Millington of Millington’s Pie Shop, High Pavement, Nottingham), carrying two barrels of Shipstone’s India Pale Ale, a small sack of ‘meat seasoning’ and a crate of candles on her back as Arthur - the usual drayman - had put his back out trying to get it up the Great North Road, as it were, and the horses were having none of it on account of snowballs in their hoofs. Exhausted and sweating like Jack the Ripper at a surprise party held by Inspector Abbeline of the Yard, Doris staggered in to The Stoker’s Arms at sunset on a Tuesday evening and was immediately swept off her feet by a grateful Landlord and twelve thirsty steelworkers (who had left Sheffield on a charabanc outing three days before and had become prisoners of the storm). None of them had seen a woman – or daylight – for quite some time and so Miss Millington was quite the centre of attention at first until the storm worsened and food began to run out. For seven days and seven nights the gods raged against mankind, pipes froze and village pumps came off in the hand when agitated with too much vigour. The lights of the marooned inn on the moor, bright and gay at first, quite magnificent with their Pickwickian sparkle and glitter, were seen from the church tower in Greater Hope to dim gradually, diminish in number and slowly die. Finally the day came when the storm blew itself out and a small party of men from the Greater Hope Ferret Fanciers Forum wrapped themselves up snugly, and preventing their thighs from freezing on the journey across the moor by diligently adhering to the Forum’s accepted ferret/trouser leg ratio, and set out on a rescue mission to The Stoker’s Arms, dragging a sledge loaded up with damson chutney, bread and lard behind them. For five or more hours they toiled up towards the moor, digging through the frozen precipitation like frenzied badgers until at last they reached the door to the inn. Bracing themselves and fully expecting to be confronted with a tableau rivalling Madam Tussaud’s ‘The last moments of Robert Falcon Scott and his unfortunate friends’ (price: two shillings on admission), they pushed the door open and peered in only to find Doris Millington wallowing in a tin bath (full, and with enough steam to preserve her dignity, thankfully) in front of a roaring fire, sipping on half a pint of pale ale and singing ‘When the Midnight choo-choo leaves for Alabam’, only pausing occasionally to nibble on a slice of brawn on toast. There was not another soul to be found at the inn that day, though the Ferret Fanciers Forum searched the place from top to bottom, no easy task in itself given that the landlord had clearly expected the storm to be bad and had evidently stocked up on enough brawn to withstand a siege. The inn’s larder was overflowing with it, there were two large clear jars of it on the counter in the bar and a recently cut tea plate full on the table in the kitchen. Doris explained, when questioned by Constable Crumble (a leading light in the Ferret Fanciers Forum and thus a member of the rescue party), that the landlord and the steelworkers, concerned that they might succumb to starvation at The Stoker’s Arms on account of the raging blizzard outside (none of them liked brawn, apparently, they were all vegetarians) had set off en masse for the village the morning after her arrival, to try to bring help or at the very least, some lettuce and a bit of cucumber for some sandwiches, and she hadn’t seen hide nor hair of them since. “But there were no footprints outside the inn, when we arrived!”frowned Constable Crumb, “Not so much as an indentation or undulation!” “The snow,” replied Doris, “Was positively horrid. I shouldn’t think they’ll be seen again. The landlord left his Last Will and Testament on the bar, just in case, he insisted on leaving the Inn to me if he failed to return. Now, would you like a meat pie? I found some pork in the cellar and whipped eighteen of them up this morning. They’re delicious...” Constable Crumble declined the pie, but did have some brawn, liberally topped with the damson chutney the rescue party had bought with them. He always maintained that it was the best brawn he’d ever tasted, an interesting texture and – even better - he was the lucky winner of Doris Millington’s ‘Find the gold filling in the brawn’ competition. “Do keep it,” said Doris, “I always like to pop one in, you may not have any fillings now but keep it safe as one day you may need it, you never know...” Clearly, ‘Dingley Dell’ had become ‘Dingley Hell’, although Constable Crumble always refused to believe it and soon afterwards gave up the police force for a position behind the flap, as it were, in Doris Millington’s newly acquired public house with the intriguing doorknobs. And so, my dear Dora, I'd be inclined to keep mum about the swinging porker in the bathroom if I were you. If you feel that you need to have a word with your Great Aunt Doris regarding the same then please, do carry on. Personally, I would advise you to err on the side of caution however and perhaps just hop on in there, wink at 'Dangling Percy' and use the odd trotter in lieu of a nail brush. Good luck living with Mrs Miggins. Yours, Hilda Ffinch The Bird With All The Answers Thank you for following the adventures of Mrs Fox and the Villagers of Little Hope this year, we all wish you a Very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year! Keep safe, folks! Sincerely, Miss Virginia Hotfoot www.sandbagtimes.co.uk 37 |
Page 1 and 2: The Veterans’ Magazine Issue 50 |
Page 3 and 4: CONTENTS SBT News 4 And so it conti
Page 5 and 6: NEWS THE VETERANS’ MAGAZINE SBT N
Page 7 and 8: A new multi-million pound military
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Page 13 and 14: NEWS BUILDING HEROES Building Heroe
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Page 17 and 18: Charles is also well known for his
Page 19 and 20: MERRY CHRISTMAS TO OUR TROOPS AND V
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