On Shoreham Hills

On Shoreham Hills,

I sat a thousand years,

And watched the seasons change

Like fields, from green, to brown, to white.

And on those hills,

I saw the Norse arrive and change the way of things,

Our lives belonged to others now.

On Shoreham Hills,

I watched as paths were walked a

Hundred million times, which turned to

Roads, and streets and lanes,

The poor, the plagued were taken in

And healed and fed, and given up

To God’s own grace.

On Shoreham Hills,

I saw the wooden structures changed to stone

And homes were built to hold those hearts

That felt this secret valley

Theirs to keep.

I sat beside, as William Blake did spy Jerusalem

Among the waters of the Darent streams,

Forever caught by Samuel Palmer’s paints.

Then one fine day, the smoke appeared of rail and train

And in our hearts, we knew those hills were not for only us.

I lifted eyes to watch the Zeppelin raids on London Town,

Replaced by Messerschmitt and Spitfire trails.

The buildings rose, as did the streets

Our village grew to meet the age.

I sat on Shoreham Hills, a thousand years

To watch it comfort and console,

And as I watched the sun arise,

I hoped to sit a thousand more.

The Song: Video of Shoreham Rose - The Song.


Bobby Stevenson 2014

One Weekend In Shoreham, September 1939

He looked at the little calendar which his young sister, Emily had made at school. She had written the 9, of 39 backwards at the top of the sheet. She hadn’t even spelled September correctly – but against the day of September 2nd was a reminder that her big brother, Robbie was in the final night of the play at the village hall.

He had hated the whole process at first, having to stand up in front of folks and say things. Learning the lines was even worse, and it wasn’t just Robbie who forgot them. When someone else dried up, the rest of them tended to make it up as they went along – although he did remember his father in Midsummer Night’s Dream saying the word ‘spiffing’ which he was sure Shakespeare hadn’t written.

And now it was the final night of whatever play it was that he was in. He’d fancied himself as the dashing male lead but that part had gone to Archie Conway, just like all the girls – Archie could have his pick of any of them.

Robbie had thought that maybe standing up in the village hall would have made him a bit more noticeable to the female population but, so far, it hadn’t happened. He was going to be 18 next week and he couldn’t wait. His father and he were going to go to a football game and then maybe have a beer.

Robbie got really nervous just before he was due to go on stage – not that he had that many lines to say, but he was on the stage a lot of the time. If he grew bored, he would just look out at the audience and last night he had seen the vicar sleeping on the front row. On Thursday night he had seen Tommy and his girlfriend kissing in the back row, until Tommy’s mother slapped him on the back of the head. Robbie let out a little laugh which didn’t really fit in with the play but no one was really paying that much attention anyway. Well not except Archie’s family and all the young girls in the audience who seemed to Robbie, to be swooning every time Archie said something.

Some folks get life too easy, thought Robbie. Just then he noticed everyone looking at him and realised it was his line. What was it again? Was this the long speech or the short one?
He decided it was the short one and said, ‘sure thing, Elsie’.

The rest of the cast looked pleased and carried on, so he must have got the right part of the play. Although on the opening night he had said ‘sure thing, Elsie’ to Roderick who was playing an army Captain, which had caused a bit of a titter in the hall.

This acting life wasn’t that easy as far as Robbie was concerned, but he still had a passing fancy that he might become a matinee idol of the silver screen – assuming this war thing all died down.

It had been the talk all week with the cast – ‘what if we go to war with Germany’, ‘what if the Germans invade Kent’. Archie Conway blurted out loud that he’d just bang the Krauts on the nose and show them who’s boss. All the girls in the room started to swoon. Robbie stuck his fingers down his throat as if he was going to be sick, which caused a few of the men in the room to smile.

Like a family, this village was a wonderful, safe place to grow up. What would happen if the Germans turned up? Okay so everyone lived on top of everyone else, and that sometimes caused friction but didn’t that happen in all families? And that’s exactly what this village was, a family.

The final night of the play went extremely well. Robbie thought that maybe folks were having one last night of fun and forgetting their troubles before……well before whatever was going to happen. Robbie wasn't exactly sure what.

They took their curtain call and the audience stood up and applauded (they hadn’t done that on the other nights). Robbie could see the vicar was there again but this time he wasn’t asleep.

As much as he had hated all this acting stuff, he was sure he was going to miss it all. Really that was why folks acted in these plays in village halls, it brought people together and allowed kids (like Archie) to show off and make people swoon.

Miss Trebor, who had directed and produced the play, clapped her hands for attention and reminded everyone that after church, they were to come to the hall and help clean up.

Robbie whistled all the way to the village hall on the Sunday. One girl, Jenny had asked him for his autograph after the performance. He couldn’t sleep that night thinking about it.

They all met in the hall at 11.00am the next morning,September 3rd, and Robbie was given the task of sweeping up. A short time later, Miss Trebor came rushing in and told everyone to hush as she switched on the radio. She informed everyone that it was the Prime Minister and we all had to listen:

“This morning the British Ambassador in Berlin handed the German Government a final Note stating that, unless we heard from them by 11 o'clock that they were prepared at once to withdraw their troops from Poland, a state of war would exist between us.

I have to tell you now that no such undertaking has been received, and that consequently this country is at war with Germany.”

Robbie looked over at Archie who was comforting his sobbing mother.
It was going to take more than a punch on the nose to fix this, thought Robbie.

bobby stevenson 2015
http://randomactsstories.blogspot.co.uk/

The Shoreham Wild Ones

I suppose it all started on that wet Wednesday, at the cinema on St John’s Hill. Mavis had been walking up towards town when it had started to rain and had nothing to keep her head dry.

Mavis had never been into one of those racy films before, certainly not one with an X certificate but she liked the look of the star on the poster. He seemed strong and mean in his leather jacket: the film was called The Wild One and the star was someone called, Marlon Brando.

So Mavis gave up her money and sat with three other soaked people in the cinema hall. If Mavis was being honest, she would have to say that she was rather excited. Firstly, she’d never been to the cinema on her own, Bert always took her (God rest his soul), and he would certainly never have approved of a film called ‘The Wild One’. Still, what no one knew about her wouldn’t hurt them. Just to make sure, Mavis looked around certain that there were no friends up to the same shenanigans.

By the time the film had finished she felt all strange and put it down to the chocolate ice cream she had eaten. What she couldn’t get out of her mind was thought of her in a leather jacket on a motorcycle. These thoughts persisted all the way home on the bus.

When she got into her house, she drew the curtains - just in case anyone passing by could guess what she’d been up to. She turned Bert’s photo towards the wall as a precaution.

Mavis decided that night that she wasn’t going to her grave until she had ridden on a motorcycle, while wearing a leather jacket. The really tricky thing was to find out who had a bike. She knew there was one in the village but who?

Her next action came at the weekend. She had often seen bikers sitting drinking outside the George pub and so Mavis decided to sit with her orange drink and wait for one of them to stop by. Like all best laid plans, a biker and his girlfriend had just stopped at the pub when Mrs Lightfoot came over to ask Mavis if she would help her arrange the flowers in the church. Of course Mavis couldn’t refuse and say she’d rather not as she was waiting on a biker.

Plan B was to knit herself a jumper with the slogan ‘Hell’s Angels’ on the front. It took her several days and when she’d finished she felt quite giggly and had a small sherry to settle herself down.

Mavis found her grandfather’s old pushbike which had lain in the garden shed as long as she could remember. She went to the library and took out a book called ‘Bicycle Maintenance for Beginners’. It was ever so helpful and within a couple of days she had the old bicycle back on its feet again.

On her first excursion, she waited until it was dark then pulling on her jumper, she pushed he bike to the top of Church Street and proceeded to freewheel all the way down. All she was missing was Marlon Brando and she’d be good to go.

There was talk in the village shop of strange sounds in the night: ‘it sounded like a banshee,’ said one. Another was sure that there was a crazy biker riding through the village at night to scare the good folks. Mavis overheard one of these conversations and was about to tell all, when she thought of a better idea.

The following week it was her turn to hold the Village Knitting and Sewing Night at her home. It was also her turn to provide a pattern that the good folks of the knitting Bee could follow.

On that night - after she had plied them with more than the usual amount of sherry - she went into her bedroom and returned wearing her ‘Hell’s Angels’ jumper.

Mrs McLarttey nearly fell off her seat, but the rest of them seemed to like what she was wearing. Perhaps they would feel different in the morning when the sherry wasn’t controlling their thoughts as much. Yet, one by one, she talked them all around to knitting themselves the same jumper.

During the weeks that it took to complete the work, Mavis still freewheeled her bike down Station road, around into Church Street and over the bridge, all the time shouting ‘whee’ as she went. She couldn’t recall Marlon Brando shouting ‘whee’ but she was sure he would have been doing what Mavis was doing.

Each week she would tell a little more of her story about the Wild One and about her fixing up her Grandfather’s bike.

By the time the jumpers were ready, so were the ladies (and Mr Jasper). One quiet dark night they all pushed their bicycles up to the top of Station road, whipped on their ‘Hell’s Angels’ tops and ‘whee’d’ their way all down the road into the street and over the bridge.

Some of the biker ladies were present at the Parish Council Meeting when Mr Hotten brought up the complaint about the gangs that had recently started invading ‘our little quiet village’. He banged his fist on the table and said something must be done and quickly. Mr Hotten felt that a spell in the army might do the offenders the world of good.

Some of the gang shook their heads and then winked to each other.

They knew the truth and they weren’t going to tell.   

bobby stevenson 2015