The late ‘forties’, ‘fifties’ and ‘sixties’ were part of the golden age of pubs that were so much a part of many people’s lives. What they were then, may explain in part why they have gone into decline in recent years.
The aftermath of war was a time of seeking relief from six years of hardship. Thousands of homes had been destroyed by bombing. The great rebuilding and improvement of houses was not under way because of the shortage of building materials. During those early post-war years, we still had food rationing, shortage of coal which was the main form of house heating, none of the comfortable furnishings, cental heating, double glazing of today. Television was unavailable to the majority of people and video recorders, computers, mobile phones and tablets had not been invented. As for cars, few people had one. 'Locals', as pubs were known, were just that, local to where people lived.
Most pubs were not like they are today. They too had been neglected in terms of repair and modernisation for the same reasons that applied to all buildings. Many had outside ‘loos’ and country pubs often had the most primitive facilities without even flush toilets.
But, the interiors were warm, helped by the number of people in them; even though the furnishings were still of the pitch-pine seating variety fixed round the walls. The game of pool would not be imported from America for many years to come and our interests, depending on whereabouts in the country you lived, were in darts, dominoes, shoveha’penny, bar-billiards and the many forms of skittles.
Surprisingly as it may seem today, more pubs had pianos than those without: there always seemed to be someone who could play them to a reasonable and often professional standard.
Surprisingly as it may seem today, more pubs had pianos than those without: there always seemed to be someone who could play them to a reasonable and often professional standard.
Food was generally restricted to pickled eggs and Smith’s Crisps. The Berni brothers had not yet invented the steak-house.
The big national brewers were only on the fringes of expanding their empires. The quality and character of beer was often the principal reason people drank in a particular pub. By far the greatest influence was the quality of the publican, recruited by breweries through their Area Managers. Wally Emery and I were Area Managers with Ushers Wiltshire Brewery, a pretty impoverished and family controlled outfit with headquarters in Trowbridge in Wiltshire and hundreds of locals throughout much of the West Country.
Our job was to visit pubs on a monthly basis to ensure that ‘our’ beer was being sold in good condition; that the publican, who was a tenant of the brewery company and appointed by us, paid his or her rent and bills on time and kept ‘our’ pub in a clean condition.
It all sounds pretty feudal, which it was in its way. But it had advantages. In our role as the guardians of the brewer’s assets, we still became, by and large, friends and ‘fathers confessor’ to the publicans under our control, despite the fact that we had little to offer other than admonishment or advice, so bereft of funds was Ushers.
Some of us were better at it than others. Wally Emery in particular was the best and most human Area Manager that I ever knew in all the 37 years I spent in ‘The Trade’. This was because he lived the job, as many of us did, seven days a week, fifty-two weeks of the year.
We were invited to weddings, births and funerals. If we were not the first people publicans called when they had problems, we felt that somewhere we had failed.
A distraught publican rang Wally early one morning:
“I'm going to end it all Mr Emery, she's gone off with one of my customers”, referring to his wife.
This was not an unusual occurrence in pub circles: particularly upsetting if he was a good customer!
“I haven't had my breakfast yet. You put the kettle on - I’ll be there shortly”.
The publican never did commit suicide. Wally explained all the other problems he had at that time and how difficult it would be to find another publican as good. The publican ended up apologising, realising what an affront it would have been to the way Wally Emery cared for his pubs and publicans.
The Burdett Arms in Ramsbury near Marlborough in Wiltshire was typical of the country pubs we owned. The publican was Nellie Liddiard - she had been a widow there for thirty years. Nobody knew the pub by it’s rightful name - it was always known as “Nellie’s”.
The first time I called there was like going inside an old teapot. The floor, walls, ceiling - and even the customers - were all of a like colour - stained rich brown over the years with the smoke of a million 'Woodbines'. From out of this gloom appeared an elderly lady, grey hair tied in a bun, a couple of whiskers and a tooth missing. She heaved her ample bosom onto the counter, folded her arms and looked.
“Good morning Mrs. Liddiard “.
“Morning”.
“I’m your new Area Manager”.
“Yes?”
“I've called to introduce myself”.
“Yes?”
Stuck for words in the face of this sparkling dialogue, I could only offer something that no self-respecting Area Manager from an impoverished brewery should ever do:
“I have called to see if there is anything I can do for you”.
For what seemed forever, she looked at me without expression:
“Young man - you’re thirty years too late!”
I never asked the question again, but made a jolly friend of Nellie. I took her some sweet-peas, the first I ever grew. They were a bit wilted in the heat of the car by the time I arrived.
“I’ve brought you some sweet peas from my garden”.
I should have remembered that Ramsbury was a village of gardeners.
“You don't call they bloody things sweet peas”, declared one local, to the amusement of all the others and my discomfort.
Lady publicans, especially widows, were always the toughest disciplinarians.
If you have ever seen the film Band of Brothers, you may be surprised to learn that Nellie was a favourite publican of many of the Americans who were stationed in and around Ramsbury before they went to Europe.
The Rose and Crown was also in Ramsbury. The beer there was sold from wooden casks that stood on a wood frame, known as stillage or horsing, at the back of the bar servery. The beer was ‘vented’ by means of a ‘spile peg’ in the top of the cask that allowed the air in and beer out through a tap at the bottom. I put an ex-policeman in there as publican. The first night at 10.25 - there was no drinking-up time permitted in those days - tenant Elliott called:
“Time Gentleman please!”
There was a deathly hush from his customers, who were ranged along the pitch-pine seating round three sides of the bar. One stood, walked slowly to the counter, looked Elliott in the eye and said:
"When you want us to go home master, just you knock your little pegs in your barrels. We can tell the bloody time in this village!"
He never called ’Time’ again!
When Wally Emery moved from Berkshire to Somerset I took over his old area. It was my first call at the Coopers Arms, Woolton Hill, near Newbury, where our publican was one Ron Dodd. You didn’t need to ask where the pub was; you could smell it almost from Newbury. It was one of those old country pubs with a smallholding attached on which Ron Dodd kept pigs and chickens and grew vegetables.
“He’s down the back”, said Mrs. Dodd on my first visit.
I walked to where Ron Dodd was planting onion sets. He gave no sign that he knew I was there.
“Good morning Mr. Dodd, my name is Goodwin, I’m your new Area Manager “.
Without looking up he acknowledged my presence:
“I heard you were about brother. If you’re half as good as the last one you’ll be alright If you’re not, you won’t!” Which was about the best reference Wally could have had.
On a subsequent visit, well after closing time in the afternoon, I walked into the bar looking left and right, to find it crowded with customers.
"What are all these people doing here at this time of the day?”
On my departure, Ron Dodd produced a bag of eggs.
“I’m sorry Mr. Dodd, but we are not allowed to accept gifts from our publicans”.
“They’re not for you, they’re for your wife”.
“But you don't know my wife”.
"You don‘t know that brother!” There's no answer to that!
Ron Dodd was generous to a fault, but expected loyalty in return. When he saw a wines and spirits delivery van parked in the vicarage drive, he stomped up the path and rang the bell. The Vicar answered the door.
“When you want a pound Vicar, I’m always top of the list. When you want something to drink lets keep it in the village!”.
Denis was another of our Area Managers - a little younger than Wally and I. When we recounted these tales of pub happenings he would enquire:
“How is it these things happen to you and Wally Emery and nobody else?”
“Of course they happen to you” said Wally: “it's just that you don’t realise that they are all part of the job if you treat people like people instead of just publicans”.
Some time later, Denis, breathless with excitement, caught me up as I was walking into the brewery one morning. “It's happened!”: he laughed,
“One of those things that’s always happening to you and Wally Emery”.
He had gone into one of his pubs early one morning, The Butt of Sherry in Mere in Somerset, to find the bar littered with empty glasses, full ashtrays and crisp packets.
“What's this Mrs Milner, all this mess at this time of the day?”
“Ah! It was Fair Day yesterday and we had an extension until half-past eleven. We didn't get them out until two this morning.
“Didn't get them out until two this morning Mrs. Milner; what about the Police?”
“Don't you worry about the Police, Mr. Keohane; there's no favouritism in this pub - they went the same time as everybody else! ”
“I hope you are better than the last one”, he said.
“In what way?”
“He used to walk in backwards”.
“Why was that?”
“So that if you asked him for anything, he was always on his way out!”
“If you can wait until I have finished business with your husband 1 will give you a lift into Newbury”, I promised one publican's wife who was already dressed for shopping.
“Oh no you won’t”, retorted Bridgewater, “I know you bloody Area Managers, she can go on the bus”.
And, on the bus she went!
One Area Manager's ambition was to be chased down the road by a jealous husband when he was 84. He never made it - he died in 1990 in his seventies.
If he had lived, he would have still been trying!
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