Once upon a long time ago there were horses in abundance, they were all over the place, everywhere - but there was not as many horses then as there are cars today. There were so many horses that I would not have had any need to give a kingdom for one, but if I was hard put to it - and I had had a kingdom I might have offered one for Bess. not Bonny Black Bess, though she was bonny, not Dick Turpin's Bess, but Jack Johnson's Bess - my boon companion of many a long hour. But, as the experts had it - thereby hangs a tale!

There were so many horses that I had better limit my coverage to the area around the top of High Street where it joins Liverpool Road and Sandy Lane - the part we named "Top o' t' Lone" when we were brash youths, proud of being working men, and more proud still to be born (at least in my case) a "Skemmer".

High Street was a very long street, but it's main interest lay in the top few yards as far as this tale or account is concerned. Jim Mason the Baker had a horse and was really the first of the collection. We saw little of this horse as Syd Jones, with well-scrubbed, hip-balanced basket delivered the bread, buns and cakes in the streets around, while Jim took off with his horse and van to Stormy Corner and other far-flung places of the Skelmersdale domain. I don't remember where he stabled the horse either.

I was more interested in his dog - one Jack, a small black and tan terrier, bright of eye but sad of mien, who would join Nellie and I in pitiful song (from the dog's effort and appearance) any time Nellie and I chose, and we chose often!

Mr Nichol, Alf to my parents, was a new neighbour and only lately come to Number 15, he had a brown hack that seemed to look no higher than the ground. Alf eternally waited for commissions that came but rarely. Alf was newly married and anxious to 'get on', and so it was that he was handy when Dad needed a working partner, he needed a partner in a hurry.
Dad's first choice in the event had felt insecure in his love affair and the imminence of leaving. Alf came in very handy and we were neighbours for a very long time. They moved in the same removal van as we did, to Cortonwood, near to Barnsley. Odd to think I saw them then, very newly married, then with the fullness of time have a son - grow old.
Later I was to feel acute sorrow at the successive deaths of all three, but not at the death of the Colliery that killed - Dad quickly, and Alf slowly, before it died itself.

Joe Heyes, living at 13 had a horse too, and comes next - geographically speaking. In fact Joe had two horses whilst I lived at 17, and I cut chaff for both of them. Chaff cutting was accomplished with a machine driven by a large hand-wheel, the like of which you saw on mangles or clothes-wringing machines in my early days. I was barely tall enough to turn either - but I managed.

Joe - who was a cripple with a bent wrist on his right claw of a hand which he clutched to his chest, and a heavy thick-soled boot on his right foot which made him clumsy - valued my services. Joe had the two horses at separate times, he took one away to die before he had the other. The first one had grown old and tired, the second was taller and more spirited and Joe and I had quite a job teaching it to pass the low awning before we got to the stable. We tried together several times, I pulled on the reins to tug its head down and Joe pushed from behind. It took it a long time to learn, considering that it learned Joe's greengrocery round so quickly, so shortly afterwards.

Joe was a handsome fellow despite his crippled hand and foot, with a fresh clean-looking complexion and he wore a large earring in his right ear. I delighted in his cleverness in handling the large scale-scoop and customer's bass or basket, sliding the fruit or vegetables slowly and accurately with that claw of a hand and bent wrist, Joe taught me much. His sister - an imposing figure, very matronly, very confident and self-assured - was Head Mistress at a school in a neighbouring village, and I can hear in my minds ear the rustle of silk or satin as she came to chat with Joe and I. She was always Miss Heyes, even though I knew her first name was Nancy (from my Mother) but Joe was always Joe - though it was "Old Joe" before I loved him then he became ageless.

It was part of the huge sadness when I had to say goodbye to Joe, and the newer, cleverer horse and the swish and smell of the chaff-cutter. Kath's mincing machine and the method of feeding the meat into it always reminds me of Joe and the hard struggle under the awning.
It reminds me too of the straw that made the chaff I cut up for the horses food, and Joe working so hard to earn a living.
Sometimes the smell of new cakes reminds me of satin-or-silk rustling Miss Heyes, with the smell of freshness and lavender that surrounded her, - entertaining "her brothers friend" - me!

Immediately across from "the Skem Arms" (which was really Number 1 High Street) at the start of Liverpool Road, were brick-built stables, neat and professional looking, and housing black horses with long tails. There were a number of them as I remember, all smart and well-groomed, erect and so very, very dignified. Every great occasion for miles around had these horses for their processions and parades. Every dignitary that ever lived up to then had these same black horses leading or following him in death. Some said the Liverpool Mounted Police (and they were smart) bought their horses from Fox's. They were the largest funeral people in town, and as their stables heralded the start of our Bromilow's pads walk - Nellie and I managed to make many friends of the horses and stable lads. The smell of the stables rivalled the scent of new-mown hay - encountered on the same walk - in our nostrils. Sometimes we began our walk at the stables; sometimes we ended it there. Though this walk was officially known as Bromilow paths or pads, to Nellie and I it was always the 'Daisy Fields', Buttercups, Daisies and Dandelions were in abundance in their season.
We found use for them all and each had a different purpose, testing whether we liked butter, making chains like Mayoral ones, and telling the time of day.

Streetwise and horsewise I have taken you round in a small loop. From now on the direction is hard to describe but as well as the end of my journey will be the end of my tale. The direction, naturally is the geographical part, and as yet I have not followed Gerald's instructions on Draw, Paint or graphics, I have to fall back on words. So, imagine a rather large triangle, the convergence of High Street, Liverpool Road and Ormskirk Road forms the top of triangle. Straight down and forming the whole of the left-hand side is High Street - not the whole length of it, just as far as Barnes Road where my first school was situated. As the school is the last building in the short road then let the school form another corner, and finish the triangle by a direct line to the top of the triangle. If you allow for the small jump-off to the Fox's stables you have the whole theatre of action and horses within that triangle.

The gardens of 17 and 19 High Street featured a great amount in our young lives. The adventures we had there could fill a whole library, instead of a few short stories. There was a wall at the bottom of the garden, it would be about five foot high at our side but fell to seven foot or more at the Johnson's side. On either side of the wall lengthwise was a raised portion about a foot wide, the whole resembling a turret. Any interesting event - like Bill Johnson breaking in a young colt, Nellie and I would watch from the grandstand seat at either side of the turret.

Jack Johnson was the owner of the small-holding that backed on to a good part of the High Street. Amongst a good many things he was a coal-merchant and owned one or two horses. I do not remember a Mrs Johnson but I remember his son and daughters. Bill, his son was an expert with horses - from births to deaths. Again, many are the tales I could tell, but my best-remembered one is of a circus that came to the football field at the top of High Street. It wasn't so much a circus as a glorified rodeo show, and a prize of five shillings (a lot of money in those days) was offered to anybody who could ride a very unruly pony. Several lads tried and failed - but Bill succeded - abundantly - even to riding round clutching the pony's mane with one hand and waving with the other. He never outlived his fame in Skem. Between you and me, it was really Bill, who in the end got Joe Heyes's new horse to negotiate the low awning.

Like most other people thereabouts, the Johnson's became our friends. When we started school we both would take a short cut through Johnson's yard, and climb the wall (an older generation than ours and possibly with clogs had made footholds). Nellie neede a leg-up, which was afforded by her contemporary Maggie or either of her two older sisters. I could and did manage it on my own and enjoyed the climbing. But - as I have mentioned in an earlier tale - it was prohibited shortly after starting school, on account of it scratching or scouring the toe-caps of my foot gear.

The daughters knew us from early on. Maggie and Nellie were at school together. When I started school I was introduced to the short-cut home. I loitered on the way often, watching Bill patiently leading a colt round and round - talking to it, "tchking" to it, feeding it carrot, fondling it - sometimes kissing it I thought, but Maggie said he was breathing secrets down its nostrils and only Bill and the colt ever knew what those secrets were. I soon became firm friends with Bill. He would talk with me and explain what he was doing, but more importantly he would tell me what the colt thought and what it was doing. Sometimes if I asked too many questions he would lead an older mare called Bess out of the stable, put a feed-bag on her head and then lift me onto her back and leave me there. It was only in imagination I rode her bare-backed, even though I was there to start with. Her back seemed as large as a table-top on which Mother sat us on bath-night after we'd been bathed and she began on another. Bess's back seemed like such a table and my legs weren't long enough, nor was I tall enough to ride her astride. With hindsight I realise that Bill plonked me there so that I would and could not bother him with chatter or getting "under his feet".

It wasn't until I told Mr Johnson (Jack when we were alone together) that I could read properly and could read books - big books - grown-up books, that he and I became friends, and my alliance with him and Bess began. Mr Johnson and I were idling in the house after having a drink of water. There were never many books about in the ordinary houses in those days, though I often saw a huge Family Bible together with Fox's (not ours) Book of Martyrs and The Pilgrims Progress. Children's books and annuals were strewn on the floor.

Jack had a brown wrapping-paper backed book on his shelf and in neat, rounded handwriting was scripted "Fairy Tales", and underneath, "by Hans Christian Andersen". That book was destined to influence my infant life for some time. Jack liked a good many of the tales - and resting the open book on one of his knees, I lolled against the other and read - sometimes the same tale over and over. Often my young eyes grew tired but Jack did like it and had confessed - strictly for my ears alone - that though he was 'good at reckoning' he couldn't really write. None of his children or his two grandchildren knew this, so I was to keep it a secret. In return Jack gave me the odd penny, or after long sessions a threepenny bit. For you young ones - working on the decimalisation I had to use on the old non-electronic machines - an old penny would work out at four pence today and the threepenny bit at twelve and a half pence (I presume Bill's relating to inflation as an old penny is about a half new pence and a threepenny bit would be about one new penny because six old pence (half a shilling!) is two and a half new pence - Editor!).
Too he taught me the time, how to mark the scores at a cricket match, gave me opportunities to be with Bess and the chance to be first-reserve driver when he used Bess in his landau for paid-for rides at fares and shows in Skem and neighbouring villages and towns - including Ormskirk and Southport. Before I tell you the main part of my experiences at that time I will remind you that Jack had two lovely little girls for Grandchildren. The two had not started school at the time of which I am writing, lived in another part of Jack's big house, and were almost always around either the big kitchen table, or leaning on the huge fire-guard that served as a clothes-drier as well as a protector. Jack would always shush the children off - suggesting they played elsewhere when we had our reading sessions.

One afternoon I had called on Jack without giving him notice and Annie the eldest daughter ushered me into the huge kitchen without announcing me and there was Jack - the brown paper-backed book open on his knees, closed together with his Granddaughter's on either side of him, staring at the book as he spoke - telling them the fairy-tale just as though he was reading it. As you can read, I've remembered the instance to this day. I do not think Jack would tell a deliberate lie or mislead them with cruel intent, but I know he felt ashamed at not being able to read and to you who read the tale around Skem Station, I feel sure that once again the truth was left unsaid. This was not the main purport of this writing even though it was yet another example of things being not what they seemed

Over the years Bess and I grew closer. Though we did not have a common language I felt we did communicate. I would be with her as often as I could, in the stable, in the yard, chance encounters in the street, even when she was a locum at funerals. In her way she could tell me when part of her harness was loose or tight to the point of some discomfort to her. Though it was a high stretch-up I could and did loosen her bit when she ate, drank or was uncomfortable. On almost every excursion she took in the landau I was there, Jack said I would be company for him and Bess - that I would attract custom, and when it came could sit high on the driver's seat with him, and even stand up and drive Bess in the landau home when the day's stint was over. Between customers there was often a long wait, I would take out the Rainbow, or later, the Children's Newspaper or Boy's Magazine and read it as I lolled against Bess's forelegs.

If the position was uncomfortable for Bess, she would turn around and with her nose or food-bag nudge and push me into a position she found more to her liking. These were happy, exciting days. On the longer journeys back as I stood tall with Bess's reins loosely held we would walk, then trot and, in front and on either side I could see the foothills, the woods, the copses, the horses in neighbouring fields that would whinny a welcome, race down to watch us. Some just glanced up as we passed and didn't deign to neigh or whinny. All of it was lovely - but the loveliest was me - standing tall like a charioteer and driving Bess from far-away places like Ormskirk and Southport to the actual place outside her stable, where she would stand and wait, knowing she deserved further attention like giving her a drink after taking her harness off and wiping and brushing her down.

Even after I left Skem I missed and often remembered Bess. The good news from Ghent to Aixe (Browning's masterpiece of a poem) was brought by Bess. John Gilpin and Dick Turpin both rode Bess in turn.

As the years passed by I saw Bess and Jack Johnson less often. We had moved to Yorkshire when I was nine but we would visit Skem at every opportunity. When Grandad died the visits became fewer but I would always call to see Bess. As a youth my visits became even less.
As a young man I took my first serious girlfriend to Skem and to see Bess and suddenly recognised that both Jack Johnson and Bess were and looked older. It saddened me - Bess at least should have been immortal.

I almost forgot Bess in the years that followed. Work needed a lot of concentration. Courtship was time consuming. A war came - I was of a divided mind. Conscience held me in turmoil, the romance was broken. I went into the Army - experienced the horrors of war and came to know fear. But before that time came I was issued with tropical kit and given seven days embarkation leave. At the start of the leave Mother wanted to go to Skem with me to say goodbye to my relatives there in case I didn't come back. Oddly enough as Mother and I passed Skem station there was Uncle Harry in his engine-driver's uniform on the platform. But, as I said in my tale of Skem Station, thereby hangs yet another tale.

On one of the evenings of this leave I was told a couple of my old pals were in the Skem Arms. I went and met them and we chatted and remembered and talked of older, happier times. One of them told me Jack Johnson was in a neighbouring room. I went to see him along with my friends. He recognised me even though I was in uniform and had not seen him for years. When I enquired about Bess he told me that she had retired at the same time as he, and that he had found her a very comfortable place in a home for retired ponies, donkeys and horses. She grazed most of the days but occasionally pulled children round the countryside in a landau. He turned to one of the friends and told him how clever Bess had been in time gone, and how he could slacken her reins, let them rest on her broad back and leave Bess to make her own way home - even to the stable. And I had stood proud and, as I thought, driven her all that way myself. This time Jack had not left the truth unsaid, but there was a war on and I was getting used to hurts and pain.

As I have often said - in the manner of the line in that hymn - sometimes "things are not what they seem".

Ah well! Maybe it will be a good tea!