To All Who May Remember Herby (9 September 1977)

Most people remember with affection the place they were reared wherever they might be and however old they are.

Such a person was Mr Herbert Purcell.  Known to his friends as “Herby,” he was born at Fenny at about the turn of the century and emigrated to Australia in 1919 or 1920.  He died recently in unusual circumstances and one of his last acts was to cause greetings to be sent through the Gazette to any of his old “cobbers” in Fenny who might still be alive.

The news comes by letter from his nephew-by-marriage, Mr John G Hill, who lived in Drayton Road, Water Eaton, before joining the RAF.  He, too, has now lived in Australia many years, but nowhere near his uncle.  “Herby” lived at Mandurah, not far from Freemantle, in Western Australia, while his nephew lives at 647 Main North Road, Elizabeth North, 5113, South Australia.

John writes that “Herby” was travelling from Sydney, New South Wales, to Wellington, New Zealand, for a holiday when he died on board the ship and was buried at sea.

“Herby” used to live on Victoria Road, Fenny.   He attended the Bletchley Road Senior School when Mr Joseph Shardlow was headmaster and also the Wesleyan Chapel and Sunday School.  He served in the Berkshire Regiment during the 1914-18 war and emigrated shortly afterwards.

John says that “Herby” stayed with him and his wife, Sheila, for a few days break while on his overland journey from Mandurah to Sydney.  They had a happy time together and John promised to write to the Bletchley Gazette (“never mind the Milton Keynes bit”) not only to remember “Herby” to his old “cobbers” but also requesting a photograph from “anybody back there” of the war memorial that stands in front of his old school.

“He will not be wanting the photograph now,” writes John regretfully, “but I am now honouring my promise to let his old ‘cobbers’ know that he remembered them to the day he died.  I hope they remember him, too.  He was a terrific person, kind and considerate, and active to the last.”

So not only “Herby” remembered his old place with pleasure.  John does as well.  There is room for hope that those now growing up in Milton Keynes may one day feel the same.

The Mr Shardlow referred to was headmaster at Bletchley from about 1897 to 1920.  On his retirement he went to live at Clacton.  There he named his bungalow “Bletchley,” but it was destroyed by a bomb during the second world war.  He then moved to Stourbridge where he died in 1946.  His place at Bletchley was taken by Mr Melton.  He in turn was succeeded in 1924 by Mr Cook, who was headmaster until his retirement in 1953.

Talking of the attraction of old haunts and of the bomb on Mr Shardlow’s bungalow reminds me of an incident that occurred while I was in the army.  Ours was a training unit as well as a working unit.  Small parties of men from many regiments and forces each came for a few days or a few weeks at a time, eating and sleeping with us.  They included Americans and also Canadians.

The incident happened while the Canadians were our “guests”.  In general, there seemed to be two sort of Canadians.  One sort had Scottish names and were sterling fellows, upright and dour.  The other sort had French names and were much more volatile, though I daresay they would have been OK when it came to the crunch.  I had two or three of both sorts parked on me in my hut.

By the way, the two “Frenchmen” blundered into the hut one night well after lights out decidedly the worse for drink, though how they came to be in that state on the wartime liquid beat me.  As they tried to undress in the dark they cussed in their lingo and generally created a commotion.  Then there was an awful clatter, followed by dead silence except for a moaning sound.  Switching on my torch, I found that one of them had fallen from his top-tier bunk and fractured his skull on the combustion stove.  The other one was sitting on the lower bunk staring down on his mate, stupefied.

But one of my Canadians was neither Scottish nor French.  His name was something like Simpkins and he spoke a strange sort of Cockney.  He was a cheerful little chap.  He and his family had gone to Canada from London’s East End when he was about 14.  Now he was delighted to find himself back almost on his old doorstep again.

One night he failed to turn up.  Next morning I waited as long as I could before reporting his absence.  In the event, he never did turn up.  Later we heard that he had gone back to his boyhood haunts that night, presumably just to [spend] an hour or two, and had been eating a meal with some old friends of his family when an explosion killed them all.