Not Forever in Green Pastures
The personal memoirs of
The Rt. Reverand Henry T. A. Kendall
October 1946, Lyneham

We got the tennis court in order and, no doubt inspired by padre Jim Cooper's Fellowship in Townsville, we started a young people's Fellowship around it. At that time, in the name of fuel conservation, there was Double Summer Time (two hours in advance of the sun) in the summer months and we had to make a rule that tennis finished at 10.00 p.m. We also invited some of the young women in the afternoons. The rule was that they had to bring a tennis racket or a pram. Eventually, we found that we had formed what the M.U. was encouraging, a Young Wives' group. One of them was Lily Matthews who lived with her husband Cecil, a carpenter, in one of a pair of cottages a little further out along the road than we were. She had a gorgeous baby boy but he developed Pinks disease. In the hospital she was told not to unsettle him by visiting him. And then, most tragically, he died through an accident. It was by way of occupational therapy for that that Ray engaged her to come in and help in the house once a week. She had quite a bit to teach Ray about housekeeping, but out of it grew a friendship which still endures.

Fortunately, she later had a daughter who is now in turn married. The Tellings who kept the shop were good friends. Their two daughters in the Fellowship both married local young men, and Peggy, the elder, in particular and her family remained among our friends. Mr. and Mrs. Hancock kept a bike shop and the taxi. Their only child, Billie, was a choir boy and is now the organist. His contemporary was Godfrey Godwin, now the verger. His father Francis, was Captain of the Ringers. I had learnt to ring at Winterboume where there were only three bells, so I started again and the fourth (out of five) was my bell. But I was a clumsy ringer and when we hung up, if one bell was heard over the village to continue, it was generally the fourth. I never progressed far with change ringing. Eventually, Mr. Wilson of Wootton Bassett, whose enthusiasm inspired most of the ringers of North Wiltshire, persuaded our local wealthy man, Major Buxton, to present a sixth - treble - which made a more complete peal. At least one of the bells was older than the Reformation so the peal had a good age span. Saturday afternoon gatherings at different towers including a tea, were features of bell ringing.

Weekly practices as well as choir, Scouts etc. meant my being out at night and leaving Ray on her own. When we went down to ring late on New Year's eve, Mrs. Francis Godwin invited Ray in to her cottage. The sitting room was hermetically scaled against the cold and a huge fire was burning and Ray was given a big chair right on top of it because she was an Australian.

Major Buxton lived in Tockenham Manor, a large house of Cotswold stone, which he and his wife had skilfully enlarged. It stood in lovely well kept grounds. It was one of my landmarks from the past. I still have a postcard album, which was a present at a Christmas party there when I was about ten. Once a summer an invitation to tennis arrived. Ray and I would get out and practise furiously for two or three days and then hope that, when we were picked to play, it would be on the further of the two courts, away from the spectators. A quiet cup of tea there at other times was more amusing. Mrs. Buxton died, and I married him a second time in his eighties, and, though crippled with rheumatism, he enjoyed life into the nineties. On a return visit, when the boys were about ten, he took a great delight in offering them a smoke and a drink.

The two schools in the parish were church schools which meant that I was chairman of the Managers of each. They were part of the County and National education system but the property belonged to the Church and the Managers advertised and appointed the staff. We let Bradenstoke go to a sort of intermediate status where we didn't have to pay anything, but we fought for Lyneham. However, as the R.A.F. population exploded we had to let it go altogether. The Head Teacher was Miss Webb who was also choir master and organist. She prided herself on her discipline. If one called in, and her children were left to work on their own, she would just call out, "I hear a voice." This was the time of the absurd revolt against discipline. A teacher was reprimanded because, when an inspector came in, all the children stood up and said, "Good morning, Sir." It was after this that the generation of Teddy Boys and Bodgies arose. In the middle of one year when the school was short of staff, Miss Webb asked Ray if she would fill in. When she had her class in the yard for Physical Education she might not fall them in in a line or command them to do anything, such as jump, all together. When the question of her pay came up, the Ministry of Education asked for details of her B.A. degree from the University of Queensland and then graded her as a Qualified Teacher. This was to prove useful later because, when we became engaged, she had dropped her study for a Diploma in Education.

I started a Scout troop and Allan Marshall came in as Scoutmaster. He was a radio technician on the camp and his wife, Betty, had her home on the Tockenham Manor estate. "Bish", Fred Myhill Taylor, a civilian from the N.A.A.F.I. came and helped too. He got his name because he was an ardent churchman and loved dressing up as a bishop. He was eventually ordained in Australia. We got a lot of fun out of the troop and our annual camps. Meanwhile Ray was caught up in the Guide company; she had been a Brownie. The Guide Captain was Miss Dudman, she was also President of the Women's Institute, Secretary of the Parish Council (local Government) etc. etc., a masterful lady. When they went to camp Ray, as "Tenny" (Lieutenant), found herself to be cook and general drudge, not such fun, but she got some comfort from Margaret Gaisford who was company leader.

This is all running on ahead a bit in time. That first summer, 1947, turned out to be a fizzer with long fine hot spells and temperatures over 90°F. Ray began to wonder whether all summers and winters were records. We had a little holiday at Wells and stayed at The Ancient Gatehouse which is exactly what its name says. We looked out through an ancient window across the green turf of the Close to the west front of the Cathedral, covered with carved stone figures. Inside it is full of lovely and curious carvings too. A few miles away were the ruins of Glastonbury. According to legend, it was the first Christian site in Britain. In any case, it is hard to find any older holy site. It is connected with St. Patrick (born in England-Britain) and King Alfred among others. One year we took the Mothers' Union down there for an outing. Outings were a great thing - choir, parish, Sunday School etc. Beforehand, I gave them a church history lesson. As they enjoyed the grandeur of what little is left of the ruins, one stout and staunch member (a little confused in her dates) said, "My word, if I could get my hands on that Cromwell!"

There were many small woods dotted about on the farms. To one near the Vicarage we went before dawn in May to hear the dawn chorus of birds from its beginning, another would be the best for primroses and another for bluebells. They were especially enjoyed by the various Kendalls when they came to stay. The first time Jerry came she wanted to be useful around the enormous house and noticed that the fire grates were rusty. In all innocence she asked where we kept our black lead and brush. We didn't - up till then. There were also over a dozen pairs of brass door knobs to polish. Below the hill or escarpment which ran below Lyneham and for miles either side, was a wood where nightingales nested and we would take visitors on a midnight excursion to hear them sing. In 1976, when we were revisiting Lyneham and staying with Cecily Cooper, we went down again. We heard nothing, but a farmer came out to find out what the unaccustomed invasion of his quiet lane was about in the middle of the night. He told us there had been no nightingales since they had started cutting the timber some six years before.

A dozen parishes around formed the Rural Deanery, and the clergy met for chapter every month or two in one Vicarage or another, and sometimes their wives did too. I cannot mention all the clergy around us; they were grand people. A little Welsh couple, Jack Davies, the curate at Calne, and his wife, Marion, were special friends. Dick Sharpe and his wife, Joan, distantly related to my friend Donald Maclean, arrived next door at Wootton Bassett, the last parish in the Salisbury Diocese, and somehow we became friends with Edward and Lyn Brookes. He was Vicar of Rowde near Devizes and we would quite often visit each other. The wives all met at M.U. meetings too. Ray went down to keep house for Lyn while one of her children was born and afterwards became Sally's godmother. All these clergy are still in the diocese nearly thirty years later.

Mrs. Bryant had a son, Jack, who was a keen choirman and bellringer. He had been waiting a long time to marry his Betty, so we offered them the back wing of the Vicarage. It had two bedrooms, a kitchen-living room and a scullery. Jack was a carpenter and put in a staircase to connect them. In due course Ray became godmother to their son, Anthony. The only trouble was that they got both our back doors. We still had a garden door but it was inaccessible to visitors and our milkman and baker came to the kitchen window.

The R.A.F. was expanding rapidly. It was the only Transport Command 'drome with Customs facilities so that all their planes from overseas had to land there. The King and Winston Churchill had both used it during the war. At this time they were flying four-engined Halifaxes. They had a weekly run to Singapore. During the Berlin airlift, planes coming from taking part in the airlift all landed at Lyneham, including Americans. During the Korean War, the Singapore service was extended to Korea and became a daily service. Pilots had to put in so many hours a month and so many at night. These were spent in doing “bumps and circuits" mostly "asymmetrical". The flight path to the runway into the prevailing south-west wind lay directly over the Vicarage and part of the village. This was not amusing at 11.00 p.m. In addition, the camp housed a Maintenance Unit. This gave a home to a lot of Spitfires which were taken out of mothballs and flown once a year till they were obsolete. It also serviced the latest jet fighters - Gloucesters - and others, I think. When the wind was in the north-east - always a miserable cold and liverish wind - the jet fighters taking off over us would explode into sound without any warning. When the padre was posted I was appointed Officiating Chaplain. I didn't get a uniform but I did get £150 a year which was very useful. There was an office and chapel for all the padres. I had a Eucharist there once a week, but Lyneham church was handy and is now the official chapel. I had certain set times when I was there. All new C. of E. National Servicemen had to report to me and we got a small Fellowship and Bible Study going. Several men were eventually ordained. I said prayers at the weekly ceremonial parade after the command had been given, "Fall out Roman Catholics and Jews." These retired a few paces to the edge of the apron and turned their backs on us. It was a chance to try to demonstrate what prayer is really about. I was normally referred to or introduced as "the local Vicar". But a succession of Commanding Officers did me the honour of including us in official functions, dinners and such like, and seating us near themselves.

The first married quarters started to go up in a field opposite the church soon after we arrived. These people became parishioners and their children attended the church school and perhaps joined the Sunday School and choir. The position is now reversed and one of the Anglican padres acts as vicar of the parish. Before they had enough housing they had caravan parks; one was only across a couple of fields from us and was connected to the Station public address system. On dark frosty mornings we would be woken by a Scottish voice announcing, "The time is now zeerrro six zeerrro zeerrro hours."

One New Year's Eve the Parish Fellowship was going round carol singing. On the way between the two villages we found an R.A.F. tanker lying on its side. There was a smell of petrol and a huge flood running down the road. We called the policeman and the R.A.F. and started rescuing three unconscious men. One of the party searching in the cab nearly passed out when he found something spongy and soggy, but it was only a loaf of bread. It turned out to be only a water tanker. The men were drunk and had stolen it and gone for a drive.