Ralph Oswick: So much to be thankful for, not least beans and vans

Harvest Festival: time of fruitfulness and thanksgiving. Thanksgiving for baked beans and cans of tomato soup in the village where I was brought up.

Nary a sheaf of wheat or a basket of luscious tomatoes was to be seen. Instead serried rows of custard creams and bourbon biscuits decorated the altar at our harvest home service. All destined for the vicar’s larder methinks as food banks were unheard of.

Someone did once donate a large pumpkin. Formed of two pink hemispheres, it bore a remarkable resemblance to a fat naked person bending over at the end of the aisle, causing my brother and me to giggle so much we were asked to leave. Mother was furious.

Mum worked in town at the soft drinks factory, which was next door to the crematorium. Their twin chimneys stood out like sentinels along the bypass.

One day she was waiting for the bus when the vicar stopped to give her a lift. ‘I’m running late,’ he cried, ‘so I hope you don’t mind if I put my foot down!’ and they sped off. Halfway across the common he slowed to a crawl behind a hearse. ‘I’m officiating at the funeral’ the vicar explained. Thus mum arrived for her shift at the pop factory in a cortege.

People mock The Archers for presenting country stereotypes, but our village had plenty. For example, we had a village burglar. His name was Dilly and whenever a house got broken into or some farm equipment went missing, the police knew straightaway on whose door to knock.

There was a woman who always won the raffle at every community event. She never cracked a smile when collecting her prizes and naturally everyone hated her. She was also the champion potato picker at the local market garden and would be halfway down the field while everyone else was still working their way up, like a Formula One driver lapping the stragglers. Superfast spud picking enabled her to move from her council house into a smart little bungalow.

There was a fruity lady who was reputed to have once had a highly exotic career, as a Butlin’s redcoat no less. There was a member of the House of Lords who was done for fiddling expenses aeons before the recent scandals, and an unfeasibly posh horsey woman who was notorious for shouting at the temperance silver band that always played at the village gymkhana. ‘For god’s sake play something jolly’ she bellowed as she tackled the water jump. They ever so slightly accelerated their rendition of Abide With Me.

While the rest of the country was embroiled in mods versus rockers, in our village it was grammar school versus secondary modern. I of course was the lone wimpy kid who’d made it to the former and I was mercilessly bullied by the secondary modern girls.

However, my exulted placement came with a bus pass. They had to make do with being picked up in a council van. And for this I gave much thanks!