On Remembrance
‘Where I go, I
carry my dead with me…’
Mike West- No
Grave
‘No Grave’ By Mike West may be one of the most impactful
songs I have ever listened to. It resonated with me deeply, as I listened to it
on repeat, basking in the revelation that there could be a language for my own
grief, which now seems like an age old. The song implores the listener to
consider the intricacies of grief, and the way in which we enact remembrance. I
am deeply interested in the folklore and varying beliefs surrounding death,
including funeral customs and death omens, but West simplifies it, to the
powerful act of remembering. The line I have quoted above is particularly
pertinent and it stayed with me long after the song had finished.
‘Where I go, I carry my dead with me’
I’ve always believed deeply in the presence of our ancestors in our lives.
They are tangible, accessible even. Our dead, whoever they may be are not gone.
They walk beside us; their continued presence is in tandem with our own. We
carry their legacy with us physically, through our resemblance to them or our
little quirks, the way we smile, the colour of our eyes or subtle intonation of
our voice. We carry it in our actions, interests, and our memories. Remembering
is a powerful thing, it allows us the ability to breathe life into those who
came before us, champion them and sing the songs of their lives. Terry
Pratchett once eloquently said.
“No one is finally dead until the ripples they cause in the world die away, until the clock wound up winds down, until the wine she made has finished its ferment, until the crop they planted is harvested. The span of someone’s life is only the core of their actual existence.”
And I think this is what I am trying to say, that by returning to a person’s story, and sharing it, with friends or anyone who is willing to listen, we are continuing their presence in the world. If I really consider it, the act of remembrance underpins everything I do, it is the veins and capillaries weaving their way through my work. I talk about ghosts and folklore and Shropshire’s history, because I want these stories to be known of. I want to continue their ripples, remind the world that the past still holds relevance. This also explains the draw I have to family history. I am so excited by the prospect of recreating their substance and honouring their experiences. Even if I didn’t know them, their stories are connected to my own. I would like to share some of these stories with you now, and talk of three men from my family, These men are some of my dead, they walk beside me still, and I hope that I can make my voice a little louder, to allow them to be heard.
Though I didn’t know my paternal grandfather, I carry the knowledge I have of him like a precious thing. Basil Vernon Boucher, known to all as ‘Vern’ was born in Knighton, on the 6th of April 1926 to a tumultuous situation. His mother was barely out of girlhood, and there was left an empty space where a father should have been. One cannot help but imagine the emotional pain my great grandmother confronted, and just how dire her situation was. She was facing a lifetime of judgement, criticism, and hardship. The stigma of young, or unmarried mothers had not gone away, and consequently, her family came up with an imperfect solution. Basil would be raised to believe his grandparents, Walter, and Annie (we will be turning to Walter again soon) were his parents, and his birth mother was his sister. Though the impact of this decision would span his lifetime, causing great emotional pain when he uncovered the truth, perhaps at the time, this was the kindest thing to do. It kept him with his family, and though he lived a lie, he was provided with a somewhat stable homelife. I believe that he was loved dearly, and his grandparents would have treated him like their own. This homelife was, at times transient, seeing him moving from Herefordshire to Wales as well as spending time living in Shropshire with various aunts. Their moving was driven by poverty and a desire for a better situation, or work. His birth mother was still allowed a relationship with him, though concealing such a secret must have been raw and very difficult for her.
When in Shropshire, my grandfather lived in the village of Buildwas. Here he went to school, and church, and interacted with the local landscape. I was told that he would climb the slopes of the Ironbridge Gorge, precariously perching on the ledges and collect fossils. One cannot help but imagine what these conjured up in his mind. I’ve always felt extremely connected to the Gorge, and it’s wonderful to think that we shared this connection.
I know little of his school life, though I know he was apprenticed as a butcher in Ironbridge, and one of his first jobs was to hold the bucket whilst the animal was being slaughtered. This is a far cry from my lifelong aversion to meat. His training as a butcher saw him becoming an army cook during WW2. He was stationed for some of the war in India and during his army training, he met my Nan, a formidable Welsh women who I loved dearly. She is worthy of her own exploration. Their courtship crossed continents, writing letters, and sending tokens of affection. I particularly like the pictures they shared with each other, two youthful, hopeful faces, ready for a lifetime together. It wasn’t until after the war they were married, settling in Shropshire- not far from where I would go to school many years later.
My knowledge of my grandfather gets vague now, to fragments, shadows dancing across my mind. Jim Reeves was one of his favourite singers. His family say that he was a gentle and kind man, and on the weekend, he would often spend long hours in his garden. Here he would potter about no doubt, planting and weeding but also, he would feed the robins. He did this religiously, until the birds grew to trust, if not love him. One in particular would come and sit on the palm of his hand, as he gently fed it. I find this incredibly moving when I think about it, the connection between this man and the natural world. I like to think the robins visit him still, wherever he is. This image reminds us to be kind to all, and how interconnected life is. Robins have a rich body of folklore in Shropshire and beyond, from death omens to creatures of luck, but also, there is an almost universal belief that ‘when robins appear, a loved one is near’. Recently, I have noticed a robin dancing around the outside entrance to my classroom, even wandering into the corridor, staying long enough to be seem, before disappearing. When it comes inside, it always finds its way out. I’m a sentimental creature, particularly on tough days, and I like to think that he is close by, watching over me.
Let us turn to Walter Boucher now, the man who took on
the role of father for his grandson. I must confess, there are no familial
anecdotes about him, and much of the information I have about him comes from a
document from the WW1 Remembering Knighton website written by Mark Wheathead,
as well as newspaper articles written at the time of Walter’s ‘crime’. My
knowledge of Walter is therefore intrinsically linked to the research I’ve done
into my family, and I am grateful to those who have helped me uncover more
about the man.
Walter Boucher was born in Orcop, Herefordshire in 1870. For reasons sadly lost
to time, soon after he was born, he was sent to his aunt, Eliza Griffiths in
Llanwarne. Here he would spend the most of his early life, and it is not clear
if his birth mother had any contact with him in this time. Perhaps that’s why
he was known as Walter Griffiths, using Boucher only as an alias less frequently.
You have to wonder if his early experiences shaped him more than he realised
and were the driving force behind him taking Basil in as his own. Their lives
mirrored each other, and by taking him in, he could prevent history’s
repetition. By 1891, Walter was working as a farm servant in Longtown, ten
miles away from where he had grown up. He was still referring to himself as
Griffiths.
In 1893, Walter’s life takes a significant turn, when he is implicated in the death of William Prosser of Clodock, the adjacent village to Longtown. In January 1893, Walter and four of his friends were attending a funeral of the young child of a local farmer. After paying their respects at the service, they went to the wake, which was held in a small cottage pub, the Cornewall Arms Inn. The pub is still there today, and though I haven’t visited yet, pictures make it seem alive with the hum of its history. Wakes were often very lively affairs, and soon the men were very drunk. William Prosser was also at the wake, and played the accordion for the revellers, but left the service early, at about 9.30pm, for his bed. My Great Great Grandfather did not follow suit and stayed at the pub drinking himself silly with his friends.
At around
Midnight, the group of men thought it would be great fun to wake up some of
their friends in the village and play pranks on them. So, they knocked on doors
and made fools of themselves before deciding they needed to up their game. We
will never know what went through their minds that night, and what possessed
them to prank two of their friends in such a way. The first was a man known as
Mr Chappell, who was dragged from his bed and rolled around in the snow, before
being dumped in the nearby river Monnow. The men then focused their attention
on finding William Prosser, who lived just under a mile from the village. They
drunkenly smashed the windows of his house, terrifying poor William so much
that he leapt out of a window and disappeared, running barefoot and barely
clothed into the freezing night. The men pursued him, not realising the
severity of the situation they were apparently approaching with humour.
Dazed and confused, William ran blindly around the countryside, trying to escape the men that were hot on his tail. I feel terribly for him, knowing that his last moments were so filled with fear. He eventually made it back to Clodock, having lost the gang of men. It is unclear what happened next, but the following morning, William Prosser’s frozen body was found hanging from the gate of his friend’s house, opposite the church in Clodock. It looked like he had slipped at the gate, and his clothing got tangled on the top of the gates railings. Poor William was too exhausted to untangle himself and died from exposure.
When Walter woke up, he had to not only nurse his hangover, but come to terms with his part in a man’s death. The five men were eventually charged with William Prosser’s manslaughter. In the newspaper reports of the crime I have found, Walter is still going by the surname Griffiths, but his ‘Alias’ Boucher is also referred to. The newspapers universally condemn the men, despite them all pleading guilty to manslaughter. Walter’s brief was able to argue that there was no malice in the event, rather it was high spirits gone fatally wrong. This doesn’t excuse the behaviour as ultimately; a life was still lost in the process. The judge was provided with evidence, including character witnesses, who all stated the men were of good character. He was initially appalled by the five men’s behaviour and sought to sentence them to penal servitude of up to three years. However, having listened to the evidence carefully, he resorted to act with some leniency. Walter, and one other man got sentenced to twelve months imprisonment with hard labour. Two others received four months, and the last was given three days incarceration.
It was accepted that the men had not intended to kill William Prosser and had acted with drunken carelessness. Though we cannot know for sure, Walter’s harder sentence could suggest that he was one of the ringleaders in the act. I often wonder how he come to terms with this death, how it must have clung to him, long after it had happened. He seems to have been a complex man, weighed down by poverty, spending much of his life as some form of agricultural labourer. This is a painfully difficult job, and he moved around whenever necessity dictated it. As a slight aside, it’s strange to see the pattern in both sides of my family tree, a web of miners, labourers, and agricultural workers, pouring their heart and soul into the landscape. I feel incredibly privileged to walk with them, and hope that I made them proud. On my mother’s side, all I know of my Great Great grandfather ‘John Anson’ was that he was an agricultural labourer and died during the harvest ‘in a field near Crow’s Mill, Alverley 1913.’ I think he and Walter might have understood each other.
When I first saw a picture of Walter, I noticed that he looked an awful lot like my father, albeit a sinewy, older version. My dad often noticed that he looked nothing like his parents, who were both dark haired and eyed. It turns out the family resemblance for him lies deeper in the past.
Walter’s prison sentence was purportedly completed in the quarries around New Radnor, and nothing is heard of him until 1895, when he meets his future wife, Annie Jenkins. The couple did not marry until end of 1922, in Hay- On- Wye. Perhaps the delay was through choice, though it is more likely to have been due to poverty. Walter and Annie had a daughter in 1896, followed by a son, Warren Ivor Boucher on the 25th of June 1897. 97 years later, I would be born the day after- the 26th of June 1994. After learning of his story, I feel incredibly connected to him, and wish he could have been given more time on this earth. Warren is the final person we will be exploring.
I know little about Warren’s transient childhood, though
I know that in 1911, he had left his family home and was working as a farm
servant for Mr Millichap at Courtlands farm, Allensmore, just south of
Hereford. He would have been about 15 at this time. It was at about this age he
decided that he preferred to go by Ivor, his middle name. His time with Mr
Millichap was short lived however, as in 1913 the whole Boucher family would
move to Woodside Cottage Downton, New Radnor. Ivor is working at this time as a
farm labourer. The next piece of significant information we find is from the
Knighton Times, dated 9th of May 1914 which records that Ivor and 4
of his friends were brought before the Petty Sessions bench of New Radnor for ‘unlawfully
loitering at the entrance of Gladestry Church during divine service’. The lads were said to be laughing and
shouting outside church, causing a disturbance, and consequently were arrested
by the local police sergeant. The result of the trial was the boys being fined
5s each, and a further 5s 6d between them.
Soon after these events, Ivor’s life would become swept
up by events playing out on the world stage. As whispers of war actualised and
patriotic fervour rolled across the country, Ivor decided he wanted to do his
bit, and fight. The problem was that he was underage as the minimum age for
recruitment was 18 and said recruit had to be 19 before they could fight
overseas. It is said that Ivor tried at least twice to sign up under age, once
in Knighton and once in Hereford, but both times he was turned away. It would
be the third time where his false age was believed, and Warren Ivor Boucher
joined the Herefordshire Regiment’s 1/1 battalion as a Private. His story is
representative of many young men, desperate not to miss out on the action,
their eagerness and idealism resulting in the ultimate sacrifice.
After training, the regiment embarked on the SS Euripides on 16th
July 1915, sailing to join the Mediterranean Expeditionary Force. Though a
secret, the men guessed where they were heading, Gallipoli. They were right.
Though I am interested in WW1, I have to confess the Gallipoli campaign was
something I knew little about until I learnt of Ivor’s story. At 7.20am on the
9th of August 1915 the 1/1st Herefordshire Regiment landed on a
beach in Suvla Bay. The communication between the forces was poor, and little
was known about the distribution of Turkish soldiers, in truth, it was carnage,
the blind leading the blind. The regiment was disorientated and fresh into
combat, but fought on, suffering heavy losses, including Ivor Boucher.
Warren Ivor Boucher was killed on that day on 9th August 1915. He was barely 18 at the time of his death and there is no known grave for him, though he is memorialised on the Helles Memorial, panel 198. He is accompanied by 21,000 other men, who suffered the same fate. He is also commemorated on the Knighton war memorial, as well as the Ystradgynlais War Memorial, due to the family living in Penwyllt for some time.
As one can imagine, his family were profoundly affected
by his death. Ivor and his sister Daisy were particularly close, and it is said
that he confided in her before he left, that he knew the regiment was going to
Gallipoli. He told her to keep it to herself, and not tell his mom as he didn’t
want her to worry about him. This is such a bittersweet gesture, and it makes
me emotional every time I think about it. She kept her promise, and never told
her mother. I find everything about Ivor’s tale terribly sad, learning his
story has affected me on a very deep level. In the picture I found of him, he
looks like a boy, uncomfortable in his new role. It’s amazing how the ripples
of his death can still affect his family over 100 years later. I hope he knew
how loved he was.
I want to return now to the opening statement. ‘Where I go, I carry my dead with me’. Though I never met these three men, their lives are weaved into my being, the memory of them still influences me and drives me on. These are just some of my dead, The people I call my own, but by remembering them, I can also explore facets of myself and that is an incredibly beautiful thing.
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