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The following childhood memories were recalled by Roy Scutt.
After milking, which, until we were taught, was done by the farmer and his wife, it was time for another visit to the horse trough to wash. Nobody removed their clothes as there were no clean ones to be had.
Into the farmhouse for breakfast. I can clearly remember the stinking boys sitting on wooden benches. We had been up since daybreak and were starving.
The farmer's wife appeared with a washing-up bowl filled half way up with hot water. She placed it on the table and proceeded to sprinkle 3 or 4 Oxo cubes in it. We were then all given a chunk of bread to dip in it. This was breakfast as it was to be thereafter.
The farmer and his wife, who were called Mr and Mrs Hooper, had a son called Joey. He was about 10 years old, and was somewhat mentally retarded with a vicious streak.
Each morning, after breakfast, we all went to work in the fields. What we did was controlled by the seasons. Wherever we were working Mrs Hooper would appear at lunchtime and give all the boys half a pasty.
She also carried a white bucket with a lid on. This contained water and we all shared the big tin mug. We all looked forward to her arrival because not only were we hungry but it gave us a chance of a rest. We were always hungry but were never given any more to eat.
In the evening we were given a chunk of bread and jam. In all the time I was there, I never once had a hot drink.
In our first year on the farm, Albert and I learned to adapt. It was noticeable that there was a turnover of the other boys. No one lasted more than a couple of months and they were taken away, no doubt by their mothers.
As soon as we knew they were not coming back we would steal their blanket. Not only did it help make you a bit warmer during the night, we would make a hole in the middle and slip it over our heads, tie it around the middle and it would help keep us warm during the cold days.
We always knew when someone important (like mothers, etc) was coming. We were kept in the fields furthest away from the farmhouse. Our mothers never came.
The worst time of all was the 'killing' time. The first time Albert and I were involved in this was when we were about 9 years old. This was when we had to slaughter chickens, geese and pigs.
The chickens were the least problem because they mainly stayed in the hen house so they were easy to catch. The geese were not so easy. We herded them into the yard and caught them individually.
While we were trying to do this the gander was busy attacking us trying to protect his flock and at that time we were not much bigger than he was. The chickens and geese were tied by their feet to an overhead line. We waited until their struggling had exhausted them.
We were given a knife with a long, thin, curved blade that had a 'V' cut in it at the end (I never knew what that was for). The idea was to force the bird's beak open, put the knife as far down the throat as possible and slit it's tongue all the way up.
As it was already upside down, it bled to death as quickly as possible. This was not much fun and initially I was not very efficient but I improved with practice.
The pigs were the worst. We never slaughtered the pigs but we helped. Unlike the birds, the pigs are done one at a time. It was usually about 10 altogether. The pig's rear feet are tied together and it is hoisted into the air.
The farmer then slits its throat. We had a machete-like knife, that, when the animal had stopped thrashing about in its death throes we would slit open its stomach and the blood would gush out all over us.
We would then pull the guts out into a trough that ran the length of the building. While all this was going on the wife would be tending a cauldron of boiling water.
When we had gutted the pigs she would throw copious amounts of boiling water over the pigs and we were given scrapers to scrape all their hair off. My lasting memories of the slaughterhouse are those of the screaming pigs and the stench of the blood.
Continued in part 3. Roy Scutt, 2001
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