Published in the West Sussex Gazette on 28th March 2002.

The continuing tales of life as a youngster before the war, recalled by Sybil Rouse of Three Bridges.

'On May Day and again in September, fairs and cattle markets were held in old Crawley town. Gypsies parked their gaily-coloured caravans by the roadside and paraded the horses they hoped to sell. The sun always shone, for no one can recall a wet Fair day - we children had a holiday from school.

I remember the Fair day of 1929, when I was nine years old, as being the first time I saw a young woman with skirts barely covering her knees. Everyone was shocked! Legs were meant to be hidden from view! The fashion lasted until I left school but as everyone laughed at my skinny legs I soon gave up the idea.

The fair after dark made one feel very grown up. I loved the fair-ground music, the different aromas of food cooking, but no way could I be persuaded to go on the roundabouts or the swings that went so high. It was a miracle how people stayed on, those things were not for the squeamish.

Two very old buildings are reputed to be the haunt of smugglers and with one named the 'Ancient Prias', who can doubt it.

One is now a bank, the other a wine bar. Perhaps even older is the 'George Hotel' a halfway house between London and Brighton where Prince Regent stopped to wine and dine and for a change of horses on his way to and from his beloved (Brighton) Pavilion.

If old photos and drawings are anything to go by the 'George' looks much as it did in those far off days, but with traffic that increases daily it is difficult to imagine the gentler pace of life when coach and horse were the only means of transport.

Surrounded by office blocks, flats, shops, bowling alleys, bingo halls and cinemas, the poor old 'George' looks so out of place.

In the 1920s the village (of Three Bridges) had no traffic except for the one or two cars owned by the wealthy. As far as I can remember the two Miss Mix's started it off with their Austin Seven. The doctor also had a car or cars as he changed them often, each time buying one a little larger and more eye catching than the last.

The last one that I can recall seeing him drive was an enormous open tourer with huge headlamps. Dr. Rorenie was a very large man, a small car would have been useless to him.
If there was little traffic the place had plenty of character, mainly because of the people, partly because of those who passed through perhaps once, and those who came year after year. It is strange why some of them linger on in one's memory even half a century after the last one disappeared, whilst others are long forgotten.

The ugliest resident was surely old Morery Fuller who had a cast in one eye. He leered at all the little girls, including me, who ran home screaming to their mothers. He pushed a handcart around all day, it was piled high with firewood. It is doubtful if he sold any but for all his repulsive appearance and smell, Morery was harmless.

There was Banjo, that surely cannot have been his real name, nicknamed after the battered instrument that he struggled to get a tune from.

Neither Banjo nor Morery ever appeared to be going anywhere and neither had heard of soap and water. They lived in the row of terraced houses which now lies beneath a busy road.

One old man lived for years in the woods in a shack made from tree branches, carriers and cardboard boxes. He died there alone one cold winter's night. He had been seen once a week drawing his weekly pension, probably about five shillings, or was it 10?, and after doing his shopping would go back to the wood. He was about 70.

I vaquely remember a very ancient dog that kept him company. The police were informed when he failed to collect his pension. Having lived in the shack for so long and causing no trouble to anyone, the police knew exactly where he was. But to live through so many terrible winters, he must have been very tough.

A little tatty but still colourful was the uniform of the lone piper as he paraded through the streets maybe twice a year. Through the eyes of the children he looked splendid in kilt and sporran and everyone enjoyed the skill of the pipes with the exception of gran, who would rather as she said 'run a mile than listen to that dratted racket!'

She sat in the cupboard under the stairs until the sound had died away as she did during thunderstorms, and I too in my old age am afraid of thunder.

Eagerly awaited were the organ grinders as the children called them or hurdy gurdy men. Each barrel organ had a tiny monkey holding a tin mug, they were chained to the organs. Poor pathetic little creatures, with great staring eyes, perhaps starving, as very few coppers were put in the mugs. Monkeys and men slept together over night in a large brick building that mother call the 'Pot and Can', goodness knows why. By early morning the place would be deserted.

The children marched behind the bands of the ex-servicemen, many of them badly disabled from injuries received in the Great War. Too broken in body and spirit to be offered work, they had been thrown on the scrap heap to beg after fighting for their country.

Published in the West Sussex Gazette on 28th March 2002.