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Harry Buckle was born on 6 June 1869 at Forge House, East Ayton. (Near Scarborough). He was the son of Ann Fowler Buckle who was unmarried. The name of the father was not included on the birth certificate. It is possible although not likely that the father’s name could be found on the baptism register or that the parish took action against the father to claim costs for childbirth and maintenance.
At the 1901 Census Harry was a farm foreman for Thomas Speck, an auctioneer & valuer and farmer at Guild House Farm, Knapton, Yorkshire.
Harry married Mary Elizabeth Barmby in the Scarborough Registration District in the March quarter 1902. They had six children. Norah their first child was born and died in 1903. All their other children survived to adulthood. Ethel Ann was born in 1904, Wilson Barmby Buckle in 1907, Harry William Buckle (my father) on 6 January 1911, Tom B Buckle in 1913 and Robert F Buckle on 27 October 1914. Wilson Barmby was named after his grandfather who was described on censuses as a hind (farm labourer).
Harry died aged eighty five in the December quarter 1954 in the Ryedale Registration District. He had become a widower since the September quarter 1918 when Mary Elizabeth had died aged forty-four. Both were buried at Hackness Church near Scarborough.
Harry Buckle Born 1869
He spent all his working life as a farm labourer or foreman. My father told me that his father had applied to work on the railway and had been accepted. However they could not take him straight away and when they finally offered him the post he turned it down because he was happy on the farm where he was then and felt some obligation to the farmer. Probably not a good career move!
He worked twelve hour days for six days a week, with no holidays.
He married his wife Mary Elizabeth Barmby in 1902 (when he was thirty three, same age as me when I got married).
They moved to Silpho in 1913.
The cottages where they lived are the first ones you come to on the left hand side as you come up the hill from Hackness. (Near Scarborough). There were four cottages, the right hand two have now been knocked into one. They probably lived in the one second from the right.
My father described to me their annual holiday. This consisted of a day trip to Scarborough. His father could not come as he was working (he had no holiday and the only day off was Sunday, when it would have been inappropriate to go for a day out)
Therefore my maternal grandmother along with five children in tow (at least one needing carrying) would walk to Cloughton station. This is four and a half miles.
At the end of the day on the beach at Scarborough, no doubt with the kids tired out, they would walk up the hill to Scarborough station (itself a climb).
It is worth retracing their steps from Cloughton station. Go to Cloughton, north of Scarborough and traveling north turn right down Station Road.
At the far end you can make out where the station was.
Retracing your steps back to the main road turn left and then in Burniston turn right (signed Harwood Dale) and shortly afterwards turn left, go across the crossroads at Four Lane Ends and then turn right at the T junction at Coomboots. After about ¾ of a mile turn left to Silpho. Approaching from this direction the cottages are the last ones on the right hand side before going down the hill to Hackness. This is four and a half miles. Imagine doing this with five young children after a day on the beach.
My paternal grandmother died suddenly in 1918 when my father was seven and the youngest child, Bob, was five. She was 44.
The authorities wanted to take the two youngest children, Bob and Tom, into the poor house. My grandfather refused to let this happen and brought them up himself. A major role was played by Ethel who was then fourteen, to whom my father remained eternally grateful.
Some Christmases there were no presents whatsoever. And other Christmases they would get perhaps an apple or an orange each.
If they sought to trap a rabbit (of which there were many and were pests) or use a branch which had fallen from a tree for firewood, this would be a serious criminal offence. It was enough to make anybody a communist but my father was of the very opposite inclination.
When my grandmother died the local undertaker refused to deal with the funeral because he feared he would not be paid. My grandfather had to go to another village.
My paternal grandparents are buried together in Hackness Church Yard, an idyllic spot. (Speaking from memory- this may not be entirely accurate- if you go into the yard, follow the path to the right hand of the church, and then keep straight on when the path turns left to the church door, it’s about the 5th grave on the RHS)
Until the age of twelve my father attended the village school in Hackness. They used to walk down the hill (and back up for lunch!).
At twelve my father left school and became a ploughboy working with horses, working twelve hours a day six days a week.
On Michaelmas day in mid November they all used to go to Scarborough and parade up and down like a meat market where the farmers would hire them for the forthcoming year.
My father’s elder brother Wilson studied at night school and was accepted into the Police in Sheffield. My father then followed the same route.
Tom failed to get in because his chest measurement was a ¼ of an inch too small. He subsequently joined the Grenadier Guards and saw service at the Salerno landings in Southern Italy and at Dunkirk.
When my father joined the police force at the age of nineteen in Sheffield, they took out all his teeth. Said to be a cause of infection and this was standard practice. Medieval!
He lived in digs in Walkley.
His brother Wilson married Gladys Flynn from Tideswell. (17 miles SW of Sheffield.) My father attended the wedding which is where he met my mother, also from Tideswell and a friend of Gladys. My father deliberately left something behind so he had an excuse to come back the week after! To pursue his wooing he used to ride from Walkley to Tideswell on his bike without stopping. If you retrace this journey you will see that this is no mean feat. He must have been keen.
He used to bear her gifts of Pontefract Cakes, which apparently were the way to my mother’s heart.
They got married in July 1935.
They paid £400 for their house at 22 Ringstead Crescent, Crosspool, with a deposit coming from a bequest from my mother’s rich uncle Aaron Frost Hancock. (See Hancock family history)
My father and mother were from very different backgrounds. The Hancocks were a noisy, garrulous, gregarious, non intellectual, entrepreneurial family. The Buckles were taciturn. My father was extremely shy and a thinking man. However he did have an acute sense of humour and I can remember him sitting reading P G Wodehouse with tears of laughter rolling down his cheeks.
Moving to Sheffield must have been a real shock for my mother. She had led a very sociable life in Tideswell, amateur dramatics, working in a shop.
Policeman’s’ wives were not allowed to work and the social life cannot have been much. However they joined a local Methodist church which became very much their social centre. Margaret was born in 1938. They delayed having another one, waiting to see if Hitler would invade.
My father did not have to join the armed forces as he was in a reserved occupation as a policeman. He was on duty in Sheffield during the blitz. Although patently an intelligent and able man, he did not get promoted in the police for twenty years. This was because, like the rest of us on both sides, he lacked a talent for sycophancy, refused to kiss the backside of the Superintendent and was held back. Ultimately, the Chief Constable, who had picked up vibes, turned up at the station when the Superintendent was on holiday and had a long discussion with him. After that he got promoted through to Inspector quite quickly.
He worked for thirty two years on the police, all of it on shifts. He mainly worked round where we lived. He told me a story about being up near Redmires Dams searching for a deserter in the war. He went to a deserted house (no longer there) in the woods near the top dam. He went to an outhouse, pushed at the door. Something pushed back. There was nobody else around for miles. He stuck his head round and found it was a sheep.
Phil Buckle 16th November 2018
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